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Title: The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 05, No. 28, February, 1860

Author: Various

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Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ATLANTIC
MONTHLY, VOLUME 05, NO. 28, FEBRUARY, 1860 ***

THE

ATLANTIC MONTHLY.

A MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND
POLITICS.
VOL. V.—FEBRUARY, 1860.—NO. XXVIII.

Transcriber's Note: Minor typos have been corrected. Footnotes have been
moved to the end of the article. Contents have been created for HTML
version.

Contents
COUNTING AND MEASURING.
MY LAST LOVE.
A SHETLAND SHAWL.
ROBA DI ROMA.
THE AMBER GODS.
THE POET'S FRIENDS.
THE MEMORIAL OF A. B., OR MATILDA MUFFIN.
SOME ACCOUNT OF A VISIONARY.
THE TRUCE OF PISCATAQUA.
THE MAROONS OF JAMAICA.
THE PROFESSOR'S STORY.
MEXICO.
REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES.
RECENT AMERICAN PUBLICATIONS

COUNTING AND MEASURING.
Though, from the rapid action of the eye and the mind, grouping and
counting by groups appear to be a single operation, yet, as things can be
seen in succession only, however rapidly, the counting of things, whether
ideal or real, is necessarily one by one. This is the first step of the art. The
second step is grouping. The use of grouping is to economize speech in
numeration, and writing in notation, by the exercise of the memory. The
memorizing of groups is, therefore, a part of the primary education of every
individual. Until this art is attained, to a certain extent, it is very convenient
to use the fingers as representatives of the individuals of which the groups
are composed. This practice led to the general adoption of a group derived
from the fingers of the left hand. The adoption of this group was the first
distinct step toward mental arithmetic. Previous groupings were for
particular numerations; this for numeration in general; being, in fact, the
first numeric base,—the quinary. As men advanced in the use of numbers,
they adopted a group derived from the fingers of both hands; thus ten
became the base of numeration.
Notation, like numeration, began with ones, advanced to fives, then to tens,
etc. Roman notation consisted of a series of signs signifying 1, 5, 10, 50,
100, 500, 1000, etc.,—a series evidently the result of counting by the five
fingers and the two hands, the numbers signified being the products of
continued multiplication by five and by two alternately. The Romans
adhered to their mode, nor is it entirely out of use at the present day, being
revered for its antiquity, admired for its beauty, and practised for its
convenience.
The ancient Greek series corresponded to that of the Romans, though
primarily the signs for 50, 500 and 5000 had no place. Ultimately, however,
those places were supplied by means of compound signs.
The Greeks abandoned their ancient mode in favor of the alphabetic, which,
as it signified by a single letter each number of the arithmetical series from
one to nine separately, and also in union by multiplication with the

successive powers of the base of numeration, was a decided improvement;
yet, as it consisted of signs which by their number were difficult to
remember, and by their resemblance easy to mistake, it was far from being
perfect.
Doubtless, strenuous efforts were made to remedy these defects, and,
apparently as the result of those efforts, the Arabic or Indian mode
appeared; which, signifying the powers of the base by position, reduced the
number of signs to that of the arithmetical series, beginning with nought
and ending with a number of the value of the base less one.
The peculiarity of the Arabic mode, therefore, in comparison with the
Greek, the Roman, or the alphabetic, is place value; the value of a
combination by either of these being simply equal to the sum of its
elements. By that, the value of the successive places, counting from right to
left, being equal to the successive powers of the base, beginning with the
noughth power, each figure in the combination is multiplied in value by the
power of the base proper to its place, and the value of the whole is equal to
the sum of those products.
The Arabic mode is justly esteemed one of the happiest results of human
intelligence; and though the most complex ever practised, its efficiency, as
an arithmetical means, has obtained for it the reputation of great simplicity,
—a reputation that extends even to the present base, which, from its
intimate and habitual association with the mode, is taken to be a part of the
mode itself.
With regard to this impression it may be remarked, that the qualities proper
to a mode bear no resemblance to those proper to a base. The qualities of
the present mode are well known and well accepted. Those of the present
base are accepted with the mode, but those proper to a base remain to be
determined. In attempting to ascertain these, it will be necessary to consider
the uses of numeration and of notation.
These may be arranged in three divisions,—scientific, mechanical, and
commercial. The first is limited, being confined to a few; the second is
general, being common to many; the third is universal, being necessary to
all. Commercial use, therefore, will govern the present inquiry.

Commerce, being the exchange of property, requires real quantity to be
determined, and this in such proportions as are most readily obtained and
most frequently required. This can be done only by the adoption of a unit of
quantity that is both real and constant, and such multiples and divisions of it
as are consistent with the nature of things and the requirements of use: real,
because property, being real, can be measured by real measures only;
constant, because the determination of quantity requires a standard of
comparison that is invariable; conveniently proportioned, because both time
and labor are precious. These rules being acted on, the result will be a
system of real, constant, and convenient weights, measures, and coins.
Consequently, the numeration and notation best suited to commerce will be
those which agree best with such a system.
From the earliest periods, special attention has been paid to units of
quantity, and, in the ignorance of more constant quantities, the governors of
men have offered their own persons as measures; hence the fathom, yard,
pace, cubit, foot, span, hand, digit, pound, and pint. It is quite probable that
the Egyptians first gave to such measures the permanent form of
government standards, and that copies of them were carried by commerce,
and otherwise, to surrounding nations. In time, these became vitiated, and
should have been verified by their originals; but for distant nations this was
not convenient; moreover, the governors of those nations had a variety of
reasons for preferring to verify them by their own persons. Thus they
became doubly vitiated; yet, as they were not duly enforced, the people
pleased themselves, so that almost every market-town and fair had its own
weights and measures; and as, in the regulation of coins, governments, like
the people, pleased themselves, so that almost every nation had a peculiar
currency, the general result was, that with the laws and the practices of the
governors and the governed, neither of whom pursued a legitimate course,
confusion reigned supreme. Indeed, a system of weights, measures, and
coins, with a constant and real standard, and corresponding multiples and
divisions, though indulged in as a day-dream by a few, has never yet been
presented to the world in a definite form; and as, in the absence of such a
system, a corresponding system of numeration and notation can be of no
real use, the probability is, that neither the one nor the other has ever been
fully idealized. On the contrary, the present base is taken to be a fixed fact,
of the order of the laws of the Medes and Persians; so much so, that, when

the great question is asked, one of the leading questions of the age,—How
is this mass of confusion to be brought into harmony?—the reply is,—It is
only necessary to adopt one constant and real standard, with decimal
multiples and divisions, and a corresponding nomenclature, and the work is
done: a reply that is still persisted in, though the proposition has been fairly
tried, and clearly proved to be impracticable.
Ever since commerce began, merchants, and governments for them, have,
from time to time, established multiples and divisions of given standards;
yet, for some reason, they have seldom chosen the number ten as a base.
From the long-continued and intimate connection of decimal numeration
and notation with the quantities commerce requires, may not the fact, that it
has not been so used more frequently, be considered as sufficient evidence
that this use is not proper to it? That it is not may be shown thus:—A thing
may be divided directly into equal parts only by first dividing it into two,
then dividing each of the parts into two, etc., producing 2, 4, 8, 16, etc.,
equal parts, but ten never. This results from the fact, that doubling or
folding is the only direct mode of dividing real quantities into equal parts,
and that balancing is the nearest indirect mode,—two facts that go far to
prove binary division to be proper to weights, measures, and coins.
Moreover, use evidently requires things to be divided by two more
frequently than by any other number,—a fact apparently due to a natural
agreement between men and things. Thus it appears the binary division of
things is not only most readily obtained, but also most frequently required.
Indeed, it is to some extent necessary; and though it may be set aside in
part, with proportionate inconvenience, it can never be set aside entirely, as
has been proved by experience. That men have set it aside in part, to their
own loss, is sufficiently evidenced. Witness the heterogeneous mass of
irregularities already pointed out. Of these our own coins present a familiar
example. For the reasons above stated, coins, to be practical, should
represent the powers of two; yet, on examination, it will be found, that, of
our twelve grades of coins, only one-half are obtained by binary division,
and these not in a regular series. Do not these six grades, irregular as they
are, give to our coins their principal convenience? Then why do we claim
that our coins are decimal? Are not their gradations produced by the
following multiplications: 1 x 5 x 2 x 2-1/2 x 2 x 2 x 2-1/2 x 2 x 2 x 2, and
1 x 3 x 100? Are any of these decimal? We might have decimal coins by

dropping all but cents, dimes, dollars, and eagles; but the question is not,
What we might have, but, What have we? Certainly we have not decimal
coins. A purely decimal system of coins would be an intolerable nuisance,
because it would require a greatly increased number of small coins. This
may be illustrated by means of the ancient Greek notation, using the simple
signs only, with the exception of the second sign, to make it purely decimal.
To express $9.99 by such a notation, only three signs can be used;
consequently nine repetitions of each are required, making a total of
twenty-seven signs. To pay it in decimal coins, the same number of pieces
are required. Including the second Greek sign, twenty-three signs are
required; including the compound signs also, only fifteen. By Roman
notation, without subtraction, fifteen; with subtraction, nine. By alphabetic
notation, three signs without repetition. By the Arabic, one sign thrice
repeated. By Federal coins, nine pieces, one of them being a repetition. By
dual coins, six pieces without a repetition, a fraction remaining.
In the gradation of real weights, measures, and coins, it is important to
adopt those grades which are most convenient, which require the least
expense of capital, time, and labor, and which are least likely to be mistaken
for each other. What, then, is the most convenient gradation? The base two
gives a series of seven weights that may be used: 1, 2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 64 lbs.
By these any weight from one to one hundred and twenty-seven pounds
may be weighed. This is, perhaps, the smallest number of weights or of
coins with which those several quantities of pounds or of dollars may be
weighed or paid. With the same number of weights, representing the
arithmetical series from one to seven, only from one to twenty-eight pounds
may be weighed; and though a more extended series may be used, this will
only add to their inconvenience; moreover, from similarity of size, such
weights will be readily mistaken. The base ten gives only two weights that
may be used. The base three gives a series of weights, 1, 3, 9, 27, etc.,
which has a great promise of convenience; but as only four may be used,
the fifth being too heavy to handle, and as their use requires subtraction as
well as addition, they have neither the convenience nor the capability of
binary weights; moreover, the necessity for subtraction renders this series
peculiarly unfit for coins.
The legitimate inference from the foregoing seems to be, that a perfectly
practical system of weights, measures, and coins, one not practical only, but

also agreeable and convenient, because requiring the smallest possible
number of pieces, and these not readily mistaken for each other, and
because agreeing with the natural division of things, and therefore
commercially proper, and avoiding much fractional calculation, is that, and
that only, the successive grades of which represent the successive powers of
two.
That much fractional calculation may thus be avoided is evident from the
fact that the system will be homogeneous. Thus, as binary gradation
supplies one coin for every binary division of the dollar, down to the sixty-
fourth part, and farther, if necessary, any of those divisions may be paid
without a remainder. On the contrary, Federal gradation, though in part
binary, gives one coin for each of the first two divisions only. Of the
remaining four divisions, one requires two coins, and another three, and not
one of them can be paid in full. Thus it appears there are four divisions of
the dollar that cannot be paid in Federal coins, divisions that are constantly
in use, and unavoidable, because resulting from the natural division of
things, and from the popular division of the pound, gallon, yard, inch, etc.,
that has grown out of it. Those fractious that cannot be paid, the proper
result of a heterogeneous system, are a constant source of jealousy, and
often produce disputes, and sometimes bitter wrangling, between buyer and
seller. The injury to public morals arising from this cause, like the
destructive effect of the constant dropping of water, though too slow in its
progress to be distinctly traced, is not the less certain. The economic value
of binary gradation is, in the aggregate, immense; yet its moral value is not
to be overlooked, when a full estimate of its worth is required.
Admitting binary gradation to be proper to weights, measures, and coins, it
follows that a corresponding base of numeration and notation must be
provided, as that best suited to commerce. For this purpose, the number two
immediately presents itself; but binary numeration and notation being too
prolix for arithmetical practice, it becomes necessary to select for a base a
power of two that will afford a more comprehensive notation: a power of
two, because no other number will agree with binary gradation. It is
scarcely proper to say the third power has been selected, for there was no
alternative,—the second power being too small, and the fourth too large.
Happily, the third is admirably suited to the purpose, combining, as it does,
the comprehensiveness of eight with the simplicity of two.

It may be asked, how a number, hitherto almost entirely overlooked as a
base of numeration, is suddenly found to be so well suited to the purpose.
The fact is, the present base being accepted as proper for numeration,
however erroneously, it is assumed to be proper for gradation also; and a
very flattering assumption it is, promising a perfectly homogeneous system
of weights, measures, coins, and numbers, than which nothing can be more
desirable; but, siren-like, it draws the mind away from a proper
investigation of the subject, and the basic qualities of numbers, being
unquestioned, remain unknown. When the natural order is adopted, and the
base of gradation is ascertained by its adaptation to things, and the base of
numeration by its agreement with that of gradation, then, the basic qualities
of numbers being questioned, two is found to be proper to the first use, and
eight to the second.
The idea of changing the base of numeration will appear to most persons as
absurd, and its realization as impossible; yet the probability is, it will be
done. The question is one of time rather than of fact, and there is plenty of
time. The diffusion of education will ultimately cause it to be demanded. A
change of notation is not an impossible thing. The Greeks changed theirs,
first for the alphabetic, and afterwards, with the rest of the civilized world,
for the Arabic,—both greater changes than that now proposed. A change of
numeration is truly a more serious matter, yet the difficulty may not be as
great as our apprehensions paint it. Its inauguration must not be compared
with that of French gradation, which, though theoretically perfect, is
practically absurd.
Decimal numeration grew out of the fact that each person has ten fingers
and thumbs, without reference to science, art, or commerce. Ultimately
scientific men discovered that it was not the best for certain purposes,
consequently that a change might be desirable; but as they were not
disposed to accommodate themselves to popular practices, which they
erroneously viewed, not as necessary consequences, but simply as bad
habits, they suggested a base with reference not so much to commerce as to
science. The suggestion was never acted on, however; indeed, it would have
been in vain, as Delambre remarks, for the French commission to have
made the attempt, not only for the reason he presents, but also because it
does not agree with natural division, and is therefore not suited to
commerce; neither is it suited to the average capacity of mankind for

numbers; for, though some may be able to use duodecimal numeration and
notation with ease, the great majority find themselves equal to decimal only,
and some come short even of that, except in its simplest use. Theoretically,
twelve should be preferred to ten, because it agrees with circle measure at
least, and ten agrees with nothing; besides, it affords a more comprehensive
notation, and is divisible by 6, 4, 3, and 2 without a fraction, qualities that
are theoretically valuable.
At first sight, the universal use of decimal numeration seems to be an
argument in its favor. It appears as though Nature had pointed directly to it,
on account of some peculiar fitness. It is assumed, indeed, that this is the
case, and habit confirms the assumption; yet, when reflection has overcome
habit, it will be seen that its adoption was due to accident alone,—that it
took place before any attention was paid to a general system, in short,
without reflection,—and that its supposed perfection is a mere delusion; for,
as a member of such a system, it presents disagreements on every hand; as
has been said, it has no agreement with anything, unless it be allowable to
say that it agrees with the Arabic mode of notation. This kind of agreement
it has, in common with every other base. It is this that gives it character. On
this account alone it is believed by many to be the perfection of harmony.
They get the base of numeration and the mode of notation so mingled
together, that they cannot separate them sufficiently to obtain a distinct idea
of either; and some are not conscious that they are distinct, but see in the
Arabic mode nothing save decimal notation, and attribute to it all those high
qualities that belong to the mode only. The Arabic mode is an invention of
the highest merit, not surpassed by any other; but the admiration that
belongs to it is thus bestowed upon a quite commonplace idea, a
misapplication, which, in this as in many other cases, arises from the fact,
that it is much easier to admire than to investigate. This result of
carelessness, if isolated, might be excused; but all errors are productive, and
it should be remembered that this one has produced that extraordinary
perversion of truth to be found in the reply to the question, How is all this
confusion to be brought into harmony? It has produced it not only in words,
but in deed. Was it not this reply that led the French commission to extend
the use of the present base from numeration to gradation also, under the
delusive hope of producing a perfectly homogeneous system, that would be
practical also? Was it not under its influence, that, adhering to the base to

which the world had been so long accustomed, instead of attempting to
regulate ideal division by real, which might have led to the adoption of the
true base and a practical system, they committed the one great error of
endeavoring to reverse true order, by forcing real division into conformity
with a preconceived ideal? This attempt was made at a time supposed by
many to be peculiarly suited to the purpose, a time of changes. It was a time
of changes, truly; but these were the result of high excitement, not of quiet
thought, such as the subject requires,—a time for rushing forward, not for
retracing misguided steps. Accordingly, a system was produced which from
its magnitude and importance was truly imposing, and which, to the present
day, is highly applauded by all those who, under the influence of the error
alluded to, conceive decimal numeration to be a sacred truth: applauded, not
because of its adaptation to commerce, but simply because of its beautiful
proportions, its elegant symmetry, to say nothing of the array of learning
and power engaged in its production and inauguration: imposing, truly, and
alike on its authors and admirers; for the qualities they so much admire are
not peculiar to the decimal base, but to the use of one and the same base for
numeration, notation, and gradation. But if the base ten agrees with nothing,
over, on, or under the earth, can it be the best for scientific use? can it be at
all suited to commercial purposes? If true order is the object to be attained,
and that for the sake of its utility, then agreement between real and ideal
division is the one thing needful, the one essential change without which all
other changes are vain, the only change that will yield the greatest good to
the greatest number,—a change, which, as volition is with the ideal, and
inertia with the real, can be attained only by adaptation of the ideal to the
real.
A full investigation of the existing heterogeneous or fragmentary system
will lead to the discovery that it contains two elements which are at
variance with natural division and with each other, and that the unsuccessful
issue of every attempt at regulation hitherto made has been the proper result
of the mistake of supposing agreement between those elements to be a
possible thing.
The first element of discord to be considered is the division of things by
personal proportion, as by fathom, yard, cubit, foot, etc. It is obvious at a
glance, that these do not agree with binary division, nor with decimal, nor
yet with each other. It is this element that has suggested the duodecimal

base, to which some adhere so tenaciously, apparently because they have
not ascertained the essential quality of a base.
The second is the numeration of things by personal parts, as fingers, hands,
etc.,—suggesting a base of numeration that has no agreement with the
binary, nor with personal proportion, neither can it have with any proper
general system. Are there any things in Nature that exist by tens, that
associate by tens, that separate into tenths? Are there any things that are
sold by tens, or by tenths? Even the fingers number eight, and, had there
been any reflection used in the adoption of a base of numeration, the
thumbs would not have been included. The ease with which the simplest
arithmetical series may be continued led our fathers quietly to the adoption,
first, of the quinary, and second, of the decimal group; and we have
continued its use so quietly, that its propriety has rarely been questioned;
indeed, most persons are both surprised and offended, when they hear it
declared to be a purely artificial base, proper only to abstract numbers.
The binary base, on the contrary, is natural, real, simple, and accords with
the tendency of the mind to simplify, to individualize. In business, who ever
thinks of a half as two-fourths, or three-sixths, much less as two-and-a-half-
fifths, or three-and-a-half-sevenths? For division by two produces a half at
one operation; but with any other divisor, the reduction is too great, and
must be followed by multiplication. Think of calling a half five-tenths, a
quarter twenty-five-hundredths, an eighth one-hundred-and-twenty-five-
thousandths! Arithmetic is seldom used as a plaything. It generally comes
into use when the mind is too much occupied for sporting. Consequently,
the smallest divisor that will serve the purpose is always preferred. A
calculation is an appendage to a mercantile transaction, not a part of the
transaction itself; it is, indeed, a hindrance, and in large business is
performed by a distinct person. But even with him, simplicity, because
necessary to speed, is second in merit only to correctness.
The binary base is not only simple, it is real. Accordingly, it has large
agreement with the popular divisions of weights, etc. Grocers' weights, up
to the four-pound piece, and all their measures, are binary; so are the
divisions of the yard, the inch, etc.

It is not only simple and real, it is natural. On every hand, things may be
found that are duplex in form, that associate in pairs, that separate into
halves, that may be divided into two equal parts. Things are continually sold
in pairs, in halves, and in quantities produced by halving.
The binary base, therefore, is here proposed, as the only proper base for
gradation; and the octonal, as the true commercial base, for numeration and
notation: two bases which in combination form a binoctonal system that is
at once simple, comprehensive, and efficient.

MY LAST LOVE.
I had counted many more in my girlhood, in the first flush of blossoming,—
and a few, good men and true, whom I never meet even now without an
added color; for, at one time or another, I thought I loved each of them.
"Why didn't I marry them, then?"
For the same reason that many another woman does not. We are afraid to
trust our own likings. Too many of them are but sunrise vapors, very rosy to
begin with, but by mid-day as dingy as any old dead cloud with the rain all
shed out of it. I never see any of those old swains of mine, without feeling
profoundly thankful that I don't belong to him. I shouldn't want to look over
my husband's head in any sense. So they all got wives and children, and I
lived an old maid,—although I was scarcely conscious of the state; for, if
my own eyes or other people's testimony were to be trusted, I didn't look
old, and I'm quite sure I didn't feel so. But I came to myself on my thirty-
second birthday, an old maid most truly, without benefit of clergy. And
thereby hangs this tale; for on that birthday I first made acquaintance with
my last love.
Something like a month before, there had come to Huntsville two
gentlemen in search of game and quiet quarters for the summer. They soon
found that a hotel in a country village affords little seclusion; but the woods
were full of game, the mountain-brooks swarmed with trout too fine to be
given up, and they decided to take a house of their own. After some search,
they fixed on an old house, (I've forgotten whose "folly" it was called,) full
a mile and a half from town, standing upon a mossy hill that bounded my
fields, square and stiff and weather-beaten, and without any protection
except a ragged pine-tree that thrust its huge limbs beneath the empty
windows, as though it were running away with a stolen house under its arm.
The place was musty, rat-eaten, and tenanted by a couple of ghosts, who
thought a fever, once quite fatal within the walls, no suitable discharge from
the property, and made themselves perfectly free of the quarters in properly
weird seasons. But money and labor cleared out all the cobwebs, (for ghosts

are but spiritual cobwebs, you know,) and the old house soon wore a
charming air of rustic comfort.
I used to look over sometimes, for it was full in view from my chamber-
windows, and see the sportsmen going off by sunrise with their guns or
fishing-rods, or lying, after their late dinner, stretched upon the grass in
front of the house, smoking and reading. Sometimes a fragment of a song
would be dropped down from the lazy wings of the south wind, sometimes
a long laugh filled all the summer air and frightened the pinewood into
echoes, and, altogether, the new neighbors seemed to live an enviable life.
They were very civil people, too; for, though their nearest path out lay
across my fields, and close by the doorway, and they often stopped to buy
fruit or cream or butter, we were never annoyed by an impertinent question
or look. Once only I overheard a remark not altogether civil, and that was
on the evening before my birthday. One of them, the elder, said, as he went
away from my house with a basket of cherries, that he should like to get
speech with that polyglot old maid, who read, and wrote, and made her own
butter-pats. The other answered, that the butter was excellent at any rate,
and perhaps she had a classical cow; and they went down the lane
laughingly disputing about the matter, not knowing that I was behind the
currant-bushes.
"Polyglot old maid!" I thought, very indignantly, as I went into the house.
"I've a mind not to sell them another cake of my butter. But I wonder if
people call me an old maid. I wonder if I am one."
I thought of it all the evening, and dreamt of it all night, waking the next
morning with a new realization of the subject. That first sense of a lost
youth! How sharp and strong it comes! That suddenly opened north door of
middle life, through which the winter winds rush in, sweeping out of the
southern windows all the splendors of the earlier time; it is like a sea-turn in
late summer. It has seemed to be June all along, and we thought it was June,
until the wind went round to the east, and the first red leaf admonished us.
By-and-by we close, as well as we may, that open door, and look out again
from the windows upon blooms, beautiful in their way, to which some birds
yet sing; but, alas! the wind is still from the east, and blows as though, far
away, it had lain among icebergs.

So I mused all the morning, watering the sentiment with a bit of a shower
out of my cloud; and when the shadows turned themselves, I went out to see
how old age would look to me in the fields and woods. It was a delicious
afternoon, more like a warm dream of hay-making, odorous, misty, sleepily
musical, than a waking reality, on which the sun shone. Tremulous blue
clouds lay down all around upon the mountains, and lazy white ones lost
themselves in the waters; and through the dozing air, the faint chirp of robin
or cricket, and ding of bells in the woods, and mellow cut of scythe, melted
into one song, as though the heart-beat of the luscious midsummer-time had
set itself to tune.
I walked on to loiter through the woods. No dust-brush for brain or heart
like the boughs of trees! There dwells a truth, and pure, strong health within
them, an ever-returning youth, promising us a glorious leafage in some
strange spring-time, and a symmetry and sweetness that possess us until our
thoughts grow skyward like them, and wave and sing in some sunnier strata
of soul-air. In the woods I was a girl again, and forgot the flow of the hours
in their pleasant companionship. I must have grown tired and sat down by a
thicket of pines to rest, though I have forgotten, and perhaps I had fallen
asleep; for suddenly I became conscious of a sharp report, and a sharper
pain in my shoulder, and, tearing off my cape, I found the blood was
flowing from a wound just below the joint. I remember little more, for a
sudden faintness came over me; but I have an indistinct remembrance of
people coming up, of voices, of being carried home, and of the
consternation there, and long delay in obtaining the surgeon. The pain of an
operation brought me fully to my senses; and when that was over, I was left
alone to sleep, or to think over my situation at leisure. I'm afraid I had but
little of a Christian spirit then. All my plans of labor and pleasure spoiled by
this one piece of carelessness! to call it by the mildest term. All those nice
little fancies that should have grown into real flesh-and-blood articles for
my publisher, hung up to dry and shrivel without shape or comeliness! The
garden, the dairy, the new bit of carriage-way through the beeches,—my pet
scheme,—the new music, the sewing, all laid upon the shelf for an
indefinite time, and I with no better employment than to watch the wall-
paper, and to wonder if it wasn't almost dinner- or supper-time, or nearly
daylight! To be sure, I knew and thought of all the improving reflections of
a sick-room; but it was much like a mild-spoken person making peace

among twenty quarrelsome ones. You can see him making mouths, but you
don't hear a word he says.
A sick mind breeds fever fast in a sick body, and by night I was in a high
fever, and for a day or two knew but little of what went on about me. One of
the first things I heard, when I grew easier, was, that my neighbor, the
sportsman, was waiting below to hear how I was. It was the younger one
whose gun had wounded me; and he had shown great solicitude, they said,
coming several times each day to inquire for me. He brought some birds to
be cooked for me, too,—and came again to bring some lilies he had gone a
mile to fetch, he told the girl. Every day he came to inquire, or to bring
some delicacy, or a few flowers, or a new magazine for me, until the report
of his visit came to be an expected excitement, and varied the dull days
wonderfully. Sickness and seclusion are a new birth to our senses,
oftentimes. Not only do we get a real glimpse of ourselves, undecked and
unclothed, but the commonest habits of life, and the things that have helped
to shape them day by day, put on a sort of strangeness, and come to shake
hands with us again, and make us wonder that they should be just exactly
what they are. We get at the primitive meaning of them, as if we rubbed off
the nap of life, and looked to see how the threads were woven; and they
come and go before us with a sort of old newness that affects us much as if
we should meet our own ghost some time, and wonder if we are really our
own or some other person's housekeeper.
I went through all this, and came out with a stock of small facts beside,—as,
that the paper-hanger had patched the hangings in my chamber very badly
in certain dark spots, (I had got several headaches, making it out,)—that the
chimney was a little too much on one side,—that certain boards in the
entry-floor creaked of their own accord in the night,—that Neighbor Brown
had tucked a few new shingles into the roof of his barn, so that it seemed to
have broken out with them,—and any number of other things equally
important. At length I got down-stairs, and was allowed to see a few
friends. Of course there was an inundation of them; and each one expected
to hear my story, and to tell a companion one, something like mine, only a
little more so. It was astonishing, the immense number of people that had
been hurt with guns. No wonder I was sick for a day or two afterward. I was
more prudent next time, however, and, as the gossips had got all they
wanted, I saw only my particular friends. Among these my neighbor, the

sportsman, insisted on being reckoned, and after a little hesitation we were
obliged to admit him. I say we,—for, on hearing of my injury, my good
cousin, Mary Mead, had come to nurse and amuse me. She was one of those
safe, serviceable, amiable people, made of just the stuff for a satellite, and
she proved invaluable to me. She was immensely taken with Mr. Ames, too,
(I speak of the younger, for, after the first call of condolence, the elder
sportsman never came,) and to her I left the task of entertaining him, or
rather of doing the honors of the house,—for the gentleman contrived to
entertain himself and us.
Now don't imagine the man a hero, for he was no such thing. He was very
good-looking,—some might say handsome,—well-bred, well educated,
with plenty of common information picked up in a promiscuous intercourse
with town and country people, rather fine tastes, and a great, strong,
magnanimous, physical nature, modest, but perfectly self-conscious. That
was his only charm for me. I despise a mere animal; but, other things being
equal, I admire a man who is big and strong, and aware of his advantages;
and I think most women, and very refined ones, too, love physical beauty
and strength much more than they are willing to acknowledge. So I had the
same admiration for Mr. Ames that I should have had for any other finely
proportioned thing, and enjoyed him very much, sitting quietly in my corner
while he chatted with Mary, or told me stories of travel or hunting, or read
aloud, which he soon fell into the way of doing.
We did try, as much as hospitality permitted, to confine his visits to a few
ceremonious calls; but he persisted in coming almost every day, and walked
in past the girl with that quiet sort of authority which it is so difficult to
resist. In the same way he took possession of Mary and me. He was sure it
must be very dull for both of us; therefore he was going, if we would
pardon the liberty, to offer his services as reader, while my nurse went out
for a ride or a walk. Couldn't I sit out under the shadow of the beech-trees,
as well as in that hot room? He could lift the chair and me perfectly well,
and arrange all so that I should be comfortable. He would like to
superintend the cooking of some birds he brought one day. He noticed that
the girl didn't do them quite as nicely as he had learned to do them in the
woods. And so in a thousand things he quietly made us do as he chose,
without seeming to outrage any rule of propriety. When I was able to sit in a

carriage, he persuaded me to drive with him; and I had to lean on his arm,
when I first went round the place to see how matters went on.
Once I protested against his making himself so necessary to us, and told
him that I didn't care to furnish the gossips so much food as we were doing.
When I turned him out of doors, he would certainly stay away, he said; but
he thought, that, as long as I was an invalid, I needed some one to think and
act for me and save me the trouble, and, as no one else seemed disposed to
take the office, he thought it was rather his duty and privilege,—especially,
he added, with a slight smile, as he was quite sure that it was not very
disagreeable to us. As for the gossips, he didn't think they would make
much out of it, with such an excellent duenna as Cousin Mary,—and,
indeed, he heard the other day that he was paying attention to her.
I thought it all over by myself, when he had gone, and came to the
conclusion that it was not necessary for me to resign so great a pleasure as
his society had become, merely for the fear of what a few curious people
might say. Even Mary, cautious as she was, protested against banishing him
for such a reason; and, after a little talking over of the matter among
ourselves, we decided to let Mr. Ames come as often as he chose, for the
remaining month of his stay.
That month went rapidly enough, for I was well enough to ride and walk
out, and half the time had Mr. Ames to accompany me. I got to value him
very much, as I knew him better, and as he grew acquainted with my
peculiarities; and we were the best friends in the world, without a thought
of being more. No one would have laughed at that more than we, there was
such an evident unsuitableness in the idea. At length the time came for him
to leave Huntsville; his house was closed, except one room where he still
preferred to remain, and his friend was already gone. He came to take tea
with us for the last time, and made himself as agreeable as ever, although it
evidently required some effort to do so. Soft-hearted Cousin Mary broke
down and went off crying when he bade her good-bye, after tea; but I was
not of such stuff, and laughingly rallied him on the impression he had made.
"Get your bonnet, and walk over to the stile with me, Miss Rachel," he said.
"It isn't sunset quite yet, and the afternoon is warm. Come! it's the last walk
we shall take together."

I followed him out, and we went almost silently across the fields to the hill
that overlooked the strip of meadow between our houses. There was the
stile over which I had looked to see him spring, many a time.
"Sit down a moment, until the sun is quite down," he said, making room for
me beside him on the topmost step. "See how splendid that sky is! a
pavilion for the gods!"
"I should think they were airing all their finery," I answered. "It looks more
like a counter spread with bright goods than anything else I can think of."
"That's a decidedly vulgar comparison, and you're not in a spiritual mood at
all," he said. "You've snubbed me two or three times to-night, when I've
tried to be sentimental. What's amiss with you?" and he bent his eyes, full
of a saucy sort of triumph, upon mine.
"I don't like parting with friends; it sets me all awry," I said, giving back his
own self-assured look. I was sorry to have him go; but if he thought I was
going to cry or blush, he was mistaken.
"You'll write to me, Miss Rachel?" he asked.
"No, Mr. Ames,—not at all," I said.
"Not write? Why not?" he asked, in astonishment.
"Because I don't believe in galvanizing dead friendships," I answered.
"Dead friendships, Miss Rachel? I hope ours has much life in it yet," he
said.
"It's in the last agony, Sir. It will be comfortably dead and buried before
long, with a neat little epitaph over it,—which is much the best way to
dispose of them finally, I think."
"You're harder than I thought you were," he said. "Is that the way you feel
towards all your friends?"
"I love my friends as well as any one," I answered. "But I never hold them
when they wish to be gone. My life-yarn spins against some other yarn,
catches the fibres, and twists into the very heart"——

"So far?" he asked, turning his eyes down to mine.
"Yes," I said, coolly,—"for the time being. You don't play at your
friendships, do you? If so, I pity you. As I was saying, they're like one
thread. By-and-by one spindle is moved, the strands spin away from each
other, and become strange yarn. What's the use of sending little locks of
wool across to keep them acquainted? They're two yarns from henceforth.
Reach out for some other thread,—there's plenty near,—and spin into that.
We're made all up of little locks from other people, Mr. Ames. Won't it be
strange, in that great Hereafter, to hunt up our own fibres, and return other
people's? It would take about forty-five degrees of an eternity to do that."
"I shall never return mine," he said. "I couldn't take myself to pieces in such
a style. But won't you write at all?"
"To what purpose? You'll be glad of one letter,—possibly of two. Then it
will be, 'Confound it! here's a missive from that old maid! What a bore!
Now I suppose I must air my wits in her behalf; but, if you ever catch me
again,'——Exit."
"And you?" he asked, laughing.
"I shall be as weary as you, and find it as difficult to keep warmth in the
poor dying body. No, Mr. Ames. Let the poor thing die a natural death, and
we'll wear a bit of crape a little while, and get a new friend for the old."
"So you mean to forget me altogether?"
"No, indeed! I shall recollect you as a very pleasant tale that is told,—not a
friend to hanker after. Isn't that good common sense?"
"It's all head-work,—mere cold calculation," he said; "while I"——He
stopped and colored.
"Your gods, there, are downright turn-coats," I said, coming down from the
stile. "Their red mantles are nothing but pearl-colored now, and presently
they'll be russet-gray. That whippoorwill always brings the dew with him,
too; so I must go home. Good-night, and good-bye, Mr. Ames."
"I scarcely know how to part with you," he said, taking my hand. "It's not so
easy a thing to do."

"People say, 'Good-bye,' or 'God bless you,' or some such civil phrase,
usually," I said, with just the least curl of my lip,—for I knew I had got the
better of him.
He colored again, and then smiled a little sadly.
"Ah! I'm afraid I leave a bigger lock than I take," he exclaimed. "Well, then,
good friend! good-bye, and God bless you, too! Don't be quite so hard as
you promise to be."
I missed him very much, indeed; but if any think I cried after him, or wrote
verses, or soliloquized for his sake, they are much mistaken. I had lost
friends before, and made it a point to think just as little of them as possible,
until the sore spot grew strong enough to handle without wincing. Besides,
my cousin stayed with me, and all my good friends in the village had to
come out for a call or a visit to see how the land lay; so I had occupation
enough. Once in a while I used to look over to the old house, and wish for
one good breezy conversation with its master; and when the snow came and
lay in one mass upon the old roof, clear down to the eaves, like a night-cap
pulled down to the eyes of a low-browed old woman, I moved my bed
against the window that looked that way. These forsaken nests are gloomy
things enough!
I had no thought of hearing again of him or from him, and was surprised,
when, in a month, a review came, and before long another, and afterwards a
box, by express, with a finely kept bouquet, and, in mid-winter, a little oil-
painting,—a delicious bit of landscape for my sanctum, as he said in the
note that accompanied it. I heard from him in this way all winter, although I
never sent word or message back again, and tried to think I was sorry that
he did not forget me, as I had supposed he would. Of course I never thought
of acknowledging to myself that it was possible for me to love him. I was
too good a sophist for that; and, indeed, I think that between a perfect
friendship and a perfect love a fainter distinction exists than many people
imagine. I have known likings to be colored as rosily as love, and seen what
called itself love as cold as the chilliest liking.
One day, after spring had been some time come, I was returning from a
walk and saw that Mr. Ames's house was open. I could not see any person
there; but the door and windows were opened, and a faint smoke crept out

of the chimney and up among the new spring foliage after the squirrels. I
had walked some distance, and was tired, and the weather was not perfect;
but I thought I would go round that way and see what was going on. It was
one of those charming child-days in early May, laughing and crying all in
one, the fine mist-drops shining down in the sun's rays, like star-dust from
some new world in process of rasping up for use. I liked such days. The
showers were as good for me as for the trees. I grew and budded under
them, and they filled my soul's soil full of singing brooks.
When I reached the lawn before the door, Mr. Ames came out to see me,—
so glad to meet that he held my hand and drew me in, asking two or three
times how I was and if I were glad to see him. He had called at the house
and seen Cousin Mary, on his way over, he said,—for he was hungering for
a sight of us. He was not looking as well as when he left in the autumn,—
thinner, paler, and with a more anxious expression when he was not
speaking; but when I began to talk with him, he brightened up, and seemed
like his old self. He had two or three workmen already tearing down
portions of the finishing, and after a few moments asked me to go round
and see what improvements he was to make. We stopped at last at his
chamber, a room that looked through the foliage towards my house.
"This is my lounging-place," he said, pointing to the sofa beneath the
window. "I shall sit here with my cigar and watch you this summer; so be
circumspect! But are you sure that you are glad to see me?"
"To be sure. Do you take me for a heathen?" I said. "But what are you
making such a change for? Couldn't the old house content you?"
"It satisfies me well enough; but I expect visitors this summer who are quite
fastidious, and this old worm-eaten wood-work wouldn't do for them. What
makes you look so dark? Don't you like the notion of my lady-visitors?"
"I didn't know that they were to be ladies until you told me," I said; "and it's
none of my business whom you entertain, Mr. Ames."
"There wasn't much of a welcome for them in your face, at any rate," he
answered. "And to tell the truth, I am not much pleased with the
arrangement myself. But they took a sudden fancy for coming, and no
amount of persuasion could induce them to change their minds. It's hardly a

suitable place for ladies; but if they will come, they must make the best of
it."
"How came you ever to take a fancy to this place? and what makes you
spend so much money on it?" I asked.
"You don't like to see the money thrown away," he said, laughing. "The
truth is, that I've got a skeleton, like many another man, and I've been trying
these two years to get away from it. The first time I stopped to rest under
this tree, I felt light-hearted. I don't know why, except it was some
mysterious influence; but I loved the place, and I love it no less now,
although my skeleton has found a lodging-place here too."
"Of course," I said, "and very appropriately. The house was haunted before
you came."
"It was haunted for me afterward," he said softly, more to himself than to
me; "sweet, shadowy visions I should be glad to call up now." And he
turned away and swallowed a sigh.
I pitied him all the way home, and sat up to pity him, looking through the
soft May starlight to see the lamp burning steadily at his window until after
midnight. From that time I seemed to have a trouble,—though I could
scarcely have named or owned it, it was so indefinite.
He came to see me a few days afterward, and sat quite dull and abstracted
until I warmed him up with a little lively opposition. I vexed him first, and
then, when I saw he was interested enough to talk, I let him have a chance;
and I had never seen him so interesting. He showed me a new phase of his
character, and I listened, and answered him in as few words as possible, that
I might lose nothing of the revelation. When he got up to go away, I asked
him where he had been to learn and think so much since the last autumn. He
began to be, I thought and hoped, what a sterner teaching might have made
him before.
He seemed a little embarrassed; said no one else had discovered any change
in him, and he thought it must be only a reflected light. He had observed
that I had "a remarkable faculty for drawing people out. What was my
witchcraft?"

I disclaimed all witchcraft, and told him it was only because I quarrelled
with people. A little wholesome opposition had warmed him into quite a
flight of fancy.
"If I could only,"——he began, hurriedly; but took out his watch, said it
was time for him to go, and went off quite hastily. It was very weak in me,
but I wished very much to know what he would have said.
The next time, he called a few moments to tell me that his lady-visitors,
with a friend of theirs, had come, and had expressed a wish to make my
acquaintance. He promised them that he would call and let me know,—
though he hoped I would not come, unless I felt inclined. He was very
absent-minded, and went off the moment I asked him where he had left his
good spirits. This made me a little cold to him when I called on the ladies,
for I found them all sitting after tea out at the door. It was a miserably
constrained affair, though we all tried to be civil,—for I could see that both
ladies were taking, or trying to take, my measure, and it did not set me at
ease in the least. But in the mean time I had measured them; and as
experience has confirmed that first impression, I may as well sketch them
here. I protest, in the first place, against any imputation of prejudice or
jealousy. I thought much more charitably of them than others did.
Mrs. Winslow was one of those pleasant, well-bred ladies, who can look at
you until you are obliged to look away, contradict you flatly, and say the
most grossly impertinent things in the mildest voice and choicest words. A
woman of the world, without nobility enough to appreciate a magnanimous
thought or action, and with very narrow, shallow views of everything about
her, she had still some agreeable traits of character,—much shrewd
knowledge of the world, as she saw it, some taste for Art, and an excellent
judgment in relation to all things appertaining to polite society. I had really
some pleasant intercourse with her, although I think she was one of the
most insulting persons I ever met. I made a point of never letting her get
any advantage of me, and so we got along very well. Whenever she had a
chance, she was sure to say something that would mortify or hurt me; and I
never failed to repay both principal and interest with a voice and face as
smooth as hers. And here let me say that there is no other way of dealing
with such people. Self-denial, modesty, magnanimity, they do not and

cannot understand. Never turn them the other cheek, but give a smart slap
back again. It will do them good.
The daughter was a very pretty, artificial, silly girl, who might have been
very amiable in a different position, and was not ill-natured as it was. I
might have liked her very well, if she had not conceived such a wonderful
liking for me, and hugged and kissed me as much as she did. She cooed,
too, and I dislike to hear a woman coo; it is a sure mark of inferiority.
We were quite intimate soon, and Miss Lucy fell into the habit of coming
early in the morning to ride with me, and after dinner to sit and sew, and
after tea for a walk. She showed me all her heart, apparently, though there
was not much of it, and vowed that she scarcely knew how she should exist
without me. I let her play at liking me, just as I should have indulged a
playful kitten, and tried to say and do something that might improve her for
Mr. Ames's sake. I saw now what his skeleton was. He was to marry the
poor child, and shrunk from it as I should have shrunk from a shallow
husband.
He used to come with her sometimes, and I must confess that he behaved
admirably. I never saw him in the least rude, or ill-natured, or contemptuous
towards her, even when she was silliest and tried his patience most severely;
and I felt my respect for him increasing every day. As for Mrs. Winslow,
she came sometimes to see me, and was very particular to invite me there;
but I saw that she watched both me and Mr. Ames, and suspected that she
had come to Huntsville for that purpose. She sought every opportunity, too,
of making me seem awkward or ignorant before him; and he perceived it, I
know, and was mortified and annoyed by it, though he left the chastisement
entirely to me. Once in a while Cousin Mary and I had a real old-fashioned
visit from him all alone, either when it was very stormy, or when the ladies
were visiting elsewhere. He always came serious and abstracted, and went
away in good spirits, and he said that those few hours were the pleasantest
he passed. Mrs. Winslow looked on them with an evil eye, I knew, and
suspected a great deal of which we were all innocent; for one day, when she
had been dining at my house with her daughter, and we were all out in the
garden together, I overheard her saying,—

"She is just the person to captivate him, and you mustn't bring yourself into
competition with her, Lucy. She can out-shine you in conversation, and I
know that she is playing a deep game."
"La, ma!" the girl exclaimed. "An old maid, without the least style! and she
makes butter too, and actually climbs up in a chair to scrub down her
closets,—for Edward and I caught her at it one day."
"And did she seem confused?" asked Mrs. Winslow.
"No, indeed! Now I should have died, if he had caught me in such a plight;
but she shook down her dress as though it were a matter of course, and they
were soon talking about some German stuff,—I don't know what it was,—
while I had to amuse myself with the drawings."
"That's the way!" retorted the mother. "You play dummy for them. I wish
you had a little more spirit, Lucy. You wouldn't play into the hands of this
designing"——
"Nonsense, mamma! She's a real clever, good-natured old thing, and I like
her," exclaimed the daughter. "You're so suspicious!"
"You're so foolishly secure!" answered mamma. "A man is never certain
until after the ceremony; and you don't know Edward Ames, Lucy."
"I know he's got plenty of money, mother, and I know he's real nice and
handsome," was the reply; and they walked out of hearing.
I wouldn't have listened even to so much as that, if I could have avoided it;
and as soon as I could, I went into the parlor, and sat down to some work,
trying to keep down that old trouble, which somehow gathered size like a
rolling snowball. I might have known what it was, if I had not closed my
eyes resolutely, and said to myself, "The summer will soon be gone, and
there will be an end of it all then"; and I winced, as I said it, like one who
sees a blow coming.
The summer went by imperceptibly; it was autumn, and still all things
remained outwardly as they had been. We went back and forth continually,
rode and walked out, sang and read together, and Lucy grew fonder and
fonder of me. She could scarcely live out of my presence, and confided to

me all her plans when she and Edward should be married,—how much she
thought of him, and he of her, all about their courtship, how he declared
himself and how she accepted him one soft moonlight night in far Italy,
how agitated and distressed he had been when she had a fever, and a
thousand other details which swelled that great stone in my heart more and
more. But I shut my eyes, until one day when I saw them together. He was
listening, intent, and very pale, to something she told him, and, to my
surprise, she was pale too, and weeping. Before she could finish, she broke
into a passionate rush of tears, and would have thrown herself at his feet;
but he caught her, and she sunk down upon his shoulder, and he stooped
towards her as he might if he had loved her. Then I knew how I loved him.
I had to bear up a little while, for they were in my house, and I must bid
them good-night, and talk idly, so that they should not suspect the wound I
had. But I must do something, or go mad; and so I went out to the garden-
wall, and struck my hand upon it until the blood ran. The pain of that
balanced the terrible pain within for a few moments, and I went in to them
calm and smiling. They were sitting on the sofa, he with a perplexed, pale
face, and she blushing and radiant. They started up when they saw my hand
bandaged, and she was full of sympathy for my hurt. He said but little,
though he looked fixedly at my face. I know I must have looked strangely.
When they were gone, I went into my chamber and shut the door, with
some such feeling as I should have closed the entrance of a tomb behind me
forever. I fought myself all that night. My heart was hungry and cried out
for food, and I would promise it none at all. Is there anyone who thinks that
youth has monopolized all the passion of life, all the rapture, all the wild
despair? Let them breast the deep, strong current of middle life.
I never could quite recollect how that last month went away. I know that I
kept myself incessantly occupied, and that I saw them almost daily, without
departing from the tone of familiar friendship I had worn throughout,
although my heart was full of jealousy and a fast-growing hatred that would
not be quelled. Not for a thousand happy loves would I have let them see
my humiliation. I was even afraid that already he might suspect it, for his
manner was changed. Sometimes he was distant, sometimes sad, and
sometimes almost tenderer than a friend.

It got to be October, and I felt that I could not bear such a state of things any
longer, and questioned within myself whether I had better not leave home
for a while. If I had been alone, it would have been easy; but my cousin
Mary was still with me, and I could give no good reason for such a step.
Before I had settled upon anything, Lucy came to me in great distress, with
a confession that Mr. Ames was somehow turned against her, and that she
was almost heart-broken about it. If she lost him, she must die; for she had
so long looked upon him as her husband, and loved him so well, that life
would be nothing without him. What should she do? Would I advise her?
I didn't know, until long afterward, that it was a consummate piece of
acting, dictated by the mother, and that she was as heartless as it was
possible for a young girl to be; and while she lay weeping at my feet, I
pitied her, and wondered if, perhaps, there might not be some spring of
generous feeling in her heart, that a happy love would unlock. The next
morning I went out alone, for a ride, in a direction where I thought I could
not be disturbed. Up hill and down, over roads, pastures, and streams, I tore
until the fever within was allayed, and then I stopped to rest, and look upon
the beauties of the bright October day. All overhead and around, the sky and
patches of water were of that far-looking blue which seems all ready to
open upon new and wonderful worlds. Big, bright drops of a night-shower
lay asleep in the curled-up leaves, as though the trees had stretched out a
million hands to catch them. And such hands! What comparison could
match them? Clouds of butterflies, such as sleep among the flowers of
Paradise,—forgotten dreams of children, who sleep and smile,—fancies of
fairy laureates, strung shining together for some high festival,—anything
most rich or unreal, might furnish a type for the foliage that was painted
upon the golden blue of that October day. I could almost have forgotten my
trouble in the charmed gaze.
"You turn up in strange places, Rachel!" said a voice behind me.
This was what I had dreaded; but I swallowed love and fear in one great
gulp, and shut my teeth with a resolution of iron. I would not be guilty of
the meanness of standing in that child's way, if she were but a fool; so I
answered him gayly.

"'The same to yourself,' as Neighbor Dawkins would say. Why didn't you all
go to the lake, as you planned last night?"
"For some good reasons. Were you bewitched, that you stood here so still?"
He looked brightly into my face, as he came up.
"No,—but the trees are. Shouldn't you think that Oberon had held high
court here over-night?"
"And that they had left their wedding-dresses upon the boughs? Yes, they
are gay enough! But where have you been these four weeks, that I haven't
got speech with you?"
"A pretty question, when you've been at my house almost every day! Where
are your senses, man?"
"I know too well where they are," he said. "But I've wanted a good talk with
you, face to face,—not with a veil of commonplace people between. You're
not yourself among them. I like you best when your spirits are a little
ruffled, and your eye kindles, and your lip curls, as it does now,—not when
you say, "No, Sir," or "Yes, Ma'am," and smile as though it were only skin-
deep."
I started my horse.
"Let's be going, Jessie," I said. "It's our duty to feel insulted. He accuses
your mistress of being deceitful among her friends, and says he likes her
when she's cross."
He laughed lightly, and walked along by my side.
"How are your ladies? and when will Miss Lucy come to ride out with me?"
I asked, fearing a look into his eyes.
This brought him down. I knew it would.
He answered that she was well, and walked along with his head down, quite
like another man. At length he looked up, very pale, and put his hand on my
bridle.

"I want to put a case to you," he said. "Suppose a man to have made some
engagement before his mind was mature, and under a strong outside
pressure of which he was not aware. When he grows to a better knowledge
of the world and himself, and finds that he has been half cheated, and that to
keep his word will entail lasting misery and ruin on himself, without really
benefiting any one else, is he bound to keep it?"
I stopped an instant to press my heart back, and then I answered him.
"A promise is a promise, Mr. Ames. I have thought that a man of honor
valued his word more than happiness or life."
He flushed a moment, and then looked down again; and we walked on
slowly, without a word, over the stubbly ground, and through brooklets and
groves and thickets, towards home. If I could only reach there before he
spoke again! How could I hold out to do my duty, if I were tempted any
farther? At last he checked the horse, and, putting his hand heavily on mine,
looked me full in the face, while his was pale and agitated.
"Rachel," he said, huskily, "if a man came to you and said, 'I am bound to
another; but my heart, my soul, my life are at your feet,' would you turn him
away?"
I gasped one long breath of fresh air.
"Do I look like a woman who would take a man's love at second hand?" I
said, haughtily. "Women like me must respect the man they marry, Sir."
He dropped his hand, and turned away his head, with a deep-drawn breath. I
saw him stoop and lift himself again, as though some weight were laid upon
his shoulders. I saw the muscles round and ridgy upon his clenched hand.
"All this for a silly, shallow thing, who knows nothing of the heart she
loses!" some tempter whispered, and passionate words of love rushed up
and beat hard against my shut teeth. "Get thee behind me!" I muttered, and
resolutely started my horse forward. "Not for her,—but for myself,—for
self-respect! The best love in the world shall not buy that!"
He came along beside me, silent, and stepping heavily, and thus we went to
the leafy lane that came out near my house. There I stopped; for I felt that
this must end now.

"Mr. Ames, you must leave this place, directly," I said, with as much
sternness as I could assume. "If you please, I will bid you good-bye, now."
"Not see you again, Rachel?" he exclaimed, sharply. "No! not that! Forgive
me, if I have said too much; but don't send me away!"
He took my hand in both his, and gazed as one might for a sentence of life
or death.
"Will you let a woman's strength shame you?" I cried, desperately. "I
thought you were a man of honor, Mr. Ames. I trusted you entirely, but I
will never trust any one again."
He dropped my hand, and drew himself up.
"You are right, Rachel! you are right," he said, after a moment's thought.
"No one must trust me, and be disappointed. I have never forgotten that
before; please God, I never will again. But must I say farewell here?"
"It is better," I said.
"Good-bye, then, dear friend!—dear friend!" he whispered. "If you ever
love any better than yourself, you will know how to forgive me."
I felt his kiss on my hand, and felt, rather than saw, his last look, for I dared
not raise my eyes to his; and I knew that he had turned back, and that I had
seen the last of him. For one instant I thought I would follow and tell him
that he did not suffer alone; but before my horse was half turned, I was
myself again.
"Fool!" I said. "If you let the dam down, can you push the waters back
again? Would that man let anything upon earth stand between him and a
woman that loved him? Let him go so. He'll forget you in six months."
I had to endure a farewell call from Lucy and her mother. Mr. Ames had
received a sudden summons home, and they were to accompany him a part
of the way. The elder scrutinized me very closely, but I think she got
nothing to satisfy her; the younger kissed and shed tears enough for the
parting of twin sisters. How I hated her! In a couple of days they were gone,
Mr. Ames calling to see me when he knew me to be out, and leaving a civil

message only. The house was closed, the faded leaves fell all about the
doorway, and the grass withered upon the little lawn.
"That play is over, and the curtain dropped," I said to myself, as I took one
long look towards the old house, and closed the shutters that opened that
way.
You who have suffered some great loss, and stagger for want of strength to
walk alone, thank God for work. Nothing like that for bracing up a feeble
heart! I worked restlessly from morning till night, and often encroached on
what should have been sleep. Hard work, real sinewy labor, was all that
would content me; and I found enough of it. To have been a proper heroine,
I suppose I should have devoted myself to works of charity, read
sentimental poetry, and folded my hands very meekly and prettily; but I did
no such thing. I ripped up carpets, and scoured paint, and swept down
cobwebs, I made sweetmeats and winter clothing, I dug up and set out trees,
and smoothed the turf in my garden, and tramped round my fields with the
man behind me, to see if the fences needed mending, or if the marshes were
properly drained, or the fallow land wanted ploughing. It made me better.
All the sickliness of my grief passed away, and only the deep-lying regret
was left like a weight to which my heart soon became accustomed. We can
manage trouble much better than we often do, if we only choose to try
resolutely.
I had but one relapse. It was when I got news of their marriage. I remember
the day with a peculiar distinctness; for it was the first snow-storm of the
season, and I had been out walking all the afternoon. It was one of those
soft, leaden-colored, expectant days, of late autumn or early winter, when
one is sure of snow; and I went out on purpose to see it fall among the
woods; for it was just upon Christmas, and I longed to see the black ground
covered. By-and-by a few flakes sauntered down, coquetting as to where
they would alight; then a few more followed, thickening and thickening
until the whole upper air was alive with them, and the frozen ridges
whitened along their backs, and every little stiff blade of grass or rush or
dead bush held all it could carry. It was pleasant to see the quiet wonder go
on, until the landscape was completely changed,—to walk home scuffing
the snow from the frozen road on which my feet had ground as I came that
way, and see the fences full, and the hollows heaped up level, and the

birches bent down with their hair hidden, and the broad arms of the fir-trees
loaded, like sombre cotton-pickers going home heavily laden. Then to see
the brassy streak widen in the west, and the cold moon hang astonished
upon the dead tops of some distant pine-trees, was to enjoy a most beautiful
picture, with only the cost of a little fatigue.
When I got home, I found among my letters one from Mr. Ames. He could
not leave the country without pleading once more for my esteem, he wrote.
He had not intended to marry until he could think more calmly of the past;
but Lucy's mother had married again very suddenly into a family where her
daughter found it not pleasant to follow her. She was poor, without very
near relatives now, and friends, on both sides, had urged the marriage. He
had told her the state of his feelings, and offered, if she could overlook the
want of love, to be everything else to her. She should never repent the step,
and he prayed me, when I thought of him, to think as leniently as possible.
Alas! now I must not think at all.
How I fought that thought,—how I worked by day, and studied deep into
the night, filling every hour full to the brim with activity, seems now a
feverish dream to me. Such dead thoughts will not be buried out of sight,
but lie cold and stiff, until the falling foliage of seasons of labor and
experience eddies round them, and moss and herbs venture to grow over
their decay, and birds come slowly and curiously to sing a little there. In
time, the mound is beautiful with the richness of the growth, but the lord of
the manor shudders as he walks that way. For him, it is always haunted.
Thus with me. I knew that the sorrow was doing me good, that it had been
needed long, and I tried to profit by it, as the time came when I could think
calmly of it all. I thought I had ceased to love him; but the news of her
death (for she died in two years) taught me better. I heard of him from
others,—that he had been most tender and indulgent to a selfish, heartless
woman, who trifled with his best feelings, and almost broke his heart before
she went. I heard that he had one child, a poor little blind baby, for whom
the mother had neither love nor care, and that he still continued abroad. But
from himself I never heard a word. No doubt he had forgotten me, as I had
always thought he would.

More than two years passed, and spring-time was upon us, when I heard
that he had returned to the country, and was to be married shortly to a
wealthy, beautiful widow he had found abroad. At first we heard that he was
married, and then that he was making great preparations, but would not
marry until autumn. Even the bride's dress was described, and the furniture
of the house of which she was to be mistress. I had expected some such
thing, but it added one more drop of bitterness to the yearning I had for him.
It was so hard to think him like any other man!
However, now, as before, I covered up the wound with a smiling face, and
went about my business. I had been making extensive improvements on my
farm, and kept out all day often, over-seeing the laborers. One night, a soft,
starlight evening in late May, I came home very tired, and, being quite
alone, sat down on the portico to watch the stars and think. I had not been
long there, when a man's step came up the avenue, and some person, I could
not tell who in the darkness, opened the gate, and came slowly up towards
me. I rose, and bade him good-evening.
"Is it you, Rachel?" he said, quite faintly. It was his voice. Thank Heaven
for the darkness! The hand I gave him might tremble, but my face should
betray nothing. I invited him into the parlor, and rang for lights.
"He's come to see about selling the old house," I thought; there was a report
that he would sell it by auction. When the lights came, he looked eagerly at
me.
"Am I much changed?" I said, with a half-bitter smile.
"Not so much as I," he answered, sighing and looking down;—he seemed to
be in deep thought for a moment.
He was much changed. His hair was turning gray; his face was thin, with a
subdued expression I had never expected to see him wear. He must have
suffered greatly; and, as I looked, my heart began to melt. That would not
do; and besides, what was the need of pity, when he had consoled himself? I
asked some ordinary question about his journey, and led him into a
conversation on foreign travel.
The evening passed away as it might with two strangers, and he rose to go,
with a grave face and manner as cold as mine,—for I had been very cold. I

followed him to the door, and asked how long he stayed at Huntsville.
Only a part of the next day, he said; his child could not be left any longer;
but he wished very much to see me, and so had contrived to get a few days.
"Indeed!" I said. "You honor me. Your Huntsville friends scarcely expected
to be remembered so long."
"They have not done me justice, then," he said, quietly. "I seem to have the
warmest recollection of any. Good-night, Miss Mead. I shall not be likely to
see you again."
He gave me his hand, but it was very cold, and I let it slip as coldly from
mine. He went down the gravel-walk slowly and heavily, and he certainly
sighed as he closed the gate. Could I give him up thus? "Down pride! You
have held sway long enough! I must part more kindly, or die!" I ran down
the gravel-walk and overtook him in the avenue. He stopped as I came up,
and turned to meet me.
"Forgive me," I said, breathlessly. "I could not part with old friends so, after
wishing so much for them."
He took both my hands in his. "Have you wished for me, Rachel?" he said,
tenderly. "I thought you would scarcely have treated a stranger with so little
kindness."
"I was afraid to be warmer," I said.
"Afraid of what?" he asked.
My mouth was unsealed. "Are you to be married?" I asked.
"I have no such expectation," he answered.
"And are not engaged to any one?"
"To nothing but an old love, dear! Was that why you were afraid to show
yourself to me?"
"Yes!" I answered, making no resistance to the arm that was put gently
round me. He was mine now, I knew, as I felt the strong heart beating fast
against my own.

"Rachel," he whispered, "the only woman I ever did or ever can love, will
you send me away again?"

A SHETLAND SHAWL.
It was made of the purest and finest wool,
As fine as silk, and as soft and cool;
It was pearly white, of that cloud-like hue
Which has a shadowy tinge of blue;
And brought by the good ship, miles and miles,
From the distant shores of the Shetland Isles.

And in it were woven, here and there,
The golden threads of a maiden's hair,
As the wanton wind with tosses and twirls
Blew in and out of her floating curls,
While her busy fingers swiftly drew
The ivory needle through and through.

The warm sun flashed on the brilliant dyes
Of the purple and golden butterflies,
And the drowsy bees, with a changeless tune,
Hummed in the perfumed air of June,
As the gossamer fabric, fair to view,
Under the maiden's fingers grew.

The shadows of tender thought arise
In the tranquil depths of her dreamy eyes,
And her blushing cheek bears the first impress
Of the spirit's awakening consciousness,
Like the rose, when it bursts, in a single hour,
From the folded bud to the perfect flower.

Many a tremulous hope and care,
Many a loving wish and prayer,
With the blissful dreams of one who stood
At the golden gate of womanhood,
The little maiden's tireless hands

Wove in and out of the shining strands.

The buds that burst in an April sun
Had seen the wonderful shawl begun;
It was finished, and folded up with pride,
When the vintage purpled the mountain-side;
And smiles made light in the violet eyes,
At the thought of a lover's pleased surprise.

The spider hung from the budding thorn
His baseless web, when the shawl was worn;
And the cobwebs, silvered by the dew,
With the morning sunshine breaking through,
The maiden's toil might well recall,
In the vanished year, on the Shetland Shawl.

For the rose had died in the autumn showers,
That bloomed in the summer's golden hours;
And the shining tissue of hopes and dreams,
With misty glories and rainbow gleams
Woven within and out, was one
Like the slender thread by the spider spun.

As fresh and as pure as the sad young face,
The snowy shawl with its clinging grace
Seems a fitting veil for a form so fair:
But who would think what a tale of care,
Of love and grief and faith, might all
Be folded up in a Shetland Shawl?

ROBA DI ROMA.
[Continued.]

CHAPTER VI.

GAMES IN ROME.

Walking, during pleasant weather, almost anywhere in Rome, but especially
in passing through the enormous arches of the Temple of Peace, or along by
the Colosseum, or some wayside osteria outside the city-walls, the ear of
the traveller is often saluted by the loud, explosive tones of two voices
going off together, at little intervals, like a brace of pistol-shots; and turning
round to seek the cause of these strange sounds, he will see two men, in a
very excited state, shouting, as they fling out their hands at each other with
violent gesticulation. Ten to one he will say to himself, if he be a stranger in
Rome, "How quarrelsome and passionate these Italians are!" If he be an
Englishman or an American, he will be sure to congratulate himself on the
superiority of his own countrymen, and wonder why these fellows stand
there shaking their fists at each other, and screaming, instead of fighting it
out like men,—and muttering, "A cowardly pack, too!" will pass on,
perfectly satisfied with his facts and his philosophy. But what he has seen
was really not a quarrel. It is simply the game of Mora, as old as the
Pyramids, and formerly played among the host of Pharaoh and the armies of
Cæsar as now by the subjects of Pius IX. It is thus played.
Two persons place themselves opposite each other, holding their right hands
closed before them. They then simultaneously and with a sudden gesture
throw out their hands, some of the fingers being extended, and others shut
up on the palm,—each calling out in a loud voice, at the same moment, the
number he guesses the fingers extended by himself and his adversary to
make. If neither cry out aright, or if both cry out aright, nothing is gained or
lost; but if only one guess the true number, he wins a point. Thus, if one
throw out four fingers and the other two, he who cries out six makes a

point, unless the other cry out the same number. The points are generally
five, though sometimes they are doubled, and as they are made, they are
marked by the left hand, which, during the whole game, is held stiffly in the
air at about the shoulders' height, one finger being extended for every point.
When the partito is won, the winner cries out, "Fatto!" or "Guadagnato!" or
"Vinto!" or else strikes his hands across each other in sign of triumph. This
last sign is also used when Double Mora is played, to indicate that five
points are made.
So universal is this game in Rome, that the very beggars play away their
earnings at it. It was only yesterday, as I came out of the gallery of the
Capitol, that I saw two who had stopped screaming for "baiocchi per amor
di Dio," to play pauls against each other at Mora. One, a cripple, supported
himself against a column, and the other, with his ragged cloak slung on his
shoulder, stood opposite him. They staked a paul each time with the utmost
nonchalance, and played with an earnestness and rapidity which showed
that they were old hands at it, while the coachmen from their boxes cracked
their whips, and jeered and joked them, and the shabby circle around them
cheered them on. I stopped to see the result, and found that the cripple won
two successive games. But his cloaked antagonist bore his losses like a
hero, and when all was over, he did his best with the strangers issuing from
the Capitol to line his pockets for a new chance.
Nothing is more simple and apparently easy than Mora, yet to play it well
requires quickness of perception and readiness in the calculation of chances.
As each player, of course, knows how many fingers he himself throws out,
the main point is to guess the number of fingers thrown by his opponent,
and to add the two instantaneously together. A player of skill will soon
detect the favorite numbers of his antagonist, and it is curious to see how
remarkably clever some of them are in divining, from the movement of the
hand, the number to be thrown. The game is always played with great
vivacity, the hands being flung out with vehemence, and the numbers
shouted at the full pitch of the voice, so as to be heard at a considerable
distance. It is from the sudden opening of the fingers, while the hands are in
the air, that the old Roman phrase, micare digitis, "to flash with the
fingers," is derived.

A bottle of wine is generally the stake; and round the osterias, of a festa-
day, when the game is played after the blood has been heated and the nerves
strained by previous potations, the regular volleyed explosions of "Tre!
Cinque! Otto! Tutti!" are often interrupted by hot discussions. But these are
generally settled peacefully by the bystanders, who act as umpires,—and
the excitement goes off in talk. The question arises almost invariably upon
the number of fingers flashed out; for an unscrupulous player has great
opportunities of cheating, by holding a finger half extended, so as to be able
to close or open it afterwards according to circumstances; but sometimes
the losing party will dispute as to the number called out. The thumb is the
father of all evil at Mora, it being often impossible to say whether it was
intended to be closed or not, and an unskilful player is easily deceived in
this matter by a clever one. When "Tutti" is called, all the fingers, thumb
and all, must be extended, and then it is an even chance that a discussion
will take place as to whether the thumb was out. Sometimes, when the
blood is hot, and one of the parties has been losing, violent quarrels will
arise, which the umpires cannot decide, and, in very rare cases, knives are
drawn and blood is spilled. Generally these disputes end in nothing, and,
often as I have seen this game, I have never been a spectator of any quarrel,
though discussions numberless I have heard. But, beyond vague stories by
foreigners, in which I put no confidence, the vivacity of the Italians easily
leading persons unacquainted with their characters to mistake a very
peaceable talk for a violent quarrel, I know of only one case that ended
tragically. There a savage quarrel, begun at Mora, was with difficulty
pacified by the bystanders, and one of the parties withdrew to an osteria to
drink with his companions. But while he was there, the rage which had been
smothered, but not extinguished, in the breast of his antagonist, blazed out
anew. Rushing at the other, as he sat by the table of the osteria, he attacked
him fiercely with his knife. The friends of both parties started at once to
their feet, to interpose and tear them apart; but before they could reach
them, one of the combatants dropped bleeding and dying on the floor, and
the other fled like a maniac from the room.
This readiness of the Italians to use the knife, for the settlement of every
dispute, is generally attributed by foreigners to the passionateness of their
nature; but I am inclined to believe that it also results from their entire
distrust of the possibility of legal redress in the courts. Where courts are

organized as they are in Naples, who but a fool would trust to them? Open
tribunals, where justice should be impartially administered, would soon
check private assassinations; and were there more honest and efficient
police courts, there would be far fewer knives drawn. The Englishman
invokes the aid of the law, knowing that he can count upon prompt justice;
take that belief from him, he, too, like Harry Gow, would "fight for his own
hand." In the half-organized society of the less civilized parts of the United
States, the pistol and bowie-knife are as frequent arbiters of disputes as the
stiletto is among the Italians. But it would be a gross error to argue from
this, that the Americans are violent and passionate by nature; for, among the
same people in the older States, where justice is cheaply and strictly
administered, the pistol and bowie-knife are almost unknown. Despotism
and slavery nurse the passions of men; and wherever law is loose, or courts
are venal, public justice assumes the shape of private vengeance. The
farther south one goes in Italy, the more frequent is violence and the more
unrepressed are the passions. Compare Piedmont with Naples, and the
difference is immense. The dregs of vice and violence settle to the south.
Rome is worse than Tuscany, and Naples worse than Rome,—not so much
because of the nature of the people, as of the government and the laws.
But to return to Mora. As I was walking out beyond the Porta San Giovanni
the other day, I heard the most ingenious and consolatory periphrasis for a
defeat that it was ever my good-fortune to hear; and, as it shows the
peculiar humor of the Romans, it may here have a place. Two of a party of
contadini had been playing at Mora, the stakes being, as usual, a bottle of
wine, and each, in turn, had lost and won. A lively and jocose discussion
now arose between the friends on the one side and the players on the other,
—the former claiming that each of the latter was to pay his bottle of wine
for the game he lost, (to be drunk, of course, by all,) and the latter insisting,
that, as one loss offset the other, nothing was to be paid by either. As I
passed, one of the players was speaking. "Il primo partito," he said, "ho
guadagnato io; e poi, nel secondo,"—here a pause,—"ho perso la vittoria":
"The first game, I won; the second, I——lost the victory." And with this
happy periphrasis, our friend admitted his defeat. I could not but think how
much better it would have been for the French, if this ingenious mode of
adjusting with the English the Battle of Waterloo had ever occurred to them.
To admit that they were defeated was of course impossible; but to

acknowledge that they "lost the victory" would by no means have been
humiliating. This would have soothed their irritable national vanity,
prevented many heart-burnings, saved long and idle arguments and terrible
"kicking against the pricks," and rendered a friendly alliance possible.
No game has a better pedigree than Mora. It was played by the Egyptians
more than two thousand years before the Christian era. In the paintings at
Thebes and in the temples of Beni-Hassan, seated figures may be seen
playing it,—some keeping their reckoning with the left hand uplifted,—
some striking off the game with both hands, to show that it was won,—and,
in a word, using the same gestures as the modern Romans. From Egypt it
was introduced into Greece. The Romans brought it from Greece at an early
period, and it has existed among them ever since, having suffered
apparently no alteration. Its ancient Roman name was Micatio, and to play
it was called micare digitis,—"to flash the fingers,"—the modern name
Mora being merely a corruption of the verb micare. Varro describes it
precisely as it is now played; and Cicero, in the first book of his treatise "De
Divinatione," thus alludes to it:—"Quid enim est sors? Idem propemodum
quod micare, quod talos jacere, quod tesseras; quibus in rebus temeritas et
casus, non ratio et consilium valent." So common was it, that it became the
basis of an admirable proverb, to denote the honesty of a person:—"Dignus
est quicum in tenebris mices": "So trustworthy, that one may play Mora
with him in the dark." At one period they carried their love of it so far, that
they used to settle by micatio the sales of merchandise and meat in the
Forum, until Apronius, prefect of the city, prohibited the practice in the
following terms, as appears by an old inscription, which is particularly
interesting as containing an admirable pun: "Sub exagio potius pecora
vendere quam digitis concludentibus tradere": "Sell your sheep by the
balance, and do not bargain or deceive" (tradere having both these
meanings) "by opening and shutting your fingers at Mora."
One of the various kinds of the old Roman game of Pila still survives under
the modern name of Pallone. It is played between two sides, each
numbering from five to eight persons. Each of the players is armed with a
bracciale, or gantlet of wood, covering the hand and extending nearly up to
the elbow, with which a heavy ball is beaten backwards and forwards, high
into the air, from one side to the other. The object of the game is to keep the
ball in constant flight, and whoever suffers it to fall dead within his bounds

loses. It may, however, be struck in its rebound, though the best strokes are
before it touches the ground. The bracciali are hollow tubes of wood,
thickly studded outside with pointed bosses, projecting an inch and a half,
and having inside, across the end, a transverse bar, which is grasped by the
hand, so as to render them manageable to the wearer. The balls, which are
of the size of a large cricket-ball, are made of leather, and are so heavy, that,
when well played, they are capable of breaking the arm, unless properly
received on the bracciale. They are inflated with air, which is pumped into
them with a long syringe, through a small aperture closed by a valve inside.
The game is played on an oblong figure, marked out on the ground, or
designated by the wall around the sunken platform on which it is played;
across the centre is drawn a transverse line, dividing equally the two sides.
Whenever a ball either falls outside the lateral boundary or is not struck
over the central line, it counts against the party playing it. When it flies over
the extreme limits, it is called a volata, and is reckoned the best stroke that
can be made. At the end of the lists is a spring-board, on which the principal
player stands. The best batter is always selected for this post; the others are
distributed about. Near him stands the pallonaio, whose office is to keep the
balls well inflated with air, and he is busy nearly all the time. Facing him, at
a short distance, is the mandarino, who gives ball. As soon as the ball
leaves the mandarino's hand, the chief batter runs forward to meet it, and
strikes it as far and high as he can, with the bracciale. Four times in
succession have I seen a good player strike a volata, with the loud applause
of the spectators. When this does not occur, the two sides bat the ball
backwards and forwards, from one to the other, sometimes fifteen or twenty
times before the point is won; and as it falls here and there, now flying high
in the air and caught at once on the bracciale before touching the ground,
now glancing back from the wall which generally forms one side of the
lists, the players rush eagerly to hit it, calling loudly to each other, and often
displaying great agility, skill, and strength. The interest now becomes very
exciting; the bystanders shout when a good stroke is made, and groan and
hiss at a miss, until, finally, the ball is struck over the lists, or lost within
them. The points of the game are fifty,—the first two strokes counting
fifteen each, and the others ten each. When one side makes the fifty before
the other has made anything, it is called a marcio, and counts double. As
each point is made, it is shouted by the caller, who stands in the middle and
keeps the count, and proclaims the bets of the spectators.

This game is as national to the Italians as cricket to the English; it is not
only, as it seems to me, much more interesting than the latter, but requires
vastly more strength, agility, and dexterity, to play it well. The Italians give
themselves to it with all the enthusiasm of their nature, and many a young
fellow injures himself for life by the fierceness of his batting. After the
excitement and stir of this game, which only the young and athletic can play
well, cricket seems a very dull affair.
The game of Pallone has always been a favorite one in Rome; and near the
summit of the Quattro Fontane, in the Barberini grounds, there is a circus,
which used to be specially devoted to public exhibitions during the summer
afternoons. At these representations, the most renowned players were
engaged by an impresario. The audience was generally large, and the
entrance-fee was one paul. Wonderful feats were sometimes performed
here; and on the wall are marked the heights of some remarkable volate.
The players were clothed in a thin, tight dress, like saltimbanchi. One side
wore a blue, and the other a red ribbon, on the arm. The contests, generally,
were fiercely disputed,—the spectators betting heavily, and shouting, as
good or bad strokes were made. Sometimes a line was extended across the
amphitheatre, from wall to wall, over which it was necessary to strike the
ball, a point being lost in case it passed below. But this is a variation from
the game as ordinarily played, and can be ventured on only when the
players are of the first force. The games here, however, are now suspended;
for the French, since their occupation, have not only seized the post-office,
to convert it into a club-room, and the piano nobile of some of the richest
palaces, to serve as barracks for their soldiers, but have also driven the
Romans from their amphitheatre, where Pallone was played, to make it into
ateliers de génie. Still, one may see the game played by ordinary players,
towards the twilight of any summer day, in the Piazza di Termini, or near
the Tempio della Pace, or the Colosseo. The boys from the studios and
shops also play in the streets a sort of mongrel game called Pillotta, beating
a small ball back and forth, with a round bat, shaped like a small tamburello
and covered with parchment. But the real game, played by skilful players,
may be seen almost every summer night outside the Porta a Pinti, in
Florence; and I have also seen it admirably played under the fortress-wall at
Siena, the players being dressed entirely in white, with loose ruffled jackets,
breeches, long stockings, and shoes of undressed leather, and the audience

sitting round on the stone benches, or leaning over the lofty wall, cheering
on the game, while they ate the cherries or zucca-seeds which were hawked
about among them by itinerant peddlers. Here, towards twilight, one could
lounge away an hour pleasantly under the shadow of the fortress, looking
now at the game and now at the rolling country beyond, where olives and
long battalions of vines marched knee-deep through the golden grain, until
the purple splendors of sunset had ceased to transfigure the distant hills, and
the crickets chirped louder under the deepening gray of the sky.
In the walls of the amphitheatre at Florence is a bust in colored marble of
one of the most famous players of his day, whose battered face seems still
to preside over the game, getting now and then a smart blow from the
Pallone itself, which, in its inflation, is no respecter of persons. The
honorable inscription beneath the bust, celebrating the powers of this
champion, who rejoiced in the surname of Earthquake, is as follows:—
"Josephus Barnius, Petiolensis, vir in jactando repercutiendoque folle
singularis, qui ob robur ingens maximamque artis peritiam, et collusores
ubique devictos, Terræmotus formidabili cognomento dictus est."
Another favorite game of ball among the Romans is Bocce or Boccette. It is
played between two sides, consisting of any number of persons, each of
whom has two large wooden balls of about the size of an average American
nine-pin ball. Beside these, there is a little ball called the lecco. This is
rolled first by one of the winning party to any distance he pleases, and the
object is to roll or pitch the boccette or large balls so as to place them beside
the lecco. Every ball of one side nearer to the lecco than any ball of the
other counts one point in the game,—the number of points depending on the
agreement of the parties. The game is played on the ground, and not upon
any smooth or prepared plane; and as the lecco often runs into hollows, or
poises itself on some uneven declivity, it is sometimes a matter of no small
difficulty to play the other balls near to it. The great skill of the game
consists, however, in displacing the balls of the adverse party so as to make
the balls of the playing party count, and a clever player will often change
the whole aspect of affairs by one well-directed throw. The balls are thrown
alternately,—first by a player on one side, and then by a player on the other.
As the game advances, the interest increases, and there is a constant variety.
However good a throw is made, it may be ruined by the next. Sometimes

the ball is pitched with great accuracy, so as to strike a close-counting ball
far into the distance, while the new ball takes its place. Sometimes the lecco
itself is suddenly transplanted into a new position, which entirely reverses
all the previous counting. It is the last ball which decides the game, and, of
course, it is eagerly watched. In the Piazza di Termini numerous parties may
be seen every bright day in summer or spring playing this game under the
locust-trees, surrounded by idlers, who stand by to approve or condemn,
and to give their advice. The French soldiers, once free from drill or guard
or from practising trumpet-calls on the old Agger of Servius Tullius near by,
are sure to be rolling balls in this fascinating game. Having heated their
blood sufficiently at it, they adjourn to a little osteria in the Piazza to
refresh themselves with a glass of asciutto wine, after which they sit on a
bench outside the door, or stretch themselves under the trees, and take a
siesta, with their handkerchiefs over their eyes, while other parties take
their turn at the bocce. Meanwhile, from the Agger beyond are heard the
distressing trumpets struggling with false notes and wheezing and shrieking
in ludicrous discord, while now and then the solemn bell of Santa Maria
Maggiore tolls from the neighboring hill.
Another favorite game in Rome and Tuscany is Ruzzola, so called from the
circular disk of wood with which it is played. Round this the player winds
tightly a cord, which, by a sudden cast and backward jerk of the hand, he
uncoils so as to send the disk whirling along the road. Outside the walls,
and along all the principal avenues leading to the city, parties are constantly
to be met playing at this game; and oftentimes before the players are
visible, the disk is seen bounding round some curve, to the great danger of
one's legs. He whose disk whirls the farthest wins a point. It is an excellent
walking game, and it requires some knack to play the disk evenly along the
road. Often the swiftest disks, when not well-directed, bound over the
hedges, knock themselves down against the walls, or bury themselves in the
tangled ditches; and when well played, if they chance to hit a stone in the
road, they will leap like mad into the air, at the risk of serious injury to any
unfortunate passer. In the country, instead of wooden disks, the contadini
often use cacio di pecora, a kind of hard goat's cheese, whose rind will
resist the roughest play. What, then, must be the digestive powers of those
who eat it, may be imagined. Like the peptic countryman, they probably do
not know they have a stomach, not having ever felt it; and certainly they

can say with Tony Lumpkin, "It never hurts me, and I sleep like a hound
after it."
In common with the French, the Romans have a passion for the game of
Dominos. Every caffè is supplied with a number of boxes, and, in the
evening especially, it is played by young and old, with a seriousness which
strikes us Saxons with surprise. We generally have a contempt for this
game, and look upon it as childish. But I know not why. It is by no means
easy to play well, and requires a careful memory and quick powers of
combination and calculation. No caffè in Rome or Marseilles would be
complete without its little black and white counters; and as it interests at
once the most mercurial and fidgety of people and the laziest and
languidest, it must have some hidden charm as yet unrevealed to the Anglo-
Saxon.
Beside Dominos, Chess (Scacchi) is often played in public in the caffès; and
there is one caffè named Dei Scacchi, because it is frequented by the best
chess-players in Rome. Here matches are often made, and admirable games
are played.
Among the Roman boys the game of Campana is also common. A
parallelogram is drawn upon the ground and subdivided into four squares,
which are numbered. At the top and bottom are two small semicircles, or
bells, thus:—

Each of the players, having deposited his stake in the semicircle (b) at the
farthest end, takes his station at a short distance, and endeavors to pitch
some object, either a disk or a bit of terracotta, or more generally a
baiocco, into one of the compartments. If he lodge it in the nearest bell, (a,)
he pays a new stake into the pool; if into the farthest bell, (b,) he takes the
whole pool; if into either of the other compartments, he takes one, two,
three, or four of the stakes, according to the number of the compartment. If
he lodge on a line, he is abbrucciato, as it is termed, and his play goes for
nothing. Among the boys, the pool is frequently filled with buttons,—

among the men, with baiocchi; but buttons or baiocchi are all the same to
the players,—they are the representatives of luck or skill.
But the game of games in Rome is the Lottery. This is under the direction of
the government, which, with a truly ecclesiastic regard for its subjects, has
organized it into a means of raising revenue. The financial objection to this
method of taxation is, that its hardest pressure is upon the poorest classes;
but the moral and political objections are still stronger. The habit of
gambling engendered by it ruins the temper, depraves the morals, and keeps
up a constant state of excitement at variance with any settled and serious
occupation. The temptations to laziness which it offers are too great for any
people luxurious or idle by temperament; and the demon of Luck is set
upon the altar which should be dedicated to Industry. If one happy chance
can bring a fortune, who will spend laborious days to gain a competence?
The common classes in Rome are those who are most corrupted by the
lottery; and when they can neither earn nor borrow baiocchi to play, they
strive to obtain them by beggary, cheating, and sometimes theft. The
fallacious hope that their ticket will some day bring a prize leads them from
step to step, until, having emptied their purses, they are tempted to raise the
necessary funds by any unjustifiable means. When you pay them their
wages or throw them a buona-mano, they instantly run to the lottery-office
to play it. Loss after loss does not discourage them. It is always, "The next
time they are to win,—there was a slight mistake in their calculation
before." Some good reason or other is always at hand. If by chance one of
them do happen to win a large sum, it is ten to one that it will cost him his
life,—that he will fall into a fit, or drop in an apoplexy, on hearing the
news. There is a most melancholy instance of this in the very next house,—
of a Jew made suddenly and unexpectedly rich, who instantly became
insane in consequence, and is now the most wretched and melancholy
spectacle that man can ever become,—starving in the midst of abundance,
and moving like a beast about his house. But of all ill luck that can happen
to the lottery-gambler, the worst is to win a small prize. It is all over with
him from that time forward; into the great pit of the lottery everything that
he can lay his hands on is sure to go.
There has been some difference of opinion as to whether the lottery was of
later Italian invention, or dated back to the Roman Empire,—some even
contending that it was in existence in Egypt long before that period; and

several ingenious discussions may be found on this subject in the journals
and annals of the French savans. A strong claim has been put forward for
the ancient Romans, on the ground that Nero, Titus, and Heliogabalus were
in the habit of writing on bits of wood and shells the names of various
articles which they intended to distribute, and then casting them to the
crowd to be scrambled for.[A] On some of these shells and billets were
inscribed the names of slaves, precious vases, costly dresses, articles of
silver and gold, valuable beasts, etc., which became the property of the
fortunate persons who secured the billets and shells. On others were written
absurd and useless articles, which turned the laugh against the unfortunate
finder. Some, for instance, had inscribed upon them ten pieces of gold, and
some ten cabbages. Some were for one hundred bears, and some for one
egg. Some for five camels, and some for ten flies. In one sense, these were
lotteries, and the Emperors deserve all due credit for their invention. But the
lottery, according to its modern signification, is of Italian origin, and had its
birth in Upper Italy as early as the fourteenth or fifteenth century. Here it
was principally practised by the Venetians and Genoese, under the name of
Borsa di Ventura,—the prizes consisting originally, not of money, but of
merchandise of every kind,—precious stones, pictures, gold and silver
work, and similar articles. The great difference between them and the
ancient lotteries of Heliogabalus and Nero was, that tickets were bought and
prizes drawn. The lottery soon came to be played, however, for money, and
was considered so admirable an invention, that it was early imported into
France, where Francis I., in 1539, granted letters-patent for the
establishment of one. In the seventeenth century, this "infezione," as an old
Italian writer calls it, was introduced into Holland and England, and at a
still later date into Germany. Those who invented it still retain it; but those
who adopted it have rejected it. After nearly three centuries' existence in
France, it was abolished on the 31st of December, 1835. The last drawing
was at Paris on the 27th of the same month, when the number of players
was so great that it became necessary to close the offices before the
appointed time, and one Englishman is said to have gained a quaterno of
the sum of one million two hundred thousand francs. When abolished in
France, the government was drawing from it a net revenue of twenty
million francs.

In Italy the lottery was proscribed by Innocent XII., Benedict XIII., and
Clement XII. But it was soon revived. It was not without vehement
opposers then as now, as may be seen by a little work published at Pisa in
the early part of the last century, entitled, "L'Inganno non conosciuto,
oppure non voluto conoscere, nell'Estrazione del Lotto." Muratori, in 1696,
calls it, in his "Annals of Italy," "Inventione dell' amara malizia per
succiare il sangue dei malaccorti giuocatori." In a late number of the
"Civiltà Cattolica," published at Rome by the Jesuits, (the motto of which is
"Beatus Populus cujus Dominus Deus est,") there is, on the other hand, an
elaborate and most Jesuitical article, in which the lottery is defended with
amusing skill. What Christendom in general has agreed to consider immoral
and pernicious in its effects on a people seems, on the contrary, to the writer
of this article, to be highly moral and commendable.
The numbers which can be played are from one to ninety. Of these only five
are now drawn. Originally the numbers drawn were eight, (otto,)—and it is
said that the Italian name of this game, lotto, was derived from this
circumstance. The player may stake upon one, two, three, four, or five
numbers,—but no ticket can be taken for more than five; and he may stake
upon his ticket any sum, from one baiocco up to five scudi,—but the latter
sum only in case he play upon several chances on the same ticket. If he play
one number, he may either play it al posto assegnato, according to its place
in the drawing, as first, second, third, etc.,—or he may play it senza posto,
without place, in which case he wins, if the number come anywhere among
the five drawn. In the latter case, however, the prize is much less in
proportion to the sum staked. Thus, for one baiocco staked al posto
assegnato, a scudo may be won; but to gain a scudo on a number senza
posto, seven baiocchi must be played. A sum staked upon two numbers is
called an ambo,—on three, a terno,—on four, a quaterno,—and on five, a
cinquino; and of course the prizes increase in rapid proportion to the
numbers played,—the sum gained multiplying very largely on each
additional number. For instance, if two baiocchi be staked on an ambo, the
prize is one scudo; but if the same sum be staked on a terno, the prize is a
hundred scudi. When an ambo is played for, the same two numbers may be
played as single numbers, either al posto or senza posto, and in such case
one of the numbers alone may win. So, also, a terno may be played so as to
include an ambo, and a quaterno so as to include a terno and ambo, and a

cinquino so as to include all. But whenever more than one chance is played
for, the price is proportionally increased. For a simple terno the limit of
price is thirty-five pauls. The ordinary rule is to play for every chance
within the numbers taken; but the common people rarely attempt more than
a terno. If four numbers are played with all their chances, they are reckoned
as four terni, and paid for accordingly. If five numbers are taken, the price
is for five terni.
Where two numbers are played, there is always an augment to the nominal
prize of twenty per cent.; where three numbers are played, the augment is of
eighty per cent.; and from every prize is deducted ten per cent., to be
devoted to the hospitals and the poor. The rule creating the augments was
decreed by Innocent XIII. Such is the rage for the lottery in Rome, as well
as in all the Italian States, and so great is the number of tickets bought
within the year, that this tax on the prizes brings in a very considerable
revenue for eleëmosynary purposes.
The lottery is a branch of the department of finance, and is under the
direction of a Monsignore. The tickets originally issue from one grand
central office in the Palazzo Madama; but there is scarcely a street in Rome
without some subsidiary and distributing office, which is easily recognized,
not only by its great sign of "Prenditoria di Lotti" over the door, but by
scores of boards set round the windows and doorway, on which are
displayed, in large figures, hundreds of combinations of numbers for sale.
The tickets sold here are merely purchased on speculation for resale, and
though it is rare that all are sold, yet, as a small advance of price is asked on
each ticket beyond what was given at the original office, there is enough
profit to support these shops. The large show of placards would to a
stranger indicate a very considerable investment; yet, in point of fact, as the
tickets rarely cost more than a few baioicchi, the amount risked is small. No
ticket is available for a prize, unless it bear the stamp and signature of the
central office, as well as of the distributing shop, if bought in the latter.
Every Saturday, at noon, the lottery is drawn in Rome, in the Piazza
Madama. Half an hour before the appointed time, the Piazza begins to be
thronged with ticket-holders, who eagerly watch a large balcony of the
sombre old Palazzo Madama, (built by the infamous Catharine de' Medici,)
where the drawing is to take place. This is covered by an awning and

colored draperies. In front, and fastened to the balustrade, is a glass barrel,
standing on thin brass legs and turned by a handle. Five or six persons are
in the balcony, making arrangements for the drawing. These are the
officials,—one of them being the government officer, and the others persons
taken at random, to supervise the proceedings. The chief official first takes
from the table beside him a slip of paper on which a number is inscribed.
He names it aloud, passes it to the next, who verifies it and passes it on,
until it has been subjected to the examination of all. The last person then
proclaims the number in a loud voice to the populace below, folds it up, and
drops it into the glass barrel. This operation is repeated until every number
from one to ninety is passed, verified by all, proclaimed, folded, and
dropped into the barrel. The last number is rather sung than called, and with
more ceremony than all the rest. The crowd shout back from below. The
bell strikes noon. A blast of trumpets sounds from the balcony, and a boy
dressed in white robes advances from within, ascends the steps, and stands
high up before the people, facing the Piazza. The barrel is then whirled
rapidly round and round, so as to mix in inextricable confusion all the
tickets. This over, the boy lifts high his right hand, makes the sign of the
cross on his breast, then, waving his open hand in the air, to show that
nothing is concealed, plunges it into the barrel, and draws out a number.
This he hands to the official, who names it, and passes it along the line of
his companions. There is dead silence below, all listening eagerly. Then, in
a loud voice, the number is sung out by the last official, "Primo estratto,
numero 14," or whatever the number may be. Then sound the trumpets
again, and there is a rustle and buzz among the crowd. All the five numbers
are drawn with like ceremony, and all is over. Within a surprisingly short
space of time, these numbers are exhibited in the long frames which are to
be seen over the door of every Prenditoria di Lotti in Rome, and there they
remain until the next drawing takes place. The boy who does the drawing
belongs to a college of orphans, an admirable institution, at which children
who have lost both parents and are left helpless are lodged, cared for, and
educated, and the members of which are employed to perform this office in
rotation, receiving therefor a few scudi.
It will be seen from the manner in which the drawing of the lottery is
conducted, that no precaution is spared by the government to assure the
public of the perfect good faith and fairness observed in it. This is, in fact,

absolutely necessary in order to establish that confidence without which its
very object would be frustrated. But the Italians are a very suspicious and
jealous people, and I fear that there is less faith in the uprightness of the
government than in their own watchfulness and the difficulty of deception.
There can be little doubt that no deceit is practised by the government, so
far as the drawing is concerned,—for it would be nearly impossible to
employ it. Still there are not wanting stories of fortunate coincidences
which are singular and interesting; one case, which I have every reason to
believe authentic, was related to me by a most trustworthy person, as being
within his own knowledge. A few years ago, the Monsignore who was at the
head of the lottery had occasion to diminish his household, and accordingly
dismissed an old servant who had been long in his palace. Often the old
man returned and asked for relief, and as often was charitably received. But
his visits at last became importunate, and the Monsignore remonstrated. The
answer of the servant was, "I have given my best years to the service of
your Eminence,—I am too old to labor,—what shall I do?" The case was a
hard one. His Eminence paused and reflected;—at last he said, "Why not
buy a ticket in the lottery?" "Ah!" was the answer, "I have not even money
to supply my daily needs. What you now give me is all I have. If I risk it, I
may lose it,—and that lost, what can I do?" Still the Monsignore said, "Buy
a ticket in the lottery." "Since your Eminence commands me, I will," said
the old man; "but what numbers?" "Play on number so and so for the first
drawing," was the answer, "e Dio ti benedica!" The servant did as he was
ordered, and, to his surprise and joy, the first number drawn was his. He
was a rich man for life,—and his Eminence lost a troublesome dependant.
A capital story is told by the author of the article in the "Civiltà Cattolica,"
which is to the point here, and which, even were it not told on such
respectable authority, bears its truth on the face of it. As very frequently
happens, a poor bottegaio, or shopkeeper, being hard-driven by his
creditors, went to his priest, an uomo apostolico, and prayed him earnestly
to give him three numbers to play in the lottery.
"But how under heaven," says the innocent priest, "has it ever got into your
head that I can know the five numbers which are to issue in the lottery?"
"Eh! Padre mio! what will it cost you?" was the answer. "Just look at me
and my wretched family; if we do not pay our rent on Saturday, out we go

into the street. There is nothing left but the lottery, and you can give us the
three numbers that will set all right."
"Oh, there you are again! I am ready to do all I can to assist you, but this
matter of the lottery is impossible; and I must say, that your folly, in
supposing I can give you the three lucky numbers, does little credit to your
brains."
"Oh, no! no! do not say so, Padre mio! Give me a terno. It will be like rain
in May, or cheese on my maccaroni. On my word of honor, I'll keep it
secret. Via! You, so good and charitable, cannot refuse me the three
numbers. Pray, content me this once."
"Caro mio! I will give you a rule for always being content:—Avoid Sin,
think often on Death, and behave so as to deserve Paradise,—and so"——
"Basta! basta! Padre mio! That's enough. Thanks! thanks! God will reward
you."
And, making a profound reverence, off the bottegaio rushes to his house.
There he takes down the "Libro del Sogni," calls into consultation his wife
and children, and, after a long and earnest discussion and study, the three
numbers corresponding to the terms Sin, Death, and Paradise are settled
upon, and away goes our friend to play them in the lottery. Will you believe
it? the three numbers are drawn,—and the joy of the poor bottegaio and his
family may well be imagined. But what you will not imagine is the
persecution of the poor uomo apostolico which followed. The secret was all
over town the next day, and he was beset by scores of applicants for
numbers. Vainly he protested and declared that he knew nothing, and that
the man's drawing the right numbers was all chance. Every word he spoke
turned into numbers, and off ran his hearers to play them. He was like the
girl in the fairy story, who dropped pearls every time she spoke. The worst
of the imbroglio was, that in an hour the good priest had uttered words
equivalent to all the ninety numbers in the lottery, and the players were all
at loggerheads with each other. Nor did this persecution cease for weeks,
nor until those who had played the numbers corresponding to his words
found themselves, as the Italians say, with only flies in their hands.

The stupidity of many of the common people in regard to these numbers is
wonderful. When the number drawn is next to the number they have, they
console themselves with thinking that they were within one of it,—as if in
such cases a miss were not as bad as a mile. But when the number drawn is
a multiple of the one they play, it is a sympathetic number, and is next door
to winning; and if the number come reversed,—as if, having played 12, it
come out 21,—he laughs with delight. "Eh, don't you see, you stupid
fellow," said the speziale of a village one day to a dunce of a contadino, of
whose infallible terno not a single number had been drawn,—"Don't you
see, in substance all your three numbers have been drawn? and it's shameful
in you to be discontented. Here you have played 8—44—26, and instead of
these have been drawn 7—11—62. Well! just observe! Your 8 is just within
one point of being 7; your 44 is in substance 11, for 4 times 11 are 44
exactly; and your 26 is nothing more or less than precisely 62 reversed;—
what would you ask more?" And by his own mode of reasoning, the poor
contadino sees as clearly as possible that he has really won,—only the
difficulty is that he cannot touch the prize without correcting the little
variations. Ma, pazienza! he came so near this time, that he will be sure to
win the next,—and away he goes to hunt out more sympathetic numbers,
and to rejoice with his friends on coming so near winning.
Dreams of numbers are, of course, very frequent,—and are justly much
prized. Yet one must know how to use them, and be brave and bold, or the
opportunity is lost. I myself once dreamt of having gained a terno in the
lottery, but was fool enough not to play it,—and in consequence lost a prize,
the very numbers coming up in the next drawing. The next time I have such
a dream, of course I shall play; but perhaps I shall be too late, and only lose.
And this recalls to my mind a story, which may serve as a warning to the
timid and an encouragement to the bold. An Englishman, who had lived on
bad terms with a very quarrelsome and annoying wife, (according to his
own account, of course,) had finally the luck, I mean the misfortune, to lose
her. He had lived long enough in Italy, however, to say "Pazienza" and
buried his sorrows and his wife in the same grave. But, after the lapse of
some time, his wife appeared to him in a dream, and confessed her sins
towards him during her life, and prayed his forgiveness, and added, that in
token of reconciliation he must accept three numbers to play in the lottery,
which would certainly win a great prize. But the husband was obstinate, and

absolutely refused to follow the advice of a friend to whom he recounted
the odd dream, and who urged him to play the numbers. "Bah!" he
answered to this good counsel; "I know her too well;—she never meant
well to me during her life, and I don't believe she's changed now that she's
dead. She only means to play me a trick, and make me lose. But I'm too old
a bird to be taken with her chaff." "Better play them," said his friend, and
they separated. In the course of a week they met again. "By the way," said
the friend, "did you see that your three numbers came up in the lottery this
morning?" "The Devil they did! What a consummate fool I was not to play
them!" "You didn't play them?" "No!" "Well, I did, and won a good round
sum with them, too." So the obstinate husband, mad at his ill luck, cursed
himself for a fool, and had his curses for his pains. That very night,
however, his wife again appeared to him, and, though she reproached him a
little for his want of faith in her, (no woman could be expected to forego
such an opportunity, even though she were dead,) yet she forgave him, and
added,—"Think no more about it now, for here are three more numbers, just
as good." The husband, who had eaten the bitter food of experience, was
determined at all events not to let his fortune slip again through his fingers,
and played the highest possible terno in the lottery, and waited anxiously
for the next drawing. He could scarcely eat his breakfast for nervousness,
that morning,—but at last mid-day sounded, and the drawing took place,
but no one of his numbers came up. "Too late! taken in!" he cried.
"Confound her! she knew me better than I knew myself. She gave me a
prize the first time, because she knew I wouldn't play it; and, having so
whet my passions, she then gave me a blank the second time, because she
knew I would play it. I might have known better."
From the moment one lottery is drawn, the mind of the people is intent on
selecting numbers for the next. Nor is this an easy matter,—all sorts of
superstitions existing as to figures and numbers. Some are lucky, some
unlucky, in themselves,—some lucky only in certain combinations, and
some sympathetic with others. The chances, therefore, must be carefully
calculated, no number or combination being ever played without profound
consideration, and under advice of skilful friends. Almost every event in life
has a numerical signification; and such is the reverence paid to dreams, that
a large book exists of several hundred pages, called "Libro dei Sogni,"
containing, besides various cabala and mystical figures and lists of numbers

which are "sympathetic," with directions for their use, a dictionary of
thousands of objects with the numbers supposed to be represented by each,
as well as rules for interpreting into numbers all dreams in which these
objects appear,—and this book is the constant vade-mecum of a true lottery-
player. As Boniface lived, ate, and slept on his ale, so do the Romans on
their numbers. The very children "lisp in numbers, for the numbers come,"
and the fathers run immediately to play them. Accidents, executions, deaths,
apoplexies, marriages, assassinations, births, anomalies of all kinds, become
auguries and enigmas of numbers. A lottery-gambler will count the stabs on
a dead body, the drops of blood from a decollated head, the passengers in an
overturned coach, the wrinkles in the forehead of a new-born child, the
gasps of a person struck by apoplexy, the day of the month and the hour and
the minute of his death, the scudi lost by a friend, the forks stolen by a thief,
anything and everything, to play them in the lottery. If a strange dream is
dreamed,—as of one being in a desert on a camel, which turns into a rat,
and runs down into the Maelström to hide,—the "Libro dei Sogni" is at
once consulted, the numbers for desert, rat, camel, and Maelström are found
and combined, and the hopeful player waits in eager expectation of a prize.
Of course, dream after dream of particular numbers and combinations
occurs,—for the mind bent to this subject plays freaks in the night, and
repeats contortedly the thoughts of the day,—and these dreams are
considered of special value. Sometimes, when a startling incident takes
place with a special numerical signification, the run upon the numbers
indicated becomes so great, that the government, which is always careful to
guard against any losses on its own part, refuses to allow more than a
certain amount to be played on them, cancels the rest, and returns the price
of the tickets.
Sometimes, in passing through the streets, one may see a crowd collected
about a man mounted upon a chair or stool. Fixed to a stand at his side or
on the back of his chair is a glass bottle, in which are two or three hollow
manikins of glass, so arranged as to rise and sink by pressure of the
confined air. The neck of the bottle is cased in a tin box which surmounts it
and has a movable cover. This personage is a charlatan, with an apparatus
for divining lucky numbers for the lottery. The "soft bastard Latin" runs off
his tongue in an uninterrupted stream of talk, while he offers on a waiter to
the bystanders a number of little folded papers containing a pianeta, or

augury, on which are printed a fortune and a terno. "Who will buy a
pianeta," he cries, "with the numbers sure to bring him a prize? He shall
have his fortune told him who buys. Who does not need counsel must surely
be wise. Here's Master Tommetto, who never tells lies. And here is his
brother, still smaller in size. And Madama Medea Plutonia to advise. They'll
write you a fortune and bring you a prize for a single baiocco. No creature
so wise as not to need counsel. A fool I despise, who keeps his baiocco and
loses his prize. Who knows what a fortune he'll get till he tries? Time's
going, Signori,—who buys? who buys?" And so on by the yard. Meantime
the crowd about him gape, stare, wonder, and finally put their hands to their
pockets, out with their baiocchi, and buy their papers. Each then makes a
mark on his paper to verify it, and returns it to the charlatan. After several
are thus collected, he opens the cover of the tin box, deposits them therein
with a certain ceremony, and commences an exhortatory discourse to the
manikins in the bottle,—two of whom, Maestro Tommetto and his brother,
are made to resemble little black imps, while Madama Medea Plutonia is
dressed alla Francese. "Fa una reverenza, Maestro Tommetto!" "Make a
bow, Master Tommetto!" he now begins. The puppet bows. "Ancora!"
"Again!" Again he bows. "Lesto, Signore, un piccolo giretto!" "Quick, Sir, a
little turn!" And round whirls the puppet. "Now, up, up, to make a registry
on the ticket! and do it conscientiously, Master Tommetto!" And up the imp
goes, and disappears through the neck of the bottle. Then comes a burst of
admiration at his cleverness from the charlatan. Then, turning to the brother
imp, he goes through the same rôle with him. "And now, Madama Medea,
make a reverence, and follow your husband! Quick, quick, a little giretto!"
And up she goes. A moment after, down they all come again at his call; he
lifts the cover of the box; cries, "Quanto sei caro, Tommetto!" and
triumphantly exhibits the papers, each with a little freshly written
inscription, and distributes them to the purchasers. Now and then he takes
from his pocket a little bottle containing a mixture of the color of wine, and
a paper filled with some sort of powder, and, exclaiming, "Ah! tu hai fame e
sete. Bisogna che ti dia da bere e mangiare," pours them into the tin cup.
It is astonishing to see how many of these little tickets a clever charlatan
will sell in an hour, and principally on account of the lottery-numbers they
contain. The fortunes are all the stereotype thing, and almost invariably
warn you to be careful lest you should be "tradito," or promise you that you

shall not be "tradito"; for the idea of betrayal is the corner-stone of every
Italian's mind.
In not only permitting, but promoting the lottery, Italy is certainly far
behind England, France, and America. This system no longer exists with us,
except in the disguised shape of gift-enterprises, art-unions, and that
unpleasant institution of mendicant robbery called the raffle, and employed
specially by those "who have seen better days." But a fair parallel to this
rage of the Italians for the lottery is to be found in the love of betting, which
is a national characteristic of the English. I do not refer to the bets upon
horseflesh at Ascot, Epsom, and Goodwood, by which fortunes change
owners in an hour and so many men are ruined, but rather to the general
habit of betting upon any and every subject to settle a question, no matter
how trivial, for which the Englishman is everywhere renowned on the
Continent. Betting is with most other nations a form of speech, but with
Englishmen it is a serious fact, and no one will be long in their company
without finding an opinion backed up by a bet. It would not be very difficult
to parallel those cases where the Italians disregard the solemnity of death, in
their eagerness for omens of lottery-numbers, with equally reprehensible
and apparently heartless cases of betting in England. Let any one who
doubts this examine the betting-books at White's and Brookes's. In them he
will find a most startling catalogue of bets,—some so bad as to justify the
good parson in Walpole's story, who declared that they were such an
impious set in this respect at White's, that, "if the last trump were to sound,
they would bet puppet-show against judgment." Let one instance suffice. A
man, happening to drop down at the door of White's, was lifted up and
carried in. He was insensible, and the question was, whether he were dead
or not. Bets were at once given and taken on both sides, and, it being
proposed to bleed him, those who had taken odds that he was dead
protested, on the ground that the use of the lancet would affect the fairness
of the bet.[B] In the matter of play, things have now much changed since the
time when Mr. Thynne left the club at White's in disgust, because he had
won only twelve hundred guineas in two months. There is also a description
of one of Fox's mornings, about the year 1783, which Horace Walpole has
left us, and the truth of which Lord Holland admits, which it would be well
for those to read who measure out hard justice to the Italians for their love
of the lottery. Let us be fair. Italy is in these respects behind England in

morals and practice by nearly a century; but it is as idle to argue hard-
heartedness in an Italian who counts the drops of blood at a beheading as to
suppose that the English have no feeling because in the bet we have
mentioned there was a protest against the use of the lancet, or to deny
kindliness to a surgeon who lectures on structure and disease while he
removes a cancer.
Vehement protests against the lottery and all gaming are as often uttered in
Italy as elsewhere; and among them may be cited this eloquent passage
from one of the most powerful of her modern writers. Guerrazzi, in the
thirteenth chapter of "L'Assedio di Firenze," speaking on this subject, says,
"You would in vain seek anything more fatal to men than play. It brings
ignorance, poverty, despair, and at last crime.... Gambling (the wicked
gambling of the lottery) forms a precious jewel in the crown of princes."
In a recent work, by the same author, called "L'Asino," occurs the following
indignant and satirical passage, which, for the sake of the story, if for no
other reason, deserves a place here:—
"In our search for the history of human perfection, shall I speak of Naples
or Rome? Alas! At the contemplation of such misery, in vain you constrain
your lips to smile; they pout, and the uncalled tears stream over your face.
Pity, in these most unhappy countries, blinded with weeping and hoarse
with vain supplication, when she has no more voice to cry out to heaven,
flies thither, and, kneeling before the throne of God, with outstretched hand,
and proffering no word, begs that He will look at her.
"Behold, O Lord, and judge whether our sins were remitted, or whether the
sins of others exceed ours.
"Is not Tuscany the garden of Italy? So say the Tuscans; and the Florentines
add, that Florence is the Athens of Tuscany. Truly, both seem beautiful. Let
us search in Tuscany. At Barberino di Mugello, in the midst of an olive-
grove is a cemetery, where the vines, which have taken root in the outer
walls and climbed over their summit, fall into the inclosed space, as if they
wished to garland Death with vine-leaves and make it smile; over the gate,
strange guardians of the tombs, two fig-trees give their shadow and fruit to
recompense the piety of the passers-by, giving a fig in exchange for a De
Profundis; while the ivy, stretching its wanton arms over the black cross,

endeavors to clothe the austere sign of the Redemption with the jocund
leaves of Bacchus, and recalls to your mind the mad Phryne who vainly
tempted Xenocrates. A beautiful cemetery, by my faith! a cemetery to
arouse in the body an intense desire to die, if only for the pleasure of being
buried there. Now observe. Look into my magic-lantern. What figures do
you see? A priest with a pick; after him a peasant with a spade; and behind
them a woman with a hatchet: the priest holds a corpse by the hair; the
peasant, with one blow, strikes off its head; then, all things being carefully
rearranged, priest, peasant, and woman, after thrusting the head into a sack,
return as they came. Attention now, for I change the picture. What figures
are these that now appear? A kitchen; a fire that has not its superior, even in
the Inferno; and a caldron, where the hissing and boiling water sends up its
bubbles. Look about and what do you see? Enter the priest, the peasant, and
the housewife, and in a moment empty a sack into the caldron. Lo! a head
rolls out, dives into the water, and floats to the surface, now showing its
nape and now its face. The Lord help us! It is an abominable spectacle; this
poor head, with its ashy, open lips, seems to say, Give me again my
Christian burial! That is enough. Only take note that in Tuscany, in the
beautiful middle of the nineteenth century, a sepulchre was violated, and a
sacrilege committed, to obtain from the boiled head of a corpse good
numbers to play in the lottery! And, by way of corollary, add this to your
note, that in Rome, Caput Mundi, and in Tuscany, Garden of Italy, it is
prohibited, under the severest penalties, to play at Faro, Zecchinetto,
Banco-Fallito, Rossa e Nera, and other similar games at cards, where each
party may lose the whole or half the stakes, while the government
encourage the play of the Lottery, by which, out of one hundred and twenty
chances of winning, eighty are reserved for the bank, and forty or so
allowed to the player. Finally, take note that in Rome, Caput Mundi, and in
Tuscany, Garden of Italy, Faro, Zecchinetto, Rossa e Nera were prohibited,
as acknowledged pests of social existence and open death to honest
customs,—as a set-off for which deprivation, the game of the Lottery is still
kept on foot."
The following extraordinary story, improbable as it seems, is founded upon
fact, and was clearly proved, on judicial investigation, a few years since. It
is well known in Tuscany, and forms the subject of a satirical narrative ("Il
Sortilegio") by Giusti, a modern Tuscan poet, of true fire and genius, who

has lashed the vices of his country in verses remarkable for point, idiom,
and power. According to him, the method of divination resorted to in this
case was as follows:—The sorcerer who invented it ordered his dupes to
procure, either at dawn or twilight, ninety dry beans, called ceci, and upon
each of these to write one of the ninety numbers drawn in the lottery, with
an ink made of pitch and lard, which would not be affected by water. They
were then to sharpen a knife, taking care that he who did so should touch no
one during the operation; and after a day of fasting, they were to dig up at
night a body recently dead, and, having cut off the head and removed the
brain, they were to count the beans thrice, and to shake them thrice, and
then, on their knees, to put them one by one into the skull. This was then to
be placed in a caldron of water and set on the fire to boil. As soon as the
water boiled violently, the head would be rolled about so that some of the
beans would be ejected, and the first three which were thus thrown to the
surface would be a sure terno for the lottery. The wretched dupes added yet
another feature of superstition to insure the success of this horrible device.
They selected the head of their curate, who had recently died,—on the
ground that, as he had studied algebra, he was a great cabalist, and any
numbers from his head would be sure to draw a prize.
Some one, I have no doubt, will here be anxious to know the numbers that
bubbled up to the surface; but I am very sorry to say that I cannot gratify
their laudable curiosity, for the interference of the police prevented the
completion of the sorcery. So the curious must be content to consult some
other cabalist,—

"sull'arti segrete
Di menar la Fortuna per il naso,
Pescando il certo nel gran mar del Caso."

Despite a wide-spread feeling among the higher classes against the lottery,
it still continues to exist, for it has fastened itself into the habits and
prejudices of many; and an institution which takes such hold of the passions
of the people, and has lived so long, dies hard. Nor are there ever wanting
specious excuses for the continuance of this, as of other reprobated systems,
—of which the strongest is, that its abolition would not only deprive of their
present means of subsistence numbers of persons employed in its
administration, but would cut off certain charities dependent upon it,
amounting to no less than forty thousand scudi annually. Among these may
be mentioned the dowry of forty scudi which is given out of the profits
received by the government at the drawing of every lottery to some five or
six of the poor girls of Rome. The list of those who would profit by this
charity is open to all, and contains thousands of names. The first number
drawn in the lottery decides the fortunate persons; and, on the subsequent
day, each receives a draft for forty scudi on the government, payable on the
presentation of the certificate of marriage. On the accession of the present
Pope, an attempt was made to abolish the system; but these considerations,
among others, had weight enough to prevent any changes.
Though the play is generally small, yet sometimes large fortunes are gained.
The family of the Marchese del Cinque, for instance, derive their title and
fortune from the luck of an ancestor who played and won the highest prize,
a Cinquino. With the money thus acquired he purchased his marquisate, and
took the title del Cinque, "of the Five," in reference to the lucky five
numbers. The Villa Quaranta Cinque in Rome derives its name from a
similar circumstance. A lucky Monsignore played the single number of
forty-five, al posto, and with his winnings built the villa, to which the
Romans, always addicted to nicknames, gave the name of Quaranta
Cinque. This love of nicknames, or soprannomi, as they are called, is, by
the way, an odd peculiarity of the Italians, and it often occurs that persons
are known only thereby. Examples of these, among the celebrated names of
Italy, are so frequent as to form a rule in favor of the surname rather than of
the real name, and in many cases the former has utterly obliterated the

latter. Thus, Squint Eye, (Guercino,) Dirty Tom, (Masaccio,) The Little
Dyer, (Tintoretto,) Great George, (Giorgione,) The Garland-Maker,
(Ghirlandaio,) Luke of the Madder, (Luca della Robbia,) The Little
Spaniard, (Spagnoletto,) and The Tailor's Son, (Del Sarto,) would scarcely
be known under their real names of Barbieri, Tommaso, Guido, Robusti,
Barbarelli, Corradi, Ribera, and Vannuchi. The list might be very much
enlarged, but let it suffice to add the following well-known names, all of
which are nicknames derived from their places of birth: Perugino, Veronese,
Aretino, Pisano, Giulio Romano, Correggio, Parmegiano.
The other day a curious instance of this occurred to me in taking the
testimony of a Roman coachman. On being called upon to give the names
of some of his companions, with whom he had been in daily and intimate
intercourse for more than two years, he could give only their soprannomi;
their real names he did not know, and had never heard. A little, gay, odd
genius, whom I took into my service during a villeggiatura at Siena, would
not answer to his real name, Lorenzo, but remonstrated on being so called,
and said he was only Pipetta, (The Little Pipe,) a nickname given to him
when a child, from his precocity in smoking, and of which he was as
tenacious as if it were a title of honor. "You prefer, then, to be called
Pipetta?" I asked. "Felicissimo! sì," was his answer. Not a foreigner comes
to Rome that his name does not "suffer a sea-change into something rich
and strange." Our break-jaw Saxon names are discarded, and a new
christening takes place. One friend I had who was called Il Malinconico,—
another, La Barbarossa,—another, Il bel Signore; but generally they are
called after the number of the house or the name of the street in which they
live,—La Signora bella Bionda di Palazzo Albani,—Il Signore Quattordici
Capo le Case,—Monsieur and Madama Terzo Piano, Corso.
But to return from this digression.—At every country festival may be seen a
peculiar form of the lottery called Tombola; and in the notices of these
festas, which are always placarded over the walls of Rome for weeks before
they take place, the eye will always be attracted first by the imposing word
Tombola, printed in the largest and blackest of letters. This is, in fact, the
characteristic feature of the festa, and attracts large numbers of contadini.
As in the ordinary lottery, only ninety numbers are played. Every ticket
contains blank spaces for fifteen numbers, which are inserted by the
purchaser, and registered duly at the office or booth where the ticket is

bought. The price of tickets in any single Tombola is uniform; but in
different Tombolas it varies, of course, according to the amount of the
prizes. These are generally five, namely,—the Ambo, Terno, Quaterno,
Cinquino, and Tombola, though sometimes a second Tombola or Tomboletta
is added. The drawing takes place in precisely the same manner as in the
ordinary lottery, but with more ceremony. A large staging, with a pavilion,
is erected, where the officers who are to superintend the drawing stand. In
the centre is a glass vase, in which the numbers are placed after having been
separately verified and proclaimed, and a boy gayly dressed draws them.
All the ninety numbers are drawn; and as each issues, it is called out, and
exhibited on a large card. Near by stands a large framework, elevated so as
to be visible to all, with ninety divisions corresponding to the ninety
numbers, and on this, also, every number is shown as soon as it is drawn.
The first person who has upon his ticket two drawn numbers gains an
Ambo, which is the smallest prize. Whoever first has three numbers drawn
gains a Terno; and so on with the Quaterno and Cinquino. The Tombola,
which is the great prize, is won by whoever first has his whole fifteen
numbers drawn. As soon as any one finds two of the drawn numbers on his
ticket, he cries, "Ambo," at the top of his lungs. A flag is then raised on the
pavilion, the band plays, and the game is suspended, while the claimant at
once makes his way to the judges on the platform to present his ticket for
examination. No sooner does the cry of "Ambo," "Terno," "Quaterno," take
place, than there is a great rustle all around. Everybody looks out for the
fortunate person, who is immediately to be seen running through the parting
crowd, which opens before him, cheering him as he goes, if his appearance
be poor and needy, and greeting him with sarcasms, if he be apparently well
to do in the world. Sometimes there are two or three claimants for the same
prize, in which case it is divided among them. The Ambo is soon taken, and
there is little room for a mistake; but when it comes to the Quaterno or
Cinquino, mistakes are very common, and the claimant is almost always
saluted with chaff and jests. After his ticket has been examined, if he have
won, a placard is exhibited with Ambo, Terno, Quaterno on it, as the case
may be. But if he have committed an error, down goes the flag, and, amid a
burst of laughter, jeering, whistling, screaming, and catcalls, the
disappointed claimant sneaks back and hides himself in the excited crowd.
At a really good Tombola, where the prizes are high, there is no end of fun
and gayety among the people. They stand with their tickets in their hands,

congratulating each other ironically, as they fail to find the numbers on
them, paying all sorts of absurd compliments to each other and the drawer,
offering to sell out their chances at enormous prices when they are
behindhand, and letting off all sorts of squibs and jests, not so excellent in
themselves as provocative of laughter. If the wit be little, the fun is great,—
and, in the excitement of expectation, a great deal of real Italian humor is
often ventilated. Sometimes, at the country fairs, the fun is rather slow,
particularly where the prizes are small; but on exciting occasions, there is a
constant small fire of jests, which is very amusing.
These Tombole are sometimes got up with great pomp. That, for instance,
which sometimes takes place in the Villa Borghese is one of the most
striking spectacles which can be seen in Rome. At one end of the great
open-air amphitheatre is erected a large pavilion, flanked on either side with
covered logge or palchi, festooned with yellow and white,—the Papal
colors,—adorned with flags, and closed round with rich old arrases all
pictured over with Scripture stories. Beneath the central pavilion is a band.
Midway down the amphitheatre, on either side, are two more logge,
similarly draped, where two more bands are stationed,—and still another at
the opposite end, for the same purpose. The logge which flank the pavilion
are sold by ticket, and filled with the richer classes. Three great stagings
show the numbers as they are drawn. The pit of the amphitheatre is densely
packed with a motley crowd. Under the ilexes and noble stone-pines that
show their dark-green foliage against the sky, the helmets and swords of
cavalry glitter as they move to and fro. All around on the green slopes are
the people,—soldiers, contadini, priests, mingled together,—and thousands
of gay dresses and ribbons and parasols enliven the mass. The four bands
play successively as the multitude gathers. They have already arrived in
tens of thousands, but the game has not yet begun, and thousands are still
flocking to see it. All the gay equipages are on the outskirts, and through the
trees and up the avenues stream the crowds on foot. As we stand in the
centre of the amphitheatre and look up, we get a faint idea of the old Roman
gatherings when Rome emptied itself to join in the games at the Colosseum.
Row upon row they stand, a mass of gay and swarming life. The sunlight
flashes over them, and blazes on the rich colors. The tall pines and dark
ilexes shadow them here and there; over them is the soft blue dome of the
Italian sky. They are gathered round the villetta,—they throng the roof and

balconies,—they crowd the stone steps,—they pack the green oval of the
amphitheatre's pit. The ring of cymbals, the clarion of trumpets, and the
clash of brazen music vibrate in the air. All the world is abroad to see, from
the infant in arms to the oldest inhabitant. Monsignori in purple stockings
and tricornered hats, contadini in gay reds and crimsons, cardinals in
scarlet. Princes, shopkeepers, beggars, foreigners, all mingle together; while
the screams of the vendors of cigars, pumpkin-seeds, cakes, and lemonade
are everywhere heard over the suppressed roar of the crowd. As you walk
along the outskirts of the mass, you may see Monte Gennaro's dark peak
looking over the Campagna, and all the Sabine hills trembling in a purple
haze,—or, strolling down through the green avenues, you may watch the
silver columns of fountains as they crumble in foam and plash in their
mossy basins,—or gather masses of the sweet Parma violet and other
beautiful wild-flowers.
The only other games among the modern Romans, which deserve particular
notice from their peculiarity, are those of Cards. In an Italian pack there are
only forty cards,—the eight, nine, and ten of the French and English cards
having no existence. The suits also have different signs and names, and,
instead of hearts, spades, clubs, and diamonds, they are called coppe, spade,
bastoni, and denari,—all being of the same color, and differing entirely in
form from our cards. The coppe are cups or vases; the spade are swords; the
bastoni are veritable clubs or bludgeons; and the denari are coins. The
games are still more different from ours than the cards, and they are legion
in number. There are Briscola, Tresette, Calabresella, Banco-Fallito, Rossa
e Nera, Scaraccoccia, Scopa, Spizzica, Faraone, Zecchinetto, Mercante in
Fiera, La Bazzica, Ruba-Monte, Uomo-Nero, La Paura, and I know not
how many others,—but they are recorded and explained in no book, and are
only to be picked up orally. Wherever you go, on festa-day, you will find
persons playing cards. At the common osterias, before the doors or on the
soiled tables within, on the ruins of the Cæsars' palaces and in the Temple
of Peace, on the stone tables in the vigna, on the walls along the public
roads, on the uncarved blocks of marble in front of the sculptors' studios, in
the antechambers or gateways of palaces,—everywhere, cards are played.
Every contadino has a pack in his pocket, with the flavor of the soil upon it.
The playing is ordinarily for very low sums, often for nothing at all. But
there are some games which are purely games of luck, and dangerous.

Some of these, as Rossa e Nera, Banco-Fallito, and Zecchinetto, though
prohibited by the government, are none the less favorite games in Rome,
particularly among those who play for money. Zecchinetto may be played
by any number of persons, after the following manner:—The dealer, who
plays against the whole table, deals to each player one card. The next card is
then turned up as a trump. Each player then makes his bet on the card dealt
to him, and places his money on it. The dealer then deals to the table the
other cards in order, and any of the players may bet on them as they are
thrown down. If a card of the number of that bet on issue before a card
corresponding to the number of the trump, the dealer wins the stake on that
card; but whenever a card corresponding to the trump issues, the player
wins on every card on which he has bet. When the banker or dealer loses at
once, the bank "fa toppa," and the deal passes, but not otherwise. Nothing
can be more simple than this game, and it is just as dangerous as it is
simple, and as exciting as it is dangerous. A late Roman principessa is said
to have been passionately fond of it, and to have lost enormously by it. The
story runs, that, while passing the evening at a friend's house, after losing
ten thousand scudi at one sitting, she staked her horses and carriage, which
were at the door waiting to take her home, and lost them also. She then
wrote a note to the prince, her husband, saying that she had lost her carriage
and horses at Zecchinetto, and wished others to be sent for her. To which he
answered, that she might return on foot,—which she was obliged to do.
This will serve at least as a specimen of the games of chance played by the
Romans at cards. Of the more innocent games, Briscola, Tresette, and
Scaraccoccia are the favorites among the common people. And the first of
these may not be uninteresting, as being, perhaps, the most popular of all. It
is played by either two or four persons. The Fante (or Knave) counts as
two; the Carallo (equal to our Queen) as three; the Rè (King) as four; the
Three-spot as ten; and the Ace as eleven. Three cards are dealt to each
person, and after the deal the next card is turned as trump, or Briscola. Each
plays, and, after one card all round is played, its place is supplied by a new
deal of one card to each. Every card of the trump-suit takes any card of the
other suits. Each player takes as many counting-cards as he can, and, at the
end of the game, he who counts the most wins,—the account being made
according to the value of the cards, as stated above.
[To be continued.]

FOOTNOTES:
[A] See Dessault, Traité de la Passion du Jeu.
[B] Even while I am writing these notes, I find almost the same incident
recorded as a "modern instance," in a recent work by Lieutenant-Colonel
Addison, entitled Traits and Stories of Anglo-Indian Life; but, despite the
authority of Colonel Addison, I cannot but suspect that he has simply changed
the venue, and that his story is but a rifacimento of the actual case alluded to
above.

THE AMBER GODS.
[Concluded.]

Papa made Mr. Dudley stay and dine, and of course we were almost bored
to death, when in came Rose again, stealing behind Lu's chair and
showering her in the twilight with a rain of May-flowers.
"Now you'll have to gather them again," he said.
"Oh, how exquisite! how delicious! how I thank you!" she exclaimed,
without disturbing one, however.
"You won't touch them again? Then I must," he added.
"No! no! Mr. Rose!" I cried. "I'll pick them up and take toll."
"Don't touch them!" said Lu, "they're so sweet!"
"Yes," he murmured lower, "they're like you. I always said so, you
remember."
"Oh, yes! and every May-day but the last you have brought them to me."
"Have you the trailing-arbutus there?" asked Mr. Dudley.
"No," returned Rose.
"I thought I detected strawberries," submitted the other,—"a pleasant odor
which recalls childhood to memory."
For some noses all sweet scents are lumped in one big strawberry; clovers,
or hyacinths, or every laden air indifferently, they still sniff strawberries.
Commonplace things!
"It's a sign of high birth to track strawberry-beds where no fruit is, Mr.
Dudley," said I.

"Very true, Miss Willoughby. I was born pretty high up in the Green
Mountains."
"And so keep your memory green?"
"Strawberries in June," said Rose, good-naturedly. "But fruit out of season
is trouble out of reason, the Dream-Book says. It's May now, and these are
its blossoms."
"Everybody makes such a fuss about ground-laurel!" said I. "I don't see
why, I'm sure. They're never perfect. The leaf is hideous,—a stupid duenna!
You get great green leaves, and the flowers all white; you get deep, rosy
flowers, and the leaves are all brown and bitten. They're neither one thing
nor another. They're just like heliotropes,—no bloom at all, only scent. I've
torn up myriads, to the ten stamens in their feathered case, to find where
that smell comes from,—that is perfectly delicious,—and I never could.
They are a cheat."
"Have you finished your tirade?" asked Rose, indifferently.
"I don't believe you mean so," murmured Lu. "They have a color of their
own, almost human, infantine; and when you mass them, the tone is more
soft and mellow than a flute. Everybody loves May-flowers."
"Just about. I despise flutes. I like bassoons."
"They are prophets of apple-blossoms."
"Which brings them at once into the culinary."
"They are not very showy," said Mr. Dudley; "but when we remember the
Fathers"——
"There's nothing like them," said Rose, gently, as he knelt by Lu, slowly
putting them into order; "nothing but pure, clear things; they're the fruit of
snowflakes, the firstlings of the year. When one thinks how sweetly they
come from their warm coverts and look into this cold, breezy sky so
unshrinkingly, and from what a soil they gather such a wealth of simple
beauty, one feels ashamed."
"Climax worthy of the useless things!" said I.

"The moment in which first we are thoroughly ashamed, Miss Willoughby,
is the sovereign one of our life. Useless things? They are worth king and
bishop. Every year, weariness and depression melt away when atop of the
seasons' crucible boil these little bubbles. Isn't everybody better for
lavishing love? And no one merely likes these; whoever cares at all loves
entirely. We always take and give resemblances or sympathies from any
close connection, and so these are in their way a type of their lovers. What
virtue is in them to distil the shadow of the great pines, that wave layer after
layer with a grave rhythm over them, into this delicate tint, I wonder. They
have so decided an individuality,—different there from hot-house belles;—
fashion strips us of our characteristics"——
"You needn't turn to me for illustration of exotics," said I.
He threw me a cluster, half-hidden in its green towers, and went on, laying
one by one and bringing out little effects.
"The sweetest modesty clings to them, which Alphonse Karr denies to the
violet, so that they are almost out of place in a drawing-room; one ought to
give them there the shelter of their large, kind leaves."
"Hemlock's the only wear," said Louise.
"Or last year's scarlet blackberry triads. Vines together," he suggested.
"But sometimes they forget their nun-like habit," she added, "put on a
frolicsome mood, and clamber out and flush all the deep ruts of the
carriage-road in Follymill woods, you remember."
"Penance next year," said I.
"No, no; you are not to bring your old world into my new," objected Rose.
"Perhaps they ran out so to greet the winter-worn mariners of Plymouth,
and have been pursued by the love of their descendants ever since, they
getting charier. Just remember how they grow. Why, you'd never suspect a
flower there, till, happening to turn up a leaf, you're in the midst of harvest.
You may tramp acres in vain, and within a stone's throw they've been
awaiting you. There's something very charming, too, about them in this,—
that when the buds are set, and at last a single blossom starts the trail, you
plucking at one end of the vine, your heart's delight may touch the other a

hundred miles away. Spring's telegraph. So they bind our coast with this
network of flower and root."
"By no means," I asserted. "They grow in spots."
"Pshaw! I won't believe it. They're everywhere just the same, only
underground preparing their little witnesses, whom they send out where
most needed. You don't suppose they find much joy in the fellowship of
brown pine pins and sad, gray mosses, do you? Some folks say they don't
grow away from the shore; but I've found them, I'm sorry to say, up in New
Hampshire."
"Why sorry?" asked Lu.
"Oh, I like it best that they need our sea. They're eminently choice for this
hour, too, when you scarcely gather their tint,—that tint, as if moonlight
should wish to become a flower,—but their fragrance is an atmosphere all
about you. How genuinely spicy it is! It's the very quintessence of those
regions all whose sweetness exudes in sun-saturated balsams,—the very
breath of pine woods and salt sea winds. How could it live away from the
sea?"
"Why, Sir," said Mr. Dudley, "you speak as if it were a creature!"
"A hard, woody stem, a green, robust leaf, a delicate, odorous flower, Mr.
Dudley, what is it all but an expression of New England character?"
"Doxology!" said I.
"Now, Miss Louise, as you have made me atone for my freedom, the task
being done, let me present them in form."
"I'm sure she needn't praise them," said I.
She didn't.
"I declared people make a great fuss over them," I continued. "And you
prove it. You put me in mind of a sound, to be heard where one gets them,
—a strange sound, like low, distant thunder, and it's nothing but the drum of
a little partridge! a great song out of nothing.—Bless me! what's that?"

"Oh, the fireworks!" said Lu. And we all thronged to the windows.
"It's very good of your uncle to have them," said Rose. "What a crowd from
the town! Think of the pyrotechnics among comets and aërolites some
fellows may have! It's quite right, too, to make our festivals with light; it's
the highest and last of all things; we never can carry our imaginations
beyond light"——
"Our imaginations ought to carry us," said Lu.
"Come," I said, "you can play what pranks you please with the little May;
but light is my province, my absorption; let it alone."
It grew quite dark, interrupted now and then by the glare of rockets; but at
last a stream of central fire went out in a slow rain of countless violets,
reflected with pale blue flashes in the river below, and then the gloom was
unbroken. I saw them, in that long, dim gleam, standing together at a
window. Louise, her figure almost swaying as if to some inaudible music,
but her face turned to him with such a steady quiet. Ah, me! what a
tremulous joy, what passion, and what search, lit those eyes! But you know
that passion means suffering, and, tracing it in the original through its roots,
you come to pathos, and still farther, to lamentation, I've heard. But he was
not looking down at her, only out and away, paler than ever in the blue
light, sad and resolved. I ordered candles.
"Sing to me, Louise," said Rose, at length. "It is two years since I heard
you."
"Sing 'What's a' the steer, kimmer,'" I said. But instead, she gave the little
ballad, 'And bring my love again, for he lies among the moors.'
Rose went and leaned over the pianoforte while she sang, bending and
commanding her eyes. He seemed to wish to put himself where he was
before he ever left her, to awaken everything lovely in her, to bring her
before him as utterly developed as she might be,—not only to afford her,
but to force upon her every chance to master him. He seemed to wish to
love, I thought.
"Thank you," he said, as she ceased. "Did you choose it purposely, Louise?"

Lu sang very nicely, and, though I dare say she would rather not then, when
Mr. Dudley asked for the "Vale of Avoca" and the "Margin of Zürich's Fair
Waters," she gave them just as kindly. Altogether, quite a damp programme.
Then papa came in, bright and blithe, whirled me round in a pas de deux,
and we all very gay and hilarious slipped into the second of May.
Dear me! how time goes! I must hurry.—After that, I didn't see so much of
Rose; but he met Lu everywhere, came in when I was out, and, if I returned,
he went, perfectly regardless of my existence, it seemed. They rode, too, all
round the country; and she sat to him, though he never filled out the sketch.
For weeks he was devoted; but I fancied, when I saw them, that there
lingered in his manner the same thing as on the first evening while she sang
to him. Lu was so gay and sweet and happy that I hardly knew her; she was
always very gentle, but such a decided body,—that's the Willoughby, her
mother. Yet during these weeks Rose had not spoken, not formally; delicate
and friendly kindness was all Lu could have found, had she sought. One
night, I remember, he came in and wanted us to go out and row with him on
the river. Lu wouldn't go without me.
"Will you come?" said he, coolly, as if I were merely necessary as a thwart
or thole-pin might have been, turning and letting his eyes fall on me an
instant, then snatching them off with a sparkle and flush, and such a lordly
carelessness of manner otherwise.
"Certainly not," I replied.
So they remained, and Lu began to open a bundle of Border Ballads, which
he had brought her. The very first one was "Whistle an' I'll come to you, my
lad." I laughed. She glanced up quickly, then held it in her hands a moment,
repeated the name, and asked if he liked it.
"Oh, yes," he said. "There couldn't be a Scotch song without that rhythm
better than melody, which, after all, is Beethoven's secret."
"Perhaps," said Louise. "But I shall not sing this."
"Oh, do!" he said, turning with surprise. "You don't know what an aërial,
whistling little thing it is!"
"No."

"Why, Louise! There is nobody could sing it but you."
"Of good discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair shall be of what
color it please God," quoted I, and in came Mr. Dudley, as he usually did
when not wanted; though I've no reason to find fault with him,
notwithstanding his blank treatment of me. He never took any notice,
because he was in love with Lu. Rose never took any notice of me, either.
But with a difference!
Lu was singularly condescending to Mr. Dudley that evening; and Rose,
sitting aside, looked so very much disturbed—whether pleasantly or
otherwise didn't occur to me—that I couldn't help enjoying his
discomfiture, and watching him through it.
Now, though I told you I wasn't nervous, I never should know I had this
luxurious calm, if there were nothing to measure it by; and once in a great
while a perfect whirlpool seizes me,—my blood is all in turmoil,—I bubble
with silent laughter, or cry with all my heart. I had been in such a strange
state a good while, and now, as I surveyed Rose, it gradually grew fiercer,
till I actually sprang to my feet, and exclaimed, "There! it is insupportable!
I've been in the magnetic storm long enough! it is time something took it
from me!" and ran out-doors.
Rose sauntered after, by-and-by, as if unwillingly drawn by a loadstone, and
found the heavens wrapped in a rosy flame of Northern Lights. He looked
as though he belonged to them, so pale and elf-like was his face then, like
one bewitched.
"Papa's fireworks fade before mine," I said. "Now we can live in the woods,
as Lu has been wishing; for a dry southerly wind follows this, with a blue
smoke filming all the distant fields. Won't it be delicious?"
"Or rain," he replied; "I think it will rain to-morrow,—warm, full rains";
and he seemed as if such a chance would dissolve him entirely.
As for me, those shifting, silent sheets of splendor abstracted all that was
alien, and left me in my normal state.
"There they come!" I said, as Lu and Mr. Dudley, and some others who had
entered in my absence,—gnats dancing in the beam,—stepped down toward

us. "How charming for us all to sit out here!"
"How annoying, you mean," he replied, simply for contradiction.
"It hasn't been warm enough before," I added.
"And Louise may take cold now," he said, as if wishing to exhibit his care
for her. "Whom is she speaking with? Blarsaye? And who comes after?"
"Parti. A delightful person,—been abroad, too. You and he can have a crack
about Louvres and Vaticans now, and leave Lu and Mr. Dudley to me."
Rose suddenly inspected me and then Parti, as if he preferred the crack to
be with cudgels; but in a second the little blaze vanished, and he only
stripped a weigelia branch of every blossom.
I wonder what made Lu behave so that night; she scarcely spoke to Rose,
appeared entirely unconcerned while he hovered round her like an officious
sprite, was all grace to the others and sweetness to Mr. Dudley. And Rose,
oblivious of snubs, paraded his devotion, seemed determined to show his
love for Lu,—as if any one cared a straw,—and took the pains to be
positively rude to me. He was possessed of an odd restlessness; a little
defiance bristled his movements, an air of contrariness; and whenever he
became quiet, he seemed again like one enchanted and folded up in a
dream, to break whose spell he was about to abandon efforts. He told me
life had destroyed my enchantment; I wonder what will destroy his. Lu
refused to sit in the garden-chair he offered,—just suffered the wreath of
pink bells he gave her to hang in her hand, and by-and-by fall,—and when
the north grew ruddier and swept the zenith with lances of light, and when it
faded, and a dim cloud hazed all the stars, preserved the same equanimity,
kept on the evil tenor of her way, and bade every one an impartial farewell
at separating. She is preciously well-bred.
We hadn't remained in the garden all that time, though,—but, strolling
through the gate and over the field, had reached a small grove that fringes
the gully worn by Wild Fall and crossed by the railway. As we emerged
from that, talking gayly, and our voices almost drowned by the dash of the
little waterfall and the echo from the opposite rock, I sprang across the
curving track, thinking them behind, and at the same instant a thunderous
roar burst all about, a torrent of hot air whizzed and eddied over me, I fell

dizzied and stunned, and the night express-train shot by like a burning
arrow. Of course I was dreadfully hurt by my fall and fright,—I feel the
shock now,—but they all stood on the little mound, from which I had
sprung, like so many petrifactions: Rose, just as he had caught Louise back
on firmer ground, when she was about to follow me, his arm wound swiftly
round her waist, yet his head thrust forward eagerly, his pale face and
glowing eyes bent, not on her, but me. Still he never stirred, and poor Mr.
Dudley first came to my assistance. We all drew breath at our escape, and, a
little slowly, on my account, turned homeward.
"You are not bruised, Miss Willoughby?" asked Blarsaye, wakened.
"Dear Yone!" Lu said, leaving Mr. Dudley's arm, "you're so very pale! It's
not pain, is it?"
"I am not conscious of any. Why should I be injured, any more than you?"
"Do you know," said Rose, sotto voce, turning and bending merely his head
to me, "I thought I heard you scream, and that you were dead."
"And what then?"
"Nothing, but that you were lying dead and torn, and I should see you," he
said,—and said as if he liked to say it, experiencing a kind of savage delight
at his ability to say it.
"A pity to have disappointed you!" I answered.
"I saw it coming before you leaped," he added, as a malignant finality, and
drawing nearer. "You were both on the brink. I called, but probably neither
you nor Lu heard me. So I snatched her back."
Now I had been next him then.
"Jove's balance," I said, taking Parti's arm.
He turned instantly to Lu, and kept by her during the remainder of the walk,
Mr. Dudley being at the other side. I was puzzled a little by Lu, as I have
been a good many times since; I thought she liked Rose so much. Papa met
us in the field, and there the affair must be detailed to him, and then he
would have us celebrate our safety in Champagne.

"Good-bye, Louise," said Rose, beside her at the gate, and offering his
hand, somewhat later. "I'm going away to-morrow, if it's fine."
"Going?" with involuntary surprise.
"To camp out in Maine."
"Oh! I hope you will enjoy it."
"Would you stay long, Louise?"
"If the sketching-grounds are good."
"When I come back, you'll sing my songs? Shake hands."
She just laid a cold touch on his.
"Louise, are you offended with me?"
She looked up with so much simplicity. "Offended, Rose, with you?"
"Not offended, but frozen," I could have said. Lu is like that little sensitive-
plant, shrinking into herself with stiff unconsciousness at a certain touch.
But I don't think he noticed the sad tone in her voice, as she said good-
night; I didn't, till, the others being gone, I saw her turn after his
disappearing figure, with a look that would have been despairing, but for its
supplication.
The only thing Lu ever said to me about this was,—
"Don't you think Rose a little altered, Yone, since he came home?"
"Altered?"
"I have noticed it ever since you showed him your beads, that day."
"Oh! it's the amber," I said. "They are amulets, and have bound him in a
thrall. You must wear them, and dissolve the charm. He's in a dream."
"What is it to be in a dream?" she asked.
"To lose thought of past or future."

She repeated my words,—"Yes, he's in a dream," she said, musingly.

II.

Rose didn't come near us for a fortnight; but he had not camped at all, as he
said. It was the first stone thrown into Lu's life, and I never saw any one
keep the ripples under so; but her suspicions were aroused. Finally he came
in again, all as before, and I thought things might have been different, if in
that fortnight Mr. Dudley had not been so assiduous; and now, to the latter's
happiness, there were several ragged children and infirm old women in
whom, Lu having taken them in charge, he chose to be especially interested.
Lu always was housekeeper, both because it had fallen to her while mamma
and I were away, and because she had an administrative faculty equal to
General Jackson's; and Rose, who had frequently gone about with her,
inspecting jellies and cordials and adding up her accounts, now
unexpectedly found Mr. Dudley so near his former place that he disdained
to resume it himself;—not entirely, because the man of course couldn't be as
familiar as an old playmate; but just enough to put Rose aside. He never
would compete with any one; and Lu did not know how to repulse the other.
If the amulets had ravished Rose from himself, they did it at a distance, for I
had not worn them since that day.—You needn't look. Thales imagined
amber had a spirit; and Pliny says it is a counter-charm for sorceries. There
are a great many mysterious things in the world. Aren't there any hidden
relations between us and certain substances? Will you tell me something
impossible?—But he came and went about Louise, and she sung his songs,
and all was going finely again, when we gave our midsummer party.
Everybody was there, of course, and we had enrapturing music. Louise
wore—no matter—something of twilight purple, and begged for the amber,
since it was too much for my toilette,—a double India muslin, whose snowy
sheen scintillated with festoons of gorgeous green beetles' wings flaming
like fiery emeralds.—A family dress, my dear, and worn by my aunt before
me,—only that individual must have been frightened out of her wits by it. A
cruel, savage dress, very like, but ineffably gorgeous.—So I wore her
aquamarina, though the other would have been better; and when I sailed in,
with all the airy folds in a hoar-frost mistiness fluttering round me and the
glitter of Lu's jewels,—

"Why!" said Rose, "you look like the moon in a halo."
But Lu disliked a hostess out-dressing her guests.
It was dull enough till quite late, and then I stepped out with Mr. Parti, and
walked up and down a garden-path. Others were outside as well, and the
last time I passed a little arbor I caught a yellow gleam of amber. Lu, of
course. Who was with her? A gentleman, bending low to catch her words,
holding her hand in an irresistible pressure. Not Rose, for he was flitting in
beyond. Mr. Dudley. And I saw then that Lu's kindness was too great to
allow her to repel him angrily; her gentle conscience let her wound no one.
Had Rose seen the pantomime? Without doubt. He had been seeking her,
and he found her, he thought, in Mr. Dudley's arms. After a while we went
in, and, finding all smooth enough, I slipped through the balcony-window
and hung over the balustrade, glad to be alone a moment. The wind,
blowing in, carried the gay sounds away from me, even the music came
richly muffled through the heavy curtains, and I wished to breathe balm and
calm. The moon, round and full, was just rising, making the gloom below
more sweet. A full moon is poison to some; they shut it out at every crevice,
and do not suffer a ray to cross them; it has a chemical or magnetic effect; it
sickens them. But I am never more free and royal than when the subtile
celerity of its magic combinations, whatever they are, is at work. Never had
I known the mere joy of being so intimately as to-night. The river slept soft
and mystic below the woods, the sky was full of light, the air ripe with
summer. Out of the yellow honeysuckles that climbed around, clouds of
delicious fragrance stole and swathed me; long wafts of faint harmony
gently thrilled me. Dewy and dark and uncertain was all beyond. I,
possessed with a joyousness so deep through its contented languor as to
counterfeit serenity, forgot all my wealth of nature, my pomp of beauty,
abandoned myself to the hour.
A strain of melancholy dance-music pierced the air and fell. I half turned
my head, and my eyes met Rose. He had been there before me, perhaps. His
face, white and shining in the light, shining with a strange sweet smile of
relief, of satisfaction, of delight, his lips quivering with unspoken words, his
eyes dusky with depth after depth of passion. How long did my eyes swim
on his? I cannot tell. He never stirred; still leaned there against the pillar,
still looked down on me like a marble god. The sudden tears dazzled my

gaze, fell down my hot cheek, and still I knelt fascinated by that smile. In
that moment I felt that he was more beautiful than the night, than the music,
than I. Then I knew that all this time, all summer, all past summers, all my
life long, I had loved him.
Some one was waiting to make his adieux; I heard my father seeking me; I
parted the curtains, and went in. One after one those tedious people left, the
lights grew dim, and still he stayed without. I ran to the window, and, lifting
the curtain, bent forward, crying,—
"Mr. Rose! do you spend the night on the balcony?"
Then he moved, stepped down, murmured something to my father, bowed
loftily to Louise, passed me without a sign, and went out. In a moment, Lu's
voice, a quick, sharp exclamation, touched him; he turned, came back. She,
wondering at him, had stood toying with the amber, and at last crushing the
miracle of the whole, a bell-wort wrought most delicately with all the dusty
pollen grained upon its anthers, crushing it between her fingers, breaking
the thread, and scattering the beads upon the carpet. He stooped with her to
gather them again, he took from her hand and restored to her afterward the
shattered fragments of the bell-wort, he helped her disentangle the aromatic
string from her falling braids,—for I kept apart,—he breathed the
penetrating incense of each separate amulet, and I saw that from that hour,
when every atom of his sensation was tense and vibrating, she would be
associated with the loathed amber in his undefined consciousness, would be
surrounded with an atmosphere of its perfume, that Lu was truly sealed
from him in it, sealed into herself. Then again, saying no word, he went out.
Louise stood like one lost,—took aimlessly a few steps,—retraced them,—
approached a table,—touched something,—left it.
"I am so sorry about your beads!" she said, apologetically, when she looked
up and saw me astonished, putting the broken pieces into my hand.
"Goodness! Is that what you are fluttering about so for?"
"They can't be mended," she continued, "but I will thread them again."
"I don't care about them, I'm sick of amber," I answered, consolingly. "You
may have them, if you will."

"No. I must pay too great a price for them," she replied.
"Nonsense! when they break again, I'll pay you back," I said, without in the
least knowing what she meant. "I didn't know you were too proud for a
'thank you!'"
She came up and put both her arms round my neck, laid her cheek beside
mine a minute, kissed me, and went up-stairs. Lu always rather worshipped
me.
Dressing my hair that night, Carmine, my maid, begged for the remnants of
the bell-wort to "make a scent-bag with, Miss."
Next day, no Rose; it rained. But at night he came and took possession of
the room, with a strange, airy gayety never seen in him before. It was so
chilly, that I had heaped the wood-boughs, used in the yesterday's
decorations, on the hearth, and lighted a fragrant crackling flame that
danced up wildly at my touch,—for I have the faculty of fire. I sat at one
side, Lu at the other, papa was holding a skein of silk for her to wind, the
amber beads were twinkling in the firelight,—and when she slipped them
slowly on the thread, bead after bead, warmed through and through by the
real blaze, they crowded the room afresh with their pungent spiciness. Papa
had called Rose to take his place at the other end of the silk, and had gone
out; and when Lu finished, she fastened the ends, cut the thread, Rose
likening her to Atropos, and put them back into her basket. Still playing
with the scissors, following down the lines of her hand, a little snap was
heard.
"Oh!" said Louise, "I have broken my ring!"
"Can't it be repaired?" I asked.
"No," she returned briefly, but pleasantly, and threw the pieces into the fire.
"The hand must not be ringless," said Rose; and slipping off the ring of hers
that he wore, he dropped it upon the amber, then got up and threw an armful
of fresh boughs upon the blaze.
So that was all done. Then Rose was gayer than before. He is one of those
people to whom you must allow moods,—when their sun shines, dance, and

when their vapors rise, sit in the shadow. Every variation of the atmosphere
affects him, though by no means uniformly; and so sensitive is he, that,
when connected with you by any intimate rapport, even if but momentary,
he almost divines your thoughts. He is full of perpetual surprises. I am sure
he was a nightingale before he was Rose. An iridescence like sea-foam
sparkled in him that evening, he laughed as lightly as the little tinkling
mass-bells at every moment, and seemed to diffuse a rosy glow wherever he
went in the room. Yet gayety was not his peculiar specialty, and at length he
sat before the fire, and, taking Lu's scissors, commenced cutting bits of
paper in profiles. Somehow they all looked strangely like and unlike Mr.
Dudley. I pointed one out to Lu, and, if he had needed confirmation, her
changing color gave it. He only glanced at her askance, and then broke into
the merriest description of his life in Rome, of which he declared he had not
spoken to us yet, talking fast and laughing as gleefully as a child, and
illustrating people and localities with scissors and paper as he went on, a
couple of careless snips putting a whole scene before us.
The floor was well-strewn with such chips,—fountains, statues, baths, and
all the persons of his little drama,—when papa came in. He held an open
letter, and, sitting down, read it over again. Rose fell into silence, clipping
the scissors daintily in and out the white sheet through twinkling intricacies.
As the design dropped out, I caught it,—a long wreath of honeysuckle-
blossoms. Lu was humming a little tune. Rose joined, and hummed the last
bars, then bade us good-night.
"Yone," said papa, "your Aunt Willoughby is very ill,—will not recover.
She is my elder brother's widow; you are her heir. You must go and stay
with her."
Now it was very likely that just at this time I was going away to nurse Aunt
Willoughby! Moreover, illness is my very antipodes,—its nearness is
invasion,—we are utterly antipathetic,—it disgusts and repels me. What
sympathy can there be between my florid health, my rank, redundant life,
and any wasting disease of death? What more hostile than focal
concentration and obscure decomposition? You see, we cannot breathe the
same atmosphere. I banish the thought of such a thing from my feeling,
from my memory. So I said,—

"It's impossible. I'm not going an inch to Aunt Willoughby's. Why, papa, it's
more than a hundred miles, and in this weather!"
"Oh, the wind has changed."
"Then it will be too warm for such a journey."
"A new idea, Yone! Too warm for the mountains?"
"Yes, papa. I'm not going a step."
"Why, Yone, you astonish me! Your sick aunt!"
"That's the very thing. If she were well, I might,—perhaps. Sick! What can I
do for her? I never go into a sick-room. I hate it. I don't know how to do a
thing there. Don't say another word, papa. I can't go."
"It is out of the question to let it pass so, my dear. Here you are nursing all
the invalids in town, yet"——
"Indeed, I'm not, papa. I don't know and don't care whether they're dead or
alive."
"Well, then, it's Lu."
"Oh, yes, she's hospital-agent for half the country."
"Then it is time that you also got a little experience."
"Don't, papa! I don't want it. I never saw anybody die, and I never mean to."
"Can't I do as well, uncle?" asked Lu.
"You, darling? Yes; but it isn't your duty."
"I thought, perhaps," she said, "you would rather Yone went."
"So I would."
"Dear papa, don't vex me! Ask anything else!"
"It is so unpleasant to Yone," Lu murmured, "that maybe I had better go.
And if you've no objection, Sir, I'll take the early train to-morrow."

Wasn't she an angel?

Lu was away a month. Rose came in, expressing his surprise. I said,
"Othello's occupation's gone?"
"And left him room for pleasure now," he retorted.
"Which means seclusion from the world, in the society of lakes and
chromes."
"Miss Willoughby," said he, turning and looking directly past me, "may I
paint you?"
"Me? Oh, you can't."
"No; but may I try?"
"I cannot go to you."
"I will come to you."
"Do you suppose it will be like?"
"Not at all, of course. It is to be, then?"
"Oh, I've no more right than any other piece of Nature to refuse an artist a
study in color."
He faced about, half pouting, as if he would go out, then returned and fixed
the time.
So he painted. He generally put me into a broad beam that slanted from the
top of the veiled window, and day after day he worked. Ah, what glorious
days they were! how gay! how full of life! I almost feared to let him image
me on canvas, do you know? I had a fancy it would lay my soul so bare to
his inspection. What secrets might be searched, what depths fathomed, at
such times, if men knew! I feared lest he should see me as I am, in those
great masses of warm light lying before him, as I feared he saw when he
said amber harmonized with me,—all being things not polarized, not

organized, without centre, so to speak. But it escaped him, and he wrought
on. Did he succeed? Bless you! he might as well have painted the sun; and
who could do that? No; but shades and combinations that he had hardly
touched or known, before, he had to lavish now; he learned more than some
years might have taught him; he, who worshipped beauty, saw how
thoroughly I possessed it; he has told me that through me he learned the
sacredness of color. "Since he loves beauty so, why does he not love me?" I
asked myself; and perhaps the feverish hope and suspense only lit up that
beauty and fed it with fresh fires. Ah, the July days! Did you ever wander
over barren, parched stubble-fields, and suddenly front a knot of red Turk's-
cap lilies, flaring as if they had drawn all the heat and brilliance from the
land into their tissues? Such were they. And if I were to grow old and gray,
they would light down all my life, and I could be willing to lead a dull,
grave age, looking back and remembering them, warming myself forever in
their constant youth. If I had nothing to hope, they would become my whole
existence. Think, then, what it will be to have all days like those!
He never satisfied himself, as he might have done, had he known me better,
—and he never shall know me!—and used to look at me for the secret of
his failure, till I laughed; then the look grew wistful, grew enamored. By-
and-by we left the pictures. We went into the woods, warm, dry woods; we
stayed there from morning till night. In the burning noons, we hung
suspended between two heavens, in our boat on glassy forest-pools, where
now and then a shoal of white lilies rose and crowded out the under-sky.
Sunsets burst like bubbles over us. When the hidden thrushes were breaking
one's heart with music, and the sweet fern sent up a tropical fragrance
beneath our crushing steps, we came home to rooms full of guests and my
father's genial warmth. What a month it was!
One day papa went up into New Hampshire; Aunt Willoughby was dead;
and one day Lu came home.
She was very pale and thin. Her eyes were hollow and purple.
"There is some mistake, Lu," I said. "It is you who are dead, instead of Aunt
Willoughby."
"Do I look so wretchedly?" she asked, glancing at the mirror.

"Dreadfully! Is it all watching and grief?"
"Watching and grief," said Lu.
How melancholy her smile was! She would have crazed me in a little while,
if I had minded her.
"Did you care so much for fretful, crabbed Aunt Willoughby?"
"She was very kind to me," Lu replied.
There was an odd air with her that day. She didn't go at once and get off her
travelling-dress, but trifled about in a kind of expectancy, a little fever
going and coming in her cheeks, and turning at any noise.
Will you believe it?—though I know Lu had refused him,—who met her at
the half-way junction, saw about her luggage, and drove home with her, but
Mr. Dudley, and was with us, a half-hour afterward, when Rose came in?
Lu didn't turn at his step, but the little fever in her face prevented his seeing
her as I had done. He shook hands with her and asked after her health, and
shook hands with Mr. Dudley, (who hadn't been near us during her
absence,) and seemed to wish she should feel that he recognized without
pain a connection between herself and that personage. But when he came
back to me, I was perplexed again at that bewitched look in his face,—as if
Lu's presence made him feel that he was in a dream, I the enchantress of
that dream. It did not last long, though. And soon she saw Mr. Dudley out,
and went up-stairs.
When Lu came down to tea, she had my beads in her hand again.
"I went into your room and got them, dear Yone," she said, "because I have
found something to replace the broken bell-wort"; and she showed us a little
amber bee, black and golden. "Not so lovely as the bell-wort," she resumed,
"and I must pierce it for the thread; but it will fill the number. Was I not
fortunate to find it?"
But when at a flame she heated a long, slender needle to pierce it, the little
winged wonder shivered between her fingers, and under the hot steel filled
the room with the honeyed smell of its dusted substance.

"Never mind," said I again. "It's a shame, though,—it was so much prettier
than the bell-wort! We might have known it was too brittle. It's just as well,
Lu."
The room smelt like a chancel at vespers. Rose sauntered to the window,
and so down the garden, and then home.
"Yes. It cannot be helped," she said, with a smile. "But I really counted
upon seeing it on the string. I'm not lucky at amber. You know little Asian
said it would bring bane to the bearer."
"Dear! dear! I had quite forgotten!" I exclaimed. "Oh, Lu, keep it, or give it
away, or something! I don't want it any longer."
"You're very vehement," she said, laughing now. "I am not afraid of your
gods. Shall I wear them?"
So the rest of the summer Lu twined them round her throat,—amulets of
sorcery, orbs of separation; but one night she brought them back to me. That
was last night. There they lie.
The next day, in the high golden noon, Rose came. I was on the lounge in
the alcove parlor, my hair half streaming out of Lu's net; but he didn't mind.
The light was toned and mellow, the air soft and cool. He came and sat on
the opposite side, so that he faced the wall table with its dish of white,
stiflingly sweet lilies, while I looked down the drawing-room. He had
brought a book, and by-and-by opened at the part commencing, "Do not
die, Phene." He read it through,—all that perfect, perfect scene. From the
moment when he said,

"I overlean
This length of hair and lustrous front,—they turn
Like an entire flower upward,"—

his voice low, sustained, clear,—till he reached the line,

"Look at the woman here with the new soul,"—

till he turned the leaf and murmured,

"Shall to produce form out of unshaped stuff
Be art,—and, further, to evoke a soul
From form be nothing? This new soul is mine!"—

till then, he never glanced up. Now, with a proud grace, he raised his head,
—not to look at me, but across me, at the lilies, to satiate himself with their
odorous snowiness. When he again pronounced words, his voice was husky
and vibrant; but what music dwelt in it and seemed to prolong rather than
break the silver silence, as he echoed,

"Some unsuspected isle in the far seas"!

How many read to descend to a prosaic life! how few to meet one as rich
and full beside them! The tone grew ever lower; he looked up slowly,
fastening his glance on mine.

"And you are ever by me while I gaze,—
Are in my arms, as now,—as now,—as now!"

he said. He swayed forward with those wild questioning eyes,—his breath
blew over my cheek; I was drawn,—I bent; the full passion of his soul
broke to being, wrapped me with a blinding light, a glowing kiss on
lingering lips, a clasp strong and tender as heaven. All my hair fell down
like a shining cloud and veiled us, the great rolling folds in wave after wave
of crisp splendor. I drew back from that long, silent kiss, I gathered up each
gold thread of the straying tresses, blushing, defiant. He also, he drew back.
But I knew all then. I had no need to wait longer; I had achieved. Rose
loved me. Rose had loved me from that first day.—You scarcely hear what I
say, I talk so low and fast? Well, no matter, dear, you wouldn't care.—For a
moment that gaze continued, then the lids fell, the face grew utterly white.
He rose, flung the book, crushed and torn, upon the floor, went out,
speaking no word to me, nor greeting Louise in the next room. Could he
have seen her? No. I, only, had that. For, as I drew from his arm, a meteoric
crimson, shooting across the pale face bent over work there, flashed upon
me, and then a few great tears, like sudden thunder-drops, falling slowly
and wetting the heavy fingers. The long mirror opposite her reflected the
interior of the alcove parlor. No,—he could not have seen, he must have felt
her.

I wonder whether I should have cared, if I had never met him any more,—
happy in this new consciousness. But in the afternoon he returned, bright
and eager.
"Are you so very busy, dear Yone," he said, without noticing Lu, "that you
cannot drive with me to-day?"
Busy! In five minutes I whirled down the avenue beside him. I had not been
Yone to him before. How quiet we were! he driving on, bent forward,
seeing out and away; I leaning back, my eyes closed, and, whenever a
remembrance of that instant at noon thrilled me, a stinging blush staining
my cheek. I, who had believed myself incapable of love, till that night on
the balcony, felt its floods welling from my spirit,—who had believed
myself so completely cold, was warm to my heart's core. Again that breath
fanned me, those lips touched mine, lightly, quickly.
"Yone, my Yone!" he said. "Is it true? No dream within dream? Do you love
me?"
Wistful, longing, tender eyes.
"Do I love you? I would die for you!"

Ah, me! If the July days were such, how perfect were the August and
September nights! their young moon's lingering twilight, their full broad
bays of silver, their interlunar season! The winds were warm about us, the
whole earth seemed the wealthier for our love. We almost lived upon the
river, he and I alone,—floating seaward, swimming slowly up with late
tides, reaching home drenched with dew, parting in passionate silence. Once
he said to me,—
"Is it because it is so much larger, more strange and beautiful, than any
other love could be, that I feel guilty, Yone,—feel as if I sinned in loving
you so, my great white flower?"
I ought to tell you how splendid papa was, never seemed to consider that
Rose had only his art, said I had enough from Aunt Willoughby for both, we

should live up there among the mountains, and set off at once to make
arrangements. Lu has a wonderful tact, too,—seeing at once where her path
lay. She is always so well oriented! How full of peace and bliss these two
months have been! Last night Lu came in here. She brought back my amber
gods, saying she had not intended to keep them, and yet loitering.
"Yone," she said at last, "I want you to tell me if you love him."
Now, as if that were any affair of hers! I looked what I thought.
"Don't be angry," she pleaded. "You and I have been sisters, have we not?
and always shall be. I love you very much, dear,—more than you may
believe; I only want to know if you will make him happy."
"That's according," said I, with a yawn.
She still stood before me. Her eyes said, "I have a right,—I have a right to
know."
"You want me to say how much I love Vaughan Rose?" I asked, finally.
"Well, listen, Lu,—so much, that, when he forgets me,—and he will, Lu,
one day,—I shall die."
"Prevent his forgetting you, Yone!" she returned. "Make your soul white
and clear, like his."
"No! no!" I answered. "He loves me as I am. I will never change."
Then somehow tears began to come. I didn't want to cry; I had to crowd
them back behind my fingers and shut lids.
"Oh, Lu!" I said, "I cannot think what it would be to live, and he not a part
of me! not for either of us to be in the world without the other!"
Then Lu's tears fell with mine, as she drew her fingers over my hair. She
said she was happy, too; and to-day has been down and gathered every one,
so that, when you see her, her white array will be wreathed with purple
hearts-ease. But I didn't tell Lu quite the truth, you must know. I don't think
I should die, except to my former self, if Rose ceased to love me. I should
change. Oh, I should hate him! Hate is as intense as love.

Bless me! What time can it be? There are papa and Rose walking in the
garden. I turned out my maid to find chance for all this talk; I must ring for
her. There, there's my hair! silken coil after coil, full of broken lights,
rippling below the knees, fine and fragrant. Who could have such hair but I?
I am the last of the Willoughbys, a decayed race, and from such strong
decay what blossom less gorgeous should spring?
October now. All the world swings at the top of its beauty; and those hills
where we shall live, what robes of color fold them! Tawny filemot gilding
the valleys, each seam and rut a scroll or arabesque, and all the year pouring
out her heart's blood to flush the maples, the great impurpled granites warm
with the sunshine they have drunk all summer! So I am to be married to-
day, at noon. I like it best so; it is my hour. There is my veil, that regal
Venice point. Fling it round you. No, you would look like a ghost in one,—
Lu like a corpse. Dear me! That's the second time I've rung for Carmine. I
dare say the hussy is trying on my gown. You think it strange I don't delay?
Why, child, why tempt Providence? Once mine, always mine. He might
wake up. No, no, I couldn't have meant that! It is not possible that I have
merely led him into a region of richer dyes, lapped him in this vision of
color, kindled his heart to such a flame, that it may light him towards
further effort. Can you believe that he will slip from me and return to one in
better harmony with him? Is any one? Will he ever find himself with that
love lost, this love exhausted, only his art left him? Never! I am his crown.
See me! how singularly, gloriously beautiful! For him only! all for him! I
love him! I cannot, I will not lose him! I defy all! My heart's proud pulse
assures me! I defy Fate! Hush! One,—two,—twelve o'clock. Carmine!

III.

Astra castra, numen lumen.
The click of her needles and the soft singing of the night-lamp are the only
sounds breaking the stillness, the awful stillness, of this room. How the
wind blows without! it must be whirling white gusty drifts through the split
hills. If I were as free! Whistling round the gray gable, tearing the bleak
boughs, crying faint, hoarse moans down the chimneys! A wild, sad gale!
There is a lull, a long breathless lull, before it soughs up again. Oh, it is like
a pain! Pain! Why do I think the word? Must I suffer any more? Am I

crazed with opiates? or am I dying? They are in that drawer,—laudanum,
morphine, hyoscyamus, and all the drowsy sirups,—little drops, but soaring
like a fog, and wrapping the whole world in a dull ache, with no salient
sting to catch a groan on. They are so small, they might be lost in this long,
dark room; why not the pain too, the point of pain, I? A long, dark room; I
at one end, she at the other; the curtains drawn away from me that I may
breathe. Ah, I have been stifled so long! They look down on me, all those
old dead and gone faces, those portraits on the wall,—look all from their
frames at me, the last term of the race, the vanishing summit of their design.
A fierce weapon thrust into the world for evil has that race been,—from the
great gray Willoughby, threatening with his iron eyes there, to me, the sharp
apex of its suffering. A fierce, glittering blade! Why I alone singled for this
curse? Rank blossom, rank decay, they answer, but falsely. I lie here,
through no fault of mine, blasted by disease, the dread with no relief. A
hundred ancestors look from my walls, and see in me the centre of their
lives, of all their little splendor, of their sins and follies; what slept in them
wakes in me. Oh, let me sleep too!
How long could I live and lose nothing? I saw my face in the hand-glass
this morning,—more lovely than health fashioned it;—transparent skin,
bounding blood, with its fire burning behind the eye, on cheek, on lip,—a
beauty that every pang has aggravated, heightened, sharpened, to a superb
intensity, flushing, rapid, unearthly,—a brilliancy to be dreamed of. Like a
great autumn-leaf I fall, for I am dying,—dying! Yes, death finds me more
beautiful than life made me; but have I lost nothing? Great Heaven, I have
lost all!
A fancy comes to me, that to-day was my birthday. I have forgotten to mark
time; but if it was, I am thirty-two years old. I remember birthdays of a
child,—loving, cordial days. No one remembers to-day. Why should they?
But I ache for a little love. Thirty-two,—that is young to die! I am too fair,
too rich, for death!—not his fit spoil! Is there no one to save me? no help?
can I not escape? Ah, what a vain eagerness! what an idle hope! Fall back
again, heart! Escape? I do not desire to. Come, come, kind rest! I am tired.
That cap-string has loosened now, and all this golden cataract of hair has
rushed out over the piled pillows. It oppresses and terrifies me. If I could

speak, it seems to me that I would ask Louise to come and bind it up. Won't
she turn and see?
Have I been asleep? What is this in my hands? The amber gods? Oh, yes! I
asked to see them again; I like their smell, I think. It is ten years I have had
them. They enchant; but the charm will not last; nothing will. I rubbed a
little yellow smoke out of them,—a cloud that hung between him and the
world, so that he saw only me,—at least——What am I dreaming of? All
manner of illusions haunt me. Who said anything about ten years? I have
been married ten years. Happy, then, ten years? Oh, no! One day he woke.
—How close the room is! I want some air. Why don't they do something
——
Once, in the pride of a fool, I fear having made some confidence, some
recital of my joy to ears that never had any. Did I say I would not lose him?
Did I say I could live just on the memory of that summer? I lash myself that
I must remember it! that I ever loved him! When he stirred, when the mist
left him, when he found a mere passion had blinded him, when he spread
his easel, when he abandoned love,—was I wretched? I, too, abandoned
love!—more,—I hated! All who hate are wretched. But he was bound to
me! Yes, he might move restlessly,—it only clanked his chains. Did he
wound me? I was cruel. He never spoke. He became artist,—ceased to be
man,—was more indifferent than the cloud. He could paint me then,—and,
revealed and bare, all our histories written in me, he hung me up beside my
ancestors. There I hang. Come from thy frame, thou substance, and let this
troubled phantom go! Come! for he gave my life to thee. In thee he shut and
sealed it all, and left me as the empty husk. Did she come then? No! I sent
for her. I meant to teach him that he was yet a man,—to open before him a
gulf of anguish; but I slipped down it. Then I dogged them; they never
spoke alone; I intercepted the eye's language; I withered their wintry smiles
to frowns; I stifled their sighs; I checked their breath, their motion. Idle
words passed our lips; we three lived in a real world of silence, agonized
mutes. She went. Summer by summer my father brought her to us. Always
memory was kindled afresh, always sorrow kept smouldering. Once she
came; I lay here; she has not left me since. He,—he also comes; he has
soothed pain with that loveless eye, carried me in untender arms, watched
calmly beside my delirious nights. He who loved beauty has learned
disgust. Why should I care? I, from the slave of bald form, enlarged him to

the master of gorgeous color; his blaze is my ashes. He studies me. I owe
him nothing.
Is it near morning? Have I dozed again? Night is long. The great hall-clock
is striking,—throb after throb on the darkness. I remember, when I was a
child, watching its lengthened pendulum swing as if time were its own, and
it measured the thread slowly, loath to part,—remember streaking its great
ebony case with a little finger, misting it with a warm breath. Throb after
throb,—is it going to peal forever? Stop, solemn clangor! hearts, stop!
Midnight.
The nurses have gone down; she sits there alone. Her bent side-face is full
of pity. Now and then her head turns; the great brown eyes lift heavily, and
lie on me,—heavily, as if the sight of me pained her. Ah, in me perishes her
youth! death enters her world! Besides, she loves me. I do not want her
love,—I would fling it off; but I am faint,—I am impotent,—I am so cold!
Not that she lives, and I die,—not that she has peace, and I tumult,—not for
her voice's music,—not for her eye's lustre,—not for any charm of her
womanly presence,—neither for her clear, fair soul,—nor that, when the
storm and winter pass, and I am stiff and frozen, she smiles in the sun, and
leads new life,—not for all this I hate her; but because my going gives her
what I lost,—because, I stepped aside, the light falls on her,—because from
my despair springs her happiness. Poor fool! let her be happy, if she can!
Her mother was a Willoughby! And what is a flower that blows on a grave?
Why do I remember so distinctly one night alone of all my life,—one night,
when we dance in the low room of a seaside cottage,—dance to Lu's
singing? He leads me to her, when the dance is through, brushing with his
head the festooned nets that swing from the rafters,—and in at the open
casement is blown a butterfly, a dead butterfly, from off the sea. She holds it
compassionately till I pin it on my dress,—the wings, twin magnificences,
freckled and barred and dusty with gold, fluttering at my breath. Some one
speaks with me; she strays to the window, he follows, and they are silent.
He looks far away over the gray loneliness stretching beyond. At length he
murmurs: "A brief madness makes my long misery. Louise, if the earth
were dazzled aside from her constant pole-star to worship some bewildering
comet, would she be more forlorn than I?"

"Dear Rose! your art remains," I hear her say.
He bends lower, that his breath may scorch her brow. "Was I wrong? Am I
right?" he whispers, hurriedly. "You loved me once; you love me now,
Louise, if I were free?"
"But you are not free."
She does not recoil, yet her very atmosphere repels him, while looking up
with those woful eyes blanching her cheek by their gathering darkness.
"And, Rose,"——she sighs, then ceases abruptly, while a quiver of sudden
scorn writhes spurningly down eyelid and nostril and pains the whole face.
He erects himself, then reaches his hand for the rose in her belt, glances at
me,—the dead thing in my bosom rising and falling with my turbulent
heart,—holds the rose to his lips, leaves her. How keen are my ears! how
flushed my cheek! how eager and fierce my eyes! He approaches; I snatch
the rose and tear its petals in an angry shower, and then a dim east-wind
pours in and scatters my dream like flakes of foam. All dreams go; youth
and hope desert me; the dark claims me. O room, surrender me! O sickness
and sorrow, loose your weary hold!
It maddens me to know that the sun will shine again, the tender grass grow
green, the veery sing, the crocus come. She will walk in the light and re-
gather youth, and I moulder, a forgotten heap. Oh, why not all things crash
to ruin with me?
Pain, pain, pain! Where is my father? Why is he away, when they know I
die? He used to hold me once; he ought to hear me when I call. He would
rest me, and stroke the grief aside,—he is so strong. Where is he?
These amulets stumbling round again? Amber, amber gods, you did
mischief in your day! If I clutched you hard, as Lu did once, all your spells
would be broken.—It is colder than it was. I think I will go to sleep.
What was that? How loud and resonant! It stuns me. It is too sonorous.
Does sound flash? Ah! the hour. Another? How long the silver toll swims
on the silent air! It is one o'clock,—a passing bell, a knell. If I were at home
by the river, the tide would be turning down, down, and out to the broad,
broad sea. Is it worth while to have lived?

Have I spoken? She looks at me, rises, and touches that bell-rope that
always brings him. How softly he opens the door! Waiting, perhaps. Well.
Ten years have not altered him much. The face is brighter, finer,—shines
with the eternal youth of genius. They pause a moment; I suppose they are
coming to me; but their eyes are on each other.
Why must the long, silent look with which he met her the day I got my
amber strike back on me now so vindictively? I remember three looks: that,
and this, and one other,—one fervid noon, a look that drank my soul, that
culminated my existence. Oh, I remember! I lost it a little while ago. I have
it now. You are coming? Can't you hear me? See! these costly liqueurs,
these precious perfumes beside me here, if I can reach them, I will drench
the coverlet in them; it shall be white and sweet as a little child's. I wish
they were the great rich lilies of that day; it is too late for the baby May-
flowers. You do not like amber? There the thread breaks again! the little
cruel gods go tumbling down the floor! Come, lay my head on your breast!
kiss my life off my lips! I am your Yone! I forgot a little while,—but I love
you, Rose! Rose!

Why! I thought arms held me. How clear the space is! The wind from out-
doors, rising again, must have rushed in. There is the quarter striking. How
free I am! No one here? No swarm of souls about me? Oh, those two faces
looked from a great mist, a moment since; I scarcely see them now. Drop,
mask! I will not pick you up! Out, out into the gale! back to my elements!
So I passed out of the room, down the staircase. The servants below did not
see me, but the hounds crouched and whined. I paused before the great
ebony clock; again the fountain broke, and it chimed the half-hour; it was
half-past one; another quarter, and the next time its ponderous silver
hammers woke the house it would be two. Half-past one? Why, then, did
not the hands move? Why cling fixed on a point five minutes before the
first quarter struck? To and fro, soundless and purposeless, swung the long
pendulum. And, ah! what was this thing I had become? I had done with
time. Not for me the hands moved on their recurrent circle any more.

I must have died at ten minutes past one.

THE POET'S FRIENDS.
The Robin sings in the elm;
The cattle stand beneath,
Sedate and grave, with great brown eyes,
And fragrant meadow-breath.

They listen to the flattered bird,
The wise-looking, stupid things!
And they never understand a word
Of all the Robin sings.

THE MEMORIAL OF A. B., OR MATILDA
MUFFIN.
THE MEMORIAL OF A. B.

Humbly Showeth:—
Ladies and gentlemen,—enlightened public,—kind audience,—dear
readers,—or whatever else you may be styled,—whose eyes, from remote
regions of east, west, or next door, solace themselves between the brown
covers of this magazine, making of themselves flowers to its lunar
brilliancy,—I wish to state, with all humility and self-disgust, that I am
what is popularly called a literary woman.
In the present state of society, I should feel less shame in declaring myself
the elect lady of Dunderhed Van Nudel, Esquire, that wealthy Dutch
gentleman, aged seventy, whom we all know. It is true, that, as I am young
and gay and intelligent, while he is old and stupid and very low Dutch
indeed, such an announcement would be equivalent to saying that I was
bought by Mr. Van Nudel for half a million of dollars; but then that is
customary, and you would all congratulate me.
Also, I should stand a better chance of finding favor in your eyes, if I
declared myself to be an indigent tailoress; for no woman should use her
head who can use her hands,—a maxim older than Confucius.
Or even if I were a school-ma'am! (blessed be the man who has brought
them into fashion and the long path!) In that case, you might say, "Poor
thing! isn't she interesting? quite like the school-mistress!"—And I am not
averse to pity, since it is love's poor cousin, nor to belonging to a class
mentioned in Boston literary society. I really am not!
But the plain truth is, I earn my living by writing. Sewing does not pay. I
have no "faculty" at school-keeping; for I invariably spoil all the good
children, and pet all the pretty ones,—a process not conducive, as I am told,

to the development of manners or morals;—so I write: just as Mr. Jones
makes shoes, Mr. Peters harangues the jury, Mr. Smith sells calico, or Mr.
Robinson rolls pills.
For, strange as it may seem, when it is so easy to read, it is hard work to
write,—bonâ fide, undeniable hard work. Suppose my head cracks and
rings and reels with a great ache that stupefies me? In comes Biddy with a
letter.
"The editor of the 'Monthly Signpost' would be much obliged to
Miss Matilda Muffin for a tale of four pages, to make up the
June number, before the end of next week.

"Very respectfully, etc., etc."

Miss Muffin's head looks her in the face, (metaphorically,) and says, "You
can't!"—but her last year's bonnet creaks and rustles from the bandbox,
finally lifts the lid and peeps out. Gracious! the ghost in Hamlet was not
more of an "airy nothing" than that ragged, faded, dilapidated old structure
of crape and blonde. The bonnet retires to the sound of slow music; the
head slinks back and holds its tongue; Miss Muffin sits down at her table;
scratch, scratch, scratch, goes the old pen, and the ideas catch up with it, it
is so shaky; and the words go tumbling over it, till the ts go out without any
hats on, and the eyes—no, the is (is that the way to pluralize them?)—get
no dots at all; and every now and then the head says, softly, "Oh, dear!"
Miss Muffin goes to something called by novel-writers "repose," toward
one o'clock that night, and the next night, and the next; she obliges the
"Monthly Signpost" with a comic story at a low price, and buys herself a
decent little bonnet for Sundays, replenishing her wardrobe generally by the
same process; and the head considers it work, I assure you.
But this is not the special grievance to which I direct this Memorial. I like
to work; it suits me much better to obtain my money by steady, honest
effort than it would to depend on anybody else for one round cent. If I had a
thousand dollars unexpectedly left me by some unknown benefactor, I don't
think it would be worth five cents on the dollar, compared with what I earn;
there is a healthy, trustworthy pleasure in that, never yet attained by gifted
or inherited specie. Neither is it the publicity of the occupation that I here

object to. I knew that, before I began to write; and many an hour have I
cried over the thought of being known, and talked about, and commented
on,—having my dear name, that my mother called me by, printed on the
cover of a magazine, seeing it in newspapers, hearing it in whispers, when
Miss Brown says to Miss Black under her breath,—"That girl in the straw
bonnet is Matilda Muffin, who writes for the 'Snapdragon' and the
'Signpost.'"
I knew all this, as I say. I dreaded and hated it. I hate it now. But I had to
work, and this was the only way open to me; so I tried to be brave, and to
do what I ought, and let the rest go. I cannot say I am very brave yet, or that
I don't feel all this; but I do not memorialize against it, because it is
necessary to be borne, and I must bear it. When I go to the dentist's to have
a tooth out, I sit down, and hold the chair tight, and open my mouth as wide
as it will open, but I always say, "Oh! don't, doctor! I can't! I can't
possibly!" till the iron what-d'you-call-it enters my soul and stops my
tongue.
Yes, when I began to write, I knew I should some day see my name in print.
I knew people would wonder who and what I was, and how I looked;—I
had done it myself. I knew that I should be delivered over to be the prey of
tongues and the spoil of eyes. I was aware, I think, I am aware now, of
every possible "disagreeable" that can befall the state. I am accustomed to
hear people say, if I venture a modest opinion about a dinner, "Dear me! as
if a literary woman knew anything about cooking!"—I endure that meekly,
sustained by the inner consciousness that I can cook much better than any
artist in that line I ever yet encountered. Likewise I am used to hear people
say, "I suppose you don't waste your valuable time in sewing?" when a look
at my left forefinger would insure me a fraternal grip from any member of
the Seamstress's Friends Society anywhere. I do not either scold or cry
when accidentally some visitor discovers me fitting my dress or making my
bonnet, and looks at me with a "fearful joy," as if I were on a tight-rope. I
even smile when people lay my ugly shawl or passé bonnet, that I bought
because they were cheap, and wear for the same reason, at the door of the
"eccentricities of genius." And I am case-hardened to the instantaneous
scattering and dodging of young men that ensue the moment I enter a little
party, because "gentlemen are so afraid of literary women." I don't think
gentlemen are; I know two or three who never conceal a revolver in the

breast of their coat when they talk to me, and who sometimes even offer to
go home with me from a tea-party all alone, and after dark too. It is true,
one or two of these are "literary" themselves; the others I knew before I was
dyed blue; which may account for it. Also I am impervious to anonymous
letters, exhorting me to all kinds of mental and moral improvement, or
indulging in idle impertinences about my private affairs, the result of a
knowledge about me and the aforesaid affairs drawn solely from my "Pieces
in Prose and Verse."
Then as to the matter of the romantic stories that are afloat concerning me, I
am rather amused than otherwise by them. I have a sentimental name, by
the religious and customary ordinance of baptism, legally my own; and at
first, being rather loath to enter the great alliterative ranks of female writers
by my lawful title of Matilda Muffin, I signed my writings "A. B."
Two reprobatory poems addressed to those initials came to me through the
medium of the "Snapdragon," immediately after my having printed in that
spicy paper a pensive little poem called "The Rooster's Cry": one, in
Spenserian measure, rebuking me for alluding lightly to serious subjects,—
a thing I never do, I am sure, and I can't imagine what "J. H. P." meant; and
another, in hexameter, calling upon me to "arouse," and "smile," and
"struggle on," and, in short, to stop crying and behave myself,—only it was
said in figures. I'm much obliged to "Quintius" for the advice; but I should
like to explain, that I am subject to the toothache, and when it is bad I
cannot possibly write comic poetry. I must be miserable, but it's only
toothache, thank you!
Then I have heard several times, in the strictest confidence, the whole
history of "A. B., who writes for the 'Snapdragon.'" Somebody told me she
was a lady living on the North River, very wealthy, very haughty, and very
unhappy in her domestic relations. Another said she was a young widow in
Alabama, whose mother was extremely tyrannical, and opposed her second
marriage. A third person declared to me that A. B. was a physician in the
navy,—a highly educated man, but reduced in circumstances. I think that
was a great compliment,—to be actually taken for a man! I felt it to be "the
proudest moment of my life," as ship-captains say, when they return thanks
for the silver teapot richly chased with nautical emblems, presented by the
passengers saved from the wreck, as a token of gratitude for the hencoops

thrown overboard by the manly commander. However, I called myself a
woman in the very next contribution, for fear of the united wrath of the
stronger sex, should I ever be discovered to have so imposed upon the
public; although I know several old women who remain undiscovered to
this day, simply because they avail themselves of a masculine signature.
There were other romances, too tedious to mention, depicting me
sometimes as a lovely blonde, writing graceful tales beneath a bower of
roses in the warm light of June; sometimes as a respectable old maid, rather
sharp, fierce, and snuffy; sometimes as a tall, delicate, aristocratic, poetic
looking creature, with liquid dark eyes and heavy tresses of raven hair;
sometimes as a languishing, heart-broken woman in the prime of life, with
auburn curls and a slow consumption.
Perhaps it may be as well to silence all conjecture at once, by stating that I
am a woman of——no, I won't say how old, because everybody will date
me from this time forward, and I shall not always be willing to tell how old
I am! I am not very young now, it is true; I am more than sixteen and less
than forty; so when our clergyman requested all between those ages to
remain after service for the purpose of forming a week-day Bible-class, I sat
still, and so did everybody else except Mrs. Van Doren, whose great-
grandchild was christened in the morning;—our church is a new one.
However, this is digressing. I am not very tall, nor very short; I am rather
odd-looking, but decidedly plain. I have brown hair and eyes, a pale light
complexion, a commonplace figure, pretty good taste in dress, and a quick
sense of the ludicrous, that makes me laugh a great deal, and have a good
time generally.
I live at home, in the town of Blank, in a quiet by-street. My parents are
both living, and we keep one Irish girl. I go to church on Sundays, and
follow my trade week-days.
I write everything I do write in my own room, which is not so pleasant as a
bower of roses in some respects, but is preferable in regard to earwigs and
caterpillars, which are troublesome in bowers. I have a small pine table to
write on, as much elderly furniture as supplies me places for sleep and my
books, a small stove in winter, (which is another advantage over bowers,)
and my "flowing draperies" are blue chintz, which I bought at a bargain;

some quaint old engravings of Bartolozzi's in black and gilt frames; a few
books, among which are prominently set forth a volume of "The Doctor,"—
Nicolò de' Lapi, in delightful bindings of white parchment,—Thomas à
Kempis,—a Bible, of English type and paper,—and Emerson's Poems,
bound in Russia leather. Not that I have no other books,—grammars, and
novels, and cook-books, in gorgeous array,—but these are within reach
from my pillow, when I want to read myself asleep; and a plaster cast of
Minerva's owl mounts guard above them, curious fowl that it is.
The neighbors think I am a pretty nice girl, and my papa secretly exults
over me as a genius, but he don't say much about it. And there, dear public,
you have Matilda Muffin as she is, which I hope will quash the romances,
amusing though they be.
But when, after much editorial correspondence, and persevering whispers of
kind friends who had been told the facts in confidence, A. B. became only
the pretext of a mystery, and I signed myself by my full name, the question
naturally arose,—"Who is Matilda Muffin?"
Now, for the first time in my life, do I experience the benefits of a
sentimental name, which has rather troubled me before, as belonging to a
quite unsentimental and commonplace person, and thereby raising
expectations, through hearsay, which actual vision dispelled with painful
suddenness. But now I find its advantage, for nobody believes it is my own,
but confidently expects that Ann Tubbs or Susan Bucket will appear from a
long suppression, like a Jack-in-a-box, and startle the public as she throws
back the cover.
Indeed, I am told that not long since a circle of literary experimentalists,
discussing a recent number of a certain magazine, and displaying great
knowledge of noms-de-plume, ran aground all at once upon "Who is
Matilda Muffin?"—even as, in the innocent faith of childhood, I pondered
ten minutes upon "Who was the father of Zebedee's children?" and at last
"gave up." But these professional gentlemen, nowise daunted by the
practical difficulties of the subject, held on, till at last one, wiser in his
generation than the rest, confidently announced that he knew Matilda
Muffin's real name, but was not at liberty to disclose it. Should this little
confidence ever reach the eyes of those friends, I wish to indorse that

statement in every particular; that gentleman does know my name; and
know all men, by these presents, I give him full leave to disclose it,—or
rather, to save him the trouble, I disclose it myself. My name, my own, that
would have been printed in the marriage-list of the "Snapdragon" before
now, if it had not appeared in the list of contributors, and which will appear
in its list of deaths some day to come,—my name, that is called to breakfast,
marked on my pocket-handkerchiefs, written in my books, and done in
yellow paint on my trunk, is—Matilda Muffin. "Only that, and nothing
more!" And "A. B.," which I adopted once as a species of veil to the
aforesaid alliterative title, did not mean, as was supposed, "A Beauty," or
"Any Body," or "Another Barrett," or "Anti Bedott," or "After Breakfast,"
but only "A. B.," the first two letters of the alphabet. Peace to their ashes!—
let them rest!
But, dear me! I forgot the Memorial! As I have said, all these enumerated
troubles do not much move me, nor yet the world-old cry of all literary
women's being, in virtue of their calling, unfeminine. I don't think anybody
who knows me can say that about me; in fact, I am generally regarded by
my male cousins as a "little goose," and a "foolish child," and "a perfectly
absurd little thing,"—epithets that forbid the supposition of their object
being strong-minded or having Women's Rights;—and as for people who
don't know me, I care very little what they think. If I want them to like me, I
can generally make them,—having a knack that way.
But there is one thing against which I do solemnly protest and uplift my
voice, as a piece of ridiculous injustice and supererogation,—and that is,
that every new poem or fresh story I write and print should be supposed and
declared to be part and parcel of my autobiography. Good gracious! Goethe
himself, "many-sided" as the old stone Colossus might have been, would
have retreated in dismay from such a host of characters as I have appeared
in, according to the announcement of admiring friends.
My dear creatures, do just look at the common sense of the thing! Can I
have been, by any dexterity known to man, of mind or body, such a various
creature, such a polycorporate animal, as you make me to be? Because I
write the anguish and suffering of an elderly widow with a drunken
husband, am I therefore meek and of middle age, the slave of a rum-jug? I
have heard of myself successively as figuring in the character of a strong-

minded, self-denying Yankee girl,—a broken-hearted Georgia beauty,—a
fairy princess,—a consumptive school-mistress,—a young woman dying of
the perfidy of her lover,—a mysterious widow; and I daily expect to hear
that a caterpillar which figured as hero in one of my tales was an allegory of
myself, and that a cat mentioned in "The New Tobias" is a travesty of my
heart-experience.
Now this is rather more than "human natur" can stand. It is true that in my
day and generation I have suffered as everybody does, more or less. It is
likewise true that I have suffered from the same causes that other people do.
I am happy to state that in the allotments of this life authoresses are not
looked upon as "literary," but simply as women, and have the same general
dispensations with the just and the unjust; therefore, in attempting to excite
other people's sympathies, I have certainly touched and told many stories
that were not strange to my own consciousness; I do not know very well
how I could do otherwise. And in trying to draw the common joys and
sorrows of life, I certainly have availed myself of experience as well as
observation; but I should seem to myself singularly wanting in many traits
which I believe I possess, were I to obtrude the details of my own personal
and private affairs upon the public. And I offer to those who have so
interpreted me a declaration which I trust may relieve them from all
responsibility of this kind in future; I hereby declare, asseverate, affirm, and
whatever else means to swear, that I never have offered and never intend to
offer any history whatever of my personal experience, social, literary, or
emotional, to the readers of any magazine, newspaper, novel, or
correspondence whatever. Nor is there any one human being who has ever
heard or ever will hear the whole of that experience,—no, not even
Dunderhed Van Nudel, Esquire, should he buy me to-morrow!
Also, I wish to relieve the minds of many friendly readers, who, hearing
and believing these reports, bestow upon me a vast amount of sympathy
that is worthy of a better fate. My dear friends, as I said before, it is
principally toothache; poetry is next best to clove-oil, and less injurious to
the enamel. I beg of you not to suppose that every poet who howls audibly
in the anguish of his soul is really afflicted in the said soul; but one must
have respect for the dignity of High Art. Answer me now with frankness,
what should you think of a poem that ran in this style?—

"The sunset's gorgeous wonder
Flashes and fades away;
But my back-tooth aches like thunder,
And I cannot now be gay!"

Now just see how affecting it is, when you "change the venue," as lawyers
say:—

"The sunset's gorgeous wonder
Flashes and fades away;
But I hear the muttering thunder,
And my sad heart dies like the day."

I leave it to any candid mind, what would be the result to literature, if such
a course were pursued?
Besides, look at the facts in the case. You read the most tearful strains of the
most melancholy poet you know; if you took them verbatim, you would
expect him to be found by the printer's-boy, sent for copy, "by starlight on
the north side of a tombstone," as Dr. Bellamy said, enjoying a northeaster
without any umbrella, and soaking the ground with tears, unwittingly
antiseptic, in fact, as Mr. Mantalini expressed himself, "a damp, moist,
unpleasant body." But where, I ask, does that imp find the aforesaid poet,
when he goes to get the seventh stanza of the "Lonely Heart"? Why, in the
gentlemen's parlor of a first-class hotel, his feet tilted up in the window, his
apparel perfectly dry and shiny with various ornamental articles appended,
his eyes half open over a daily paper, his parted lips clinging to a cigar, his
whole aspect well-to-do and comfortable. And aren't you glad of it? I am;
there is so much real misery in the world, that don't know how to write for
the papers, and has to have its toothache all by itself, when a simple
application of bread and milk or bread and meat would cure it, that I am
glad to have the apparent sum of human misery diminished, even at the
expense of being a traitor in the camp.
And still further, for your sakes, dear tender-hearted friends, who may
suppose that I am wearing this mask of joy for the sake of deluding you into
a grim and respectful sympathy,—you, who will pity me whether or no,—I
confess that I have some material sorrows for which I will gladly accept

your tears. My best bonnet is very unbecoming. I even heard it said the
other day, striking horror to my soul, that it looked literary! And I'm afraid
it does! Moreover, my only silk dress that is presentable begins to show
awful symptoms of decline and fall; and though you may suppose literature
to be a lucrative business, between ourselves it is not so at all, (very likely
the "Atlantic" gentlemen will omit that sentence, for fear of a libel-suit from
the trade,—but it's all the same a fact, unless you write for the "Dodger,")—
and, I'm likely to mend and patch and court-plaster the holes in that old
black silk, another year at least: but this is my solitary real anguish at
present.
I do assure all and sundry my reporters, my sympathizers, and my readers,
that all that I have stated in this present Memorial is unvarnished fact,
whatever they may say, read, or feel to the contrary,—and that, although I
am a literary woman, and labor under all the liabilities and disabilities
contingent thereto, I am yet sound in mind and body, (except for the
toothache,) and a very amusing person to know, with no quarrel against life
in general or anybody in particular. Indeed, I find one advantage in the very
credulous and inquisitive gossip against which I memorialize; for I think I
may expect fact to be believed, when fiction is swallowed whole; and I feel
sure of seeing, directly on the publication of this document, a notice in the
"Snapdragon," the "Badger," or the "Coon," (whichever paper gets that
number of the magazine first,) running in this wise:—
"Matilda Muffin.—We welcome in the last number of the
'Atlantic Monthly' a brief and spirited autobiography of this
lady, whose birth, parentage, and home have so long been wrapt
in mystery. The hand of genius has rent asunder the veil of
reserve, and we welcome the fair writer to her proper position in
the Blank City Directory, and post-office list of boxes."
After which, I shall resign myself tranquilly to my fate as a unit, and glide
down the stream of life under whatever skies shine or scowl above, always
and forever nobody but

Matilda Muffin.
Blank, 67 Smith Street.

SOME ACCOUNT OF A VISIONARY.
"Dear old Visionary!" It was the epithet usually applied to Everett Gray by
his friends and neighbors. It expresses very well the estimation in which he
was held by nineteen-twentieths of his world. People couldn't help feeling
affection for him, considerably leavened by a half-pitying, half-wondering
appreciation of his character. He was so good, so kind, so gifted, too. Pity
he was so dreamy and romantic, et cetera, et cetera.
Now, from his youth up, nay, from very childhood, Everett had borne the
character thus implied. A verdict was early pronounced on him by an
eminent phrenologist who happened to be visiting the family. "A beautiful
mind, a comprehensive intellect, but marvellously unpractical,—singularly
unfitted to cope with the difficulties of every-day life." And Everett's
mother, hanging on the words of the man of science, breathless and tearful,
murmured to herself, while stroking her unconscious little son's bright curls,
—"I always feared he was too good for this wicked world."
The child began to justify the professor's dictum with his very first entry
into active life. He entertained ideas for improving the social condition of
rabbits, some time before he could conveniently raise himself to a level
with the hutch in which three of them, jointly belonging to himself and his
brother, abode. His theory was consummate; in practice, however, it proved
imperfect,—and great wrath on the part of Richard Gray, and much
confusion and disappointment to Everett, were the result.
Richard, two years younger than Everett by the calendar, was at least three
older than he in size, appearance, habits, and self-assertion. He was what is
understood by "a regular boy": a fine, manly little fellow, practical,
unsensitive, hard-headed, and overflowing with life and vigor. He had little
patience with his brother's quiet ways; and his unsuccessful attempts at
working out theories met with no sympathy at his hands.
After the affair of the rabbits, his experiments, however certain of success
he deemed them, were always made on or with regard to his own
belongings. The little plot of garden-ground which he held in absolute

possession was continually being dug up and refashioned, in his eager
efforts to convert it successively into a vineyard, a Portuguese quinta, (to
effect which he diligently planted orange-pips and manured the earth with
the peel,) or, favorite scheme of all, a wheat-field,—dimensions, eighteen
feet by twelve,—the harvest of which was to provide all the poor children
of the village with bread, in those hard seasons when their pinched faces
and shrill, complaining cries appealed so mightily to little Everett's heart.
Nevertheless, and in spite of all his care and watching, it is to be feared that
very few of the big loaves which found their way from the hall to the
village, that winter, were composed of the produce of his corn-field. More
experienced farmers than this youthful agriculturist might not have been
surprised at the failure of his crop. He was. Indeed, it was a valiant
characteristic of him, throughout his life, that he never grew accustomed to
failure, however serenely he took it, when it came. He grieved and
perplexed himself about it, silently, but not hopelessly. New ideas dawned
on his mind, fresh designs of relief were soon entertained, and essayed to be
put in practice. These were many, and of various degrees of feasibility,—
ranging from the rigorously pursued plan of setting aside a portion of his
daily bread and butter in a bag, and of his milk in a can, and bestowing the
little store on the nearest eligible object, up to the often pondered one of
obtaining possession of the large barn in the cow-field, furnishing the same,
and establishing therein all the numerous houseless wanderers who used to
come and ask for aid at the hands of Everett's worthy and magisterial father.
That father's judicial functions caused his eldest son considerable trouble
and bewilderment of mind. He asked searching questions sometimes, when,
of an evening, perched on Mr. Gray's knee, and looking with his wondering,
steadfast eyes into the face of that erewhile stern and impassible magistrate.
The large justice-room, where the prisoners were examined, had an awful
fascination to him; and so had the little "strong-room," in which sometimes
they were locked up before being conveyed away to the county jail. Often,
he wandered restlessly near it, looking at the door with strange, mournful
eyes; and if by chance the culprit passed out before him, under the
guardianship of the terrible, red-faced constable,—Everett's earliest and
latest conception of the Devil,—how wistfully he would gaze at him, and
what a world of thought and puzzled speculation would float through his
childish mind!

Once, he had a somewhat serious adventure connected with that dreadful
strong-room.
There had been a man brought up before Mr. Gray, charged with poultry-
stealing; and he had been remanded for further examination. Meanwhile, he
was placed in the strong-room, under lock-and-key,—Roger Manby, as
usual, standing sentinel in the passage. Now Roger's red face betokened a
lively appreciation of the sublunary and substantial attractions of beef and
beer; and it seems probable that the servants' dinner, going on below-stairs,
was too great a temptation for even that inflexible constable to resist.
Howbeit, when the prisoner should have been produced before the waiting
bench, he was nowhere to be found. He had vanished, as by magic, from the
strong-room, without bolt being wrenched, or lock forced, or bar broken.
The door was unfastened, and the prisoner gone. Great was the
consternation, profound the mystification of all parties. Roger was severely
reprimanded, and officers were sent off in various directions to recapture
the offender.
Mr. Gray seldom alluded to his public affairs when among his children; but
that evening he broke through the rule. At dessert, with little Everett, as
usual, beside him, he mentioned the mysterious incident of the morning to
some friends who were dining with him, adding his own conjectures as to
the cause of the strange disappearance.
"It is certain he was let out. He could not have released himself.
Circumstances are suspicious against Manby, too; and he will probably lose
his office. Like Cæsar's wife, a constable should be beyond suspicion, and
he must be dismissed, if"——
"Oh, papa!"—and Everett's orange fell to the floor, and Everett's face was
lifted to his father's, all-aglow with eager, painful feeling.
"You don't like old Roger," said Mr. Gray, patting his cheek. "Well, it is
likely you won't be troubled by him any more."
"Oh, papa! oh, papa! Roger is an ugly, cross man. But he didn't,—he
didn't"——
"Didn't what, my boy?"

"Let the man out. He was in the kitchen all the time. I heard him laughing."
"You heard him? How?"
"I—I—oh, papa!"
The curly head sunk on the inquisitor's shoulder.
"Go on, Everett. What do you mean? Tell me the whole truth. You are not
afraid to do that?"
"No, papa."
He looked up, with steady eyes, but cheeks on which the color flickered
most agitatedly.
"I only wanted to look at the man; and the men had left a ladder against the
wall by the little grated window; and I climbed up, and looked in. And, oh!
he had such a miserable face, papa! And I couldn't help speaking to him."
"Well, go on."
The tone was not so peremptory as the words; and the child, too ignorant to
be really frightened at what he had done, went on with his confession, quite
heedless of the numerous eyes fixed upon him with various expressions of
tenderness, amusement, and dismay. And very soon all came out. Everett
had deliberately and intentionally done the deed. He had been unable to
withstand the misery and entreaties of the man, and he had slipped down
the ladder, run round to the unguarded strong door, and with much toil
forced back the great bolt, unfastened the chain, and set the prisoner free.
"And do you know, Everett, what it is you have done?—how wrong you
have been?"
"I was afraid it was a little wrong,"—he hesitated; "but,"—and his courage
seemed to rise again at the recollection,—"it would have been so dreadful
for the poor man to go to prison! He said he should be quite ruined,—quite
ruined, papa; and his wife and the little children would starve. You are not
very angry, are you? Oh, papa!"

For Everett could hardly believe the stern gaze with which the magistrate
forced himself to regard his little son; and sternly uttered were the few
words that followed, by which he endeavored to make clear to the childish
comprehension the gravity of the fault he had committed. Everett was
utterly subdued. The tone of displeasure smote on his heart and crushed it
for the time. Only once he brightened up, as with a sudden hope of
complete justification, when Mr. Gray adverted to the crime of the man,
which had made it right and necessary that he should be punished.
"But, papa," eagerly broke in the boy, "he hadn't stolen the things. He told
me so. He wasn't a thief."
"One case was proved beyond doubt."
"Indeed, indeed, papa, you must be mistaken," cried Everett, with tearful
vehemence; "he couldn't have done it; I know he couldn't. He said, upon his
word, he hadn't."
It was impossible to persuade him that such an asseveration could be false.
And when the little offender had left the room, various remarks and
interjections were indulged in,—all breathing the same spirit.
"What a jolly little muff Everett is!" was his brother Dick's contingent.
"Innocent little fellow!" said one.
"Happy little visionary!" sighed another.
And Everett grew in years and stature, and still unconsciously maintained
the same character. It is true that he was a quiet, sensitive boy, with an
almost feminine affectionateness and tenderness of heart,—and that keen,
exquisite appreciation both of the joyful and the painful, which is a
feminine characteristic, too. Yet he was far enough from being effeminate.
He was thoughtful, naturally, yet he could be active and take pleasure in
action. He was always ready to work, and feared neither hardship nor
fatigue. When the great flood came and caused such terror and distress in
the village, no one, not even Dick, home from Sandhurst for the
midsummer holidays, was more energetic or worked harder or more
effectually than Everett. And the boys (his brother's chums at Hazlewood)
never forgot the day when Everett found them ill-treating a little dog; how

he rescued it from them, single-handed, and knocked down young Brooke,
who attacked him both with insults and blows. Dick, not ill-pleased, was
looking on. He never called his brother a "sop" from that day, but praised
him and patronized him considerably for a good while after, and began, as
he said, "to have hopes of him."
But the two brothers never had much in common, and were, indeed, little
thrown together. Everett was educated at home; he was not strong, and was
naturally his mother's darling, and she persuaded his father and herself that
a public school would be harmful to him. So he studied the classics with the
clergyman of the parish, and the lighter details of learning with his sister.
Between that sister and himself there was a strong attachment, though she,
too, was of widely differing temperament and disposition. Agnes was two
years older than he,—and overflowing with saucy life, energy, and activity.
She liked to run wild about the woods near their house, or to gallop over the
country on her pony,—to go scrambling in the hedges for blackberries, or
among the copses for nuts. The still contentment that Everett found in
reading,—his thoughtful enjoyment of landscape, or sunset, or flower,—all
this might have been incomprehensible to her, only that she loved her
dreamy brother so well. Love lends faith, and faith makes many things
clear; and Agnes learned to understand, and would wait patiently beside
him on such occasions, only tapping her feet, or swinging her bonnet by its
strings, as a relief for the superabundant vitality thus held in check. And she
was Everett's confidante in all his schemes, wishes, and anticipations. To
her he would unfold the various plans he was continually cogitating. Agnes
would listen, sympathizingly sometimes, but reverently always. She never
called or thought him a Visionary. If his plans for the regeneration of the
world were Utopian and impracticable, it was the world that was in fault,
not he. To her he was the dearest of brothers, who would one day be
acknowledged the greatest of men.
And thus Everett grew to early manhood, till the time arrived when he was
to leave home for Cambridge. It was his first advent in the world. Hitherto,
his world had been one of books and thought. He imagined college to be a
place wherein a studious life, such as he loved, would be most natural, most
easy to be pursued. He should find a brother-enthusiast in every student; he
should meet with sympathy and help in all his dearest aspirations, on every
side. Perhaps it is needless to say that this young Visionary was

disappointed, and that his collegiate career was, in fact, the beginning of
that crusade, active and passive, which it appeared to be his destiny to wage
against what is generally termed Real Life.
He was considerably laughed at, of course, by the majority of those about
him. Some few choice spirits tried to get up a lofty contempt of his quiet
ways and simple earnestness,—but they failed,—it not being in human
nature, even the most scampish, to entertain scorn for that which is innately
true and noble. So, finally, the worst that befell him was ridicule,—which,
even when he was aware of it, hurt him little. Often, indeed, he would
receive their jests and artful civilities with implicit good faith;
acknowledging apparent attentions with a gentle, kindly courtesy,
indescribably mystifying to those excellent young men who expended so
much needless pains on the easy work of "selling Old Gray."
However, from out the very ranks of the enemy, before he left college at the
end of his first term, he had one intimate. It would, perhaps, be difficult to
understand how two-thirds of the friendships in the world have their birth
and maintain their existence. The connection between Everett and Charles
Barclay appeared to be of this enigmatical order. One would have said the
two could possess no single taste or sentiment in common. Charles was a
handsome, athletic fellow, warm-hearted, impassioned, generous, and
thoughtless to cruelty. He had splendid gifts, but no application,—plenty of
power, but no perseverance. Supposed to be one of the most brilliant men of
his years, he had just been "plucked," to the dismay of his college and the
immense wrath of his friends. Everybody knew that Barclay was an orphan,
left with a very slender patrimony, who had gained a scholarship at the
grammar-school. He was of no family,—he was poor, and had his own way
to make in life. It was doubly necessary to him that he should succeed in his
collegiate career. It was probably while under the temporary shadow of the
disgrace and disappointment of defeat, that the young man suddenly turned
to Everett Gray, fastened upon him with an affection most enthusiastic, a
devotion that everybody found unaccountable. He had energy enough for
what he willed to do. He willed to have Everett's friendship, and he would
not be denied. The incongruous pair became friends. Whereupon, the
rollicking comrades, who had gladly welcomed Barclay into their set, for
his fun and his wit and his convivial qualities, turned sharp round, and
marvelled at young Gray, who came of a high family, for choosing as his

intimate a fellow of no birth, no position. Not but that it was just like the
Old Visionary to do it; he'd no idea of life,—not he; and so forth.
During the next term, the friendship grew and strengthened. Everett's
influence was working for good, and Barclay was in earnest addressing
himself to study. He accompanied Everett to his home at the long vacation.
And it ought to have surprised nobody who was acquainted with the
rationale of such affairs, that the principal event of that golden holiday-
summer was the falling in love with each other of Everett's sister and
Everett's friend. Agnes was the only daughter and special pride of a rich and
well-born man. Barclay was of plebeian birth, with nothing in the world to
depend on but his own talents, which he had abused, and the before-named
patrimony, which was already nearly exhausted. It will at once be seen that
there could hardly be a more felicitous conjunction of circumstances to
make everybody miserable by one easy, natural step; and the step was duly
taken. Of course, the young people fell in love immediately,—Everett, the
Dreamer, looking on with a sort of reverent interest that was almost awe;
for the very thought of love thrilled him with a sense of new and strange
life,—unknown, unguessed of, as heaven itself, but as certain, and hardly
less beautiful. So he watched the gradual progress of these two, who were
passing through that which was so untrodden a mystery to him. If he ever
thought about their love in a more definite way, it was—oh, the Visionary!
—to congratulate himself and everybody concerned. He saw nothing but
what was most happy and desirable in it all. He knew no one so worthy of
Agnes as Barclay, whom, in spite of all his faults, he believed to be one of
the noblest and greatest of men; and he felt sure that all that was wanting to
complete and solidify his character was just this love for a good, high-
souled woman, which would arouse him to energy and action, sustain and
encourage him through all difficulties, and make life at once more precious
and more sacred.
Unfortunately, other members of the family, who were rational beings, and
looked on life in a practical and sensible manner, were very differently
affected by the discovery of this attachment. In brief, there ensued upon the
éclaircissement much storm on one side, much grief on the other, and keen
pain to all,—to none more than to Everett. Our Visionary's heart swelled
hotly with alternate indignation and tenderness, as he knew his friend was
forbidden the house, heard his father's wrathful comments upon him, and

saw his bright sister Agnes broken down by all the heaviness of a first
despair. You may imagine his passionate denunciation of the spirit of
worldliness, which would, for its own mean ends, separate those whom the
divine sacrament of Love had joined together. No less easily may be
pictured the angry, yet half-compassionate reception of his vehemence, the
contemptuous wave of the hand with which the stern old banker deprecated
discussion with one so ignorant of the world, so utterly incapable of
forming a judgment on such a question, as his son. His mother sat by,
during these scenes, trembling and grieved. It was not in her meek nature to
take part against either husband or son. She strove to soothe, to soften each
in turn,—with but little effect, it may be added. For all he was so gentle and
so loving, Everett was not to be persuaded or influenced in this matter. He
took up his friend's cause and withstood all antagonism, resisted all
entreaties to turn him from his fealty thereto.
Ay, and he bore up against what was harder yet to encounter than all these.
Charles Barclay's was one of those natures which, being miserable, are apt
to become desperate. To such men, affliction seems to be torture, but no
discipline. But our humanity perceives from a level, and therefore a short-
sighted point of view. We may well be thankful that the Great Ruler sees
above and around and on all sides the creatures to be governed, the events
to be disposed.
Charles Barclay went to London. One or two brief and most miserable
letters Everett received from him,—then all a blank silence. Everett's
repeated appeals were unanswered, unnoticed. It might have been as if
Death had come between and separated these lovers and friends, except that
by indirect means they learned that he was alive and still in London. At
length came more definite tidings, and the brother and sister knew that this
Charles Barclay, whom they loved so well, had plunged into a reckless life,
as into a whirlpool of destruction,—that he was among those associates, of
high rank socially, of nearly the lowest morally, whom he had formerly
known at college. Here was triumph for the prudent father,—desolation to
the loving woman,—and to Everett, what? Pain, keen pain, and bitter
anxiety,—but no quailing of the heart. He had too much faith in his friend
for that.

He went after him to London,—he penetrated to him, and would not be
denied. He braved his assumed anger and forced violence; he had the
courage of twenty lions, this Visionary, in battling with the devils that had
entered into the spirit of his friend. The struggle was fierce and lengthened.
Love conquered at last, as it always does, could we so believe. And during
the time of utter depression into which the mercurial nature then relapsed,
Everett cheered and sustained him,—till the young man's soul seemed
melted within him, and the surrender to the good influence was as absolute
as the resistance had been passionate.
"What have I done, what am I," he would oftentimes say, "that I should be
saved and sustained and loved by you, Everett?" For, truly, he looked on
him as no less than an angel, whom God had sent to succor him. It was one
of those problems the mystery of which is most sacred and most sweet. In
proportion as the erring man needed it, Everett's love grew and deepened
and widened, and his influence strengthened with it almost unconsciously to
himself. He was too humble to recognize all that he was to his friend.
Meanwhile, imagine the turmoil at home, in respect of Everett's absence,
and the errand which detained him. No disguise was sought. The son wrote
to his mother frankly, stating where he was, and under what circumstances.
He received a missive from his father of furious remonstrance; he replied
by one so firm, yet so loving withal, that old Mr. Gray could not choose but
change his tone to one of angry compassion. "The boy believes he's doing
right. Heaven send him a little sense!" was all he could say.
But there came a yet more overwhelming evidence of Everett's utter
destitution of that commodity. A mercantile appointment was offered to
Charles Barclay in one of the colonies, and Everett advanced the large sum
necessary to enable his friend to accept it. To do this, he sacrificed the
whole of what he possessed independently of his father, namely, a legacy
left to him by his uncle, over which he had full control. It must be years
before he could be repaid, of course,—it might be never! But, rash as was
the act, he could not be hindered from doing it. His father raged and
stormed, and again subsided into gloomy resignation. Henceforth he would
wonder at nothing, for his son was mad, unfit to take part in the world. "A
mere visionary, and no man," the hapless parent said, whenever he alluded
to him.

When Everett returned, Charles Barclay was on his way to Canada,
vigorously intent on the new life before him. Agnes drew strength and
comfort from the steadfast look of her brother's eyes, as he whispered to
her, "Don't fear. Trust God, and be patient." The blight fell away from her,
after that. If she was never a light-hearted girl again, she became something
even sweeter and nobler. They never talked together about him, for the
father had forbidden it; and, indeed, they needed not. Openly, and before
them all, Everett would say when he heard from his friend. And so the
months passed on.
Then came the era in our Visionary's life,—an era, indeed, to such as he!—
the first love. First love,—and last,—to him it was nothing less than fateful.
It was his nature to be steadfast and thorough. He could no more have
transferred the love that rose straightly and purely from the very innermost
fire of his soul than he could have changed the soul itself. Not many natures
are thus created with the inevitable necessity to be constant. Few among
women, fewer yet among men, love as Everett Gray loved Rosa
Beauchamp.
When they became aware of this love, at his home, there ensued much
marvelling. Mr. Gray cordially congratulated himself, with wonder and
pleasure, to think that actually his mad boy should have chosen so
reasonably. Captain Gray, home on leave, observed that Old Everett wasn't
such a flat as he seemed, by Jove! to select the daughter of an ancient
house, and a wealthy house, like the Beauchamps of Hollingsley. The
alliance was in every way honorable and advantageous. The family was one
of the most influential in the county; and a lady's being at the head of it—
for Sir Ralph Beauchamp had died many years before, when his eldest son
was but a child, and Lady Beauchamp had been sole regent over the
property ever since—made it all the pleasanter. Everett, if he chose, might
be virtual master of Beauchamp; for the young baronet was but a weak,
good-natured boy, whom any one might lead. Everett had displayed first-
rate generalship. "These simple-seeming fellows are often deeper than most
people," argued the soldier, wise in his knowledge of the world; "you may
trust them to take care of themselves, when it comes to the point. Everett's a
shrewd fellow."

The father rubbed his hands, and was delighted to take this view of the case.
He should make something of his son and heir in time. Often as he had
regretted that Richard was not the elder, on whom it would rest to keep up
the distinction and honor of the family, he began to see an admirable fitness
in things as they were. Everett was, after all, better suited for the career that
lay before him, in which he trusted he would not need that knowledge of
mankind and judgment on worldly matters that were indispensable to those
who had to carve their own way in life. "It is better as it is," thought the
father, unconscious that he was echoing such an unsubstantial philosophy as
a poet's.
And so the first days of Everett's love were as cloudless and divinely radiant
as a summer dawn. But events were gathering, like storm-clouds, about the
house of Gray. Disaster, most unforeseen, was impending over this family.
For Mr. Gray, though, as we have said, a practical and matter-of-fact man,
and having neither sympathy nor patience with "visionary schemes or
ideas," had yet, as practical men will do, indulged in divers speculations
during his life, in one of which he had at last been induced to embark to the
utmost extent. Of course, it seemed safe and reasonable enough, even to the
banker's shrewd eyes; but, nevertheless, it proved as delusive and
destructive as any that ever led a less worldly man astray. The fair-seeming
bubble burst, and the rich man of one day found himself on the morrow
virtually reduced to beggary. All he had had it in his power to risk was
gone, and liabilities remained to the extent of twice as much. The crash
came, the bank stopped payment, and the unhappy man was stricken to the
dust. He never lifted up his head again. The shrewd man of the world utterly
succumbed beneath this blow of fate; it killed him. Old Mr. Gray died of
that supposed disease, a broken heart,—leaving a legacy of ruin, or the
alternative of disgrace, to his heir.
The reins of government thus fell into Everett's hands. "The poor Grays! it's
all over with them!" said the pitying world. And, indeed, the way in which
the young man proceeded to arrange his father's affairs savored no less of
the Visionary than had every action of his life theretofore. Captain Gray,
who hastened home from his gay quarters in Dublin, on the disastrous news
reaching him, found his brother already deeply engaged with lawyers, bills,
and deeds.

"You know, Richard, there is but one thing to be done," he said, in his usual
simple, earnest way; "we must cut off the entail, and sell the property to pay
my father's debts. It is a hard thing to do,—to part with the old place; but it
would be worse, bitterer pain and crueler shame, to hold it, with the money
that, whatever the worldly code of morality may say, is not ours. There
must be no widows and orphans reduced to poverty through us. Thank God,
there will be enough produced by the sale of the estate to clear off every
liability,—to the last shilling. You feel with me in this matter?" he went on,
confidently appealing to his brother; yet with a certain inflection of anxiety
in his voice. It would have wounded Everett cruelly, had he been
misunderstood or rebuffed in this. "You have your commission, and Uncle
Everett's legacy, and the reversion of my mother's fortune, which will not be
touched. This act of justice, therefore, can injure no one."
"Except yourself,—yourself, old fellow," said Richard, moved, in spite of
his light nature. He grasped his brother's hand. "It's a noble thing to do; but
have you considered how it will affect your future? You, with neither
fortune nor profession,—how do you propose to live? And your marriage,
—the Beauchamps will never consent to Rosa becoming the wife of a—
a"——
"Not a beggar, Richard," Everett said, smiling, "if that was the word you
hesitated about; no, I shall be no beggar. I have plans for my own future;—
you shall know of them. Our marriage will, of course, be delayed. I must
work, to win a home and position for my wife." He paused,—looked up
bravely,—"It is no harder fate than falls to most men. And for Rosa,—true
love, true woman as she is, she helps me, she encourages me in all I do and
purpose."
Captain Gray shrugged his shoulders. "Two mad young people!" he thought
to himself. "They never think of consequences, and it's of no use warning
them, I suppose."
No. It would have been useless to "warn" or advise Everett against doing
this thing, which he held to be simply his duty. And it was the characteristic
of our Visionary, that, when he saw a Duty so placed before him, he knew
no other course than straightly to pursue it, looking neither to the right hand
nor to the left, unprevented by obstacles, and fearless of consequences.

So in this case. His brother advised a temporizing course,—to mortgage the
estate, for instance, and pay a moiety of the debts. It was surely all that
could be expected from a man who had not actually incurred them. And
then he might still be the nominal owner of Hazlewood,—he might still
marry Rosa.
"While, if you do as you propose," argued the Captain, "(and you know, of
course, old fellow, I fully appreciate your noble and honorable feeling in the
matter,) you ruin your own hopes; and I can't see that a fellow is called
upon to do that, as a point of filial duty. What are you to do? that's the
thing. It isn't as though you had anything to fall back upon, by Jove! It's a
case of beggaring yourself"——
"Instead of beggaring other people," Everett said. "No, Richard,—I cannot
see either the justice or the wisdom of what you propose. I will not cast the
burden on other shoulders. As my father's representative, I must abide the
penalty of his mistake,—and I only. I cannot rest while our name is as the
catchword of ruin and misery to thousands around us, less able to bear both,
perhaps, than I, who am young and strong,—able to work both with head
and hands."
"But think of Rosa!" said his brother. "How do you get over that? Isn't her
happiness worth some consideration?"
"It has been my thought, night and day, ever since," Everett said, in a low
voice. "It has come between me and what I felt to be the Right, more than
once. You don't know what that thought has been, or you would not
challenge it against me now."
"Well, well,—I only want you to look on all sides of what you are about to
do, and to count the cost beforehand."
Everett smiled quietly. As if "the cost" were not already counted, felt, and
suffered in that deep heart of his! But he said nothing.
"In the next place, what do you propose to do?" pursued his brother. "Will
you enter a profession? Can't say you're much adapted for a lawyer; and
perhaps you're too tender-hearted for a doctor, either. But I remember, as a
boy, you always said you should like to be a clergyman. And, by Jove!

when one comes to think of it, you've a good deal of the cut of the village
priest about you. What do you say to that?"
"Nothing. I have other plans." And Everett proceeded briefly to tell him
these. He had heard from Charles Barclay, now high in the confidence of
one of the leading mercantile firms of Montreal; and through him, he had
obtained the offer of an appointment in the same house.
Richard Gray listened to all this, with ill-concealed amusement twitching
the corners of his mouth. He thought the idea of his brother's turning man-
of-business one of the "richest" he had ever heard.
"With your hard head and shrewd notions, I should say you were likely to
make a sensation in the mercantile world," he observed. "It's a hopeful
scheme, altogether. Oh, hang it!" proceeding from sarcasm to remonstrance,
"that'll never do, Everett! You'll be getting into some precious scrape or
other. You're not the fellow for a merchant's office, trust me. Now
something in the way of a government appointment is much more like it. A
pleasant, poetical sort of sinecure,—there are lots of them to be had. You
just trundle down for an hour or two every day, write letters, or poems, or
whatever you like, with the official stationery, and receive your salary
quarterly. You can't do any mischief in a place like that. Now that's the sort
of thing for you,—if one could get hold of some of those fellows in power.
Why!" brightening with the sudden dash of an idea, "there are the
Beauchamps themselves! They've a legion of influential relatives. Couldn't
they get you into a snug berth? Oh, the Devil!"—for Everett's look was not
to be mistaken,—"if you bring your high-flown ideas of dignity and
independence into this plain, practical question of subsistence, it's all up
with you. Do you mean to tell me that you seriously think of this Canada
scheme?"
Everett assented.
"Have you informed Lady Beauchamp of your intention of becoming a
merchant's clerk? I should like to see her face when you tell her; she's such
a shrewd old soul; and when a woman does take to the sharp and worldly
style of thing, it's the very deuse! Expect no indulgence in that quarter."

"I don't ask it. Rosa, of course, cannot become my wife till I am able to give
her a worthy home. Her mother will not wish to cancel our engagement in
the mean time."
"The deuse she won't! Trust her!" the consolatory brother rejoined. "Why, it
will be her first natural step. The idea of her daughter betrothed to a
merchant's clerk is preposterous on the face of it. You yourself must see
that."
"No, I don't," Everett said, smiling.
"Oh, I suppose you intend to make a large fortune in a twelvemonth, and
then return and marry?"
"No,—but in ten years,—less than that, God helping me,—if I live, I will
return and marry Rosa."
"You don't say so? And poor little Rosa is to wait patiently for you all that
time! By Jove! a modest expectation of yours! It's a likely notion that Miss
Beauchamp will remain unmarried for ten years, because you choose to go
to Canada."
"She will never marry, if she does not marry me," Everett said, with simple
gravity. "It is not alone the outward sacrament of marriage that sanctifies a
union. The diviner and more vital consecration that binds us together, it is
too late, now, to seek to undo."
"Oh, hang it! It's of no use talking poetry to me. I don't understand that sort
of thing," Captain Gray frankly said. "I'll tell you what,—it'll never do to
take those transcendental ideas with you into the world. All very well to
poetize and maunder about in quiet Hazlewood; but, by Jove! you'll find it
won't do in practical life. Take my word for it, if you go to Canada, long
before the ten years are out, Rosa Beauchamp will be wooed and won over
again. 'Tisn't in nature that it should be otherwise. In books, very likely,
those sort of things happen often enough,—but not in real life, my dear
fellow, I assure you. When you return, it will be to find her a thriving
matron, doing the honors of one of the neighboring mansions. Make up
your mind to that. Foresee your future, before you decide."

Everett smiled, sadly, but trustfully. His brother's arguments neither
persuaded nor disturbed him. He stood very quiet and thoughtful.
Visionary-like, he saw pictures of the future, indeed,—but very different
from the one just drawn. He was not afraid.
And Captain Gray left him unconvinced and unmoved. It was not probable
the two brothers would see this matter in the same light. They stood on
different levels. They must be content to differ.
The next conference on the subject was between Everett and Lady
Beauchamp; and the mother of Rosa was, it must be admitted, a rather
formidable person to encounter in such wise. She was a busy, clever,
worldly woman,—kind-hearted, too, and with both a strong will and strong
affections. She was one of those people in whom even an astute observer
might often be deceived, by failing to give her credit for certain good
qualities which are commonly coexistent with worldliness,—especially in a
woman. There was a spice of something better latent amid her shrewdness
and hard-headed sagacity; the echo of more generous aspirations lingered
through all the noise of this earth's Babel in her heart. And so, when she
heard of Everett's resolve to pay his father's debts by parting with the
property, her better and higher nature warmed to the young man; and
though she protested against his Quixotism, and frowned, and talked of
prudence, and so forth, her busy brain was, in fact, all the while setting
itself to work for his benefit. She was, in a way, fond of the young man. No
woman is quite insensible to that chivalrous deference which a Visionary
like Everett always manifests to womanhood, collective and individual. And
though she certainly held him to be rash, foolish, unfit to deal with the
world, "poetical," (a capital crime in her eyes,) and dreamy, she yet liked
him, and was glad to discover a plan whereby the objections to his marriage
with her daughter, under the present adverse circumstances, might be
smoothed away.
She was sitting at her big desk, strewn with accounts, in the sober-looking
library where she always spent her mornings, and she rose to receive her
prospective son-in-law, with an aspect serious and business-like, yet not
stern.

"Well, my dear Everett, what is all this that I hear about you? A very, very
sad affair, of course; but you must come and tell me how you intend to act.
Yes, yes,—I've heard something about it; but I don't quite understand the
state of the case. I want to have a talk with you."
And she leaned her comely face upon her plump, white hand, while gravely
listening to Everett's brief statement of what he had already done, and what
were his plans for the future.
"You will sell Hazlewood, pay your father's debts, and begin life on your
own account, by going to Canada and becoming a merchant's clerk!" She
then recapitulated his plans in a sharp, pitiless tone. "Very well! and we
have only to bid you good-bye and wish you success. Is it so? For it appears
to me that my daughter is left entirely out of your calculations, and very
properly so. You cannot, as a merchant's clerk on a hundred a year, marry
Rosa Beauchamp, I presume."
"No," Everett said, steadily, and holding her, as it were, with his earnest
eyes, "I cannot have Rosa for my wife till I am able to give her a home
worthy of her; but you will not refuse to sanction our engagement during
the years in which I shall work for that home?"
Lady Beauchamp tapped the table with her fingers in an ominous manner.
"Long engagements are most unsatisfactory, silly, not to say dangerous
things. They never end well. No man ought to wish so to bind a young girl,
unless he has a reasonable chance of soon being in a position to marry her.
Now I ask you, have you such a chance? If you go to Canada, it may be
years before you return. Just look at the thing in a common-sense light, and
tell me, can you expect my daughter to wait an indefinite time, while you
go to seek and make your fortune?"
She looked at him with an air of bland candor, while thus appealing to his
"common sense." Everett's aspect remained unchanged, however, in its
calm steadfastness.
"I would not bind her," he said, "unless she herself felt it would be a
comfort and a help, in some sort, during the weary years of separation, so to
be bound. And that she does feel it, you know, Lady Beauchamp."

"My dear Sir, you are not talking reasonably," she rejoined, impatiently. "A
young girl like Rosa, in love for the first time, of course wishes to be
bound, as you say, to the object of her first love. But it would be doing her a
cruel injustice to take her at her word. Surely you feel that? It is very true,
she might not forget you for six months, or more, perhaps. But, in the
course of time, as she enters on life and sees more of the world and of
people, it is simply impossible that she should remain constant to a dreamy
attachment to some one thousands of miles away. She would inevitably
wish to form other ties; and then the engagement that she desires to-day
would be the blight and burden of her life. No. I say it is a cruel injustice to
let young people decide for themselves on such a point. Half the misery in
the world springs from these mistakes. Think over the matter coolly, and
you will see it as I do."
"It is you who do Rosa injustice," Everett answered, and paused. "Were it to
be as you wish," he added, "and we to separate utterly, with no outwardly
acknowledged tie to link us, no letters to pass between us, no word or sign
from one to the other during all the coming years,—suppose it so,—you
would shadow our lives with much unnecessary misery; but you are
mistaken, if you think you would really part us. You do not understand."
"Nonsense! You talk like a young man in love. You must be reasonable."
Lady Beauchamp, by this time, had worked herself into the usual warmth
with which she argued all questions, great and small, and forgot that her
original intention in speaking to Everett had only been to set before him the
disadvantages of his plans, in order that her own might come to the rescue
with still greater brilliancy and effect.
"You must be reasonable," she repeated. "You don't suppose I have not my
child's happiness at heart in all I plan and purpose? Trust me, I have had
more experience of life than either of you, and it is for me to interpose
between you and the dangers you would blindly rush upon. Some day you
will both thank me for having done so, hard and cruel as you may think me
now."
"No, I do not think you either hard or cruel. You are mistaken, simply. I
believe you desire our happiness. I do not reproach or blame you, Lady
Beauchamp," Everett said, sadly.

"Come, come," she cried, touched by his look and manner to an immediate
unfolding of her scheme, "let us look at things again. Perhaps we shall not
find them so hopeless as they look. If I am prudent, Everett, I am not
mercenary. I only want to see Rosa happy. I don't care whether it is on
hundreds a year, or thousands. And the fact is, I have not condemned your
plans without having a more satisfactory one to offer to your choice. Listen
to me."
And she proceeded, with a cleared brow, and the complacency of one who
feels she is performing the part of a good genius, setting everything to
rights, and making everybody comfortable, to unfold the plan she had
devised, by which Everett's future was to be secured, and his marriage with
Rosa looked to as something better than a misty uncertainty at the end of a
vista of years.
Everett must go into the Church. That was, in fact, the profession most
suited to him, and which most naturally offered itself for his acceptance.
His education, his tastes, his habits, all suited him for such a career. By a
happy coincidence, too, it was one in which Lady Beauchamp could most
importantly assist him through her connections. Her eldest son, the young
baronet, had preferment in his own gift, which was to say, in hers; and not
only this, but her sister's husband, the uncle of Rosa, was a bishop, and one
over whom she, Lady Beauchamp, had some influence. Once in orders,
Everett's prosperity was assured. The present incumbent of Hollingsley was
aged; by the time Everett was eligible, he might, in all probability, be
inducted into that living, and Rosa might then become his wife. Five
hundred a year, beside Miss Beauchamp's dowry, with such shining
prospects of preferment to look forward to, was not an unwise
commencement; for Rosa was no mere fine lady, the proud mother said,—
she was sensible and prudent; she would adapt herself to circumstances.
And though, of course, it was not such an establishment as she well might
expect for her daughter, still, since the young people loved one another, and
thought they could be happy under these reduced circumstances, she would
not be too exacting. And Lady Beauchamp at last paused, and looked in
Everett's face for some manifestation of his joy.
Well,—of his gratitude there could be no question. The tears stood in his
earnest eyes, as he took Lady Beauchamp's hand and thanked her,—thanked

her again and again.
"There, there, you foolish boy! I don't want thanks," cried she, coloring
with pleasure though, as she spoke. "My only wish is to see you two
children happy. I am fond of you, Everett; I shall like to see you my son,"
she said. "I have tried to smooth the way for you, as far as I can, over the
many difficulties that obstruct it; and I fancy I have succeeded. What do
you say to my plan? When can you be ordained?"
Everett sighed, as he released her hand, and looked at her face, now flushed
with generous, kindly warmth. Well he knew the bitter change that would
come over that face,—the passion of disappointment and displeasure which
would follow his answer to that question.
He could never enter the Church. Sorrowfully, but firmly, he said it,—with
that calm, steady voice and look, of which all who knew him knew the
significance. He could not take orders.
Lady Beauchamp, at first utterly overwhelmed and dumfounded, stood
staring at him in blank silence. Then she icily uttered a few words. His
reasons,—might she ask?
They were many, Everett said. Even if no other hindrance existed, in his
own mind and opinions, his reverence for so sacred an office would not
permit him to embrace it as a mere matter of worldly advantage to himself.
"Grant me patience, young man! Do you mean to tell me you would decline
this career because it promises to put an end to your difficulties? Are you
quite a fool?" the lady burst out, astonishment and anger quite startling her
from all control.
"Bear with what may at first seem to you only folly," Everett answered her,
gently. "I don't think your calmer judgment can call it so. Would you have
me take upon myself obligations that I feel to be most solemn and most
vital, feeling myself unfitted, nay, unable, rightly to fulfil them? Would you
have me commit the treachery to God and man of swearing that I felt called
to that special service, when my heart protested against my profession?"
"Romantic nonsense! A mere matter of modest scruples! You underrate
yourself, Everett. You are the very man for a clergyman, trust me."

But Everett went on to explain, that it was no question of under-estimation
of himself.
"You do not know, perhaps," he proceeded, while Lady Beauchamp, sorely
tried, tapped her fingers on the table, and her foot upon the floor,—"you do
not know, that, when I was a boy, and until two or three years ago, my
desire and ambition were to be a minister of the Church of England."
"Well, Sir,—what has made you so much better, or so much worse, since
then, as to alter your opinion of the calling?"
"The reasons which made me abandon the idea three years since, and which
render it impossible for me to consider it now, have nothing to do with my
mental and moral worthiness or unworthiness. The fact is simply, I cannot
become a minister of a Church with many of whose doctrines I cannot
agree, and to which, indeed, I can no longer say I belong. In your sense of
the word, I am far from being a Churchman."
"Do you mean to say you have become a Dissenter?" cried Lady
Beauchamp; and, as if arrived at the climax of endurance, she stood
transfixed, regarding the young man with a species of sublime horror.
"Again, not in your sense of the term," Everett said, smiling; "for I have
joined no sect, attached myself to no recognized body of believers."
"You belong to nothing, then? You believe in nothing, I suppose?" she said,
with the instinctive logic of her class. "Oh, Everett!" real distress for the
moment overpowering her indignation, "it is those visionary notions of
yours that have brought you to this. It was to be expected. You poets and
dreamers go on refining your ideas, forsooth, till even the religion of the
ordinary world isn't good enough for you."
Everett waited patiently till this first gust had passed by. Then, with that
steady, calm lucidity which, strange to say, was characteristic of this
Visionary's mind and intellect, he explained, so far as he could, his views
and his reasons. It could not be expected that his listener should
comprehend or enter into what he said. At first, indeed, she appeared to
derive some small consolation from the fact that at least Everett had not
"turned Dissenter." She hated Methodists, she declared,—intending thus to
include with sweeping liberality all denominations in the ban of her

disapproval. She would have deemed it an unpardonable crime, had the
young man deserted the Church of his fathers in order to join the
Congregation, some ranting conventicle. But if her respectability was
shocked at the idea of his becoming a Methodist, her better feelings were
outraged when she found, as she said, that he "belonged to nothing." She
viewed with dislike and distrust all forms of religion that differed from her
own; but she could not believe in the possibility of a religion that had no
external form at all. She was dismayed and perplexed, poor lady! and even
paused midway in her wrathful remonstrance to the misguided young man,
to lament anew over his fatal errors. She could not understand, she said,
truly enough, what in the world he meant. His notions were perfectly
extraordinary and incomprehensible. She was deeply, deeply shocked, and
grieved for him, and for every one connected with him.
In fact, the very earnestness and sincerity in their own opinions of a certain
calibre of minds make them incapable of understanding such a state of
things. That a man should believe differently from all they have been taught
to believe appears to them as simply preposterous as that he should breathe
differently. And so it is that only the highest order of belief can afford to be
tolerant; and, as extremes meet, it requires a very perfect Faith to be able to
sympathize and bear patiently with Doubt.
There was no chance of Lady Beauchamp's "comprehending" Everett in this
matter. There was something almost pathetic in her mingled anger,
perplexity, and disappointment. She could only look on him as a headstrong
young man, suicidally bent on his own ruin,—turning obstinately from
every offered aid, and putting the last climax of wretchedness to his isolated
and fallen position by "turning from the faith of his fathers," as she rather
imaginatively described his secession from Orthodoxy.
And, as may be concluded, the mother of Rosa was inexorable, as regarded
the engagement between the young people. It must at once be cancelled.
She could not for one moment suffer the idea of her daughter's remaining
betrothed to the mere adventurer she considered Everett Gray had now
become. If, poor as he was, he had thought fit to embrace a profession
worthy of a gentleman, the case would have been different. But if his
romantic notions led him to pursue such an out-of-the-way course as he had
laid out for himself, he must excuse her, if she forbade her child from

sharing it. Under present circumstances, his alliance could but be declined
by the Beauchamp family, she said, with her stateliest air. And the next
minute, as Everett held her hand, and said good-bye, she melted again from
that frigid dignity, and, looking into the frank, manly, yet gentle face of the
young man, cried,—
"Are you quite decided, Everett? Will you take time to consider? Will you
talk to Rosa about it, first?"
"No, dear Lady Beauchamp. I know already what she would say. I have
quite decided. Thank you for all your purposed kindness. Believe that I am
not ungrateful, even if I seem so."
"Oh, Everett,—Everett Gray! I am very sorry for you, and for your mother,
and for all connected with you. It is a most unhappy business. It gives me
great pain thus to part with you," said Lady Beauchamp, with real feeling.
And so the interview ended, and so ended the engagement.
Nothing else could have been expected, every one said who heard the state
of the case, and knew what Lady Beauchamp had wished and Everett had
declined. There were no words to describe how foolishly and weakly he had
acted. "Everybody" quite gave him up now. With his romantic,
transcendental notions, what would become of him, when he had his own
way to make in the world?
But Everett had consolation and help through it all; for Rosa, the woman he
loved, his mother, and his sister believed in him, and gloried in what other
people called his want of common sense. Ay, though the horrible wrench of
parting was suffered by Rosa every minute of every day, and the shadow of
that dreadful, unnatural separation began to blacken her life even before it
actually fell upon her,—through it all, she never wavered. When he first
told her that he must go, that it was the one thing he held it wise and right to
do, she shrunk back affrighted, trembling at the coming blankness of a life
without him. But after a while, seeing the misery that came into his face
reflected from hers, she rose bravely above the terrible woe, and then, with
her arms round him and her eyes looking steadfastly into his, she said, "I
love you better than the life you are to me. So I can bear that you should
go."

And he said, "There can be no real severance between those who love as we
do. God, in His mercy and tenderness, will help us to feel that truth, every
hour and every day."
For they believed thus,—these two young Visionaries,—and lived upon that
belief, perhaps, when the time of parting came. And it may be that the
thought of each was very constantly, very intimately present to the other,
during the many years that followed. It may be that this species of mental
atmosphere, so surrounding and commingling with all other things more
visibly and palpably about them, did cause these dreamers to be happier in
their love than many externally united ones, whose lot appears to us most
fair and smooth and blissful. Time and distance, leagues of ocean and years
of suspense, are not the most terrible things that can come between two
people who love one another.

And so Everett Gray, his mother, and his sister, went to Canada. A year
after, Agnes was married to Charles Barclay, then a thriving merchant in
Montreal. When the people at home heard of this, they very wisely
acknowledged "how much good there had been in that young man, in spite
of his rashness and folly in early days. No fear about such a man's getting
on in life, when once he gave his mind to it," and so forth.
Meanwhile, our Visionary——But what need is there to trace him, step by
step, in the new life he doubtless found fully as arduous as he had
anticipated? That it was a very struggling, difficult, and uncongenial life to
him can be well understood. These reminiscences of Everett Gray relate to a
long past time. We can look on his life now as almost complete and
finished, and regard his past as those in the valley look up to the hill that
has nothing between it and heaven.
Many years he remained in Canada, working hard. Tidings occasionally
reached England of his progress. Rosa, perhaps, heard such at rare intervals,
—though somewhat distorted, it may be, from their original tenor, before
they reached her. But it appeared certain that he was "getting on." In
defiance and utter contradiction of all the sapient predictions there anent, it

seemed that this dreamy, poetizing Everett Gray was absolutely successful
in his new vocation of man-of-business.
The news that he had become a partner in the firm he had entered as a clerk
was communicated in a letter from himself to Lady Beauchamp. In it he, for
the first time since his departure, spoke of Rosa; but he spoke of her as if
they had parted but yesterday; and, in asking her mother's sanction to their
betrothal now, urged, as from them both, their claim to have that boon
granted at last.
Lady Beauchamp hastily questioned her daughter.
"You must have been corresponding with the young man all this time?" she
said.
But Rosa's denial was not to be mistaken.
"He has heard of you, then, through some one," the practical lady went on;
"or, for anything he knows, you may be married, or going to be married,
instead of waiting for him, as he seems to take it for granted you have been
all this time."
"He was right, mother," Rosa only said.
"Right, you foolish girl? You haven't half the spirit I had at your age. I
would have scorned that it should have been said of me that I 'waited' for
any man."
"But if you loved him?"
"Well, if he loved you, he should have taken more care than to leave you on
such a Quixotic search for independence as his."
"He thought it right to go, and he trusted me; we had faith in one another,"
Rosa said; and she wound her arms round her mother, and looked into her
face with eyes lustrous with happy tears. For, from that lady's tone and
manner, despite her harsh words, she knew that the opposition was
withdrawn, and that Everett's petition was granted.
They were married. It is years ago, now, since their wedding-bells rung out
from the church-tower of Hazlewood, blending with the sweet spring-air

and sunshine of a joyous May-day. The first few years of their married life
were spent in Canada. Then they returned to England, and Everett Gray put
the climax to the astonishment of all who knew him by purchasing back a
great part of Hazlewood with the fruits of his commercial labors in the other
country.
At Hazlewood they settled, therefore. And there, when he grew to be an old
man, Everett Gray lived, at last, the peaceful, happy life most natural and
most dear to him. No one would venture to call the successful merchant a
Visionary; and even his brother owns that "the old fellow has got more
brains, after all, by Jove! than he ever gave him credit for." Yet, as the same
critic, and others of his calibre, often say of him, "He has some remarkably
queer notions. There's no making him out,—he is so different from other
people."
Which he is. There is no denying this fact, which is equally evident in his
daily life, his education of his children, his conduct to his servants and
dependants, his employment of time, his favorite aims in life, and in
everything he does or says, in brief. And of course there are plenty who
cavil at his peculiar views, and who cannot at all understand his
unconventional ways, and his apparent want of all worldly wisdom in the
general conduct of his affairs. And yet, somehow, these affairs prosper.
Although he declined a valuable appointment for his son, and preferred that
he should make his own way in the profession he had chosen, bound by no
obligation, and unfettered by the trammels of any party,—although he did
this, to the astonishment of all who did not know him, yet is it not a fact that
the young barrister's career has been, and is, as brilliant and successful as
though he had had a dozen influential personages to advance him? And
though he permitted his daughter to marry, not the rich squire's son, nor the
baronet, who each sought her hand, but a man comparatively poor and
unknown, who loved her, and whom she loved, did it not turn out to be one
of those marriages that we can recognize to have been "made in heaven,"
and even the worldly-wise see to be happy and prosperous?
But our Everett is growing old. His hair is silver-white, and his tall figure
has learned to droop somewhat as he walks. Under the great beech-trees at
Hazlewood you may have seen him sitting summer evenings, or sauntering
in spring and autumn days, sometimes with his grandchildren playing about

him, but always with one figure near him, bent and bowed yet more than his
own, with a still sweet and lovely face looking placidly forth from between
its bands of soft, white hair.
How they have loved, and do love one another, even to this their old age!
All the best and truest light of that which we call Romance shines steadily
about them yet. No sight so dear to Everett's eyes as that quiet figure,—no
sound so welcome to his ears as her voice. She is all to him that she ever
was,—the sweetest, dearest, best portion of that which we call his life.
Yes, I speak advisedly, and say he is, they are. It is strange that this
Visionary, who was wont to be reproached with the unpracticality of all he
did or purposed, the unreality of whose life was a byword, should yet
impress himself and his existence so vividly on those about him that even
now we cannot speak of him as one that is no more. He seems still to be of
us, though we do not see him, and his place is empty in the world.
His wife went first. She died in her sleep, while he was watching her,
holding her hand fast in his. He laid the last kisses on her eyes, her mouth,
and those cold hands.
After that, he seemed to wait. They who saw him sitting alone under the
beech-trees, day by day, found something very strangely moving in the
patient serenity of his look. He never seemed sad or lonely through all that
time,—only patiently hopeful, placidly expectant. So the autumn twilights
often came to him as he stood, his face towards the west, looking out from
their old favorite spot.
One evening, when his daughter and her husband came out to him, he did
not linger, as was usual with him, but turned and went forward to meet
them, with a bright smile, brighter than the sunset glow behind him, on his
face. He leaned rather heavily on their supporting arms, as they went in. At
the door, the little ones came running about him, as they loved to do.
Perhaps the very lustre of his face awed them, or the sight of their mother's
tears; for a sort of hush came over them, even to the youngest, as he kissed
and blessed them all.
And then, when they had left the room, he laid his head upon his daughter's
breast, and uttered a few low words. He had been so happy, he said, and he

thanked God for all,—even to this, the end. It had been so good to live!—it
was so happy to die! Then he paused awhile, and closed his eyes.
"In the silence, I can hear your mother's voice," he murmured, and he
clasped his hands. "O thou most merciful Father, who givest this last, great
blessing, of the new Home, where she waits for me!—and God's love is
over all His worlds!"
He looked up once again, with the same bright, assured smile. That smile
never faded from the dead face; it was the last look which they who loved
him bore forever in their memory.
And so passed our Visionary from that which we call Life.

THE TRUCE OF PISCATAQUA.
1675.

Raze these long blocks of brick and stone,
These huge mill-monsters overgrown;
Blot out the humbler piles as well,
Where, moved like living shuttles, dwell
The weaving genii of the bell;
Tear from the wild Cocheco's track
The dams that hold its torrents back;
And let the loud-rejoicing fall
Plunge, roaring, down its rocky wall;
And let the Indian's paddle play
On the unbridged Piscataqua!
Wide over hill and valley spread
Once more the forest, dusk and dread,
With here and there a clearing cut
From the walled shadows round it shut;
Each with its farm-house builded rude,
By English yeoman squared and hewed,
And the grim, flankered blockhouse, bound
With bristling palisades around.

So, haply, shall before thine eyes
The dusty veil of centuries rise,
The old, strange scenery overlay
The tamer pictures of to-day,
While, like the actors in a play,
Pass in their ancient guise along
The figures of my border song:
What time beside Cocheco's flood
The white man and the red man stood,
With words of peace and brotherhood;
When passed the sacred calumet
From lip to lip with fire-draught wet,
And, puffed in scorn, the peace-pipe's smoke
Through the gray beard of Waldron broke,
And Squando's voice, in suppliant plea
For mercy, struck the haughty key

Of one who held in any fate
His native pride inviolate!

* * * *

"Let your ears be opened wide!
He who speaks has never lied.
Waldron of Piscataqua,
Hear what Squando has to say!

"Squando shuts his eyes and sees,
Far off, Saco's hemlock-trees.
In his wigwam, still as stone,
Sits a woman all alone,

"Wampum beads and birchen strands
Dropping from her careless hands,
Listening ever for the fleet
Patter of a dead child's feet!

"When the moon a year ago
Told the flowers the time to blow,
In that lonely wigwam smiled
Menewee, our little child.

"Ere that moon grew thin and old,
He was lying still and cold;
Sent before us, weak and small,
When the Master did not call!

"On his little grave I lay;
Three times went and came the day;
Thrice above me blazed the noon,
Thrice upon me wept the moon.

"In the third night-watch I heard,
Far and low, a spirit-bird;
Very mournful, very wild,

Sang the totem of my child.

"'Menewee, poor Menewee,
Walks a path he cannot see:
Let the white man's wigwam light
With its blaze his steps aright.

"'All-uncalled, he dares not show
Empty hands to Manito:
Better gifts he cannot bear
Than the scalps his slayers wear.'

"All the while the totem sang,
Lightning blazed and thunder rang;
And a black cloud, reaching high,
Pulled the white moon from the sky.

"I, the medicine-man, whose ear
All that spirits hear can hear,—
I, whose eyes are wide to see
All the things that are to be,—

"Well I knew the dreadful signs
In the whispers of the pines,
In the river roaring loud,
In the mutter of the cloud.

"At the breaking of the day,
From the grave I passed away;
Flowers bloomed round me, birds sang glad,
But my heart was hot and mad.

"There is rust on Squando's knife
From the warm red springs of life;
On the funeral hemlock-trees
Many a scalp the totem sees.

"Blood for blood! But evermore

Squando's heart is sad and sore;
And his poor squaw waits at home
For the feet that never come!

"Waldron of Cocheco, hear!
Squando speaks, who laughs at fear:
Take the captives he has ta'en;
Let the land have peace again!"

As the words died on his tongue,
Wide apart his warriors swung;
Parted, at the sign he gave,
Right and left, like Egypt's wave.

And, like Israel passing free
Through the prophet-charmèd sea,
Captive mother, wife, and child
Through the dusky terror filed.

One alone, a little maid,
Middleway her steps delayed,
Glancing, with quick, troubled sight,
Round about from red to white.

Then his hand the Indian laid
On the little maiden's head,
Lightly from her forehead fair
Smoothing back her yellow hair.

"Gift or favor ask I none;
What I have is all my own:
Never yet the birds have sung,
'Squando hath a beggar's tongue.'

"Yet, for her who waits at home
For the dead who cannot come,
Let the little Gold-hair be
In the place of Menewee!

"Mishanock, my little star!
Come to Saco's pines afar!
Where the sad one waits at home,
Wequashim, my moonlight, come!"

"What!" quoth Waldron, "leave a child
Christian-born to heathens wild?
As God lives, from Satan's hand
I will pluck her as a brand!"

"Hear me, white man!" Squando cried,
"Let the little one decide.
Wequashim, my moonlight, say,
Wilt thou go with me, or stay?"

Slowly, sadly, half-afraid,
Half-regretfully, the maid
Owned the ties of blood and race,
Turned from Squando's pleading face.

Not a word the Indian spoke,
But his wampum chain he broke,
And the beaded wonder hung
On that neck so fair and young.

Silence-shod, as phantoms seem
In the marches of a dream,
Single-filed, the grim array
Through the pine-trees wound away.

Doubting, trembling, sore amazed,
Through her tears the young child gazed.
"God preserve her!" Waldron said;
"Satan hath bewitched the maid!"

* * * *

Years went and came. At close of day

Singing came a child from play,
Tossing from her loose-locked head
Gold in sunshine, brown in shade.

Pride was in the mother's look,
But her head she gravely shook,
And with lips that fondly smiled
Feigned to chide her truant child.

Unabashed the maid began:
"Up and down the brook I ran,
Where, beneath the bank so steep,
Lie the spotted trout asleep.

"'Chip!' went squirrel on the wall,
After me I heard him call,
And the cat-bird on the tree
Tried his best to mimic me.

"Where the hemlocks grew so dark,
That I stopped to look and hark,
On a log, with feather-hat,
By the path, an Indian sat.

"Then I cried, and ran away;
But he called and bade me stay;
And his voice was good and mild
As my mother's to her child.

"And he took my wampum chain,
Looked and looked it o'er again;
Gave me berries, and, beside,
On my neck a plaything tied."

Straight the mother stooped to see
What the Indian's gift might be.
On the braid of wampum hung,
Lo! a cross of silver swung.

Well she knew its graven sign,
Squando's bird and totem pine;
And, a mirage of the brain,
Flowed her childhood back again.

Flashed the roof the sunshine through,
Into space the walls outgrew,
On the Indian's wigwam mat
Blossom-crowned again she sat.

Cool she felt the west wind blow,
In her ear the pines sang low,
And, like links from out a chain,
Dropped the years of care and pain.

From the outward toil and din,
From the griefs that gnaw within,
To the freedom of the woods
Called the birds and winds and floods.

Well, O painful minister,
Watch thy flock, but blame not her,
If her ear grew sharp to hear
All their voices whispering near.

Blame her not, as to her soul
All the desert's glamour stole,
That a tear for childhood's loss
Dropped upon the Indian's cross.

When, that night, the Book was read,
And she bowed her widowed head,
And a prayer for each loved name
Rose like incense from a flame,

To the listening ear of Heaven,
Lo! another name was given:
"Father! give the Indian rest!

Bless him! for his love has blest!"

THE MAROONS OF JAMAICA.
The Maroons! it was a word of peril once; and terror spread along the skirts
of the blue mountains of Jamaica, when some fresh foray of those
unconquered guerrillas swept down upon the outlying plantations, startled
the Assembly from its order, General Williamson from his billiards, and
Lord Balcarres from his diplomatic ease,—endangering, according to the
official statement, "public credit," "civil rights," and "the prosperity, if not
the very existence of the country," until they were "persuaded to make
peace" at last. They were the Circassians of the New World; but they were
black, instead of white; and as the Circassians refused to be transferred
from the Sultan to the Czar, so the Maroons refused to be transferred from
Spanish dominion to English, and thus their revolt began. The difference is,
that, while the white mountaineers numbered four hundred thousand, and
only defied Nicholas, the black mountaineers numbered less than two
thousand, and defied Cromwell; and while the Circassians, after thirty years
of revolt, seem now at last subdued, the Maroons, on the other hand, who
rebelled in 1655, were never conquered, but only made a compromise of
allegiance, and exist as a separate race to-day.
When Admirals Penn and Venables landed in Jamaica, in 1655, there was
not a remnant left of the sixty thousand natives whom the Spaniards had
found there a century and a half before. Their pitiful tale is told only by
those caves, still known among the mountains, where thousands of human
skeletons strew the ground. In their place dwelt two foreign races,—an
effeminate, ignorant, indolent white community of fifteen hundred, with a
black slave population quite as large and infinitely more hardy and
energetic. The Spaniards were readily subdued by the English,—the
negroes remained unsubdued; the slaveholders were banished from the
island,—the slaves only banished themselves to the mountains: thence the
English could not dislodge them, nor the buccaneers, whom the English
employed. And when Jamaica subsided into a British colony, and peace was
made with Spain, and the children of Cromwell's Puritan soldiers were
beginning to grow rich by importing slaves for Roman Catholic Spaniards,

the Maroons still held their own wild empire in the mountains, and, being
sturdy heathens every one, practised Obeah rites in approved pagan fashion.
The word Maroon is derived, according to one etymology, from the Spanish
word Marrano, a wild-boar,—these fugitives being all boar-hunters,—
according to another, from Marony, a river separating French and Dutch
Guiana, where a colony of them dwelt and still dwells; and by another still,
from Cimarron, a word meaning untamable, and used alike for apes and
runaway slaves. But whether these rebel-marauders were regarded as
monkeys or men, they made themselves equally formidable. As early as
1663, the Governor and Council of Jamaica offered to each Maroon, who
should surrender, his freedom and twenty acres of land; but not one
accepted the terms. During forty years, forty-four acts of Assembly were
passed in respect to them, and at least a quarter of a million pounds sterling
were expended in the warfare against them. In 1733, the force employed
against them consisted of two regiments of regular troops and the whole
militia of the island, and the Assembly said that "the Maroons had within a
few years greatly increased, notwithstanding all the measures that had been
concerted for their suppression," "to the great terror of his Majesty's
subjects," and "to the manifest weakening and preventing the further
increase of the strength and inhabitants of the island."
The special affair in progress, at the time of these statements, was called
Cudjoe's War. Cudjoe was a gentleman of extreme brevity and blackness,
whose full-length portrait can hardly be said to adorn Dallas's History; but
he was as formidable a guerrilla as Marion. Under his leadership, the
various bodies of fugitives were consolidated into one force and thoroughly
organized. Cudjoe, like Schamyl, was religious as well as military head of
his people; by Obeah influence he established a thorough freemasonry
among both slaves and insurgents; no party could be sent forth by the
government but he knew it in time to lay an ambush, or descend with fire
and sword on the region left unprotected. He was thus always supplied with
arms and ammunition; and as his men were perfect marksmen, never
wasted a shot and never risked a battle, his forces naturally increased while
those of his opponents were decimated. His men were never captured, and
never took a prisoner; it was impossible to tell when they were defeated; in
dealing with them, as Pelissier said of the Arabs, "peace was not purchased
by victory"; and the only men who could obtain the slightest advantage

against them were the imported Mosquito Indians, or the "Black Shot," a
company of government negroes. For nine full years this particular war
continued unchecked, General Williamson ruling Jamaica by day and
Cudjoe by night.
The rebels had every topographical advantage, for they held possession of
the "Cockpits." Those highlands are furrowed through and through, as by an
earthquake, with a series of gaps or ravines, resembling the California
cañons, or those similar fissures in various parts of the Atlantic States,
known to local fame either poetically as ice-glens, or symbolically as
purgatories. These chasms vary from two hundred yards to a mile in length;
the rocky walls are fifty or a hundred feet high, and often absolutely
inaccessible, while the passes at each end admit but one man at a time. They
are thickly wooded, wherever trees can grow; water flows within them; and
they often communicate with one another, forming a series of traps for an
invading force. Tired and thirsty with climbing, the weary soldiers toil on,
in single file, without seeing or hearing an enemy; up the steep and winding
path they traverse one "cockpit," then enter another. Suddenly a shot is fired
from the dense and sloping forest on the right, then another and another,
each dropping its man; the startled troops face hastily in that direction,
when a more murderous volley is poured from the other side; the heights
above flash with musketry, while the precipitous path by which they came
seems to close in fire behind them. By the time the troops have formed in
some attempt at military order, the woods around them are empty, and their
agile and noiseless foes have settled themselves into ambush again, farther
up the defile, ready for a second attack, if needed. But one is usually
sufficient;—disordered, exhausted, bearing their wounded with them, the
soldiers retreat in panic, if permitted to escape at all, and carry fresh dismay
to the barracks, the plantations, and the Government House.
It is not strange, then, that high military authorities, at that period, should
have pronounced the subjugation of the Maroons a thing more difficult than
to obtain a victory over any army in Europe. Moreover, these people were
fighting for their liberty, with which aim no form of warfare could be
unjustifiable; and the description given by Lafayette of the American
Revolution was true of this one,—"the grandest of causes, won by contests
of sentinels and outposts." The utmost hope of a British officer, ordered
against the Maroons, was to lay waste a provision-ground or cut them off

from water. But there was little satisfaction in this; the wild pine-leaves and
the grapevine-withes supplied the rebels with water, and their plantation-
grounds were the wild pine-apple and the plantain groves, and the forests,
where the wild-boars harbored and the ringdoves were as easily shot as if
they were militia-men. Nothing but sheer weariness of fighting seems to
have brought about a truce at last, and then a treaty, between those high
contracting parties, Cudjoe and General Williamson.
But how to execute a treaty between these wild Children of the Mist and
respectable diplomatic Englishmen? To establish any official relations
without the medium of a preliminary bullet required some ingenuity of
manœuvring. Cudjoe was willing, but inconveniently cautious; he would
not come half-way to meet any one; nothing would content him but an
interview in his own chosen cockpit. So he selected one of the most difficult
passes, posting in the forests a series of outlying parties, to signal with their
horns, one by one, the approach of the plenipotentiaries, and then to retire
on the main body. Through this line of perilous signals, therefore, Colonel
Guthrie and his handful of men bravely advanced; horn after horn they
heard sounded, but there was no other human noise in the woods, and they
had advanced till they saw the smoke of the Maroon huts before they caught
a glimpse of a human form.
A conversation was at last opened with the invisible rebels. On their
promise of safety, Dr. Russell advanced alone to treat with them, then
several Maroons appeared, and finally Cudjoe himself. The formidable
chief was not highly military in appearance, being short, fat, humpbacked,
dressed in a tattered blue coat without skirts or sleeves, and an old felt hat
without a rim. But if he had blazed with regimental scarlet, he could not
have been treated with more distinguished consideration; indeed, in that
case, "the exchange of hats" with which Dr. Russell finally volunteered, in
Maroon fashion, to ratify negotiations, would have been a less severe test of
good fellowship. This fine stroke of diplomacy had its effect, therefore; the
rebel captains agreed to a formal interview with Colonel Guthrie and
Captain Sadler, and a treaty was at last executed with all due solemnity,
under a large cotton-tree at the entrance of Guthrie's Defile. This treaty
recognized the military rank of Captain Cudjoe, Captain Accompong, and
the rest; gave assurance that the Maroons should be "forever hereafter in a
perfect state of freedom and liberty"; ceded to them fifteen hundred acres of

land; and stipulated only that they should keep the peace, should harbor no
fugitive from justice or from slavery, and should allow two white
commissioners to remain among them, simply to represent the British
government.
During the following year a separate treaty was made with another large
body of insurgents, called the Windward Maroons. This was not effected,
however, until after an unsuccessful military attempt, in which the
mountaineers gained a signal triumph. By artful devices,—a few fires left
burning, with old women to watch them,—a few provision-grounds
exposed by clearing away the bushes,—they lured the troops far up among
the mountains, and then surprised them by an ambush. The militia all fled,
and the regulars took refuge under a large cliff in a stream, where they
remained four hours up to their waists in water, until finally they forded the
river, under full fire, with terrible loss. Three months after this, however, the
Maroons consented to an amicable interview, exchanging hostages first.
The position of the white hostage, at least, was not the most agreeable; he
complained that he was beset by the women and children, with indignant
cries of "Buckra, Buckra," while the little boys pointed their fingers at him
as if stabbing him, and that with evident relish. However, Captain Quao,
like Captain Cudjoe, made a treaty at last, and hats were interchanged
instead of hostages.
Independence being thus won and acknowledged, there was a suspension of
hostilities for some years. Among the wild mountains of Jamaica, the
Maroons dwelt in a savage freedom. So healthful and beautiful was the
situation of their chief town, that the English government has erected
barracks there of late years, as being the most salubrious situation on the
island. They breathed an air ten degrees cooler than that inhaled by the
white population below, and they lived on a daintier diet, so that the English
epicures used to go up among them for good living. The mountaineers
caught the strange land-crabs, plodding in companies of millions their
sidelong path from mountain to ocean, and from ocean to mountain again.
They hunted the wild-boars, and prepared the flesh by salting and smoking
it in layers of aromatic leaves, the delicious "jerked hog" of Buccaneer
annals. They reared cattle and poultry, cultivated corn and yams, plantains
and cocoas, guavas and papaws and mameys and avocados and all
luxurious West Indian fruits; the very weeds of their orchards had tropical

luxuriance in their fragrance and in their names; and from the doors of their
little thatched huts they looked across these gardens of delight to the
magnificent lowland forests, and over those again to the faint line of far-off
beach, the fainter ocean-horizon, and the illimitable sky.
They had senses like those of our Indians, tracked each other by the smell
of the smoke of fires in the air, and called to each other by horns, using a
special note to designate each of their comrades, and distinguishing it
beyond the range of ordinary hearing. They spoke English diluted with
Spanish and African words, and practised Obeah rites quite undiluted with
Christianity. Of course they associated largely with the slaves, without any
very precise regard to treaty stipulations; sometimes brought in fugitives,
and sometimes concealed them; left their towns and settled on the planters'
lands, when they preferred them, but were quite orderly and luxuriously
happy. During the formidable insurrection of the Koromantyn slaves, in
1760, they played a dubious part: when left to go on their own way, they did
something towards suppressing it,—but when placed under the guns of the
troops and ordered to fire on those of their own color, they threw
themselves on the ground without discharging a shot. Nevertheless, they
gradually came up into rather reputable standing; they grew more and more
industrious and steady; and after they had joined very heartily in resisting
D'Estaing's threatened invasion of the island in 1779, it became the fashion
to speak of "our faithful and affectionate Maroons."
In 1795, their position was as follows:—Their numbers had not materially
increased, for many had strayed off and settled on the outskirts of
plantations,—nor materially diminished, for many runaway slaves had
joined them,—while there were also separate settlements of fugitives, who
had maintained their freedom for twenty years. The white superintendents
had lived with the Maroons in perfect harmony, without the slightest official
authority, but with a great deal of actual influence. But there was an
"irrepressible conflict" behind all this apparent peace, and the slightest
occasion might at any moment revive all the Old terror. That occasion was
close at hand.
Captain Cudjoe and Captain Accompong and the other founders of Maroon
independence had passed away, and "Old Montagu" reigned in their stead,
in Trelawney Town. Old Montagu had all the pomp and circumstance of

Maroon majesty; he wore a laced red coat, and a hat superb with gold-lace
and plumes; none but captains could sit in his presence; he was helped first
at meals, and no woman could eat beside him; he presided at councils as
magnificently as at table, though with less appetite;—and possessed,
meanwhile, not an atom of the love or reverence of any human being. The
real power lay entirely with Major James, the white superintendent, who
had been brought up among the Maroons by his father (and predecessor),
and who was the idol of this wild race. In an evil hour, the government
removed him, and put a certain unpopular Captain Craskell in his place; and
as there happened to be, about the same time, a great excitement concerning
a hopeful pair of young Maroons who had been seized and publicly
whipped, on a charge of hog-stealing, their kindred refused to allow the new
superintendent to remain in the town. A few attempts at negotiation only
brought them to a higher pitch of wrath, which ended in their despatching
the following remarkable diplomatic note to the Earl of Balcarres:—"The
Maroons wishes nothing else from the country but battle, and they desires
not to see Mr. Craskell up here at all. So they are waiting every moment for
the above on Monday. Mr. David Schaw will see you on Sunday morning
for an answer. They will wait till Monday, nine o'clock, and if they don't
come up, they will come down themselves." Signed, "Colonel Montagu and
all the rest."
It turned out, at last, that only two or three of the Maroons were concerned
in this remarkable defiance; but meanwhile it had its effect. Several
ambassadors were sent among the insurgents, and were so favorably
impressed by their reception as to make up a subscription of money for their
hosts, on departing; only the "gallant Colonel Gallimore," a Jamaica
Camillus, gave iron instead of gold, by throwing some bullets into the
contribution-box. And it was probably in accordance with his view of the
subject, that, when the Maroons sent ambassadors in return, they were at
once imprisoned, most injudiciously and unjustly; and when Old Montagu
himself and thirty-seven others, following, were seized and imprisoned
also, it is not strange that the Maroons, joined by many slaves, were soon in
open insurrection.
Martial law was instantly proclaimed throughout the island. The fighting-
men among the insurgents were not, perhaps, more than five hundred;
against whom the government could bring nearly fifteen hundred regular

troops and several thousand militia-men. Lord Balcarres himself took the
command, and, eager to crush the affair, promptly marched a large force up
to Trelawney Town, and was glad to march back again as expeditiously as
possible. In his very first attack, he was miserably defeated, and had to fly
for his life, amid a perfect panic of the troops, in which some forty or fifty
were killed,—including Colonel Sandford, commanding the regulars, and
the bullet-loving Colonel Gallimore, in command of the militia,—while not
a single Maroon was even wounded, so far as could be ascertained.
After this a good deal of bush-fighting took place. The troops gradually got
possession of several Maroon villages, but not till every hut had been burnt
by its owner. It was in the height of the rainy season, and, between fire and
water, the discomfort of the soldiers was enormous. Meanwhile the
Maroons hovered close around them in the woods, heard all their orders,
picked off their sentinels, and, penetrating through their lines at night,
burned houses and destroyed plantations, far below. The only man who
could cope with their peculiar tactics was Major James, the superintendent
just removed by government,—and his services were not employed, as he
was not trusted. On one occasion, however, he led a volunteer party farther
into the mountains than any of the assailants had yet penetrated, guided by
tracks known to himself only, and by the smell of the smoke of Maroon
fires. After a very exhausting march, including a climb of a hundred and
fifty feet up the face of a precipice, he brought them just within the entrance
of Guthrie's Defile. "So far," said he, pointing to the entrance, "you may
pursue, but no farther; no force can enter here; no white man except myself,
or some soldier of the Maroon establishment, has ever gone beyond this.
With the greatest difficulty I have penetrated four miles farther, and not ten
Maroons have gone so far as that. There are two other ways of getting into
the defile, practicable for the Maroons, but not for any one of you. In
neither of them can I ascend or descend with my arms, which must be
handed to me, step by step, as practised by the Maroons themselves. One of
the ways lies to the eastward, and the other to the westward; and they will
take care to have both guarded, if they suspect that I am with you; which,
from the route you have come to-day, they will. They now see you, and if
you advance fifty paces more, they will convince you of it." At this moment
a Maroon horn sounded the notes indicating his name, and, as he made no
answer, a voice was heard, inquiring if he were among them. "If he is," said

the voice, "let him go back, we do not wish to hurt him; but as for the rest
of you, come on and try battle, if you choose." But the gentlemen did not
choose.
In September the House of Assembly met. Things were looking worse and
worse. For five months a handful of negroes and mulattoes had defied the
whole force of the island; and they were defending their liberty by precisely
the same tactics through which their ancestors had won it. Half a million
pounds sterling had been spent within this time, besides the enormous loss
incurred by the withdrawal of so many able-bodied men from their regular
employments. "Cultivation was suspended," says an eye-witness; "the
courts of law had long been shut up; and the island at large seemed more
like a garrison under the power of law-martial, than a country of agriculture
and commerce, of civil judicature, industry, and prosperity." Hundreds of
the militia had died of fatigue, large numbers had been shot down, the most
daring of the British officers had fallen, while the insurgents had been
invariably successful, and not one of them was known to have been killed.
Captain Craskell, the banished superintendent, gave it to the Assembly as
his opinion, that the whole slave population of the island was in sympathy
with the Maroons, and would soon be beyond control. More alarming still,
there were rumors of French emissaries behind the scenes; and though these
were explained away, the vague terror remained. Indeed, the Lieutenant-
Governor announced in his message that he had satisfactory evidence that
the French Convention was concerned in the revolt. A French prisoner
named Murenson had testified that the French agent at Philadelphia
(Fauchet) had secretly sent a hundred and fifty emissaries to the island, and
threatened to land fifteen hundred negroes. And though Murenson took it all
back at last, yet the Assembly was moved to make a new offer of three
hundred dollars for killing or taking a Trelawney Maroon, and a hundred
and fifty dollars for killing or taking any fugitive slave who had joined
them. They also voted five hundred pounds as a gratuity to the Accompong
tribe of Maroons, who had thus far kept out of the insurrection; and various
prizes and gratuities were also offered by the different parishes, with the
same object of self-protection.
The commander-in-chief being among the killed, Colonel Walpole was
promoted in his stead, and brevetted as General, by way of incentive. He
found a people in despair, a soldiery thoroughly intimidated, and a treasury,

not empty, but useless. But the new general had not served against the
Maroons for nothing, and was not ashamed to go to school to his opponents.
First, he waited for the dry season; then he directed all his efforts towards
cutting off his opponents from water; and, most effectual move of all, he
attacked each successive cockpit by dragging up a howitzer, with immense
labor, and throwing in shells. Shells were a visitation not dreamed of in
Maroon philosophy, and their quaint compliments to their new opponent
remain on record. "Damn dat little buckra!" they said; "he cunning more
dan dem toder. Dis here da new fashion for fight: him fire big ball arter you,
and when big ball 'top, de damn sunting (something) fire arter you again."
With which Parthian arrows of rhetoric the mountaineers retreated.
But this did not last long. The Maroons soon learned to keep out of the way
of the shells, and the island relapsed into terror again. It was deliberately
resolved at last, by a special council convoked for the purpose, "to persuade
the rebels to make peace." But as they had not as yet shown themselves
very accessible to softer influences, it was thought best to combine as many
arguments as possible, and a certain Colonel Quarrell had hit upon a wholly
new one. His plan simply was, since men, however well disciplined, had
proved powerless against Maroons, to try a Spanish fashion against them,
and use dogs. The proposition was met, in some quarters, with the strongest
hostility. England, it was said, had always denounced the Spaniards as
brutal and dastardly for hunting down the natives of that very soil with
hounds,—and should England now follow the humiliating example? On the
other side, there were plenty who eagerly quoted all known instances of
zoölogical warfare: all Oriental nations, for instance, used elephants in war,
and no doubt would gladly use lions and tigers, also, but for their extreme
carnivorousness, and their painful indifference to the distinction between
friend and foe;—why not, then, use these dogs, comparatively innocent and
gentle creatures? At any rate, "something must be done"; the final argument
always used, when a bad or desperate project is to be made palatable. So it
was voted at last to send to Havana for an invoice of Spanish dogs, with
their accompanying chasseurs, and the efforts at persuading the Maroons
were postponed till the arrival of these additional persuasives. And when
Colonel Quarrell finally set sail as commissioner to obtain the new allies,
all scruples of conscience vanished in the renewal of public courage and the

chorus of popular gratitude; a thing so desirable must be right; thrice were
they armed who knew their Quarrell just.
But after the parting notes of gratitude died away in the distance, the
commissioner began to discover that he was to have a hard time of it. He
sailed for Havana in a schooner manned with Spanish renegadoes, who
insisted on fighting everything that came in their way,—first a Spanish
schooner, then a French one. He landed at Batabano, struck across the
mountains towards Havana, stopped at Besucal to call on the wealthy
Marquesa de San Felipe y San Jorge, grand patroness of dogs and
chasseurs, and finally was welcomed to Havana by Don Luis de las Casas,
who overlooked, for this occasion only, an injunction of his court against
admitting foreigners within his government,—"the only accustomed
exception being," as Don Luis courteously assured him, "in favor of foreign
traders who came with new negroes." To be sure, the commissioner had not
brought any of these commodities, but then he had come to obtain the
means of capturing some, and so might pass for an irregular practitioner of
the privileged profession.
Accordingly, Don Guillermo Dawes Quarrell (so ran his passport) found no
difficulty in obtaining permission from the governor to buy as many dogs as
he desired. When, however, he carelessly hinted at the necessity of taking,
also, a few men who should have care of the dogs,—this being, after all, the
essential part of his expedition,—Don Luis de las Casas put on instantly a
double force of courtesy, and assured him of the entire impossibility of
recruiting a single Spaniard for English service. Finally, however, he gave
permission and passports for six chasseurs. Under cover of this, the
commissioner lost no time in enlisting forty; he got them safe to Batabano,
but at the last moment, learning the state of affairs, they refused to embark
on such very irregular authority. When he had persuaded them, at length,
the officer of the fort interposed objections. This was not to be borne, so
Don Guillermo bribed him and silenced him; a dragoon was, however, sent
to report to the governor; Don Guillermo sent a messenger after him and
bribed him, too; and thus, at length, after myriad rebuffs, and after being
obliged to spend the last evening at a puppet-show, in which the principal
figure was a burlesque on his own personal peculiarities, the weary Don
Guillermo, with his crew of renegadoes, and his forty chasseurs and their
one hundred and four muzzled dogs, set sail for Jamaica.

These new allies were certainly something formidable, if we may trust the
pictures and descriptions in Dallas's History. The chasseur was a tall,
meagre, swarthy Spaniard or mulatto, lightly clad in cotton shirt and
drawers, with broad straw-hat and moccasins of raw hide; his belt
sustaining his long, straight, flat sword or machete, like an iron bar
sharpened at one end; and he wore by the same belt three cotton leashes for
his three dogs, sometimes held also by chains. The dogs were a fierce breed,
crossed between hound and mastiff, never unmuzzled but for attack, and
accompanied by smaller dogs called finders. It is no wonder, when these
wild and powerful creatures were landed at Montego Bay, that terror ran
through the town, doors were everywhere closed and windows crowded, not
a negro dared to stir, and the muzzled dogs, infuriated by confinement on
shipboard, filled the silent streets with their noisy barking and the rattling of
their chains.
How much would have come of all this in actual conflict does not appear.
The Maroons had already been persuaded to make peace upon certain
conditions and guaranties,—a decision probably accelerated by the terrible
rumors of the bloodhounds, though they never saw them. It was the
declared opinion of the Assembly, confirmed by that of General Walpole,
that "nothing could be clearer than that, if they had been off the island, the
rebels could not have been induced to surrender." Nevertheless a treaty was
at last made, without the direct intervention of the quadrupeds. Again
commissioners went up among the mountains to treat with negotiators at
first invisible; again were hats and jackets interchanged, not without coy
reluctance on the part of the well-dressed Englishmen; and a solemn
agreement was effected. The most essential part of the bargain was a
guaranty of continued independence, demanded by the suspicious Maroons.
General Walpole, however, promptly pledged himself that no such unfair
advantage should be taken of them as had occurred with the hostages
previously surrendered, who were placed in irons, nor should any attempt
be made to remove them from the island. It is painful to add, that this
promise was outrageously violated by the Colonial government, to the
lasting grief of General Walpole, on the ground that the Maroons had
violated the treaty by a slight want of punctuality in complying with its
terms, and by remissness in restoring the fugitive slaves who had taken
refuge among them. As many of the tribe as surrendered, therefore, were at

once placed in confinement, and ultimately shipped from Port Royal to
Halifax, to the number of six hundred, on the 6th of June, 1796. For the
credit of English honor, we rejoice to know that General Walpole not
merely protested against this utter breach of faith, but indignantly declined
the sword of honor which the Assembly voted him in its gratitude, and
retired from military service forever.
The remaining career of this portion of the Maroons is easily told. They
were first dreaded by the inhabitants of Halifax; then welcomed, when seen;
and promptly set to work on the citadel, then in process of reconstruction,
where the "Maroon Bastion" still remains,—their only visible memorial.
Two commissioners had charge of them, one being the redoubtable Colonel
Quarrell, and twenty-five thousand pounds were appropriated for their
temporary support. Of course they did not prosper; pensioned colonists
never do, for they are not compelled into habits of industry. After their
delicious life in the mountains of Jamaica, it seemed rather monotonous to
dwell upon that barren soil,—for theirs was such that two previous colonies
had deserted it,—and in a climate where winter lasts seven months in the
year. They had a schoolmaster, and he was also a preacher; but they did not
seem to appreciate that luxury of civilization,—utterly refusing, on grounds
of conscience, to forsake polygamy, and, on grounds of personal comfort, to
listen to the doctrinal discourses of their pastor, who was an ardent
Sandemanian. They smoked their pipes during service-time, and left Old
Montagu, who still survived, to lend a vicarious attention to the sermon.
One discourse he briefly reported as follows, very much to the point:
—"Massa parson say no mus tief, no mus meddle wid somebody wife, no
mus quarrel, mus set down softly." So they sat down very softly, and
showed an extreme unwillingness to get up again. But, not being naturally
an idle race, (at least, in Jamaica the objection lay rather on the other side,)
they soon grew tired of this inaction. Distrustful of those about them,
suspicious of all attempts to scatter them among the community at large,
frozen by the climate, and constantly petitioning for removal to a milder
one, they finally wearied out all patience. A long dispute ensued between
the authorities of Nova Scotia and Jamaica, as to which was properly
responsible for their support; and thus the heroic race, that for a century and
a half had sustained themselves in freedom in Jamaica, were reduced to the
position of troublesome and impracticable paupers, shuttlecocks between

two selfish parishes. So passed their unfortunate lives, until, in 1800, their
reduced population was transported to Sierra Leone, at a cost of six
thousand pounds, since which they disappear from history.
It was judged best not to interfere with those bodies of Maroons which had
kept aloof from the late outbreak, as the Accompong settlement, and others.
They continued to preserve a qualified independence, and retain it even
now. In 1835, two years after the abolition of slavery in Jamaica, there were
reported sixty families of Maroons as residing at Accompong Town, eighty
families at Moore Town, one hundred and ten families at Charles Town, and
twenty families at Scott Hall, making two hundred and seventy families in
all,—each station being, as of old, under the charge of a superintendent. But
there can be little doubt, that, under the influences of freedom, they are
rapidly intermingling with the mass of colored population in Jamaica.
The story of the exiled Maroons attracted attention in high quarters, in its
time; the wrongs done to them were denounced in Parliament by Sheridan
and mourned by Wilberforce; while the employment of bloodhounds
against them was vindicated by Dundas, and the whole conduct of the
Colonial government defended, through thick and thin, by Bryan Edwards.
This thorough partisan even had the assurance to tell Mr. Wilberforce, in
Parliament, that he knew the Maroons, from personal knowledge, to be
cannibals, and that, if a missionary were sent among them in Nova Scotia,
they would immediately eat him; a charge so absurd that he did not venture
to repeat it in his History of the West Indies, though his injustice to the
Maroons is even there so glaring as to provoke the indignation of the more
moderate Dallas. But, in spite of Mr. Edwards, the public indignation ran
quite high, in England, against the bloodhounds and their employers, so that
the home ministry found it necessary to send a severe reproof to the
Colonial government. For a few years the tales of the Maroons thus
emerged from mere colonial annals, and found their way into Annual
Registers and Parliamentary Debates,—but they have vanished from
popular memory now. Their record still retains its interest, however, as that
of one of the heroic races of the world; and all the more, because it is with
their kindred that this nation has to deal, in solving the tremendous problem
of incorporating their liberties with our own. We must remember the story
of the Maroons, because we cannot afford to ignore a single historic fact
which bears upon a question so momentous.

THE PROFESSOR'S STORY.
CHAPTER III.

MR. BERNARD TRIES HIS HAND.

Whether the Student advertised for a school, or whether he fell in with the
advertisement of a school-committee, is not certain. At any rate, it was not
long before he found himself the head of a large district, or, as it was called
by the inhabitants, "deestric" school, in the flourishing inland village of
Pequawkett, or, as it is commonly spelt, Pigwacket Centre. The natives of
this place would be surprised, if they should hear that any of the readers of
a periodical published in Boston were unacquainted with so remarkable a
locality. As, however, some copies of this periodical may be read at a
distance from this distinguished metropolis, it may be well to give a few
particulars respecting the place, taken from the Universal Gazetteer.
"Pigwacket, sometimes spelt Pequawkett. A post-village and
township in —— Co., State of ——, situated in a fine
agricultural region, 2 thriving villages, Pigwacket Centre and
Smithville, 3 churches, several schoolhouses, and many
handsome private residences. Mink River runs through the town,
navigable for small boats after heavy rains. Muddy Pond at N.
E. section, well stocked with horned pouts, eels, and shiners.
Products, beef, pork, butter, cheese. Manufactures, shoe-pegs,
clothes-pins, and tin-ware. Pop. 1373."
The reader may think there is nothing very remarkable implied in this
description. If, however, he had read the town-history, by the Rev. Jabez
Grubb, he would have learned, that, like the celebrated Little Pedlington, it
was distinguished by many very remarkable advantages. Thus:—
"The situation of Pigwacket is eminently beautiful, looking
down the lovely valley of Mink River, a tributary of the
Musquash. The air is salubrious, and many of the inhabitants

have attained great age, several having passed the allotted period
of 'three-score years and ten' before succumbing to any of the
various 'ills that flesh is heir to.' Widow Comfort Leevins died in
1836, Æt. LXXXVII. years. Venus, an African, died in 1841,
supposed to be C. years old. The people are distinguished for
intelligence, as has been frequently remarked by eminent
lyceum-lecturers, who have invariably spoken in the highest
terms of a Pigwacket audience. There is a public library,
containing nearly a hundred volumes, free to all subscribers. The
preached word is well attended, there is a flourishing
temperance society, and the schools are excellent. It is a
residence admirably adapted to refined families who relish the
beauties of Nature and the charms of society. The Honorable
John Smith, formerly a member of the State Senate, was a native
of this town."
That is the way they all talk. After all, it is probably pretty much like other
inland New England towns in point of "salubrity,"—that is, gives people
their choice of dysentery or fever every autumn, with a season-ticket for
consumption, good all the year round. And so of the other pretences.
"Pigwacket audience," forsooth! Was there ever an audience anywhere,
though there wasn't a pair of eyes in it brighter than pickled oysters, that
didn't think it was "distinguished for intelligence"?—"The preachéd word"!
That means the Rev. Jabez Grubb's sermons. "Temperance society"!
"Excellent schools"! Ah, that is just what we were talking about.
The truth was, that District No. 1, Pigwacket Centre, had had a good deal of
trouble of late with its schoolmasters. The committee had done their best,
but there were a number of well-grown and pretty rough young fellows who
had got the upperhand of the masters, and meant to keep it. Two dynasties
had fallen before the uprising of this fierce democracy. This was a thing that
used to be not very uncommon; but in so "intelligent" a community as that
of Pigwacket Centre, in an era of public libraries and lyceum-lectures, it
was portentous and alarming.
The rebellion began under the ferule of Master Weeks, a slender youth from
a country college, under-fed, thin-blooded, sloping-shouldered, knock-
kneed, straight-haired, weak-bearded, pale-eyed, wide-pupilled, half-

colored; a common type enough in in-door races, not rich enough to pick
and choose in their alliances. Nature kills off a good many of this sort in the
first teething-time, a few in later childhood, a good many again in early
adolescence; but every now and then one runs the gauntlet of her various
diseases, or rather forms of one disease, and grows up, as Master Weeks had
done.
It was a very foolish thing for him to try to inflict personal punishment on
such a lusty young fellow as Abner Briggs, Junior, one of the "hardest
customers" in the way of a rough-and-tumble fight that there were
anywhere round. No doubt he had been insolent, but it would have been
better to overlook it. It pains me to report the events which took place when
the master made his rash attempt to maintain his authority. Abner Briggs,
Junior, was a great, hulking fellow, who had been bred to butchering, but
urged by his parents to attend school, in order to learn the elegant
accomplishments of reading and writing, in which he was sadly deficient.
He was in the habit of talking and laughing pretty loud in school-hours, of
throwing wads of paper reduced to a pulp by a natural and easy process, of
occasional insolence and general negligence. One of the soft, but unpleasant
missiles just alluded to, flew by the master's head one morning, and
flattened itself against the wall, where it adhered in the form of a convex
mass in alto rilievo. The master looked round and saw the young butcher's
arm in an attitude which pointed to it unequivocally as the source from
which the projectile had taken its flight.
Master Weeks turned pale. He must "lick" Abner Briggs, Junior, or abdicate.
So he determined to lick Abner Briggs, Junior.
"Come here, Sir!" he said; "you have insulted me and outraged the decency
of the schoolroom often enough! Hold out your hand!"
The young fellow grinned and held it out. The master struck at it with his
black ruler, with a will in the blow and a snapping of the eyes, as much as
to say that he meant to make him smart this time. The young fellow pulled
his hand back as the ruler came down, and the master hit himself a vicious
blow with it on the right knee. There are things no man can stand. The
master caught the refractory youth by the collar and began shaking him, or
rather shaking himself against him.

"Le' go o' that are cŏat, naow," said the fellow, "or I'll make ye! 'T 'll take
tew on ye t' handle me, I tell ye, 'n' then ye caänt dew it!"—and the young
pupil returned the master's attention by catching hold of his collar.
When it comes to that, the best man, not exactly in the moral sense, but
rather in the material, and more especially the muscular point of view, is
very apt to have the best of it, irrespectively of the merits of the case. So it
happened now. The unfortunate schoolmaster found himself taking the
measure of the sanded floor, amid the general uproar of the school. From
that moment his ferule was broken, and the school-committee very soon
had a vacancy to fill.
Master Pigeon, the successor of Master Weeks, was of better stature, but
loosely put together, and slender-limbed. A dreadfully nervous kind of man
he was, walked on tiptoe, started at sudden noises, was distressed when he
heard a whisper, had a quick, suspicious look, and was always saying,
"Hush!" and putting his hands to his ears. The boys were not long in finding
out this nervous weakness, of course. In less than a week a regular system
of torments was inaugurated, full of the most diabolical malice and
ingenuity. The exercises of the conspirators varied from day to day, but
consisted mainly of foot-scraping, solos on the slate-pencil, (making it
screech on the slate,) falling of heavy books, attacks of coughing, banging
of desk-lids, boot-creaking, with sounds as of drawing a cork from time to
time, followed by suppressed chuckles.
Master Pigeon grew worse and worse under these inflictions. The rascally
boys always had an excuse for any one trick they were caught at. "Couldn'
help coughin', Sir." "Slipped out o' m' han', Sir." "Didn' go to, Sir." "Didn'
dew 't o' purpose, Sir." And so on,—always the best of reasons for the most
outrageous of behavior. The master weighed himself at the grocer's on a
platform-balance, some ten days after he began keeping the school. At the
end of a week he weighed himself again. He had lost two pounds. At the
end of another week he had lost five. He made a little calculation, based on
these data, from which he learned that in a certain number of months, going
on at this rate, he should come to weigh precisely nothing at all; and as this
was a sum in subtraction he did not care to work out in practice, Master
Pigeon took to himself wings and left the school-committee in possession of
a letter of resignation and a vacant place to fill once more.

This was the school to which Mr. Bernard Langdon found himself
appointed as master. He accepted the place conditionally, with the
understanding that he should leave it at the end of a month, if he were tired
of it.
The advent of Master Langdon to Pigwacket Centre created a much more
lively sensation than had attended that of either of his predecessors. Looks
go a good ways all the world over, and though there were several good-
looking people in the place, and Major Bush was what the natives of the
town called a "hahnsome mahn," that is, big, fat, and red, yet the sight of a
really elegant young fellow, with the natural air which grows up with
carefully-bred young persons, was a novelty. The Brahmin blood which
came from his grandfather as well as from his mother, a direct descendant
of the old Flynt family, well known by the famous tutor, Henry Flynt, (see
Cat. Harv. Anno 1693,) had been enlivened and enriched by that of the
Wentworths, which had had a good deal of ripe old Madeira and other
generous elements mingled with it, so that it ran to gout sometimes in the
old folks, and to high spirit, warm complexion, and curly hair in some of
the younger ones. The soft curling hair Mr. Bernard had inherited,—
something, perhaps, of the high spirit; but that we shall have a chance of
finding out by-and-by. But the long sermons and the frugal board of his
Brahmin ancestry, with his own habits of study, had told upon his color,
which was subdued to something more of delicacy than one would care to
see in a young fellow with rough work before him. This, however, made
him look more interesting, or, as the young ladies at Major Bush's said,
"interéstin'."
When Mr. Bernard showed himself at meeting, on the first Sunday after his
arrival, it may be supposed that a good many eyes were turned upon the
young schoolmaster. There was something heroic in his coming forward so
readily to take a place which called for a strong hand, and a prompt, steady
will to guide it. In fact, his position was that of a military chieftain on the
eve of a battle. Everybody knew everything in Pigwacket Centre; and it was
an understood thing that the young rebels meant to put down the new
master, if they could. It was natural that the two prettiest girls in the village,
called in the local dialect, as nearly as our limited alphabet will represent it,
Alminy Cutterr, and Arvilly Braowne, should feel and express an interest in
the good-looking stranger, and that, when their flattering comments were

repeated in the hearing of their indigenous admirers, among whom were
some of the older "boys" of the school, it should not add to the amiable
dispositions of the turbulent youth.
Monday came, and the new schoolmaster was in his chair at the upper end
of the schoolhouse, on the raised platform. The rustics looked at his
handsome face, thoughtful, peaceful, pleasant, cheerful, but sharply cut
round the lips and proudly lighted about the eyes. The ringleader of the
mischief-makers, the young butcher who has before figured in this
narrative, looked at him stealthily, whenever he got a chance to study him
unobserved; for the truth was, he felt uncomfortable, whenever he found the
large, dark eyes fixed on his own little, sharp, deep-set, gray ones. But he
found means to study him pretty well,—first his face, then his neck and
shoulders, the set of his arms, the narrowing at the loins, the make of his
legs, and the way he moved. In short, he examined him as he would have
examined a steer, to see what he could do and how he would cut up. If he
could only have gone to him and felt of his muscles, he would have been
entirely satisfied. He was not a very wise youth, but he did know well
enough, that, though big arms and legs are very good things, there is
something besides size that goes to make a man; and he had heard stories of
a fighting-man, called "The Spider," from his attenuated proportions, who
was yet a terrible hitter in the ring, and had whipped many a big-limbed
fellow in and out of the roped arena.
Nothing could be smoother than the way in which everything went on for
the first day or two. The new master was so kind and courteous, he seemed
to take everything in such a natural, easy way, that there was no chance to
pick a quarrel with him. He in the mean time thought it best to watch the
boys and young men for a day or two with as little show of authority as
possible. It was easy enough to see that he would have occasion for it
before long.
The schoolhouse was a grim, old, red, one-story building, perched on a bare
rock at the top of a hill,—partly because this was a conspicuous site for the
temple of learning, and partly because land is cheap where there is no
chance even for rye or buckwheat, and the very sheep find nothing to
nibble. About the little porch were carved initials and dates, at various
heights, from the stature of nine to that of eighteen. Inside were old

unpainted desks,—unpainted, but browned with the umber of human
contact,—and hacked by innumerable jackknives. It was long since the
walls had been whitewashed, as might be conjectured by the various traces
left upon them, wherever idle hands or sleepy heads could reach them. A
curious appearance was noticeable on various higher parts of the wall,
namely, a wart-like eruption, as one would be tempted to call it, being in
reality a crop of the soft missiles before mentioned, which, adhering in
considerable numbers, and hardening after the usual fashion of papier
maché, formed at last permanent ornaments of the edifice.
The young master's quick eye soon noticed that a particular part of the wall
was most favored with these ornamental appendages. Their position pointed
sufficiently clearly to the part of the room they came from. In fact, there
was a nest of young mutineers just there, which must be broken up by a
coup d'état. This was easily effected by redistributing the seats and
arranging the scholars according to classes, so that a mischievous fellow,
charged full of the rebellious imponderable, should find himself between
two non-conductors, in the shape of small boys of studious habits. It was
managed quietly enough, in such a plausible sort of way that its motive was
not thought of. But its effects were soon felt; and then began a system of
correspondence by signs, and the throwing of little scrawls done up in
pellets, and announced by preliminary a'h'ms! to call the attention of the
distant youth addressed. Some of these were incendiary documents,
devoting the schoolmaster to the lower divinities, as "a —— stuck-up
dandy," as "a ---- purse-proud aristocrat," as "a —— sight too big for his,
etc.," and holding him up in a variety of equally forcible phrases to the
indignation of the youthful community of School District No. 1, Pigwacket
Centre.
Presently the draughtsman of the school set a caricature in circulation,
labelled, to prevent mistakes, with the schoolmaster's name. An immense
bell-crowned hat, and a long, pointed, swallow-tailed coat showed that the
artist had in his mind the conventional dandy, as shown in prints of thirty or
forty years ago, rather than any actual human aspect of the time. But it was
passed round among the boys and made its laugh, helping of course to
undermine the master's authority, as "Punch" or the "Charivari" takes the
dignity out of an obnoxious minister. One morning, on going to the
schoolroom, Master Langdon found an enlarged copy of this sketch, with its

label, pinned on the door. He took it down, smiled a little, put it into his
pocket, and entered the schoolroom. An insidious silence prevailed, which
looked as if some plot were brewing. The boys were ripe for mischief, but
afraid. They had really no fault to find with the master, except that he was
dressed like a gentleman, which a certain class of fellows always consider a
personal insult to themselves. But the older ones were evidently plotting,
and more than once the warning a'h'm! was heard, and a dirty little scrap of
paper rolled into a wad shot from one seat to another. One of these
happened to strike the stove-funnel, and lodged on the master's desk. He
was cool enough not to seem to notice it. He secured it, however, and found
an opportunity to look at it, without being observed by the boys. It required
no immediate notice.
He who should have enjoyed the privilege of looking upon Mr. Bernard
Langdon the next morning, when his toilet was about half finished, would
have had a very pleasant gratuitous exhibition. First he buckled the strap of
his trousers pretty tightly. Then he took up a pair of heavy dumb-bells, and
swung them for a few minutes; then two great "Indian clubs," with which he
enacted all sorts of impossible-looking feats. His limbs were not very large,
nor his shoulders remarkably broad; but if you knew as much of the
muscles as all persons who look at statues and pictures with a critical eye
ought to have learned,—if you knew the trapezius, lying diamond-shaped
over the back and shoulders like a monk's cowl,—or the deltoid, which caps
the shoulders like an epaulette,—or the triceps, which furnishes the calf of
the upper arm,—or the hard-knotted biceps,—any of the great sculptural
landmarks, in fact,—you would have said there was a pretty show of them,
beneath the white satiny skin of Mr. Bernard Langdon. And if you had seen
him, when he had laid down the Indian clubs, catch hold of a leather strap
that hung from the beam of the old-fashioned ceiling, and lift and lower
himself over and over again by his left hand alone, you might have thought
it a very simple and easy thing to do, until you tried to do it yourself.—Mr.
Bernard looked at himself with the eye of an expert. "Pretty well!" he said;
—"not so much fallen off as I expected." Then he set up his bolster in a
very knowing sort of way, and delivered two or three blows straight as
rulers and swift as winks. "That will do," he said. Then, as if determined to
make a certainty of his condition, he took a dynamometer from one of the
drawers in his old veneered bureau. First he squeezed it with his two hands.

Then he placed it on the floor and lifted, steadily, strongly. The springs
creaked and cracked; the index swept with a great stride far up into the high
figures of the scale; it was a good lift. He was satisfied. He sat down on the
edge of his bed and looked at his cleanly-shaped arms. "If I strike one of
those boobies, I am afraid I shall spoil him," he said. Yet this young man,
when weighed with his class at the college, could barely turn one hundred
and forty-two pounds in the scale,—not a heavy weight, surely; but some of
the middle weights, as the present English champion, for instance, seem to
be of a far finer quality of muscle than the bulkier fellows.
The master took his breakfast with a good appetite that morning, but was
perhaps rather more quiet than usual. After breakfast he went up-stairs and
put on a light loose frock, instead of his usual dress-coat, which was a
close-fitting and rather stylish one. On his way to school he met Alminy
Cutterr, who happened to be walking in the other direction. "Good morning,
Miss Cutterr," he said; for she and another young lady had been introduced
to him, on a former occasion, in the usual phrase of polite society in
presenting ladies to gentlemen,—"Mr. Langdon, let me make y' acquainted
with Miss Cutterr;—let me make y' acquainted with Miss Braowne." So he
said, "Good morning"; to which she replied, "Good mornin', Mr. Langdon.
Haow's your haälth?" The answer to this question ought naturally to have
been the end of the talk; but Alminy Cutterr lingered and looked as if she
had something more on her mind.
A young fellow does not require a great experience to read a simple
country-girl's face as if it were a signboard. Alminy was a good soul, with
red cheeks and bright eyes, kind-hearted as she could be, and it was out of
the question for her to hide her thoughts or feelings like a fine lady. Her
bright eyes were moist and her red cheeks paler than their wont, as she said,
with her lips quivering,—"Oh, Mr. Langdon, them boys'll be the death of
ye, if ye don't take caär!"
"Why, what's the matter, my dear?" said Mr. Bernard.—Don't think there
was anything very odd in that "my dear," at the second interview with a
village belle;—some of those woman-tamers call a girl "My dear," after five
minutes' acquaintance, and it sounds all right as they say it. But you had
better not try it at a venture.

It sounded all right to Alminy, as Mr. Bernard said it.—"I'll tell ye what's
the mahtterr," she said, in a frightened voice. "Ahbner's go'n' to car' his dog,
'n' he'll set him on ye 'z sure 'z y' 'r' alive. 'T's the same cretur that haäf ēat
up Eben Squires's little Jo, a year come nex' Faästday."
Now this last statement was undoubtedly overcolored; as little Jo Squires
was running about the village,—with an ugly scar on his arm, it is true,
where the beast had caught him with his teeth, on the occasion of the child's
taking liberties with him, as he had been accustomed to do with a good-
tempered Newfoundland dog, who seemed to like being pulled and hauled
round by children. After this the creature was commonly muzzled, and, as
he was fed on raw meat chiefly, was always ready for a fight,—which he
was occasionally indulged in, when anything stout enough to match him
could be found in any of the neighboring villages.
Tiger, or, more briefly, Tige, the property of Abner Briggs, Junior, belonged
to a species not distinctly named in scientific books, but well known to our
country-folks under the name "Yallah dog." They do not use this expression
as they would say black dog or white dog, but with almost as definite a
meaning as when they speak of a terrier or a spaniel. A "yallah dog" is a
large canine brute, of a dingy old-flannel color, of no particular breed
except his own, who hangs round a tavern or a butcher's shop, or trots
alongside of a team, looking as if he were disgusted with the world, and the
world with him. Our inland population, while they tolerate him, speak of
him with contempt. Old ——, of Meredith Bridge, used to twit the sun for
not shining on cloudy days, swearing, that, if he hung up his "yallah dog,"
he would make a better show of daylight. A country fellow, abusing a horse
of his neighbor's, vowed, that, "if he had such a hoss, he'd swap him for a
'yallah dog,'—and then shoot the dog."
Tige was an ill-conditioned brute by nature, and art had not improved him
by cropping his ears and tail and investing him with a spiked collar. He bore
on his person, also, various not ornamental scars, marks of old battles; for
Tige had fight in him, as was said before, and as might be guessed by a
certain bluntness about the muzzle, with a projection of the lower jaw,
which looked as if there might be a bull-dog stripe among the numerous
bar-sinisters of his lineage.

It was hardly fair, however, to leave Alminy Cutterr waiting while this piece
of natural history was telling.—As she spoke of little Jo, who had been
"haäf ēat up" by Tige, she could not contain her sympathies, and began to
cry.
"Why, my dear little soul," said Mr. Bernard, "what are you worried about?
I used to play with a bear when I was a boy; and the bear used to hug me,
and I used to kiss him,——so!"
It was too bad of Mr. Bernard, only the second time he had seen Alminy;
but her kind feelings had touched him, and that seemed the most natural
way of expressing his gratitude. Alminy looked round to see if anybody was
near; she saw nobody, so of course it would do no good to "holler." She saw
nobody; but a stout young fellow, leading a yellow dog, muzzled, saw her
through a crack in a pickéd fence, not a great way off the road. Many a year
he had been "hangin' 'raoun'" Alminy, and never did he see any encouraging
look, or hear any "Behave, naow!" or "Come, naow, a'n't ye 'shamed?" or
other forbidding phrase of acquiescence, such as village belles understand
as well as ever did the nymph who fled to the willows in the eclogue we all
remember.
No wonder he was furious, when he saw the schoolmaster, who had never
seen the girl until within a week, touching with his lips those rosy cheeks
which he had never dared to approach. But that was all; it was a sudden
impulse; and the master turned away from the young girl, laughing, and
telling her not to fret herself about him,—he would take care of himself.
So Master Langdon walked on toward his schoolhouse, not displeased,
perhaps, with his little adventure, nor immensely elated by it; for he was
one of the natural class of the sex-subduers, and had had many a smile
without asking, which had been denied to the feeble youth who try to win
favor by pleading their passion in rhyme, and even to the more formidable
approaches of young officers in volunteer companies, considered by many
to be quite irresistible to the fair who have once beheld them from their
windows in the epaulettes and plumes and sashes of the "Pigwacket
Invincibles," or the "Hackmatack Rangers."
Master Langdon took his seat and began the exercises of his school. The
smaller boys recited their lessons well enough, but some of the larger ones

were negligent and surly. He noticed one or two of them looking toward the
door, as if expecting somebody or something in that direction. At half past
nine o'clock, Abner Briggs, Junior, who had not yet shown himself, made
his appearance. He was followed by his "yallah dog," without his muzzle,
who squatted down very grimly near the door, and gave a wolfish look
round the room, as if he were considering which was the plumpest boy to
begin with. The young butcher, meanwhile, went to his seat, looking
somewhat flushed, except round the lips, which were hardly as red as
common, and set pretty sharply.
"Put out that dog, Abner Briggs!"—The master spoke as the captain speaks
to the helmsman, when there are rocks foaming at the lips, right under his
lee.
Abner Briggs answered as the helmsman answers, when he knows he has a
mutinous crew round him that mean to run the ship on the reef, and is one
of the mutineers himself. "Put him aout y'rself, 'f ye a'n't afeard on him!"
The master stepped into the aisle. The great cur showed his teeth,—and the
devilish instincts of his old wolf-ancestry looked out of his eyes, and
flashed from his sharp tusks, and yawned in his wide mouth and deep red
gullet.
The movements of animals are so much quicker than those of human beings
commonly are, that they avoid blows as easily as one of us steps out of the
way of an ox-cart. It must be a very stupid dog that lets himself be run over
by a fast driver in his gig; he can jump out of the wheel's way after the tire
has already touched him. So, while one is lifting a stick to strike or drawing
back his foot to kick, the beast makes his spring, and the blow or the kick
comes too late.
It was not so this time. The master was a fencer, and something of a boxer;
he had played at single-stick, and was used to watching an adversary's eye
and coming down on him without any of those premonitory symptoms by
which unpractised persons show long beforehand what mischief they
meditate.
"Out with you!" he said, fiercely,—and explained what he meant by a
sudden flash of his foot that clashed the yellow dog's white teeth together

like the springing of a bear-trap. The cur knew he had found his master at
the first word and glance, as low animals on four legs, or a smaller number,
always do; and the blow took him so by surprise, that it curled him up in an
instant, and he went bundling out of the open schoolhouse-door with a most
pitiable yelp, and his stump of a tail shut down as close as his owner ever
shut the short, stubbed blade of his jacknife.
It was time for the other cur to find who his master was.
"Follow your dog, Abner Briggs!" said Master Langdon.
The stout butcher-youth looked round, but the rebels were all cowed and sat
still.
"I'll go when I'm ready," he said,—"'n' I guess I won't go afore I'm ready."
"You're ready now," said Master Langdon, turning up his cuffs so that the
little boys noticed the yellow gleam of a pair of gold sleeve-buttons, once
worn by Colonel Percy Wentworth, famous in the Old French War.
Abner Briggs, Junior, did not apparently think he was ready, at any rate; for
he rose up in his place, and stood with clenched fists, defiant, as the master
strode towards him. The master knew the fellow was really frightened, for
all his looks, and that he must have no time to rally. So he caught him
suddenly by the collar, and, with one great pull, had him out over his desk
and on the open floor. He gave him a sharp fling backwards and stood
looking at him.
The rough-and-tumble fighters all clinch, as everybody knows; and Abner
Briggs, Junior, was one of that kind. He remembered how he had floored
Master Weeks, and he had just "spunk" enough left in him to try to repeat
his former successful experiment on the new master. He sprang at him,
open-handed, to clutch him. So the master had to strike,—once, but very
hard, and just in the place to tell. No doubt, the authority that doth hedge a
schoolmaster added to the effect of the blow; but the blow was itself a neat
one, and did not require to be repeated.
"Now go home," said the master, "and don't let me see you or your dog here
again." And he turned his cuffs down again over the gold sleeve-buttons.

This finished the great Pigwacket Centre School rebellion. What could be
done with a master who was so pleasant as long as the boys behaved
decently, and such a terrible fellow when he got "riled," as they called it? In
a week's time, everything was reduced to order, and the school-committee
were delighted. The master, however, had received a proposition so much
more agreeable and advantageous, that he informed the committee he
should leave at the end of his month, having in his eye a sensible and
energetic young college-graduate who would be willing and fully
competent to take his place.
So, at the expiration of the appointed time, Bernard Langdon, late master of
the School District No. 1, Pigwacket Centre, took his departure from that
place for another locality, whither we shall follow him, carrying with him
the regrets of the committee, of most of the scholars, and of several young
ladies; also two locks of hair, sent unbeknown to payrents, one dark and one
warmish auburn, inscribed with the respective initials of Alminy Cutterr and
Arvilly Braowne.

CHAPTER IV.

THE MOTH FLIES INTO THE CANDLE.

The invitation which Mr. Bernard Langdon had accepted came from the
Board of Trustees of the "Apollinean Female Institute," a school for the
education of young ladies, situated in the flourishing town of Rockland.
This was an establishment on a considerable scale, in which a hundred
scholars or thereabouts were taught the ordinary English branches, several
of the modern languages, something of Latin, if desired, with a little natural
philosophy, metaphysics, and rhetoric, to finish off with in the last year, and
music at any time when they would pay for it. At the close of their career in
the Institute, they were submitted to a grand public examination, and
received diplomas tied in blue ribbons, which proclaimed them with a great
flourish of capitals to be graduates of the Apollinean Female Institute.
Rockland was a town of no inconsiderable pretensions. It was ennobled by
lying at the foot of a mountain,—called by the working-folks of the place
"the maounting,"—which sufficiently showed that it was the principal high

land of the district in which it was situated. It lay to the south of this, and
basked in the sunshine as Italy stretches herself before the Alps. To pass
from the town of Tamarack on the north of the mountain to Rockland on the
south was like crossing from Coire to Chiavenna.
There is nothing gives glory and grandeur and romance and mystery to a
place like the impending presence of a high mountain. Our beautiful
Northampton with its fair meadows and noble stream is lovely enough, but
owes its surpassing attraction to those twin summits which brood over it
like living presences, looking down into its streets as if they were its
tutelary divinities, dressing and undressing their green shrines, robing
themselves in jubilant sunshine or in sorrowing clouds, and doing penance
in the snowy shroud of winter, as if they had living hearts under their rocky
ribs and changed their mood like the children of the soil at their feet, who
grow up under their almost parental smiles and frowns. Happy is the child
whose first dreams of heaven are blended with the evening glories of Mount
Holyoke, when the sun is firing its treetops, and gilding the white walls that
mark its one human dwelling! If the other and the wilder of the twain has a
scowl of terror in its overhanging brows, yet is it a pleasing fear to look
upon its savage solitudes through the barred nursery-windows in the heart
of the sweet, companionable village.—And how the mountains love their
children! The sea is of a facile virtue, and will run to kiss the first comer in
any port he visits; but the chaste mountains sit apart, and show their faces
only in the midst of their own families.
The Mountain that kept watch to the north of Rockland lay waste and
almost inviolate through much of its domain. The catamount still glared
from the branches of its old hemlocks on the lesser beasts that strayed
beneath him. It was not long since a wolf had wandered down, famished in
the winter's dearth, and left a few bones and some tufts of wool of what had
been a lamb in the morning. Nay, there were broad-footed tracks in the
snow only two years previously, which could not be mistaken;—the black
bear alone could have set that plantigrade seal, and little children must
come home early from school and play, for he is an indiscriminate feeder
when he is hungry, and a little child would not come amiss when other
game was wanting.

But these occasional visitors may have been mere wanderers, which,
straying along in the woods by day, and perhaps stalking through the streets
of still villages by night, had worked their way along down from the ragged
mountain-spurs of higher latitudes. The one feature of The Mountain that
shed the brownest horror on its woods was the existence of the terrible
region known as Rattlesnake Ledge, and still tenanted by those damnable
reptiles, which distil a fiercer venom under our cold northern sky than the
cobra himself in the land of tropical spices and poisons.
From the earliest settlement of the place, this fact had been, next to the
Indians, the reigning nightmare of the inhabitants. It was easy enough, after
a time, to drive away the savages; for "a screeching Indian Divell," as our
fathers called him, could not crawl into the crack of a rock to escape from
his pursuers. But the venomous population of Rattlesnake Ledge had a
Gibraltar for their fortress that might have defied the siege-train dragged to
the walls of Sebastopol. In its deep embrasures and its impregnable
casemates they reared their families, they met in love or wrath, they twined
together in family knots, they hissed defiance in hostile clans, they fed,
slept, hybernated, and in due time died in peace. Many a foray had the
town's-people made, and many a stuffed skin was shown as a trophy,—nay,
there were families where the children's first toy was made from the
warning appendage that once vibrated to the wrath of one of these "cruel
serpents." Sometimes one of them, coaxed out by a warm sun, would writhe
himself down the hillside into the roads, up the walks that led to houses,—
worse than this, into the long grass, where the bare-footed mowers would
soon pass with their swinging scythes,—more rarely into houses,—and on
one memorable occasion, early in the last century, into the meeting-house,
where he took a position on the pulpit-stairs,—as is narrated in the
"Account of Some Remarkable Providences," etc., where it is suggested
that a strong tendency of the Rev. Didymus Bean, the Minister at that time,
towards the Arminian Heresy may have had something to do with it, and
that the Serpent supposed to have been killed on the Pulpit-Stairs was a
false show of the Dæmon's Contrivance, he having come in to listen to a
Discourse which was a sweet Savour in his Nostrils, and, of course, not
being capable of being killed Himself. Others said, however, that, though
there was good Reason to think it was a Dæmon, yet he did come with
Intent to bite the Heel of that faithful Servant,—etc.

One Gilson is said to have died of the bite of a rattlesnake in this town early
in the present century. After this there was a great snake-hunt, in which very
many of these venomous beasts were killed,—one in particular, said to have
been as big round as a stout man's arm, and to have had no less than forty
joints to his rattle,—indicating, according to some, that he had lived forty
years, but, if we might put any faith in the Indian tradition, that he had
killed forty human beings,—an idle fancy, clearly. This hunt, however, had
no permanent effect in keeping down the serpent population. Viviparous
creatures are a kind of specie-paying lot, but oviparous ones only give their
notes, as it were, for a future brood,—an egg being, so to speak, a promise
to pay a young one by-and-by, if nothing happen. Now the domestic habits
of the rattlesnake are not studied very closely, for obvious reasons; but it is,
no doubt, to all intents and purposes oviparous. Consequently it has large
families, and is not easy to kill out.
In the year 184-, a melancholy proof was afforded to the inhabitants of
Rockland, that the brood which infested The Mountain was not extirpated.
A very interesting young married woman, detained at home at the time by
the state of her health, was bitten in the entry of her own house by a
rattlesnake which had found its way down from The Mountain. Owing to
the almost instant employment of powerful remedies, the bite did not prove
immediately fatal; but she died within a few months of the time when she
was bitten.
All this seemed to throw a lurid kind of shadow over The Mountain. Yet, as
many years passed without any accident, people grew comparatively
careless, and it might rather be said to add a fearful kind of interest to the
romantic hillside, that the banded reptiles, which had been the terror of the
red men for nobody knows how many thousand years, were there still, with
the same poison-bags and spring-teeth at the white men's service, if they
meddled with them.
The other natural features of Rockland were such as many of our pleasant
country-towns can boast of. A brook came tumbling down the mountain-
side and skirted the most thickly settled portion of the village. In the parts
of its course where it ran through the woods, the water looked almost as
brown as coffee flowing from its urn,—to say like smoky quartz would
perhaps give a better idea,—but in the open plain it sparkled over the

pebbles white as a queen's diamonds. There were huckleberry-pastures on
the lower flanks of The Mountain, with plenty of the sweet-scented
bayberry mingled with the other bushes. In other fields grew great store of
high-bush blackberries. Along the road-side were barberry-bushes, hung all
over with bright red coral pendants in autumn and far into the winter. Then
there were swamps set thick with dingy-leaved alders, where the three-
leaved arum and the skunk's-cabbage grew broad and succulent,—shelving
down into black boggy pools here and there, at the edge of which the green
frog, stupidest of his tribe, sat waiting to be victimized by boy or snapping-
turtle long after the shy and agile leopard-frog had taken the six-foot spring
that plumped him into the middle of the pool. And on the neighboring banks
the maiden-hair spread its flat disk of embroidered fronds on the wire-like
stem that glistened brown and polished as the darkest tortoise-shell, and
pale violets, cheated by the cold skies of their hues and perfume, sunned
themselves like white-cheeked invalids. Over these rose the old forest-trees,
—the maple, scarred with the wounds that had drained away its sweet life-
blood,—the beech, its smooth gray bark mottled so as to look like the body
of one of those great snakes of old that used to frighten armies,—always the
mark of lovers' knives, as in the days of Musidora and her swain,—the
yellow birch, rough as the breast of Silenus in old marbles,—the wild
cherry, its little bitter fruit lying unheeded at its foot,—and, soaring over all,
the huge, coarse-barked, splintery-limbed, dark-mantled hemlock, in the
depths of whose aërial solitudes the crow brooded on her nest unscared, and
the gray squirrel lived unharmed till his incisors grew to look like ram's-
horns.
Rockland would have been but half a town without its pond; Quinnepeg
Pond was the name of it, but the young ladies of the Apollinean Institute
were very anxious that it should be called Crystalline Lake. It was here that
the young folks used to sail in summer and skate in winter; here, too, those
queer, old, rum-scented, good-for-nothing, lazy, story-telling, half-
vagabonds, that sawed a little wood or dug a few potatoes now and then
under the pretence of working for their living, used to go and fish through
the ice for pickerel every winter. And here those three young people were
drowned, a few summers ago, by the upsetting of a sail-boat in a sudden
flaw of wind. There is not one of these smiling ponds that has not devoured
more youths and maidens than any of those monsters the ancients used to

tell such lies about. But it was a pretty pond, and never looked more
innocent—so the native "bard" of Rockland said in his elegy—than on the
morning when they found Sarah Jane and Ellen Maria floating among the
lily-pads.
The Apollinean Institute, or Institoot, as it was more commonly called, was,
in the language of its Prospectus, a "first-class Educational Establishment."
It employed a considerable corps of instructors to rough out and finish the
hundred young lady scholars it sheltered beneath its roof. First, Mr. and
Mrs. Peckham, the Principal and the Matron of the school. Silas Peckham
was a thorough Yankee, born on a windy part of the coast, and reared
chiefly on salt-fish. Everybody knows the type of Yankee produced by this
climate and diet: thin, as if he had been split and dried; with an ashen kind
of complexion, like the tint of the food he is made of; and about as sharp,
tough, juiceless, and biting to deal with as the other is to the taste. Silas
Peckham kept a young ladies' school exactly as he would have kept a
hundred head of cattle,—for the simple, unadorned purpose of making just
as much money in just as few years as could be safely done. Of course the
great problem was, to feed these hundred hungry misses at the cheapest
practicable rate, precisely as it would be with the cattle. So that Mr.
Peckham gave very little personal attention to the department of instruction,
but was always busy with contracts for flour and potatoes, beef and pork,
and other nutritive staples, the amount of which required for such an
establishment was enough to frighten a quartermaster. Mrs. Peckham was
from the West, raised on Indian corn and pork, which give a fuller outline
and a more humid temperament, but may perhaps be thought to render
people a little coarse-fibred. Her speciality was to look after the feathering,
cackling, roosting, rising, and general behavior of these hundred chicks. An
honest, ignorant woman, she could not have passed an examination in the
youngest class. So this distinguished institution was under the charge of a
commissary and a housekeeper, and its real business was feeding girls to
grain, roots, and meats, under cover, and making money by it.
Connected with this, however, was the incidental fact, which the public
took for the principal one, namely, the business of instruction. Mr. Peckham
knew well enough that it was just as well to have good instructors as bad
ones, so far as cost was concerned, and a great deal better for the reputation
of his feeding-establishment. So he tried to get the best he could without

paying too much, and, having got them, to screw all the work out of them
that could possibly be extracted.
There was a master for the English branches, with a young lady assistant.
There was another young lady who taught French, of the ahvahng and
pahndahng style, which does not exactly smack of the asphalte of the
Boulevard trottoirs. There was also a German teacher of music, who
sometimes helped in French of the ahfaung and bauntaung style,—so that,
between the two, the young ladies could hardly have been mistaken for
Parisians, by a Committee of the French Academy. The German teacher
also taught a Latin class after his fashion,—benna, a ben, gahboot, a head,
and so forth.
The master for the English branches had lately left the school for private
reasons, which need not be here mentioned,—but he had gone, at any rate,
and it was his place which had been offered to Mr. Bernard Langdon. The
offer came just in season,—as, for various causes, he was willing to leave
the place where he had begun his new experience.
It was on a fine morning, that Mr. Bernard, ushered in by Mr. Peckham,
made his appearance in the great schoolroom of the Apollinean Institute. A
general rustle ran all round the seats when the handsome young man was
introduced. The principal carried him to the desk of the young lady English
assistant, Miss Darley by name, and introduced him to her.
There was not a great deal of study done that day. The young lady assistant
had to point out to the new master the whole routine in which the classes
were engaged when their late teacher left, and which had gone on as well as
it could since. Then Master Langdon had a great many questions to ask,
some relating to his new duties, and some, perhaps, implying a degree of
curiosity not very unnatural under the circumstances. The truth is, the
general effect of the schoolroom, with its scores of young girls, all their
eyes naturally centring on him with fixed or furtive glances, was enough to
bewilder and confuse a young man like Master Langdon, though he was not
destitute of self-possession, as we have already seen.
You cannot get together a hundred girls, taking them as they come, from the
comfortable and affluent classes, probably anywhere, certainly not in New
England, without seeing a good deal of beauty. In fact, we very commonly

mean by beauty the way young girls look when there is nothing to hinder
their looking as Nature meant them to. And the great schoolroom of the
Apollinean Institute did really make so pretty a show on the morning when
Master Langdon entered it, that he might be pardoned for asking Miss
Darley more questions about his scholars than about their lessons.
There were girls of all ages: little creatures, some pallid and delicate-
looking, the offspring of invalid parents,—much given to books, not much
to mischief, commonly spoken of as particularly good children, and
contrasted with another sort, girls of more vigorous organization, who were
disposed to laughing and play, and required a strong hand to manage them;
—then young growing misses of every shade of Saxon complexion, and
here and there one of more Southern hue: blondes, some of them so
translucent-looking, that it seemed as if you could see the souls in their
bodies, like bubbles in glass, if souls were objects of sight; brunettes, some
with rose-red colors, and some with that swarthy hue which often carries
with it a heavily-shaded lip, and which with pure outlines and outspoken
reliefs gives us some of our handsomest women,—the women whom
ornaments of pure gold adorn more than any other parures; and again, but
only here and there, one with dark hair and gray or blue eyes, a Celtic type,
perhaps, but found in our native stock occasionally; rarest of all, a light-
haired girl with dark eyes, hazel, brown, or of the color of that mountain-
brook spoken of in this chapter, where it ran through shadowy woodlands.
With these were to be seen at intervals some of maturer years, full-blown
flowers among the opening buds, with that conscious look upon their faces
which so many women wear during the period when they never meet a
single man without having his monosyllable ready for him,—tied as they
are, poor things! on the rock of expectation, each of them an Andromeda
waiting for her Perseus.
"Who is that girl in ringlets,—the fourth in the third row on the right?" said
Master Langdon.
"Charlotte Ann Wood," said Miss Darley;—"writes very pretty poems."
"Oh!—And the pink one, three seats from her? Looks bright; anything in
her?"

"Emma Dean,—day-scholar,—Squire Dean's daughter,—nice girl,—second
medal last year."
The master asked these two questions in a careless kind of way, and did not
seem to pay any too much attention to the answers.
"And who and what is that," he said,—"sitting a little apart there,—that
strange, wild-looking girl?"
This time he put the real question he wanted answered;—the other two were
asked at random, as masks for the third.
The lady-teacher's face changed;—one would have said she was frightened
or troubled. She looked at the girl doubtfully, as if she might hear the
master's question and its answer. But the girl did not look up;—she was
winding a gold chain about her wrist, and then uncoiling it, as if in a kind of
reverie.
Miss Darley drew close to the master and placed her hand so as to hide her
lips. "Don't look at her as if we were talking about her," she whispered
softly;—"that is Elsie Venner."

MEXICO.
A certain immortal fool, who had, like most admitted fools, great wisdom,
once said, that the number of truces between the Christians and Saracens in
Palestine made an old man of him; for he had known three of them, so that
he must be at least one hundred and fifty years old. The saying occurs in a
romance, to be sure, but one which is not half so romantic as the best-
accredited decade of Titus Livius, and is quite as authentic as most of what
Sir Archibald Alison says, when he writes on the United States.
What Palestine and the Crusades were to the witty son of Witless, Mexico
and her politics are to moderns, not even excepting the predestined
devourers of the Aztec land, who ought to know something of the country
they purpose bringing within the full light of civilization through the aid of
slaughter and slavery. There are some myriads of "Americans of the North"
yet living, and who entertain not the remotest idea of dying, who remember
Mexico as a Spanish dependency quite as submissive to Viceroy Iturrigaray
as Cuba is now to Captain-General Serrano; and who have seen her both an
Empire and a Republic, and the theatre of more revolutions than England
has known since the days of the Octarchy. The mere thought of the changes
that have occurred there bewilders the mind; and the inhabitants of orderly
countries, whether that order be the consequence of despotism or of
constitutionalism, wonder that society should continue to exist in a country
where government appears to be unknown.
Less than fifty years cover the time between the appearance of Hidalgo and
that of Miramon; and between the dates of the leaderships of the two men,
Mexico has had an army of generals, of whom little is now known beyond
their names. Hidalgo, Morelos, Mina, Bravo, Iturbide, Guerrero,
Bustamente, Victoria, Pedraza, Gomez Farias, Paredes, and Herrera,—such
are the names that were once familiar to our countrymen in connection with
Mexican affairs. We have now a new race of Mexican chiefs,—Alvarez,
Comonfort, Zuloaga, Uraga, Juarez, Vidaurri, Haro y Tamariz, Degollado,
and Miramon. Some of these last-named chiefs might, perhaps, be classed
with those first named, from years and services; but whatever of political

importance they have belongs to the present time; and the most important
man of them all, Miramon, is said to be very young, and was not born until
many years after the last vestiges of the vice-regal rule had been removed.
Santa Aña, but for his shifting round so often,—now an absolute ruler, and
then an absolute runaway, yet ever contriving to get the better of his
antagonists, whether they happen to be clever Mexicans or dull Americans,
—might be called the isthmus that connects the first generation of leaders
with that which now misleads his country. Santa Aña's public life
synchronizes with the independence of Mexico of foreign rule, and his
career can hardly be pronounced at an end. It would be of the nature of a
newspaper coincidence, were he to know his "last of earth" at the very time
when, by all indications, Mexico stands in greater danger of losing her
national life than she has known since the day when Barradas was sent to
play the part of Cortés, but proved himself not quite equal to that of
Narvaez. Santa Aña owed much of his power to his victory over the
Spaniards in 1830, though pestilence did half the work to his hand; and
perhaps no better evidence of the hatred of the Mexicans for Spanish rule
can be adduced, than the hold which he has maintained over their minds, in
consequence of the part he took in overthrowing that rule, and in rendering
its return impossible.
Provoked by the anarchy which has so long existed in Mexico, American
writers, and writers of other countries, have sometimes contrasted the
condition of that nation with the order that prevailed there during the
Spanish ascendency, and it is not uncommon to hear Americans say that the
worst thing that ever happened to the Mexicans was the overthrow of that
ascendency. They forget that the causes of Mexican anarchy were of
Spanish creation, and that it must have exhibited itself, all the same, if
Mexico had not achieved her independence. The shock caused by the
seizure of the Spanish throne by Napoleon I. led to that war against the
Spaniards in Mexico which prematurely broke out in 1810, and which was
of the nature of a Jacquerie, but which would have been completely
successful, had Hidalgo been equal to his position. It had been intended that
the blow should be struck against the Gachupines,—European Spaniards, or
persons of pure Spanish blood,—who were partisans of Spain, whether
Spain were ruled by Bourbons or Bonapartes; and it was to have been
delivered by the Creoles, who remained faithful to the House of Bourbon.

Circumstances caused the Indian races to commence the war, and this was
fatal to the original project, as it led to the union of both Spaniards and
Creoles against the followers of Hidalgo. The army with which Calleja
overthrew the forces of Hidalgo was an army of Creoles. It was composed
of the very men who would have been foremost in putting down the
Spaniards, if the Indians had remained quiet. From that time dates the
disorder of Mexico, which has ever since continued, though at intervals the
country has known short periods of comparative repose.
In 1811 Morelos was the most conspicuous of the insurgent chiefs, and the
next year he was successful in several engagements; and it was not until the
end of 1815 that he fell into the hands of his enemies, by whom he was
shot, sharing the fate of Hidalgo. During the four years that he led the
people, efforts were made to settle the controversy on an equitable basis
that would have left the King of Spain master of Mexico; but the pride of
the Spaniards would not allow them to listen to justice. They acted in
Mexico as their ancestors had acted in the Netherlands. It is the chief
characteristic of the Spaniard, that, in dealing with foreigners, he always
assumes a Roman-like superiority, without possessing the Roman's sense
and shrewdness. The treatment of the Capuans by the Romans, as told by
Livy in his narrative of the Hannibalian War, might be read as a history of
the manner in which the Spaniards ever treat "rebels"; and never did they
behave more cruelly than they behaved toward the Mexicans in the last
days of the viceroys. This fact is to be borne in mind, when we think of the
sanguinary character of Mexican contests; for that character originated in
the action of the Spaniards during their struggles with the Patriots. The
latter were not faultless, but they often exhibited a generosity and a self-
denial that promised much for the future of their country, which promise
would have been realized but for the ferocious tone of the warfare of the old
governing race. The Spaniards were ultimately beaten, but they left behind
them an evil that marred the victory of the Patriots, and which has done
much to prevent it from proving useful to those who obtained it at great cost
to themselves and their country.
The defeat and death of Morelos proved fatal, for the time, to regular
opposition on the part of the Patriots, and it was not until the arrival of
Mina in Mexico that they renewed the war in force. This was in April, 1817;
and Mina was defeated and put to death in seven months after he landed. At

the beginning of 1818, the viceroy Apodaca announced to the home
government, "that he would be answerable for the safety of Mexico without
a single additional soldier being sent out to reinforce the armies that were in
the field." Had he been a wise man, the event might have justified this
boast; but as he was neither wise nor honest, and as he sought to restore the
old state of things in all its impurity, his confidence was fatal to the Spanish
cause. The Spanish Constitution of 1812 had been proclaimed in Mexico in
the autumn of that year, and its existence kept the Liberal cause alive. So
long as the Patriots had any power in the field, Apodaca, though an enemy
of the Constitution, dared not seek its destruction; but after the overthrow of
Mina, when he believed the Patriot party was "crushed out," he plotted
against the Constitution, and resolved to restore the system that had existed
down to 1812. Not a vestige of Liberalism was to remain. He selected for
his chief tool the once famous Agustin de Iturbide, who turned out an edged
tool, so sharp, indeed, that he not only cut the viceroy's fingers, but severed
forever the connection between Mexico and Spain. Iturbide had eminently
distinguished himself in the royal army, and to him it was owing that
Morelos had been defeated. He was brave, ambitious, and able, and he
possessed a handsome person and elegant manners. He was appointed to
head an army in Western Mexico, on condition that he should "pronounce"
in favor of the restoration of absolute royal authority. He accepted the
command; but on the 24th of February, 1821, he astonished his employer by
proclaiming, not the plan upon which they had agreed, but what is known as
the Plan of Iguala, from the town where the proclamation was made. This
plan provided that Mexico should be independent of Spain, and for the
erection of the country into a constitutional monarchy, the throne of which
should be filled by Ferdinand VII., or by one of his brothers,—or by some
person chosen from among reigning families, should the Spanish Bourbons
decline the invitation. The monarch was to be called Emperor, a title made
fashionable and cheap by Bonaparte's example. Perfect equality was
established, and all distinction of castes was abolished. Saving that the
Catholic religion was declared the national religion, the twenty-four articles
of this Plan were of a liberal character, and leave an impression on the mind
highly favorable to their author. Viewing it in the light of thirty-nine years,
and seeing that republicanism has not succeeded in Mexico, even a
democrat may regret that the Plan of Iguala did not become the constitution
of that country.

The simple abolition of Spanish rule would have satisfied the mass of the
inhabitants, who cared little for political institutions, but who knew the evils
they suffered from the tyranny of a class that did not number above one-
eightieth part of the population. For the time, the Plan was successful: the
clergy, the military, the people, and the old partisans of independence all
supported it; and O'Donoju, who had arrived as successor to Apodaca,
recognized Mexican independence. The victors entered the capital
September 27, 1821, and established a provisional Junta, which created a
regency, with Iturbide for President. On the 24th of February, 1822, a
Congress assembled, which contained three parties, the representatives of
those which existed in the country:—1. The Bourbonists, who desired that
the Plan of Iguala should be adhered to in all its details; 2. The Iturbideans,
who wished for a monarchy, with their chief as Emperor; and, 3. The
Republicans, who were hostile to monarchical institutions as well as to
Spanish rule. It is possible that the first party might have triumphed, had
Spain been under the dominion of sagacious men; for the clergy must have
preferred it, not only because it was that polity under which they were sure
to have most consideration, but because the whole power of Rome might
have been brought to bear in its behalf, and that the clergy never would
have seriously thought of resisting;—and the influence of the clergy was
great over the mass of the people. But the Spanish government would not
ratify the treaty made by O'Donoju, or abandon its claim on Mexico. This
left but two factions in the Congress, and their quarrel had a sudden
termination, for the moment, in the elevation of Iturbide to the imperial
throne, May 18th, 1822. This was the work of a handful of the lowest rabble
of the capital, the select few of a vagabondage compared with whom the
inhabitants of the Five Points may be counted grave constitutional
politicians. The legislature went through the farce of approval, and the
people acquiesced,—as they would have done, had he been proclaimed
Cham. Had Iturbide understood his trade, he might have reigned long,
perhaps have established a dynasty; but he did what nearly every Mexican
chief since his time has done, and what, to be just, nearly every
revolutionary government has sought to do: he endeavored to establish a
tyranny. He dissolved the Congress, substituting a Junta for it, composed of
his own adherents. The consequence was revolt in various parts of the
empire. Santa Aña, then Governor of Vera Cruz, "pronounced" against the
Emperor; and Echavari, who was sent to punish him, played the same part

toward Iturbide that Iturbide had played toward Apodaca: he joined the
enemies of the imperial government. As Iturbide had triumphed over the
viceroy by the aid of men of all parties but that of the old Spaniards, so was
he overthrown by a coalition of an equally various character. He gave up
the crown, after having worn it not quite ten months, and was allowed to
depart, with the promise of an annual pension of twenty-five thousand
dollars. Seeking to recover the crown in 1824, he was seized and shot,—a
fate of which he could not complain, as he was a man of bloody hand, and,
as a royalist leader, had caused prisoners to be butchered by the hundred.
The Republicans were now triumphant, but their conduct showed that they
were not much better qualified to rule than were the Imperialists. They
made a Federal Constitution,—that which is commonly known as the
Constitution of 1824,—which was principally modelled on that of the
United States. This imitation would have been ridiculous, if it had not been
mischievous. Between the circumstances of America and those of Mexico
there was no resemblance whatever, and hence the polity which is good for
the one could be good for nothing to the other. One fact alone ought to have
convinced the Mexican Constitutionalists of the absurdity of their doings.
Their Constitution recognized the Catholic religion as the religion of the
state, and absolutely forbade the profession of any other form of faith! In
what part of our Constitution they found authority for such a provision as
this, no man can say. It has been mentioned, reproachfully, that our
Constitution does not even recognize God; yet on a Constitution modelled
upon ours Mexican statesmen could graft an Established Church, with a
monopoly of religion! Just where imitation would have been more
creditable to them than originality, they became original. It has been said, in
their defence, that the Church was so powerful that they could not choose
but admit its claim. This would be a good defence, had they sought to make
a Constitution in accordance with views admitting the validity of an
Ecclesiastical Establishment. The charge against them is not, that they
sanctioned an Establishment, but that they sought to couple with it a liberal
republican Constitution, and thus to reconcile contradictions,—an end not
to be attained anywhere, and least of all in a country like Mexico.
The factions that arose in Mexico after the establishment of the Republic
were the Federalists and the Centralists, being substantially the same as
those which yet exist there. The Federalists have been the true liberals

throughout the disturbances and troubles of a generation, and, though not
faultless, are better entitled to the name of patriots than are the men by
whom they have been opposed. They have been the foes of the priesthood,
and have often sought to lessen its power and destroy its influence. If they
could have had their will any time during the last thirty-five years, the
priests would have been reduced to a condition of apostolic simplicity, and
the Church's vast property been put to uses such as the Apostles would have
approved. Guadalupe Victoria would probably have been as little averse to
the confiscation of ecclesiastical property as was Thomas Cromwell
himself. The fear that a firm and stable federal government would interfere
with the privileges of the Church, and would not cease such interference
until the change had been made perfect, which implied the Church's
political destruction, is one of the chief reasons why no such government
has ever had an existence in Mexico. The Church has favored every party
and faction that has been opposed to order and liberty. Royalism,
centralism, despotism, and even foreign conquest has it preferred to any
state of things in which there should be found that due union of liberty and
law without which no country can expect to have constitutional freedom.
Had it ever been possible to establish a strong central government in
Mexico, it is very probable the Church would have been one of its firmest
pillars. The character and organization of that institution, its desire to
maintain possession of its property, and its aversion to liberty of every kind,
would all have united to make such a government worthy of the Church's
support, provided it had supported the Church in its turn. The ecclesiastical
influence is everywhere observable in the history of Mexico, from the
beginning of the struggle for independence. The clergy were supporters of
independence, not because they wished for liberty to the country, but that
they might monopolize the vast power of their order. They hated the
Spaniards as bitterly as they were hated by any other portion of the
inhabitants of Mexico. But they never meant that republicanism should
obtain the ascendency in the country. A powerful monarchy, an empire, was
what they aimed at; and the government which Iturbide established was one
that would have received their aid, could it have brought any power to the
political firm the clergy desired to see in existence. It may be assumed that
the clergy would have preferred a Spanish prince as emperor, for they were
too sagacious not to know that the best part of royalty is that which is under
ground. Kings must be born to their trade to succeed in it; and a brand-new

emperor, like Iturbide, unless highly favored by circumstances, or
singularly endowed with intellectual qualifications, could be of little service
to the clerical party. He fell, as we have seen; but the clerical party
remained, and, having continued to flourish, is at this time, it is probable,
stronger than it was in 1822. It is owing to this party that the idea has never
been altogether abandoned that Mexico should resume monarchical
institutions; and every attempt that has been made to favor what in this
country is known as consolidation has either been initiated by it or has
received its assistance. That we do not misrepresent the so-called clerical
party, in attributing to it a desire to see a king in Mexico, is clear from the
candid admission of one of its members, who has written at length, and with
much ability, in defence of its opinions and actions. "Had it been given to
that party which is taxed with being absolutist," he says, "to see such a
government in Mexico as the government of Brazil, (not to take examples
out of the American continent,) their earnest desires would have been
accomplished. It is therefore wrongfully that that party is the object of the
curses lavished upon it." This is plain speaking, indeed,—the Brazilian
government being one of the strongest monarchies in the world, and
deriving its strength from the fact that it seeks the good of its subjects. The
blindest republican who ever dreamed it was in the power of institutions to
"cause or cure" the ills of humanity must admit, that, if Bourbon rule in
Mexico could have produced results similar to those which have proceeded
from Braganza rule in Brazil, it would have been the best fortune that the
former country could have known, had Don Carlos or Don Francisco de
Paula been allowed to wear the imperial crown which was set up in 1822.
With less ability than Iturbide, either of those princes would have made a
better monarch than that adventurer. It is not so much intellect as influence
that makes a sovereign useful, the man being of far less consequence than
the institution. Even the case of Napoleon I. affords no exception to this
rule; for his dynasty and his empire fell with him, because they lacked the
stability which comes from prescription alone. Had Marlborough and
Eugene penetrated to Paris, as did Wellington and Blücher a century later,
they never would have thought of subverting the Bourbon line; but the
Bonaparte line was cut off as of course when its chief was defeated. The
first king may have been a fortunate soldier only, but it requires several
generations of royalty to give power to a reigning house, as in old times it
required several descents to give to a man the flavor of genuine nobility. If

it be objected to this, that it is an admission of the power which is claimed
for flunkeyism, we can only meet the charge by saying that there is much of
the flunkey in man, and that whoso shall endeavor to construct a
government without recognizing a truth which is universal, though not
great, will find that his structure can better be compared to the Syrian
flower than to the Syrian cedar. The age of Model Republics has passed
away even from dreams.
We have called the party in Mexico which represents a certain fixed
principle the clerical party; but we have done so more for the sake of
convenience, and from deference to ordinary usage, than because the words
accurately describe the Mexican reactionists. Conservative party would,
perhaps, be the better name; and the word conservative would not be any
more out of place in such a connection, or more perverted from its just
meaning, than it is in England and the United States. The clergy form, as it
were, the core of this party, and give to it a shape and consistency it could
not have without their alliance. Yet, if we can believe the Mexican already
quoted, and who is apparently well acquainted with the subject on which he
has sought to enlighten the English mind, the party that is opposed to the
Liberals is quite as much in favor of freedom as are the latter, and is utterly
hostile to either religious or political despotism. After objecting to the
course of those Mexicans who found a political pattern in the United States,
and showing the evils that have followed from their awkward imitation, he
says,—"No wonder, then, that some men, actuated by the love of their
country, convinced of the danger to Mexican nationality from such a state
of things, seeing clearly through all these American intrigues, and
determined to oppose them by all the means in their power, should have
formed long ago, and as soon as the first symptoms of anarchy and the
cause of them became apparent, the centre of a party, which, having
necessarily to combat the so-called 'Liberal party,' or, in other words, the
American army, is accused of being a retrograde, absolutist, clerical party,
bent on nothing but the reëstablishment of the Inquisition and the 'worst of
the worst times.' Nothing, however, is less true. That party contains in its
bosom the most enlightened and the most respectable part of the
community, men who have not as yet to learn the advantages and benefits
of civil and religious liberty, and who would be happy indeed to see liberty
established in their country; but liberty under the law, rational and wise

liberty, liberty compatible with order and tranquillity, liberty, in a word, for
good purposes,—not that savage, licentious, and tyrannical liberty, the
object of which is anarchy, so well answering the private ends of its
partisans, and, above all, the iniquitous views of an ambitious neighbor....
For the present, no doubt, their object is limited to obtain the triumph over
their enemies, who are the enemies of Mexico, and to put down anarchy, as
the first and most pressing want of the country, no matter under what form
of government or by what means. In pursuance of such an object, the clergy
naturally side with them; and hence, for those who are ignorant of the
bottom of things in Mexican affairs, the denomination given to this party of
'Clerical party' supported by military despotism; whereas the 'Anarchical
party' is favored with the name of 'Liberal Constitutional party.' It is,
however, easy to see that those two parties would be more exactly
designated, the one as the Mexican Party, the other as the American Party."
If this delineation of the Conservative party be a fair one,—as probably it is,
after making allowance for partisan coloring,—it is easy to see, that, while
the clergy are with it, they are not of it; and also, that it would be involved
in a quarrel with the priesthood in a week after it should have succeeded in
its contest with the Liberals. Where, then, would be the restoration of order,
of which this Mexican writer has so much to say? The clergy of Mexico are
too powerful to become the tools of any political organization. They use
politicians and parties,—are not used by them. The Conservative party,
therefore, is not the coming party, either for the clergy or for Mexico. It
answers the clergy's purpose of making it a shield against the Liberals,
whose palms itch to be at the property of the Church; but it never could
become their sword; and it is a sword, and a sharp and pointed one, firmly
held, that the clergy desire, and must have, if their end is to be achieved.
The defensive is not and cannot be their policy. They must rule or perish.
Hence the victory of the Conservatives would be the signal for the opening
of a new warfare, and the clergy would seek to found their power solidly on
the bodies of the men whom they had used to destroy the Liberals. They
have pursued one course for thirty-eight years, and will not be moved from
it by any appeals that shall be made to them in the name of order and of
law, appeals to which they have been utterly insensible when made by
Liberals. Indeed, they will not be able to see any difference between the two
parties, but will hate the Conservatives with most bitterness, because

standing more immediately in their way. A combat would be inevitable,
with the chance that the American Eagle would descend upon the
combatants and swoop them away.
If anarchy were a reason for the formation of a league in Mexico, composed
of all the conservative men of the country, it ought to have been formed
long ago. Anarchy was organized there with the Republic, and was made
much more permanent than Carnot made victory. Unequivocal evidences of
its existence became visible before the Constitution was in a condition to be
violated; and when that instrument was accepted, it appeared to have been
set up in order that politicians and parties might have something definite to
disregard. The first President was Guadalupe Victoria, an honest
Republican, whose name has become somewhat dimmed by time. With him
was associated Nicolas Bravo, as Vice-President. It was while Victoria was
President that the masonic parties appeared, known as the Scotch masons
and the York masons, or Escoceses and Yorkinos, which were nothing but
clubs of the Centralists and the Federalists. The President was of the
Yorkinos or Federalists, and the Vice-President was of the other lodge.
Bravo and his party were for such changes as should substitute a
constitutional monarchy, with a Spanish prince at its head, for the
Constitution of 1824. Bravo "pronounced" openly against Victoria,—a
proceeding of which the reader can form some idea by supposing Mr.
Breckinridge heading a rabble force to expel Mr. Buchanan from
Washington, for the purpose of calling in some member of the English royal
family to sit on an American throne. Through the aid of Guerrero, a man of
ability and integrity, and very popular, the Liberals triumphed in the field;
but Congress elected his competitor, Pedraza, President, though the people
were mostly for Guerrero. This was a most unfortunate circumstance, and to
its occurrence much of the evil that Mexico has known for thirty years may
be directly traced. Instead of submitting to the strictly legal choice of
President, made by the members of Congress, the Federalists set the open
example of revolting against the action of men who had performed their
duties according to the requirements of the Constitution. Guerrero was
violently made President. That the other party contemplated the destruction
of the Constitution is very probable; but the worst that they, its enemies,
could have done against it would have been a trifle in comparison with the
demoralizing consequences of the violation of that instrument by its friends.

Yet the Presidency of Guerrero will ever have honorable mention in history,
for one most excellent reason: Slavery was abolished by him on the
anniversary of Mexican independence, 1829, he deeming it proper to
signalize that anniversary "by an act of national justice and beneficence."
Will the time ever come when the Fourth of July shall have the same double
claim to the reverence of mankind?
Guerrero perished by the sword, as he had risen by it. The Vice-President,
Bustamente, revolted, and was aided by Santa Aña. His popularity was too
great to allow him to be spared, and when he was captured, Guerrero was
shot, in 1831. Of the many infamous acts of which Santa Aña has been
guilty, the murder of Guerrero is the worst. Possibly it would have ruined
him, but for his services against the Spaniards, at about the same time. He
was now the chief man in Mexico, and became President in 1833. The next
year he dissolved Congress, and established a military government. The
Constitution of 1824 was formally abolished in 1835, and a Central
Constitution was proclaimed the next year, by which the States were
converted into Departments. Santa Aña kept as much aloof from these
proceedings as he could, and sought to add to his popularity by attacking
Texas, where he reaped a plentiful crop of cypress.
The triumph of the Centralists was the turning-point in the fortunes of
Mexico, as it furnished a plausible pretext for American interference in her
affairs, the end of which is rapidly approaching. The Texan revolt had no
other justification than that which it derived from the overthrow of the
Federal Constitution; but that was ample, and, had it not been for the
introduction of slavery into Texas, the judgment of the civilized world
would have been entirely in favor of the Texans. In 1844, when our
Presidential election was made to turn upon the question of the annexation
of Texas to the United States, the grand argument of the annexationists was
drawn from the circumstance that the Mexicans had abrogated the Federal
Constitution, thereby releasing the Texans from their obligations to Mexico.
This was an argument to which Americans, and especially democrats, those
sworn foes of consolidation, were prone to lend a favorable ear; and it is
certain that it had much weight in promoting the election of Mr. Polk. Had
the Texan revolt been one of ambition merely, and not justifiable on
political grounds apart from the Slavery question, the decision might have
been different, if, indeed, the question had ever been introduced into the

politics of this country. The sagacious men who managed the affairs of the
Democratic party knew their business too well to attempt the extension of
slave-holding territory in the gross and palpable form that is common in
these shameless days. But Texas, as an injured party that had valiantly
sustained its constitutional rights, was a very different thing from a province
that had revolted against Mexico because forbidden by Mexican authority
to allow the existence of slavery within its borders. There was much
deception in the business, but there was sufficient truth and justice in the
argument used to deceive honest men who do not trouble themselves to
look beyond the surface of things. For more than twenty years our political
controversies have all been colored by the triumph of the Mexican
Centralists in 1835-6; and but for that triumph, it is altogether likely that
our territory would not have been increased, and that the Slavery question,
instead of absorbing the American mind, would have held but a subordinate
place in our party debates. It may, perhaps, be deemed worthy of especial
mention, that the action of the Centralists of Mexico, destined to affect us
so sensibly, was initiated at the same time that the modern phase of the
Slavery question was opened in the United States. The same year that saw
the Federal Constitution of Mexico abolished saw our government laboring
to destroy freedom of the press and the sanctity of the mails, by throwing its
influence in favor of the bill to prevent the circulation of "incendiary
publications," that is, publications drawn from the writings of Washington
and Jefferson; and the same year that witnessed the final effort of Santa Aña
to "subdue" Texas to Centralization beheld General Cushing declaring that
slavery should not be introduced into the North, thus "agitating" the
country, and winning for himself that Abolition support without which his
political career must have been cut short in the morning of its existence.
Such are the coincidences of history!
From the time of the victory of the Centralists until the commencement of
the war with the United States, Mexico was the scene of perpetual
disturbances. Mexia, a rash, but honest man, made an attempt to free his
country in 1838, but failed, being defeated and executed by Santa Aña, who
came from the retirement to which his Texan failure had consigned him, as
champion of the government. After some years of apparent anarchy, Santa
Aña became Dictator, and in 1843 a new Constitution, more centralizing in
its nature than its immediate predecessor, was framed under his direction.

At the beginning of 1845 he fell, and became an exile. His successor was
General Herrera, who was desirous to avoid war with the United States, on
which account he was violently opposed by Paredes, with success, the latter
usurping the Presidency. Aided by our government, Santa Aña returned to
Mexico, and infused new vigor into his countrymen. On his return, he
avowed himself a Federalist, and recommended a recurrence to the
Constitution of 1824, which was proclaimed. Paredes had fallen before a
"revolution," and was allowed to proceed to Europe. He was a monarchist,
and at that time the friends of monarchy in Mexico had some hopes of
success. It is believed that the governments of England and France were
desirous of establishing a Mexican monarchy, and their intervention in the
affairs of Mexico was feared by our government. Two things, however,
prevented their action, if ever they seriously contemplated armed
intervention. The first was the rapid success of our armies, coupled as it was
with the exhibition of a military spirit and capacity for which European
nations had not been prepared by anything in our previous history; and the
second was the potato-rot, which brought Great Britain to the verge of
famine, and broke up the Tory party. The ill feeling, too, that was created
between the English and French governments by the Montpensier marriage,
and the discontent of the French people, which led to the Revolution of
1848, were not without their effect on affairs. Had our government resolved
to seize all Mexico, it could have done so without encountering European
resistance in 1848, when there was not a stable Continental government of
the first class west of the Niemen, and when England was too much
occupied with home matters, and with the revolutions that were happening
all around her, to pay any regard to the course of events in the Occident. But
the Polk administration was not equal to the work that was before it; and
though members of the Democratic party did think of acting, and men of
property in Mexico were anxious for annexation, nothing was done. The
American forces left Mexico, and the old routine of weakness and disorder
was there resumed. Perhaps it would be better to say it was continued; for
the war had witnessed no intermission of the senseless proceedings of the
Mexican politicians. Their contests were waged as bitterly as they had been
while the country enjoyed external peace.
Several persons held the Presidential chair after the resignation of Herrera.
Organic changes were made. The clergy exhibited the same selfishness that

had characterized their action for five-and-twenty years. An Extraordinary
Constituent Congress confirmed the readoption of the Constitution of 1824,
making such slight changes as were deemed necessary. Santa Aña again
became President. Some of the States formed associations for defence,
acting independently of the general government. After the loss of the
capital, Santa Aña resigned the Presidency, and Peña y Peña succeeded him,
followed by Anaya; but the first soon returned to office. Peace was made,
and Santa Aña again went into exile. Herrera was chosen President, and for
more than two years devoted himself to the work of reformation, with
considerable success, though outbreaks and rebellions occurred in many
quarters. President Arista also showed himself to be a firm and patriotic
chief. But in 1852 a reaction took place, under favor of which Santa Aña
returned home and became President for the fifth time, and Arista was
banished. The government of Santa Aña was absolute in its character, and
much resembled that which Napoleon III. has established in France,—with
this difference, that it wanted that strength which is the chief merit of the
French imperial system. It encountered opposition of the usual form, from
time to time, until it was broken down, in August, 1855, when the President
left both office and the country, and has since resided abroad. The new
revolution favored Federalism. Alvarez was chosen President, but he was
too liberal for the Church party, being so unreasonable as to require that the
property of the Church should be taxed. Plots and conspiracies were formed
against him, and it being discovered that the climate of the capital did not
agree with him, he resigned, and was succeeded by General Comonfort.
Half a dozen leaders "pronounced" against Comonfort, one of them
announcing his purpose to establish an Empire. Government made head
against these attacks, and seized property belonging to the Church. Some
eminent Church officers were banished, for the part they had taken in
exciting insurrections. At the close of 1857, Comonfort made himself
Dictator; but the very men who urged him to the step became his enemies,
and he was deprived of power. Zuloaga, who was one of his advisers and
subsequent enemies, succeeded him, being chosen President by a Council
of Notables. Comonfort's measures for the confiscation of Church property
were repealed. The Constitution of 1857 placed the Presidential power in
the hands of the Chief Justice, on the resignation of the President, whence
the prominence of Juarez lately, he being Chief Justice when Comonfort
resigned. Assembling troops, he encountered Zuloaga, but was defeated.

The Juarez "government" then left the country, but shortly after returned.
Insurrections broke out in different places, and confusion reigned on all
sides. General Robles deposed Zuloaga, and made an honest effort to unite
the Liberals and Conservatives; but the Junta which he assembled elected
Miramon President, a new man, who had distinguished himself as a leader
of the Conservative forces. Miramon reinstated Zuloaga, but accepted the
Presidency on the latter's abdication, and has since been the principal
personage in Mexico, and, though he has experienced occasional reverses,
has far more power than Juarez. At the close of the year 1859, the greater
part of Mexico was either disposed to submit to the Miramon government,
or cared little for either Miramon or Juarez.
It is impossible to believe that the Juarez government is possessed of much
strength; and the gentleman who lately represented the United States in
Mexico (Mr. Forsyth) is of opinion that it is powerless. Nevertheless, our
government acknowledges that of Juarez, and has made itself a party to the
contests in Mexico. In his last Annual Message, President Buchanan
devotes much space to Mexican affairs, drawing a deplorable picture
thereof, and recommending armed intervention by the United States in
behalf of the Liberal party. "I recommend to Congress," says the President,
"to pass a law authorizing the President, under such conditions as they may
deem expedient, to employ a sufficient military force to enter Mexico for
the purpose of obtaining indemnity for the past and security for the future."
This force, should Congress respond favorably to the Presidential
recommendation, is to act in concert with the Juarez government, and to
"restore" it to power. In return for such aid, that government is to indemnify
the Americans, and to provide that no more Americans shall be wronged by
Mexican governments. Does the President believe this theory of Mexican
settlement will be accepted by the world? If yes, then is he a man of
marvellous faith, considering the uncommonly excellent opportunities he
has had to learn what the political settlements of Mexico really mean. If no,
then he has a meaning beneath his words, and that meaning is the conquest
of Mexico. We do not charge duplicity upon President Buchanan, but it is
vexatious and humiliating to be compelled to choose between such charge
and the belief of a degree of simplicity in him that would be astonishing in a
yearling politician, and which is astounding in a man who has held high
office for well-nigh forty years. Let us suppose that Congress should kindly

listen to President Buchanan's recommendation,—that a strong fleet and a
great army should be sent to the aid of the Juarez government, and should
establish it in the capital of Mexico, and then leave the country and the
coasts of "our sister Republic,"—what would follow? Why, exactly what we
have seen follow the Peace of 1848. The Juarez government could not be
stronger or more honest than was that of Herrera, or more anxious to effect
the rehabilitation of Mexico; yet Herrera's government had to encounter
rebellions, and outrages were common during its existence, and afterward,
when men of similar views held sway, or what passes for sway in "our sister
Republic." So would it be again, should we effect a "restoration" of the
Liberals. In a week after our last regiment should have returned home, there
would be rebellions for our allies to suppress. If they should succeed in
maintaining their power, it would be as the consequence of a violation of
their agreement with us; and where, then, would be the "indemnity" for
which we are to fight? If they should be overthrown, as probably would be
their fate, where would be the "security" for which we are to pay so highly
in blood and gold? It is useless to quote the treaty which the Juarez
government has just made with our government, as evidence of its liberality
and good faith. That treaty is of no more value than would be one between
the United States and the ex-king of Delhi. Nothing is more notorious than
the liberality of parties that are not in power. There is no stipulation to
which they will not assent, and violate, if their interest should be supposed
to lie in the direction of perjury. Have we, in the hour of our success, been
invariably true to the promises made in the hour of our necessities? A study
of the treaty we made with France in 1778, by the light of after years, would
be useful to men who think that a treaty made is an accomplished fact. The
people of the United States have to choose between the conquest of Mexico
and non-intervention in Mexican affairs. There may be something to be said
in favor of conquest, though the President's arguments in that direction—for
such they are, disguised though they be—remind us strongly of those which
were put forth in justification of the partition of Poland; but the policy of
intervention does not bear criticism for one moment. Either it is conquest
veiled, or it is a blunder, the chance to commit which is to be purchased at
an enormous price; and blunders are to be had for nothing, and without the
expenditure of life and money.

We had purposed speaking of the condition of Mexico, the character of her
population, and the probable effect of her absorption by the United States;
but the length to which our article has been drawn in the statement of
preliminary facts—a statement made necessary by the general disregard of
Mexican matters by most Americans—warns us to forbear. We may return
to the subject, should the action of Congress on the President's
recommendation lead to the placing of the Mexican question on the list of
those questions that must be decided by the event of the national election of
the current year.

REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES.
The Florence Stories. By Jacob Abbott. Florence and John. New York:
Sheldon & Co. 16mo. pp. 252.
Ernest Bracebridge, or Schoolboy Days. By W. H. G. Kingston. Boston:
Ticknor & Fields. 16mo. pp. 344.
How should a book for children be written?
Three rules will suffice. It should be written clearly and simply; for young
minds will spend little time in difficult investigation. It should have a good
moral. It should be interesting; or it will generally be left unread, and thus
any other excellence that it may possess will be useless. Some writers seem
to have a fourth rule,—that it should be instructive; but, really, it is no great
matter, if a child should have some books without wisdom. Moreover, this
maxim is eminently perilous in its practical application, and, indeed, is
seldom followed but at the expense of the other three.
To these three rules all writers of children's books profess to conform; yet a
good book for children is a rarity; for, simple as the rules are, they are very
little understood. While all admit that the style should be simple and
familiar, some appear to think that anything simple to them will be equally
simple to their child-readers, and write as nearly as possible in the style of
"The Rambler." Such a book is "The Percy Family," whose author is guilty
of an additional impropriety in putting his ponderous sentences into the
mouth of a child not ten years old. Another and more numerous class,
evidently piquing themselves not a little upon avoiding this error, fall into
another by fancying it necessary to write down to their young readers. They
explain everything with a tiresome minuteness of detail, although any
observer of children ought to know that a child's mind does not want
everything explained. They think that simplicity demands this lengthy
discussion of every trivial matter. There is such a thing as a conceited
simplicity, and there is a technical simplicity, that in its barrenness and
insipidity is worthy only of a simpleton. In Jacob Abbott's "Juveniles"

especially, by means of this minuteness, a very scanty stock of ideas is
made to go a great way. Does simplicity require such trash as this?

"The place was known by the name of the Octagon. The reason
why it was called by this name was, that the principal sitting-
room in the house was built in the form of an octagon, that is,
instead of having four sides, as a room usually has, this room
had eight sides. An octagon is a figure of eight sides.
"A figure of four sides is called a square. A figure of five sides is
called a pentagon, of six sides a hexagon, of eight sides an
octagon. There might be a figure of seven sides, but it would not
be very easily made, and it would not be very pretty when it was
made, and so it is seldom used or spoken of. But octagons and
hexagons are very common, for they are easily made, and they
are very regular and symmetrical in form."
The object of all this is, doubtless, to impart valuable information. But
while such slipshod writing is singularly uninteresting, it may also be
censured as inaccurate. Mr. Abbott seems to think all polygons necessarily
regular. Any child can make a heptagon at once, notwithstanding Mr.
Abbott calls it so difficult. A regular heptagon, indeed, is another matter.
Then what does he mean by saying octagons and hexagons are very
regular? A regular octagon is regular, though an octagon in general is no
more regular than any other figure. But Mr. Abbott continues:—
"If you wish to see exactly what the form of an octagon is, you
can make one in this way. First cut out a piece of paper in the
form of a square. This square will, of course, have four sides and
four corners. Now, if you cut off the four corners, you will have
four new sides, for at every place where you cut off a corner you
will have a new side. These four new sides, together with the
parts of the old sides that are left, will make eight sides, and so
you will have an octagon.
"If you wish your octagon to be regular, you must be careful
how much you cut off at each corner. If you cut off too little, the
new sides which you make will not be so long as what remains
of the old ones. If you cut off too much, they will be longer. You
had better cut off a little at first from each corner, all around,
and then compare the new sides with what is left of the old ones.

You can then cut off a little more, and so on, until you make
your octagon nearly regular.
"There are other much more exact modes of making octagons
than this, but I cannot stop to describe them here."
Must we have no more pennyworths of sense to such a monstrous quantity
of verbiage than Mr. Abbott gives us here? We would defy any man to
parody that. He could teach the penny-a-liners a trick of the trade worth
knowing. The great Chrononhotonthologos, crying,

"Go call a coach, and let a coach be called,
And let the man that calleth be the caller,
And when he calleth, let him nothing call
But 'Coach! coach! coach! Oh, for a coach, ye gods!'"

is comparatively a very Spartan for brevity. This may be a cheap way of
writing books; but the books are a dear bargain to the buyer.
A book is not necessarily ill adapted to a child because its ideas and
expressions are over his head. Some books, that were not written for
children and would shock all Mr. Abbott's most dearly cherished ideas, are
still excellent reading for them. Walter Scott's poems and novels will please
an intelligent child. Cooper's Leatherstocking tales will not be read by the
lad of fourteen more eagerly than by his little sister who cannot understand
half of them. A child fond of reading can have no more delightful book than
the "Faërie Queene," unless it be the "Arabian Nights," which was not
written as a "juvenile." There are pages by the score in "Robinson Crusoe"
that a child cannot understand,—and it is all the better reading for him on
that account. A child has a comfort in unintelligible words that few men can
understand. Homer's "Iliad" is good reading, though only a small part may
be comprehended. (We are not, however, so much in favor of mystery as to
recommend the original Greek.) Do our children of the year 1860 ever read
a book called "The Pilgrim's Progress"? Hawthorne's "Wonder-Book" is
good for children, though better for adults.
Then look at our second rule. What, after all, constitutes a "good moral"?
We say that no book has a good moral which teaches a child that goodness
and effeminacy, laziness and virtue, are convertible terms; no book is good

that is "goody," no book is moral that moralizes. The intention may be
good, but the teaching is not. Have as much as you will of poetical justice,
but beware of making your books mere vehicles for conveying maxims of
propriety. You cannot so deceive a child. You may talk at him, while
pretending to tell him a story, but he will soon be shy of you. He has
learned by bitter experience too much of the falseness of this world, and has
been too often beguiled by sugared pills, to be slow in detecting the sugared
pills of your literature,—especially, O Jacob Abbott! when the pills have so
little, so very little, sugar.
Our notion of a good moral is a strong, breezy, open-air moral, one that
teaches courage, and therefore truth. These are the most important things
for a child to know, and a book which teaches these alone is moral enough.
And these can be taught without offending the mind of the young reader,
however keenly suspicious. But if you wish to teach gentleness and
kindness as well, let them be shown in your story by some noisy boy who
can climb trees, or some active, merry, hoydenish girl who can run like
Atalanta; and don't imply a falsehood by attributing them always to the
quiet children.
Mr. Abbott's books have spoiled our children's books, and have done their
best to spoil our children, too. There is no fresh, manly life in his stories;
anything of the kind is sourly frowned down. Rollo, while strolling along,
picturesquely, perhaps, but stupidly, sees A Noisy Boy, and is warned by his
insufferable father to keep out of that boy's way. That Noisy Boy infallibly
turns out vicious. Is that sound doctrine? Will that teach a child to admire
courage and activity? If he is ever able to appreciate the swing and vigor of
Macaulay's Lays, it will not be because you trained him on such lyrics as

"In the winter, when 'tis mild,
We may run, but not be wild;
But in summer, we must walk,
And improve our time by talk" (!)

but because that Noisy Boy found him out,—and, quarrelling with him,
(your boy, marvellous to relate! having provoked the quarrel by some mean
trick, in spite of his seraphic training,) gave him a black eye,—and
afterwards, turning out to be the best-hearted Noisy Boy in the world,

taught him to climb trees and hunt for birds' nests,—and stopped him when
he was going to kill the little birds, (for your pattern boy—poor child! how
could he help it?—was as cruel as he was timid,)—and imparted to him the
sublime mysteries of base-ball and tag and hockey,—and taught him to
swim and row, and to fight bigger boys and leave smaller boys in peace,
instructions which he was at first inclined to reverse,—and put him in the
way to be an honest, fearless man, when he was in danger of becoming a
white-faced and white-livered spooney. And that Noisy Boy himself,
perversely declining to verify Mr. Abbott's decorous prophecies, has not
turned out badly, after all, but has Reverend before his name and reverence
in his heart, and has his theology sound because his lungs are so. No doubt,
Tom Jones often turns out badly, but Master Blifil always does,—a fact
which Mr. Abbott would do well to note and perpend.
What! Because Rollo is virtuous, shall there be no more mud-cakes and ale?
Marry, but there shall! Don't keep a boy out of his share of free movement
and free air, and don't keep a girl out. Poor little child! she will be dieted
soon enough on "stewed prunes." Children need air and water,—milk and
water won't do. They are longing for our common mother earth, in the dear,
familiar form of dirt; and it is no matter how much dirt they get on them, if
they only have water enough to wash it off. The more they are allowed to
eat literal dirt now, the less metaphorical dirt will they eat a few years
hence. The great Free-Soil principle is good for their hearts, if not for their
clothes; and which is it more important to have clean? Just make up your
mind to let the clothes go; and if you can't afford to have your children soil
and tear their laced pantalets and plumed hats and open-work stockings,
why, take off all those devices of the enemy, and substitute stout cloth and
stout boots. What have they to do with open-work stockings?

"Doff them for shame,
And hang a calf-skin on those recreant limbs."

Believe now, instead of learning by sad experience, that tin trumpets and
torn clothes do not necessarily signify depravity, and that quiet children are
not always free from deceit, cruelty, and meanness. The quiet, ideal child,
of whom Mr. Abbott thinks so highly, generally proves, in real life, neither
more nor less than a prig. He is more likely to die than live; and if he lives,
you may wish he had died.

These models not only check a child's spirit, but tend to make him
dishonest. Ask a child now what he thinks, and, ten to one, he mentally
refers to some eminent exemplar of all the virtues for instructions, and,
instead of telling you what he does think, quotes listlessly what he ought to
think. So that his mincing affectation is not merely ungraceful, but is a sign
of an inward taint, which may prove fatal to the whole character. It is very
easy to make a child disingenuous; if he be at all timid, the work is already
half done to one's hand. Of course, all children are not bad who are brought
up on such books,—one circumstance or another may counteract their
hurtful tendency,—but the tendency is no less evident, nor is it a vindication
of any system to prove that some are good in its despite.
Again, the popularity of these tame, spiritless books is no conclusive
evidence of their merit. The poor children are given nothing else to read,
and, of course, they take what they can get as better than nothing. An eager
child, fond of reading, will read the shipping intelligence in a newspaper, if
there be nothing else at hand. Does that show that he is properly supplied
with reading matter? They will read these books; but they would read better
books with more pleasure and more profit.
For our third rule, let our children's stories have no lack of incident and
adventure. That will redeem any number of faults. Thus, Marryatt's stories,
and Mayne Reid's, although in many respects open to censure and ridicule,
are very popular, and deserve to be. The books first put into a child's hands
are right enough, for they are vivid. Whether the letter A be associated in
our infant minds with the impressive moral of "In Adam's fall We sinned
all," or gave us a foretaste of the Apollo in "A was an Archer, and shot at a
Frog,"—in either case, the story is a plainly told incident, (carefully
observing the unities,) which the child's fancy can embellish for itself, and
the whole has an additional charm from the gorgeous coloring of an
accompanying picture. The vividness is good, and is the only thing that is
good. Why, then, should this one merit be omitted, as our children grow a
little older? A lifeless moral will not school a child into propriety. If a twig
be unreasonably bent, it is very likely to struggle in quite a different
direction, especially if in so doing it struggle towards the light. There is
much truth in a blundering version of the old Scriptural maxim, "Chain up a
child, and away he will go." If you want to do any good by your books,
make them interesting.

And with reference to all three rules, remember that they are to be
interpreted by the light of common sense, and you will hardly need the
following remarks:—
It is alike uncomfortable and useless to a child to be perpetually waylaid by
a moral. A child reading "The Pilgrim's Progress" will omit the occasional
explanations of the allegory or resolutely ignore their meaning. If you want
to keep a poor child on such dry food, don't mistake your own reason for
doing so. It may be eminently proper, but it is very uncomfortable to him. If
you want children to enjoy themselves, let them run about freely, and don't
put them into a ring, in picturesque attitudes, and then throw bouquets of
flowers at them. But, if you will do so, confess it is not for their
gratification, but for your own.
If you choose to try the dangerous experiment of writing "instructive"
stories, beware of defeating your own object. You write a story rather than a
treatise, because information is often more effective when indirectly
conveyed. Clearly, then, if you convey your information too directly, you
lose all this advantage.
Perfection is as intolerable in these as in any other stories. We all want,
especially children, some amiable weaknesses to sympathize with. Thus, in
"Ernest Bracebridge," an English story of school-life, the hero is a
dreadfully unpleasant boy who is always successful and always right, and
we are soon heartily weary of him. Besides, he is a horrible boy for mastery
of all the arts and sciences, and delivers brief and epigrammatic discourses,
being about twelve years old. However, the book is full of adventure and
out-door games, and so far is good.
After all, a child does not need many books. If, however, we are to have
them, we may as well have good ones. There is no reason why dulness
should be diverted from its legitimate channels into the writing of children's
books. Let us disabuse ourselves of the idea that these are the easiest books
to write. Let us remember that the alphabet is harder to teach than the Greek
Drama, and no longer think that the proper man to write children's books is
the man who is able to write nothing else.
The Simplicity of Christ's Teachings, set forth in Sermons. By Charles T.
Brooks, Pastor of the Unitarian Church, Newport, R. I. Boston: Crosby,

Nichols, & Co. 1859. 16mo. pp. 342.
The name of the author of this volume has long been known as that of an
accomplished man of letters. Successive volumes of poetic versions, chiefly
from the German, had, by their various merit, gained for him a high rank
among our translators, when four years ago, in 1856, by a translation of
"Faust," he set himself at the head of living authors in this department of
literature. It is little to say of his work, that it is the best of the numerous
English renderings of Goethe's tragedy. It is not extravagant to assert that a
better translation is scarcely possible. It is a work which combines
extraordinary fidelity to the form of the original with true appreciation of its
spirit. It is at once literal and free, and displays in its execution the qualities
both of exact scholarship and of poetic feeling and capacity.
This work, and the others of a similar kind which preceded it, were the
result of the intervals of leisure occurring in the course of their author's
professional life as a clergyman. While the wider world has known him
only through these volumes, a smaller circle has long known and loved him
as the faithful and able preacher and pastor,—as one to whom the most
beautiful description ever written of the character of a good parson might be
truly applied; for

"A good man he was of religioun,
That was a poure Persone of a toun:
But riche he was of holy thought and werk;
He was also a lerned man, a clerk,
That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche,
His parishens devoutly wolde he teche.

* * * *

And Cristes lore and his apostles' twelve
He taught, but first he folwed it himselve."

And it is in this character that he now comes before us in the volume which
is well entitled "The Simplicity of Christ's Teachings."
It is a misfortune that the qualities which distinguish most published
sermons are not such as to recommend them on the score of literary merit.

The volumes of religious discourses which are worthy to hold a place in
literature, when judged by the usual critical standard, are very few. A very
large proportion of those which are continually appearing from the press
deserve no remembrance, and fortunately have no permanence. They are
addressed to a special class of readers,—a class generally neither of highly
cultivated taste, nor of acute critical perception. Their writers are rarely men
of sufficient talent to win for themselves recognition out of their own
narrow set. What in the slang of the day are called "sensation" sermons are
no exception to the common rule. Their momentary effect, depending upon
exaggeration and extravagance, is no indication of worth. We should no
more think of criticizing them in a literary journal, than of criticizing the
novels of Mr. Cobb or Mr. Reynolds. Some of the causes of the poverty of
thought and of the negligence of style of average sermons are obvious. The
very interest and importance of the subjects with which the preacher has to
deal oftentimes serve to deaden rather than to excite the mind of one who
takes them up in the formal round of duty. The pretensions of the clergy of
many sects, pretensions as readily acknowledged as made, save them from
the necessity of intellectual exertion. The frequent recurrence of the
necessity of writing, whether they have anything to say or not, leads them
into substituting words for thoughts, platitudes for truths. The natural
weariness of long-continued solitary professional labor brings mental
lassitude and feebleness. The absence of the fear of close and watchful
criticism prevents them from bestowing suitable pains upon their
composition. These and other causes combine to make the mass of the
writing which is delivered from the pulpit poorer than any other which
passes current in the world,—perhaps, indeed, not poorer in an absolute
sense, but poorer when compared with the nature of the subjects that it
treats. It is by no means, however, to be inferred, that, because a sermon is
totally without merit as a work of literature, it is incapable of producing
some good in those who listen to it. On the contrary, such is the frame of
mind of many who regularly attend church, that they are not unlikely to
derive good from a performance which, if weak, may yet be sincere, and
which deals with the highest truths, even if it deal with them in an imperfect
and unsatisfactory manner. And, indeed, as George Herbert says, good may
be got from the worst preaching; for,

"if all want sense,

God takes the text, and preacheth patience."
Unquestionably, however, there is too much preaching in these days; too
many sermons are written, and the spirit of Christianity is less effective than
if the words concerning it were less numerous.
It is a rare satisfaction, therefore, to find such a volume of sermons as that
of Mr. Brooks, which, though not possessing the highest merit in point of
style, are the discourses of a thoughtful and cultivated man, with a peculiar
spiritual refinement, and with a devout intellect, made clear by its
combination with purity of heart and simplicity of faith. The religious
questions which are chiefly stirring the minds of men are taken up in them
and discussed with what may be called an earnest moderation, with
elevation of feeling and insight of spirit.
Goethe's Correspondence with a Child. Boston: Ticknor & Fields. 1859.
The immediate cause of the republication of these letters is the recent death
of Bettina, the child with whom Goethe corresponded. Though this fact, and
the beauty of the volume, may quicken the sale of the work, and draw out
fresh encomiums on its excellence, it has long since passed the critical crisis
and taken its place as one of the most remarkable series of letters which the
public have ever been invited to peruse. Something of the marvellous
vanishes from them, however, when we find that the title, "Correspondence
with a Child," is a misnomer; Bettina having been, in truth, twenty-two
years of age when she first visited Goethe. Yet while this important
circumstance abates much of the wonder with which we once read her
thoughts and confessions, they really become all the more valuable as
studies in human nature when we learn that they are the exhalations of a
heart in full flower, and one upon which the dews of morning should not
linger. The poet had reached the age of sixty when this tide of tender
sentiment, original ideas, and enthusiastic admiration began to flow in upon
him. Their first interview, as Bettina describes it, with singular freedom, in
one of the letters to Goethe's mother, will be found a useful key, though
perhaps not a complete one, by which to interpret the glowing passion
which gushed from her pen. That the poet was pleased with the homage of
this sweet, graceful, and affectionate girl, and drew her on to the revealing
of her whole nature, is readily perceived. But when we inquire, To what

end? we should remember, that, like Parrhasius, Goethe was before all
things an artist; and furthermore, the correspondence of time will show that
from this crowning knowledge the "Elective Affinities" sprang. It may be
that her admiration was for his genius alone; if so, she chose love's
language for its wealth of expression. Were it so received, it could not but
be regarded as a peerless offering, for she was certainly a kindred spirit.
There are many rare thoughts and profound confessions in these letters,
which would have commanded the praise of Goethe, had they been written
by a rival; and coming, as they did, from a devotee who declared that she
drew her inspiration from him alone, they must have filled his soul with
incense, of which that burned by the priest in the temple of the gods is only
an emblem. To be brief and compendious on this book, it appears to be a
heart unveiled. German critics throw some doubts on the literal veracity of
the book; but it belongs at any rate to the better class of the ben trovati, and
among its leaves, the dreamer, the lover, and the poet will find that
ambrosial fruit on which fancy loves to feed, but whose blossoms are so
generally blasted by the common air that only the few favored ones have
had their longings for it appeased. In imagination, at least, Bettina partook
of this banquet, and had the genius to wreak on words the emotions which
swept through her heart.
Sir Rohan's Ghost. A Romance. Boston: J. E. Tilton & Company. 1860. pp.
352.
It is very plain that we have got a new poet,—a tremendous responsibility
both for him who will have to learn how to carry the brimming vase of Art
from the Pierian spring without squandering a drop, and for us critics who
are to reconcile ourselves to what is new in him, and to hold him strictly to
that apprenticeship to the old which is the condition of mastery at last.
Criticism in America has reached something like the state of the old
Continental currency. There is no honest relation between the promises we
make and the specie basis of meaning they profess to represent. "The most
extraordinary book of the age" is published every week; "genius" springs up
like mullein, wherever the soil is thin enough; the yearly catch of "weird
imagination," "thrilling pathos," "splendid description," and "sublime
imagery" does not fall short of an ordinary mackerel-crop; and "profound
originality" is so plenty that one not in the secret would be apt to take it for

commonplace. Now Tithonus, whom, as the oldest inhabitant, we have
engaged to oversee the criticism of the "Atlantic," has a prodigiously long
memory,—almost as long as one of Dickens's descriptive passages,—he
remembers perfectly well all the promising young fellows from Orpheus
down, and has made a notch on the stalk of a devil's-apron for every one
who ever came to anything that was of more consequence to the world than
to himself. His tally has not yet mounted to a baker's dozen. Accordingly,
when a young enthusiast rushes to tell Tithonus that a surprising genius has
turned up, that venerable and cautious being either puts his hand behind his
ear and absconds into an extemporary deafness, or says dryly, "American
kind, I suppose?" This coolness of our wary senior is infectious, and we
confess ourselves so far disenchanted by it, that, when we go into a library,
the lettering on the backs of nine-tenths of the volumes contrives to shape
itself into a laconic Hic jacet.
It is of prime necessity to bring back the currency of criticism to the old
hard-money basis. We have been gradually losing all sense of the true
relation between words and things,—the surest symptom of intellectual
decline. And this looseness of criticism reacts in the most damaging way
upon literature by continually debasing the standard, and by confounding all
distinction between fame and notoriety. Ought it to be gratifying to the
author of "Popular Sovereignty, a Poem in Twelve Cantos," to be called the
most remarkable man of the age, when he knows that he shares that
preëminence with Mr. Tupper, nay, with half the names in the Directory?
Indiscriminate eulogy is the subtlest form of depreciation, for it makes all
praise suspicious.
We look upon artistic genius as the rarest and most wayward apparition
among mankind. It cannot be predicated upon any of Mr. Buckle's averages.
Given the census, you may, perhaps, say so many murders, so many
suicides, so many misdirected letters (and men of letters), but not so many
geniuses. In this one thing old Mother Nature will be whimsical and
womanish. This is a gift that John Bull, or Johnny Crapaud, or Brother
Jonathan does not find in his stocking every Christmas. Crude imagination
is common enough,—every hypochondriac has a more than Shakspearian
allowance of it; fancy is cheap, or nobody would dream; eloquence sits ten
deep on every platform. But genius in Art is that supreme organizing and
idealizing faculty which, by combining, arranging, modulating, by

suppressing the abnormal and perpetuating the essential, apes creation,—
which from the shapeless terror or tipsy fancy of the benighted ploughman
can conjure the sisters of Fores heath and the court of Titania,—which can
make language thunder or coo at will,—which, in short, is the ruler of those
qualities any one of which in excess is sure to overmaster the ordinary
mind, and which can crystallize helpless vagary into the clearly outlined
and imperishable forms of Art.
It is not, therefore, from any grudging incapacity to appreciate new authors,
but from a strong feeling that we are to guard the graves of the dead from
encroachment, and their fames from vulgarization, that the "Atlantic" has
been and will be sparing in its use of the word genius. One may safely
predicate power, nicety of thought and language, a clear eye for scenery and
character, and grace of poetic conception of a book, without being willing
to say that it gives proof of genius. For genius is the shaping faculty, the
power of using material in the best way, and may not work itself clear of the
besetting temptation of personal gifts and of circumstances in a first or even
second work. It is something capable of education and accomplishment, and
the patience with which it submits itself to this needful schooling and self-
abnegation is one of the surest tests of its actual possession. Could even
Shakspeare's poems and earlier plays come before us for judgment, we
could only say of them, as of Keats's "Endymion," that they showed
affluence, but made no sure prophecy of that artistic self-possession without
which plenty is but confusion and incumbrance.
So much by way of preface, lest we might seem cold to the very remarkable
merits of "Sir Rohan's Ghost," if we treated it as a book worth finding fault
with, instead of condemning it to the indifferent limbo of general eulogy. It
is our deliberate judgment that no first volume by any author has ever been
published in America showing more undoubtful symptoms of genuine
poetic power than this. There are passages in it where imagination and
language combine in the most artistic completeness, and the first quatrain of
the song which Sir Rohan fancies he hears,—

——"In a summer twilight,
While yet the dew was hoar,
I went plucking purple pansies
Till my love should come to shore,"—

seems to us absolutely perfect in its simplicity and suggestiveness. It has
that wayward and seemingly accidental just-right-ness that is so delightful
in old ballads. The hesitating cadence of the third line is impregnated with
the very mood of the singer, and lingers like the action it pictures. All those
passages in the book, too, where the symptoms of Sir Rohan's possession by
his diseased memory are handled, where we see all outward nature but as
wax to the plastic will of imagination, are to the utmost well-conceived and
carried out. It was part of the necessity of the case that the book should be
conjectural and metaphysical, for it is plain that the author is young and has
little experience of the actual. Accordingly, with a true instinct, she (for the
newspapers ascribe the authorship of the book to Miss Prescott) calls her
story a Romance, thus absolving it from any cumbersome allegiance to fact,
and lays the scene of it in England, where she can have old castles, old
traditions, old families, old servants, and all the other olds so essential to
the young writer, ready to her hand.
We like the book better for being in the main subjective (to use the
convenient word Mr. Ruskin is so angry with); for a young writer can only
follow the German plan of conjuring things up "from the depths of his
inward consciousness." The moment our author quits this sure ground, her
touch becomes uncertain and her colors inharmonious. Character-painting is
unessential to a romance, belonging as it does properly to the novel of
actual life, in which the romantic element is equally out of place. Fielding,
accordingly, the greatest artist in character since Shakspeare, hardly admits
sentiment, and never romance, into his master-pieces. Hawthorne, again,
another great master, feeling instinctively the poverty and want of sharp
contrast in the externals of our New England life, always shades off the
edges of the actual, till, at some indefinable line, they meet and mingle with
the supersensual and imaginative.
The author of "Sir Rohan" attempts character in Redruth the butler, and in
the villain and heroine of her story. We are inclined to think the villain the
best hit of the three, because he is downright scoundrel without a redeeming
point, as the Nemesis of the story required him to be, and because he is so
far a purely ideal character. But there is no such thing possible as an ideal
butler, at least in the sense our author assumes in the cellar-scene. The
better poet, the worse butler; and so we are made impatient by his more
than Redi-isms about wine, full of fancy as they are in themselves, because

they are an impertinence. For the same reason, we forgive the heroine her
rhapsodies about the figures of the Arthur-romances, but cannot pardon her
descents into real life and her incursions on what should be the sanctuary of
the breakfast-table. The author attributes to her a dash of gypsy blood; and
if her style of humorous conversation be a fair type of that of the race in
general, we no longer wonder that they are homeless exiles from human
society. When will men learn the true nature of a pun,—that it is a play
upon ideas, and not upon sounds,—and that a perfect one is as rare as a
perfect poem?
In the prose "Edda," the dwarfs tell a monstrous fib, when they pretend that
Kvasir, the inventor of poetry, has been suffocated by his own wisdom.
Nevertheless, the little fellows showed thereby that they were not short of
intelligence; for it is almost always in their own overflow that young poets
are drowned. This superabundance seems to us the chief defect in "Sir
Rohan's Ghost." The superabundance is all very fine, of the costliest kind;
but was Clarence any the better for being done to death in Malmsey instead
of water?
This fault we look on as a fault of promise. There is always a chance that
luxuriance may be pruned, but none short of a miracle that a broomstick
may be made to blossom. There is, however, one absolute, and not relative
fault in the book, which we find it harder to forgive, since it is one of
instinct rather than of Art. The author seems to us prone to confound the
terrible, (the only true subject of Art) with the horrible. The one rouses
moral terror or aversion, the other only physical disgust. This is one of the
worst effects of the modern French school upon literature, the inevitable
result of its degrading the sensuous into the sensual.
We have found all the fault we could with this volume, because we
sincerely think that the author of it is destined for great things, and that she
owes it to the rare gift she has been endowed with to do nothing
inconsiderately, and by honest self-culture to raise natural qualities to
conscious and beneficent powers.

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