Madam, our bright-eyed little goat has, by this time, settled himself

calmly on the grass; and I see, near at hand, the shady groves where

King Tommy is wont to lead Mrs. A. and myself in his summer wanderings.

Let me hope that all our bonds may be those which hold us fast to peace,

content, and virtue; and that, when the silver cord which holds us here

to earth shall be loosed, we then on sweeping pinions may arise, pure

and untrammelled, into cloudless skies.

GIOTTO'S TOWER.

How many lives, made beautiful and sweet

By self-devotion and by self-restraint,--

Whose pleasure is to run without complaint

On unknown errands of the Paraclete,--

Wanting the reverence of unshodden feet,

Fail of the nimbus which the artists paint

Around the shining forehead of the saint,

And are in their completeness incomplete.

In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto's tower,

The lily of Florence blossoming in stone,--

A vision, a delight, and a desire,--

The builder's perfect and centennial flower,

That in the night of ages bloomed alone,

But wanting still the glory of the spire.

PASSAGES FROM HAWTHORNE'S NOTE-BOOKS.

VI.

Brook Farm, _Oct. 9, 1841._--A walk this afternoon to Cow Island. The

clouds had broken away towards noon, and let forth a few sunbeams, and

more and more blue sky ventured to appear, till at last it was really

warm and sunny,--indeed, rather too warm in the sheltered hollows,

though it is delightful to be too warm now, after so much stormy

chillness. O the beauty of grassy slopes, and the hollow ways of paths

winding between hills, and the intervals between the road and wood-lots,

where summer lingers and sits down, strewing dandelions of gold, and

blue asters, as her parting gifts and memorials! I went to a grape-vine,

which I have already visited several times, and found some clusters of

grapes still remaining, and now perfectly ripe. Coming within view of

the river, I saw several wild ducks under the shadow of the opposite

shore, which was high, and covered with a grove of pines. I should not

have discovered the ducks had they not risen and skimmed the surface of

the glassy stream, breaking its dark water with a bright streak, and,

sweeping round, gradually rose high enough to fly away. I likewise

started a partridge just within the verge of the woods, and in another

place a large squirrel ran across the wood-path from one shelter of

trees to the other. Small birds, in flocks, were flitting about the

fields, seeking and finding I know not what sort of food. There were

little fish, also, darting in shoals through the pools and depths of the

brooks, which are now replenished to their brims, and rush towards the

river with a swift, amber-colored current.

Cow Island is not an island,--at least, at this season,--though, I

believe, in the time of freshets, the marshy Charles floods the meadows

all round about it, and extends across its communication with the

mainland. The path to it is a very secluded one, threading a wood of

pines, and just wide enough to admit the loads of meadow hay which are

drawn from the splashy shore of the river. The island has a growth of

stately pines, with tall and ponderous stems, standing at distance

enough to admit the eye to travel far among them; and, as there is no

underbrush, the effect is somewhat like looking among the pillars of a

church.

I returned home by the high-road. On my right, separated from the road

by a level field, perhaps fifty yards across, was a range of young

forest-trees, dressed in their garb of autumnal glory. The sun shone

directly upon them; and sunlight is like the breath of life to the pomp

of autumn. In its absence, one doubts whether there be any truth in what

poets have told about the splendor of an American autumn; but when this

charm is added, one feels that the effect is beyond description. As I

beheld it to-day, there was nothing dazzling; it was gentle and mild,

though brilliant and diversified, and had a most quiet and pensive

influence. And yet there were some trees that seemed really made of

sunshine, and others were of a sunny red, and the whole picture was

painted with but little relief of darksome hues,--only a few evergreens.

But there was nothing inharmonious; and, on closer examination, it

appeared that all the tints had a relationship among themselves. And

this, I suppose, is the reason that, while Nature seems to scatter them

so carelessly, they still never shock the beholder by their contrasts,

nor disturb, but only soothe. The brilliant scarlet and the brilliant

yellow are different hues of the maple-leaves, and the first changes

into the last. I saw one maple-tree, its centre yellow as gold, set in a

framework of red. The native poplars have different shades of green,

verging towards yellow, and are very cheerful in the sunshine. Most of

the oak-leaves have still the deep verdure of summer; but where a change

has taken place, it is into a russet-red, warm, but sober. These colors,

infinitely varied by the progress which different trees have made in

their decay, constitute almost the whole glory of autumnal woods; but it

is impossible to conceive how much is done with such scanty materials.

In my whole walk I saw only one man, and he was at a distance, in the

obscurity of the trees. He had a horse and a wagon, and was getting a

load of dry brush-wood.

* * * * *

_Sunday, October 10._--I visited my grape-vine this afternoon, and ate

the last of its clusters. This vine climbs around a young maple-tree,

which has now assumed the yellow leaf. The leaves of the vine are more

decayed than those of the maple. Thence to Cow Island, a solemn and

thoughtful walk. Returned by another path, of the width of a wagon,

passing through a grove of hard wood, the lightsome hues of which make

the walk more cheerful than among the pines. The roots of oaks emerged

from the soil, and contorted themselves across the path. The sunlight,

also, broke across in spots, and otherwheres the shadow was deep; but

still there was intermingling enough of bright hues to keep off the

gloom from the whole path.

Brooks and pools have a peculiar aspect at this season. One knows that

the water must be cold, and one shivers a little at the sight of it; and

yet the grass about the pool may be of the deepest green, and the sun

may be shining into it. The withered leaves which overhanging trees shed

upon its surface contribute much to the effect.

Insects have mostly vanished in the fields and woods. I hear locusts

yet, singing in the sunny hours, and crickets have not yet finished

their song. Once in a while I see a caterpillar,--this afternoon, for

instance, a red, hairy one, with black head and tail. They do not appear

to be active, and it makes one rather melancholy to look at them.

* * * * *

_Tuesday, October 12._--The cawing of the crow resounds among the woods.

A sentinel is aware of your approach a great way off, and gives the

alarm to his comrades loudly and eagerly,--Caw, caw, caw! Immediately

the whole conclave replies, and you behold them rising above the trees,

flapping darkly, and winging their way to deeper solitudes. Sometimes,

however, they remain till you come near enough to discern their sable

gravity of aspect, each occupying a separate bough, or perhaps the

blasted tip-top of a pine. As you approach, one after another, with loud

cawing, flaps his wings and throws himself upon the air.

There is hardly a more striking feature in the landscape now-a-days than

the red patches of blueberry and whortleberry bushes, as seen on a

sloping hillside, like islands among the grass, with trees growing in

them; or crowning the summit of a bare, brown hill with their somewhat

russet liveliness; or circling round the base of an earth-embedded rock.

At a distance, this hue, clothing spots and patches of the earth, looks

more like a picture than anything else,--yet such a picture as I never

saw painted.

The oaks are now beginning to look sere, and their leaves have withered

borders. It is pleasant to notice the wide circle of greener grass

beneath the circumference of an overshadowing oak. Passing an orchard,

one hears an uneasy rustling in the trees, and not as if they were

struggling with the wind. Scattered about are barrels to contain the

gathered apples; and perhaps a great heap of golden or scarlet apples is

collected in one place.

* * * * *

_Wednesday, October 13._--A good view, from an upland swell of our

pasture, across the valley of the river Charles. There is the meadow, as

level as a floor, and carpeted with green, perhaps two miles from the

rising ground on this side of the river to that on the opposite side.

The stream winds through the midst of the flat space, without any banks

at all; for it fills its bed almost to the brim, and bathes the meadow

grass on either side. A tuft of shrubbery, at broken intervals, is

scattered along its border; and thus it meanders sluggishly along,

without other life than what it gains from gleaming in the sun. Now,

into the broad, smooth meadow, as into a lake, capes and headlands put

themselves forth, and shores of firm woodland border it, covered with

variegated foliage, making the contrast so much the stronger of their

height and rough, outline with the even spread of the plain. And beyond,

and far away, rises a long, gradual swell of country, covered with an

apparently dense growth of foliage for miles, till the horizon

terminates it; and here and there is a house, or perhaps two, among the

contiguity of trees. Everywhere the trees wear their autumnal dress, so

that the whole landscape is red, russet, orange, and yellow, blending in

the distance into a rich tint of brown-orange, or nearly that,--except

the green expanse so definitely hemmed in by the higher ground.

I took a long walk this morning, going first nearly to Newton, thence

nearly to Brighton, thence to Jamaica Plain, and thence home. It was a

fine morning, with a northwest wind; cool when facing the wind, but warm

and most genially pleasant in sheltered spots; and warm enough

everywhere while I was in motion. I traversed most of the by-ways which

offered themselves to me; and, passing through one in which there was a

double line of grass between the wheel-tracks and that of the horses'

feet, I came to where had once stood a farm-house, which appeared to

have been recently torn down. Most of the old timber and boards had been

carted away; a pile of it, however, remained. The cellar of the house

was uncovered, and beside it stood the base and middle height of the

chimney. The oven, in which household bread had been baked for daily

food, and puddings and cake and jolly pumpkin-pies for festivals, opened

its mouth, being deprived of its iron door. The fireplace was close at

hand. All round the site of the house was a pleasant, sunny, green

space, with old fruit-trees in pretty fair condition, though aged. There

was a barn, also aged, but in decent repair; and a ruinous shed, on the

corner of which was nailed a boy's windmill, where it had probably been

turning and clattering for years together, till now it was black with

time and weather-stain. It was broken, but still it went round whenever

the wind stirred. The spot was entirely secluded, there being no other

house within a mile or two.

No language can give an idea of the beauty and glory of the trees, just

at this moment. It would be easy, by a process of word-daubing, to set

down a confused group of gorgeous colors, like a bunch of tangled skeins

of bright silk; but there is nothing of the reality in the glare which

would thus be produced. And yet the splendor both of individual clusters

and of whole scenes is unsurpassable. The oaks are now far advanced in

their change of hue; and, in certain positions relatively to the sun,

they light up and gleam with a most magnificent deep gold, varying

according as portions of the foliage are in shadow or sunlight. On the

sides which receive the direct rays, the effect is altogether rich; and

in other points of view it is equally beautiful, if less brilliant. This

color of the oak is more superb than the lighter yellow of the maples

and walnuts. The whole landscape is now covered with this indescribable

pomp; it is discerned on the uplands afar off; and Blue Hill in Milton,

at the distance of several miles, actually glistens with rich, dark

light,--no, not glistens, nor gleams,--but perhaps to say glows

subduedly will be a truer expression for it.

Met few people this morning;--a grown girl, in company with a little

boy, gathering barberries in a secluded lane; a portly, autumnal

gentleman, wrapped in a great-coat, who asked the way to Mr. Joseph

Goddard's; and a fish-cart from the city, the driver of which sounded

his horn along the lonesome way.

* * * * *

_Monday, October 18._--There has been a succession of days which were

cold and bright in the forenoon, and gray, sullen, and chill towards

night. The woods have now taken a soberer tint than they wore at my last

date. Many of the shrubs which looked brightest a little while ago are

now wholly bare of leaves. The oaks have generally a russet-brown shade,

although some of them are still green, as are likewise other scattered

trees in the forests. The bright yellow and the rich scarlet are no more

to be seen. Scarcely any of them will now bear a close examination; for

this shows them to be rugged, wilted, and of faded, frost-bitten hue;

but at a distance, and in the mass, and enlivened by the sun, they have

still somewhat of the varied splendor which distinguished them a week

ago. It is wonderful what a difference the sunshine makes; it is like

varnish, bringing out the hidden veins in a piece of rich wood. In the

cold, gray atmosphere, such as that of most of our afternoons now, the

landscape lies dark,--brown, and in a much deeper shadow than if it were

clothed in green. But, perchance, a gleam of sun falls on a certain spot

of distant shrubbery or woodland, and we see it brighten with many hues,

standing forth prominently from the dimness around it. The sunlight

gradually spreads, and the whole sombre scene is changed to a motley

picture,--the sun bringing out many shades of color, and converting its

gloom to an almost laughing cheerfulness. At such times I almost doubt

whether the foliage has lost any of its brilliancy. But the clouds

intercept the sun again, and lo! old Autumn appears, clad in his cloak

of russet-brown.

Beautiful now, while the general landscape lies in shadow, looks the

summit of a distant hill (say a mile off), with the sunshine brightening

the trees that cover it. It is noticeable that the outlines of hills,

and the whole bulk of them at the distance of several miles, become

stronger, denser, and more substantial in this autumn atmosphere and in

these autumnal tints than in summer. Then they looked blue, misty, and

dim. Now they show their great humpbacks more plainly, as if they had

drawn nearer to us.

A waste of shrubbery and small trees, such as overruns the borders of

the meadows for miles together, looks much more rugged, wild, and savage

in its present brown color than when clad in green.

I passed through a very pleasant wood-path yesterday, quite shut in and

sheltered by trees that had not thrown off their yellow robes. The sun

shone strongly in among them, and quite kindled them; so that the path

was brighter for their shade than if it had been quite exposed to the

sun.

In the village graveyard, which lies contiguous to the street, I saw a

man digging a grave, and one inhabitant after another turned aside from

his way to look into the grave and talk with the digger. I heard him

laugh, with the hereditary mirthfulness of men of that occupation.

In the hollow of the woods, yesterday afternoon, I lay a long while

watching a squirrel, who was capering about among the trees over my head

(oaks and white-pines, so close together that their branches

intermingled). The squirrel seemed not to approve of my presence, for he

frequently uttered a sharp, quick, angry noise, like that of a

scissors-grinder's wheel. Sometimes I could see him sitting on an

impending bough, with his tail over his back, looking down pryingly upon

me. It seems to be a natural posture with him, to sit on his hind legs,

holding up his forepaws. Anon, with a peculiarly quick start, he would

scramble along the branch, and be lost to sight in another part of the

tree, whence his shrill chatter would again be heard. Then I would see

him rapidly descending the trunk, and running along the ground; and a

moment afterwards, casting my eye upward, I beheld him flitting like a

bird among the high limbs at the summit, directly above me. Afterwards,

he apparently became accustomed to my society, and set about some

business of his. He came down to the ground, took up a piece of a

decayed bough, (a heavy burden for such a small personage,) and, with

this in his mouth, again climbed up, and passed from the branches of one

tree to those of another, and thus onward and onward till he went out of

sight. Shortly afterwards he returned for another burden, and this he

repeated several times. I suppose he was building a nest,--at least, I

know not what else could have been his object. Never was there such an

active, cheerful, choleric, continually-in-motion fellow as this little

red squirrel, talking to himself, chattering at me, and as sociable in

his own person as if he had half a dozen companions, instead of being

alone in the lonesome wood. Indeed, he flitted about so quickly, and

showed himself in different places so suddenly, that I was in some doubt

whether there were not two or three of them.

I must mention again the very beautiful effect produced by the masses of

berry-bushes, lying like scarlet islands in the midst of withered

pasture-ground, or crowning the tops of barren hills. Their hue, at a

distance, is lustrous scarlet, although it does not look nearly as

bright and gorgeous when examined close at hand. But at a proper

distance it is a beautiful fringe on Autumn's petticoat.

* * * * *

_Friday, October 22._--A continued succession of unpleasant, Novembery

days, and Autumn has made rapid progress in the work of decay. It is now

somewhat of a rare good fortune to find a verdant, grassy spot, on some

slope, or in a dell; and even such seldom-seen oases are bestrewn with

dried brown leaves,--which, however, methinks, make the short, fresh

grass look greener around them. Dry leaves are now plentiful everywhere,

save where there are none but pine-trees. They rustle beneath the tread,

and there is nothing more autumnal than that sound. Nevertheless, in a

walk this afternoon I have seen two oaks which retained almost the

greenness of summer. They grew close to the huge Pulpit Rock, so that

portions of their trunks appeared to grasp the rough surface; and they

were rooted beneath it, and, ascending high into the air, overshadowed

the gray crag with verdure. Other oaks, here and there, have a few green

leaves or boughs among their rustling and rugged shade.

Yet, dreary as the woods are in a bleak, sullen day, there is a very

peculiar sense of warmth and a sort of richness of effect in the slope

of a bank and in sheltered spots, where bright sunshine falls, and the

brown oaken foliage is gladdened by it. There is then a feeling of

comfort, and consequently of heart-warmth, which cannot be experienced

in summer.

I walked this afternoon along a pleasant wood-path, gently winding, so

that but little of it could be seen at a time, and going up and down

small mounds, now plunging into a denser shadow and now emerging from

it. Part of the way it was strewn with the dusky yellow leaves of

white-pines,--the cast-off garments of last year; part of the way with

green grass, close-cropped and very fresh for the season. Sometimes the

trees met across it; sometimes it was bordered on one side by an old

rail-fence of moss-grown cedar, with bushes sprouting beneath it, and

thrusting their branches through it; sometimes by a stone wall of

unknown antiquity, older than the wood it closed in. A stone wall, when

shrubbery has grown around it, and thrust its roots beneath it, becomes

a very pleasant and meditative object. It does not belong too evidently

to man, having been built so long ago. It seems a part of nature.

Yesterday I found two mushrooms in the woods, probably of the preceding

night's growth. Also I saw a mosquito, frost-pinched, and so wretched

that I felt avenged for all the injuries which his tribe inflicted upon

me last summer, and so did not molest this lone survivor.

Walnuts in their green rinds are falling from the trees, and so are

chestnut-burrs.

I found a maple-leaf to-day, yellow all over, except its extremest

point, which was bright scarlet. It looked as if a drop of blood were

hanging from it. The first change of the maple-leaf is to scarlet; the

next, to yellow. Then it withers, wilts, and drops off, as most of them

have already done.

* * * * *

_October 27._--Fringed gentians,--I found the last, probably, that will

be seen this year, growing on the margin of the brook.

* * * * *

1842.--Some man of powerful character to command a person, morally

subjected to him, to perform some act. The commanding person suddenly to

die; and, for all the rest of his life, the subjected one continues to

perform that act.

* * * * *

"Solomon dies during the building of the temple, but his body remains

leaning on a staff, and overlooking the workmen, as if it were alive."

* * * * *

A tri-weekly paper, to be called the Tertian Ague.

* * * * *

Subject for a picture,--Satan's reappearance in Pandemonium, shining out

from a mist, with "shape star-bright."

* * * * *

Five points of Theology,--Five Points at New York.

* * * * *

It seems a greater pity that an accomplished worker with the hand should

perish prematurely, than a person of great intellect; because

intellectual arts may be cultivated in the next world, but not physical

ones.

* * * * *

To trace out the influence of a frightful and disgraceful crime in

debasing and destroying a character naturally high and noble, the guilty

person being alone conscious of the crime.

* * * * *

A man, virtuous in his general conduct, but committing habitually some

monstrous crime,--as murder,--and doing this without the sense of guilt,

but with a peaceful conscience,--habit, probably, reconciling him to it;

but something (for instance, discovery) occurs to make him sensible of

his enormity. His horror then.

* * * * *

The strangeness, if they could be foreseen and forethought, of events

which do not seem so strange after they have happened. As, for instance,

to muse over a child's cradle, and foresee all the persons in different

parts of the world with whom he would have relations.

* * * * *

A man to swallow a small snake,--and it to be a symbol of a cherished

sin.

* * * * *

Questions as to unsettled points of history, and mysteries of nature, to

be asked of a mesmerized person.

* * * * *

Gordier, a young man of the Island of Jersey, was paying his addresses

to a young lady of Guernsey. He visited the latter island, intending to

be married. He disappeared on his way from the beach to his mistress's

residence, and was afterwards found dead in a cavity of the rocks. After

a time, Galliard, a merchant of Guernsey, paid his addresses to the

young lady; but she always felt a strong, unaccountable antipathy to

him. He presented her with a beautiful trinket. The mother of Gordier,

chancing to see this trinket, recognized it as having been bought by her

dead son as a present for his mistress. She expired on learning this;

and Galliard, being suspected of the murder, committed suicide.

* * * * *

The _cure_ of Montreux in Switzerland, ninety-six years old, still

vigorous in mind and body, and able to preach. He had a twin-brother,

also a preacher, and the exact likeness of himself. Sometimes strangers

have beheld a white-haired, venerable clerical personage, nearly a

century old; and, upon riding a few miles farther, have been astonished

to meet again this white-haired, venerable, century-old personage.

* * * * *

When the body of Lord Mohun (killed in a duel) was carried home,

bleeding, to his house, Lady Mohun was very angry because it was "flung

upon the best bed."

* * * * *

A prophecy, somewhat in the style of Swift's about Partridge, but

embracing various events and personages.

* * * * *

An incident that befell Dr. Harris, while a Junior at college. Being in

great want of money to buy shirts or other necessaries, and not knowing

how to obtain it, he set out on a walk from Cambridge to Boston. On the

way, he cut a stick, and after walking a short distance perceived that

something had become attached to the end of it. It proved to be a gold

ring, with the motto, "God speed thee, friend."

* * * * *

Brobdignag lay on the northwest coast of the American continent.

* * * * *

A gush of violets along a wood-path.

* * * * *

People with false hair and other artifices may be supposed to deceive

Death himself, so that he does not know when their hour is come.

* * * * *

Bees are sometimes drowned (or suffocated) in the honey which they

collect. So some writers are lost in their collected learning.

* * * * *

Advice of Lady Pepperell's father on her marriage,--never to work one

moment after Saturday sunset,--never to lay down her knitting except in

the middle of the needle,--always to rise with the sun,--to pass an hour

daily with the housekeeper,--to visit every room daily from garret to

cellar,--to attend herself to the brewing of beer and the baking of

bread,--and to instruct every member of the family in their religious

duties.

* * * * *

Service of plate, presented by the city of London to Sir William

Pepperell, together with a table of solid silver. The table very narrow,

but long; the articles of plate numerous, but of small dimensions,--the

tureen not holding more than three pints. At the close of the

Revolution, when the Pepperell and Sparhawk property was confiscated,

this plate was sent to the grandson of Sir William, in London. It was so

valuable, that Sheriff Moulton of old York, with six well-armed men,

accompanied it to Boston. Pepperell's only daughter married Colonel

Sparhawk, a fine gentleman of the day. Andrew Pepperell, the son, was

rejected by a young lady (afterwards the mother of Mrs. General Knox),

to whom he was on the point of marriage, as being addicted to low

company and low pleasures. The lover, two days afterwards, in the

streets of Portsmouth, was sun-struck, and fell down dead. Sir William

had built an elegant house for his son and his intended wife; but after

the death of the former he never entered it. He lost his cheerfulness

and social qualities, and gave up intercourse with people, except on

business. Very anxious to secure his property to his descendants by the

provisions of his will, which was drawn up by Judge Sewall, then a young

lawyer. Yet the Judge lived to see two of Sir William's grandchildren so

reduced that they were to have been numbered among the town's poor, and

were only rescued from this fate by private charity.

The arms of the Pepperell family were displayed over the door of every

room in Sir William's house, and his crest on every door. In Colonel

Sparhawk's house there were forty portraits, most of them in full

length. The house built for Sir William's son was occupied as barracks

during the Revolution, and much injured. A few years after the peace,

it was blown down by a violent tempest, and finally no vestige of it was

left, but there remained only a summer-house and the family tomb.

At Sir William's death, his mansion was hung with black, while the body

lay in state for a week. All the Sparhawk portraits were covered with

black crape, and the family pew was draped with black. Two oxen were

roasted, and liquid hospitality dispensed in proportion.

* * * * *

Old lady's dress seventy or eighty years ago. Brown brocade gown, with a

nice lawn handkerchief and apron,--short sleeves, with a little ruffle,

just below the elbow,--black mittens,--a lawn cap, with rich lace

border,--a black velvet hood on the back of the head, tied with black

ribbon under the chin. She sat in an old-fashioned easy-chair, in a

small, low parlor,--the wainscot painted entirely black, and the walls

hung with a dark velvet paper.

A table, stationary ever since the house was built, extending the whole

length of a room. One end was raised two steps higher than the rest. The

Lady Ursula, an early Colonial heroine, was wont to dine at the upper

end, while her servants sat below. This was in the kitchen. An old

garden and summer-house, and roses, currant-bushes, and tulips, which

Lady Ursula had brought from Grondale Abbey in Old England. Although a

hundred and fifty years before, and though their roots were propagated

all over the country, they were still flourishing in the original

garden. This Lady Ursula was the daughter of Lord Thomas Cutts of

Grondale Abbey in England. She had been in love with an officer named

Fowler, who was supposed to have been slain in battle. After the death

of her father and mother, Lady Ursula came to Kittery, bringing twenty

men-servants and several women. After a time, a letter arrived from her

lover, who was not killed, but merely a prisoner to the French. He

announced his purpose to come to America, where he would arrive in

October. A few days after the letter came, she went out in a low

carriage to visit her work-people, and was blessing the food for their

luncheon, when she fell dead, struck by an Indian tomahawk, as did all

the rest save one. They were buried, where the massacre took place, and

a stone was erected, which (possibly) still remains. The lady's family

had a grant from Sir Ferdinando Gorges of the territory thereabout, and

her brother had likewise come over and settled in the vicinity. I

believe very little of this story. Long afterwards, at about the

commencement of the Revolution, a descendant of Fowler came from

England, and applied to the Judge of Probate to search the records for a

will, supposed to have been made by Lady Ursula in favor of her lover as

soon as she heard of his existence. In the mean time the estate had been

sold to Colonel Whipple. No will could be found. (Lady Ursula was old

Mrs. Cutts, widow of President Cutts.)

The mode of living of Lady Ursula's brother in Kittery. A drawbridge to

the house, which was raised every evening, and lowered in the morning,

for the laborers and the family to pass out. They kept thirty cows, a

hundred sheep, and several horses. The house spacious,--one room large

enough to contain forty or fifty guests. Two silver branches for

candles,--the walls ornamented with paintings and needlework. The floors

were daily rubbed with wax, and shone like a mahogany-table. A domestic

chaplain, who said prayers every morning and evening in a small

apartment called the chapel. Also a steward and butler. The family

attended the Episcopal Church at Christmas, Easter, and Good Friday, and

gave a grand entertainment once a year.

Madam Cutts, at the last of these entertainments, wore a black damask

gown, and cuffs with double lace ruffles, velvet shoes, blue silk

stockings, white and silver stomacher. The daughter and granddaughters

in rich brocades and yellow satin. Old Major Cutts in brown velvet,

laced with gold, and a large wig. The parson in his silk cassock, and

his helpmate in brown damask. Old General Atkinson in scarlet velvet,

and his wife and daughters in white damask. The Governor in black

velvet, and his lady in crimson tabby trimmed with silver. The ladies

wore bell-hoops, high-heeled shoes, paste buckles, silk stockings, and

enormously high head-dresses, with lappets of Brussels lace hanging

thence to the waist.

Among the eatables, a silver tub of the capacity of four gallons,

holding a pyramid of pancakes powdered with white sugar.

The date assigned to all this about 1690.

* * * * *

What is the price of a day's labor in Lapland, where the sun never sets

for six months?

* * * * *

Miss Asphyxia Davis!

* * * * *

A life, generally of a grave hue, may be said to be _embroidered_ with

occasional sports and fantasies.

* * * * *

A father confessor,--his reflections on character, and the contrast of

the inward man with the outward, as he looks around on his congregation,

all whose secret sins are known to him.

* * * * *

A person with an ice-cold hand,--his right hand, which people ever

afterwards remember when once they have grasped it.

* * * * *

A stove possessed by a Devil.

* * * * *

_June 1, 1842._--One of my chief amusements is to see the boys sail

their miniature vessels on the Frog Pond. There is a great variety of

shipping owned among the young people, and they appear to have a

considerable knowledge of the art of managing vessels. There is a

full-rigged man-of-war, with, I believe, every spar, rope, and sail,

that sometimes makes its appearance; and, when on a voyage across the

pond, it so identically resembles a great ship, except in size, that it

has the effect of a picture. All its motions,--its tossing up and down

on the small waves, and its sinking and rising in a calm swell, its

heeling to the breeze,--the whole effect, in short, is that of a real

ship at sea; while, moreover, there is something that kindles the

imagination more than the reality would do. If we see a real, great

ship, the mind grasps and possesses, within its real clutch, all that

there is of it; while here the mimic ship is the representation of an

ideal one, and so gives us a more imaginative pleasure. There are many

schooners that ply to and fro on the pond, and pilot-boats, all

perfectly rigged. I saw a race, the other day, between the ship above

mentioned and a pilot-boat, in which the latter came off conqueror. The

boys appear to be well acquainted with all the ropes and sails, and can

call them by their nautical names. One of the owners of the vessels

remains on one side of the pond, and the other on the opposite side, and

so they send the little bark to and fro, like merchants of different

countries, consigning their vessels to one another.

Generally, when any vessel is on the pond, there are full-grown

spectators, who look on with as much interest as the boys themselves.

Towards sunset, this is especially the case: for then are seen young

girls and their lovers; mothers, with their little boys in hand;

school-girls, beating hoops round about, and occasionally running to the

side of the pond; rough tars, or perhaps masters or young mates of

vessels, who make remarks about the miniature shipping, and occasionally

give professional advice to the navigators; visitors from the country;

gloved and caned young gentlemen;--in short, everybody stops to take a

look. In the mean time, dogs are continually plunging into the pond, and

swimming about, with noses pointed upward, and snatching at floating

ships; then, emerging, they shake themselves, scattering a horizontal

shower on the clean gowns of ladies and trousers of gentlemen; then

scamper to and fro on the grass, with joyous barks.

Some boys cast off lines of twine with pin-hooks, and perhaps pull out a

horned-pout, that being, I think, the only kind of fish that inhabits

the Frog Pond.

The ship-of-war above mentioned is about three feet from stem to stern,

or possibly a few inches more. This, if I mistake not, was the size of a

ship of the line in the navy of Liliput.

* * * * *

Fancy pictures of familiar places which one has never been in, as the

green-room of a theatre, &c.

* * * * *

The famous characters of history,--to imagine their spirits now extant

on earth, in the guise of various public or private personages.

* * * * *

The case quoted in Combe's Physiology of a young man of great talents

and profound knowledge of chemistry, who had in view some new discovery

of importance. In order to put his mind into the highest possible

activity, he shut himself up for several successive days, and used

various methods of excitement. He had a singing-girl, he drank spirits,

smelled penetrating odors, sprinkled Cologne-water round the room, &c.,

&c. Eight days thus passed, when he was seized with a fit of frenzy

which terminated in mania.

* * * * *

Flesh and Blood,--a firm of butchers.

* * * * *

Miss Polly Syllable, a schoolmistress.

* * * * *

Mankind are earthen jugs with spirits in them.

* * * * *

A spendthrift,--in one sense he has his money's worth by the purchase of

large lots of repentance and other dolorous commodities.

THE MOUNTAIN.

Two thousand feet in air it stands

Betwixt the bright and shaded lands,

Above the regions it divides

And borders with its furrowed sides.

The seaward valley laughs with light

Till the round sun o'erhangs this height;

But then the shadow of the crest

No more the plains that lengthen west

Enshrouds, yet slowly, surely creeps

Eastward, until the coolness steeps

A darkling league of tilth and wold,

And chills the flocks that seek their fold.

Not like those ancient summits lone,

Mont Blanc, on his eternal throne,--

The city-gemmed Peruvian peak,--

The sunset portals landsmen seek,

Whose train, to reach the Golden Land,

Crawls slow and pathless through the sand,--

Or that, whose ice-lit beacon guides

The mariner on tropic tides,

And flames across the Gulf afar,

A torch by day, by night a star,--

Not thus, to cleave the outer skies,

Does my serener mountain rise,

Nor aye forget its gentle birth

Upon the dewy, pastoral earth.

But ever, in the noonday light,

Are scenes whereof I love the sight,--

Broad pictures of the lower world

Beneath my gladdened eyes unfurled.

Irradiate distances reveal

Fair nature wed to human weal;

The rolling valley made a plain;

Its checkered squares of grass and grain;

The silvery rye, the golden wheat,

The flowery elders where they meet,--

Ay, even the springing corn I see,

And garden haunts of bird and bee;

And where, in daisied meadows, shines

The wandering river through its vines,

Move specks at random, which I know

Are herds a-grazing to and fro.

Yet still a goodly height it seems

From which the mountain pours his streams,

Or hinders, with caressing hands,

The sunlight seeking other lands.

Like some great giant, strong and proud,

He fronts the lowering thunder-cloud,

And wrests its treasures, to bestow

A guerdon on the realm below;

Or, by the deluge roused from sleep

Within his bristling forest-keep,

Shakes all his pines, and far and wide

Sends down a rich, imperious tide.

At night the whistling tempests meet

In tryst upon his topmost seat,

And all the phantoms of the sky

Frolic and gibber, storming by.

By day I see the ocean-mists

Float with the current where it lists,

And from my summit I can hail

Cloud-vessels passing on the gale,--

The stately argosies of air,--

And parley with the helmsmen there;

Can probe their dim, mysterious source,

Ask of their cargo and their course,--

_Whence come? where bound?_--and wait reply,

As, all sails spread, they hasten by.

If foiled in what I fain would know,

Again I turn my eyes below

And eastward, past the hither mead

Where all day long the cattle feed,

A crescent gleam my sight allures

And clings about the hazy moors,--

The great, encircling, radiant sea,

Alone in its immensity.

Even there, a queen upon its shore,

I know the city evermore

Her palaces and temples rears,

And wooes the nations to her piers;

Yet the proud city seems a mole

To this horizon-bounded whole;

And, from my station on the mount,

The whole is little worth account

Beneath the overhanging sky,

That seems so far and yet so nigh.

Here breathe I inspiration rare,

Unburdened by the grosser air

That hugs the lower land, and feel

Through all my finer senses steal

The life of what that life may be,

Freed from this dull earth's density,

When we, with many a soul-felt thrill,

Shall thrid the ether at our will,

Through widening corridors of morn

And starry archways swiftly borne.

Here, in the process of the night,

The stars themselves a purer light

Give out, than reaches those who gaze

Enshrouded with the valley's haze.

October, entering Heaven's fane,

Assumes her lucent, annual reign:

Then what a dark and dismal clod,

Forsaken by the Sons of God,

Seems this sad world, to those which march

Across the high, illumined arch,

And with their brightness draw me forth

To scan the splendors of the North!

I see the Dragon, as he toils

With Ursa in his shining coils,

And mark the Huntsman lift his shield,

Confronting on the ancient field

The Bull, while in a mystic row

The jewels of his girdle glow

Or, haply, I may ponder long

On that remoter, sparkling throng,

The orient sisterhood, around

Whose chief our Galaxy is wound;

Thus, half enwrapt in classic dreams,

And brooding over Learning's gleams,

I leave to gloom the under-land,

And from my watch-tower, close at hand,

Like him who led the favored race,

I look on glory face to face!

So, on the mountain-top, alone,

I dwell, as one who holds a throne;

Or prince, or peasant, him I count

My peer, who stands upon a mount,

Sees farther than the tribes below,

And knows the joys they cannot know;

And, though beyond the sound of speech

They reign, my soul goes out to reach,

Far on their noble heights elsewhere,

My brother-monarchs of the air.

THE CHIMNEY-CORNER FOR 1866.

VI.

THE CATHEDRAL.

"I am going to build a cathedral one of these days," said I to my wife,

as I sat looking at the slant line of light made by the afternoon sun on

our picture of the Cathedral of Milan.

"That picture is one of the most poetic things you have among your house

ornaments," said Rudolph. "Its original is the world's chief beauty,--a

tribute to religion such as Art never gave before and never can

again,--as much before the Pantheon, as the Alps, with their virgin

snows and glittering pinnacles, are above all temples made with hands.

Say what you will, those Middle Ages that you call Dark had a glory of

faith that never will be seen in our days of cotton-mills and Manchester

prints. Where will you marshal such an army of saints as stands in

yonder white-marble forest, visibly transfigured and glorified in that

celestial Italian air? Saintship belonged to the mediaeval Church; the

heroism of religion has died with it."

"That's just like one of your assertions, Rudolph," said I. "You might

as well say that Nature has never made any flowers since Linnaeus shut up

his herbarium. We have no statues and pictures of modern saints, but

saints themselves, thank God, have never been wanting. 'As it was in the

beginning, is now, and ever shall be--'"

"But what about your cathedral?" said my wife.

"O yes!--my cathedral, yes. When my stocks in cloud-land rise, I'll

build a cathedral larger than Milan's; and the men, but more

particularly the _women_, thereon shall be those who have done even more

than St. Paul tells of in the saints of old, who 'subdued kingdoms,

wrought righteousness, quenched the violence of fire, escaped the edge

of the sword, out of weakness were made strong, waxed valiant in fight,

turned to flight the armies of the aliens.' I am not now thinking of

Florence Nightingale, nor of the host of women who have been walking

worthily in her footsteps, but of nameless saints of more retired and

private state,--domestic saints, who have tended children not their own

through whooping-cough and measles, and borne the unruly whims of

fretful invalids,--stocking-darning, shirt-making saints,--saints who

wore no visible garment of hair-cloth, bound themselves with no belts of

spikes and nails, yet in their inmost souls were marked and seared with

the red cross of a life-long self-sacrifice,--saints for whom the

mystical terms _self-annihilation_ and _self-crucifixion_ had a real and

tangible meaning, all the stronger because their daily death was marked

by no outward sign. No mystical rites consecrated them; no organ-music

burst forth in solemn rapture to welcome them; no habit of their order

proclaimed to themselves and the world that they were the elect of

Christ, the brides of another life: but small eating cares, daily

prosaic duties, the petty friction of all the littleness and all the

inglorious annoyances of every day, were as dust that hid the beauty and

grandeur of their calling even from themselves; they walked unknown even

to their households, unknown even to their own souls; but when the Lord

comes to build his New Jerusalem, we shall find many a white stone with

a new name thereon, and the record of deeds and words which only He that

seeth in secret knows. Many a humble soul will be amazed to find that

the seed it sowed in such weakness, in the dust of daily life, has

blossomed into immortal flowers under the eye of the Lord.

"When I build my cathedral, _that_ woman," I said, pointing to a small

painting by the fire, "shall be among the first of my saints. You see

her there, in an every-day dress-cap with a mortal thread-lace border,

and with a very ordinary worked collar, fastened by a visible and

terrestrial breastpin. There is no nimbus around her head, no sign of

the cross upon her breast; her hands are clasped on no crucifix or

rosary. Her clear, keen, hazel eye looks as if it could sparkle with

mirthfulness, as in fact it could; there are in it both the subtile

flash of wit and the subdued light of humor; and though the whole face

smiles, it has yet a certain decisive firmness that speaks the soul

immutable in good. That woman shall be the first saint in my cathedral,

and her name shall be recorded as Saint Esther. What makes saintliness

in my view, as distinguished from ordinary goodness, is a certain

quality of magnanimity and greatness of soul that brings life within the

circle of the heroic. To be really great in little things, to be truly

noble and heroic in the insipid details of every-day life, is a virtue

so rare as to be worthy of canonization,--and this virtue was hers. New

England Puritanism must be credited with the making of many such women.

Severe as was her discipline, and harsh as seems now her rule, we have

yet to see whether women will be born of modern systems of tolerance and

indulgence equal to those grand ones of the olden times whose places now

know them no more. The inconceivable austerity and solemnity with which

Puritanism invested this mortal life, the awful grandeur of the themes

which it made household words, the sublimity of the issues which it hung

upon the commonest acts of our earthly existence, created characters of

more than Roman strength and greatness; and the good men and women of

Puritan training excelled the saints of the Middle Ages, as a soul fully

developed intellectually, educated to closest thought, and exercised in

reasoning, is superior to a soul great merely through impulse and

sentiment.

"My earliest recollections of Aunt Esther, for so our saint was known,

were of a bright-faced, cheerful, witty, quick-moving little middle-aged

person, who came into our house like a good fairy whenever there was a

call of sickness or trouble. If an accident happened in the great

roistering family of eight or ten children, (and when was not something

happening to some of us?) and we were shut up in a sick-room, then duly

as daylight came the quick step and cheerful face of Aunt Esther,--not

solemn and lugubrious like so many sick-room nurses, but with a

never-failing flow of wit and story that could beguile even the most

doleful into laughing at their own afflictions. I remember how a fit of

the quinsy--most tedious of all sicknesses to an active child--was

gilded and glorified into quite a _fete_ by my having Aunt Esther all to

myself for two whole days, with nothing to do but amuse me. She charmed

me into smiling at the very pangs which had made me weep before, and of

which she described her own experiences in a manner to make me think

that, after all, the quinsy was something with an amusing side to it.

Her knowledge of all sorts of medicines, gargles, and alleviatives, her

perfect familiarity with every canon and law of good nursing and

tending, was something that could only have come from long experience in

those good old New England days when there were no nurses recognized as

a class in the land, but when watching and the care of the sick were

among those offices of Christian life which the families of a

neighborhood reciprocally rendered each other. Even from early youth she

had obeyed a special vocation as sister of charity in many a sick-room,

and, with the usual keen intelligence of New England, had widened her

powers of doing good by the reading of medical and physiological works.

Her legends of nursing in those days of long typhus-fever and other

formidable and protracted forms of disease were to our ears quite

wonderful, and we regarded her as a sort of patron saint of the

sick-room. She seemed always so cheerful, so bright, and so devoted,

that it never occurred to us youngsters to doubt that she enjoyed, above

all things, being with us, waiting on us all day, watching over us by

night, telling us stories, and answering, in her lively and always

amusing and instructive way, that incessant fire of questions with which

a child persecutes a grown person.

"Sometimes, as a reward of goodness, we were allowed to visit her in her

own room, a neat little parlor in the neighborhood, whose windows looked

down a hillside on one hand, under the boughs of an apple orchard, where

daisies and clover and bobolinks always abounded in summer time, and, on

the other, faced the street, with a green yard flanked by one or two

shady elms between them and the street. No nun's cell was ever neater,

no bee's cell ever more compactly and carefully arranged; and to us,

familiar with the confusion of a great family of little ones, there was

something always inviting about its stillness, its perfect order, and

the air of thoughtful repose that breathed over it. She lived there in

perfect independence, doing, as it was her delight to do, every office

of life for herself. She was her own cook, her own parlor and chamber

maid, her own laundress; and very faultless the cooking, washing,

ironing, and care of her premises were. A slice of Aunt Esther's

gingerbread, one of Aunt Esther's cookies, had, we all believed, certain

magical properties such as belonged to no other mortal mixture. Even a

handful of walnuts that were brought from the depths of her mysterious

closet had virtues in our eyes such as no other walnuts could approach.

The little shelf of books that hung suspended by cords against her wall

was sacred in our regard; the volumes were like no other books; and we

supposed that she derived from them those stores of knowledge on all

subjects which she unconsciously dispensed among us,--for she was always

telling us something of metals, or minerals, or gems, or plants, or

animals, which awakened our curiosity, stimulated our inquiries, and,

above all, led us to wonder where she had learned it all. Even the

slight restrictions which her neat habits imposed on our breezy and

turbulent natures seemed all quite graceful and becoming. It was right,

in our eyes, to cleanse our shoes on scraper and mat with extra

diligence, and then to place a couple of chips under the heels of our

boots when we essayed to dry our feet at her spotless hearth. We

marvelled to see our own faces reflected in a thousand smiles and winks

from her bright brass andirons,--such andirons we thought were seen on

earth in no other place,--and a pair of radiant brass candlesticks, that

illustrated the mantle-piece, were viewed with no less respect.

"Aunt Esther's cat was a model for all cats,--so sleek, so intelligent,

so decorous and well-trained, always occupying exactly her own cushion

by the fire, and never transgressing in one iota the proprieties

belonging to a cat of good breeding. She shared our affections with her

mistress, and we were allowed as a great favor and privilege, now and

then, to hold the favorite on our knees, and stroke her satin coat to a

smoother gloss.

"But it was not for cats alone that she had attractions. She was in

sympathy and fellowship with everything that moved and lived; knew every

bird and beast with a friendly acquaintanceship. The squirrels that

inhabited the trees in the front-yard were won in time by her

blandishments to come and perch on her window-sills, and thence, by

trains of nuts adroitly laid, to disport themselves on the shining

cherry tea-table that stood between the windows; and we youngsters used

to sit entranced with delight as they gambolled and waved their feathery

tails in frolicsome security, eating rations of gingerbread and bits of

seed-cake with as good a relish as any child among us.

"The habits, the rights, the wrongs, the wants, and the sufferings of

the animal creation formed the subject of many an interesting

conversation with her; and we boys, with the natural male instinct of

hunting, trapping, and pursuing, were often made to pause in our career,

remembering her pleas for the dumb things which could not speak for

themselves.

"Her little hermitage was the favorite resort of numerous friends. Many

of the young girls who attended the village academy made her

acquaintance, and nothing delighted her more than that they should come

there and read to her the books they were studying, when her superior

and wide information enabled her to light up and explain much that was

not clear to the immature students.

"In her shady retirement, too, she was a sort of Egeria to certain men

of genius, who came to read to her their writings, to consult her in

their arguments, and to discuss with her the literature and politics of

the day,--through all which her mind moved with an equal step, yet with

a sprightliness and vivacity peculiarly feminine.

"Her memory was remarkably retentive, not only of the contents of books,

but of all that great outlying fund of anecdote and story which the

quaint and earnest New England life always supplied. There were pictures

of peculiar characters, legends of true events stranger than romance,

all stored in the cabinets of her mind; and these came from her lips

with the greater force because the precision of her memory enabled her

to authenticate them with name, date, and circumstances of vivid

reality. From that shadowy line of incidents which marks the twilight

boundary between the spiritual world and the present life she drew

legends of peculiar clearness, but invested with the mysterious charm

which always dwells in that uncertain region; and the shrewd flash of

her eye, and the keen, bright smile with which she answered the

wondering question, 'What _do_ you suppose it was?' or, 'What could it

have been?' showed how evenly rationalism in her mind kept pace with

romance.

"The retired room in which she thus read, studied, thought, and surveyed

from afar the whole world of science and literature, and in which she

received friends and entertained children, was perhaps the dearest and

freshest spot to her in the world. There came a time, however, when the

neat little independent establishment was given up, and she went to

associate herself with two of her nieces in keeping house for a

boarding-school of young girls. Here her lively manners and her gracious

interest in the young made her a universal favorite, though the cares

she assumed broke in upon those habits of solitude and study which

formed her delight. From the day that she surrendered this independency

of hers, she had never, for more than a score of years, a home of her

own, but filled the trying position of an accessory in the home of

others. Leaving the boarding-school, she became the helper of an invalid

wife and mother in the early nursing and rearing of a family of young

children,--an office which leaves no privacy and no leisure. Her bed was

always shared with some little one; her territories were exposed to the

constant inroads of little pattering feet; and all the various

sicknesses and ailments of delicate childhood made absorbing drafts upon

her time.

"After a while she left New England with the brother to whose family she

devoted herself. The failing health of the wife and mother left more and

more the charge of all things in her hands; servants were poor, and all

the appliances of living had the rawness and inconvenience which in

those days attended Western life. It became her fate to supply all other

people's defects and deficiencies. Wherever a hand failed, there must

her hand be. Whenever a foot faltered, she must step into the ranks. She

was the one who thought for and cared for and toiled for all, yet made

never a claim that any one should care for her.

"It was not till late in my life that I became acquainted with the deep

interior sacrifice, the constant self-abnegation, which all her life

involved. She was born with a strong, vehement, impulsive nature,--a

nature both proud and sensitive,--a nature whose tastes were passions,

whose likings and whose aversions were of the most intense and positive

character. Devoted as she always seemed to the mere practical and

material, she had naturally a deep romance and enthusiasm of temperament

which exceeded all that can be written in novels. It was chiefly owing

to this that a home and a central affection of her own were never hers.

In her early days of attractiveness, none who would have sought her

could meet the high requirements of her ideality; she never saw her

hero,--and so never married. Family cares, the tending of young

children, she often confessed, were peculiarly irksome to her. She had

the head of a student, a passionate love for the world of books. A

Protestant convent, where she might devote herself without interruption

to study, was her ideal of happiness. She had, too, the keenest

appreciation of poetry, of music, of painting, and of natural scenery.

Her enjoyment in any of these things was intensely vivid whenever, by

chance, a stray sunbeam of the kind darted across the dusty path of her

life; yet in all these her life was a constant repression. The eagerness

with which she would listen to any account from those more fortunate

ones who had known these things, showed how ardent a passion was

constantly held in check. A short time before her death, talking with a

friend who had visited Switzerland, she said, with great feeling: 'All

my life my desire to visit the beautiful places of this earth has been

so intense, that I cannot but hope that after my death I shall be

permitted to go and look at them.'

"The completeness of her self-discipline may be gathered from the fact,

that no child could ever be brought to believe she had not a natural

fondness for children, or that she found the care of them burdensome. It

was easy to see that she had naturally all those particular habits,

those minute pertinacities in respect to her daily movements and the

arrangement of all her belongings, which would make the meddling,

intrusive demands of infancy and childhood peculiarly hard for her to

meet. Yet never was there a pair of toddling feet that did not make free

with Aunt Esther's room, never a curly head that did not look up, in

confiding assurance of a welcome smile, to her bright eyes. The

inconsiderate and never-ceasing requirements of children and invalids

never drew from her other than a cheerful response; and to my mind

there is more saintship in this than in the private wearing of any

number of hair-cloth shirts or belts lined with spikes.

"In a large family of careless, noisy children there will be constant

losing of thimbles and needles and scissors; but Aunt Esther was always

ready, without reproach, to help the careless and the luckless. Her

things, so well kept and so treasured, she was willing to lend, with

many a caution and injunction it is true, but also with a relish of

right good-will. And, to do us justice, we generally felt the sacredness

of the trust, and were more careful of her things than of our own. If a

shade of sewing-silk were wanting, or a choice button, or a bit of braid

or tape, Aunt Esther cheerfully volunteered something from her well-kept

stores, not regarding the trouble she made herself in seeking the key,

unlocking the drawer, and searching out in bag or parcel just the

treasure demanded. Never was more perfect precision, or more perfect

readiness to accommodate others.

"Her little income, scarcely reaching a hundred dollars yearly, was

disposed of with a generosity worthy a fortune. One tenth was sacredly

devoted to charity, and a still further sum laid by every year for

presents to friends. No Christmas or New Year ever came round that Aunt

Esther, out of this very tiny fund, did not find something for children

and servants. Her gifts were trifling in value, but well timed,--a ball

of thread-wax, a paper of pins, a pincushion,--something generally so

well chosen as to show that she had been running over our needs, and

noting what to give. She was no less gracious as receiver than as giver.

The little articles that we made for her, or the small presents that we

could buy out of our childish resources, she always declared were

exactly what she needed; and she delighted us by the care she took of

them and the value she set upon them.

"Her income was a source of the greatest pleasure to her, as maintaining

an independence without which she could not have been happy. Though she

constantly gave, to every family in which she lived, services which no

money could repay, it would have been the greatest trial to her not to

be able to provide for herself. Her dress, always that of a true

gentlewoman,--refined, quiet, and neat,--was bought from this restricted

sum, and her small travelling expenses were paid out of it. She abhorred

anything false or flashy: her caps were trimmed with _real_ thread-lace,

and her silk dresses were of the best quality, perfectly well made and

kept; and, after all, a little sum always remained over in her hands for

unforeseen exigencies.

"This love of independence was one of the strongest features of her

life, and we often playfully told her that her only form of selfishness

was the monopoly of saintship,--that she who gave so much was not

willing to allow others to give to her,--that she who made herself

servant of all was not willing to allow others to serve her.

"Among the trials of her life must be reckoned much ill-health; borne,

however, with such heroic patience that it was not easy to say when the

hand of pain was laid upon her. She inherited, too, a tendency to

depression of spirits, which at times increased to a morbid and

distressing gloom. Few knew or suspected these sufferings, so completely

had she learned to suppress every outward manifestation that might

interfere with the happiness of others. In her hours of depression she

resolutely forbore to sadden the lives of those around her with her own

melancholy, and often her darkest moods were so lighted up and adorned

with an outside show of wit and humor, that those who had known her

intimately were astonished to hear that she had ever been subject to

depression.

"Her truthfulness of nature amounted almost to superstition. From her

promise once given she felt no change of purpose could absolve her; and

therefore rarely would she give it absolutely, for she _could not_ alter

the thing that had gone forth from her lips. Our belief in the

certainty of her fulfilling her word was like our belief in the

immutability of the laws of nature. Whoever asked her got of her the

absolute truth on every subject, and, when she had no good thing to say,

her silence was often truly awful. When anything mean or ungenerous was

brought to her knowledge, she would close her lips resolutely; but the

flash in her eyes showed what she would speak were speech permitted. In

her last days she spoke to a friend of what she had suffered from the

strength of her personal antipathies. 'I thank God,' she said, 'that I

believe at last I have overcome all that too, and that there has not

been, for some years, any human being toward whom I have felt a movement

of dislike.'

"The last year of her life was a constant discipline of unceasing pain,

borne with that fortitude which could make her an entertaining and

interesting companion even while the sweat of mortal agony was starting

from her brow. Her own room she kept as a last asylum, to which she

would silently retreat when the torture became too intense for the

repression of society, and there alone, with closed doors, she wrestled

with her agony. The stubborn independence of her nature took refuge in

this final fastness; and she prayed only that she might go down to death

with the full ability to steady herself all the way, needing the help of

no other hand.

"The ultimate struggle of earthly feeling came when this proud

self-reliance was forced to give way, and she was obliged to leave

herself helpless in the hands of others. 'God requires that I should

give up my last form of self-will,' she said; 'now I have resigned

_this_, perhaps he will let me go home.'

"In a good old age, Death, the friend, came and opened the door of this

mortal state, and a great soul, that had served a long apprenticeship to

little things, went forth into the joy of its Lord; a life of

self-sacrifice and self-abnegation passed into a life of endless rest."

"But," said Rudolph, "I rebel at this life of self-abnegation and

self-sacrifice. I do not think it the duty of noble women, who have

beautiful natures and enlarged and cultivated tastes, to make themselves

the slaves of the sick-room and nursery."

"Such was not the teaching of our New England faith," said I. "Absolute

unselfishness,--the death of self,--such were its teachings, and such as

Esther's the characters it made. 'Do the duty nearest thee,' was the

only message it gave to 'women with a mission'; and from duty to duty,

from one self-denial to another, they rose to a majesty of moral

strength impossible to any form of mere self-indulgence. It is of souls

thus sculptured and chiselled by self-denial and self-discipline that

the living temple of the perfect hereafter is to be built. The pain of

the discipline is short, but the glory of the fruition is eternal."

A PIONEER EDITOR.

The historian who, without qualification of his statement, should date

the commencement of our late civil war from the attack on Fort Sumter,

instead of the first attempt by the slaveholders to render a single

property interest paramount in the relations of the country, would prove

himself unfit for his task. The battles fought in the press, pulpit, and

forum, in ante-war days, were as much agencies in the great conflict as

the deadlier ones fought since, on land and sea. Men strove in the

former, as in the latter case, for the extension of the slave system on

one side, and for its total suppression on the other; and it is the

proud distinction of the early partisans of freedom to be recognized now

as the pioneers--the advance-guard--of the armed hosts who at last won

the victory for humanity.

This view of the actual beginning of the war makes the facts in the

lives of those antislavery men who took the lead in the good fight, and

especially of such as died with their armor on, of the utmost value to

the historian. We therefore propose to offer a contribution to the

record, by tracing the career of one who acted a distinguished part in

the struggle, as an antislavery journalist.

Gamaliel Bailey was born in New Jersey,--a State where antislavery men,

or, indeed, men of progress in any direction, are so far from being a

staple growth, that they can barely be said to be indigenous to her

soil. His birthday was December 3, 1807. He was the son of a Methodist

preacher noted for his earnestness and devotion to the duties of his

calling. His mother was a woman of active brain and sympathetic heart.

It was from her, as is not unusual with men of marked traits, that the

son derived his distinguishing mental characteristics. His education was

such as was obtainable in the private schools of Philadelphia, which,

whatever their advantages to others, were not particularly well

calculated to prepare young Bailey for the study of the learned

profession he subsequently chose; and he had to seek, without their aid,

the classical knowledge necessary to a mastery of the technicalities of

medical science. Nevertheless he graduated with credit in the Jefferson

Medical College, and at so early an age--for he was then only

twenty--that the restriction in its charter deprived him of the usual

diploma for a year. The statutes of New Jersey, however, while

forbidding him to prescribe for the physical ailments of her citizens,

did not pronounce him too young to undertake the mental training of her

children, and he eagerly availed himself of the pedagogue's privilege of

bending the twigs of mind amid the pine forests of his native State. By

the time he was entitled to his diploma, he was satisfied that the

overdraught upon his vitality had been so great, during his college

years, as utterly to unfit him for the field of action on which, but a

twelvemonth before, he had been so desirous to enter. A sea voyage was

chosen as the best means of resting his brain while strengthening his

body and preparing it for the heavy demands which his profession would

naturally make.

Having, with the scanty income from his year's teaching, equipped

himself for his voyage, he obeyed at once the dictates of necessity and

of judgment, and shipped on a vessel bound for China. Instead of a

successful physician winning golden opinions from all, Dr. Bailey was

now a common sailor before the mast, receiving from his superiors oaths

or orders as the case might be. The ship's destination was Canton, and

its arrival in port was attended by such an unusual amount of sickness

among the crew, that it became necessary to assign young Bailey the

office of surgeon. This he filled with promptness and skill, and when

the vessel set sail for Philadelphia, the sailor was again found at his

post, performing his duties as acceptably as could have been expected

from a greenhorn on his first cruise. Once more on his native shore, and

in some degree reinvigorated by travel, he opened his office for the

practice of medicine. At the end of three months he found himself out of

patients, and in a situation far from enjoyable to one of his active

temperament.

But, luckily for Dr. Bailey, whatever it may have been for the church of

his fathers, just at this time the so-called "Radicals" had begun their

reform movement against Methodist Episcopacy, which resulted in the

secession of a number of the clergy and laity, principally in the Middle

States, and the organization of the Methodist Protestants. These

"Radicals" had their head-quarters at Baltimore. There they started an

organ under the title of "The Methodist Protestant," and to the

editorship of this journal Dr. Bailey was called. His youthful

inexperience as a writer was not the only remarkable feature of this

engagement; for he had not even the qualification of being at that time

a professor of religion. His connection with "The Methodist Protestant"

was a brief one; but it was terminated by lack of sufficient funds to

sustain a regular editor, and not by lack of ability in the editor.

Dr. Bailey was again adrift, and we next find him concerned in "Kelley's

Expedition to Oregon." This had been projected at St. Louis, which was

to be its starting-point; and thither hastened our adventurous young

physician--to learn that the expedition, having had little more to rest

upon than that baseless fabric so often supplied by printers' ink, was

an utter failure. Finding himself without funds to pay for the costly

means of conveyance then used in the West, he made his way back as far

as Cincinnati on foot. Soon after his arrival there the cholera broke

out. This presented an aspect of affairs rather inviting to a courageous

spirit. He gladly embraced the opening for practice; and, happening to

be known to some of the faculty of the place, he was recommended for the

appointment of Physician to the Cholera Hospital. Thus he was soon

introduced to the general confidence of the profession and the public,

and seemed to be on the highway to fame. Dr. Eberlie, a standard medical

authority at that day, as he still is among many practitioners of the

old school in the West, was then preparing his work on the Diseases of

Children, and he availed himself of Dr. Bailey's aid. This opened an

unexpected field to the latter for the exercise of his ability as a

writer; and the work in question contains abundant evidence that he

would have succeeded in the line of medical authorship. But

circumstances proved unfavorable to his connection with Dr. Eberlie, and

he again devoted himself to the practice of his profession, in which he

continued for a time with great success.

At this date, however, an event of great interest occurred in connection

with the agitation of the slavery question,--an event exercising a most

decided influence on the career of Dr. Bailey,--in fact, changing

entirely the current of his eventful life. We allude to the discussions

of slavery at Lane Seminary, and the memorable expulsion of a number of

the students for their persistence in promulging antislavery doctrines.

Dr. Bailey was then engaged at the Seminary in the delivery of a course

of lectures on Physiology. He became interested in the pending

discussion, and espoused the proslavery side. For this his mind had

probably been unconsciously prepared by the current of thought in

Cincinnati, then under the mercantile control of her proslavery

customers from Kentucky and other Southern States. But erelong he

appeared as a convert to the antislavery side of the discussion. This he

himself was wont to attribute, in great part, to the light which an

honest comparison of views threw upon the subject; but it is evident

that his conversion was somewhat accelerated by the expulsion of his

antislavery antagonists in debate. Following the lead of these new

sympathies, he became (in 1835) editorially associated with that great

pioneer advocate of freedom, James G. Birney, whose venerated name has

been so honorably connected with the recent triumph of the Union arms,

through the courage of three of his sons. The paper was "The Cincinnati

Philanthropist," so well remembered by the earlier espousers of

antislavery truth. The association continued about a year. Dr. Bailey

then became sole editor of the Philanthropist, and soon after sole

proprietor. It was from the pages of this journal that a series of

antislavery tracts were reprinted, which had not a little to do in

giving fresh impulse to the discussions of that day. They were entitled

"Facts for the People."

The relation of Dr. Bailey to a journal which was regarded by the

slave-owners as the organ of their worst enemies made him a marked man,

and called him to endure severe and unexpected ordeals. In 1836, his

opponents incited against him the memorable mob, whose first act was the

secret destruction of his press at midnight. Soon after the riot raged

openly, and not only destroyed the remaining contents of his

printing-office, but the building itself. Mr. Birney, being the older

and more conspicuous of the offenders, was of course more emphatically

the object of the mob's wrath than the junior associate. But the latter

shared with him the personal perils of the day, while bearing the brunt

of the pecuniary losses. As is usual in such outbreaks, after three days

of fury, the lawless spirit of the people subsided. There was a

repetition of violence in 1840, however, and during another three days'

reign of terror two more presses were destroyed. But such was the

indomitable energy of the man in whose person and property the

constitutional liberty of the press was thus assailed, that in three

weeks the Philanthropist was again before the public, sturdily defending

the truth it was established to proclaim; and this, be it remembered,

when the press-work of even weekly journals was not let out, in

Cincinnati, as jobs for "lightning presses," but was done in the

proprietors' own offices, on presses to be obtained only from distant

manufactories.

It was in this year that the Liberty party, of which Dr. Bailey was a

prominent leader, entered for the first time into the Presidential

contest, with James G. Birney as its candidate.

Not yet satiated, the spirit of mob violence manifested itself a third

time in 1843; but it was suppressed by the interference of the military

power, and its demonstration was followed by a growth of liberal

sentiment altogether unlooked for. Availing himself of this favorable

change, Dr. Bailey started a daily paper to which the name of "The

Herald" was given.

The unprecedented ordeal through which Dr. Bailey had passed, involving

not only his family, but Mr. Birney, Mr. Clawson, and other friends of

his enterprise, was, after all, but needful training for the subsequent

work allotted to the reformer. He continued the publication of the Daily

Herald, and the Philanthropist also, but under the name of "The Weekly

Herald and Philanthropist," until 1847. With a growing family and a

meagre income, the intervening years marked a season of self-denial to

himself and his excellent wife such as few, even among reformers, have

been called to pass through. And yet through all his poverty his

cheerfulness was unfaltering, and inspired all who came in contact with

him. There was a better day before him,--better in a pecuniary as well

as a political sense. He had now fairly won a reputation throughout the

country for courage and ability as an antislavery journalist. A project

for establishing an antislavery organ at the seat of the national

government had been successfully carried out by the Executive Committee

of the American and Foreign Antislavery Society, under the lead of that

now venerable and esteemed pioneer of freedom, Lewis Tappan. The

editorial charge of it was tendered, with great propriety, to Dr.

Bailey, and was accepted. He entered upon his duties as editor in chief

of "The National Era" in January, 1847, with the Reverend Amos A.

Phelps, now deceased, and John G. Whittier, as corresponding editors,

and L. P. Noble as publishing agent. "The Daily Herald" and "The Weekly

Herald and Philanthropist" were transferred to Messrs. Sperry and

Matthews, with Stanley Matthews as editor; but the political ambition of

the latter prevented his continuing the paper in the steadfast

antislavery tone of his predecessor, and it soon ceased to appear.[B]

The establishment of the National Era, while it furnished a most

appropriate field for Dr. Bailey's talents, also marked an era in the

antislavery history of the country. At the centres of all governments

there is found a fulcrum whose value politicians have long since

demonstrated by its use,--too frequently for the most unworthy purposes.

There had always been organs for conservatism at Washington, but none

for progress. There were numbers of bold thinkers throughout the

country, who had found, here and there, a representative of their ideas

in the government. But they had no newspaper to keep watch and ward over

him, or to correctly report his acts to his constituents,--no vehicle

through which they could bring their thoughts to bear upon him or

others. This was furnished by the National Era. But this was not the

only direction in which it proved useful. It enabled the friends of

emancipation everywhere to communicate freely with those against whose

gigantic system of wrong they felt it their duty to wage war, where such

were found willing to read their antagonists' arguments, instead of

taking them as perverted by proslavery journals.

The first effect of the Era upon the local antislavery journals which it

found in existence was, unquestionably, to excite not a little

apprehension and jealousy among their conductors. Naturally they felt

that the national reputation of Dr. Bailey and his assistants, aided by

a central position, was calculated to detract from their own importance

in the estimation of their patrons. But, besides this, there was the

actual fact of the Era's large supply of original and high-toned

literary matter, added to the direct and reliable Congressional news it

was expected to furnish, which stared them threateningly in the face.

And we well remember now what pain these petty jealousies gave to the

sensitive nature of our departed friend. But these gradually subsided,

until there was hardly an antislavery editor of average discernment who

did not come to see that a national organ like the Era, by legitimating

discussion and keeping up the heat and blaze of a vigorous agitation, at

the nation's very centre, against that nation's own giant crime, would

prove a benefit, in the end, to all colaborers worthy of the name. And

the increase of antislavery journals, as well as of vigor in conducting

them, in the period subsequent to 1847, proved that this was the correct

view.

Although now so favorably placed for contest with his great foe, Dr.

Bailey was here subjected to a renewal of the assaults which had become

painfully familiar in the West. His paper had not been in existence more

than fifteen months when an event occurred which, although he had in it

no agency whatever, brought down upon his devoted head a fourth

discharge of the vials of popular wrath. Some seventy or eighty slaves

attempted to escape from Washington in the steamer Pearl, and instantly

the charge of complicity was laid at his door. His office and dwelling

were surrounded by a furious crowd, including a large proportion of

office-holding F.F.V.'s, and some "gentlemen of property and standing."

These gentlemen threatened the entire destruction of the press and type

of the Era, while the editor's personal safety, with that of his family,

was again put in peril for the space of three terrific days. The Federal

metropolis had never known such days since the torch applied by a

foreign foe had wrapped the first Capitol in flames. The calm

self-possession of Dr. Bailey, when he made his appearance unarmed

before the swaying mob, and addressed them from the steps of his

dwelling,--as described by the late Dr. Houston in a letter to the New

York Tribune, from notes taken while he was concealed in the house,--was

such that, while disarming the leaders with the simple majesty of the

truth, it did not fail to produce a reaction even in the most

exasperated members of the mob.

It would indeed be an interesting task to trace the public influence of

this last demonstration, for it offered phases of interest to both

parties. It is sufficient to say, that the Era's unmolested existence

ever after was simply due to the instincts of self-preservation in the

community. The issue was practically presented to the owners of real

estate in the District, whether freedom of debate on all topics of

public concern should be tolerated there, or the capital be removed to

some Western centre. The bare possibility of this event was more than

the slaveholding land-owners could face, and produced the desired

effect. The continuance of the paper once acquiesced in, the tact of its

editor, aided by that remarkable suavity of manners which made him a

favorite in the private circles of Washington, was sufficient to forever

forbid the probability of a second mob. And thenceforward the Era

increased in influence as well as circulation. The latter, indeed, soon

reached a figure which entitled it to a share of government patronage,

while the former commanded the respect even of the enemies of the cause

it defended.

But this is not all that is to be said of the Era. To that paper belongs

the honor of introducing to the world the story of "Uncle Tom's Cabin."

Although reference has frequently been made to the origin of this

wonderful fiction, the facts of its inception and growth have never been

given to the public. These are so curious, that we are happy to be able

to present what politicians would call the "secret history" of this

book. The account was furnished to a friend by Dr. Bailey himself, when

about to embark for Europe, on his first voyage for health, in 1853; the

manuscript, now used for the first time, was hurriedly penned, without

expectation of its appearance in print, and therefore has all the

dashing freedom which might be looked for in a communication from one

friend to another. We give it _verbatim_, that it may serve for a

_souvenir_, as well as a contribution to the literary history of the

time.

"NEW YORK, May 27, 1853.

"In the beginning of the year 1851, as my custom has been, I

sent remittances to various writers whom I wished to furnish

contributions to the Era, during that volume. Among these was

Mrs. Stowe. I sent her one hundred dollars, saying to her that

for that sum she might write as _much_ as she pleased, _what_

she pleased, and _when_ she pleased. I did not dream that she

would attempt a novel, for she had never written one. Some time

in the summer she wrote me that she was going to write me a

story about 'How a Man became a Thing.' It would occupy a few

numbers of the Era, in chapters. She did not suppose or dream

that it would expand to a novel, nor did I. She changed the

title to 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' and commenced it in August. I

read two or three of the first chapters, to see that everything

was going on right, and read no more then. She proceeded,--the

story grew,--it seemed to have no end,--everybody talked of it.

I thought the mails were never so irregular, for none of my

subscribers was willing to lose a single number of the Era

while the story was going on. Mrs. Bailey attracted my

attention by her special devotion to it, and Mr. Chase always

read it before anything else. Of the hundreds of letters

received weekly, renewing subscriptions or sending new ones,

there was scarcely one that did not contain some cordial

reference to Uncle Tom. I wrote to Mrs. Stowe, and told her

that, although such a story had not been contracted for, and I

had, in my programme, limited my remittance to her to one

hundred dollars, yet, as the thing had grown beyond all our

calculations, I felt bound to make her another remittance. So I

sent her two hundred dollars more. The story was closed early

in the spring of 1852. I had not yet read it; but I wrote to

Mrs. Stowe that, as I had not contemplated so large an outlay

in my plans for the volume, as the paper had not received so

much pecuniary benefit from its publication as it would have

done could my readers have foreseen what it was to be, and as

my large circulation had served as a tremendous advertisement

for the work, which was now about to be published separately,

and of which she held the copyright alone, I supposed that I

ought not to pay for it so much as if these circumstances had

not existed. But I simply stated the case to her,--submitted

everything to her judgment,--and would pay her additional just

exactly what she should determine was right. She named one

hundred dollars more; this I immediately remitted. And thus

terminated my relations with 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' but not with

its author, who is still engaged as a regular contributor to

the Era. Dr. Snodgrass is hereby commended to Mr. Clephane [Dr.

Bailey's clerk], who is authorized to hand him any letters

between Mrs. Stowe and myself that may aid him in his

undertaking."

It may be proper to say that the "undertaking" referred to contemplated

a biographical sketch, not of Dr. Bailey, but of his distinguished

contributor,--a project the execution of which circumstances did not

favor, and which was therefore abandoned.

"Uncle Tom's Cabin," and the remarkable introduction of its author to

fame and pecuniary fortune, were not the only results of a similar

character referable to the Era. Mrs. Southworth also made her literary

_debut_ in the same journal. Previous to her connection with the Era,

she had only published some short sketches in the Baltimore Saturday

Visiter, over her initial "E," or "Emma" at most; and even these

signatures gave her much trouble, as her letters to the editor plainly

indicated, so fearful was she of the recognition and unfavorable

criticism of her friends. She had a painful lack of confidence in her

own ability. Just before the transfer of the subscription list of the

Visiter to the Era, she had sent in a story. To this, against her

earnest protest, the editor had affixed her entire name, and the story,

prepared for the Visiter, was transferred with its list to the Era, and

was there published, in spite of the deprecations of Mrs. Southworth. It

served the purpose intended. The attention of Dr. Bailey was called to

one until then unknown to him, although residing in the same city, and

he at once gave her a paying engagement in his journal. This brought her

under new influences, which resulted in her conversion to the principles

of the antislavery reform,--a conversion whose fruits have since been

shown in her deeds as well as her writings. And thus commenced the

literary career of another successful author, who, but for the existence

of the Era, would probably have been left to struggle on in the

adversity from which her pen has so creditably set her free.

Unduly encouraged by the success of his weekly journal, Dr. Bailey

started a daily edition of the Era. Having committed himself to continue

it for a year without regard to pecuniary results, he did so, and here

the publication ceased. The experiment cost him heavily. This, however,

he anticipated, though he of course also anticipated ultimate profit,

notwithstanding the warning which he had received from the equally

unlucky experiment of the Cincinnati Daily Herald. In a letter to the

writer of this, dated December 18, 1853, he said: "I start the Daily

with the full expectation of sinking five thousand dollars on it. Of

course I can afford no extra expenses, but must do nearly all the work

on it myself,"--a statement which shows at once the hopefulness and the

energy of our friend's disposition.

Dr. Bailey died at sea, while on his way to Europe, on the fifth day of

June, 1859. It was the second voyage thither which he had undertaken

within a few years, for the benefit of his broken health. His body was

brought home and interred at Washington. With its editor died the

National Era; for it was discontinued soon after his decease.

Mr. Raymond of the New York Daily Times, who was a fellow-passenger

with Dr. Bailey, wrote an account of his last hours for his paper, which

has by no means lost its melancholy interest. "I gathered from his

conversation," says Mr. Raymond, "that he did not consider himself to be

very ill, at least, that his lungs were not affected, but that a

long-continued dyspepsia, and the nervous excitement which his labors

had induced, had combined to bring about the weakness under which he

suffered. For the first two or three days he was upon deck for the

greater part of the time. The weather was fresh, though not unpleasantly

cold, and the sea not rough enough to occasion any considerable

discomfort. The motion, however, affected him disagreeably. He slept

badly, had no appetite, and could relish nothing but a little fruit now

and then. His eldest son was with him, and attended upon him with all a

fond son's solicitude. Except myself, I do not think he had another

acquaintance on board. He was cheerful and social, and talked with

interest of everything connected with public affairs at home and abroad.

He suffered some inconvenience from the fact that his room was below,

and that he could only reach it by descending two flights of stairs. We

occasionally made a couch of cushions for him upon deck, when he became

fatigued; but this made him too conspicuous for his taste, and he seemed

uneasily fearful of attracting attention to himself as an invalid. After

Tuesday the sea became remarkably smooth, and so continued to the end of

the voyage. But it brought him no relief; his strength failed with

failing appetite; and on Thursday, from staying too long on deck, he

took cold, which confined him to his room next day. Otherwise he seemed

about as usual through that day and Saturday, and on Sunday morning

seemed even better, saying that he had slept unusually well, and felt

strengthened and refreshed. He took some slight nourishment, and

attempted to get up from his berth without assistance; the effort was

too much for him, however, and his son, who had left his room at his

request, but stood at the door, saw him fall as he attempted to stand.

He at once went in, raised him, and laid him upon the couch. Seeing that

he was greatly distressed in breathing, he went immediately for Dr.

Smith, the surgeon of the ship. I met him on deck, and, hearing of his

father's condition, went at once to his room. I found him wholly

unconscious, breathing with difficulty, but perfectly quiet, and

seemingly asleep. Drs. Beale and Dubois were present, and endeavored to

give him a stimulant, but he was unable to swallow, and it was evident

that he was dying. He continued in this state for about half an hour;

his breathing became slower and slower, until finally it ceased

altogether, and that was all! Not a movement of a muscle, not a spasm or

a tremor of any kind, betrayed the moment when his spirit took its

departure. An infant, wearied with play on a summer's eve, could not

have fallen asleep more gently."

As mourners over him who thus passed away in the very prime of manhood,

there were left a wife, whose maiden name was Maria L. Shands, and who

was the daughter of a Methodist preacher and planter of Sussex County,

Virginia, and six children, three sons and three daughters. In Mrs.

Bailey her husband had found a woman of rare intelligence as well as

courage, whose companionship proved most sustaining and consoling amid

the trials of his eventful life. She and five of their children still

live to revere his memory. Two of the survivors are sons; and it is

pleasant to add that one of these has done honor to his parentage, as

well as to himself, by continuing what is virtually the same good fight,

as a commander of colored troops, under General William Birney, the son

of the very James G. Birney who was Dr. Bailey's editorial associate in

Cincinnati.

Subjected as Dr. Bailey was so frequently to the fury of mobs, and the

pressure of social opposition and pecuniary want, he led the hosts of

Antislavery Reform into the very stronghold of the enemy's country; and

to say that he maintained his position with integrity and success is but

to pronounce the common praise of his contemporaries and colaborers. As

a writer he was clear and logical to an uncommon degree, carrying

certain conviction to the mind, wherever it was at all open to the

truth; and with the rare habit of stating fairly the position of his

opponent, he never failed of winning his respect and his confidence. The

death of such a man was well calculated to fill the friends of progress

throughout the world with unfeigned regret. Especially must they lament

that he departed too soon to witness the triumph of liberty, for which

it had so long been his pleasure "to labor and to wait."

We learn with much satisfaction, that a "Life of Dr. Bailey" is in

course of preparation, with the sanction of Mrs. Bailey, which, while

affording much valuable information concerning the antislavery events of

the past, will also offer space, wanting here, to do full justice to the

memory of this estimable man.

FOOTNOTES:

[B] These facts are given because of an erroneous statement which crept

into the brief though kind biographical notice of Dr. Bailey in "The New

American Cyclopaedia," to the effect that the subscription list of the

Philanthropist was transferred with its editor to the National Era. It

was the list of "The Saturday Visiter," published for many years, as an

antislavery journal, at Baltimore, which was transferred to the Era,

together with the services of its editor and proprietor (J. E.

Snodgrass) as special correspondent and publishing agent at that

important point. This arrangement admirably served to secure to the Era

a circulation in Southern communities where the Visiter had already

found its way, and where it would otherwise have been difficult to

introduce a paper which was notoriously the central organ of

Abolitionism.

GRIFFITH GAUNT; OR, JEALOUSY.

CHAPTER XXVI.

He was gone for good, this time.

At the fair the wrestling was ended, and the tongues going over it all

again, and throwing the victors; the greasy pole, with leg of mutton

attached by ribbons, was being hoisted, and the swings flying, and the

lads and lasses footing it to the fife and tabor, and the people

chattering in groups; when the clatter of a horse's feet was heard, and

a horseman burst in and rode recklessly through the market-place;

indeed, if his noble horse had been as rash as he was, some would have

been trampled under foot. The rider's face was ghastly: such as were not

exactly in his path had time to see it, and wonder how this terrible

countenance came into that merry place. Thus, as he passed, shouts of

dismay arose, and a space opened before him, and then closed behind him

with a great murmur that followed at his heels.

Tom Leicester was listening, spell-bound, on the outskirts of the

throng, to the songs and humorous tirades of a pedler selling his wares;

and was saying to himself, "I too will be a pedler." Hearing the row, he

turned round, and saw his master just coming down with that stricken

face.

Tom could not read his own name in print or manuscript; and these are

the fellows that beat us all at reading countenances: he saw in a moment

that some great calamity had fallen on Griffith's head; and nature

stirred in him. He darted to his master's side, and seized the bridle.

"What is up?" he cried.

But Griffith did not answer nor notice. His ears were almost deaf, and

his eyes, great and staring, were fixed right ahead; and, to all

appearance, he did not see the people. He seemed to be making for the

horizon.

"Master! for the love of God, speak to me," cried Leicester. "What have

they done to you? Whither be you going, with the face of a ghost?"

"Away, from the hangman," shrieked Griffith, still staring at the

horizon. "Stay me not; my hands itch for their throats; my heart thirsts

for their blood; but I'll not hang for a priest and a wanton." Then he

suddenly turned on Leicester, "Let thou go, or--" and he lifted his

heavy riding-whip.

Then Leicester let go the rein, and the whip descended on the horse's

flank. He went clattering furiously over the stones, and drove the

thinner groups apart like chaff, and his galloping feet were soon heard

fainter and fainter till they died away in the distance. Leicester stood

gaping.

* * * * *

Griffith's horse, a black hunter of singular power and beauty, carried

his wretched master well that day. He went on till sunset, trotting,

cantering, and walking, without intermission; the whip ceased to touch

him, the rein never checked him. He found he was the master, and he went

his own way. He took his broken rider back into the county where he had

been foaled. But a few miles from his native place they came to the

"Packhorse," a pretty little roadside inn, with farm-yard and buildings

at the back. He had often baited here in his infancy; and now, stiff and

stumbling with fatigue, the good horse could not pass the familiar

place; he walked gravely into the stable-yard, and there fairly came to

an end; craned out his drooping head, crooked his limbs, and seemed of

wood. And no wonder. He was ninety-three miles from his last corn.

Paul Carrick, a young farrier, who frequented the "Packhorse," happened

just then to be lounging at the kitchen door, and saw him come in. He

turned directly, and shouted into the house, "Ho! Master Vint, come

hither. Here's Black Dick come home, and brought you a worshipful

customer."

The landlord bustled out of the kitchen, crying, "They are welcome

both." Then he came lowly louting to Griffith, cap in hand, and held the

horse, poor immovable brute; and his wife courtesied perseveringly at

the door.

Griffith dismounted, and stood there looking like one in a dream.

"Please you come in, sir," said the landlady, smiling professionally.

He followed her mechanically.

"Would your worship be private? We keep a parlor for gentles."

"Ay, let me be alone," he groaned.

Mercy Vint, the daughter, happened to be on the stairs and heard him:

the voice startled her, and she turned round directly to look at the

speaker; but she only saw his back going into the room, and then he

flung himself like a sack into the arm-chair.

The landlady invited him to order supper: he declined. She pressed him.

He flung a piece of money on the table, and told her savagely to score

his supper, and leave him in peace.

She flounced out with a red face, and complained to her husband in the

kitchen.

Harry Vint rung the crown-piece on the table before he committed himself

to a reply. It rang like a bell. "Churl or not, his coin is good," said

Harry Vint, philosophically. "I'll eat his supper, dame, for that

matter."

"Father," whispered Mercy, "I do think the gentleman is in trouble."

"And that is no business of mine, neither," said Harry Vint.

Presently the guest they were discussing called loudly for a quart of

burnt wine.

When it was ready, Mercy offered to take it in to him. She was curious.

The landlord looked up rather surprised; for his daughter attended to

the farm, but fought shy of the inn and its business.

"Take it, lass, and welcome for me," said Mrs. Vint, pettishly.

Mercy took the wine in, and found Griffith with his head buried in his

hands.

She stood awhile with the tray, not knowing what to do.

Then, as he did not move, she said softly, "The wine, sir, an if it

please you."

Griffith lifted his head, and turned two eyes clouded with suffering

upon her. He saw a buxom, blooming young woman, with remarkably

dove-like eyes that dwelt with timid, kindly curiosity upon him. He

looked at her in a half-distracted way, and then put his hand to the

mug. "Here's perdition to all false women!" said he, and tossed half the

wine down at a single draught.

"'T is not to me you drink, sir," said Mercy, with gentle dignity. Then

she courtesied modestly and retired, discouraged, not offended.

The wretched Griffith took no notice,--did not even see he had repulsed

a friendly visitor. The wine, taken on an empty stomach, soon stupefied

him, and he staggered to bed.

He awoke at daybreak: and O the agony of that waking!

He lay sighing awhile, with his hot skin quivering on his bones, and his

heart like lead; then got up and flung his clothes on hastily, and asked

how far to the nearest seaport.

Twenty miles.

He called for his horse. The poor brute was dead lame.

He cursed that good servant for going lame. He walked round and round

like a wild beast, chafing and fuming awhile; then sank into a torpor of

dejection, and sat with his head bowed on the table all day.

He ate scarcely any food; but drank wine freely, remarking, however,

that it was false-hearted stuff, did him no good, and had no taste as

wine used to have. "But nothing is what it was," said he. "Even I was

happy once. But that seems years ago."

"Alas! poor gentleman; God comfort you," said Mercy Vint, and came, with

the tears in her dove-like eyes, and said to her father, "To be sure his

worship hath been crossed in love; and what could she be thinking of?

Such a handsome, well-made gentleman!"

"Now that is a wench's first thought," said Harry Vint; "more likely

lost his money, gambling, or racing. But, indeed, I think 't is his head

is disordered, not his heart. I wish the 'Packhorse' was quit of him,

maugre his laced coat. We want no kill-joys here."

That night he was heard groaning, and talking, and did not come down at

all.

So at noon Mrs. Vint knocked at his door. A weak voice bade her enter.

She found him shivering, and he asked her for a fire.

She grumbled, out of hearing, but lighted a fire.

Presently his voice was heard hallooing. He wanted all the windows open,

he was so burning hot.

The landlady looked at him, and saw his face was flushed and swollen;

and he complained of pain in all his bones. She opened the windows, and

asked him would he have a doctor sent for. He shook his head

contemptuously.

However, towards evening, he became delirious, and raved and tossed, and

rolled his head as if it was an intolerable weight he wanted to get rid

of.

The females of the family were for sending at once for a doctor; but the

prudent Harry demurred.

"Tell me, first, who is to pay the fee," said he. "I've seen a fine coat

with the pockets empty, before to-day."

The women set up their throats at him with one accord, each after her

kind.

"Out, fie!" said Mercy; "are we to do naught for charity?"

"Why, there's his horse, ye foolish man," said Mrs. Vint.

"Ay, ye are both wiser than me," said Harry Vint, ironically. And soon

after that he went out softly.

The next minute he was in the sick man's room, examining his pockets. To

his infinite surprise he found twenty gold pieces, a quantity of silver,

and some trinkets.

He spread them all out on the table, and gloated on them with greedy

eyes. They looked so inviting, that he said to himself they would be

safer in his custody than in that of a delirious person, who was even

now raving incoherently before him, and could not see what he was doing.

He therefore proceeded to transfer them to his own care.

On the way to his pocket, his shaking hand was arrested by another hand,

soft, but firm as iron.

He shuddered, and looked round in abject terror; and there was his

daughter's face, pale as his own, but full of resolution. "Nay, father,"

said she; "_I_ must take charge of these: and well do you know why."

These simple words cowed Harry Vint, so that he instantly resigned the

money and jewels, and retired, muttering that "things were come to a

pretty pass,"--"a man was no longer master in his own house," etc.,

etc., etc.

While he inveighed against the degeneracy of the age, the women paid him

no more attention than the age did, but just sent for the doctor. He

came, and bled the patient. This gave him a momentary relief; but when,

in the natural progress of the disease, sweating and weakness came on,

the loss of the precious vital fluid was fatal, and the patient's pulse

became scarce perceptible. There he lay, with wet hair, and gleaming

eyes, and haggard face, at death's door.

An experienced old crone was got to nurse him, and she told Mrs. Vint he

would live may be three days.

* * * * *

Paul Carrick used to come to the "Packhorse" after Mercy Vint, and,

finding her sad, asked her what was the matter.

"What should it be," said she, "but the poor gentleman a-dying overhead;

away from all his friends."

"Let me see him," said Paul.

Mercy took him softly into the room.

"Ay, he is booked," said the farrier, "Doctor has taken too much blood

out of the man's body. They kill a many that way."

"Alack, Paul! must he die? Can naught be done?" said Mercy, clasping her

hands.

"I don't say that, neither," said the farrier. "He is a well-made man:

he is young, _I_ might save him, perhaps, if I had not so many beasts to

look to. I'll tell you what you do. Make him soup as strong as strong;

have him watched night and day, and let 'em put a spoonful of warm wine

into him every hour, and then of soup; egg flip is a good thing, too;

change his bed-linen, and keep the doctors from him: that is his only

chance; he is fairly dying of weakness. But I must be off. Farmer

Blake's cow is down for calving; I must give her an ounce of salts

before 't is too late."