VALENTINE HARLEY.’”

It need not be said that Edgar Hastings was plunged in profound grief at

hearing this epistle read; his excellent father, his beloved wife, his

darling child, were brought before him, fresh as when he last saw them;

and now the withering thought came over him that he was to see them no

more! After a few moments spent in bitter anguish, he raised his head,

and motioned the young man to proceed.

“Meantime the workmen proceeded in their labours, and so great was the

anxiety of all, that upwards of fifty more hands were employed to assist

in removing the thick layer of ice which apparently covered the whole

building. When the ice was removed, we came immediately to the crushed

roof of the house, into which several of the labourers would have worked

their way had we not withheld them. After placing the engines in front

they soon cleared a road to the entrance, and by sundown Valentine

Harley and myself stood before the doorway of the low stone farm house.

“It was not without great emotion that we came thus suddenly in view of

a building which had lain under such a mass of earth for three

centuries. We are both, I trust, men of strong and tender feelings, and

we could not but sigh over the disastrous fate of our great ancestor,

distant as was the period of his existence. We had often thought of it,

for it was the story of our childhood, and every document had been

religiously preserved. We stood for a few moments looking at the

entrance in silence, for among other letters there were two or three,

written late in life by your faithful and excellent wife—was not her

name Ophelia?”

“It was, it was,” said the afflicted man; “go on, and ask me no

questions, for my reason is unsteady.”

“In one of these letters she suggested the possibility that her beloved

husband might have been buried under the ruins; that the thought had

sometimes struck her; but her father believed otherwise. That within a

few years an old sailor had returned to his native place, and as it was

near Elmwood, he called on her to state that it was his firm belief that

Mr. Hastings did not perish in the Black Hawk. His reason for this

belief was, that on the way to the ship he encountered an old friend,

just at that moment leaving the low stone building. ‘I wanted him,’ said

the old sailor, ‘to jump in the wagon and go with me to the wharf, but

he refused, as he had business on the other side of the river. Besides,

said my friend, the gentleman within, pointing to the door, has given me

a quarter of a dollar to go forward and tell the captain of the Black

Hawk that he cannot cross this trip. This gentleman, he said, was Mr.

Hastings.’

“Another letter stated—I think it was written by the wife of James

Harley, your brother-in-law—that, in addition to the above, the old

sailor stated, that the ship in which he sailed had not raised anchor

yet, when they heard the explosion of the Black Hawk, of which fact they

became acquainted by means of a little fishing boat that came along

side, and which saw her blow up. He observed to some one near, that if

that was the case, an old shipmate of his had lost his life. The sailor

added likewise, that he had been beating about the world for many years,

but at length growing tired, and finding old age creeping on him, he

determined to end his days in his native village. Among the recitals of

early days was the bursting of the Black Hawk and the death of Mr.

Hastings, which latter fact he contradicted, stating his reasons for

believing that you were not in the boat. The idea of your being buried

under the ruins, and the dread that you might have perished with hunger,

so afflicted the poor Lady Ophelia that she fell into a nervous fever,

of which she died.”

“Say no more—tell me nothing farther,” said the poor sufferer; “I can

listen no longer—good night—good night—leave me alone.”

The young men renewed the fire, and were about to depart, when he called

them back.

“Excuse this emotion—but my son—tell me of him; did he perish?”

“No—he lived to see his great grandchildren all married: I think he was

upwards of ninety when he died.”

“And what relation are you to him?”

“I am the great grandson of your great grandson,” said Edgar Hastings

the younger; “and this young man is the eighth in descent from your

brother, James Harley. We both feel respect and tenderness for you, and

it shall be the business of our lives to make you forget your griefs. Be

comforted, therefore, for we are your children. In the morning you shall

see my wife and children. Meantime, as we have not much more to say, let

us finish our account of meeting you, and then we trust you will be able

to get a few hours’ rest.”

“Rest!” said the man who had slept three hundred years, “I think I have

had enough of sleep; but proceed.”

“When the thought struck us that your bones might lie under the ruins,

we did not wish any common eye to see them; we therefore dismissed the

workmen, and entered the door by ourselves. We came immediately into a

square hall, at the end of which was the opening to what is called in

all the papers the middle room; the door had crumbled away. The only

light in the room proceeded from a hole which had been recently made by

the removal of the ice on the roof, but it was sufficient to show the

contents of the room. We saw the boxes, so often mentioned in all the

letters, nine in number, and four large cases, which we supposed to be

instruments. The table and four chairs were in good preservation, and on

the table lay the very note which you must have written but a few

minutes before the ice covered you. On walking to the other side of the

room, the light fell on the large chair in which you were reclining.

“‘This is the body of our great ancestor,’ said Valentine Harley, ‘and

now that the air has been admitted it will crumble to dust. Let us have

the entrance nailed up, and make arrangements for giving the bones an

honourable grave.’

“‘Unfortunate man,’ said I; ‘he must have perished with hunger—and yet

his flesh does not appear to have wasted. It is no doubt the first owner

of our estate, and he was buried in the fall of the ice and hill. The

old sailor was right. His cap of sealskin lies at the back of his head,

his gloves are on his lap, and there is the cameo on his little finger,

the very one described in the paper which offered that large reward for

the recovery of his body. The little valise lies at his feet—how

natural—how like a living being he looks; one could almost fancy he

breathes.’

“‘My fancy is playing the fool with me,’ said Valentine; ‘he not only

appears to breathe, but he moves his hand. If we stay much longer our

senses will become affected, and we shall imagine that he can rise and

walk.’

“We stepped back, therefore, a few paces; but you may imagine our

surprise, when you opened your eyes and made an attempt to get up. At

length you spoke, and we hastened to you; our humanity and pity, for one

so singularly circumstanced, being stronger than our fears. You know the

rest. I picked up the valise, and there it lies.”

We shall draw a veil over the next two months of our hero’s existence.

His mind was in distress and confusion, and he refused to be comforted;

but the young men devoted themselves to him, and they had their reward

in seeing him at length assume a tranquil manner—yet the sad expression

of his countenance never left him. His greatest pleasure—a melancholy

one it was, which often made him shed tears—was to caress the youngest

child; it was about the age of his own, and he fancied he saw a

resemblance. In fact, he saw a strong likeness to his wife in the lady

who now occupied Elmwood, and her name being Ophelia rendered the

likeness more pleasing. She had been told of the strange relationship

which existed between her guest and themselves; but, at our hero’s

request, no other human being was to know who he was, save Edgar

Hastings the younger and his wife, and Valentine Harley. It was thought

most prudent to keep it a secret from the wife of the latter, as her

health was exceedingly delicate, and her husband feared that the

strangeness of the affair might disturb her mind.

Behold our hero, then, in full health and vigour, at the ripe age of

thirty-two, returning to the earth after an absence of three hundred

years! Had it not been for the loss of his wife and son, and his

excellent father, he surely was quite as happily circumstanced, as when,

at twenty-one, he returned from Europe, unknowing and unknown. He soon

made friends _then_, and but for the canker at his heart he could make

friends again. He thought of nothing less than to appear before the

public, or of engaging in any pursuit. His fortune, and that part of his

father-in-law’s which naturally would have fallen to him, was now in the

possession of this remote descendant. He was willing to let it so

remain, retaining only sufficient for his wants; and his amiable

relation took care that his means were ample.

To divert his mind, and keep him from brooding over his sorrows, his

young relative proposed that they should travel through the different

states. “Surely,” said he, “you must feel a desire to see what changes

three hundred years have made. Are not the people altered? Do those

around you talk, and dress, and live as you were accustomed to do?”

“I see a difference certainly,” said Hastings, “but less than I should

have imagined. But my mind has been in such confusion, and my grief has

pressed so heavily on my heart, that I can observe nothing. I will

travel with you, perhaps it may be of service; let us set out on the

first of May. Shall we go northward first, or where?”

“I think we had better go to New York,” said Edgar, “and then to Boston;

we can spend the months of May, June and July very pleasantly in

travelling from one watering place to another. We now go in locomotive

cars, without either gas or steam.”

“Is that the way you travel now?” exclaimed Hastings.

“Yes, certainly; how should we travel? Oh, I recollect, you had balloons

and air cars in your time.”

“We had balloons, but they were not used as carriages; now and then some

adventurous man went up in one, but it was merely to amuse the people.

Have you discovered the mode of navigating balloons?”

“Oh yes; we guide them as easily through the air, as you used to do

horses on land.”

“Do you never use horses to travel with now?”

“No, never. It is upwards of a hundred years since horses were used

either for the saddle or carriage; and full two hundred years since they

were used for ploughing, or other farming or domestic purposes.”

“You astonish me; but in field sports, or horse racing, there you must

have horses.”

The young man smiled. “My dear sir,” said he, “there is no such thing as

field sports or horse racing now. Those brutal pastimes, thank heaven,

have been entirely abandoned. In fact, you will be surprised to learn,

that the races of horses, asses and mules are almost extinct. I can

assure you, that they are so great a curiosity now to the rising

generation, that they are carried about with wild beasts as part of the

show.”

“Then there is no travelling on horseback? I think that is a great loss,

as the exercise was very healthy and pleasant.”

“Oh, we have a much more agreeable mode of getting exercise now. Will

you take a ride on the land or a sail on the water?”

“I think I should feel a reluctance in getting into one of your new

fashioned cars. Do the steamboats cross at what was called the Little

Ferry, where the Black Hawk went from when her boiler exploded?”

“Steamboats indeed! they have been out of use since the year 1950. But

suspend your curiosity until we commence our journey; you will find many

things altered for the better.”

“One thing surprises me,” said Hastings. “You wear the quaker dress;

indeed, it is of that fashion which the gravest of the sect of my time

wore; but you do not use the mode of speech—is that abolished among

you?”

The young man, whom we shall in future call Edgar, laughed out.

“Quaker!” said he; “why, my dear sir, the quakers have been extinct for

upwards of two centuries. My dress is the fashion of the present moment;

all the young men of my age and standing dress in this style now. Does

it appear odd to you?”

“No,” said Hastings, “because this precise dress was worn by the people

called Friends or Quakers, in my day—strange that I should have to use

this curious mode of speech—my day! yes, like the wandering Jew, I seem

to exist to the end of time. I see one alteration or difference,

however; you wear heavy gold buckles in your shoes, the quakers wore

strings; you have long ruffles on your hands, they had none; you wear a

cocked hat, and they wore one with a large round rim.”

“But the women—did they dress as my wife does?”

“No.—Your wife wears what the old ladies before my time called a _frisk_

and petticoat; it is the fashion of the year 1780. Her hair is cropped

and curled closely to her head, with small clusters of curls in the

hollow of each temple. In 1835 the hair was dressed in the Grecian

style—but you can see the fashion. You have preserved the picture of my

dear Ophelia; she sat to two of the best painters of the day, Sully and

Ingham; the one _you_ have was painted by Ingham, and is in the gay

dress of the time. The other, which her brother had in his possession,

was in a quaker dress, and was painted by Sully.”

“We have it still, and it is invaluable for the sweetness of expression

and the grace of attitude. The one in your room is admirable likewise;

it abounds in beauties. No one since has ever been able to paint in that

style; it bears examination closely. Was he admired as an artist in your

day?”

“Yes; he was a distinguished painter, but he deserved his reputation,

for he bestowed immense labour on his portraits, and sent nothing

unfinished from his hands.”

“But portrait painting is quite out of date now; it began to decline

about the year 1870. It was a strange taste, that of covering the walls

with paintings, which your grandchildren had to burn up as useless

lumber. Where character, beauty and grace were combined, and a good

artist to embody them, it was well enough; a number of these beautiful

fancy pieces are still preserved. Landscape and historical painting is

on the decline also. There are no good artists now, but you had a

delightful painter in your day—Leslie. His pictures are still considered

as very great treasures, and they bring the very highest prices.”

“How is it with sculpture? That art was beginning to improve in my day.”

“Yes; and has continued to improve. We now rival the proudest days of

Greece. But you must see all these things. The Academy of Fine Arts in

Philadelphia will delight you; it is now the largest in the world. In

reading an old work I find that in your time it was contemptible enough,

for in the month of April of 1833, the Academy of Fine Arts in that city

was so much in debt, as to be unable to sustain itself. It was with the

greatest difficulty that the trustees could beg a sum sufficient to pay

the debts. The strong appeal that was made to the public enabled them to

continue it a little longer in its impoverished condition, but it seems

that it crumbled to pieces, and was not resuscitated until the year

1850, at which time a taste for the art of sculpture began to appear in

this country.”

On the first of May the two gentlemen commenced their tour—not in

locomotive engines, nor in steamboats, but in curious vehicles that

moved by some internal machinery. They were regulated every hour at the

different stopping places, and could be made to move faster or slower,

to suit the pleasure of those within. The roads were beautifully smooth

and perfectly level; and Hastings observed that there were no dangerous

passes, for a strong railing stretched along the whole extent of every

elevation. How different from the roads of 1834! Then men were reckless

or prodigal of life; stages were overturned, or pitched down some steep

hill—rail cars bounded off the rails, or set the vehicles on

fire—steamboats exploded and destroyed many lives—horses ran away and

broke their riders’ necks—carts, heavily laden, passed over children and

animals—boats upset in squalls of wind—in short, if human ingenuity had

been exerted to its fullest extent, there could not be contrivances

better suited to shorten life, or render travelling more unsafe and

disagreeable.

Instead of going directly to New York, as they at first contemplated,

they visited every part of Pennsylvania. Railroads intersected one

another in every direction; every thing was a source of amazement and

amusement to Hastings. The fields were no longer cultivated by the horse

or the ox, nor by small steam engines, as was projected in the

nineteenth century, but by a self-moving plough, having the same

machinery to propel it as that of the travelling cars. Instead of rough,

unequal grounds, gullied, and with old tree stumps in some of the most

valuable parts of the field, the whole was one beautiful level; and,

where inclinations were unavoidable, there were suitable drains. The

same power mowed the grass, raked it up, spread it out, gathered it, and

brought it to the barn—the same power scattered seeds, ploughed, hoed,

harrowed, cut, gathered, threshed, stored and ground the grain—and the

same power distributed it to the merchants and small consumers.

“Wonderful, most wonderful,” said the astonished Hastings. “I well

remember this very farm; those fields, the soil of which was washed away

by the precipitous fall of rain from high parts, are now all levelled

smooth. The hand of time has done nothing better for the husbandman than

in perfecting such operations as these. Now, every inch of ground is

valuable; and this very farm, once only capable of supporting a man, his

wife and five children in the mere necessaries of life, must now give to

four times that number every luxury.”

“Yes, you are right; and instead of requiring the assistance of four

labourers, two horses and two oxen, it is all managed by four men alone!

The machines have done every thing—they fill up gullies, dig out the

roots of trees, plough down hills, turn water courses—in short, they

have entirely superseded the use of cattle of any kind.”

“But I see no fences,” said Hastings; “how is this? In my day, every

man’s estate was enclosed by a fence or wall of some kind; now, for

boundary lines I see nothing but a low hedge, and a moveable wire fence

for pasturage for cows.”

“Why should there be the uncouth and expensive fences, which I find by

the old books were in use in 1834, when we have no horses; there is no

fear of injury now from their trespassing. All our carriages move on

rails, and cannot turn aside to injure a neighbouring grain field. Cows,

under no pretence whatever, are allowed to roam at large; and it would

be most disgraceful to the corporate bodies of city or county to allow

hogs or sheep to run loose in the streets or on the road. The rich,

therefore, need no enclosure but for ornament, which, as it embellishes

the prospect, is always made of some pleasant looking evergreen or

flowering shrub. In fact, it is now a state affair, and when a poor man

is unable to enclose the land himself, it is done by money lawfully

appropriated to the purpose.”

“And dogs—I see no dogs,” said Hastings. “In my day every farmer had one

or more dogs; in little villages there were often three and four in each

house; the cities were full of them, notwithstanding the dog laws—but I

see none now.”

“No—it is many years since dogs were domesticated; it is a rarity to see

one now. Once in awhile some odd, eccentric old fellow will bring a dog

with him from some foreign port, but he dare not let him run loose. I

presume that in your time hydrophobia was common; at least, on looking

over a file of newspapers of the year 1930, called the Recorder of

Self-Inflicted Miseries, I saw several accounts of that dreadful

disease. Men, women, children, animals, were frequently bitten by mad

dogs in those early days. It is strange, that so useless an animal was

caressed, and allowed to come near your persons, when the malady to

which they were so frequently liable, and from which there was no

guarding, no cure, could be imparted to human beings.”

“Well, what caused the final expulsion of dogs?”

“You will find the whole account in that old paper called the Recorder

of Self-Inflicted Miseries; there, from time to time, all the accidents

that happened to what were called steamboats, locomotive engines,

stages, &c. were registered. You will see that in the year 1860, during

the months of August and September, more than ten thousand dogs were

seized with that horrible disease, and that upward of one hundred

thousand people fell victims to it. It raged with the greatest fury in

New York, Philadelphia, and Baltimore; and but for the timely

destruction of every dog in the South, ten times the number of human

beings would have perished. The death from hydrophobia is as disgraceful

to a corporate body, as if the inhabitants had died of thirst, when good

water was near them.”

“This was horrible; the consternation of the people must have been very

great—equal to what was felt during the cholera. Did you ever read of

that terrible disease?”

“No, I do not recollect it——Oh, yes, now I remember to have read

something of it—but that came in a shape that was not easy to foresee.

But dogs were always known to be subject to this awful disease, and

therefore encouraging their increase was shameful. Posterity had cause

enough to curse the memory of their ancestors, for having entailed such

a dreadful scourge upon them. The panic, it seems, was so great, that to

this day children are more afraid of looking at a dog, for they are kept

among wild beasts as a curiosity, than at a Bengal tiger.”

“I confess I never could discover in what their usefulness consisted.

They were capable of feeling a strong attachment to their master, and

had a show of reason and intelligence, but it amounted to very little in

its effects. It was very singular, but I used frequently to observe,

that men were oftentimes more gentle and kind to their dogs than to

their wives and children; and much better citizens would these children

have made, if their fathers had bestowed half the pains in _breaking

them in_, and in training them, that they did on their dogs. It was a

very rare circumstance if a theft was prevented by the presence of a

dog; when such a thing _did_ occur, every paper spoke of it, and the

anecdote was never forgotten. But had they been ever so useful, so

necessary to man’s comfort, nothing could compensate or overbalance the

evil to which he was liable from this disease. Were the dogs all

destroyed at once?”

“Yes; the papers say, that by the first of October there was but one dog

to be seen, and the owner of that had to pay a fine of three thousand

dollars, and be imprisoned for one year at hard labour. When you

consider the horrible sufferings of so many people, and all to gratify a

pernicious as well as foolish fondness for an animal, we cannot wonder

at the severity of the punishment.”

“I very well remember how frequently I was annoyed by dogs when riding

along the road. A yelping cur has followed at my horse’s heels for five

or six minutes, cunningly keeping beyond the reach of my whip—some dogs

do this all their lives. Have the shepherd’s dogs perished likewise—all,

did you say?”

“Yes; every dog—pointers, setters, hounds—all were exterminated; and I

sincerely hope that the breed will never be encouraged again. In fact,

the laws are so severe that there is no fear of it, for no man can bring

them in the country without incurring a heavy fine, and in particular

cases imprisonment at hard labour. We should as soon expect to see a

wolf or a tiger running loose in the streets as a dog.”

Every step they took excited fresh remarks from Hastings, and his mind

naturally turned to the friends he had lost. How perfect would have been

his happiness if it had been permitted that his wife and his father

could be with him to see the improved state of the country. When he

looked forward to what his life might be—unknown, alone—he regretted

that he had been awakened: but his kind relative, who never left him for

a moment, as soon as these melancholy reveries came over him hurried him

to some new scene.

They were now in Philadelphia, the Athens of America, as it was called

three centuries back. Great changes had taken place here. Very few of

the public edifices had escaped the all-devouring hand of time. In fact,

Hastings recognised but five—that beautiful building called originally

the United States Bank, the Mint, the Asylum for the Deaf and Dumb, and

the Girard College. The latter continued to flourish, notwithstanding

its downfall was early predicted, in consequence of the prohibition of

clergymen in the direction of its affairs. The dispute, too, about the

true signification of the term “orphan” had been settled; it was at

length, after a term of years, twenty, I think, decided, that the true

meaning and intent of Stephen Girard, the wise founder of the

institution, was to make it a charity for those children who had lost

_both_ parents.

“I should not think,” said Hastings, on hearing this from Edgar, “that

any one could fancy, for a moment, that Girard meant any thing else.”

“Why no, neither you nor I, nor ninety-nine out of a hundred, would

decide otherwise; but it seems a question was raised, and all the books

of reference were appealed to, as well as the poets. In almost every

case, an _orphan_ was said to be a child deprived of one or both

parents; and, what is very singular, the term orphan occurs but _once_

throughout the Old and New Testaments. In Lamentations it says, ‘We are

_orphans_, and fatherless, and our mothers are as widows.’ Now, in the

opinion of many, the _orphan_ and _fatherless_, and those whose mothers

are as widows, here mentioned, are three distinct sets of children—that

is, as the lament says, _some_ of us are orphans, meaning children

without father and mother, _some_ of us are fatherless; and the third

set says, ‘our mothers are as widows.’ This means, that in consequence

of their fathers’ absence, their mothers were as desolate and helpless

as if in reality they were widows by the _death_ of their husbands. This

text, therefore, settles nothing. Girard, like all the unlettered men of

the age, by the term _orphan_, understood it to mean a child without

parents.”

“I very well remember,” said Hastings, “that on another occasion when

the term came in question, I asked every man and woman that worked on

and lived near the great canal, what they meant by orphan, and they

_invariably_, without a _single_ exception, said it meant a child

without parents.”

“Well, the good sense of the trustees, at the end of the time I

mentioned, decided after the manner of the multitude—for it was from

this mass that their objects of charity were taken. And there is no

instance on the records, of a widow begging admittance for her

fatherless boys. They knew very well what being an orphan meant, but to

their praise be it said, if _fatherless_ children had been included in

the term, there were very few who would not have struggled as long as it

was in their power, before their boys should be taken to a charitable

institution.”

“I recollect, too,” said Hastings, “that great umbrage was taken by many

persons because the clergy were debarred from any interference in the

management of the college. No evil, you say, has arisen from this

prohibition?”

“None at all,” replied Edgar. “The clergy were not offended by it; they

found they had enough to do with church affairs. It has been ever since

in the hands of a succession of wise, humane, and honest men. The funds

have gone on increasing, and as they became more than sufficient for the

purposes of the college, the surplus has been lawfully spent in

improving the city.”

“In the year 1835—alas, it seems to me that but a few days ago I existed

at that period—was there not an Orphan Asylum here?”

“Yes, my dear sir, the old books speak of a small establishment of that

kind, founded by several sensible and benevolent women; but it was

attended with very great personal sacrifices—for there was in that

century a very singular, and, we must say, disgusting practice among all

classes, to obtain money for the establishment of any charitable,

benevolent, or literary institution. Both men and women—women for the

most part, because men used then to shove off from themselves all that

was irksome or disagreeable—women, I say, used to go from door to door,

and in the most humble manner beg a few dollars from each individual.

Sometimes, the Recorder of Self-Inflicted Miseries says, that men and

women of coarse minds and mean education were in the habit of insulting

the committee who thus turned beggars. They did not make their refusal

in decent terms even, but added insult to it. In the course of time the

Recorder goes on to say, men felt ashamed of all this, and their first

step was to relieve women from the drudgery and disgrace of begging.

After that, but it was by degrees, the different corporate bodies of

each state took the matter up, and finally every state had its own

humane and charitable institutions, so that there are now no longer any

private ones, excepting such as men volunteer to maintain with their own

money.”

“Did the old Orphan Asylum of Philadelphia, begun by private

individuals, merge into the one now established?”

“No,” replied Edgar; “the original asylum only existed a certain number

of years, for people got tired of keeping up a charity by funds gathered

in this loose way. At length, another man of immense wealth died, and

bequeathed all his property to the erection and support of a college for

orphan girls—and this time the world was not in doubt as to the

testator’s meaning. From this moment a new era took place with regard to

women, and we owe the improved condition of our people entirely to the

improvement in the education of the female poor; blessed be the name of

that man.”

“Well, from time to time you must tell me the rise and progress of all

these things; at present I must try and find my way in this now truly

beautiful city. This is Market street, but so altered that I should

scarcely know it.”

“Yes, I presume that three hundred years would improve the markets

likewise. But wherein is it altered?”

“In my day the market was of one story, or rather had a roof supported

by brick pillars, with a neat stone pavement running the whole length of

the building. Market women not only sat under each arch and outside of

the pillars, but likewise in the open spaces where the streets

intersected the market. Butchers and fish sellers had their appropriate

stalls; and clerks of the market, as they were called, took care that no

imposition was practised. Besides this, the women used to bawl through

the streets, and carry their fish and vegetables on their heads.”

“All that sounds very well; but our old friend, the Recorder of

Self-Inflicted Miseries, mentions this very market as a detestable

nuisance, and the manner of selling things through the streets shameful.

Come with me, and let us see wherein this is superior to the one you

describe.”

The two friends entered the range above at the Schuylkill, for to that

point had the famous Philadelphia market reached. The building was of

two stories, built of hewn stone, and entirely fire-proof, as there was

not a particle of woodwork or other ignitable matter in it. The upper

story was appropriated to wooden, tin, basket, crockery, and other

domestic wares, such as stockings, gloves, seeds, and garden utensils,

all neatly arranged and kept perpetually clean. On the ground floor, in

cool niches, under which ran a stream of cold, clear water, were all the

variety of vegetables; and there, at this early season, were

strawberries and green peas, all of which were raised in the

neighbourhood. The finest of the strawberries were those that three

centuries before went by the name, as it now did, of the _dark

hautbois_, rich in flavour and delicate in perfume. Women, dressed in

close caps and snow white aprons, stood or sat modestly by their

baskets—not, as formerly, bawling out to the passers-by and entreating

them to purchase of them, but waiting for their turn with patience and

good humour. Their hair was all hidden, save a few plain braids or

plaits in front, and their neck was entirely covered. Their dress was

appropriate to their condition, and their bearing had both dignity and

grace.

“Well, this surpasses belief,” said Hastings. “Are these the descendants

of that coarse, vulgar, noisy, ill dressed tribe, one half of whom

appeared before their dirty baskets and crazy fixtures with tawdry

finery, and the other half in sluttish, uncouth clothes, with their hair

hanging about their face, or stuck up behind with a greasy horn comb?

What has done all this?”

“Why, the improvement which took place in the education of women. While

women were degraded as they were in your time”——

“In my time, my dear Edgar,” said Hastings, quickly—“in my time! I can

tell you that women were not in a degraded state then. Go back to the

days of Elizabeth, if you please; but I assure you that in 1835 women

enjoyed perfect equality of rights.”

“Did they! then our old friend, the Recorder of Self-Inflicted Miseries,

has been imposing on us—but we will discuss this theme more at our

leisure. Let us ask that neat pretty young woman for some strawberries

and cream.”

They were ripe and delicious, and Hastings found, that however much all

other things had changed, the fine perfume, the grateful flavour, the

rich consistency of the fruit and cream were the same—nature never

changes.

There were no unpleasant sights—no rotten vegetables or leaves, no mud,

no spitting, no——in short, the whole looked like a painting, and the

women all seemed as if they were dressed for the purpose of sitting for

their portraits, to let other times have a peep at what was going on in

a former world.

“If I am in my senses,” said Hastings, “which I very much doubt, this is

the most pleasing change which time has wrought; I cannot but believe

that I shall wake up in the morning and find this all a dream. This is

no market—it is a picture.”

“We shall see,” said Edgar. “Come, let us proceed to the butchers’

market.”

So they walked on, and still the rippling stream followed them; and here

no sights of blood, or stained hands, or greasy knives, or

slaughter-house smells, were present. The meats were not hung up to view

in the open air, as in times of old; but you had only to ask for a

particular joint, and lo! a small door, two feet square, opened in the

wall, and there hung the identical part.

“This gentleman is a stranger,” said Edgar, to a neatly dressed man,

having on a snow white apron; “show him a hind quarter of veal; we do

not want to buy any, but merely to look at what you have to sell.”

The little door opened, and there hung one of the fattest and finest

quarters Hastings had ever seen.

“And the price,” asked he.

“It is four cents a pound,” replied the man.

A purchaser soon came; the meat was weighed within; the man received the

money, and gave a ticket with the weight written on it; the servant

departed, and the two friends moved on.

“Our regulations are excellent,” said Edgar; “formerly, as the old

Recorder of Self-Inflicted Miseries says, the butchers weighed their

meats in the most careless manner, and many a man went home with a

suspicion that he was cheated of half or three quarters of a pound. Now,

nothing of this kind can take place, for the clerks of the market stand

at every corner. See! those men use the graduated balance; the meat is

laid, basket and all, on that little table; the pressure acts on a

wheel—a clicking is heard—it strikes the number of pounds and quarters,

and thus the weight is ascertained. The basket you saw, all those you

now see in the meat market, are of equal weight, and they are marked 1,

2, 3, 4 or more pounds, as the size may be. Do you not see how much of

labour and confusion this saves. I suppose, in your day, you would have

scorned to legislate on such trifling objects; but I assure you we find

our account in it.”

“I must confess that this simplifies things wonderfully; but the

cleanliness, order and cheerfulness that are seen throughout this

market—these are things worthy of legislation. I suppose all this took

place gradually?”

“Yes, I presume so; but it had arrived to this point before my time; the

water which flows under and through the market was conveyed there upward

of a century ago. But here is beef, mutton, all kinds of meat—and this

is the poultry market—all sold by weight, as it should be; and here is

the fish market—see what large marble basins; each fishmonger has one of

his own, so that all kinds are separate; and see how dexterously they

scoop up the very fish that a customer wants.”

“What is this?” said Hastings, looking through one of the arches of the

fish market; “can this be the Delaware?”

“Yes,” replied Edgar; “the market on which we are now, is over the

Delaware. Look over this railing, we are on a wide bridge—but let us

proceed to the extremity; this bridge extends to the Jersey shore, and

thus connects the two large cities Philadelphia and Camden.”

“In my day, it was in contemplation to build a bridge over the Delaware;

but there was great opposition to it, as in that case there would be a

very great delay, if not hinderance, to the free passage of ships.”

New wonders sprung up at every step—vessels, light as gossamer, of

curious construction, were passing and repassing under the arches of the

bridge, some of three and four hundred tons burden, others for the

convenience of market people, and many for the pleasure of the idle.

While yet they looked, a beautiful vessel hove in sight, and in a moment

she moved gracefully and swiftly under the arches, and by the time that

Hastings had crossed to the other side of the bridge she was fastened to

the pier.

“Is this a steamboat from Baltimore?” said Hastings. “Yet it cannot be,

for I see neither steam nor smoke.”

“Steamboat!” answered his companion—“don’t speak so loud, the people

will think you crazy. Why, steamboats have been out of date for more

than two hundred years. I forget the name of the one who introduced them

into our waters, but they did not continue in use more than fifty years,

perhaps not so long: but so many accidents occurred through the extreme

carelessness, ignorance and avarice of many who were engaged in them,

that a very great prejudice existed against their use. No laws were

found sufficiently strong to prevent frequent occurrences of the

bursting of the boilers, notwithstanding that sometimes as many as nine

or ten lives were destroyed by the explosion. That those accidents were

not the consequence of using steam power—I mean a _necessary_

consequence—all sensible men knew; for on this river, the Delaware, the

bursting of the boiler of a steam engine was never known, nor did such

dreadful accidents ever occur in Europe. But, as I was saying, after one

of the most awful catastrophes that ever took place, the bursting of a

boiler which scalded to death forty-one members of Congress, (on their

way home,) besides upwards of thirty women and children, and nine of the

crew, the people of this country began to arouse themselves, and very

severe laws were enacted. Before, however, any farther loss of lives

occurred, a stop was put to the use of steamboats altogether. The

dreadful accident of which I spoke occurred in the year 1850, and in

that eventful year a new power was brought into use, by which steamboats

were laid aside for ever.”

“What is the new principle, and who first brought it to light?”

“Why, a lady. The world owes this blessed invention to a female! I will

take you into one of our small boats presently, where you can handle the

machinery yourself. No steam, nor heat, nor animal power—but one of

sufficient energy to move the largest ship.”

“Condensed air, is it?—that was tried in my time.”

“No, nor condensed air; that was almost as dangerous a power as steam;

for the bursting of an air vessel was always destructive of life. The

Recorder of Self-Inflicted Miseries mentions several instances of loss

of life by the bursting of one of the air machines used by the

manufacturers of mineral waters. If that lady had lived in _this_

century, her memory would be honoured and cherished; but if no memorial

was erected by the English to Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, a reproach

could not rest upon us for not having paid suitable honours to the

American lady.”

“Why, what did lady Mary Wortley Montagu do?” said Hastings: “I

recollect nothing but that she wrote several volumes of very agreeable

letters—Oh, yes, how could I forget—the small-pox! Yes, indeed, she did

deserve to have a monument; but surely the English erected one to her

memory?”

“Did they?—yes—that old defamer of women, Horace Walpole, took good care

to keep the public feeling from flowing in the right channel. He made

people laugh at her dirty hands and painted cheeks, but he never urged

them to heap honours on her head for introducing into England the

practice of innoculation for the small-pox. If this American lady

deserved the thanks and gratitude of her country for thus, for ever,

preventing the loss of lives from steam, and I may say, too, from

shipwreck—still farther was Lady Mary Wortley Montagu entitled to

distinction, for the very great benefit she bestowed on England. She

saved thousands of lives, and prevented, what sometimes amounted to

hideous deformity, deeply scarred faces, from being universal.—Yes, the

benefit was incalculable and beyond price—quite equal, I think, to that

which the world owes to Dr. Jenner, who introduced a new form of

small-pox, or rather the small-pox pure and unadulterated by any

affinitive virus. This modified the disease to such a degree, that the

small-pox, in its mixed and complicated state, almost disappeared. The

Recorder of Self-Inflicted Miseries states, that after a time a new

variety of the small-pox made its appearance, which was called

_varioloid_; but it was quite under the control of medical skill.”

“Well, you live in an age so much in advance of mine, and so many facts

and curious phenomena came to light during the nineteenth century, that

you can tell me what the settled opinion is now respecting small-pox,

kine-pox, and varioloid.”

“The settled opinion now is, that they are one and the same disease.

Thus—the original disease, transferable from an ulcer of the cow’s udder

to the broken skin of a human being, produced what is called the kine or

cow-pox. This virus of the kine-pox, in its original state, was only

capable of being communicated by contact, and only when the skin was

broken or cut; but, when _combined_ with the other poison, infected the

system by means of breathing in the same atmosphere. The poison from the

ulcer called cow-pox was never communicated to or by the lungs, neither

was the poison which had so strong an affinity for it communicated in

that way: but when the two poisons united, and met in the same system, a

third poison was generated, and the _small-pox was result_. But here we

are discussing a deep subject in this busy place—what gave rise to

it?—oh, steamboats, the new power now used, Lady Mary Wortley, and Dr.

Jenner.”

“I presume,” said the attentive Hastings, “that Dr. Jenner fared no

better than your American lady and Lady Mary Wortley.”

“You are much mistaken,” said Edgar. “Dr. Jenner was a _man_, which in

your day was a very different circumstance. I verily believe if it had

been a woman who brought that happy event about, although the whole

world would have availed itself of the discovery, her name would

scarcely be known at this day.”

Hastings laughed at his friend’s angry defence of women’s rights, but he

could not help acknowledging the truth of what was said—there was always

a great unwillingness in men to admit the claims of women. But it was

not a time, nor was this the place, to discuss so important a subject;

he intended, however, to resume it the first leisure moment. He turned

his eye to the river, and saw vessels innumerable coming and going; and

on the arrival of one a little larger than that which he first saw, the

crowd pressed forward to get on board as soon as she should land.

“Where is that vessel from?” said Hastings; “she looks more

weather-beaten than the rest—she has been at sea.”

“Yes; that is one of our Indiamen. Let us go to her, I see a friend of

mine on board—he went out as supercargo.”

They went on board of the Indiaman, and although it had encountered

several storms, and had met with several accidents, yet the crew was all

well and the cargo safe. The vessel was propelled by the same

machinery—there was neither masts nor sails!

“How many months have they been on their return?” said Hastings.

“Hush!” said his friend Edgar; “do not let any one hear you. Why, this

passage has been a very tedious one, and yet it has only occupied four

weeks. In general twenty days are sufficient.”

“Well,” said Hastings, “after this I shall not be surprised at any

thing. Why, in my time we considered it as a very agreeable thing if we

made a voyage to England in that time. Have you many India ships?”

“Yes; the trade has been opened to the very walls of China: the number

of our vessels has greatly increased. But you will be astonished to hear

that the emperor of China gets his porcelain from France.”

“No, I am not, now that I hear foreigners have access to that mysterious

city, for I never considered the Indian china as at all equal to the

French, either in texture or workmanship. But I presume I have wonders

to learn about the Chinese?”

“Yes, much more than you imagine. It is not more than a century since

the change in their system has been effected; before that, no foreigner

was allowed to enter their gates. But quarrels and dissensions among

themselves effected what neither external violence nor manœuvring could

do. The consequence of this intercourse with foreign nations is, that

the feet of their women are allowed to grow, and they dress now in the

European style. They import their fashions from France; and I see by the

papers that the emperor’s second son intends to pay this country a

visit. They have English and French, as well as German and Spanish

schools; and a great improvement in the condition of the lower classes

of the Chinese has taken place; but it was first by humanizing the women

that these great changes were effected. Their form of government is fast

approaching that of ours, but they held out long and obstinately.”

“Their climate is very much against them,” observed Hastings; “mental

culture must proceed slowly, where the heat is so constant and

excessive.”

“Yes; but, my dear sir, you must recollect that they have ice in

abundance now. We carry on a great trade in that article. In fact, some

of our richest men owe their wealth to the exportation of this luxury

alone. Boston set the example—she first sent cargoes of ice to China;

but it was not until our fast sailing vessels were invented that the

thing could be accomplished.”

“I should think it almost impossible to transport ice to such a

distance, even were the time lessened to a month or six weeks, as it now

is.”

“You must recollect, that half of this difficulty of transporting ice

was lessened by the knowledge that was obtained, even in your day, of

saving ice. According to the Recorder, who sneered at the _times_ for

remaining so long ignorant of the fact, ice houses could be built above

ground, with the certainty that they would preserve ice. It was the

expense of building those deep ice houses which prevented the poor from

enjoying this luxury—nay, necessary article. Now, every landlord builds

a stack of ice in the yard, and thatches it well with oat straw; and the

corporation have an immense number of these stacks of ice distributed

about the several wards.”

“I have awakened in delightful times, my friend. Oh, that my family

could have been with me when I was buried under the mountain.”

Young Hastings, seeing the melancholy which was creeping over the

unfortunate man, hurried him away from the wharf, and hastened to

Chestnut street. Our hero looked anxiously to the right and to the left,

but all was altered—all was strange. Arcades now took precedence of the

ancient, inconvenient shops, there being one between every square,

extending from Chestnut to Market on one side, and to Walnut on the

other, intersecting the smaller streets and alleys in their way. Here

alone were goods sold—no where else was there a shop seen; and what made

it delightful was, that a fine stream of water ran through pipes under

the centre of the pavement, bursting up every twenty feet in little

jets, cooling the air, and contributing to health and cleanliness. The

arcades for the grocers were as well arranged as those for different

merchandize, and the fountains of water, which flowed perpetually in and

under their shops, dispersed all impure smells and all decayed

substances.

“All this is beautiful,” said Hastings; “but where is the old Arcade—the

original one?”

“Oh, I know what you mean,” said Edgar; “our old Recorder states that it

fell into disuse, and was then removed, solely from the circumstance

that the first floor was raised from the level of the street; even in

our time people dislike to mount steps when they have to go from shop to

shop to purchase goods.”

“And what building is that?—the antiquated one, I mean, that stands in

the little court. The masons are repairing it I perceive.”

“That small, brick building—oh, that is the house in which William Penn

lived,” said Edgar. “It was very much neglected, and was suffered to go

to ruin almost, till the year 1840, when a lady of great wealth

purchased a number of the old houses adjoining and opened an area around

it, putting the whole house in thorough repair. She collected all the

relics that remained of this great man, and placed them as fixtures

there, and she left ample funds for repairs, so that there is a hope

that this venerable and venerated building will endure for many

centuries to come.”

“And what is this heap of ruins?” said Hastings, “it appears to have

tumbled down through age; it was a large pile, if one may judge from the

rubbish.”

“Yes, it was an immense building, and was called at first the National

Bank. It was built in the year 1842, during the presidency of Daniel

Webster.”

“What,” said Hastings, “was he really president of the United States?

This is truly an interesting piece of news.”

“News, my dear sir,” said Edgar, smiling—“yes, it was news three hundred

years ago, but Daniel Webster now sleeps with his fathers. He was really

the chief magistrate for eight years, and excepting for the project of a

national bank, which did not, however, exist long, he made an able

president, and, what was very extraordinary, as the old Recorder of

Self-Inflicted Miseries states, he gained the good will even of those

who were violently opposed to him. He was the first president after

Washington who had independence of mind enough to retain in office all

those who had been favoured by his predecessor. There was not a single

removal.”

“But his friends—did not they complain?” said Hastings.

“It is not stated that they did; perhaps he did not promise an office to

any one: at any rate the old ‘Recorder’ treats him respectfully. It was

during his term that copyrights were placed on a more liberal footing

here. An Englishman now can get his works secured to him as well as if

he were a citizen of the country.”

“How long is the copyright secured! it used to be, in my time,” sighed

poor Hastings, “only fourteen years.”

“Fourteen years!” exclaimed Edgar—“you joke. Why, was not a man entitled

to his own property for ever? I assure you that an author now has as

much control over his own labours after a lapse of fifty years as he had

at the moment he wrote it. Nay, it belongs to his family as long as they

choose to keep it, just the same as if it were a house or a tract of

land. I wonder what right the legislature had to meddle with property in

that way. We should think a man deranged who proposed such a thing.”

“But how is it when a man invents a piece of machinery? surely the term

is limited then.”

“Oh, yes, that is a different affair. If a man invent a new mode of

printing, or of propelling boats, then a patent is secured to him for

that particular invention, but it does not prevent another man from

making use of the same power and improving on the machinery. But there

is this benefit accruing to the original patentee, the one who makes the

improvement after him is compelled to purchase a right of him. Our laws

now, allow of no monopolies; that is, no monopolies of soil, or air, or

water. On these three elements, one person has as good a right as

another; he that makes the greatest improvements is entitled to the

greatest share of public favour, and, in consequence, the arts have been

brought to their present state of perfection.”

“But rail-roads—surely _these_ it was necessary to guarantee to a

company on exclusive privilege for a term of years, even if a better one

could be made.”

“And I say, surely not. Why should all the people of a great nation be

compelled to pass over an unsafe road, in miserably constructed cars,

which made such a noise that for six hours a man had to be mute, and

where there was perpetual fear of explosion from the steam engine—why

should this be, when another company could give them a better road, more

commodious cars, and a safer propelling power? On consulting the

Recorder of Self-Inflicted Miseries, you will find that in the year

1846, the monopolies of roads, that is public roads, were broken up, and

these roads came under the cognizance of the state governments, and in

the year 1900 all merged under one head. There was then, and has

continued ever since, a national road—the grand route from one extreme

of the country to the other. Cross roads, leading from town to town and

village to village, are under the control of the state governments.

Here, let us get in this car which is going to Princeton; it is only an

hour’s ride. Well, here we are seated in nice rocking chairs, and we can

talk at our ease; for the fine springs and neat workmanship make the

cars run without noise, as there is but little friction, the rails of

the road and the tires of the wheels being of wood. In your time this

could not be the case, for as steam and manual labour were expensive,

you were forced to club all together—there were, therefore, large cars

that held from eight to fourteen persons; consequently, there had to be

heavy iron work to keep these large machines together. Now, you

perceive, the cars are made of different sizes, to accommodate either

two or four persons, and they run of themselves. We have only to turn

this little crank, and the machine stops. This is Bristol. It was a very

small town in your day, but by connecting it to Burlington, which lies

slantingly opposite, the town soon rose to its present eminence.

Burlington, too, is a large city—look at the green bank yonder; it is a

paradise: and look at that large tree—it is a buttonwood or sycamore; we

cannot see it very distinctly; take this pocket glass. Well, you see it

now at the foot of the beautiful green slope in front of the largest

marble building on this bank. That tree is upwards of four hundred years

old, but the house was built within the last century.”

“What a change,” said Hastings, as they returned to their car,—“all is

altered. New Jersey, the meanest and the poorest state in the union, is

now in appearance equal to the other inland states. It was in my time a

mere thoroughfare. What has thus changed the whole face of nature.”

“Why canals and rail roads in the first place, and rail roads now; for

in a few years canals were entirely abandoned. That is, as soon as the

new propelling power came into use, it was found far more economical to

travel on rail roads. The track of canals through four of the principal

states is no longer to be seen.”

At Princeton, the first thing to be seen was the college; not the same

that existed in Hastings’s day, but a long, deep range of stone

buildings, six in number, with work shops attached to them, after the

mode so happily begun by Fellenberg. In these work shops the young men

worked during leisure hours, every one learning some trade or some

handicraft, by which he could earn a living if necessity required it.

Large gardens lay in the rear, cultivated entirely by the labour of the

students, particularly by those who were intended for clergymen, as many

of this class were destined to live in the country. The college was well

endowed, and the salaries of the professors were ample. It was able to

maintain and educate three hundred boys—the children of the rich and the

poor.

“How do they select professors?” said Hastings; “in my day a very

scandalous practice prevailed. I hope there is a change in this

particular.”

“Oh, I know to what you refer,” said Edgar; “I read an account of it in

the Recorder. It seems that when a college wanted a professor, or a

president, they either wrote a letter, or sent a committee of gentlemen

to the professor of another college, and told him that if he would quit

the people who had with so much difficulty made up a salary for him,

they would give him a hundred dollars a year more. They made it appear

very plausible and profitable, and the idea of being thought of so much

consequence quite unsettled his notions of right and wrong, so that,

without scruple, he gave notice to his patrons that they must get

another man in his place. I believe this is the true state of the case.

Is it not?”

“Yes, that is the _English_ of it, as we say. The funds for the support

of a professor were gathered together with great difficulty, for there

were very few who gave liberally and for the pure love of the

advancement of learning. When by the mere force of entreaty, by

appealing to the feelings, to reason, to—in short, each man’s pulse was

felt, and the ruling passion was consulted and made subservient to the

plan of beguiling him of his money. Well, the money thus wrung from the

majority,—for you must suppose that a few gave from right motives,—was

appropriated to the salary of a professor, and then the question arose

as to the man to be selected. They run their eye over the whole country,

and, finally, the fame of some one individual induced them to consider

him as a suitable candidate. This man was doing great service where he

was; the college, almost gone to decay, was resuscitated by his

exertions; students came from all parts on the faith of his remaining

there; in fact, he had given an impulse to the whole district. What a

pity to remove such a man from a place where the benefits of his labour

and his energies were so great, and where his removal would produce such

regrets and such a deteriorating change! But our new professor, being

established in the new college, instead of going to work with the same

alacrity, and with the same views, which views were to spend his life in

promoting the interests of the college which he had helped to raise, now

began to look ‘_a-head_,’ as the term is, and he waited impatiently for

the rise of another establishment, in the city perhaps, where every

thing was more congenial to his newly awakened tastes. Thus it went

on—change, change, for ever; and in the end he found himself much worse

off than if he had remained in the place which first patronised him. It

is certainly a man’s duty to do the best he can for the advancement of

his own interest, and if he can get five hundred dollars a year more in

one place than in another, he has a right to do it; but the advantage of

change is always problematical. The complaint is not so much against

him, however, as against those who so indelicately inveigle him away.”

“Yes. I can easily imagine how hurtful in its effects such a policy

would be, for instance, to a merchant, although it is pernicious in

every case. But here is a merchant—he has regularly inducted a clerk in

all the perplexities and mysteries of his business; the young man

becomes acquainted with his private affairs, and by his acuteness and

industry he relieves his employer of one half of his anxieties and

cares. The time is coming when he might think it proper to raise the

salary of the young man, but his neighbours envy the merchant’s

prosperity, and they want to take advantage of the talent which has

grown up under his vigilance and superintending care. ‘If he does so

well for a man who gives him but five hundred dollars a year, he will do

as well, or better, for ten.’ So they go underhandedly to work, and the

young man gives the merchant notice that his neighbour has offered him a

larger salary. The old Recorder is quite indignant at this mean and base

mode of bettering the condition of one man or one institution at the

expense of another. But was it the case also with house servants?—did

the women of your day send a committee or write a letter to the servant

of one of their friends, offering higher wages—for the cases are exactly

similar; it is only talent of another form, but equally useful.”

“Oh, no, indeed,” said Hastings—“then the sex showed their superior

delicacy and refinement. It was thought most disgraceful and unladylike

conduct to enveigle away the servant of a neighbour, or, in fact, of a

stranger; I have heard it frequently canvassed. A servant, a clerk, a

professor, or a clergyman, nine times out of ten, would be contented in

his situation if offers of this kind were not forced upon him. A servant

cannot feel an attachment to a mistress when she contemplates leaving

her at the first offer; no tender feeling can subsist between them, and

in the case of a clergyman, the consequence is very bad both to himself

and his parish. In the good old times”—

“And in the good new times, if you please,” said Edgar; “for I know what

you are going to say. In our times there is no such thing as changing a

clergyman. Why, we should as soon think of changing our father! A

clergyman is selected with great care for his piety and learning—but

principally for his piety; and, in consequence of there being no old

clergymen out of place, he is a young man, who comes amongst us in early

life, and sees our children grow up around him, he becomes acquainted

with their character, and he has a paternal eye over their eternal

welfare. They love and reverence him, and it is their delight to do him

honour. His salary is a mere trifle perhaps, for in some country towns a

clergyman does not get more than five or six hundred dollars a year, but

his wants are all supplied with the most affectionate care. He receives

their delightful gifts as a father receives the gifts of his children;

he is sure of being amply provided for, and he takes no thought of what

he is to eat or what he is to wear. He pays neither house rent, for

there is always a parsonage; nor taxes; he pays neither physician nor

teacher; his library is as good as the means of his congregation can

afford; and there he is with a mind free from worldly solicitude, doing

good to the souls of those who so abundantly supply him with worldly

comforts. In your day, as the Recorder states”—

“Yes,” said Hastings, “in my day, things were bad enough, for a

clergyman was more imposed upon than any other professional man. He was

expected to subscribe to every charity that was set on foot—to every

mission that was sent out—to every church that was to be built—to every

paper that related to church offices; _he had to give up all his time to

his people_—literally all his time, for they expected him to visit at

their houses, not when ill, or when wanting spiritual consolation, for

that he would delight to do, but in the ordinary chit-chat, gossiping

way, that he might hear them talk of their neighbours’ backslidings, of

this one who gave expensive supper parties, and of another who gave

balls and went to theatres. Never was there a man from whom so much was

exacted, and to whom so little was given. There were clergymen, in New

York and Philadelphia, belonging to wealthy congregations, who never so

much as received a plum cake for the new year’s table, or a minced pie

at Christmas, or a basket of fruit in summer; yet he was expected to

entertain company at all times. His congregation never seemed to

recollect that, with his limited means, he could not lay up a cent for

his children. Other salaried men could increase their means by

speculation, or by a variety of methods, but a clergyman had to live on

with the melancholy feelings that when he died his children must be

dependent on charity. Women _did_ do their best to aid their pastors,

but they could not do much, and even in the way that some of them

assisted their clergymen there was a want of judgment; for they took the

bread out of the mouths of poor women, who would otherwise have got the

money for the very articles which the rich of their congregation made

and sold for the benefit of this very man. Feeling the shame and

disgrace of his being obliged to subscribe to a charity, they earned

among themselves, _by sewing_, a sum sufficient to constitute him a

‘life member!’ What a hoax upon charity! What a poor, pitiful

compliment,—and at whose expense! The twenty-five dollars thus necessary

to be raised, which was to constitute their beloved pastor a life member

of a charitable society, would be applied to a better purpose, if they

had bought him some rare and valuable book, such as his small means

could not allow him to buy.”

“I am glad to hear that one so much respected by us had those

sentiments,” said Edgar, “for the old Recorder, even in the year 1850,

speaks of the little reverence that the people felt for their clergy.

Now, we vie with each other in making him comfortable; he is not looked

upon as a man from whom we are to get our pennyworth, as we do from

those of other professions—he is our pastor, a dear and endearing word,

and we should never think of dismissing him because he had not the gift

of eloquence, or because he was wanting in grace of action, or because

he did not come amongst us every day to listen to our fiddle-faddle.

When we want spiritual consolement, or require his services in marriage,

baptism, or burial, then he is at his post, and no severity of weather

withholds him from coming amongst us. In turn we call on him at some

stated period, when he can be seen at his ease and enjoy the sight of

our loving faces, and happy is the child who has been patted on the head

by him. When he grows old we indulge him in preaching his old sermons,

or in reading others that have stood the test of time, and when the

infirmities of age disable him from attending to his duties, we draw him

gently away and give him a competence for the remainder of his life.

What we should do for our father, we do for our spiritual father.”

“I am truly rejoiced at this,” said Hastings, “for in my day a clergyman

never felt secure of the affections of his people. If he was deficient

in that external polish, which certainly is a charm in an orator, or was

wanting in vehemence of action, or in enthusiasm, the way to displace

him was simple and easy: dissatisfaction showed itself in every action

of theirs—to sum up all, they ‘held him uneasy,’ and many a respectable,

godly man was forced to relinquish his hold on his cure to give place to

a younger and a more popular one.”

“Do you send a committee to a popular clergyman, and cajole him away

from his congregation, by offering him a larger salary or greater

perquisites?”

“Oh no—never, never; the very question shocks me. Our professors and our

clergymen are taken from the colleges and seminaries where they are

educated. They are young, generally, and are the better able to adapt

themselves to the feelings and capacities of their students and their

congregation. Parents give up the idle desire which they had in your

time, of hearing fine preaching at the expense of honour and delicacy.

When a congregation became very much attached to their pastor, and he

was doing good amongst them, it was cruel to break in upon their peace

and happiness merely because it was in a person’s power to do this. We

are certainly much better pleased to have a clergyman with fine talents

and a graceful exterior, but we value him more for goodness of heart and

honest principles. But, however gifted he may be, we never break the

tenth commandment, we never desire to take him away from our neighbour,

nor even in your time do I think a clergyman would ever seek to leave

his charge, unless strongly importuned.”

“Pray can you tell me,” said Hastings, “what has become of that vast

amount of property which belonged to the —— in New York?”

“Oh, it did a vast deal of good; after a time it was discovered that the

trustees had the power of being more liberal with it; other churches, or

rather all the Episcopal churches in the state, were assisted, and,

finally, each church received a yearly sum, sufficient to maintain a

clergyman. Every village, therefore, had a church and a clergyman; and

in due time, from this very circumstance, the Episcopalians came to be

more numerous in New York than any other sect. It is not now as it was

in your time, in the year 1835; then a poor clergyman, that he might

have the means to live, was compelled to travel through two, three, and

sometimes four parishes: all these clubbing together to make up the sum

of six hundred dollars in a year. Now this was scandalous, when that

large trust had such ample means in its power to give liberally to every

church in the state.”

“Why, yes,” said Hastings, “the true intent of accumulating wealth in

churches, is to advance religion; for what other purposes are the funds

created? I used to smile when I saw the _amazing_ liberality of the

trustees of this immense fund; they would, in the most freezing and

pompous manner, dole out a thousand dollars to this church, and a

thousand to that, making them all understand that nothing more could be

done, as they were fearful, even in doing this, that they had gone

beyond their charter.”

“Just as if they did not know,” said Edgar, “that any set of men, in any

legislature, would give them full powers to expend the whole income in

the cause of their own peculiar religion. Why I cannot tell how many

years were suffered to elapse before they raised what was called a

Bishop’s Fund, and you know better than I do, how it was raised, or

rather, how it commenced. And the old Recorder of Self-Inflicted

Miseries, states, that the fund for the support of decayed clergymen and

their families, was raised by the poor clergymen themselves. Never were

people so hardly used as these ministers of the Gospel. You were an

irreverent, exacting race in your day; you expected more from a preacher

than from any other person to whom they gave salaries—_they_ were

screwed down to the last thread of the screw; people would have their

pennyworth out of them. It is no wonder that you had such poor preachers

in your day; why few men of liberal education, aware of all the

exactions and disabilities under which the sacred cloth laboured, would

ever encounter them. But, now, every village has its own pastor; and

some of them are highly gifted men, commanding the attention of the most

intelligent people. The little churches are filled, throughout the

summer, with such of the gentry of the cities who can afford to spend a

few months in the country during the warm weather. No one, however, has

the indecency or the unfeelingness to covet this preacher for their own

church in the city. They do not attempt to bribe him away, but leave him

there, satisfied that the poor people who take such delight in

administering to his wants and his comforts, should have the benefit of

his piety, his learning and his example. Why, the clergymen, now, are

our best horticulturists too. It is to them that we owe the great

advancement in this useful art. They even taught, themselves, while at

college, and now they encourage their parishioners to cultivate gardens

and orchards. Every village, as well as town and city, has a large

garden attached to it, in which the children of the poor are taught to

work, so that to till the earth and to ‘make two blades of grass grow

where only one grew before,’ is now the chief aim of every individual;

and we owe this, principally, to our pastors. I can tell you that it is

something now to be a country clergyman.”

“But how were funds raised for the purchase of these garden and orchard

spots?”

“Why, through the means of the _general tax_, that which, in your day,

would have been called direct tax.”

“Direct tax! Why my dear Edgar, such a thing could never have been

tolerated in my time; people would have burnt the man in effigy for only

proposing such a thing. It was once or twice attempted, indirectly, and

in a very cautious way, but it would not do.”

“Yes—direct tax—I knew you would be startled, for the old Recorder of

Self-Inflicted Miseries states that at the close of Daniel Webster’s

administration something of the kind was suggested, but even then, so

late as the year 1850, it was violently opposed. But a new state of

things gradually paved the way for it, and now we cannot but pity the

times when all the poor inhabitants of this free country were taxed so

unequally. There is now, but one tax, and each man is made to pay

according to the value of his property, or his business, or his labour.

A land-holder, a stock-holder and the one who has houses and bonds and

mortgages, pays so much per cent, on the advance of his property, and

for his annual receipts—the merchant, with a fluctuating capital, pays

so much on his book account of sales—the mechanic and labourer, so much

on their yearly receipts, for we have no sales on credit now—that

demoralizing practice has been abolished for upwards of a century.”

“The merchants, then,” said Hastings, “pay more than any other class of

men, for there are the customhouse bonds.”

“Yes,” said Edgar, “I recollect reading in the Recorder of

Self-Inflicted Miseries,—you must run your eye over that celebrated

newspaper—that all goods imported from foreign ports had to pay

_duties_, as it was called. But every thing now is free to come and go,

and as the custom prevails all over the world, there is no hardship to

any one. What a demoralizing effect that duty or tariff system produced;

why honesty was but a loose term then, and did not apply to every act as

it now does. The Recorder was full of the exposures that were yearly

occurring, of _defrauding the revenue_, as it was called. Some of these

frauds were to a large amount; and then it was considered as a crime;

but when a man smuggled in hats, shoes, coats and other articles of the

like nature, he was suffered to go free; such small offences were winked

at as if defrauding the revenue of a dollar were not a crime _per_ se as

well as defrauding it of a thousand dollars—just as if murdering an

infant were not as much murder as if the life had been taken from a

man—just as if killing a man in private, because his enemy had paid you

to do it, was not as much murder in the first degree as if the

government had paid you for killing a dozen men in battle in open

day—just as if”—

“Just as if what?” said the astonished Hastings, “has the time come when

killing men by wholesale, in war, is accounted a crime?”

“Yes, thank Heaven,” said Edgar, “that blessed time has at length

arrived; it is upwards of one hundred and twenty years since men were

ordered to kill one another in that barbarous manner. Why the recital of

such cruel and barbarous deeds fills our young children with horror. The

ancient policy of referring the disputes of nations to single combat,

was far more humanizing than the referring such disputes to ten thousand

men on each side; for, after all, it was ‘might that made right.’

Because a strong party beats a weaker one, that is not a proof that the

_right_ was in the strong one; yet, still, if men had no other way of

settling their disputes but by spilling blood, then that plan was the

most humane which only sacrificed two or one man. As to national honour!

why not let the few settle it? why drag the poor sailors and soldiers to

be butchered like cattle to gratify the fine feelings of a few morbidly

constructed minds?”

“Oh, that my good father, Valentine Harley, could have seen this day,”

said Hastings. “But this bloodthirsty, savage propensity—this murdering

our fellow creatures in cold blood, as it were, was cured by degrees I

presume. What gave the first impulse to such a blessed change?”

“The old Recorder states that it was brought about by the _influence of

women_; it was they who gave the first impulse. As soon as they

themselves were considered as of equal importance with their husbands—as

soon as they were on an equality in _money matters_, for after all,

people are respected in proportion to their wealth, that moment all the

barbarisms of the age disappeared. Why, in your day, a strange perverted

system had taken deep root; _then_, it was the _man that was struck_ by

another who was disgraced in public opinion, and not the one who struck

him. It was that system which fermented and promoted bloodthirstiness,

and it was encouraged and fostered by men and by women both.

“But as soon as women had more power in their hands, their energies were

directed another way; they became more enlightened as they rose higher

in the scale, and instead of encroaching on our privileges, of which we

stood in such fear, women shrunk farther and farther from all approach

to men’s pursuits and occupations. Instead of congregating, as they did

in your time, to beg for alms to establish and sustain a charity, that

they might have some independent power of their own—for this craving

after distinction was almost always blended with their desire to do

good—they united for the purpose of exterminating that _war seed_ above

mentioned—that system which fastened the _disgrace_ of a blow on the one

who received it. This was their first effort; they then taught their

children likewise, that to kill a man in battle, or men in battle, when

mere national honour was the war cry, or when we had been robbed of our

money on the high seas, was a crime of the blackest die, and contrary to

the divine precepts of our Saviour. They taught them to abstain from

shedding human blood, _excepting in self defence_—excepting in case of

invasion.

“They next taught them to reverence religion; for until bloodthirstiness

was cured, how could a child reverence our Saviour’s precepts? How could

we recommend a wholesome, simple diet to a man who had been accustomed

to riot in rich sauces and condiments? They had first to wean them from

the savage propensities that they had received through the maddening

influence of unreflecting men, before a reverence for holy things could

be excited. Then it was that clergymen became the exalted beings in our

eyes that they now are—then it was that children began to love and

respect them. As soon as their fathers did their mothers the poor

justice of trusting them with all their property, the children began to

respect her as they ought, and then her words were the words of wisdom.

It was then, and not till then, that war and duelling ceased. We are

amazed at what we read. What! take away a man’s life because he has

robbed us of money! Hang a man because he has forged our name for a few

dollars! No: go to our prisons, there you will see the murderer’s

fate—solitary confinement, at hard labour, for life! that is his

punishment; but murders are very rare now in this country. A man stands

in greater dread of solitary confinement at hard labour than he does of

hanging. In fact, according to our way of thinking, now, we have no

right, by the Divine law, to take that away from a human being for which

we can give no equivalent. It is right to prevent a murderer from

committing still farther crime; and this we do by confining him for life

at hard labour, _and alone_.”

“Women, you say, produced a reform in that miserable code called _the

law of honour_.”

“Yes, thanks be to them for it. Why, as the old Recorder states, if a

man did not challenge the fellow who struck him, he was obliged to quit

the army or the navy, and be for ever banished as a coward, and it was

considered as disgraceful in a private citizen to receive a blow without

challenging the ruffian that struck him. But the moment that women took

the office in hand, that moment the thing was reversed. They entered

into a compact not to receive a man into their society who had struck

another, unless he made such ample apology to the injured person as to

be forgiven by him; and not only that, but his restoration to favour was

to be sued for by the injured party himself. A man soon became cautious

how he incurred the risk.”

“It often occurred to me,” said Hastings, “that women had much of the

means of moral reform in their power; but they always appeared to be

pursuing objects tending rather to weaken than to strengthen morals.

They acted with good intentions, but really wanted judgment to select

the proper method of pursuing their benevolent schemes. Only look at

their toiling as they did to collect funds towards educating poor young

men for the ministry.”

“Oh, those young men,” replied Edgar, “were, no doubt, their sons or

brothers, and even then they must have been working at some trade to

assist their parents or some poor relation, and thus had to neglect

themselves.”

“No, indeed,” said Hastings, “I assure you these young men were entire

strangers, persons that they never saw in their lives, nor ever expected

to see.”

“Then, all I can say is, that the women were to be pitied for their

mistaken zeal, and the men ought to have scorned such aid—but the times

are altered: no man, no poor man stands in need of women’s help now, as

they have trades or employments that enable them to educate themselves.

Only propose such a thing _now_ and see how it would be received; why a

young man would think you intended to insult him. We pursue the plan so

admirably begun in your day by the celebrated Fellenberg. When we return

this way again, I will show you the work-shops attached to the

college—the one we saw in Princeton.”

“While we are thus far on the road, suppose that we go to New York,”

said Hastings, “I was bound thither when that calamity befell me. I

wonder if I shall see a single house remaining that I saw three hundred

years ago.”

Edgar laughed—“You will see but very few, I can tell you,” said he,

“houses, in your day, were built too slightly to stand the test of _one_

century. At one time, the corporation of the city had to inspect the

mortar, lest it should not be strong enough to cement the bricks! And it

frequently happened that houses tumbled down, not having been built

strong enough to bear their own weight. A few of the public buildings

remain, but they have undergone such changes that you will hardly

recognize them. The City Hall, indeed, stands in the same place, but if

you approach it, in the rear, you will find that it is of marble, and

not freestone as the old Recorder says it was in your time. But since

the two great fires at the close of the years 1835 and 1842 the city

underwent great alterations.”

“Great fires; in what quarter of the city were they? They must have been

disasters, indeed, to be remembered for three hundred years.”

“Yes, the first destroyed nearly seven hundred houses, and about fifteen

millions of property; and the second, upwards of a thousand houses, and

about three millions of property; but excepting that it reduced a number

of very respectable females to absolute want, the merchants, and the

city itself, were greatly benefited by it. There were salutary laws

enacted in consequence of it, that is, after the second fire; for

instance, the streets in the burnt districts were made wider; the houses

were better and stronger built; the fire engines were drawn by horses,

and afterwards by a new power: firemen were not only exempt from jury

and militia duty, but they had a regular salary while they served out

their seven years’ labour; and if any fireman lost his life, or was

disabled, his family received the salary for a term of years. The old

Recorder says that there was not a merchant of any enterprise who did

not recover from his losses in three years.”

“But what became of the poor women who lost all their property? did they

lose insurance stock? for I presume the insurance companies became

insolvent.”

“The poor women?—oh, they remained poor—nothing in _your_ day ever

happened to better their condition when a calamity like that overtook

_them_. Men had enough to do to pity and help themselves. Yes, their

loss was in the insolvency of the insurance companies; but stock is safe

enough now, for the last tremendous fire (they did not let the first

make the impression it ought to have done,) roused the energies and

_sense_ of the people, and insurance is managed very different. Every

house, now, whether of the rich or the poor man, is insured. It has to

pay so much additional tax, and the corporation are the insurers. But

the tax is so trifling that no one feels it a burden; our houses are

almost all fire-proof since the discovery of a substance which renders

wood almost proof against fire. But I have a file of the Recorder of

Self-Inflicted Miseries, and you will see the regular gradation from the

barbarisms of your day to the enlightened times it has been permitted

you to see.”

“But the water, in my day,”—poor Hastings never repeated this without a

sigh—“in my day the city was supplied by water from a brackish stream,

but there was a plan in contemplation to bring good water to the city

from the distance of forty miles.”

“Where, when was that? I do not remember to have read any thing about

it.—Oh, yes, there was such a scheme, and it appears to me they did

attempt it, but whatever was the cause of failure I now forget; at

present they have a plentiful supply by means of boring. Some of these

bored wells are upwards of a thousand feet deep.”

“Why the Manhattan Company made an attempt of this kind in my time, but

they gave it up as hopeless after going down to the depth of six or

seven hundred feet.”

“Yes, I recollect; but only look at the difficulties they had to

encounter. In the first place, the chisel that they bored with was not

more than three or four inches wide; of course, as the hole made by this

instrument could be no larger, there was no possibility of getting the

chisel up if it were broken off below, neither could they break or cut

it into fragments. If such an accident were to occur at the depth of six

hundred feet, this bored hole would have to be abandoned. We go

differently to work now; with our great engines we cut down through the

earth and rock, as if it were cheese, and the wells are of four feet

diameter. As they are lined throughout with an impervious cement, the

overflowing water does not escape. Every house is now supplied from this

never-failing source—the rich, and the poor likewise, use this water,

and it is excellent. All the expense comes within the one yearly general

tax: when a man builds he knows that pipes are to be conveyed through

his house, and he knows also that his one tax comprehends the use of

water. He pays so much per centum for water, for all the municipal

arrangement, for defence of harbour, for the support of government, &c.,

and as there is such a wide door open, such a competition, his food and

clothing do not cost half as much as they did in your day.”

“You spoke of wells a thousand feet deep and four feet wide; what became

of all the earth taken from them—stones I should say.”

“Oh, they were used for the extension of the Battery. Do you remember,

in your day, an ill constructed thing called Fort William, or Castle

Garden? Well, the Battery was filled up on each side from that point, so

that at present there are at least five acres of ground more attached to

it than when you saw it, and as we are now levelling a part of Brooklyn

heights, we intend to fill it out much farther. The Battery is a noble

promenade now.”

They reached New York by the slow line at two o’clock, having travelled

at the rate of thirty miles an hour; and after walking up Broadway to

amuse themselves with looking at the improvements that had taken place

since Hastings last saw it—three hundred years previous—they stopped at

the Astor Hotel. This venerable building, the City Hall, the Public

Mart, the St. Paul’s Church, and a stone house at the lower end of the

street, built by governor Jay, were all that had stood the test of ages.

The St. Paul was a fine old church, but the steeple had been taken down

and a dome substituted, as was the fashion of all the churches in the

city—the burial yards of all were gone—houses were built on

them:—vaults, tombs, graves, monuments—what had become of them?

The Astor Hotel, a noble building, of simple and chaste architecture,

stood just as firm, and looked just as well, as it did when Hastings saw

it. Why should it not? stone is stone, and three hundred years more

would pass over it without impairing it. This shows the advantage of

stone over brick. Mr. Astor built for posterity, and he has thus

perpetuated his name. He was very near living as long as this building;

the planning and completing of it seemed to renovate him, for his life

was extended to his ninety-ninth year. This building proves him to have

been a man of fine taste and excellent judgment, for it still continues

to be admired.

“But how is this?” said Hastings, “I see no houses but this one built by

Mr. Astor that are higher than three stories; it is the case throughout

the city, stores and all.”

“Since the two great fires of 1835 and 1842, the corporation forbid the

building of any house or store above a certain height. Those tremendous

fires, as I observed, brought people to their senses, and they now see

the folly of it.

“The ceilings are not so high as formerly; more regard is shown to

comfort. Why the old Recorder of Self-Inflicted Miseries states, that

men were so indifferent about the conveniences and comforts of life,

that they would sometimes raise the ceilings to the great height of

fourteen and fifteen feet! Nay, that they did so in despite of their

wives’ health, never considering how hard it bore on the lungs of those

who were affected with asthma or other visceral complaints. Heavens and

earth! how little the ease and pleasure of women were consulted in your

day.”

“Yes, that appears all very true,” said Hastings, “but you must likewise

recollect that these very women were quite as eager as their husbands to

live in houses having such high flights of stairs.”

“Poor things,” exclaimed Edgar, “to think of their being trained to like

and desire a thing that bore so hard on them. Only consider what a loss

of time and breath it must be to go up and down forty or fifty times a

day, for your nurseries were, it seems, generally in the third story. We

love our wives too well now to pitch our houses so high up in the air.

The Philadelphians had far more humanity, more consideration; they

always built a range of rooms in the rear of the main building, and this

was a great saving of time and health.”

“Where, at length, did they build the custom house?” said Hastings; “I

think there was a difficulty in choosing a suitable spot for it.”

“Oh, I recollect,” said Edgar. “Why they did at length decide, and one

was built in Pine street; but that has crumbled away long since. You

know that we have no necessity for a custom house now, as all foreign

goods come free of duty. This direct tax includes all the expenses of

the general and state governments, and it operates so beautifully that

the rich man now bears his full proportion towards the support of the

whole as the poor man does. This was not the case in your day. Only

think how unequally it bore on the labourer who had to buy foreign

articles, such as tea, and sugar, and coffee, for a wife and six or

eight children, and to do all this with his wealth, which was the labour

of his hands. The rich man did not contribute the thousandth part of his

proportion towards paying for foreign goods, nor was he taxed according

to his revenue for the support of government. The direct tax includes

the poor man’s wealth, which is his labour, and the rich man’s wealth,

which is his property.”

“But have the merchants no mart—no exchange? According to the map you

showed me of the two great fires, the first exchange was burnt.”

“Yes, the merchants have a noble exchange. Did you not see that immense

building on State street, surrounded by an area? After the first great

fire they purchased—that is, a company purchased—the whole block that

included State street in front, Pearl street in the rear, and Whitehall

street at the lower end. All mercantile business is transacted there,

the principal post office and the exchange are there now; the whole go

under the general name of Mart—the City Mart.”

“Is it not inconvenient to have the post office so far from the centre

of business?—it was a vexed question in my day,” said Hastings.

“You must recollect that even then, central as the post office was,

there were many sub-post offices. If men in your day were regardless of

the many unnecessary steps that their wives were obliged to take, they

were very careful of sparing themselves. We adopt the plan now of having

two sets of post men or letter carriers; one set pass through the

streets at a certain hour to receive letters, their coming being

announced by the chiming of a few bells at their cars, and the other set

delivering letters. They both ride in cars, for now that no letter, far

or near, pays more than two cents postage—which money is to pay the

letter carriers themselves—the number of letters is so great that cars

are really necessary. All the expense of the post office department is

defrayed from the income or revenue of the direct tax—and hence the man

of business pays his just proportion too. It was a wise thing,

therefore, to establish all the mercantile offices near the Battery;

they knew that the time was coming when New York and Brooklyn would be

as one city.”

“One city!” exclaimed Hastings; “how can that be? If connected by

bridges, how can the ships pass up the East river?”

“You forget that our vessels have no masts; they pass under the bridges

here as they do in the Delaware.”

“Oh, true, I had forgotten; but my head is so confused with all the

wonders that I see and hear, that you must excuse my mistakes. The old

theatre stood there, but it has disappeared, I suppose. It was called

the Park Theatre. How are the play houses conducted now? is there only

one or two good actors now among a whole company?”

“Well, that question really does amuse me. I dare say that the people of

your day were as much astonished at reading the accounts handed down to

them of the fight of gladiators before an audience, as we are at your

setting out evening after evening to hear the great poets travestied. If

we could be transported back to your time, how disgusted we should be to

spend four hours in listening to rant and ignorance. All our actors now,

are men and women of education, such as the Placides, the Wallacks, the

Kembles, the Keans, of your day. I assure you, we would not put up with

inferior talent in our cities. It is a rich treat now to listen to one

of Shakspeare’s plays, for every man and woman is perfect in the part.

The whole theatrical corps is held in as much esteem, and make a part of

our society, as those of any other profession do. The worthless and the

dissolute are more scrupulously rejected by that body than they are from

the body of lawyers or doctors; in fact it is no more extraordinary now,

than it was in your day to see a worthless lawyer, or merchant, or

physician, and to see him tolerated in society too, if he happen to be

rich. But there is no set of people more worthy of our friendship and

esteem than the players. A great change, to be sure, took place in their

character, as soon as they had reaped the benefit of a college

education. I presume you know that there is a college now for the

education of public actors?”

“Is it possible?” said Hastings; “then I can easily imagine the

improvements you speak of; for with the exception of the few—the stars,

as they were called—there was but little education among them.”

“Here it is that elocution is taught, and here all public speakers take

lessons,” said Edgar; “you may readily imagine what an effect such an

institution would have on those who intended to become actors. In your

day, out of the whole theatrical corps of one city, not more than six or

seven, perhaps, could tell the meaning of the _words_ they used in

speaking, to say nothing of the _sense_ of the author. There is no more

prejudice now against play-acting than there is against farming. The old

Recorder states, that, before our revolution, the farmers were of a more

inferior race, and went as little into polite society as the mechanics

did. Even so far back as your time a farmer was something of a

gentleman, and why an actor should not be a gentleman is to us

incomprehensible. One of the principal causes of this change of personal

feeling towards actors has arisen from our having expunged all the low

and indelicate passages from the early plays. Shakspeare wrote as the

times then were, but his works did not depend on a few coarse and vulgar

passages for their popularity and immortality; they could bear to be

taken out, as you will perceive, for the space they occupied is not now

known; the adjoining sentence closed over them, as it were, and they are

forgotten. There were but few erasures to be made in the writings of Sir

Walter Scott; the times were beginning to loathe coarse and indelicate

allusions in your day, and, indeed, we may thank the other sex for this

great improvement. They never disgraced their pages with sentences and

expressions which would excite a blush. Look at the purity of such

writers as Miss Burney, Mrs. Radcliffe, Miss Edgeworth, Miss Austin,

Madame Cotton, and others of their day in Europe,—it is to woman’s

influence that we owe so much. See what is done by them now; why they

have fairly routed and scouted out that vile, disgraceful, barbarous

practice which was even prevalent in your time—that of beating and

bruising the tender flesh of their children.”

“I am truly rejoiced at that,” said Hastings, “but I hope they extended

their influence to the schools likewise—I mean the common schools; for,

in my day in the grammar school of a college, a man who should bruise a

child’s flesh by beating or whipping him would have been kicked out of

society.”

“Why, I thought that boys were whipped in the grammar schools also. In

the year 1836, it appears to me, that I remember to have read of the

dismissal of some professor for injuring one of the boys by flogging him

severely.”

“I do not recollect it; but you say 1836—alas! I was unconscious then.

It was the remains of barbarism; how a teacher could get roused to such

height of passion as to make him desire to bruise a child’s flesh, I

cannot conceive—when the only crime of the poor little sufferer was

either an unwillingness or an inability to recite his lessons. I can

imagine that a man, when drunk, might bruise a child’s flesh in such a

shocking manner as that the blood would settle under the skin, because

liquor always brutalizes. Is drunkenness as prevalent now as formerly?”

“Oh no, none but the lowest of the people drink to excess now, and they

have to get drunk on cider and wine, for spirituous liquors have been

prohibited by law for upwards of two hundred years. A law was passed in

the year 1901, granting a divorce to any woman whose husband was proved

to be a drunkard. This had a good effect, for a drunkard knew that if he

was abandoned by his wife he must perish; so it actually reclaimed many

drunkards at the time, and had a salutary effect afterwards. Besides

this punishment, if a single man, or a bachelor, as he is called, was

found drunk three times, he was put in the workhouse and obliged to have

his head shaved, and to work at some trade. It is a very rare thing to

see a drunkard now. But what are you looking for?”

“I thought I might see a cigar box about—not that I ever smoke”—

“A what?—a cigar? Oh yes, I know—little things made of tobacco leaves;

but you have to learn that there is not a tobacco plantation in the

world now. That is one of the most extraordinary parts of your history:

that well educated men could keep a pungent and bitter mass of leaves in

their mouth for the pleasure of seeing a stream of yellow water running

out of it, is the most incomprehensible mystery to me; and then, to push

the dust of these leaves up their nostrils, which I find by the old

Recorder that they did, for the mere pleasure of hearing the noise that

was made by their noses! The old Recorder called their pocket

handkerchiefs flags of abomination.”

Hastings thought it was not worth while to convince the young man that

the disgusting practice was not adopted for such purposes as he

mentioned. In fact his melancholy had greatly increased since their

arrival in this city, and he determined to beg his young friend to

return the next day to their home, and to remain quiet for another year,

to see if time could reconcile him to his strange fate. He took pleasure

in rambling through the city hall, and the park, which remained still of

the same shape, and he was pleased likewise to see that many of the

streets at right angles with Broadway were more than twice the width

that they were in 1835. For instance, all the streets from Wall street

up to the Park were as wide as Broadway, and they were opened on the

other side quite down to the Hudson.

“Yes,” said Edgar, “it was the great fire of 1842 which made this

salutary change; but here is a neat building—you had nothing of this

kind in your time. This is a house where the daughters of the poor are

taught to sew and cut out wearing apparel. I suppose you know that there

are no men tailors now.”

“What, do women take measure?”

“Oh no, men are the measurers, but women cut out and sew. It is of great

advantage to poor women that they can cut out and make their husbands’

and children’s clothes. The old Recorder states that women—poor women—in

the year 1836, were scarcely able to cut out their own clothes. But just

about that date, a lady of this city suggested the plan of establishing

an institution of this kind, and it was adopted. Some benevolent men

built the house and left ample funds for the maintenance of a certain

number of poor girls, with a good salary for those who superintend it.

And here is another house: this is for the education of those girls

whose parents have seen better days. Here they are taught accounts and

book-keeping—which, however, in our day is not so complicated as it was,

for there is no credit given for any thing. In short these girls are

instructed in all that relates to the disposal of money; our women now

comprehend what is meant by stocks, and dividends, and loans, and

tracts, and bonds, and mortgages.”

“Do women still get the third of their husband’s estate after their

husband’s death?”

“Their thirds? I don’t know what you mean—Oh, I recollect; yes, in your

day it was the practice to curtail a woman’s income after her husband’s

death. A man never then considered a woman as equal to himself; but,

while he lived, he let her enjoy the whole of his income equally with

himself, because he could not do otherwise and enjoy his money; but when

he died, or rather, when about making his will, he found out that she

was but a poor creature after all, and that a very little of what he had

to leave would suffice for her. Nay, the old Recorder says that there

have been rich men who ordered the very house in which they lived, and

which had been built for their wives’ comfort, during their life time,

to be sold, and who thus compelled their wives to live in mean, pitiful

houses, or go to lodgings.”

“Yes,” said Hastings,—quite ashamed of his own times,—“but then you know

the husband was fearful that his wife would marry again, and all their

property would go to strangers.”

“Well, why should not women have the same privileges as men? Do you not

think that a woman had the same fears? A man married again and gave his

money to strangers—did he not? The fact is, we consider that a woman has

the same feelings as we have ourselves—a thing you never once thought

of—and now the property that is made during marriage is as much the

woman’s as the man’s; they are partners in health and in sickness, in

joy and in sorrow—they enjoy every thing in common while they live

together, and why a woman, merely on account of her being more helpless,

should be cut off from affluence because she survives her husband, is

more than we of this century can tell. Why should not children wait for

the property till after her death, as they would for their father’s

death? It was a relic of barbarism, but it has passed away with wars and

bloodshed. We educate our women now, and they are as capable of taking

care of property as we are ourselves. They are our trustees, far better

than the trustees you had amongst you in your day—they seldom could find

it in their hearts to allow a widow even her poor income. I suppose they

thought that a creature so pitifully used by her husband was not worth

bestowing their honesty upon.”

“But the women in my day,” said Hastings, “seemed to approve of this

treatment: in fact, I have known many very sensible women who thought it

right that a man should not leave his wife the whole of his income after

his death. But they were beginning to have their eyes opened, for I

recollect that the subject was being discussed in 1835.”

“Yes, you can train a mind to acquiesce in any absurd doctrine, and the

truth is, that as women were then educated, they were, for the most

part, unfit to have the command of a large estate. But I cannot find

that the children were eventually benefited by it; for young men and

women, coming into possession of their father’s estate at the early age

of twenty-one, possessed no more business talent than their mother; nor

had they even as much prudence and judgment in the management of money

matters, as she had. Men seldom thought of this, but generally directed

their executors to divide the property among the children as soon as

they became of age—utterly regardless of the injustice they were doing

their wives, and of the oath which they took when they married—that is,

if they married according to the forms of the Episcopal church. In that

service, a man binds himself by a solemn oath ‘to endow his wife with

_all_ his worldly goods.’ If he swears to endow her with all, how can he

in safety to his soul, _will_ these worldly goods away from her. We

consider the practice of depriving a woman of the right to the whole of

her husband’s property after his death, as a monstrous act of injustice,

and the laws are now peremptory on this subject.”

“I am certain you are right,” said Hastings, “and you have improved more

rapidly in this particular, during a period of three hundred years, than

was done by my ancestors in two thousand years before, I can understand

now, how it happens, that children have the same respect for their

mother, that they only felt for their father in my time. The custom, or

laws, being altogether in favour of equality of rights between the

parents, the children do not repine when they find that they stand in

the same relation of dependence to their mother, that they did to their

father; and why this should not be, is incomprehensible to me now, but I

never reflected on it before.”

“Yes, there are fewer estates squandered away in consequence of this,

and society is all the better for it. Then to this is added the great

improvement in the business education of women. All the retail and

detail of mercantile operations are conducted by them. You had some

notion of this in your time; for, in Philadelphia, although women were

generally only employed to make sales behind the counter, yet some were

now and then seen at the head of the establishment. Before our

separation from Great Britain, the business of farming was also at a low

ebb, and a farmer was but a mean person in public estimation. He ranks

now amongst the highest of our business men; and in fact, he is equal to

any man whether in business or not, and this is the case with female

merchants. Even in 1836, a woman who undertook the business of a retail

shop, managing the whole concern herself, although greatly respected,

she never took her rank amongst the first classes of society. This

arose, first, from want of education, and, secondly, from her having

lived amongst an inferior set of people. But when women were trained to

the comprehension of mercantile operations, and were taught how to

dispose of money, their whole character underwent a change, and with

this accession of business talent, came the respect from men for those

who had a capacity for the conducting of business affairs. Only think

what an advantage this is to our children; why our mothers and wives are

the first teachers, they give us sound views from the very commencement,

and our clerkship begins from the time we can comprehend the distinction

of right and wrong.”

“Did not our infant schools give a great impulse to this improvement in

the condition of women, and to the improvement in morals, and were not

women mainly instrumental in fostering these schools?”

“Yes, that they were; it was chiefly through the influence of their pen

and active benevolence, that the scheme arrived at perfection. In these

infant schools a child was early taught the mystery of its relation to

society; all its good dispositions and propensities were encouraged and

developed, and its vicious ones were repressed. The world owes much to

the blessed influence of infant schools, and the lower orders were the

first to be humanized by them. But I need not dwell on this particular.

I shall only point to the improvement in the morals of our people at

this day, to convince you that it is owing altogether to the benign

influence of women. As soon as they took their rank as an equal to man,

equal as to property I mean, for they had no other right to _desire_;

there was no longer any struggle, it became their ambition to show how

long the world had been benighted by thus keeping them in a degraded

state. I say degraded state, for surely it argued in them imbecility or

incapacity of some kind, and to great extent, too, when a man appointed

executors and trustees to his estate whilst his wife was living. It

showed one of three things—that he never considered her as having equal

rights with himself; or, that he thought her incompetent to take charge

of his property—or, that the customs and laws of the land had so warped

his judgment, that he only did as he saw others do, without considering

whether these laws and customs were right or wrong. But if you only look

back you will perceive, that in every benevolent scheme, in every plan

for meliorating the condition of the poor, and improving their morals,

it was women’s influence that promoted and fostered it. It is to that

healthy influence, that we owe our present prosperity and happiness—and

it is an influence which I hope may forever continue.”

It was not to such a man as Hastings that Edgar need have spoken so

earnestly; he only wanted to have a subject fairly before him to

comprehend it in all its bearings. He rejoiced that women were now equal

to men in all that they ever considered as their rights; and he rejoiced

likewise that the proper distinction was rigidly observed between the

sexes—that as men no longer encroached on their rights, they, in return,

kept within the limits assigned them by the Creator. As a man and a

Christian, he was glad that this change had taken place; and it was a

melancholy satisfaction to feel that with these views, if it had been

permitted him to continue with his wife, he should have put her on an

equality with himself.

The moment his wife and child appeared to his mental vision, he became

indifferent to what was passing around him; Edgar, perceiving that he

was buried in his own thoughts, proposed that they should return home

immediately, and they accordingly passed down Broadway to the Battery,

from which place they intended to take a boat. They reached the wharf—a

ship had just arrived from the Cape of Good Hope, with a fine cargo. The

captain and crew of which were black.

——“That is true,” said Hastings, “I have seen very few negroes; what has

become of them. The question of slavery was a very painful one in my

time, and much of evil was apprehended in consequence of a premature

attempt to hasten their emancipation. I dread to hear how it

eventuated.”

“You have nothing to fear on that score,” said Edgar, “for the whole

thing was arranged most satisfactorily to all parties. The government

was rich in resources, and rich in land; they sold the land, and with

the money thus obtained, and a certain portion of the surplus revenue in

the course of ten years, they not only indemnified the slaveholders for

their loss of property, but actually transplanted the whole of the negro

population to Liberia, and to other healthy colonies. The southern

planters soon found that their lands could be as easily cultivated by

the labour of white men, as by the negroes.”

“But a great number remained, I presume, for it would not have been

humane to force those to go who preferred to stay.”

“All that chose to settle in this country were at liberty to do so, and

their rights and privileges were respected; but in the course of twenty

or thirty years, their descendants gradually went over to their own

people, who by this time, had firmly established themselves.”

“Did those that remained, ever intermarry with the white population, and

were they ever admitted into society?”

“As soon as they became free, as soon as their bodies were unshackled,

their minds became enlightened, and as their education advanced, they

learned to appreciate themselves properly. They saw no advantage in

intermarrying with the whites; on the contrary, they learned, by close

investigation, that the negro race becomes extinct in the fourth remove,

when marriages took place between the two colours. It seemed to be their

pride to keep themselves a distinct people, and to show the world that

their organization allowed of the highest grade of mental culture. They

seemed utterly indifferent likewise about mixing in the society of white

men, for their object and sole aim was to become independent. Many of

their descendants left the United States with handsome fortunes. You

could not insult a black man more highly than to talk of their

intermarrying with the whites—they scorn it much more than the whites

did in your time.”

“How do they treat the white people that trade with them in their own

country?”

“How? why as Christians—to their praise be it said, they never

retaliated. The few excesses they committed whilst they were degraded by

slavery, was entirely owing to a misdirection of their energies; but the

moment the white man gave up his right over them, that moment all

malignant and hostile feelings disappeared. The name of negro is no

longer a term of reproach, he is proud of it; and he smiles when he

reads in the history of their servitude, how indignant the blacks were

at being called by that title. They are a prosperous and happy people,

respected by all nations, for their trade extends over the whole world.

They would never have arrived at their present happy condition if they

had sought to obtain their freedom by force; but by waiting a few

years—for the best men of their colour saw that the spirit of the times

indicated that their day of freedom was near—they were released from

bondage with the aid and good wishes of the whole country. It showed

their strong good sense in waiting for the turn of the tide in their

favour; it proved that they had forethought, and deserved our

sympathies.”

“I am glad of all this,” said Hastings—“and the Indians—what has become

of them, are they still a distinct people?”

“I am sorry you ask that question,—for it is one on which I do not like

to converse—but

‘The Indians have departed—gone is their hunting ground,

And the twanging of their bow-string is a forgotten sound.

Where dwelleth yesterday—and where is echo’s cell?

Where hath the rainbow vanished—there doth the Indian dwell!’

“When our own minds were sufficiently enlightened, when our hearts were

sufficiently inspired by the humane principles of the Christian

religion, we emancipated the blacks. What demon closed up the springs of

tender mercy when Indian rights were in question I know not?—but I must

not speak of it!”

They now proceeded homewards, and in three hours—for they travelled

slowly, that they might the better converse,—they came in sight of the

low, stone farm-house, in which poor Hastings had taken his nap of three

hundred years. They alighted from the car, and as he wished to indulge

himself in taking one more look at the interior—for the building was

soon to be removed—his young relative left him to apprize his family of

their arrival. After casting a glance at Edgar, he entered the house,

and seating himself mechanically in the old arm chair, he leaned his

head back in mournful reverie. Thoughts innumerable, and of every

variety chased each other through his troubled brain; his early youth,

his political career, his wife and child, all that they had ever been to

him, his excellent father, Valentine Harley, and all their tender

relationship, mingled confusedly with the events that had occurred since

his long sleep—copyrights—mad dogs—bursting of steam boilers—the two

great fires in New-York—direct tax—no duties—post-offices—the improved

condition of clergymen—no more wars—no bruising of children’s

flesh—women’s rights—Astor’s hotel—New-York Mart in State-street—Negro

emancipation—all passed in rapid review, whilst his perplexities to know

what became of the Indians were mixed with the rest, and ran through the

whole scene. At the same time that all this was galloping through his

feverish brain, he caught a glance of his young relative, and in his

troubled imagination, it appeared that it was not the Edgar Hastings who

had of late been his kind companion, but his own son. He was conscious

that this was only a trick of the fancy, and arose from his looking so

earnestly at the young man as he left him at the door of the house; but

it was a pleasant fancy, and he indulged in it, till a sudden crash or

noise of some kind jarred the windows and aroused him. He was sensible

that footsteps approached, and he concluded it was his young friend who

had returned to conduct him home.

“Edgar—Edgar Hastings—my son is it thou—didst thou not hear the cannon

of the Black Hawk—hast thou been sleeping?”

“Amazement! Was that the voice of his father—was this the good Valentine

Harley that now assisted him to rise—and who were those approaching

him—was it his darling wife, and was that smiling boy his own son, his

little Edgar!”

“You have been asleep, I find, my dear husband,” said the gentle

Ophelia, “and a happy sleep it has been for me, for us all. See, here is

a letter which makes it unnecessary for you to leave home.”

“And is this reality?—do I indeed hold thee to my heart once more, my

Ophelia—oh, my father, what a dream!”