CHAPTER V.

At midnight the sleepless girl stole from her couch, and laid on the

altar beyond the village heavy clusters of grapes and the richest fruits

from her store of dainties. "Hylas!" she softly cried, and the

sleepless echo repeated the name; but though she watched long, no form

emerged from the forest. Timidly she flitted back to her dwelling, and

waited for an eastern gleam. At last the veil of night was lifted a

little, a wind ruffled the waves, and the swaying oaks repeated to the

hills the message of coming splendors from the Orient. Evadne gladly saw

that the stars were fewer and paler in the sky, and she walked forth

again, brushing cold dews from the vines and the branches. A foreboding

fear led her first to look at the altar where she had left her offering.

It was untouched. Then she entered the still benighted wood, and passed

the cold gray waters. Arrived at the temple, she felt a hateful

stillness in the place.

"Hylas!" she loudly called, "come to me! For _you_ there is no danger;

but for me, they will take me away at sunrise. The Christians will come

to-day and carry me hence. Oh, Hylas! where do you hide yourself?"

But only a strong and angry wind disturbed the laurels around the

temple, and all was still. Then the song of the birds began all around

her, and a silver gleam shot across the eastern horizon. Suddenly

rosy-tinged signals stood among the sad-colored torn clouds above her

head. The hour for her departure was approaching. She gazed intently

down among the pines, where Hylas had disappeared, and painfully and

slowly began to descend. The wild-eyed hares glanced at her and shrank

into concealment again. The birds uttered cries of alarm, and the

motionless lizards lay close to her feet. Her heart beat anxiously when

she heard the sudden stroke of a bird's wing, scared from its nest, and

she paused often to listen, but no human voice was heard.

She penetrated slowly thus to that shore of the island which she had

never yet visited. She reached a border of white sand, and studied its

surface. She found a record there,--traces of footsteps, and the long

trail of a boat, drawn from a thicket of laurels to the shore, and down

to the water's edge. She stood many minutes contemplating these signs.

She imaged to herself the retreat by night, by the late rising light of

the waning moon. She seemed to see the youth, his manly arm urging the

boat from its hiding-place. In this spot his foot pressed the sand.

There he walked before and drew the little craft behind him. He launched

it here, and, had not the winds urged the water up the shore, his last

footstep might have remained for Evadne to gaze at.

He is surely gone! To return for the smiles of Evadne? She knows not if

he will return; but she glances upward at the sky, and feels that she

soon will have quitted the island, this happy island, forever!

Upward through the wood again she toils to take a last look at the

temple. The spot seemed already to have forgotten her. And yet here lies

a withered crown she wove once for Hylas; and here she finds at last the

dart she lost for him, when she drew his bow in play. Now she sees on

the shore at Athos an assembly of the people, and the men push off their

boats. The village is already alive, and awake. The rising of the sun is

looked for, and the clouds are like a golden fleece. Slowly above the

tree-tops the swans are waving their great pinions, to seek the stream

of Cayster. All creatures recognize the day, and only one weeps to see

the light.

Evadne knew that on yonder shore waited the dreaded messengers who would

gather the homeless into the Christian fold. She stayed to utter one

farewell to the cold, the cruel marble, with its unvaried smile.

"Be my god!" she cried, aloud. "In whatever strange land, to whatever

unknown religion I may be led, the god of this forgotten temple shall

have the worship of my heart!"

She crossed the marble pavement. She clasped with her white cold arms

the knees of Apollo--Hold! the form totters!--it is too late!--it must

fall! She rises to flee away, but the very floor is receding from her

tread. And slowly, with a majesty even in destruction, the god bows

himself, and drops from his pedestal.

The crashing fall is over. The foundations of the shrine, parted long

ago by earthquakes, and undermined by torrents, have slipped from their

place. Stones slide gradually to the brink of the rock, and some have

fallen near the sculptured rose; and yet some portions of the graceful

temple stand, and will support the dome yet, until some boisterous storm

shakes roughly the remaining columns.

But the god is dethroned, shivered, ruined. Evadne should arise and go.

The daylight overflows the sky, and she is quite, quite still, where the

hand of Apollo has laid her. Her forehead was but touched by fingers

that once held the lyre; and a crimson stream flows through the locks

upon her brow. A smile like that which the god wore is fixed and

changeless now upon her lip. Why does she smile? Because, in the dawn of

life, of grief, of love, she found peace.

The sun was up, and there was no more silence or repose along the coast.

Vigor and toil gave signs of their awakening. Sails were unfurled upon

the wavering masts, and showed white gleams, as the sunlight struck each

as it broadened out and swayed above its bright reflection below. Oars

were dipped in the smooth sea, and an eager crowd stood waiting to visit

the exiles on the once dreaded island. Evadne was already missed. Again

and again voices called upon her, the echoes repeated the sound, and the

groves had but one voice,--"Evadne!" She stirred not at the sound, but

her smile grew sweeter, and her brow paler, and cold as the marble hand

that pressed it.

Oh, Alpheus! oh, Eleusa! chide not! you will be weeping soon! She has,

indeed, angered you of late. She left her foster-parents alone, and

threaded the forest. She hid herself when you called, and, when the

fisher's boat was waiting to convey her with you to the shore, where

friends were ready to receive her and lead her to her father, then she

was wandering!

Eleusa is querulous. No wonder! for the child is sadly changed. They

will see her soon; a Christian prophet comes to break the heathen spell

of the island. The men of yonder village consent to abjure the worship

of Apollo. They come with the teacher of a new religion to consecrate

the spot anew. The busy crowd, as on a day of festival, embark to claim

again the once deserted spot.

Alpheus and Eleusa wait sadly for their approach, for trouble possesses

their hearts. They pine for their once gentle, submissive child. But the

teacher comes, and hails them in words of a new benediction. _The Great

Name_ is uttered also in their hearing. Calmness returns to them, in the

presence of the holy man. It is not Paul, mighty to reprove, and learned

as bold,--it is that "one whom Jesus loved." He has rested on his bosom,

and looked on him pierced on the cross. The look from his dying eyes and

the tones of his tender love are ever present in the soul of this

beloved disciple. The awful revelations of Patmos had not yet illumined

his eyes. His locks were white as the first blossoms of the spring, but

his heart was not withered by time, and men believed of him that he

should never see death. Those who beheld him loved him, and listened

because they loved. What he desired was accomplished as if a king had

commanded it, and what he taught was gathered in among the treasures of

the heart.

The first care of the Apostle was to seek the lost child, and the youths

of his company went on, and scaled the hill. Meanwhile, not far from the

altar, on which an unregarded offering lay, the people gathered round

their master, while to Alpheus and Eleusa he related the immortal story

of Judea.

Before mid-day the villagers had returned to their dwellings. With John,

their friend and consoler, two mourners departed from the island, where

fabled Apollo no longer possessed a shrine. His altar was torn away; a

newly-made grave was marked by a cross roughly built of its broken

stones.

"I will return here," said the fisherman of Athos, "when you are far

away in some Christian city of Asia. I will return and carve here the

name of 'Evadne.'"

THE SKATER.

The skater lightly laughs and glides,

Unknowing that beneath the ice

Whereon he carves his fair device

A stiffened corpse in silence slides.

It glareth upward at his play;

Its cold, blue, rigid fingers steal

Beneath the trendings of his heel;

It floats along and floats away.

He has not seen its horror pass;

His heart is blithe; the village hears

His distant laughter; he careers

In festive waltz athwart the glass.--

We are the skaters, we who skim

The surface of Life's solemn flood,

And drive, with gladness in our blood,

A daring dance from brim to brim.

Our feet are swift, our faces burn,

Our hopes aspire like soaring birds;

The world takes courage from our words,

And sees the golden time return.

But ever near us, silent, cold,

Float those who bounded from the bank

With eager hearts, like us, and sank

Because their feet were overbold.

They sank through breathing-holes of vice,

Through treacherous sheens of unbelief;

They know not their despair and grief:

Their hearts and minds are turned to ice.

THOMAS JEFFERSON.[1]

[Concluded.]

Mr. Jefferson returned from France in the autumn of 1789, and the

following spring took office as Secretary of State. He was unwilling to

abandon his post abroad, but the solicitations of Washington controlled

him. He plainly was the most suitable person for the place. Franklin,

the father of American diplomacy, was rapidly approaching the close of

his long and busy life, and John Adams, the only other statesman whose

diplomatic experience could be compared with that of Thomas Jefferson,

was Vice President.

It would be a tedious task to enter into a detail of the disputes which

arose in Washington's Cabinet, nor is it necessary to do so. Most candid

persons, who have examined the subject, are convinced that the

differences were unavoidable, that they were produced by exigencies in

affairs upon which men naturally would disagree, by conflicting social

elements, and by the dissimilar characters, purposes, and political

doctrines of Jefferson and Hamilton. Jefferson's course was in

accordance with the general principles of government which from his

youth he had entertained.

As to the accusation, so often made, that he opposed an administration

of which he was a member and which by the plainest party-rules he was

bound to support, it is completely answered by the statement, that his

conduct was understood by Washington, that he repeatedly offered to

resign, and that when he retired it was in opposition to the President's

wish. It is not worth while for us to apply a higher standard of party

loyalty to Washington's ministers than he himself applied.

One great difficulty encountered by the politicians of that day seems to

have been purely fanciful. Strictly speaking, the government did not

have a policy. It went into operation with the impression that it would

be persistently resisted, that its success was doubtful, and that any

considerable popular disaffection would be fatal to it. These fears

proved to be unfounded. The day Washington took the oath, the government

was as stable as it now is. Disturbing elements undoubtedly existed, but

they were controlled by great and overruling necessities, recognized by

all men. Thus the final purpose of the administration was accomplished

at the outset. The labor which it was expected would task the patriotism

and exercise the skill of the most generous and experienced was

performed without an effort,--as it were, by a mere pulsation of the

popular heart. The question was not, How shall the government be

preserved? but, How shall it be administered? This is evident now, but

was not seen then. The statesmen of the time believed that the Union was

constantly in danger, and that their best efforts were needed to protect

it. In this spirit they approached every question which presented

itself. Thinking that every measure directly affected the safety of the

republic, a difference of opinion could not be a mere disagreement upon

a matter of policy. In proportion to the intensity of each man's

patriotism was his conviction that in his way alone could the government

be preserved, and he naturally thought that his opponents must be either

culpably neglecting or deliberately plotting against the interests of

the country. Real difficulties were increased by imaginary ones.

Opposition became treason. Parties called themselves Republicans and

Federalists;--they called each other monarchists and anarchists. This

delusion has always characterized our politics; noisy politicians of

the present day stigmatize their adversaries as disunionists; but during

the first twenty years it was universal, and explains the fierce

party-spirit which possessed the statesmen of that period, and likewise

accounts for many of their errors.

Among these errors must be placed the belief which Jefferson had, that

there was a party of monarchists in the country. Sir. Randall makes a

long argument in support of this opinion, and closes with an intimation

that those who refuse to believe now cannot be reached by reason. He may

rank us with these perverse skeptics; for, in our opinion, his argument

not only fails to establish his propositions, but is strong against

them. Let it be understood;--the assertion is not, that there were some

who would have preferred a monarchy to a republic, but that, after the

government was established, Ames, Sedgwick, Hamilton, and other Federal

leaders, were plotting to overturn it and create a monarchy. Upon this

we have no hesitation in taking issue. The real state of the case, and

the circumstances which deceived Mr. Jefferson, may be briefly set

forth.

Jefferson left France shortly after the taking of the Bastile. He saw

the most auspicious period of the Revolution. During the session of the

Estates General, the evils which afflicted France were admitted by all,

but the remedies proposed were, as yet, purely speculative. The roseate

theories of poets and enthusiasts had filled every mind with vague

expectations of some great good in the future. Nothing had occurred to

disturb these pleasing anticipations. There was no sign of the fearful

disasters then impending. The delirium of possession had not seized upon

the nation,--her statesmen had not learned how much easier it is to plan

than to achieve,--nor had the voice of Burke carried terror throughout

Europe. Even now, it is impossible to read the first acts of that drama

without being moved to sympathetic enthusiasm. What emotions must it not

have excited while the awful catastrophe was yet concealed! Tried by any

received test, France, for centuries, had been the chief state in

Europe,--inferior to none in the arts of war, superior to any in the

arts of peace. Fashion and letters had given her an empire more

permanent than that which the enterprise of Columbus and the fortune of

Charles gave to Spain, more extended than that which Trafalgar and

Waterloo have since given to England. Though her armies were resisted,

her wit and grace were irresistible; every European prince was her

subject, every European court a theatre for the display of her address.

The peculiar spirit of her genius is not more distinctly to be seen in

the verse of Boileau than in that of Pope,--in the sounding periods of

Bossuet than in Addison's easy phrase. The spectacle of a nation so

distinguished, which had carried tyranny to a perfection and invested it

with a splendor never before seen, becoming the coryphæus of freedom,

might easily have fascinated a mind less impressible by nature, and less

disposed by education for favorable impressions, than that of Jefferson.

He shared the feeling of the hour. His advice was asked, and

respectfully listened to. This experience, while, as he says, it

strengthened his preconceived convictions, must have prevented him from

carefully observing, certainly from being affected by, the influences

which had been at work in his own country. He came home more assured in

republicanism, and expecting to find that America had kept pace with

him.

But many things had occurred in America to excite doubts of the

efficiency of republican institutions. The government of the

Confederation was of little value. During the war, common interests and

dangers had bound the Colonies together; with peace came commercial

rivalries, boundary disputes, relations with other countries, the

burdens of a large debt,--and the scanty powers with which Congress had

been clothed were inadequate to the public exigencies. The Congress was

a mere convention, in which each State had but one vote. To the most

important enactments the consent of nine States was necessary. The

concurrence of the several legislatures was required to levy a tax,

raise an army, or ratify a treaty. The executive power was lodged in a

committee, which was useless either for deliberation or action. The

government fell into contempt; it could not protect itself from insult;

and the doors of Congress were once besieged by a mob of mutinous

soldiery. The States sometimes openly resisted the central government,

and to the most necessary laws, those for the maintenance of the

national credit, they gave but a partial obedience. They quarrelled with

each other. New York sent troops into the field to enforce her claims

upon her New England neighbors. The inhabitants of the Territories

rebelled. Kentucky, Vermont, and Tennessee, under another name, declared

themselves independent, and demanded admission into the Union. In New

Hampshire and Pennsylvania, insurrections took place. In Massachusetts,

a rebellion was set on foot, which, for a time, interrupted the sessions

of the courts. An Indian war, attended by the usual barbarities, raged

along the northern frontier. Foreign states declined to negotiate with a

government which could not enforce its decrees within its own borders.

England haughtily refused to withdraw her troops from our soil; Spain

closed the Mississippi to the commerce and encroached upon the territory

of the Confederation. Every consideration of safety and advantage

demanded a government with strength enough to secure quiet at home and

respect abroad. It is not to be denied that many thoughtful and

experienced men were discouraged by the failure of the Confederation,

and thought that nothing but a monarchy could accomplish the desired

purpose.

There were also certain social elements tending in the same direction,

and these were strongest in the city of New York, where Jefferson first

observed them. That city had been the centre of the largest and most

powerful Tory community in the Colonies. The gentry were nearly all

Tories, and, during the long occupation of the town, the tradespeople,

thriving upon British patronage, had become attached to the British

cause. There, and, indeed, in all the cities, there were aristocratic

circles. Jefferson was of course introduced into them. In these circles

were the persons who gave dinners, and at whose tables he heard the

opinions expressed which astonished and alarmed him.

What is described as polite society has never been much felt in American

politics; it was not more influential then. Besides, in many cases,

these opinions were more likely to have been the expression of

affectation than of settled conviction. Nothing is more common than a

certain insincerity which leads men to profess and seemingly believe

sentiments which they do not and cannot act upon. The stout squire who

prides himself upon his obstinacy, and whose pretty daughter manages him

as easily as she manages her poodle, is a favorite character in English

comedy. Every one knows some truculent gentleman who loudly proclaims

that one half of mankind are knaves and the other half would be if they

dared, but who would go mad with despair if he really believed the

atrocious principles he loves to announce. Jefferson was not so

constituted as to make the proper allowance for this kind of

insincerity. Though undemonstrative, he was thoroughly in earnest. In

fact, he was something of a precisian in politics. He spoke of kings and

nobles as if they were personal foes, and disliked Scott's novels

because they give too pleasing a representation of the institution of

chivalry. He probably looked upon a man who spoke covetously of titles

much as a Salem elder a century before would have looked upon a

hard-swearing Virginia planter. In the purse-proud citizens, who, after

dinner, used to talk grandly about the British Constitution, he saw a

set of malignant conspirators, when in fact not one in ten had ever

thought seriously upon the subject, or had enough force of character to

attempt to carry out his opinions, whatever they might have been.

The political discontents were hardly more formidable. We have admitted

that some influential persons were in favor of a monarchy; but no one

took a decided step in that direction. In all the published

correspondence there is not a particle of evidence of such a movement.

Even Hamilton, in his boldest advances towards a centralization of

power, did not propose a monarchy. Those who were most doubtful about

the success of a republic recognized the necessity of making the

experiment, and were the most active in establishing the present one.

The sparsity of the population, the extent of the country, and its

poverty, made a royal establishment impossible. The people were

dissatisfied with the Confederation, not with republicanism. The breath

of ridicule would have upset the throne. The King, the Dukes of

Massachusetts and Virginia, the Marquises of Connecticut and Mohawk,

Earl Susquehanna and Lord Livingston, would have been laughed at by

every ragamuffin. The sentiment which makes the appendages of royalty,

its titles and honors, respectable, is the result of long education, and

has never existed in America. Washington was the only person mentioned

in connection with the crown; but had he attempted to reach it, he would

have lost his power over the people. He was strong because he had

convinced his country that he held personal objects subservient to

public ones,--that, with him, "the path of duty was the way to glory."

He had none of the magnetism which lulls the senses and leads captive

the hearts of men. Had he clothed himself in the vulgar robes of

royalty,--had he taken advantage of the confidence reposed in him for a

purpose of self-aggrandizement, and that of so petty and commonplace a

kind,--he would have sunk to a level with the melodramatic heroes of

history, and that colossal reputation, which rose, a fair exhalation

from the hearts of grateful millions, and covered all the land, would

have vanished like a mist.

Whatever individuals may have wished for, the charge of monarchical

designs cannot be brought against the Federalists as a party. New

England was the mother of the Revolution, and became the stronghold of

Federalism. In South Carolina and New York, a majority of the

inhabitants were Tories; the former State voted for Mr. Jefferson every

time he was a candidate, the latter gave him his election in 1800. It

requires a liberal expenditure of credulity to believe that the children

of the Puritans desired a monarchy more than the descendants of the

Cavaliers and the adherents of De Lancy and Ogden. Upon this subject

Jefferson does not seem to have understood that disposition which can be

dissatified with a measure, and yet firm and honest in supporting it.

Public men constantly yield or modify their opinions under the pressure

of political necessity. He himself gives an instance of this, when, in

stating that he was not entirely content with the Constitution, he

remarks that not a member of the Federal Convention approved it in all

its parts. Why may we not suppose that Hamilton and Ames sacrificed

their opinions, as well as Mr. Jefferson and the framers of the

Constitution?

The evidence with which Mr. Randall fortifies his position is

inconclusive. It consists of the opinions of leading Republicans, and

extracts from the letters of leading Federalists. The former are liable

to the objection of having been prompted by political prejudices; the

latter will not bear the construction which he places upon them. They

are nothing more than expressions of doubt as to the stability of the

government, and of regret that one of a different kind was not

adopted,--most of which were made after the Federalists were defeated.

We should not place too literal a construction upon the repinings of

disappointed placemen. Mr. Randall, we believe, has been in political

life, and ought to be accustomed to the disposition which exists among

public men to think that the country will be ruined, if it is deprived

of their services. After every election, our ears are vexed by the

gloomy vaticinations of defeated candidates. This amiable weakness is

too common to excite uneasiness.

An argument of the same kind, and quite as effective as Mr. Randall's,

might be made against Jefferson. His letters contain predictions of

disaster in case of the success of his opponents, and the Federalists

spoke as harshly of him as he of them. They charged him with being a

disciple of Robespierre, said that he was in favor of anarchy, and would

erect a guillotine in every market-place. He called them monarchists,

and said they sighed after King, Lords, and Commons. Neither charge will

be believed. The heads of the Federalists were safe after the election

of Mr. Jefferson, and the republic would have been safe if Hamilton and

Adams had continued in power.

Both parties formed exaggerated opinions. That Jefferson did so, no one

can doubt who observes the weight he gave to trifles,--his annoyance at

the etiquette of the capital,--at the levees and liveries,--at the

President's speech,--the hysterical dread into which he was thrown by

the mere mention of the Society of the Cincinnati, and the "chill" which

Mr. Randall says came over him "when he heard Hamilton praise Cæsar."

This spirit led him to the act which every one must think is a stain

upon his character: we refer to the compilation of his "Ana." As is well

known, that book was written mainly for the purpose of proving that the

Federalists were in favor of a monarchy. It consists chiefly of reports

of the conversations of distinguished characters. Some of these

conversations--and it is noticeable that they are the most innocent

ones--took place in his presence. The worst expressions are mere reports

by third parties. One story rests upon no better foundation than that

Talleyrand told it to Volney, who told it to Jefferson. At one place we

are informed, that, at a St. Andrew's Club dinner, the toast to the

President (Mr. Adams) was coldly received, but at that to George the

Third "Hamilton started to his feet and insisted on a bumper and three

cheers." This choice bit of scandal is given on the authority of "Mr.

Smith, a Hamburg merchant," "who received it from Mr. Schwarthouse, _to

whom it was told by one of the dinner-party_." At a dinner given by some

members of the bar to the federal judges, this toast was offered: "Our

_King_ in old England,"--Rufus King being the American minister in that

country. Whereupon Mr. Jefferson solemnly asks us "to observe the

_double entendre_ on the word King." Du Ponceau told this to Tenche

Coxe, who told it to Jefferson. Such stuff is repeated in connection

with descriptions of how General and Mrs. Washington sat on a raised

sofa at a ball, and all the dancers bowed to them,--and how Mrs. Knox

mounted the steps unbidden, and, finding the sofa too small for three,

had to go down. We are told that at one time John Adams cried, "Damn

'em! you see that an elective government will not do,"--and that at

another he complimented a little boy who was a Democrat, saying, "Well,

a boy of fifteen who is not a Democrat is good for nothing,--and he is

no better who is a Democrat at twenty." Of this bit of treason Jefferson

says, "Ewen told Hurt, and Hurt told me." These are not mere scraps,

published by an indiscreet editor. They were revised by Mr. Jefferson in

1818, when he was seventy-five years old, after, as he says, the

passions of the time were passed away,--with the intention that they

should be published. It is humiliating to record this act. No

justification for it is possible. It is idle to say that these

revelations were made to warn the country of its danger. As evidence

they are not entitled to a thought. More flimsy gossip never floated

over a tea-table. Besides, for such a purpose they should have been

published when the contest was in progress, when the danger was

imminent, not after the men whom he arraigned were defeated and most of

them in their graves. Equally unsatisfactory is the excuse, that they

illustrate history. This may be true, but it does not acquit Mr.

Jefferson. Pepys tells us more than Hume about the court of Charles II.,

and Boswell's Life of Johnson is the best biography in the

language,--but he must be a shabby fellow who would be either a Boswell

or a Pepys. Mr. Randall's excuse, that the act was done in

self-vindication, is the worst of all. Jefferson was the victor and

needed no defence, surely not so mean and cowardly a defence. That a

grave statesman should stoop to betray the confidence of familiar

intercourse,--that a skeptical inquirer, who systematically rejected

everything which did not stand the most rigid tests, should rely on the

ridiculous gossip of political circles,--that a deliberate and

thoughtful man should jump to a conclusion as quickly as a child, and

assert it with the intolerance of a Turk, certainly is a strange

anomaly. We can account for it only by supposing that upon the subject

of a monarchy he was a little beside himself. It is certain, that,

through some weakness, he was made to forget gentlemanly propriety, and

the plainest rules for the sifting of testimony;--let us believe that

the general opinions which he formed, and which his biographer

perpetuates, resulted from the same unfortunate weakness.

We have dwelt upon this subject, both on account of the prominence which

Mr. Randall has given it, and because, as admirers of Mr. Jefferson, we

wished to make a full and distinct statement of the most common and

reasonable complaint against him. The biographer has done his hero a

great injury by reviving this absurd business, and has cast suspicion

upon the accuracy of his book. It is time that our historians approached

their subjects with more liberal tempers. They should cease to be

advocates. Whatever the American people may think about the policy of

the Federalists, they will not impute to them unpatriotic designs. That

party comprised a majority of the Revolutionary leaders. It is not

strange that many of them fell into error. They were wealthy and had the

pride of wealth. They had been educated with certain ideas about rank,

which a military life had strengthened. The liberal theories which the

war had engendered were not understood, and, during the French

Revolution, they became associated with acts of atrocity which Mr.

Jefferson himself condemned. Abler men than the Federalists failed to

discriminate between the crime and the principles which the criminals

professed. Students of affairs are now in a better position than Mr.

Jefferson was, to ascertain the truth, and they will not find it

necessary to adopt his prejudices against a body of men who have adorned

our history by eloquence, learning, and valor.

Jefferson's position in Washington's government must have been extremely

disagreeable. There was hardly a subject upon which he and Hamilton

agreed. Washington had established the practice of disposing of the

business before the Cabinet by vote. Each member was at liberty to

explain his views, and, owing to the wide differences in opinion, the

Cabinet Council became a debating society. This gave Hamilton an

advantage. Jefferson never argued, and, if he had attempted it, he would

have been no match for his adversary. He contented himself with a plain

statement of his views and the reasons which influenced him, made in the

abstract manner which was habitual with him. Hamilton, on the other

hand, was an adroit lawyer, and a painstaking dialectician, who

carefully fortified every position. He made long speeches to the

Cabinet, with as much earnestness as one would use in court. Though

Jefferson had great influence with the President, he was generally

outvoted. Knox, of course, was against him. Randolph, the

Attorney-General, upon whose support he had a right to depend, was an

ingenious, but unsteady, sophist. He had so just an understanding, that

his appreciation of his opponent's argument was usually stronger than

his confidence in his own. He commonly agreed with Jefferson, and voted

with Hamilton. The Secretary of State was not allowed to control his

own department. Hamilton continually interfered with him, and had

business interviews with the ministers of foreign countries. The dispute

soon spread beyond the Cabinet, and was taken up by the press. Jefferson

again and again asked leave to resign; Washington besought him to

remain, and endeavored to close the breach between the rival

Secretaries. For a time, Jefferson yielded to these solicitations; but

finally, on the 31st of December, 1793, he left office, and was soon

followed by Hamilton.

After reaching Monticello, Mr. Jefferson announced, that he had

completely withdrawn from affairs, and that he did not even read the

journals, preferring to contemplate "the tranquil growth of lucern and

potatoes." These bucolic pleasures soon palled. Cultivating lucern and

potatoes is, without doubt, a dignified and useful employment, but it is

not likely to content a man who has played a great part, and is

conscious that he is still able to do so. We soon find him a candidate

for the Presidency, and, strange as it may seem, in 1797, he was

persuaded to leave his "buckwheat-dressings" and take the seat of

Vice-President.

Those who are interested in party tactics will find it instructive to

read Mr. Randall's account of the opposition to Adams's administration.

His correspondence shows that Adams was the victim of those in whom he

confided. He made the mistake of retaining the Cabinet which Washington

had during the last year or two of his term, and a weaker one has never

been seen. His ministers plotted against him,--his party friends opposed

and thwarted him. The President had sufficient talent for a score of

Cabinets, but he likewise had many foibles, and his position seemed to

fetter his talents and give full play to his foibles. The opposition

adroitly took advantage of the dissensions of their adversaries. In

Congress, the Federalists were compelled to carry every measure by main

force, and every inch of ground was contested. The temporizing Madison,

formerly leader of the Republicans in the House of Representatives, had

been succeeded by Albert Gallatin, a man of more enterprising spirit and

firmer grasp of thought. He was assisted by John Randolph, who then

first displayed the resources of his versatile and daring intellect. Mr.

Jefferson, also, as the avowed candidate for the succession, may be

supposed to have contributed his unrivalled knowledge of the springs of

human action. Earnest as the opposition were, they did not abuse the

license which is permitted in political contests. But the Federalists

pursued Mr. Jefferson with a vindictiveness which has no parallel, in

this country. They boasted of being gentlemen, and prided themselves

upon their standing and culture, yet they descended to the vilest tricks

and meanest scandal. They called Jefferson a Jacobin,--abused him

because he liked French cookery and French wines, and wore a red

waistcoat. To its shame, the pulpit was foremost in this disgraceful

warfare. Clergymen did not hesitate to mention him by name in their

sermons. Cobbett said, that Jefferson had cheated his British creditors.

A Maryland preacher improved this story, by saying that he had cheated a

widow and her daughters, of whose estate he was executor. He was

compared to Rehoboam. It was said, that he had a negro mistress, and

compelled his daughters to submit to her presence,--that he would not

permit his children to read the Bible,--and that, on one occasion, when

his attention was called to the dilapidated condition of a church, he

remarked, "It is good enough for him who was born in a manger."

According to his custom, he made no reply to these slanders, and, except

from a few mild remarks in his letters, one cannot discover that he

heard of them.

Mr. Adams did not show his successor the customary courtesy of attending

his inauguration, leaving Washington the same morning. The new

President, entirely unattended and plainly dressed, rode down the avenue

on horseback. He tied his horse to the paling which surrounded the

Capitol grounds, and, without ceremony, entered the Senate Chamber. The

contrast between this somewhat ostentatious simplicity and the parade at

the inaugurations of Washington and Adams showed how great a change had

taken place in the government.

The Presidency is the culmination of Mr. Jefferson's political career,

and we gladly turn to a contemplation of his character in other aspects.

The collections of Jefferson's writings and correspondence, which have

been published, throw no light upon his domestic relations. We have

complained of the prolixity of Mr. Randall's book, but we do not wish to

be understood as complaining of the number of family letters it

contains. They form its most pleasing and novel feature. They show us

that the placid philosopher had a nature which was ardent, tender, and

constant. His wife died after but ten years of married life. She was the

mother of six children, of whom two, Martha and Maria, reached maturity.

Though still young, Mr. Jefferson never married again, finding

sufficient opportunity for the indulgence of his domestic tastes in the

society of his daughters. Martha, whom he nicknamed Patsey, was plain,

resembling her father in features, and having some of his mental

characteristics. Maria, the youngest, inherited the charms of her

mother, and is described as one of the most beautiful women of her time.

Her natural courtesy procured for her, while yet a child, from her

French attendants, the _sobriquet_ of Polie, a name which clung to her

through life.

Charged with the care of these children, Jefferson made their education

one of his regular occupations, as systematically performed as his

public duties. He planned their studies, and descended to the minutest

directions as to dress and deportment. While they were young, he himself

selected every article of clothing for them, and even after they were

married, continued their constant and confidential adviser. When they

were absent, he insisted that they should inform him how they occupied

themselves, what books they read, what tunes they played, dwelling on

these details with the fond particularity of a lover. Association with

his daughters seemed to awaken his noblest and most refined impulses,

and to reveal the choicest fruit of his reading and experience. His

letters to them are models of their kind. They contain not only those

general precepts which an affectionate parent and wise man would

naturally desire to impress upon the mind of a child, but they also show

a perception of the most subtile feminine traits and a sympathy with the

most delicate feminine tastes, seldom seen in our sex, and which

exhibits the breadth and symmetry of Jefferson's organization. One of

the most characteristic of these letters is in the possession of the

Queen of England, to whom it was sent by his family, in answer to a

request for an autograph.

His daughters were in France with him, and were placed at school in a

convent near Paris. Martha was captivated by the ceremonials of the

Romish Church, and wrote to her father asking that she might be

permitted to take the veil. It is easy to imagine the surprise with

which the worldly diplomatist read the epistle. He did not reply to it,

but soon made a visit to the Abbaye. He smiled kindly at the young

enthusiast, who came anxiously to meet him, told the girls that he had

come for them, and, without referring to Martha's letter, took them back

to Paris. The account-book shows that after this incident the young

ladies did not diminish their attention to the harpsichord, guitar, and

dancing-master.

Maria, who was married to John W. Eppes, died in 1804, leaving two

children. Martha, wife of Thomas M. Randolph, survived her father. She

was the mother of ten children. The Randolphs lived on Mr. Jefferson's

estate of Monticello, and after he retired from public life he found his

greatest pleasure in the society of the numerous family which surrounded

him,--a pleasure which increased with his years. Mr. Randall publishes

a few letters from some of Jefferson's grand-daughters, describing their

happy child-life at Monticello. Besides being noticeable for grace of

expression, these letters breathe a spirit of affection for Mr.

Jefferson which only the warmest affection on his part could have

elicited. The writers fondly relate every particular which illustrates

the habits and manners of the retired statesman; telling with what

kindness be reproved, with what heartiness he commended them; how the

children loved to follow him in his walks, to sit with him by the fire

during the winter twilight, or at the window in summer, listening to his

quaint stories; how he directed their sports, acted as judge when they

ran races in the garden, and gathered fruit for them, pulling down the

branches on which the ripest cherries hung. All speak of the pleasure it

gave him to anticipate their wishes by some unexpected gift. One says

that her Bible and Shakspeare came from him,--that he gave her her first

writing-desk, her first watch, her first Leghorn hat and silk dress.

Another tells how he saw her tear her dress, and in a few days brought a

new and more beautiful one to mend it, as he said,--that she had refused

to buy a guitar which she admired, because it was too expensive, and

that when she came to breakfast the next morning the guitar was waiting

for her. One of these ladies seems to give only a natural expression to

the feelings which all his grand-children had for him, when she prettily

calls him their good genius with magic wand, brightening their young

lives by his kindness and his gifts.

Indeed, the account which these volumes give of Monticello life is very

interesting. The house was a long brick building, in the Grecian style,

common at that time. It was surmounted by a dome; in front was a

portico; and there were piazzas at the end of each wing. It was situated

upon the summit of a hill six hundred feet high, one of a range of such.

To the east lay an undulating plain, unbroken save by a solitary peak;

and upon the western side a deep valley swept up to the base of the Blue

Ridge, which was twenty miles distant. The grounds were tastefully

decorated, and, by a peculiar arrangement which the site permitted, all

the domestic offices and barns were sunk from view. The interior of the

mansion was spacious, and even elegant; it was decorated with natural

curiosities,--Indian and Mexican antiquities, articles of _virtù_, and a

large number of portraits and busts of historical characters. The

library--which was sold to the government in 1815--contained between

nine and ten thousand volumes. He had another house upon an estate

called Poplar Forest, ninety miles from Monticello.

Mr. Jefferson was too old to attempt any new scientific or literary

enterprise, but as soon as he reached home he began to renew his former

acquaintances. His meteorological observations were continued, he

studied botany, and was an industrious reader of three or four

languages. When nearly eighty, we find him writing elaborate

disquisitions on grammar, astronomy, the Epicurean philosophy, and

discussing style with Edward Everett. The coldness between him and John

Adams passed away, and they used to write one another long letters, in

which they criticized Plato and the Greek dramatists, speculated upon

the end for which the sensations of grief were intended, and asked each

other whether they would consent to live their lives over again.

Jefferson, with his usual cheerfulness, promptly answered, Yes.

He dispensed a liberal hospitality, and in a style which showed the

influence of his foreign residence. Though temperate, he understood the

mysteries of the French _cuisine_, and liked the wines of Médoc. These

tastes gave occasion to Patrick Henry's sarcasm upon gentlemen "_who

abjured their native victuals_." Mr. Randall tells an amusing anecdote

of a brandy-drinking Virginian, who wondered how a man of so much taste

could drink cold, sour French wine, and insisted that some night he

would be carried off by it.

No American has ever exerted so great and universal an attraction. Men

of all parties made pilgrimages to Monticello. Foreigners of distinction

were unwilling to leave the country without seeing Mr. Jefferson; men of

fashion, artists, _littérateurs_, _savants_, soldiers, clergymen,

flocked to his house. Mrs. Randolph stated, that she had provided beds

for fifty persons at a time. The intrusion was often disagreeable

enough. Groups of uninvited strangers sometimes planted themselves in

the passages of his house to see him go to dinner, or gathered around

him when he sat on the portico. A female once broke a window-pane with

her parasol to got a better view of him. But no press of company was

permitted to interfere with his occupations. The early morning was

devoted to correspondence; the day to his library, to his workshop, or

to business; after dinner he gave himself up to society.

Making every allowance for the exaggerations of his admirers, it cannot

be doubted that Jefferson was a master of conversation. It had

contributed too much to his success not to have been made the subject of

thought. It is true, he had neither wit nor eloquence; but this was a

kind of negative advantage; for he was free from that striving after

effect so common among professed wits, neither did he indulge in those

monologues into which eloquence betrayed Coleridge and seduces Macaulay.

He had great tact, information, and worldly knowledge. He never

disputed, and had the address not to attempt to control the current of

conversation for the purpose of turning it in a particular direction,

but was always ready to follow the humor of the hour. His language, if

seldom striking, never failed to harmonize with his theme, while, of

course, the effect of everything he said was heightened by his age and

reputation.

Unfortunately, his latter days were clouded by pecuniary distress.

Although prudent and methodical, partly from unavoidable circumstances,

and partly from the expense of his enormous establishment, his large

estate became involved. The failure of a friend for whom he had indorsed

completed his ruin and made it necessary to sell his property. This,

however, was not done until after his death, when every debt was paid,

even to a subscription for a Presbyterian church.

As is well known, the chief labor of his age was the establishment of

the University of Virginia. He was the creator of that institution, and

displayed in behalf of it a zeal and energy truly wonderful. When unable

to ride over to the University, which was eight miles from Monticello,

he used to sit upon his terrace and watch the workmen through a

telescope. He designed the buildings, planned the organization and

course of instruction, and selected the faculty. He seemed to regard

this enterprise as crowning and completing a career which had been

devoted to the cause of liberty, by providing for the increase and

diffusion of knowledge.

In February, 1826, the return of a disease by which he had at intervals

been visited convinced Jefferson that he should soon die. With customary

deliberation and system, he prepared for his decease, arranging his

affairs and giving the final directions as to the University. To his

family he did not mention the subject, nor could they detect any change

in his manner, except an increased tenderness in each night's farewell,

and the lingering gaze with which he followed their motions. His mental

vigor continued. His will, quite a long document, was written by

himself; and on the 24th of June he wrote a reply to an invitation to

the celebration at Washington of the ensuing Fourth of July. It is

difficult to discover in what respect this production is inferior to his

earlier performances of the same kind. It has all of the author's ease

and precision of style, and more than his ordinary distinctness and

earnestness of thought. This was his last letter. He rapidly declined,

but preserved possession of his faculties. He remarked, as if surprised

at it, upon his disposition to recur to the scenes of the Revolution,

and seemed to wish that his life might be prolonged until the Fourth of

July. This wish was not denied to him; he expired at noon of that day,

precisely fifty years after the Declaration of Independence. A few hours

afterwards the great heart of John Adams ceased to beat.

So much has been said about Mr. Jefferson's religious opinions, and our

biographer gives them such prominence, that we shall be pardoned for

alluding to them, although they are not among the topics which a critic

generally should touch. Mr. Randall says that Jefferson was "a public

professor of his belief in the Christian religion." We do not think that

this unqualified statement is supported by Jefferson's explanation of

his views upon Christianity, which Mr. Randall subsequently gives.

Religion, in the sense which is commonly given to it, as a system of

faith and worship, he did not connect with Christ at all. He was a

believer in the existence of God, in a future life, and in man's

accountability for his actions here: in so far as this, he may be said

to have had a system of worship, but not of Christian worship. He

regarded Christ simply as a man, with no other than mortal power,--and

to worship him in any way would, in his opinion, have been idolatry. His

theology recognized the Deity alone. The extracts from his public

papers, upon which Mr. Randall relies, contain nothing but those general

expressions which a Mohammedan or a follower of Confucius might have

used. He said he was a Christian "in the only sense in which Christ

wished any one to be"; but received Christ's teachings merely as a

system, and not a perfect system, of morals. He rejected the narratives

which attest the Divine character or the Divine mission of the Saviour,

thinking them the fictions of ignorance and superstition.

He was, however, far from being a scoffer. He attended the Episcopal

service regularly, and was liberal in his donations to religious

enterprises. Nor do we think that this conformity arose from weakness or

hypocrisy, but rather from a profound respect for opinions so generally

entertained, and a lively admiration for the character and life of

Christ.

If a Christian is one who sincerely believes and implicitly obeys the

teachings of Jesus so far as they affect our relations with our

fellow-men, then Mr. Jefferson was a Christian in a sense in which few

can be called so. Though the light did not unseal his vision, it filled

his heart. Among the statesmen of the world there is no one who has more

rigidly demanded that the laws of God shall be applied to the affairs of

Man. His political system is a beautiful growth from the principles of

love, humility, and charity, which the New Testament inculcates.

When reflecting upon Mr. Jefferson's mental organization, one is

impressed by the variety and perfectness of his intellectual faculties.

He united the powers of observation with those of reflection in a degree

hardly surpassed by Bacon. Yet he has done nothing which entitles him to

a place among the first of men. It may be said, that, devoted to the

inferior pursuit of politics, he had no opportunity to exercise himself

in art or philosophy, where alone the highest genius finds a field. But

we think his failure--if one can fail who does not make an attempt--was

not for want of opportunity. He did not possess any imagination. He was

so deficient in that respect as to be singular. The imagination seems to

assist the mental vision as the telescope does that of the eye; he saw

with his unaided powers only.

He says, "Nature intended him for the tranquil pursuits of science," and

it is impossible to assign any reason why he should not have attained

great eminence among scientific men. The sole difficulty might have

been, that, from very variety of power, he would not give himself up to

any single study with the devotion which Nature demands from those who

seek her favors.

Within his range his perception of truth was as rapid and unfailing as

an instinct. Without difficulty he separated the specious from the

solid, gave great weight to evidence, but was skeptical and cautious

about receiving it. Though a collector of details, he was never

incumbered by them. No one was less likely to make the common mistake of

thinking that a particular instance established a general proposition.

He sought for rules of universal application, and was industrious in the

accumulation of facts, because he knew how many are needed to prove the

simplest truth. The accuracy of his mental operations, united with great

courage, made him careless of authority. He clung to a principle because

he thought it true, not because others thought it so. There is no

indication that he valued an opinion the more because great men of

former ages had favored it. His self-reliance was shown in his

unwillingness to employ servants. Even when very feeble, he refused to

permit any one to assist him. He had extraordinary power of

condensation, and, always seeing the gist of a matter, he often exposed

an argument of hours by a single sentence. Some of his brief papers,

like the one on Banking, contain the substance of debates, which have

since been made, filling volumes. He was peculiar in his manner of

stating his conclusions, seldom revealing the processes by which he

arrived at them. He sets forth strange and disputed doctrines as if they

were truisms. Those who have studied "The Prince" for the purpose of

understanding its construction will not think us fanciful when we find a

resemblance between Jefferson's mode of argumentation and that of

Machiavelli. There is the same manner of approaching a subject, the same

neglect of opposing arguments, and the same disposition to rely on the

force of general maxims. Machiavelli exceeded him in power of

ratiocination from a given proposition, but does not seem to have been

able to determine whether a given proposition was right or wrong.

In force of mind Jefferson has often been surpassed: Hamilton was his

superior. As an executive officer, where action was required, he could

not have been distinguished. It is true, he was a successful President,

but neither the time nor the place demanded the highest executive

talents. When Governor of Virginia, during the Revolution, he was more

severely tried, and, although some excuse may be made for him, he must

be said to have failed.

Upon matters which are affected by feeling and sentiment, the judgment

of woman is said to surpass that of our sex,--her more sensitive

instincts carrying her to heights which our blind strength fails to

reach. If this be true, Jefferson in some respects resembled woman. We

have already alluded to the delicacy of his organization; it was

strangely delicate, indeed, for one who had so many solid qualities.

Like woman, he was constant rather than passionate; he had her

refinement, disliking rude company and coarse pleasures,--her love of

luxury, and fondness for things whose beauty consists in part in their

delicacy and fragility. His political opponents often refused to speak

with him, but their wives found his society delightful. Like woman, his

feelings sometimes seemed to precede his judgment. Such an organization

is not often a safe one for business; but in Mr. Jefferson, with his

homely perceptions, it accomplished great results.

The attributes which gave him his great and peculiar influence seem to

us to have been qualities of character, not of the mind. Chief among

these must be placed that which, for want of a better term, we will call

sympathy. This sympathy colored his whole nature, mental and moral. It

gave him his many-sidedness. There was no limit to his intellectual

tastes. Most persons cherish prejudices, and think certain pursuits

degrading or useless. Thus, business-men sneer at artists, and artists

sneer at business-men. Jefferson had nothing of this. He understood and

appreciated the value of every employment. No knowledge was too trivial

for him; with the same affectionate interest, he observed the courses

of the winds and the growth of a flower.

Sympathy in some sort supplied the place of imagination, making him

understand subjects of which the imagination alone usually informs us.

Thus, he was fond of Art. He had no eye for color, but appreciated the

beauties of form, and was a critic of sculpture and architecture. He

valued everything for that which belonged to it; but tradition

sanctified nothing, association gave no additional value. He committed

what Burke thought a great crime, that of thinking a queen nothing but a

woman. He went to Stratford-on-Avon, and tells us that it cost him a

shilling to see Shakspeare's tomb, but says nothing else. He might have

admired the scenery of the place, and he certainly was an admirer of

Shakspeare; but Stratford had no additional beauty in his eyes because

Shakspeare was born and buried there. After his death, in a secret

drawer of his secretary, mementoes, such as locks of hair, of his wife

and dead children, even of the infant who lived but a few hours after

birth, were found, and accompanying each were some fond words. The

packages were neatly arranged, and their envelopes showed that they had

often been opened. It needed personal knowledge and regard to awaken in

him an interest in objects for their associations.

The characteristic of which we speak showed itself in the intensity and

quality of his patriotism. There never was a truer American. He

sympathized with all our national desires and prejudices, our enterprise

and confidence, our love of dominion and boundless pride. Buffon

asserted that the animals of America were smaller than those of Europe.

Jefferson flew to the rescue of the animals, and certainly seems to have

the best of the argument. Buffon said, that the Indian was cold in love,

cruel in war, and mean in intellect. Had Jefferson been a descendant of

Pocahontas, he could not have been more zealous in behalf of the Indian.

He contradicted Buffon upon every point, and cited Logan's speech as

deserving comparison with the most celebrated passages of Grecian and

Roman eloquence. Nowhere did he see skies so beautiful, a climate so

delightful, men so brave, or women so fair, as in America. He was not

content that his country should be rich and powerful; his ardent

patriotism carried him forward to a time when the great Republic should

give law to the world for every department of thought and action.

But this sympathetic spirit is most clearly to be seen in that broad

humanity which was the source of his philosophy. He sympathized with

man,--his sufferings, joys, fears, hopes, and aspirations. The law of

his nature made him a democrat. Men of his own rank, when introduced to

him, found his manner cold and reserved; but the young and the ignorant

were attracted from the first. Education and interest did not affect

him. Born a British subject, he became the founder of a democracy. He

was a slaveholder and an abolitionist. The fact, that the African is

degraded and helpless, to his, as to every generous mind, was a reason

why he should be protected, not an excuse for oppressing him.

Though fitness for the highest effort be denied to Jefferson, yet in the

pursuit to which he devoted himself, considered with reference to

elevation and wisdom of policy and actual achievement, he may be

compared with any man of modern times. It is the boast of the most

accomplished English historian, that English legislation has been

controlled by the rule, "Never to lay down any proposition of wider

extent than the particular case for which it is necessary to provide."

Therefore politics in England have not reached the dignity of a science;

and her public men have been tacticians, rather than statesmen. Burke

may be mentioned as an exception. No one will claim for Jefferson

Burke's amplitude of thought and wealth of imagination, but he surpassed

him in justness of understanding and practical efficiency. Burke was

never connected with the government, except during the short-lived

Rockingham, administration. Among Frenchmen, the mind instinctively

recurs to the wise and virtuous Turgot. But it was the misfortune of

Turgot to come into power at the beginning of the reign of Louis XVI. It

became his task to reform a government which was beyond reform, and to

preserve a dynasty which could not be preserved. His illustrious career

is little more than a brilliant promise. Jefferson undoubtedly owed much

to fortune. He was placed in a country removed from foreign

interference, with boundless resources, and where the great principles

of free government had for generations been established,--among a people

sprung from many races, but who spoke the same language, were governed

by similar laws, and whose minds' rebellion had prepared for the

reception of new truths and the abandonment of ancient errors. To be

called upon to give symmetry and completeness to a political system

which seemed to be Providentially designed for the nation over which it

was to extend, to be able to connect himself with the future progress of

an agile and ambitious people, was certainly a rare and happy fortune,

and must be considered, when we claim superiority for him over those who

were placed in the midst of apathy and decay. His influence upon us may

be seen in the material, but still more distinctly in the social and

moral action of the country. With those laws which here restrain

turbulent forces and stimulate beneficent ones,--with the bright visions

of peace and freedom which the unhappy of every European race see in

their Western skies, tempting them hither,--with the kind spirit which

here loosens the bonds of social prejudice, and to ambition sings an

inspiring strain,--with these, which are our pride and boast, he is

associated indissolubly and forever. With the things which have brought

our country into disrepute--we leave it for others to recall the dismal

catalogue--his name cannot be connected.

Not the least valuable result of his life is the triumphant refutation

which it gives to the assertion, so often made by blatant sophisters,

that none but low arts avail in republics. He has been called a

demagogue. This charge is the charge of misconception or ignorance. It

is true, he believed that his doctrines would prevail; he was sensitive

to the opinions of others, nor was he "out of love with noble fame"; but

his successes were fairly, manfully won. He had none of the common

qualifications for popularity. No glare of military glory surrounded

him; he had not the admired gift of eloquence; he was opposed by wealth

and fashion, by the Church and the press, by most of the famous men of

his day,--by Jay, Marshall, the Pinckneys, Knox, King, and Adams; he had

to encounter the vehement genius of Hamilton and the _prestige_ of

Washington; he was not in a position for direct action upon the people;

he never went beyond the line of his duty, and, from 1776 to his

inaugural address, he did not publish a word which was calculated to

excite lively, popular interest;--yet, in spite of all and against all,

he won. So complete was the victory, that, at his second election,

Massachusetts stood beside Virginia, supporting him. He won because he

was true to a principle. Thousands of men, whose untutored minds could

not comprehend a proposition of his elaborate philosophy, remembered

that in his youth he had proclaimed the equality of men, knew that in

maturity he remained true to that declaration, and, believing that this

great assurance of their liberties was in danger, they gathered around

him, preferring the scholar to orators and soldiers. They had confidence

in him because he had confidence in them. There is no danger in that

demagogism the art of which consists in love for man. Fortunate, indeed,

will it be for the Republic, if, among the aspirants who are now

pressing into the strife, and making their voices heard in the great

exchanges of public opinion, there are some who will imitate the civic

virtues and practise the benign philosophy of Thomas Jefferson!

We take leave of this book with reluctance. It is verbose and dull, but

it has led us along the path of American renown; it recites a story

which, however awkwardly told, can never fall coldly on an American ear.

It has, besides, given us an opportunity, of which we have gladly

availed ourselves, to make some poor amends for the wrongs which

Jefferson suffered at the hands of New England, to bear our testimony to

his genius and services, and to express our reverent admiration for a

life which, though it bears traces of human frailty, was bravely devoted

to grand and beneficent aims.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: _The Life of Thomas Jefferson._ By HENRY S. RANDALL, LL.D.

In three volumes. New York: Derby & Jackson. 1858.]

A BUNDLE OF IRISH PENNANTS.

"Did you ever see the 'Three Chimneys,' Captain Cope?" I asked.

"I can show you where they are on the chart, if that'll do. I've been

right over where they're laid down, but I never saw the Chimneys myself,

and I never knew anybody that had seen them."

"But they are down on the chart," broke in a pertinacious matter-of-fact

body beside us.

"What of that?" replied the captain; "there's many a shoal and lone rock

down on the charts that nobody ever could find again. I've had my ship

right over the Chimneys, near enough to see the smoke, if they had been

there."

So opened the series of desultory conversations here set down. It is

talk on board ship, or specimen "yarns," such as really are to be picked

up from nautical men. The article usually served up for

magazine-consumption is, of course, utterly unlike anything here given,

and is as entirely undiscoverable anywhere on salt water as the three

legendary rocks above alluded to. The place was the deck of the "Elijah

Pogram," one of Carr & Co.'s celebrated Liverpool liners, and the time,

the dog-watches of a gusty April night; the latitude and longitude,

anywhere west of Greenwich and north of the line that is not

inconsistent with blue water.

The name "Irish Pennant" is given, on the _lucus-a-non_ principle, (just

as a dead calm is "an Irish hurricane, straight up and down,") to any

dangling end of rope or stray bit of "shakings," and its appropriateness

to the following sketches will doubtless be perceived by the reader, on

reaching the end.

The question was asked, not so much from a laudable desire of obtaining

information as to set the captain talking. It was a mistake on my part.

Sailors do not like point-blank questions. They remind them

unpleasantly, I suppose, of the Courts of Admiralty, or they betray

greenness or curiosity on the asker's part, and thus effectually bar all

improving conversation.

There is one exception. If the inquirer be a lady, young and fair, the

chivalry of the sea is bound to tell the truth, the whole truth, and

often a good deal more than the truth.

And at the last reply a pair of bewitching dark eyes were turned upon

that weather-beaten mariner; that is to say, in plain English, a young

and rather pretty lady-passenger looked up at Captain Cope, and said,--

"Do tell us some of your sea-stories, Captain Cope,--do, please!"

"Why, Ma'am," replied he, "I've no stories. There's Smith of the

'Wittenagemot' can tell them by the hour; but I never could."

"Weren't you ever wrecked, Captain Cope?"

"No,--I can't say I ever was, exactly. I was mate of the 'Moscow' when

she knocked her bottom out in Bootle Bay; but she wasn't lost, for I

went master of her after that."

"Were you frightened, Captain Cope?"

"Well, no,--I can't say I was; though I must say I never expected to see

morning again. I never saw any one more scared than was old Captain

Tucker that night. We dragged over the outer bar and into Bootle Bay,

and there we lay, the ship full of water, and everything gone above the

monkey-rail. The only place we could find to stand was just by the cabin

gangway. The 'Moscow' was built with an old-fashioned cabin on deck, and

right there we hung, all hands of us. The old man he read the service to

us,--and that wouldn't do, he was so scared; so he got the black cook,

who was a Methodist, and made him pray; and every two minutes or so, a

sea would come aboard and all in among us,--like to wash us clean out of

the ship.

"After midnight the life-boat got alongside, and all hands were for

scrambling aboard; but I'd got set in my notion the ship would live the

gale out, and I wouldn't go aboard. Well, the old man was too scared to

make long stories, and he tumbled aboard the life-boat in a hurry. The

last words he said to me, as he went over the side, were,--'Good-bye,

Mr. Cope! I never shall see you again!' However, he got up to the city,

to Mrs. McKinney's, and there he found a lot of the captains, and he was

telling them all how he'd lost his ship, and what a fool poor Cope was

to stick aboard of her, and all that. When the morning came, the gale

had broke, and the old man began to think he'd been in too much of a

fright, and he'd better get the tug and go down to look after the ship.

"I was so knocked up, for want of sleep, and the gale and all, that,

when they got down to us, my head was about gone. I don't remember

anything, myself; but they told me, that, when they got aboard, I was

poking about decks as if I was looking for something.

"'How are you, Mr. Cope?' sung out old Tucker. 'I never expected to see

_you_ again in _this_ world.'

"'I can't find my razor-strop,' says I; I've lost my razor-strop.'

"'Never mind your strop,' says he. 'What you want is to go aboard the

tug and be taken care of. We'll find your strop.'

"Well, they could hardly get me away, I was so set that I must have that

strop; but after I got up to town, and had a bath and some breakfast,

and a couple of hours' sleep or so, I was all right again. That was the

end of old Tucker's going to sea; and when the 'Moscow' was docked and

refitted, I got her, and kept her until the firm built me the 'Pogram,'

here."

"Mr. Brown, isn't it about time we were getting in that mizzen

to'gall'nt-s'l? It's coming on to blow to-night."

"Steward," (as that functionary passed us,) "put a handful of cigars in

my monkey-jacket pocket, and have a cup of coffee ready for me about

twelve."

"Then you mean to be up, to-night?" said the father of pretty Mrs.

Bates,--the only one of us to whom Captain Cope fairly opened his heart.

"Why, yes, Mr. Roberts--I think I shall. It looks rather dirty to the

east'ard, and the barometer has fallen since morning. I've two as good

mates as sail; but if anything is going to happen, I'd rather have it

happen when I'm on deck,--that's all."

"Wasn't Stewart, of the 'Mexican,' below, when she struck?"

"Yes, he was,--and got blamed for it, too. I don't blame him, myself; he

was on deck the next minute; and if he had been there before, it would

have made no difference with that ship; but if _I_ lose a vessel, I

don't want to be talked about as he was. I went mate with him two

voyages, and he'd put on his night-gown and turn in comfortably every

night, and leave his mates to call him; but I never could do that. I

don't find fault with any man that can; only it's not my way."

"But don't you feel sleepy, Captain Cope?" asked Mrs. Bates.

"Not when I'm on deck, Ma'am; though, when I first went mate, I could

sleep anyhow and anywhere. I sailed out of Boston to South America, in a

topsail-schooner, with an old fellow by the name of Eaton,--just the

strangest old scamp you ever dreamed of. I suppose by rights he ought to

have been in the hospital; he certainly was the nearest to crazy and not

be it. He used to keep a long pole by him on deck,--a pole with a sharp

spike in one end,--and any man who'd get near enough to him to let him

have a chance would feel that spike. I've known him to keep the cook up

till midnight frying doughnuts; then he'd call all hands aft and range

'em on the quarter-deck, and go round with his hat off and a plate of

doughnuts in his hand, saying, as polite as you please, 'Here, my man,

won't you take a doughnut?--they won't hurt you; nice and light; had

them fried a purpose for you.' And then he'd get a bottle of wine or

Curaçoa cordial, and go round with a glass to each man, and make him

take a drink. You'd see the poor fellows all of a shake, not knowing how

to take it,--afraid to refuse, and afraid still more, if they didn't,

that the old man would play 'em some confounded trick. In the midst of

it all, he'd seem as if he'd woke up out of a dream, and he'd sing out,

in a way that made them fellows scatter, 'What the ---- are all you men

doing here at this time of night? Go forrard, every man jack of you! Go

forrard, I tell you!' and it was 'Devil take the hindmost!'

"Well,--the old man was always on the look-out to catch the watch

sleeping. He never seemed to sleep much himself;--I've heard _that's_ a

sign of craziness;--and the more he tried, the more sure we were to try

it every chance we had. So sure as the old man caught you at it, he'd

give you a bucketful of water, slap over you, and then follow it up with

the bucket at your head. Fletcher, the second mate, and I, got so we

could tell the moment he put foot on the companion-way, and, no matter

how sound we were, we'd be on our feet before he could get on deck. But

Fletcher got tired of his vagaries, and left us at Pernambuco, to ship

aboard a homeward-bound whaler, and in his place we got a fellow named

Tubbs, a regular duff-head,--couldn't keep his eyes open in the daytime,

hardly.

"Well,--we were about two days out of Pernambuco, and Tubbs had the

middle watch, of a clear starlight night, with a steady breeze, and

everything going quietly, and nothing in sight. So, in about ten minutes

after the watch got on deck, every mother's son of them was hard and

fast. The wind was a-beam, and the old schooner could steer herself; so,

even the man at the helm was sitting down on a hencoop, with one arm

round the tiller, and snoring like a porpoise. I heard the old man rouse

out of his bunk and creep on deck, and, guessing fun was coming, I

turned out and slipped up after him. The first thing I saw was old Eaton

at work at the tiller. He got it unshipped and braced up with a pair of

oars and a hencoop, without waking the man at the helm,--how, I couldn't

tell,--but he was just like a cat; and then he blew the binnacle-light

out; and then he started forrard, with his trumpet in his hand. He

caught sight of me, standing halfway up the companion-way, and shook his

fist at me to keep quiet and not to spoil sport. He slipped forward and

out on to the bowsprit, clear out to the end of the flying-jib-boom, and

stowed himself where he couldn't be well seen to leeward of the sail.

Then he sung out with all his might through the trumpet, '_Schooner

ahoy, there! Port your hellum!--port_ H-A-A-A-RD! I say,--you're right

aboard of us!'--And then he'd drop the trumpet, and sing out as if in

the other craft to his own crew, and then again to us. Of course, every

man was on his feet in a second, thinking we were all but afoul of

another vessel. The man who was steering was trying, with all his might,

to put his helm a-port,--and when he found what was to pay there, to

ship the tiller. This wasn't so easy; for the old man had passed the

slack of the main-sheet through the head of the rudder, and belayed it

on one of the boom-cleats, out of reach,--and, what with just waking up,

and half a dozen contradictory orders sung out at once, besides

expecting to strike every minute, he had almost lost what little wits he

had.

"As for Tubbs, he was like a hen with her head cut off,--one minute at

the lee rail, and the next in the weather-rigging, then forrard to look

out for the strange craft, and then aft to see why the schooner didn't

answer her helm. Meanwhile, he was singing out to the watch to brace

round the fore-topsail and help her, to let fly the jib-sheets, and to

haul aft the main-boom; the watch below came tumbling up, and everybody

was expecting to feel the bunt of our striking the next minute. I

laughed as though I should split; for nobody could see me where I stood,

in the shadow of the companion-way, and everybody was looking out ahead,

for the other vessel. First I knew, the old man had got in board again,

and was standing there aft, as if he'd just come on deck. 'What's all

this noise here?' says he.--'What are you doing on deck, Mr. Cope? Go

below, Sir!--Go below, the larboard watch, and let's have no more of

this! Who's seen any vessel? Vessel, your eye, Mr. Tubbs! I tell you,

you've been dreaming.' Then, as he got his head about to the level of

the top of the companion-way, and out of the reach of any spare

belaying-pin that might come that way, says he,--'I've just come in from

the end of the flyin'-jib-boom, and there was no vessel in sight, except

one topsail-schooner, _with the watch all asleep_,--so it can't be her

that hailed you.'

"That cured all sleeping on the watch for _that_ voyage, I tell you. And

as for Tubbs, you had only to say, 'Port your helm,' and he was off."

Just then Mr. Brown came aft to ask if it wasn't time to have in the

fore-topgallant-sail,--and a little splash of rain falling broke up our

party and drove most of us below. I knew that reefing topsails would

come in the course of an hour or so, if the wind held on to blow as it

did; so, as I waited to see that same, I lighted a cheroot, and as soon

as the fore-topgallant-sail was clewed up I made my way forward, for a

chat with Mr. Brown, the English second mate.

Mr. Brown was a character. He was a thorough English sailor;--could do,

as he owned to me in a shamefaced way, that was comical enough,

"heverything as could be done with a rope aboard a ship." He had been

several India voyages, where the nice work of seamanship is to be

learned, which does not get into the mere "ferry-boat" trips of the

Liverpool packet-service. He had been in an opium clipper, the

celebrated ---- of Boston,--and left her, as he told her agent, "because

he liked a ship as 'ad a lee-rail to her; and the ----'s lee-rail," he

said, "was commonly out of sight, pretty much all the way from the

Sand'eads to the Bocca Tigris." He was rich in what he called "'ats,"

having one for every hour of the day, and, for aught I know, every day

in the year. It was Fred ----'s and my daily amusement to watch him, and

we never seemed to catch him coming on deck twice in the same head-gear.

He took quite a fancy to me, because I did not bother him when busy, and

because I liked to listen to his talk. So, handing him a cigar, as a

prefatory to conversation, I asked him our whereabouts. "Four hundred

miles to the heast'ard of Georges we were this noon, and we've made

nothink to speak of since, Sir. This last tack has lost us all we made

before. I hought to know where we are. I've drifted 'ere without even a

'en-coop hunder me. I was third mate aboard the barque 'Jenny,' of

Belfast, when she was run down by the steamer 'United States.' The

barque sunk in less than seven minutes after the steamer struck us, and

I come up out of her suction-like. I found myself swimming there, on

top, and not so much as a capstan-bar to make me a life-buoy. I knew the

steamer was hove to, for I could hear her blow hoff steam; and once, as

I came up on a wave, I got a sight of her boats. They were ready enough

to pick us up, and we was ready enough to be picked up, such as were

left; but how to do it was another matter, with a sea like this

running, and a cloud over the moon every other minute. I soon see that

swimming wouldn't 'old out much longer, and I must try something helse.

Now, Sir, what I'm a-telling you may be some use to you some day, if you

have to stay a couple of hours in the water. If you can swim about as

well as most men can, you can tell 'ow long a man's strength would last

him 'ereaways to-night. Besides, I was spending my breath, when I rose

on a sea, in 'ollering,--and you can't swim and 'oller. So I tried a

trick I learned, when a boy, on the Cornish coast, where I was born,

Sir;--it's one worth knowing. I doubled back my feet hunder me till my

'eels come to the small of my back, and I could float as long as I

wanted to, and, when I rose on a wave, 'oller. They 'eard me, it seems,

and pulled round for me, but it was an hour before they found me, and my

strength was nigh to gone. I couldn't 'oller no more, and was about

giving up. But they picked up the cook, and he told 'em he knowed it was

Mr. Brown's voice, and begged 'em to keep on. The last I remember was,

as the steamer burned a blue light for her boats, when they caught a

sight of me in the trough of the sea. I saw them too, and gave a last

screech, and then I don't remember hanythink, Sir, till Cookie was

'elping 'aul (Mr. Brown always dropped his aspirates as he grew excited)

me into the boat. Now, just you remember what I've been a-telling you

about floating."--"_Forrard there! Stand by to clew up and furl the main

to'gall'n-s'l! Couple of you come aft here and brail up the spanker!

Lively, men, lively!_"--And Mr. Brown was no longer my Scheherazade.

When I got back to the shelter of the wheel-house, I found the captain

and old Roberts still comfortably braced up in opposite corners and

yarning away. There was nothing to be done but to watch the ship and the

wind, which promised in due time to be a gale, but as yet was not even a

reefing breeze. They had got upon a standing topic between the

two,--vessels out of their course. The second night out, we had made a

light which the captain insisted was a ship's light, but old Roberts

declared was one of the lights on the coast of Maine,--Mount Desert, or

somewhere thereabouts. He was an old shipping-merchant, had been many a

time across the water in his own vessels, and thought he knew as much as

most men. So, whenever other subjects gave out, this, of vessels drifted

by unsuspected currents out of their course, was unfailing. They were at

it now.

"When I was last in Liverpool," said the captain, "there was a brig from

Machias got in there, and her captain came up to Mrs. McKinney's. He

told us that it was thick weather when he got upon the Irish coast, and

he was rather doubtful about his reckoning; so he ordered a sharp

look-out for Cape Clear. According to his notion, he ought to be up with

it about noon, and, as the sun rose and the fog lifted a little, he was

hoping to sight the land. Once or twice he fancied he had a glimpse of

it, but wasn't sure,--when the mate came aft and reported that they

could hear a bell ringing. 'Sure enough,' he said, 'there was the toll

of a bell coming through the mist.'

"'That's some ship's bell,' said he to the mate; 'only it's wonderful

heavy for a ship, and it can't be a church-bell on shore, can it?'

"And while they were arguing about it, a cutter shot out of the fog and

hailed if they wanted a pilot.

"'Pilot!' says the Down-Easter,--'pilot!--where for? No, thank ye, not

yet,--I can find my way up George's without a pilot. What bell's that?'

"'Rather think you can, Captain; but you'll want a pilot here;--that's

the bell on the floating light off Liverpool.'

"'What!' says the captain,--have I come all the way up Channel without

knowing it? I've been on the look-out for Cape Clear ever since

daybreak, and here, by ginger, I've overrun my reckoning _three hundred

miles_.'"

"Well," said old Roberts, "one of my captains, Brandegee, you know, who

had the 'China,' got caught, one November, just as he was coming on the

coast, in a gale from the eastward. He knew he was somewhere near

Provincetown, but how near he couldn't say. It was snowing, and blowing,

and ice-making all over the decks and rigging, and an awful night

generally. He did not dare to run before it, because it was blowing at a

rate to take him halfway in Worcester County in the next twenty-four

hours. He couldn't stand to the south'ard, because that would put the

back of Cape Cod under his lee. He was afraid to stand to the north'ard,

not knowing precisely where the coast of Maine might be. So he hove the

ship to, under as little sail as he could, and let her drift. I've heard

him say, he heard the breakers a hundred times that night," ('I'll bet

he did,' ejaculated the captain.) "and it seemed like three nights in

one before morning came. When it did come, wind and sea appeared to have

gone down. The lookouts were half dead with cold and sleep and all; but

they made out to hail land on the weather bow.

"'Good George!' said old Brandegee, 'how did land get on the _weather_

bow? We must have got inside of Cape Cod, and that must be Sharkpainter

Hill.'

"'Land on the lee quarter,' hailed the watch, again: and in a minute

more, 'Land on the lee beam,--land on the lee bow.'

"Brandegee sung out to heave the lead and let go both anchors, and he

said that, but for the gale having gone down so, he should have expected

to strike the next minute. Just as the anchors came home and the ship

headed to the wind, the second mate came aft, rubbing his eyes and

looking very queer.

"'Captain Brandegee,' says he, 'if I was in Boston Harbor, I should say

that there was Nix's Mate.'

"'Well, Mr. Jones,' says the old man, dropping out the words very

slowly, 'if--that's--Nix's Mate,--Rainsford Island--ought--to--be--here

away, and--as--I'm--a--living--man, THERE IT IS!'

"Half-frozen as they were, there was a cheer rung out from that crew

that waked half the North-End out of their morning nap.

"'Just my plaguy luck!' said the old fellow to me, as he told it. 'If

I'd held on to my anchors another half-hour, I might have come

handsomely alongside of Long Wharf and been up to the custom-house

before breakfast.'

"He had drifted broadside square into Boston Harbor, past Nahant, the

Graves, Cohasset Rocks, and everything."

"I've heard of that," said the captain,--"and as it's my opinion it

couldn't be done twice, I don't mean to try it."

"I hear the noise about thy keel,

I hear the bell struck in the night,

I see the cabin-window bright,

I see the sailor at the wheel,"--

repeated Fred ----, in my ear. "Come below out of this wet and rain,"

added he.

We passed the door of the mate's state-room as we went below, and,

seeing it ajar, and Mr. Pitman, the mate, sitting there, we looked in.

"Come in, gentlemen," said he; "my watch on deck is in half an hour, and

I'm not sleepy to-night."

F---- took up a carved whale's tooth, and asked if Mr. Pitman had ever

been in the whaling business.

"Two voyages,--one before the mast, one boat-steerer;--both in the

Pacific. But whaling didn't suit me. I've a Missus now, and a couple of

as fine boys as ever you saw; and I rather be where I can come home

oftener than once in three years."

"How did you like whaling?" said I.

"Well, I don't believe there's any man but what feels different

alongside of a whale from what he does on the ship's deck. Some of those

Nantucket and New Bedford men, who've been brought up to it, as you may

say, take it naturally, and think of nothing but the whale. I've heard

of one of them boat-steerers who got ketched in a whale's mouth and

didn't come out of it quite as whole as he went in. When they asked him

what he thought when the whale nabbed him, he said he 'thought she'd

turn out about forty barrels.'

"There's a good many things about the whale, gentlemen, that everybody

don't know. Why does one whale sink when he's killed, and another don't?

Where do the whales go to, now and then?--I sailed with one captain who

used to say, that, books or no books, can't live under water or not, _he

knew_ that whales do live under water months at a time. I can't say,

myself; but this I can say,--they go ashore. You may look hard at that,

but I've seen it. We were off the coast of South America, in company

with five other ships; and all our captains were ashore one afternoon.

We had to pull some two miles or so to go off to them, and, starting

off, all hands were for racing. I was pulling stroke in the captain's

boat, and the old man gives us the word to pull easy, and let 'em head

on us. It was hard work to hold in, with every one of the boats giving

way, strong, the captains singing out bets, and cheering their

men,--singing out, 'Break your backs and bend your oars!' 'There she

blows!' and all that. But the old man kept muttering to us to take it

easy and let them head on us. We were soon the last boat, and then, as

if he'd given up the race, he gave the word to 'easy.'

"'Good-night, Capt. T----! we'll send your ship in to tow you off,' was

the last words they said to us.

"'There'll be something else to tow off,' says he. 'It's the race, who

shall see Palmer's Island first, that I'm bound to win.'

"He gave the boat a sheer in for the beach, to a little bight that made

up in the land,--across the mouth of which we had to pull, in going off.

"'D'ye see that rock on the beach, boys,' says he, 'in range of that

lone tree, on the point? Did any of you ever see that rock before? I

wish this bloody coast had a few more such rocks! That's a cow whale,

and this bight is her nursery, and she is up on the beach for her calf's

convenience. Now, then,'--as we opened the bight and got a fair sight of

it,--'give way, strong as you please,--and we'll head her off, before

she knows it.'

"We got her and got the calf, and when, next morning, the other ships

saw us cutting in, they didn't say much about that race; and 'Old T.'s

Nursery' was a byword on the coast as long as we staid there.

"There goes eight bells, and I rather think Mr. Brown will want me on

deck." We followed, for there was the prospect of seeing topsails

reefed,--the most glorious event of a landsman's sea-experiences. We had

begun the day with a dead calm, but toward night the wind had come out

of the eastward. Each plunge the ship gave was sharper, each shock

heavier. The topmasts were working, the lee-shrouds and backstays

straining out into endless curves. A deeper plunge than usual, a pause

for a second, as if everything in the world suddenly stood still, and a

great white giant seems to spring upon our weather-bow and to leap on

board. We hear the crash and feel the shock, and presently the water

comes pouring aft,--and Captain Cope calls out to reef

topsails,--double-reef fore and mizzen,--one reef in the main. The mates

are in the weather-rigging before the word is out of the captain's lips,

to take the earings of their respective topsails; and then follows the

rush of men up the shrouds and out along the yards. The sails are

slatting and flapping, and one can hardly see the row of broad backs

against the dusky sky as they bend over the canvas. There are hoarse

murmurs, and calls to "light up the sail to windward"; and presently

from the fore-topsail-yard comes the cry, ringing and clear,--"Haul away

to leeward!"--repeated next moment from the main and echoed from the

mizzen. Sheltered by the weather-bulwarks, and with one arm round a

mizzen-backstay, there is a capital place to watch all this and feel the

glorious thrill of the sea,--to look down the sloping deck into the

black billows, with here and there a white patch of foam, and while the

organ-harp overhead is sounding its magnificent symphony. It is but

wood and iron and hemp and canvas that is doing all this, with some

thirty poor, broken-down, dissipated wretches, who, being fit for

nothing else, of course _are_ fit for the fo'castle of a Liverpool

Liner. Yet it is, for all that, something which haunts the memory

long,--which comes back years after in inland vales and quiet

farm-houses like brown-moss agates set in emerald meadows, in book-lined

studios, and in close city streets. For it is part of the might and

mystery of the sea, the secret influence that sets the blood on fire and

the heart throbbing,--of any in whose veins runs some of the true

salt-water sympathy. Men are born landsmen, and are born on land, but

belong to the Ocean's family. Sooner or later, whatever their calling,

they recognize the tie. They may struggle against it, and scotch it, but

cannot kill it. They may not be seamen,--they may wear black coats and

respectable white ties, and have large balances in the bank, but they

are the Sea's men,--brothers by blood-relationship, if not by trade, of

Ulysses and Vasco, of Columbus and Cabot, of Frobisher and Drake.

Other stories of the sea are floating through my memory as I

write,--tales told with elbows leaning on cabin-tables, while the

swinging-lamp oscillated drearily overhead, and sent uncertain shadows

into the state-room doors. There is the story which Vivian Grey told us

of the beautiful clipper "Nighthawk,"--her who sailed with the "Bonita"

and "Driving-Scud" and "Mazeppa," in the great Sea-Derby, whose course

lay round the world. How, one Christmas-day, off the pitch of Cape Horn,

he, standing on her deck, saw her dive bodily into a sea, and all of her

to the mainmast was lost in ocean,--her stately spars seemingly rising

out of blue water unsupported by any ship beneath;--it seemed an age to

him, he said, before there was any forecastle to be seen rising from the

brine. Also, how, caught off that same wild cape, they had to make sail

in a reef-topsail-breeze to claw off its terrible rocks, seen but too

plainly under their Ice. How, as he said, "about four in the afternoon

it seemed to blow worse than ever, and you could see the staunch boat

was pressed down under her canvas, and every spar was groaning and

quivering, while the ship went bodily to leeward." And next, "how she

seemed to come to herself, as it were, with a long staggering roll, and

to spring to windward as if relieved of a dead weight; for the gale had

broken, and the foam-belt along the cliffs grew dimmer and dimmer, and

the land fainter and fainter. And then," he said, "to hear the

fo'castle-talk, you would have said that never was such a ship, such

spars, such a captain, such seamanship, and such luck, since Father

Jason cleared the 'Argo' from the Piræus, for Colchis and a market."

Or I might tell you how Dr. ----, the ship-surgeon, was in that Collard

steamer which ran down the fishing-boat in the fog off Cape Race,--and

how, looking from his state-room window, he saw a mighty cliff so near

that he could almost lay his hand upon it. How Fanshaw was on board the

"Sea-King" when she was burned, off Point Linus,--and how he hung in the

chains till he was taken off, and his hair was repeatedly set on fire by

the women--emigrant-passengers--jumping over his head into the sea.

But not so near a-shaking hands with Death did any of them tell, as Ned

Kennedy,--who, poor fellow, lies buried in some lone _cañon_ of the

Sierra Madre. Let us hear him give it in his wild, reckless way. Ned was

sitting opposite us, his thick, black hair curling from under his plaid

travelling-cap,--his thick eyebrows working, and his hands occupied in

arranging little fragments of pilot-biscuit on the table. He broke in

upon the last man who was talking, with a--

"Tell you what, boys,--I've a better idea of what all that means. I

suppose you both know what the Mediterranean lines of steamers are, and

what capital seamanship, and travelling comfort, and all that, you find

there. The engineers, however, are Scotch, English, or American, always;

because why? A French officer once told me the reason. 'You see, _mon

ami_,' he said, 'this row of handles which are used to turn these

different stops and cocks. Now, my countrymen will take them down and

use them properly, each one, just as well as your countrymen; but they

will put them back again in their places never.' So it is, and the

engineers are all as I say.

"I left Naples for Genoa in the 'Ercolano,' of the Naples line. There

were not many passengers on board,--no women,--and what there were were

all priests or soldiers. Nobody went by the Neapolitan line except

Italians, at that time,--the French company having larger, handsomer,

and decidedly cleaner vessels. Of course, as a heretic and a civilian, I

had nobody to talk to; so, finding that the engineer had a Saxon tongue

in his head, I dove down into his den and made acquaintance. Being shut

up there with Italians so much, he thawed out to me at once, and we were

sworn brothers by the time we reached Civita Vecchia.

"The 'Ercolano' was as crazy an old tub as every floated: judging from

the extensive colonies which tenanted her berths, she must have been

launched about the same time as Fulton's 'Clermont,' or the old 'Ben

Franklin,' Captain Bunker, once so well known off the end of Newport

wharf. You know how those boats are managed,--stopping all day in port

and running at night. We brought up at Leghorn in that way, and Marston,

the engineer, proposed to me to have a run ashore. I had no _visé_ for

Tuscany then, and the Austrian police are very strict; but Marston

proposed to pass me off for one of the steamer's officers. So he fished

out an old uniform coat of his and made me put it on; and, sure enough,

the bright buttons and shoulder-straps carried me through,--only I was

dreadfully embarrassed." (Ned never was disturbed at anything.--if an

elephant had walked into the cabin, he would have offered him a seat and

cigar.) "by the sentries all presenting arms to my coat, which sat upon

me as a shirt is supposed to on a bean-pole. I overheard one man

attribute my attenuated frame to the effects of sea-sickness. We went

into various shops, and finally into one where all sorts of sea-notions

were kept, and Marston said, 'Here's what I've been in search of this

month past. I began to think I should have to send to London for it. The

'Ercolano' is a perfect sieve, and may go down any night with all

aboard; and here's a swimming-jacket to wear under your coat,--just the

thing.' He fitted and bought one, and was turning to go, when a fancy

popped into my head: 'Marston,' said I, 'is this coat of yours so very

baggy on me?' 'H-e-em,' said he. 'I've known more waxy fits; a trifle of

padding wouldn't hurt your looks.' 'I know it,' said I; 'every soldier

we passed seemed to me to smoke me for an impostor, knowing the coat

wasn't made for me. Here, let's put one of these things underneath.' I

put it on, buttoned the coat over it, inflated it, and the effect was a

marvel;--it made a portly gentleman of me at once. I couldn't bear to

take it off. 'Just the thing for diligence-travelling in the South of

France,' said I; 'keep your neighbor's elbows from your ribs.' I never

thought that I must buy a coat to match it. I was so tickled at my own

fancy that buy it I would, in spite of Marston's remonstrance. Then we

went off and dined, and got very jolly together,--at least, I did,--so

that, when we pulled off to the steamer, I thought nothing about my coat

or the jacket under it.

"There was a dirty-looking sky overhead, and a nasty cobbling sea

getting up under foot as we ran out of Leghorn Harbor, and a little

French screw which we left at her anchor was fizzing off steam from her

waste-pipe,--evidently meaning to stay where she was. But our captain,

having been paid in advance for all the dinners of the voyage, preferred

being at sea before the cloth was laid. That made sure of at least

twenty out of every twenty-five passengers as non-comedents, and

lightened the cook's labors wonderfully. So we were soon jumping and

bobbing about and throwing water in a lively way enough; and our black

gowns and blue coats were lying about decks in every direction, with

what had been _padres_ and soldiers an hour before inside. I lit a cigar

and picked out the driest place I could find, and hugged myself on my

luck,--another man's coat getting wet on my back, while the air-tight

jacket was keeping me dry as a bone.

"As night fell, it grew worse and worse; and the little Sicilian captain

came on deck, looking rather wild. He called his pilots and mates into

consultation, and from where I lay I could hear the words, 'Spezzia,'

and 'Porto Venere,' several times; so I suppose they were debating

whether or no to keep her head to the gale, or to edge away a point or

two, and run for that bay. But with a head sea and a Mediterranean gale

howling down from the gorges of the Ligurian Alps, that thing wasn't so

easy. The boat would plunge into a sea and bury to her paddle-boxes,

then pitch upward as if she were going to jump bodily out of water, and

slap down into it again, while her guards would spring and quiver like

card-board. The engine began to complain, as they will when a boat is

laboring heavily. You could hear it take, as it were, long breaths, and

then stop for a second altogether. I slipped below into the engine-room,

and found Marston looking very sober. 'Kennedy,' said he, 'the

'Ercolano' will be somebody's coffin before to-morrow morning, I'm

afraid. I'm carrying more steam than is prudent or safe, and the

_padrone_ has just sent orders to put on more. We are not making a mile

an hour, he says; and our only chance is to get under the lee of the

land. Look at those eccentrics and that connecting-rod! I expect to see

something go any minute; and then--there's no use saying what will come

next.' He sat down on his bench and covered his face with his hands.

"It seems, the 'Spezzia' question was decided about that time on deck,

and the 'Ercolano's' bow suffered to fall off in the direction of that

bay. The effect was that the next sea caught us full on the weather-bow

with a shock that pitched everything movable out of its place. There was

a twist and a grind from the machinery, a snap and a crash, and then

part after part gave way, as the strain fell upon it in turn. Marston,

with an engineer's instinct, shut off the steam; but the mischief was

done. We felt the 'Ercolano' give a wild sheer, and then a long,

sickening roll, as if she were going down bodily,--and we sprang for the

companion-ladder. Everything on deck was at sixes and sevens when we

reached it '_Sangue di San Gennaro! siamo perduli!_' howled the captain;

and even the poor sea-sick passengers seemed to wake up a little. It was

a bad look-out. We got pretty much of every wave that was going, so

there was hardly any standing forward; and, having no steam on, the wind

and the sea had their own way with us. The gallant little _padrone_

seemed to keep up his pluck, and made out to show a little sail, so as

to bring her by the wind; but that, in a long, sharp steamer, didn't

mend matters much. To make things completely cheerful and comfortable,

word was passed up that we were leaking badly. I confess I didn't see

much hope for us; and having lugged up my valise from below, where there

was already a foot of water over the cabin-floor, I picked out the

little valuables I could stow about me and kicked the rest into a

corner. Still we had our boats, and, as the gale seemed to be breaking a

little, there was hope for us. At last they managed to get them into the

water, and keep them riding clear under our lee. The priests were

bundled in like so many wet bales of black cloth, and then the soldiers,

and Marston and I tried to follow; but a 'No room for heretics here,'

enforced by a bit of brown steel in a soldier's hands, kept us back. The

chance wasn't worth fighting for, after all. I didn't believe the

steamer would sink, any way. I was aboard the 'San Francisco' when she

drifted for nine days. However, there wasn't much time left for us to

speculate on that,--for a rush of firemen and crew and the like into

the boats was the next thing, and then the fasts were cast off or cut,

and the wind and sea did the rest. They shot away into the darkness. A

couple of firemen, two of the priests, and a soldier were left on board.

The firemen went to getting drunk,--the priests were too sick to move or

care for anything,--the soldier sat quietly down on the cabin-skylight;

Marston and I climbed on to the port paddle-box to look out for a sail.

"The clouds had broken with the dying of the gale, and the moon shone

out, lighting up the foaming sea far and wide, and showing our

water-logged or sinking craft. Every wave that swept over us found its

way below, and we settled deeper and deeper. Still, if we could only

hold on till morning, those seas are alive with small craft, and we

stood a good chance of being picked off. I was saying as much to Marston

when the 'Ercolano' gave a lurch and then dove bows first into the sea.

A great wave seemed to curl over us, and then to thrust us by the

shoulders down into the depths, and all was darkness and water. I went

down, down, and still I was dragged lower still, though the pressure

from above ceased, and I was struggling to rise. I struck out with hands

and feet;--I was held fast. I felt behind me and found a hand grasping

my coat-tails. Marston had seized me, and with the other hand was

clinging to the iron rail on the top of the paddle-box,--clinging with

the death-grip of a drowning man, if you know what that is. I tried to

unclasp the fingers,--to drive him from his hold on the rail. Of course

I couldn't; it was Death's hand, not his, that was holding there, and my

own strength was going, when a thought flashed into my mind. I tore open

my coat, and it slipped from me like a grape-skin from the grape, and I

went up like an arrow.

"Never shall I forget the blessed light of heaven, and the sweet air in

my lungs once more. Bad off as I was, it was better than being anchored

to a sinking wreck by a dead man's grasp. I heard a voice near me that

night repeating the Latin prayers of the Romish Church for the departing

soul, but I couldn't see the speaker. The moon had gone under a cloud

again, but there was light enough for me to catch a glimpse of some

floating wreck on the crest of a wave above me; and then it came down

right on top of me,--a lot of rigging and a spar or two,--our topmast

and yard, which had gone over the side just before we foundered. I

climbed on to it, and found my prospects hugely improving,--especially

as clinging to the other end was the soldier left on board. As soon as I

could persuade him I was no spook or mermaid, he was almost as pleased

as I was, especially when he found I was the '_eretico_.' He was a

Swiss, it seemed, of King Ferdinand's regiments, going home on furlough,

and a Protestant, which was why he was left on board.

"Between us both we managed to get the spars into some sort of a

raft-shape, so that they would float us more comfortably; and there we

watched for the morning. When that came, the sea had smoothed itself,

and the wind died away considerably,--as it does in the Mediterranean at

short notice. We looked every way for the white lateen-sails of the

coasting and fishing craft, but in vain. It grew hotter and hotter as

the sun got higher, and hope and strength began to give out. I lay down

on the raft and slept,--how long I don't know, for my first

consciousness was my friend's cry of "A ship!" I looked up, and there,

sure enough, in the northeast, was a large ship, running before the

wind, right in our direction. I suspect poor Fritzeli must have been

asleep also, that he hadn't seen her before,--for she was barely a

couple of miles off. She was apparently from Genoa or Spezzia; but the

main thing was, that she was travelling our road, and that with a will.

I tore off my shirt-sleeve at the shoulder, and waved it, while Fritzeli

held up his red sash. But it was an anxious time. On she came,--a big

frigate. We could see a commodore's pendant flying at the main, and

almost hear the steady rush of water under her black bows. Did they see

us, or not? There was no telling; a man-of-war walks the sea's roads

without taking hats off to everybody that comes along. A quiet report

goes up to the officer of the deck, a long look with a glass, and the

whole affair would be settled without troubling us to come into council.

On she came, till we could see the guns in her bow ports, and almost

count the meshes in her hammock netting. The shadow of her lofty sails

was already fallen upon us before she gave a sign of recognition. Then

her bow gave a wide sheer, and her whole broadside came into view, as

she glided by the spars where we were crouching. An officer appeared at

her quarter and waved his gold-banded cap to us, as the frigate rounded

to, to the leeward of us,--and the glorious stripes and stars blew out

clear against the hot sky. A light dingey was in the water before the

main yard had been well swung aback, and a midshipman was urging the

men, who needed no urging, to give way strong. I didn't know how weak I

had got, till they were lifting me aboard the boat. An hour after, when

I had had something to eat and was a little restored and had told my

story, the officer of the deck was relieved and came below to see me.

"'I fancy, Sir, we've just passed something of your steamer,' he

said,--'a yawlboat, bottom up, with a name on the stern which we

couldn't well make out: _Erco_ something, it looked like. Hadn't been

long in the water, I should say.'

"And that was the last of the steamer. Fritzeli and I were the sole

survivors."

THE JOLLY MARINER:

A BALLAD.

It was a jolly mariner

As ever hove a log;

He wore his trousers wide and free,

And always ate his prog,

And blessed his eyes, in sailor-wise,

And never shirked his grog.

Up spoke this jolly mariner,

Whilst walking up and down:--

"The briny sea has pickled me,

And done me very brown;

But here I goes, in these here clo'es,

A-cruising in the town!"

The first of all the curious things

That chanced his eye to meet,

As this undaunted mariner

Went sailing up the street,

Was, tripping with a little cane,

A dandy all complete!

He stopped,--that jolly mariner,--

And eyed the stranger well;--

"What that may be," he said, says he,

"Is more than I can tell;

But ne'er before, on sea or shore,

Was such a heavy swell!"

He met a lady in her hoops,

And thus she heard him hail:--

"Now blow me tight!--but there's a sight

To manage in a gale!

I never saw so small a craft

With such a spread o' sail!

"Observe the craft before and aft,--

She'd make a pretty prize!"

And then, in that improper way,

He spoke about his eyes,

That mariners are wont to use,

In anger or surprise.

He saw a plumber on a roof,

Who made a mighty din:--

"Shipmate, ahoy!" the rover cried,

"It makes a sailor grin

To see you copper-bottoming

Your upper-decks with tin!"

He met a yellow-bearded man,

And asked about the way;

But not a word could he make out

Of what the chap would say,

Unless he meant to call him names

By screaming, "Nix furstay!"

Up spoke this jolly mariner,

And to the man said he,

"I haven't sailed these thirty years

Upon the stormy sea,

To bear the shame of such a name

As I have heard from thee!

"So take thou that!"--and laid him flat.

But soon the man arose,

And beat the jolly mariner

Across his jolly nose,

Till he was fain, from very pain,

To yield him to the blows.

'Twas then this jolly mariner,

A wretched jolly tar,

Wished he was in a jolly-boat

Upon the sea afar,

Or riding fast, before the blast,

Upon a single spar!

'Twas then this jolly mariner

Returned unto his ship,

And told unto the wondering crew

The story of his trip,

With many oaths and curses, too,

Upon his wicked lip!--

As hoping--so this mariner

In fearful words harangued--

His timbers might be shivered, and

His le'ward scuppers danged,

(A double curse, and vastly worse

Than being shot or hanged!)

If ever he--and here again

A dreadful oath he swore--

If ever he, except at sea,

Spoke any stranger more,

Or like a son of--something--went

A-cruising on the shore!

SUGGESTIONS.

"Waste words, addle questions."

BISHOP ANDREWS.

AFFAIRS.

When affairs are at their worst, a bold project may retrieve them by

giving an assurance, else wanting, that hope, spirit, and energy still

exist.

AFFINITIES.