Place an inferior character in contact with the finest circumstances,

and, from wanting affinities with them, he will still remain, from no

fault of his own, insensible to their attractions. Take him up the mount

of vision, and show him the finest scene in Nature, and, instead of

taking in the whole circle of its beauty, he will, quite as likely, have

his attention engrossed by something mean and insignificant under his

nose. I was reminded of this, on taking a little boy, three years old,

to the top of the New York Reservoir. Placing him on one of the

parapets, I endeavored to call his attention to the more salient and

distant features of the extended prospect; but the little fellow's mind

was too immature to be at all appreciative of them. His interest was

confined to what he saw going on in a dirty inclosure on the opposite

side of the street, where two or three goats were moving about. After

watching them with curious interest for some time, "See, see!" said he,

"dem is pigs down dare!" Was there need for quarrelling with my fine

little man for seeing pigs where there were only goats, or goats where

there was much worthier to be seen?

AFTER THE BATTLE.

A brave deed performed, a noble object accomplished, gives a fillip to

the spirits, an exhilaration to the feelings, like that imparted by

Champagne, only more permanent. It is, indeed, admirably well said by

one wise to discern the truth of things, and able to give to his thought

a vigorous expression, that "a man feels relieved and gay when he has

put his heart into his work and done his best; but what he has said or

done otherwise shall give him no peace."

APPLAUSE.

Noble acts deserve a generous appreciation. Indeed, it is a species of

injustice not to warmly applaud whatever is wisely said or ably done.

Fine things are shown that they may be admired. When the peacock struts

about, it is to show what a fine tail he has.

ARTISTS.

The artist's business is with the beautiful. The repugnant is outside of

his province. Let him study only the beautiful, and he will always be

pleased; let him treat only of the beautiful, with a true feeling for

it, and he will always give pleasure.

The artist must love both his art and the subjects of his art. Nothing

that is not lovable is worth portraying. In the portrait of Rosa

Bonheur, she is appropriately represented with one arm thrown

affectionately around the neck of a bull. She must have loved this order

of animals, to have painted them so well.

AUTHORS.

Instead of the jealousies that obtain among them, there is no class that

ought to stand so close together, united in a feeling of common

brotherhood, to strengthen, to support, and to encourage, by mutual

sympathy and interchange of genial criticism, as authors. A sensitive

race, neglect pierces like sharp steel into the very marrow of their

being. And still they stand apart! Alive to praise, and needing its

inspiration, their relations are those of icebergs,--cold, stiff, lofty,

and freezing. What infatuation is this! They should seek each other out,

extend the hand of fellowship, and bridge the distance between them by

elaborate courtesies and kindly recognitions.

AN AUTHOR'S FIRST BOOK.

No man is a competent judge of what he himself does. An author, on the

eve of his first publication, and while his book is going through the

press, is in a predicament like that of a man mounted on a fence, with

an ugly bull in the field that he is obliged to cross. The apprehended

silence of the journals concerning his merits--for no notice is the

worst notice--constitutes one of the "horns of his dilemma"; while their

possibly invidious comments upon his want of them constitute another and

equally formidable "horn." Between these, and the uncertainty as to

whether he will not in a little time be cut by one-half of his

acquaintances and only indulgently tolerated by the other half, his

experience is apt to be very peculiar, and certainly not altogether

agreeable. Never, therefore, envy an author his feelings on such an

occasion, on the score of their superior enjoyment, but rather let him

be visited with your softest pity and tenderest commiseration.

BOOKS.

A book is only a very partial expression of its author. The writer is

greater than his work; and there is in him the substance, not of one, or

a few, but of many books, were they only written out.

CAUSE AND EFFECT.

Small circumstances illustrate great principles. To-day my dinner cost

me sixpence less than usual. This is an incident not quite so important

as some others recorded in history, but the causes of it originated more

than two thousand years ago. It will also serve to explain the

principle, that causes are primary and secondary, remote and

immediate,--and that historians, when they speak of certain effects as

produced by certain causes. Socrates one day had a conversation with

Aristippus, in which he threw out certain remarks on the subject of

temperance. Being overheard by Xenophon, they were subsequently

committed to writing and published by him. These, falling in my way last

evening, made such an impression on my mind, that I was induced to-day

to forego my customary piece of pudding after dinner, to the loss of the

eating-house proprietor, whose receipts were thus diminished, first, by

a few observations of an ancient Greek, secondly, by a report given of

them by a bystander, and, thirdly, by the accidental perusal of them,

after twenty centuries, by one of his customers.

CHEERFULNESS.

Sullen and good, morbid and wise, are impossible conditions. The best

test, both of a man's wisdom and goodness, is his cheerfulness. When one

is not cheerful, he is almost invariably stupid. A sad face seldom gets

into much credit with the world, and rarely deserves to. "Sorrow," says

old Montaigne, "is a base passion."

"The quarrel between Gray and me," said Horace Walpole, "arose from his

being too serious a companion." In my opinion, this was a good ground

for cutting the connection. What right has any one to be "too serious a

companion?"

COWARDS.

In desperate straits the fears of the timid aggravate the dangers that

imperil the brave. For cowards the road of desertion to the enemy should

be left open; they will carry over to them nothing but their fears. The

poltroon, like the scabbard, is an incumbrance when once the sword is

drawn.

CRITICISM.

No work deserves to be criticized which has not much in it that deserves

to be applauded. The legitimate aim of criticism is to direct attention

to what is excellent The bad will dig its own grave, and the imperfect

may be safely left to that final neglect from which no amount of present

undeserved popularity can rescue it.

Ever so critical of things: never but good-naturedly so of persons.

CULTURE.

Partial culture runs to the ornate; extreme culture to simplicity.

DEATH.

Without death in the world, existence in it would soon become, through

over-population, the most frightful of curses. To death we owe our life;

the passing of one generation clears the way for another; and thus, in

the economy of Providence, the very extinction of being is a provision

for extending the boon of existence. Even wars and disease are _a good

misunderstood_. Without them, child-murder would be as common in

Christendom as it is in over-populated China.

DEBTORS AND CREDITORS.

To interest a number of people in your welfare, get in debt to them. If

they will not then promote your interest, it is because they are not

alive to their own. It is to the advantage of creditors to aid their

debtors. Cæsar owed more than a million of dollars before he obtained

his first public employment, and at a later period his liabilities

exceeded his assets by ten millions. His creditors constituted an

important constituency, and doubtless aided to secure his elections.

DIFFICULTIES.

Great difficulties, when not succumbed to, bring out great virtues.

DISGUST.

A fit of disgust is a great stimulator of thought. Pleasure represses

it.

EARNESTNESS.

M. de Buffon says that "genius is only great patience." Would it not be

truer to say that genius is great earnestness? Patience is only one

faculty; earnestness is the devotion of all the faculties: it is the

cause of patience; it gives endurance, overcomes pain, strengthens

weakness, braves dangers, sustains hope, makes light of difficulties,

and lessens the sense of weariness in overcoming them. Yes, War yields

its victories, and Beauty her favors, to him who fights or wooes with

the most passionate ardor,--in other words, with the greatest

earnestness. Even the simulation of earnestness accomplishes much,--such

a charm has it for us. This explains the success of libertines, the

coarseness of whose natures is usually only disguised by a certain

conventional polish of manners: "their hearts seem in earnest, because

their passions are."

EDUCATION OF THE SEXES.

Girls are early taught deceit, and they never forget the lesson. Boys

are more outspoken. This is because boys are instructed that to be frank

and open is to be manly and generous, while their sisters are

perpetually admonished that "this is not pretty," or "that is not

becoming," until they have learned to control their natural impulses,

and to regulate their conduct by precepts and example. The result of all

this is, that, while men retain much of their natural dispositions,

women have largely made-up characters.

EMERSON'S ESSAYS.

I have not yet been able to decide whether it is better to read certain

of Emerson's essays as poetry or philosophy. Perhaps, though, it would

be no more than just to consider them as an almost complete and perfect

union of the two. Certainly, no modern writer has more of vivid

individuality, both of thought and expression,--and few writers, of any

age, will better bear reperusal, or surpass him in the grand merit of

suggestiveness. There is much in his books that I cannot clearly

understand, and passages sometimes occur that once seemed to me

destitute of meaning; but I have since learned, from a greater

familiarity with what he has written, to respect even his obscurities,

and to have faith that there is at all times behind his words both a man

and a meaning.

ENGLISHMEN.

There is in the character of perhaps a majority of Englishmen a singular

commingling of the haughty and the subservient,--the result, doubtless,

of the mixed nature, partly aristocratic and partly democratic, of the

government, and of the peculiar structure of English society, in which

every man indemnifies himself for the subserviency he is required to

exhibit to the classes above, by exacting a similar subserviency from

those below him. Thackeray, who is to be considered a competent judge of

the character of his countrymen, puts the remark into the mouth of one

of his characters, that, "if you wish to make an Englishman respect you,

you must treat him with insolence." The language is somewhat too strong,

and it would not be altogether safe to act upon the suggestion; but the

witticism embodies a modicum of truth, for all that.

EXAMPLE.

Example has more followers than reason.

EXCITEMENT COUNTERVAILS PAIN.

We wince under little pains, but Nature in us, through the excitement

attendant upon them, seems to brace us to endure with fortitude greater

agonies. A curious circumstance, that will serve as an illustration of

this, is told by an eminent surgeon of a person upon whom it became

necessary to perform a painful surgical operation. The surgeon, after

adjusting him in a position favorable to his purpose, turned for a

moment to write a prescription; then, taking up the knife, he was about

making an "imminent deadly breach" in the body of his subject, when he

observed an expression of distress upon his countenance. Wishing to

reassure him, "What disturbs you?" he inquired. "Oh," said the sufferer,

"you have left the pen in the inkstand!" and this being removed, he

submitted to the operation with extraordinary composure.

FACT AND FANCY.

"See, nurse I see!" exclaimed a delighted papa, as something like a

smile irradiated the face of his infant child,--"an angel is whispering

to it!" "No, Sir," replied the more matter-of-fact nurse,--"it is only

wind from its stomach."

FINE HOUSES.

To build a huge house, and furnish it lavishly,--what is this but to

play baby-house on a large scale?

FINE LADIES.

If you would know how many of the "airs" of a fine lady are "put on,"

contrast her with a woman who has never had the advantages of a genteel

training. What appear as the curvettings and prancings of a high-mettled

nature turn out, from the light thus afforded, to be only the tricks of

a skilful grooming.

FUTURE LIFE

Altogether too much thought is given to the next world. One world at a

time ought to be sufficient for us. If we do our duty manfully in this,

much consideration of our relations to that next world may be safely

postponed until we are in it.

GREAT MEN.

Oh, the responsibility of great men! Could some of these the originators

of new beliefs, of new methods in Art, of new systems of state and

ecclesiastical polity, of novel modes of practice in medicine, and the

like.--"revisit the pale glimpses of the moon," and look upon the

streams of blood and misery that have flowed from fountains they have

unsealed, they would skulk back to their graves faster and more

affrighted than when they first descended into them.

HABITS.

Habit to a great extent, is the forcing of Nature to your way, instead

of leaving her to her own. Struck by this consideration, "He is a fool,

then, who has any habits," said W. Softly, my dear Sir,--the position is

an extreme one. Bad habits are very bad, and good habits, blindly

followed, are not altogether good, for they make machines of us.

Occasional excesses may be wholesome; and Nature accommodates herself to

irregularities, as a ship to the action of waves. Good habits are in the

nature of allies: we may strengthen ourselves by an alliance with them,

but they should not outnumber the forces they act with. Habits are the

Hessians of our moral warfare: the good or the ill they do depends on

the side they fight on.

HEROISM.

The race of heroes, though not prolific, is never extinct. Nature,

liberal in this, as in all things else, has sown the constituent

qualities of heroism broadcast. Elements of the heroic in character

exist in almost every individual; it is only the felicitous combination

of them all in one that is rare.

IDEAS.

Ideas, in regard to their degrees of merit, may be divided, like the

animal kingdom, into classes or families. First in rank are those ideas

that have in them the germs of a great moral unfolding,--as the ideas of

a religious teacher, like Socrates or Confucius. Next in merit are those

ideas that lay open the secrets of Nature, or add to the combinations of

Art,--as the ideas of inventors and discoverers. Next in the order of

excellence are all new and valuable ideas on diseases and their

treatment, on the redress of social abuses, on government and laws and

their administration, and all similar ideas on all other subjects

connected with material welfare or intellectual and moral advancement.

Last and least, ideas that are only the repetition of other ideas,

previously known, though not so well expressed.

INSTITUTIONS.

When an institution, not designed to be stationary, ceases to be

progressive, it is usually because its officers have lost their

ambition to make it so. In such a contingency, they had better be called

upon to resign, and thus to open the way for a more executive and

energetic management.

LAWYERS.

The lawyer's relation to society is like that of the scarecrow to the

cornfield; concede that he effects nothing of positive good, and he

still exerts a wholesome influence from the terror his presence

inspires.

LEADERSHIP.

He who aspires to be leader must keep in advance of his column. His

fears must not play traitor to his occasions. The instant he falls into

line with his followers, a bolder spirit may throw himself at the head

of the movement initiated, and from that moment his leadership is gone.

LET THE RIGHT PREVAIL.

It is better that ten times ten thousand men should suffer in their

interests than that a right principle should not be vindicated. Granting

that all these will be injured by the suppression of the false, an

infinitely greater number will as certainly be prejudiced by throwing

off the allegiance due to truth. Throughout the future, all have an

interest in the establishment of sound principles, while only a few in

the present can have even a partial interest in the perpetuation of

error.

LIGHTS AND SHADOWS.

It is pleasanter and more amiable to applaud than to condemn, and they

who look wisely to their happiness will endeavor, as they go through

life, to see as much to admire, and as few things that are repugnant, as

possible. Nothing that is not distinctively excellent is worthy of

particular study or comment.

LOVERS' DIFFERENCES.

Their love for each other is only partial who differ much and widely.

When a loving heart speaks to a heart that loves in return, an

understanding is easily arrived at.

WHAT LOVE PROVES.

The existence of so much love in the world establishes that there is in

it much of the excellence that justifies so exalted a passion. Almost

every man has been a lover at some period in his life, and, out of so

many lovers, it is unreasonable to suppose that all of them have been

mistaken in their estimates.

MAGNANIMITY.

Justice to the defeated exalts the victor from a subject of admiration

to an object of love. To the fame of superior courage or address he

thereby adds the glory of a greater magnanimity. Praise, too, of a

vanquished opponent makes our victory over him appear the more signal.

MANHOOD.

The question is not, the number of facts a man knows, but how much of a

fact he is himself.

MEAN MEN.

If a man is thoroughly mean by nature, let him give full swing to his

meanness. Such a fellow brings discredit upon generosity by putting on

its semblance. If he attempts to disguise the smallness of his soul, he

only adds to his contemptible trait of meanness the still more

despicable vice of hypocrisy. Mean by the sacred institution of Nature,

and without a generous trait to mar the excellence of his native

meanness, so long as he continues unqualifiedly mean, he exists a

perfect type of a particular character, and presents to us a fine

illustration of the vast capabilities of Nature.

METHODS OF THE ENTERPRISING.

Great personal activity at times, and closely sedentary and severely

thoughtful habits at other times, are the forces by which able men

accomplish notable enterprises. Sitting with thoughtful brows by their

evening firesides, they originate and mature their plans; after which,

with energies braced to their work, they move to the easy conquest of

difficulties accounted formidable, because they have deliberated upon

and mastered the _best methods_ for overcoming them.

MILITARY SCHOOLS.

The existence of military schools is a proof that the other schools have

not done their duty.

NATURE AND ART.

The art of being interesting is largely the art of being _real_,--of

being without art.

NEWSPAPERS.

The world is not fairly represented by its newspapers. Life is something

better than they make it out to be. They are mainly the records of the

crimes that curse and the casualties that afflict it, the contests of

litigants and the strifes of politicians; but of the sweet amenities of

home and social life they are and must be silent. Not without a reason

has the poet fled from the "poet's corner."

NON-COMMUNICANTS.

Certain minds are formed to take in truths, but not to utter them. They

hoard their knowledge, as misers their gold. Their communicativeness is

small. Their appreciation of principles is greater than their sympathy

for persons.

OPINIONS.

The best merit of an opinion is, that it is sound; its next best merit,

that it is briefly expressed.

POETS AND POETRY.

The "twelve rules for a poet" are eleven too many. The poet needs but

one rule for his guidance as a poet,--namely, never to write poetry.[2]

POPULAR ASPIRANTS.

The fate of a popular aspirant is often like that of a prize ox. When in

his best condition, he is put up for exhibition, decorated with flowers

and ribbons, and afterwards led out to be slaughtered.

PRAISE.

No one, probably, was ever injured by having his good qualities made the

subject of judicious praise. The virtues, like plants, reward the

attention bestowed upon them by growing more and more thrifty. A lad who

is told often that he is a good boy will in time grow ashamed to exhibit

the qualities of a bad one.

PRIDE.

Pride is like the beautiful acacia, that carries its head proudly above

its neighbor plants,--forgetting that it, too, like them, has its root

in the dirt.

PROVERBS.

Invention and the Graces preside at the birth of a good proverb. Aside

from the ideas expressed in them, they are deserving of the attention of

literary men and all students of expression, from the infinite variety

of turns of style they exhibit. "If you don't want to be tossed by a

bull, toss the bull." Here, for instance, the thought is not only

spirited, but it is so rendered as to give to the idea both the force of

novelty and the agreeableness of wit. The words are as hard and compact,

and the thought flies as swift, as a bullet.

PUBLIC MEN.

A public man may reasonably esteem it a piece of good fortune to be

vigorously attacked in the newspapers. In the first place, it lifts him

prominently into notice. Then, a plausible defence will divide public

opinion, while a triumphant vindication will more fully establish him in

the popular regard. Even if unable to offer either, the notoriety so

acquired will in time soften into a counterfeit of celebrity so like the

original that it will easily pass for it. Besides, the world is

charitable, and will forget old sins in consideration of later virtues.

MANNERS OF REFORMERS.

Reformers, from being deeply impressed with the evils they seek to

redress, and actively engaged in a warfare against them, are apt to

contract a certain habit of denunciation, extending to persons and

things at large, and by which their character for amiability is

injuriously affected. This is particularly noticeable in that portion of

the press devoted to Progress.

REQUESTS.

It is well to dress in your best when you go to press a request. It is

not so easy to resist the solicitations of a well-dressed importunate.

RICH AND POOR.

Grace resides with the cultivated, but strength is the property of the

people. Art with these has not emasculated Nature.

RICH TO EXCESS.

Intellectually, as many suffer from too much physical health as too

little. A fat body makes a lean mind.

RULE OR RUIN.

A thoroughly vigorous man will not actively belong to any associated

body, except to rule in it. Not to control in its affairs is to have his

individuality cut down to the standard of those that do. He must stamp

himself upon the institution, or its enfeebling influence will be

stamped upon him.

SANS PEUR.

No man is competent greatly to serve the cause of truth till he has made

audacity a part of his mental constitution.

There are some dangers that are to be courted,--courted and braved as a

coy mistress is to be wooed, with all the more vigor as the day makes

against us. When Fortune frowns upon her worthy wooer, it is still

permitted him to think how pleasant it will be ere long to bask in her

smiles.

SLIGHTS.

In seasons when the energies flag and our ambition fails us, a rebuff is

a blessing, by rousing us from inaction, and stirring us to more

vigorous efforts to make good our pretensions.

SOCIAL REGENERATION.

Private worth is the only true basis of public prosperity. Still,

ministers and moralists do but tinker at the regeneration of the world

in merely recommending individual improvement. The most prolific cause

of depravity is the social system that forms the character to what it

is. The virtues, like plants, to flourish, must have a soil and air

adapted to them. A plant at the seaside yields soda; the same plant

grown inland produces potash. What society most needs, for its permanent

advancement, is uniformity of inheritance.

SPEAKERS.

A speaker should put his character into what he says. So many speakers,

like so many faces, have no individuality in them.

SPEAKING AND TALKING.

There is often a striking contrast between a man's style of writing and

of talking,--for which I offer this explanation: He ponders what he

writes; he talks without system. As an author, therefore, he is

sententious; as a conversationist, loose and verbose;--or the reverse of

this may be true.

SPEECH.

Language was given to us that we might say pleasant things to each

other.

PREVAILING STYLES.

In literary performances, as in Gothic architecture, the taste of the

age is largely in favor of the pointed styles. Our churches and our

books must bristle all over with points, or they are not so much thought

of.

SUNDAY.

The poor man's rich day.

THINGS WORTH KNOWING.

Only the good is worth knowing, and only the beautiful worth studying.

TOBACCO.

Tobacco in excess fouls the breath, discolors the teeth, soils the

complexion, deranges the nerves, reduces vitality, impairs the

sensibility to beauty and to pleasure, abets intemperance, promotes

idleness, and degrades the man.

TRADE-LIFE.

Formerly, when great fortunes were made only in war, war was a business;

but now, when great fortunes are made only by business, business is war.

TRUTH-SEEKERS.

Hamlet, in the ghost scene, is a fine example of the _questioning

spirit_ pursuing its inquiries regardless of consequences. The

apparition which affrights and confounds his companions only spurs his

not less timid, perhaps, but more speculative nature into following and

plying it with questions. Only thus should Truth be followed, with an

interest great enough to overmaster all fears as to whither she may lead

and what she may disclose.

UGLY MEN.

When a man is hideously ugly his only safety is in glorying in it. Let

him boldly claim it as a distinction.

THE WALK.

The walk discloses the character. A placid and composed walk bespeaks

the philosopher. He walks as if the present was sufficient for him. A

measured step is the expression of a disciplined intellect, not easily

stirred to excesses. A hurried pace denotes an eager spirit, with a

tendency to precipitate measures. The confident and the happy swing

along, and need a wide sidewalk; while an irregular gait reveals a

composite of character,--one thing to-day, another to-morrow, and

nothing much at any time.

WINE.

_In vino_ there is not only _veritas_, but sensibility. It makes the

face of him who drinks it to excess blush for his habits.

WISDOM.

Wisdom comes to us as guest, but her visits are liable to sudden

terminations. In our efforts to retain the wisdom we have acquired, an

embarrassment arises like that of the little boy who was scolded for

having a dirty nose. "Blow your nose, Sir." "Papa, I do blow my nose,

but it won't stay blowed."

WOMEN AS JUDGES OF CHARACTER.

It is more honorable to have the regards of a few noble women than to be

popular among a much greater number of men. Having in themselves the

qualities that command our love, they are, for that reason, the better

able to appreciate the traits that deserve to inspire it. The heart must

be judged by the heart, and men are too intellectual in the processes by

which they form their regards.

AVERAGE WORTH.

A wife should accept her husband, and a friend his friend, upon a

general estimate. Particulars in character and conduct should be

overlooked.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 2: I speak, of course, only of the discreet poet. Great poets

are never discreet. Their genius overrides their discretion.]

BULLS AND BEARS.

CHAPTER I

THE ARTISTS' EXHIBITION, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.

There was an exhibition of pictures in an upper room on Washington

Street. The artists had collected their unsold productions, and proposed

to offer them at auction. There were sketches of White Mountain scenery,

views of Nahant and other beaches, woodland prospects, farm-houses with

well-sweeps, reedy marshes and ponds, together with the usual variety of

ideal heads and figures,--a very pretty collection. The artists had gone

forth like bees, and gathered whatever was sweetest in every field

through a wide circuit, and now the lover of the beautiful might have

his choice of the results without the fatigue of travel. Defects enough

there were to critical eyes,--false drawing, cold color, and

unsuccessful distances; still there was much to admire, and the spirit

and intention were interesting, even where the inexperience of the

painter was only too apparent.

A group of visitors entered the room: a lady in the prime of beauty,

richly but modestly dressed, casting quick glances on all sides, yet

with an air of quiet self-possession; a gentleman, her brother

apparently, near forty years of age, dignified and prepossessing; a

second lady, in widow's weeds; and a young gentleman with successful

moustaches, lemon-colored gloves, and one of those bagging coats which

just miss the grace of flowing outline without the compensation of

setting off a good figure. The lady first mentioned seemed born to take

the lead; it was no assumption in her; _incedo regina_ was the

expression of her gracefully poised head and her stately carriage. "A

pretty bit," she said, carelessly pointing with her parasol to a picture

of a rude country bridge and dam.

"Yes," said her elder brother, "spirited and lifelike. Who is the

painter, Marcia?"

The beauty consulted her catalogue.

"Greenleaf, George Greenleaf."

"A new name. Look at that distant spire," he continued, "faintly showing

among the trees in the background. The water is surprisingly true. A

charming picture. I think I'll buy it."

"How quickly you decide," said the lady, with an air of languor. "The

picture is pretty enough, but you haven't seen the rest of the

collection yet. Gamboge paints lovely landscapes, they say. I wouldn't

be enthusiastic about a picture by an artist one doesn't know anything

about."

A gentleman standing behind a screen near by moved away with a changed

expression and a deepening flush. Another person, an artist evidently,

now accosted the party, addressing them as Mr. and Miss Sandford. After

the usual civilities, he called their attention to the picture before

them.

"We were just admiring it," said Mr. Sandford.

"Do you like it, Mr. Easelmann?" asked the lady.

"Yes, exceedingly."

"Ah! the generosity of a brother artist," replied Miss Sandford.

"No; you do the picture injustice,--and me too, for that matter; for,"

he added, with a laugh, "I am not generally supposed to ruin my friends

by indiscriminate flattery. This young painter has wonderfully improved.

He went up into the country last season, found a picturesque little

village, and has made a portfolio of very striking sketches."

Miss Sandford began to appear interested.

"Quite pwomising," said the Adonis in the baggy coat, silent until now.

"Yes, he has blossomed all at once. He talks of going abroad."

"Bettah stay at home," said the young gentleman, languidly. "I've been

thwough all the gallewies. It's always the same stowy,--always the same

old humbugs to be admired,--always a doosid boah."

"One relief you must have had in the galleries," retorted Easelmann;

"your all-round shirt-collar wouldn't choke you quite so much when your

head was cocked back."

Adonis-in-bag adjusted his polished all-rounder with a delicately gloved

finger, and declared that the painter was "a jol-ly fel-low."

The gentleman who had blushed a moment before, when the picture was

criticized, was still within earshot; he now turned an angry glance upon

the last speaker, and was about to cross the room, when Mr. Easelmann

stopped him.

"With your permission, Miss Sandford," said the painter, nodding

meaningly towards the person retreating.

"Certainly," replied the lady.

"Mr. Greenleaf," said Easelmann, "I wish you to know some friends of

mine."

The gentleman so addressed turned and approached the party, and was

presented to "Miss Sandford, Mr. Sandford, Mrs. Sandford, and Mr.

Charles Sandford." Miss Sandford greeted him with her most fascinating

smile; her brother shook his hand warmly; the other lady, a widowed

sister-in-law, silently curtsied; while the younger brother inclined his

head slightly, his collar not allowing any sudden movement. In a moment

more the party were walking about the room, looking at the pictures.

When at length the Sandfords were about to leave the room, the elder

gentleman said to Mr. Greenleaf,--

"We should be happy to see you with our friend, Mr. Easelmann, at our

house. Come without ceremony."

Miss Sandford's eyes also said, "Come!" at least, so Greenleaf thought.

Mr. Charles Sandford, meanwhile, who was cultivating the sublime art of

indifference, the distinguishing feature and the ideal of his tribe,

only tapped his boot with his slender ratan, and then smoothed his silky

moustaches.

Greenleaf briefly expressed his thanks for the invitation, and, when the

family had gone, turned to his friend with an inquiring look.

"Famous, my boy!" said Easelmann. "Sandford knows something about

pictures, though rather stingy in patronage; and he is evidently

impressed. The beauty, Marcia, is not a judge, but she is a valuable

friend,--now that you are recognized. The widow is a most charming

person. Charles, a puppy, as every young man of fashion thinks he must

be for a year or two, but harmless and good-natured. The friendship of

the family will be of service to you."

"But Marcia, as you call her, was depreciating my picture not a minute

before you called me."

"Precisely, my dear fellow; but she didn't know who had painted it, and,

moreover, she hadn't seen you."

Greenleaf blushed again.

"Don't color up that way; save your vermilion for your canvas. You _are_

good-looking; and the beauty desires the homage of every handsome man,

especially if he is likely to be a lion."

"A lion! a painter of landscapes a lion! Besides, I am no gallant. I

never learned the art of carrying a lady's fan."

"I hope not; and for that very reason you are the proper subject for

her. Your simplicity and frankness are all the more charming to a woman

who needs new sensations. Probably she is tired of her _blasé_ and wary

admirers just now. She will capture you, and I shall see a new and

obsequious slave."

Greenleaf attempted to speak, but could not get in a word.

"I felicitate you," continued Easelmann. "You will have a valuable

experience, at any rate. To-morrow or next day we will call upon them.

Good morning!"

Greenleaf returned his friend's farewell; then walking to a window, he

took out a miniature. It was the picture of a young and beautiful girl.

The calm eyes looked out upon him trustfully; the smile upon the mouth

had never seemed so lovely. He thought of the proud, dazzling coquette,

and then looked upon the image of the tender, earnest, truthful face

before him. As he looked, he smiled at his friend's prophecy.

"This is my talisman," he said; and he raised the picture to his lips.

* * * * *

An evening or two later, as Easelmann was putting his brushes into

water, Greenleaf came into his studio. The cloud-compelling meerschaums

were produced, and they sat in high-backed chairs, watching the thin

wreaths of smoke as they curled upwards to the skylight. The sale of

pictures had taken place, and the prices, though not high enough to make

the fortunes of the artists, were yet reasonably remunerative; the

pictures were esteemed almost as highly, Easelmann thought, as the

decorative sketches in an omnibus.

"And did Sandford buy your picture, Greenleaf?"

"Yes, I believe so. In fact, I saw it in his drawing-room, yesterday."

"Certainly; how could I have forgotten it? I must have been thinking of

the animated picture there. What is paint, when one sees such a glowing,

glancing, fascinating, arch, lovely, tantalizing"--

"Don't! Don't pelt me with your parts of speech!"

"I was trying to select the right adjective."

"Well, you need not shower down a basketful, merely to pick out one."

"But confess, now, you are merely the least captivated?"

"Not the least."

"No little palpitations at the sound of her name? No short breath nor

upturned eyes? No vague longings nor 'billowy unrest'?"

"None."

"You slept well last night?"

"Perfectly."

"No dreams of a sea-green palace, with an Undine in wavy hair, and a big

brother with fan-coral plumes, who afterwards turned into a sea-dog?"

"No,--I cut the late suppers you tempt me with, and preserve my

digestion."

"A great mistake! One good dream in a nightmare will give you more

poetical ideas than you can paint in a month: I mean a reasonable

nightmare, that you can ride,--not one that rides you. The imagination

then seems to scintillate nothing but beautiful images."

"I don't care to become a red-hot iron for the sake of seeing the sparks

I might radiate."

"Prosaic again! Now sin and sorrow have their advantages; the law of

compensation, you see. Poets, according to Shelley, learn in suffering

what they teach in song. And if novelists were always scrupulous, what

do you think they would write? Only milk-and-water proprieties,

tamely-virtuous platitudes. Do you think Dickens never saw a taproom or

a thief's den?--or that Thackeray is unacquainted with the "Cave of

Harmony"? No,--all the piquancy of life comes from the slight _soupçon_

of wickedness wherewithal we season it."

"I like amazingly to have you wander off in this way; you are always

entertaining, whether your ethics are sound or not."

"Don't trouble yourself about ethics. You and I are artists; we want

effects, contrasts; we must have our enthusiasms, our raptures, and our

despair."

"You ride a theory well."

"Now, my dear Greenleaf, listen. Kindly I say it, but you are a trifle

too innocent, too placid,--in short, too youthful. To paint, you must be

intense; to be intense, you must feel; and--you see I come back on the

sweep of the circle--to feel, one must have incentives, objects."

"So, you will roast your own liver to make a _pâté_."

"Better so than to have the Promethean vulture peck it out for you."

"Well, if I am as you say, what am I to do? I am docile, to-day."

"Fall in love."

"I have tried the experiment."

"It must have been with some insipid girl, not out of her teens, odorous

of bread and butter, innocent of wiles, and ignorant of her

capabilities and your own."

"Perhaps, but still I have been in love,--and am."

"Bless me! that was a sigh! The sleeping waters then did show a dimple.

Why, man, _you_ talk about love, with that smooth, shepherd's face of

yours, that contented air, that smoothly sonorous voice! Corydon and

Phyllis! You should be like a grand piano after Satter has thundered out

all its chords, tremulous with harmonies verging so near to discord that

pain would be mixed with pleasure in the divinest proportions."

Greenleaf clapped his hands. "Bravo, Easelmann! you have mistaken your

vocation; you should turn musical critic."

"The arts are all akin," he replied, calmly refilling his pipe.

"I think I can put together the various parts of your lecture for you,"

said Greenleaf. "You think I see Nature in her gentler moods, and

reproduce only her placid features. You think I have feeling, though

latent,--undeveloped. My nerves need a banging, just enough not to

wholly unstring them. For that pleasant experience, I am to fall in

love. The woman who has the nature to magnetize, overpower, transport me

is Miss Marcia Sandford. I am, therefore, to make myself as

uncomfortable as possible, in pursuit of a pleasure I know beforehand I

can never obtain. Then, from the rather prosaic level of Scumble, I

shall rise to the grand, gloomy, and melodramatic style of Salvator

Rosa. _Voilà tout!_

"An admirable summary. You have listened well. But tell me now,--what do

_you_ think? Or do you wander like a little brook, without any will of

your own, between such banks as Fate may hem you in withal?"

"I will be frank with you. Until last season, I never had a serious,

definite purpose in life. I fell in love then with the most charming of

country-girls."

"I know," interrupted Easelmann, in a denser cloud than usual,--"a

village Lucy,--'a violet 'neath a mossy stone, fair as a star when only

one,'--you know the rest of it. She was fair because there _was_ only

one."

"Silence, Mephistopheles! it is my turn; let me finish my story. I never

told her my love"----

"'But let concealment'"----

"Attend to your pipe; it is going out. I did _look_, however. The

language of the eyes needs no translation. I often walked, sketched,

talked with the girl, and I felt that there was the completest sympathy

between us. I knew her feelings towards me, as well, I am persuaded, as

she knew mine. I gave her no pledge, no keepsake; I only managed, by an

artifice, to get her daguerreotype at a travelling saloon."

Easelmann laughed. "Let me see it, most modest of lovers!"

"You sha'n't. Your evil eye shall not fall upon it After I came to

Boston, I took a room and began working up my sketches"----

"Where I found you brushing away for dear life."

"I meant to earn enough to go abroad, if it were only for one look at

the great pictures of which I have so often dreamed. Then I meant to

come back"----

"To find your Lucy married to a schoolmaster, and with five sickly

children."

"No,--she is but seventeen; she will not marry till I see her."

"I admire your confidence, Greenleaf; it is an amiable weakness."

"After I had been here a month or two, I was filled with an unutterable

sense of uneasiness. Something was wrong, I felt assured. I daily kissed

the sweet lips"----

"Of a twenty-five-cent daguerreotype."

Greenleaf did not notice the interruption. "I thought the eyes looked

troubled; they even seemed to reproach me; yet the soul that beamed in

them was as tender as ever."

"_Diablerie!_ I believe you are a spiritualist."

"At last I could bear it no longer. I shut up my room and took the cars

for Innisfield."

"I remember; that was when you gave out that you had gone to see your

aunt."

"I found Alice seriously ill. I won't detain you further than to say

that I did not leave her until she was completely restored, until my

long cherished feelings had found utterance, and we were bound by ties

that nothing but death will divide."

"Really, you are growing sentimental. The waters verily are moved."

"That is because an angel has troubled them. You will mock, I know; but

it is nevertheless true, as I am told, that, for the week before I left

Boston, she was in a half-delirious state, and constantly called my

name."

"And you heard her and came. Sharp senses, and a good, dutiful boy!"

"My presentiment was strange, wasn't it?"

"Oh, don't try to coax me into believing all that! It's very pretty, and

would make a nice little romance for a magazine; but you and I have

passed the age of measles and chicken-pox. Now, to follow your example,

let me make a summary. You are in love, you say, which, for the sake of

argument, I will grant. You are engaged. But you are ambitious. You want

to go to Italy, and you hope to surpass Claude, as Turner has done--over

the left. Then you will return and marry the constant Alice, and live in

economical splendor, on a capital--let me see--of eighty-seven dollars

and odd cents, being the proceeds of a certain auction-sale. Promising,

isn't it?"

Greenleaf was silent,--his pipe out.

"Don't be gloomy," continued Easelmann, in a more sympathetic tone. "Let

us take a stroll round the Common. I never walk through the Mall at

sunset without getting a new hint of effect."

"I agree to the walk," said Greenleaf.

"Let us take Charbon along with us."

"He doesn't talk."

"That's what I like him for; he thinks the more."

"How is one to know it?"

"Just look at him! talk your best,--parade your poetry, your criticism,

your epigrams, your puns, if you have any, and then look at him! By

Jove! I don't want a better talker. I know it's _in_ him, and I don't

care whether he opens his mouth or not."

CHAPTER II.

SHOWING HOW MUCH IT SOMETIMES COSTS TO BE THOUGHT CHARITABLE.

Mr. Sandford was a bachelor, and resided in a pleasant street at the

West End,--his sister being housekeeper. His house was simply

furnished,--yet the good taste apparent in the arrangement of the

furniture gave the rooms an air of neatness, if not of elegance. There

were not so many pictures as might be expected in the dwelling of a

lover of Art, and in many cases the frames were more noticeable than the

canvas; for upon most of them were plates informing the visitor that

they were presented to Henry Sandford for his disinterested services as

treasurer, director, or chairman of the Society for the Relief of Infirm

Wood-sawyers, or some other equally benevolent association. The silver

pitcher and salver, always visible upon a table, were a testimonial from

the managers of a fair for the aid of Indigent Widows. A massive silver

inkstand bore witness to the gratitude of the Society of Merchants'

Clerks. And numerous Votes of Thanks, handsomely engrossed on parchment,

with eminent names appended, and preserved in gilt frames, filled all

the available space upon the walls. It was evident that this was the

residence of a Benefactor of Mankind.

It was just after breakfast, and Mr. Sandford was preparing to go out.

His full and handsome face was serene as usual, and a general air of

neatness pervaded his dress. He was, in fact, unexceptionable in

appearance, wearing the look that gets credit in State Street, gives

respectability to a public platform, and seems to bring a blessing into

the abodes of poverty. Nothing but broad and liberal views, generous

sentiments, and a noble self-forgetfulness would seem to belong to a

man with such a presence. But his sister Marcia, this morning, seemed

far from being pleased with his plans; her tones were querulous, and

even severe.

"Now, Henry," she exclaimed, "you are not going to sell that picture.

We've had enough changes. Every auction a new purchase, which you

immediately fling away."

"You are a very warm-hearted young woman," replied the brother, "and you

doubtless imagine that I am able with my limited resources to buy a

picture from every new painter, besides answering the numberless calls

made upon me from every quarter."

"Why did you bid for the picture, then?"

"I wished to encourage the artist."

"But why do you sell it, then?"

"Monroe wants it, and will give a small advance on its cost."

"But Monroe was at the sale; why didn't he bid for it then?"

"A very natural question, Sister Marcia; but it shows that you are not a

manager. However, I'll explain. Monroe was struck with the picture, and

would have given a foolish price for it. So I said to him,--'Monroe,

don't be rash. If two connoisseurs like you and me bid against each

other for this landscape, other buyers will think there is something in

it, and the price will be run up to a figure neither of us can afford to

pay. Let me buy it and keep it a month or so, and then we'll agree on

the terms. I sha'n't be hard with you.' And I won't be. He shall have it

for a hundred, although I paid eighty-seven and odd."

"So you speculate, where you pretend to patronize Art?"

"Don't use harsh words, Sister Marcia. Half the difficulties in the

world come from a hasty application of terms."

"But I want the picture; and I didn't ask you to buy it merely to oblige

Mr. Greenleaf."

"True, sister, but he will paint others, and better ones, perhaps. I

will buy another in its place."

"And sell it when you get a good offer, I suppose."

"Sister Marcia, you evince a thoughtless disposition to trifle with--I

hope not to wound--my feelings. How do you suppose I am able to maintain

my position in society, to support Charles in his elegant idleness, to

supply all your wants, and to help carry on the many benevolent

enterprises in which I have become engaged, on the small amount of

property left us, and with the slender salary of fifteen hundred dollars

from the Insurance Office? If I had not some self-denial, some

management, you would find quite a different state of things."

"But I remember that you drew your last year's salary in a lump. You

must have had money from some source for current expenses meanwhile."

"Some few business transactions last year were fortunate. But I am poor,

quite poor; and nothing but a sense of duty impels me to give so much of

my time and means to aid the unfortunate and the destitute, and for the

promotion of education and the arts that beautify and adorn life."

His wits were probably "wool-gathering"; for the phrases which had been

so often conned for public occasions slipped off his tongue quite

unawares. His countenance changed at once when Marcia mischievously

applauded by clapping her hands and crying, "Hear!" He paused a moment,

seeming doubtful whether to make an angry reply; but his face

brightened, and he exclaimed,--

"You are a wicked tease, but I can't be offended with you."

"Bye-bye, Henry," she replied. "Some committee is probably waiting for

you." Then, as he was about closing the door, she added,--"I was going

to say, Henry, if your charities are not more expensive than your

patronage of Art, you might afford me that _moire antique_ and the set

of pearls I asked you for."

* * * * *

We will follow Mr. Sandford to the Insurance Office. It was only nine

o'clock, and the business of the day did not begin until ten. But the

morning hour was rarely unoccupied. As he sat in his arm-chair, reading

the morning papers, Mr. Monroe entered. He was a clerk in the commission

house of Lindsay and Company, in Milk Street,--a man of culture and

refined taste, as well as attentive to business affairs. With an active,

sanguine temperament, he had the good-humor and frankness that usually

belong to less ardent natures. Simple-hearted and straightforward, he

was yet as trustful and affectionate as a child. He was unmarried and

lived with his mother, her only child.

"Ah, Monroe," said Sandford, with cordiality, "you don't want the

picture yet? Let it remain as long as you can, and I'll consider the

favor when we settle."

"No,--I'm in no hurry about the picture. I have a matter of business I

wish to consult you about. My mother had a small property,--about ten

thousand dollars. Up to this time I haven't made it very profitable, and

I thought"--

Just then a visitor entered. The President of the Society for the

Reformation of Criminals came with a call for a public meeting.

"You know, my dear Sir," said the President, "that we don't expect you

to pay; we consider the calls made upon your purse; but we want your

name and influence."

Mr. Sandford signed the call, and made various inquiries concerning the

condition and prospects of the society. The President left with a smile

and a profusion of thanks. Before Mr. Sandford was fairly seated another

person came in. It was the Secretary of the Society for the Care of

Juvenile Offenders.

"We want to have a hearing before the city government," said he, "and we

have secured the aid of Mr. Greene Satchel to present the case. Won't

you give us your name to the petition, as one of the officers? No

expense to you; some wealthy friends will take care of that. We don't

desire to tax a man who lives on a salary, and especially one who

devotes so much of his time and money to charity."

"Thank you for your consideration," said Mr. Sandford, signing his name

in a fair round hand.

Once more the friends were left alone, and Monroe proceeded,--

"I was going on to say that perhaps you might know some chance for a

safe investment."

Mr. Sandford appeared thoughtful for a moment.

"Yes,--I think I may find a good opportunity; seven per cent., possibly

eight."

"Excellent!" said Monroe.

There was another interruption. A tall, stately person entered the

office, wearing a suit of rather antique fashion, apparently verging on

sixty years, yet with a clear, smooth skin, and a bright, steady eye. It

was the Honorable Charles Wyndham, the representative of an ancient

family, and beyond question one of the most eminent men in the city. Mr.

Sandford might have been secretly elated at the honor of this visit, but

he rose with a tranquil face and calmly bade Mr. Wyndham good morning.

"My young friend," began the great man, "I am happy to see you looking

so well this morning. I have not come to put any new burdens on your

patient shoulders; we all know your services and your sacrifices. This

time we have a little recompense,--if, indeed, acts of beneficence are

not their own reward. The Board are to have a social meeting at my house

to-night, to make arrangements for the anniversary; and we think a

frugal collation will not be amiss for those who have worked for the

Society so freely and faithfully."

Mr. Sandford softly rubbed his white hands and bowed with a deprecatory

smile.

"I know your modesty," said Mr. Wyndham, "and will spare you further

compliment. Your accounts are ready, I presume? I intend to propose to

the Board, that, as we have a surplus, you shall receive a substantial

sum for your disinterested services."

They were standing near together, leaning on a tall mahogany desk, and

the look of benevolent interest on one side, and of graceful humility on

the other, was touching to see. Mr. Sandford laid his hand softly on his

distinguished friend's shoulder, and begged him not to insist upon

payment for services he had been only too happy to render.

"We won't talk about that now; and I must not detain you longer from

business. _Good_ morning!" And with the stateliest of bows, and a most

gracious smile, the Honorable Mr. Wyndham retreated through the glass

door.

When Mr. Sandford had bowed the visitor out, he returned to Monroe with

an expression of weariness on his handsome face. "So many affairs to

think of! so many people to see! Really, it is becoming vexatious. I

believe I shall turn hunks, and get a reputation for downright

stinginess."

"But your visitors are pleasant people," said Monroe,--"and the last,

certainly, was a man whom most men think it an honor to know."

"You mean Wyndham. Oh, yes, Wyndham _is_ a good fellow; a little prosy

sometimes, but means well. We endure the Dons, you know, if they _are_

slow."

Monroe thought his friend hardly respectful to the head of the Wyndham

family, but set it down as an awkward attempt at being facetious.

"Well, about that money of yours?" said Sandford.

"I left it, as a loan on call, at Danforth's. But how do you propose to

invest it?"

"I haven't fully made up my mind. Perhaps it is best you should not

know. I will guaranty you eight per cent., and agree to return the

principal on thirty days' notice. So you can try, meanwhile, and see if

you can do better."

Monroe agreed to the proposal, and drew a check on the broker for the

amount, for which Sandford signed a note, payable thirty days after

presentation. The friends now separated, and Monroe went to his

warehouse.

Stockholders began to come to look over the morning papers, and chat

about the news, the stocks, and the degeneracy of the times. What a club

is to an idle man of fashion,--what a sewing-society is to a

scandal-loving woman,--what a billiard-room is to a man about

town,--what the Athenæum is to the sober and steadfast

bibliolater,--that is the Insurance Office to the retired merchant, bald

and spectacled, who wanders like a ghost among the scenes of his former

activity. The comfortable chairs, and in winter the social fires in open

grates,--the slow-going and respectable newspapers, the pleasant view of

State Street, and, above all, the authoritative disposition of public

affairs upon the soundest mercantile principles of profit and loss,--all

these constitute an attraction which no well-brought-up Bostonian, who

has money to buy shares, cares to resist, at least until the increasing

size of his buckskin shoes renders locomotion difficult.

To all these solid men Mr. Sandford gave a hearty good-morning, and a

frank, cheerful smile. They took up the journals and looked over the

telegraphic dispatches, thinking, as they were wont, that the old Vortex

was lucky, above all Companies, in its honest, affable, and intelligent

Secretary.

Mr. Sandford retired to his private room and looked hastily at his

morning letters; but his mind did not seem to be occupied with the

business before him. He rang the bell for the office-boy. "Tom," said

he, "go and ask Mr. Fletcher to step down here a minute." He mused after

the boy left, tapping his fingers on the table to the time of a familiar

air. "If I can keep Fletcher from dabbling in stocks, I shall make a

good thing of this. I shall keep a close watch on him. To manage men,

there is nothing like knowing how to go to work at them. ALL the fools

are jack-a-dandies, and one has only to find where the strings hang to

make them dance as he will. I have Fletcher fast. I heard a fellow

talking about taming a man, Rarey-fashion, by holding out a pole to him

with a bunch of flowers. Pooh! The best thing is a bit of paper with a

court seal at the corner, stuck on the end of a constable's staff."

Mr. Fletcher entered presently,--the office where he was employed being

only a few doors off. He was a slender young man, with strikingly

regular features and delicate complexion; his mobile mouth was covered

by a fringy moustache, and his small keen eyes were restless to a

painful degree. The sudden summons appeared to have flustered him; for

his eyes danced more than usual, giving him the startled and perplexed

look of a hunted animal at bay. He was speedily reassured by Sandford's

bland voice and encouraging smile.

"A new opening, Fletcher,--a 'pocket,' as the Californians call it. Is

there any chance to operate? Just look about. I have the funds ready.

Something safe, and fat, too."

"Plenty of chances to those who look for them," replied Fletcher. "The

men who are hard up are the best customers; they will stand a good slice

off; and if a man is sharp, he can deal as safely with them as with the

A 1s, who turn up their noses at seven per cent."

"You understand, I see."

"I think I ought. Papyrus, only yesterday, was asking if anything could

be done for him,--about fifteen hundred; offers Sandbag's note with only

thirty days to run. The note was of no use to _him_, because the banks

require two names, and his own isn't worth a straw. But Sandbag is

good."

"We'll take it. About a hundred off?"

Fletcher nodded.

"I've plenty more to invest, Fletcher. Let me know if you see any paper

worth buying."

Fletcher nodded again, but looked expectant, much like a dog (not

wishing to degrade him by the comparison) waiting with longing eyes

while his master eats his morning mutton-chop.

"Fletcher," said Sandford, "I'll make this an object to you. I don't

mind giving you five dollars, as soon as we have Papyrus's indorsement

on the note. And, speaking of the indorsement, let him sign his name,

and then bring me the note. I wish to put on the name of the person to

whose order it is to be payable."

"Then it is on the account"--

"Of whom it may concern," broke in Sandford. "Don't stand with your

mouth open. That is my affair."

"But if you pay me only five dollars"--

"That is so much clear gain to you. Do you suppose that we--my backer

and I--shall run the risk for nothing? Good morning! Attend to your own

affairs at Danforth's properly. Don't burn your fingers with any new

experiments. There's a crash coming and stocks will fall. Good morning!"

The Secretary looked relieved when Fletcher closed the door, and

speedily dispatched the necessary letters and orders for the Company.

Then leaving the affairs of the Vortex in the hands of his clerk, he

strolled out for his usual lunch. Wherever he walked, he was met with

smiles and greetings of respect. He turned into an alley, entered an

eating-house, and took his place at a table; he ordered and ate his

lunch, and then left, with a nod towards the counter. The landlord, who

began on credit, expected no pay from the man who procured him money

accommodations. No waiter had ever seen a sixpence from his purse. How

should a man be expected to pay, who spent his substance and his time so

freely in charity?

CHAPTER III.

CONTAINING SOME CONFESSIONS NOT INTENDED FOR THE PUBLIC EAR.

Miss Marcia Sandford, after breakfast, was sitting in her chamber with

her widowed sister-in-law, who had come to spend a few months with her

late husband's family. The widow no longer wore the roses of youth, but

was yet on friendly terms with Time; indeed, so quietly had their annual

settlements passed off, that it would have puzzled any one not in their

confidence to tell how the account stood. The simplicity of her dress,

the chastened look, and the sobriety of phrase, of which her recent

affliction was the cause, might have hinted at thirty-five; but when her

clear, placid eye was turned upon you, and you saw the delicate flush

deepening or vanishing upon a smooth cheek, and noted the changeful

expression that hovered like a spiritual presence around her mouth, it

would have been treason to think of a day beyond twenty. She had known

but little of Marcia, and that little had shown her only as a lover of

dress and of admiration, besides being capricious to a degree unusual

even in a spoiled favorite.

A musical _soirée_ was under consideration. Marcia was a proficient upon

the harp and piano, and, as she had heard that Mr. Greenleaf, the

handsome painter, as she called him, was a fine singer, she determined

to practise some operatic duets with him, that should move all her

musical friends to envy.

"You seem to have taken a strong liking to this Mr. Greenleaf, Marcia."

"Yes, Lydia," replied the beauty, "I do like him, exceedingly,--what I

have seen of him. He will do--for a month or so. People are frequently

quite charming at first, like fresh bouquets,--but dull and tame enough

when the dew is off."

"But you can't have a new admirer, as you have fresh flowers, every

day."

"That's true, and pity 'tis, 'tis true."

"What a female Bluebeard you are!"

"Wouldn't you, now, like to meet some new, delightful person every day?

Consider how prosaic a man is, after you know all about him."

"I always find something new in a man really worth knowing."

"Do you? I wish I could. I always look them through as I used to my

toys. I never cared for my 'crying babies,' after I found out what made

them squeak."

"I am afraid the comparison will hold out farther than you intended. You

were never satisfied with your toys until you had not only explored

their machinery, but smashed them into the bargain."

"But men stand it better than toys. If they get smashed, as you say,

they heal wonderfully. I sometimes think, that, like lobsters, they can

repair their injuries by new growths,--fresh claws, and fins, and

feelers."

"Complimentary, truly! but I notice that you don't speak of vital

organs."

"Hearts, you mean, I suppose. That is an obsolete idea,--a relic of

superstition."

"But how many of these broken idols have you thrown aside, Marcia? Have

you kept account?"

"Dear me! no! Why should I?"

"It would be interesting, I think, to a student of social statistics, to

know how many engagements there are to one marriage, how many offers to

one engagement, how many flirtations to one offer, and how many tender

advances to one flirtation."

"Oh, Lydia! Love and Arithmetic! they never went together. I leave all

calculations to my wise and busy brother. I like to wander like a

hummingbird, that keeps no account of the flowercups it has sipped out

of."

"Let us reckon. I can help you, perhaps. I have heard you talk of half a

dozen. There is Colonel Langford,--one."

"Handsome, proud, and shallow. Let him go!"

"There is Lieutenant Allen,--two."

"Fierce, impatient, and exacting. He can go also. I had as lief be loved

by a lion."

"Next is Mr. Lanman,--three."

"Wily, plausible, passionate, and treacherous. He is only a cat in a new

sphere of existence."

"Then there is Denims,--I am not sure about the order,--four."

"Rich, vain, and stupid;--there never was such a dolt."

"But you kept him for a longer time than usual."

"Yes, rather; but he was too dull to understand my ironical compliments,

or to resent my studied neglect."

"Jaunegant makes five."

"Oh, the precious crony of my brother Charles! The best specimen of the

dandy race. The man who gives so much love to himself and his clothes,

that he has none to spare for any one else. But, Lydia, this is tedious;

we shall never get through at this rate. Besides," with a

mock-sentimental air, "you have not been here long enough to know the

melancholy history,--to count the wrecks that are strewn along the

coast, where the Siren resorts. Let me take up the list. Corning, who

really loved me, (six,) and went to sea to cure the heart-ache. I heard

of him in State Street a month ago,--with a blue shirt and leather belt,

and chewing a piece of tobacco as large as his thumb. He seemed happy as

a king."

"I saw a kind of tobacco advertised as '_The Solace_';--the name was

given by some disappointed swain, I suppose."

"Probably," said Marcia, smiling. "Then there was Outrack, (seven,) who

was so furious at the refusal, that he immediately married the gay Miss

Flutter Budget, forty-five, short, stout, and fifty thousand

dollars,--he twenty-six, tall, slender, and some distant expectations. I

heard him, at a party, call her 'Dear'!"

"I don't think you get on any faster than I did. We shall have to finish

the tour of the portrait-gallery another day."

"You are not tired? I wanted to tell you of several more. Yet I don't

know why I should. I declare to you seriously, that I never before

mentioned the names of these persons in this way, nor referred to them

as rejected lovers."

"I have no doubt of it. It has seemed like a fresh, spontaneous

confession."

"There is some magic about you, Sister Lydia. You invite confidence; or

rather, you seem to be like one of those chemical agents that penetrate

everything; there's no resisting you. Don't protest. I know what you

would say. It isn't your curiosity. You are no Paulina Pry; if you were,

precious little you would get from me."

"But, Marcia, let me return a moment to what you were saying. Did the

reason never occur to you, why you so soon become tired of your

admirers? You see through them, you say. Is it not possible that a lady

who has the reputation of caprice,--a flirt, as the world is apt to call

her,--though ever so brilliant, witty, and accomplished, may not attract

the kind of men that can bear scrutiny, but only the butterfly race, fit

for a brief acquaintance? Believe me, Marcia, there is a reason for

everything, and, with all your beauty and fascination, you must yourself

have the element of constancy, to win the admiration of the best and

worthiest men."

"So, you are going to preach?" said Marcia, rather crestfallen.

"No, I don't preach. But what I see, I ought to tell you; I should not

be a good sister otherwise."

"I'll think about it. But now for the musical party. I mean to send for

Mr. Greenleaf, to practise some songs and duets. He is not a butterfly,

I am sure."

"But, Marcia, is it well, is it right, for you to try to fascinate this

new friend of yours, unless you feel something more than a transient

interest in him?"

"How can I tell what interest I shall feel in him, until I know him

better?"

"But you know his circumstances and his prospects. You are not the woman

to marry a poor painter. You have too many wants; or rather, you have

become accustomed to luxuries that now seem to be necessaries."

"True, I haven't the romance for love in a cottage. But a painter is not

necessarily a bad match; if he doesn't become rich, he may be

distinguished. And besides, no one knows what will happen from the

beginning of an acquaintance. We will enjoy the sunshine of to-day; and

if to-morrow brings a darker sky, we must console ourselves as we can."

"What an Epicurean! Well, Marcia, you are not a child; you must act for

yourself."

Marcia made no reply, but sat down to her desk to write a note; and her

sister-in-law soon after went to her own room.

During all this conversation, Mrs. Sandford was struck by the tone which

the beautiful coquette assumed. Her words were aptly chosen, her

sentences smoothly constructed; she never hesitated; and there was an

ever-present air of consciousness, that left no conviction of sincerity.

Whether she uttered sentiments of affection, or sharp criticism upon

character, there was the same level flow of language, the same nicely

modulated intonation. There was no flash of enthusiasm, none of those

outbursts in which the hearer feels sure that the heart has spoken. Mrs.

Sandford was thoroughly puzzled. Marcia had never been otherwise than

kind; in fact; she seemed to be studiously careful of the feelings of

others, except when her position as reigning belle made it necessary to

cut a dangler. This methodical speech and unruffled grace of manner

might be only the result of discipline. Truth and honesty _might_ exist

as well under this artificial exterior as in a more impulsive nature.

But the world generally thinks that whoever habitually wears a smiling

mask has some secret end to serve thereby. "I like this painter,

Greenleaf," she soliloquized, "and I mean to look out for him. I am

persuaded that Marcia would never marry him; and I think he is too

sensitive, too manly, to be a fit subject for her experiments."

CHAPTER IV.

CONCERNING CONSTANCY AND THE AFFINITIES.

"A Musical _soirée_? Famous, my boy!" said Easelmann, as he sat, smoking

as usual, in his fourth-story _atelier_ with Greenleaf, watching the sun

go down. "Making progress, I see. You have nothing to do; the affair

will take care of itself."

"What affair?"

"Don't be stupid (_puff_). Your affair with Miss Sandford (_puff_).

There's a wonderful charm in music (_puff_). Two such young people might

fall in love, to be sure, without singing together (_puff_). But music

is the true _aqua regia_; it dissolves all into its own essence. A piano

and a tenor voice will do more than a siege of months, though aided by a

battery of bouquets."

"How you run on! I have called twice,--once with you, and the second

time by the lady's invitation. Besides, I told you--indiscreetly, I am

afraid--that I am really engaged to be married."

"Oh, yes, I have not forgotten the touching story (_puff_); but we get

over all things, even such passions as yours. We are plants, that thrive

very well for a while in the pots we sprouted in, but after a time we

must have a change of soil."

"I don't think we outgrow affection, honor, truth."

"That is all very pretty; but our ideas of honor and truth are apt to

change."

"I don't believe you are half so bad a fellow, Easelmann, as you would

have me think. You utter abominable sentiments, but you behave as well

as other people--nearly."

"Thank you. But listen a moment. (_Laying down his pipe._) Do you have

the same tastes you had at eighteen? I don't refer to the bumpkins with

whom you played when a boy, and who, now that you have outgrown them,

look enviously askance at you. I don't care to dwell on your literary

tastes,--how you have outgrown Moore and Festus-Bailey, and are fast

getting through Byron. I won't pose you, by showing how your ideas in

Art have changed,--what new views you have of life, society;--but think

of your ideas of womanly, or rather, girlish beauty at different ages.

By Jove, I should like to see your innamoratas arranged in

chronological order!"

"It would be a curious and instructive spectacle."

"You may well say that! Let me sketch a few of them."

"I think I could do it better."

"No, every man thinks his own experience peculiar; but life has a

wonderful sameness, after all. Besides, you would flatter the portraits.

Not to begin too early, and without being particular about names, there

was, first, Amanda, aged fourteen; face circular, cheeks cranberry, eyes

hazel, hair brown and wavy, awkward when spoken to, and agreeable only

in an osculatory way. Now, being twenty-five, she is married, has two

children, is growing stout, and always refers to her lord and master as

'He,' never by any accident pronouncing his name. Second, Julia;

sixteen, flaxen-haired, lithe, not ungraceful, self-possessed, and

perhaps a little pert. She is unmarried; but, having fed her mind with

no more solid aliment than country gossip, no sensible man could talk to

her five minutes. Third, Laura; eighteen, black hair, with sharp

outlines on the temples, eyes heavily shaded and coquettishly managed,

jewelry more abundant than elegant, repeats poetry by the page, keeps a

scrap-book, and writes endless letters to her female friends. She is

still romantic, but has learned something from experience,--is not so

impressible as when you knew her. I won't stop to sketch the pale

poetess, nor the dancing hoyden, nor the sweet blue-eyed creature that

lisped, nor the mature and dangerously-charming widow that caused some

perturbations in your regular orbit.

"Now, my dear fellow," Easelmann continued, "you fancied that your whole

existence depended upon the hazel or the blue or the black eyes, in

turn; but at this time you could see their glances turned in rapture

upon your enemy, if you have one, without a pang."

"One would think you had just been reading Cowley's charming poem,

'Henrietta first possest.' But what is the moral to your entertaining

little romance? That love must always be transient?"

"Not necessarily, but generally. We are travelling at different rates of

progress and on different planes. Happy are the lovers who advance with

equal step, cultivating similar tastes, with agreeing theories of life

and its enjoyments!"

"Wise philosopher, how comes it, that, with so just an appreciation of

the true basis of a permanent attachment, you remain single? I see a

gray hair or two, not only on your head, but in that favorite moustache

of yours."

"Gray? Oh, yes! gray as a badger, but immortally young. As for marriage,

I'm rather past that. I had my chance; I lost it, and shall not throw

again."

Easelmann did not seem inclined to open this sealed book of his personal

history, and the friends were silent. Greenleaf at length broke the

pause.

"I acknowledge the justice of your ideas in their general application,

but in my own case they do not apply at all. I was not in my teens when

I went to Innisfield, but in the maturity of such faculties as I have.

Alice satisfies my ideal of a lovely, loving woman. She has

capabilities, taste, a thirst for improvement, and will advance in

everything to which I am led."

"I won't disturb your dreams, nor play the Mephistopheles, as you

sometimes call me. I am rather serious to-day. But here you are where

every faculty is stimulated, where you unconsciously draw in new ideas

with your daily breath. Alice remains in a country town, without

society, with few books, with no opportunity for culture in Art or in

the minor graces of society. You are not ready to marry; your ambition

forbids it, and your means will not allow it. And before the time comes

when you are ready to establish yourself, think what a difference there

may be between you! The thought is cruel, but worth your consideration

none the less.--But let us change the subject. What are you doing? Any

new orders?"

"Two new orders. One for a large picture from Mr. Sandford. The price

is not what it should be, but it will give me a living, and I am

thankful for any employment. I loathe idleness. I die, if I haven't

something to do."

"Mere uneasiness, my youthful friend! Be tranquil, and you will find

that laziness has its comforts. However, to-morrow let me see your

pictures. You lack a firmness and certainty of touch that nothing but

practice will give. But your forms are faithfully drawn, your eye for

color is sharp and true, and, what is more than all, you have the poetry

which informs, harmonizes, and crowns all."

"I am grateful for your friendly criticism," said Greenleaf, with a

sudden flush. "You know that people call you blunt, and that most of the

artists think you almost malicious in your severity; but you are the

only man who ever talks sincerely to me."

Easelmann noticed the emotion, and spoke abruptly,--

"Depend upon it, if I see anything faulty, you will know it; if you

think _that_ friendly, I am your friend. But look over there, where the

sunset clouds are reflected in the Back Bay. Now, if I should put those

tints of gold and salmon and crimson and purple, with those delicate

shades of apple-green, into a picture, the mob would say, 'What an

absurd fellow this painter is! Where did he find all that Joseph's coat

of colors?' The mob is a drove of asses, Greenleaf."

"Come, let us take our evening stroll."

"Have you seen Charbon, to-day?"

"No. But I should like to."

"We'll call for him."

"Yes, I rather like his brilliant silence."

"Next week, let us go to Nahant. I want you to try your hand on a coast

view. But what, what are you about? At that trumpery daguerreotype

again? Let me see the beauty,--that's a good boy!"

"No!"

"Then put it up. If you won't show it, don't aggravate a fellow in that

way."

[To be continued.]

SPIRITS IN PRISON.[3]

I.

O ye, who, prisoned in these festive rooms,

Lean at the windows for a breath of air,

Staring upon the darkness that o'erglooms

The heavens, and waiting for the stars to bare

Their glittering glories, veiled all night in cloud,

I know ye scorn the gas-lights and the feast!

I saw you leave the music and the crowd,

And turn unto the windows opening east;

I heard you sigh,--"When will the dawn's dull ashes

Kindle their fires behind yon fir-fringed height?

When will the prophet clouds with golden flashes

Unroll their mystic scrolls of crimson light?"

Fain would I come and sit beside you here,

And silent press your hands, and with you lean

Into the midnight, mingling hope and fear,

Or pining for the days that might have been!

II.

Are we not brothers? In the throng that fills

These strange enchanted rooms we met. One look

Told that we knew each other. Sudden thrills,

As of two lovers reading the same book,

Ran through our hurried grasp. But when we turned,

The scene around was smitten with a change:

The lamps with lurid fire-light flared and burned;

And through the wreaths and flowers,--oh, mockery strange!--

The prison-walls with ghastly horror frowned;

Scarce hidden by vine-leaves and clusters thick,

A grim cold iron grating closed around.

Then from our silken couches leaping quick,

We hurried past the dancers and the lights,

Nor heeded the entrancing music then,

Nor the fair women scattering delights

In flower-like flush of dress,--nor paused till when,

Leaning against our prison-bars, we gazed

Into the dark, and wondered where we were.

Speak to me, brothers, for ye stand amazed!

I come, your secret burthen here to share!

III.

I know not this mysterious land around.

Black giant trees loom up in form obscure.

Odors of gardens and of woods profound

Blow in from out the darkness, fresh and pure.

Faint sounds of friendly voices come and go,

That seem to lure us forth into the air;

But whence they come perchance no ear may know,

And where they go perchance no foot may dare.

IV.

A realm of shadowy forms out yonder lies.

Beauty and Power, fair dreams pursued by Fate,

Wheel in unceasing vortex; and the skies

Flash with strange lights that bear no name nor date.

Sweet winds are breathing that just fan the hair,

And fitful gusts that howl against the bars,

And harp-like songs, and groans of wild despair,

And angry clouds that chase the trembling stars.

And on the iron grating the hot cheek

We press, and forth into the night we call,

And thrust our arms, that, manacled and weak,

Clutch but the empty air, and powerless fall.

V.

And yet, O brothers! we, who cannot share

This life of lies, this stifling day in night,--

Know we not well, that, if we did but dare

Break from our cell, and trust our manhood's might,

When once our feet should venture on these wilds,

The night would prove a sweet, still solitude,--

Not dark for eyes that, earnest as a child's,

Strove in the chaos but for truth and good?

And oh, sweet liberty, though wizard gleams

And elfin shapes should frighten or allure,

To find the pathway of our hopes and dreams,--

By toil to sweeten what we should endure,--

To journey on, though but a little way,

Towards the morning and the fir-clad heights,--

To follow the sweet voices, till the day

Bloomed in its flush of colors and of lights,--

To look back on the valley and the prison,

The windows smouldering still with midnight fires,

And know the joy and triumph to have risen

Out of that falsehood into new desires!

O friends! it may be hard our chains to burst,

To scale the ramparts, pass the sentinels;

Dark is the night; but we are not the first

Who break from the enchanter's evil spells.

Though they pursue us with their scoffs and darts,

Though they allure us with their siren song,

Trust we alone the light within our hearts!

Forth to the air! Freedom will dawn ere long!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 3: 1 Peter, iii. 19.]

PUNCH.

Not inebriating, but exhilarating punch; not punch of which the more a

man imbibes the worse he is, but punch of which the deeper the quaffings

the better the effects; not a compound of acids and sweets, hot water

and fire-water, to steal away the brains,--but a finer mixture of

subtler elements, conducive to mental and moral health; not, in a word,

punch, the drink, but "Punch," the wise wag, the genial philosopher,

with his brevity of stature, goodly-conditioned paunch, next-to-nothing

legs, protuberant back, bill-hook nose, and twinkling eyes,--to speak

respectfully, Mr. Punch, attended by the solemnly-sagacious,

ubiquitously-versatile "Toby," together with the invisible company of

skirmishers of the quill and pencil, producing in his name those

ever-welcome sheets, flying forth the world over, with hebdomadal

punctuality. Of the ingredients and salutary influence of this Punch--an

institution and power of the age, no more to be overlooked among the

forces of the nineteenth century than is the steam-engine or the

magnetic telegraph--we propose to speak;--not, however, because of the

comicality of the theme; for the fun that surrounds, permeates, and

saturates it would hardly move us to discourse of it here, if it had not

higher claims to attention. To take Punch only for a clown is to

_mis_take him egregiously. Joker as he is, he himself is no joke. The

fool's-cap he wears does not prove him to be a fool; and even when he

touches the tip of his nasal organ with his fore-finger and winks so

irresistibly, meaning lurks in his facetious features, to assure you he

does not jest without a purpose, or play the buffoon only to coin

sixpences. The fact, then, we propose to illustrate is this:--that Punch

is a teacher and philanthropist, a lover of truth, a despiser of cant,

an advocate of right, a hater of shams,--a hale, hearty old gentleman,

whose notions are not dyspeptic croakings, but healthful opinions of

good digestion, and who, though he wear motley and indulge in drolleries

without measure, is full of sense and sensibility.