DANTE.

Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom,

With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes,

Stern thoughts and awful from thy thoughts arise,

Like Farinata from his fiery tomb.

Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom;

Yet in thy heart what human sympathies.

What soft compassion glows, as in the skies

The tender stars their clouded lamps relume!

Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks,

By Fra Hilario in his diocese,

As up the convent wall, in golden streaks,

The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease.

And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks,

Thy voice along the cloister whispers, "Peace!"

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

RANDOLPH OF ROANOKE.

O Mother Earth! upon thy lap

Thy weary ones receiving,

And o'er there, silent as a dream,

Thy grassy mantle weaving,

Fold softly in thy long embrace

That heart so worn and broken,

And cool its pulse of fire beneath

Thy shadows old and oaken.

Shut out from him the bitter word

And serpent hiss of scorning;

Nor let the storms of yesterday

Disturb his quiet morning.

Breathe over him forgetfulness

Of all save deeds of kindness,

And, save to smiles of grateful eyes,

Press down his lids in blindness.

There, where with living ear and eye,

He heard Potomac's flowing,

And, through his tall ancestral trees

Saw autumn's sunset glowing,

He sleeps--still looking to the West,

Beneath the dark wood shadow,

As if he still would see the sun

Sink down on wave and meadow.

Bard, Sage, and Tribune--in himself

All moods of mind contrasting--

The tenderest wail of human woe,

The scorn like lightning blasting;

The pathos which from rival eyes

Unwilling tears could summon,

The stinging taunt, the fiery burst

Of hatred scarcely human!

Mirth, sparkling like a diamond shower,

From lips of life-long sadness;

Clear picturings of majestic thought

Upon a ground of madness;

And over all Romance and Song

A classic beauty throwing,

And laureled Clio at his side

Her storied pages showing.

All parties feared him: each in turn

Beheld its schemes disjointed,

As right or left his fatal glance

And spectral finger pointed.

Sworn foe of cant, he smote it down

With trenchant wit unsparing,

And, mocking, rent with ruthless hand

The robe Pretense was wearing.

Too honest or too proud to feign

A love he never cherished,

Beyond Virginia's border line

His patriotism perished.

While others hailed in distant skies

Our eagle's dusky pinion,

He only saw the mountain bird

Stoop o'er his Old Dominion.

Still through each change of fortune strange,

Racked nerve, and brain all burning,

His loving faith in mother-land

Knew never shade of turning;

By Britain's lakes, by Neva's wave,

Whatever sky was o'er him,

He heard her rivers' rushing sound,

Her blue peaks rose before him.

He held his slaves, yet made withal

No false and vain pretenses,

Nor paid a lying priest to seek

For scriptural defenses.

His harshest words of proud rebuke,

His bitterest taunt and scorning,

Fell fire-like on the Northern brow

That bent to him in fawning.

He held his slaves, yet kept the while

His reverence for the Human,

In the dark vassals of his will

He saw but man and woman.

No hunter of God's outraged poor

His Roanoke valley entered;

No trader in the souls of men

Across his threshold ventured.

And when the old and wearied man

Lay down for his last sleeping,

And at his side, a slave no more,

His brother-man stood weeping,

His latest thought, his latest breath,

To freedom's duty giving,

With failing tongue and trembling hand

The dying blest the living.

O! never bore his ancient State

A truer son or braver;

None trampling with a calmer scorn

On foreign hate or favor.

He knew her faults, yet never stooped

His proud and manly feeling

To poor excuses of the wrong

Or meanness of concealing.

But none beheld with clearer eye,

The plague-spot o'er her spreading,

None heard more sure the steps of Doom

Along her future treading.

For her as for himself he spake,

When, his gaunt frame up-bracing,

He traced with dying hand "REMORSE!"

And perished in the tracing.

As from the grave where Henry sleeps,

From Vernon's weeping willow,

And from the grassy pall which hides

The Sage of Monticello,

So from the leaf-strewn burial-stone

Of Randolph's lowly dwelling,

Virginia! o'er thy land of slaves

A warning voice is swelling.

And hark! from thy deserted fields

Are sadder warnings spoken,

From quenched hearths, where thy exiled sons

Their household gods have broken.

The curse is on thee--wolves for men,

And briers for corn-sheaves giving!

O! more than all thy dead renown

Were now one hero living.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

OLD IRONSIDES.

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!

Long has it waved on high,

And many an eye has danced to see

That banner in the sky;

Beneath it rung the battle shout,

And burst the cannon's roar;

The meteor of the ocean air

Shall sweep the clouds no more.

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,

Where knelt the vanquished foe,

When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,

And waves were white below,

No more shall feel the victor's tread,

Or know the conquered knee,--

The harpies of the shore shall pluck

The eagle of the sea.

O, better that her shattered hulk

Should sink beneath the wave;

Her thunders shook the mighty deep,

And there should be her grave;

Nail to the mast her holy flag,

Set every threadbare sail,

And give her to the god of storms,

The lightning and the gale!

THE LAST LEAF.

I saw him once before,

As he passed by the door,

And again

The pavement stones resound,

As he totters o'er the ground

With his cane.

They say that in his prime,

Ere the pruning-knife of time

Cut him down,

Not a better man was found

By the Crier on his round

Through the town.

But now he walks the streets,

And he looks at all he meets

Sad and wan,

And he shakes his feeble head,

That it seems as if he said,

"They are gone."

The mossy marbles rest

On the lips that he has pressed

In their bloom,

And the names he loved to hear

Have been carved for many a year

On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said--

Poor old lady, she is dead

Long ago--

That he had a Roman nose,

And his cheek was like a rose

In the snow.

But now his nose is thin,

And it rests upon his chin

Like a staff,

And a crook is in his back,

And a melancholy crack

In his laugh.

I know it is a sin

For me to sit and grin

At him here;

But the old three-cornered hat,

And the breeches, and all that,

Are so queer!

And if I should live to be

The last leaf upon the tree

In the spring,

Let them smile, as I do now,

At the old forsaken bough

Where I cling.

MY AUNT.

My aunt! my dear, unmarried aunt!

Long years have o'er her flown;

Yet still she strains the aching clasp

That binds her virgin zone;

I know it hurts her, though she looks

As cheerful as she can;

Her waist is ampler than her life,

For life is but a span.

My aunt! my poor deluded aunt!

Her hair is almost gray;

Why will she train that winter curl

In such a spring-like way?

How can she lay her glasses down,

And say she reads as well,

When, through a double convex lens,

She just makes out to spell?

Her father--grandpapa! forgive

This erring lip its smiles--

Vowed she should make the finest girl

Within a hundred miles;

He sent her to a stylish school;

'Twas in her thirteenth June;

And with her, as the rules required,

"Two towels and a spoon."

They braced my aunt against a board,

To make her straight and tall;

They laced her up, they starved her down,

To make her light and small;

They pinched her feet, they singed her hair,

They screwed it up with pins;

O, never mortal suffered more

In penance for her sins.

So when my precious aunt was done,

My grandsire brought her back

(By daylight, lest some rabid youth

Might follow on the track);

"Ah!" said my grandsire, as he shook

Some powder in his pan,

"What could this lovely creature do

Against a desperate man?"

Alas! nor chariot, nor barouche,

Nor bandit cavalcade,

Tore from the trembling father's arms

His all-accomplished maid.

For her how happy had it been!

And Heaven had spared to me

To see one sad ungathered rose

On my ancestral tree.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

TO HELEN.

Helen, thy beauty is to me

Like those Nicean barks of yore,

That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,

The weary, wayworn wanderer bore

To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam,

Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,

Thy Naiad airs have brought me home

To the glory that was Greece

And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche

How statue-like I see thee stand,

The agate lamp within thy hand!

Ah! Psyche, from the regions which

Are Holy Land!

TO ONE IN PARADISE.

Thou wast that all to me, love,

For which my soul did pine:

A green isle in the sea, love,

A fountain and a shrine

All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,

And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last!

Ah, starry hope! that did'st arise

But to be overcast!

A voice from out the future cries

On! on! But o'er the past

(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies,

Mute, motionless, aghast!

For, alas! alas! with me

The light of life is o'er.

"No more--no more--no more--"

(Such language holds the solemn sea

To the sands upon the shore)

Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,

Or the stricken eagle soar!

And all my days are trances,

And all my nightly dreams

Are where thy dark eye glances,

And where thy footstep gleams,--

In what ethereal dances,

By what eternal streams!

FROM "THE FALL OP THE HOUSE OF USHER."

At the termination of this sentence I started, and for a moment paused;

for it appeared to me (although I at once concluded that my excited

fancy had deceived me)--it appeared to me that, from some very remote

portion of the mansion there came, indistinctly, to my ears what might

have been, in its exact similarity of character, the echo (but a

stifled and dull one certainly) of the very cracking and ripping sound

which Sir Launcelot had so particularly described. It was, beyond

doubt, the coincidence alone which had arrested my attention; for amid

the rattling of the sashes of the casements, and, the ordinary

commingled noises of the still-increasing storm, the sound, in itself,

had nothing, surely, which should have interested or disturbed me. I

continued the story.

* * * * * * * *

Here again I paused abruptly, and now with a feeling of wild

amazement--for there could be no doubt whatever that, in this instance,

I did actually hear (although from what direction it proceeded I found

it impossible to say) a low and apparently distant, but harsh,

protracted, and most unusual screaming or grating sound, the exact

counterpart of what my fancy had already conjured up for the dragon's

unnatural shriek, as described by the romancer. Oppressed, as I

certainly was, upon the occurrence of this second and most

extraordinary coincidence, by a thousand conflicting sensations, in

which wonder and extreme terror were predominant, I still retained

sufficient presence of mind to avoid exciting, by any observation, the

sensitive nervousness of my companion. I was by no means certain that

he had noticed the sounds in question; although, assuredly, a strange

alteration had, during the last few minutes, taken place in his

demeanor. From a position fronting my own he had gradually brought

round his chair so as to sit with his face to the door of the chamber,

and thus I could but partially perceive his features, although I saw

that his lips trembled as if he were murmuring inaudibly. His head had

dropped upon his breast; yet I knew that he was not asleep, from the

wide and rigid opening of the eye as I caught a glance of it in

profile. The motion of his body, too, was at variance with this idea;

for he rocked from side to side with a gentle yet constant and uniform

sway. Having rapidly taken notice of all this I resumed the narrative

of Sir Launcelot.

* * * * * * * *

No sooner had these syllables passed my lips than--as if a shield of

brass had indeed, at the moment, fallen heavily upon a floor of

silver--I became aware of a distinct, hollow, metallic, and clangorous,

yet apparently muffled, reverberation. Completely unnerved, I leaped

to my feet; but the measured, rocking movement of Usher was

undisturbed. I rushed to the chair in which he sat. His eyes were

bent fixedly before him, and throughout his whole countenance there

reigned a stony rigidity. But as I placed my hand upon his shoulder

there came a strong shudder over his whole person; a sickly smile

quivered about his lips; and I saw that he spoke in a low, hurried, and

gibbering manner, as if unconscious of my presence. Bending closely

over him, I at length drank in the hideous import of his words.

"Not hear it? Yes, I hear it, and _have_ heard it.

Long--long--long--many minutes, many hours, many days have I heard

it--yet I _dared_ not--O, pity me, miserable wretch that I am!--I

_dared_ not--I dared not speak! _We have put her living in the tomb_!

Said I not that my senses were acute? I _now_ tell you that I heard

her first feeble movements in the hollow coffin. I heard them many,

many days ago--yet I dared not--I _dared not speak_! And

now--to-night--Ethelred--ha! ha!--the breaking of the hermit's door,

and the death-cry of the dragon, and the clangor of the shield!--say,

rather, the rending of her coffin, and the grating of the iron hinges

of her prison, and her struggles within the coppered archway of the

vault! O, whither shall I fly? Will she not be here anon? Is she not

hurrying to upbraid me for my haste? Have I not heard her footstep on

the stair? Do I not distinguish that heavy and horrible beating of her

heart? Madman!"--here he sprang furiously to his feet and shrieked out

his syllables, as if in the effort he were giving up his

soul--"_Madman! I tell you that she now stands without the door_!"

As if in the superhuman energy of his utterance there had been found

the potency of a spell, the huge antique panels to which the speaker

pointed threw slowly back, upon the instant, their ponderous and ebony

jaws. It was the work of the rushing gust; but then without those

doors there _did_ stand the lofty and enshrouded figure of the Lady

Madeline of Usher. There was blood upon her white robes, and the

evidence of some bitter struggle upon every portion of her emaciated

frame. For a moment she remained trembling and reeling to and fro upon

the threshold--then, with a low, moaning cry, fell heavily inward upon

the person of her brother, and, in her violent and now final

death-agonies, bore him to the floor a corpse and a victim to the

terrors he had anticipated.

From that chamber and from that mansion I fled aghast. The storm was

still abroad in all its wrath as I found myself crossing the old

causeway. Suddenly there shot along the path a wild light, and I

turned to see whence a gleam so unusual could have issued, for the vast

house and its shadows were alone behind me. The radiance was that; of

the full, setting, and blood-red moon, which now shone vividly through

that once barely discernible fissure of which I have before spoken as

extending from the roof of the building, in a zigzag direction, to the

base. While I gazed this fissure rapidly widened; there came a fierce

breath of the whirlwind--the entire orb of the satellite burst at once

upon my sight--my brain reeled as I saw the mighty walls rushing

asunder--there was a long, tumultuous, shouting sound like the voice of

a thousand waters--and the deep and dark tarn at my feet closed

sullenly and silently over the fragments of the House of Usher.

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.

UNSEEN SPIRITS.

The shadows lay along Broadway,

'Twas near the twilight tide--

And slowly there a lady fair

Was walking in her pride.

Alone walked she; but, viewlessly,

Walked spirits at her side.

Peace charmed the street beneath her feet,

And Honor charmed the air;

And all astir looked kind on her,

And called her good as fair--

For all God ever gave to her

She kept with chary care.

She kept with care her beauties rare

From lovers warm and true;

For her heart was cold to all but gold,

And the rich came not to woo,

But honored well are charms to sell,

If priests the selling do.

Now walking there was one more fair--

A slight girl, lily-pale;

And she had unseen company

To make the spirit quail--

'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn,

And nothing could avail.

No mercy now can clear her brow

For this world's peace to pray;

For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,

Her woman's heart gave way!

But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven

By man is cursed alway.

NAHANT.

Here we are, then, in the "Swallow's Cave." The floor descends by a

gentle declivity to the sea, and from the long dark cleft stretching

outward you look forth upon the Atlantic--the shore of Ireland the

first _terra firma_ in the path of your eye. Here is a dark pool, left

by the retreating tide for a refrigerator; and with the champagne in

the midst we will recline about it like the soft Asiatics of whom we

learned pleasure in the East, and drink to the small-featured and

purple-lipped "Mignons" of Syria--those fine-limbed and fiery slaves

adorable as peris, and by turns languishing and stormy, whom you buy

for a pinch of piastres (say 5L 5s.) in sunny Damascus. Your drowsy

Circassian, faint and dreamy, or your crockery Georgian--fit dolls for

the sensual Turk--is, to him who would buy _soul_, dear at a penny the

hecatomb.

We recline, as it were, in an ebon pyramid with a hundred feet of floor

and sixty of wall, and the fourth side open to the sky. The light

comes in mellow and dim, and the sharp edges of the rocky portal seem

let into the pearly heaven. The tide is at half-ebb, and the advancing

and retreating waves, which at first just lifted the fringe of crimson

dulse at the lip of the cavern, now dash their spray-pearls on the rock

below, the "tenth" surge alone rallying as if in scorn of its

retreating fellow, and, like the chieftain of Culloden Moor, rushing

back singly to the contest. And now that the waters reach the entrance

no more, come forward and look on the sea! The swell lifts! Would you

not think the bases of the earth rising beneath it? It falls! Would

you not think the foundation of the deep had given way? A plain, broad

enough for the navies of the world to ride at large, heaves up evenly

and steadily as if it would lie against the sky, rests a moment

spell-bound in its place, and falls again as far--the respiration of a

sleeping child not more regular and full of slumber. It is only on the

shore that it chafes. Blessed emblem! it is at peace with itself! The

rocks war with a nature so unlike their own, and the hoarse din of

their border onsets resounds through the caverns they have rent open;

but beyond, in the calm bosom of the ocean, what heavenly dignity! what

godlike unconsciousness of alarm! I did not think we should stumble on

such a moral in the cave!

By the deeper bass of its hoarse organ the sea is now playing upon its

lowest stops, and the tide is down. Hear how it rushes in beneath the

rocks, broken and stilled in its tortuous way, till it ends with a

washing and dull hiss among the sea-weed, and, like a myriad of small

tinkling bells, the dripping from the crags is audible. There is fine

music in the sea!

And now the beach is bare. The cave begins to cool and darken, and the

first gold tint of sunset is stealing into the sky, and the sea looks

of a changing opal, green, purple, and white, as if its floor were

paved with pearl, and the changing light struck up through the waters.

And there heaves a ship into the horizon like a white-winged bird,

lying with dark breast on the waves, abandoned of the sea-breeze within

sight of port, and repelled even by the spicy breath that comes with a

welcome off the shore. She comes from "Merry England." She is

freighted with more than merchandise. The home-sick exile will gaze on

her snowy sail as she sets in with the morning breeze, and bless it,

for the wind that first filled it on its way swept through the green

valley of his home! What links of human affection brings she over the

sea? How much comes in her that is not in her "bill of lading," yet

worth to the heart that is waiting for it a thousand times the purchase

of her whole venture!

_Mais montons nous_! I hear the small hoofs of Thalaba; my stanhope

waits; we will leave this half bottle of champagne, that "remainder

biscuit," and the echoes of our philosophy to the Naiads who have lent

us their drawing-room. Undine, or Egeria! Lurly, or Arethusa!

whatever thou art called, nymph of this shadowy cave! adieu!

Slowly, Thalaba! Tread gingerly down this rocky descent! So! Here we

are on the floor of the vasty deep! What a glorious race-course! The

polished and printless sand spreads away before you as far as the eye

can see, the surf comes in below breast-high ere it breaks and the

white fringe of the sliding wave shoots up the beach, but leaves room

for the marching of a Persian phalanx on the sands it has deserted. O,

how noiselessly runs the wheel, and how dreamily we glide along,

feeling our motion but in the resistance of the wind and in the

trout-like pull of the ribands by the excited animal before us. Mark

the color of the sand! White at high-water mark, and thence deepening

to a silvery gray as the water has evaporated less, a slab of Egyptian

granite in the obelisk of St. Peter's not more polished and

unimpressible. Shell or rock, weed or quicksand, there is none; and,

mar or deface its bright surface as you will, it is ever beaten down

anew, and washed even of the dust of the foot of man by the returning

sea. You may write upon its fine-grained face with a crow-quill--you

may course over its dazzling expanse with a troop of chariots.

Most wondrous and beautiful of all, within twenty yards of the surf, or

for an hour after the tide has left the sand, it holds the water

without losing its firmness, and is like a gay mirror, bright as the

bosom of the sea. (By your leave, Thalaba!) And now lean over the

dasher and see those small fetlocks striking up from beneath--the

flying mane, the thoroughbred action, the small and expressive head, as

perfect in the reflection as in the reality; like Wordsworth's swan, he

"_Trots_ double, _horse_ and shadow."

You would swear you were skimming the surface of the sea; and the

delusion is more complete as the white foam of the "tenth wave" skims

in beneath wheel and hoof, and you urge on with the treacherous element

gliding away visibly beneath you.

HENRY DAVID THOREAU.

THE WINTER WOODS.

[From _Excursions_.]

There is a slumbering subterranean fire in nature which never goes out,

and which no cold can chill. It finally melts the great snow, and in

January or July is only buried under a thicker or thinner covering. In

the coldest day it flows somewhere, and the snow melts around every

tree. This field of winter rye which sprouted late in the fall and now

speedily dissolves the snow is where the fire is very thinly covered.

We feel warmed by it. In the winter warmth stands for all virtue, and

we resort in thought to a trickling rill, with its bare stones shining

in the sun, and to warm springs in the woods, with as much eagerness as

rabbits and robins. The steam which rises from swamps and pools is as

dear and domestic as that of our own kettle. What fire could ever

equal the sunshine of a winter's day, when the meadow-mice come out by

the wall-sides, and the chickadee lisps in the defiles of the wood?

The warmth comes directly from the sun, and is not radiated from the

earth as in summer; and when we feel his beams on our backs as we are

treading some snowy dell we are grateful as for a special kindness, and

bless the sun which has followed us into that by-place.

This subterranean fire has its altar in each man's breast, for in the

coldest day, and on the bleakest hill, the traveler cherishes a warmer

fire within the folds of his cloak than is kindled on any hearth. A

healthy man, indeed, is the complement of the seasons, and in winter

summer is in his heart. There is the South. Thither have all birds

and insects migrated, and around the warm springs in his breast are

gathered the robin and the lark.

At length, having reached the edge of the woods and shut out the

gadding town, we enter within their covert as we go under the roof of a

cottage, and cross its threshold, all ceiled and banked up with snow.

They are glad and warm still, and as genial and cheery in winter as in

summer. As we stand in the midst of the pines, in the flickering and

checkered light which straggles but little way into their maze, we

wonder if the towns have ever heard their simple story. It seems to us

that no traveler has ever explored them, and notwithstanding the

wonders which science is elsewhere revealing every day, who would not

like to hear their annals? Our humble villages in the plain are their

contribution. We borrow from the forest the boards which shelter and

the sticks which warm us. How important is their evergreen to the

winter, that portion of the summer which does not fade, the permanent

year, the unwithered grass. Thus simply and with little expense of

altitude is the surface of the earth diversified. What would human

life be without forests, those natural cities? From the tops of

mountains they appear like smooth-shaven lawns; yet whither shall we

walk but in this taller grass?

In this glade covered with bushes of a year's growth see how the

silvery dust lies on every seared leaf and twig, deposited in such

infinite and luxurious forms as by their very variety atone for the

absence of color. Observe the tiny tracks of mice around every stem,

and the triangular tracks of the rabbit. A pure elastic heaven hangs

over all, as if the impurities of the summer sky, refined and shrunk by

the chaste winter's cold, had been winnowed by the heavens upon the

earth.

Mature confounds her summer distinctions at this season. The heavens

seem to be nearer the earth. The elements are less reserved and

distinct. Water turns to ice; rain to snow. The day is but a

Scandinavian night. The winter is an arctic summer.

How much more living is the life that is in nature, the furred life

which still survives the stinging nights, and, from amidst fields and

woods covered with frost and snow, sees the sun rise!

"The foodless wilds

Pour forth their brown inhabitants."

The gray squirrel and rabbit are brisk and playful in the remote glens,

even on the morning of the cold Friday. Here is our Lapland and

Labrador; and for our Esquimaux and Knistenaux, Dog-ribbed Indians,

Novazemblaites, and Spitzbergeners, are there not the ice-cutter and

wood-chopper, the fox, musk-rat, and mink?

Still, in the midst of the arctic day we may trace the summer to its

retreats and sympathize with some contemporary life. Stretched over

the brooks, in the midst of the frost-bound meadows, we may observe the

submarine cottages of the caddice-worms, the larvae of the Plicipennes.

Their small cylindrical cases built around themselves, composed of

flags, sticks, grass, and withered leaves, shells and pebbles, inform

and color like the wrecks which strew the bottom, now drifting along

over the pebbly bottom, now whirling in tiny eddies and dashing down

steep falls, or sweeping rapidly along with the current, or else

swaying to and fro at the end of some grass-blade or root. Anon they

will leave their sunken habitations, and, crawling up the stems of

plants or to the surface like gnats, as perfect insects henceforth,

flutter over the surface of the water or sacrifice their short lives in

the flame of our candle at evening. Down yonder little glen the shrubs

are drooping under their burden, and the red alder-berries contrast

with the white ground. Here are the marks of a myriad feet which have

already been abroad. The sun rises as proudly over such a glen as over

the valley of the Seine or Tiber, and it seems the residence of a pure

and self-subsistent valor such as they never witnessed, which never

knew defeat or fear. Here reign the simplicity and purity of a

primitive age and a health and hope far remote from towns and cities.

Standing quite alone, far in the forest, while the wind is shaking down

snow from the trees, and leaving the only human tracks behind us, we

find our reflections of a richer variety than the life of cities. The

chickadee and nut-hatch are more inspiring society than statesmen and

philosophers, and we shall return to these last as to more vulgar

companions. In this lonely glen, with the brook draining the slopes,

its creased ice and crystals of all hues, where the spruces and

hemlocks stand up on either side, and the rush and sere wild oats in

the rivulet itself, our lives are more serene and worthy to contemplate.

As the day advances, the heat of the sun is reflected by the

hill-sides, and we hear a faint but sweet music where flows the rill

released from its fetters, and the icicles are melting on the trees,

and the nut-hatch and partridge are heard and seen. The south wind

melts the snow at noon, and the bare ground appears with its withered

grass and leaves, and we are invigorated by the perfume which exhales

from it as by the scent of strong meats.

Let us go into this deserted woodman's hut, and see how he has passed

the long winter nights and the short and stormy days. For here man has

lived under this south hill-side, and it seems a civilized and public

spot. We have such associations as when the traveler stands by the

ruins of Palmyra or Hecatompolis. Singing birds and flowers perchance

have begun to appear here, for flowers as well as weeds follow in the

footsteps of man. These hemlocks whispered over his head, these

hickory logs were his fuel, and these pitch-pine roots kindled his

fire; yonder fuming rill in the hollow, whose thin and airy vapor still

ascends as busily as ever, though he is far off now, was his well.

These hemlock boughs, and the straw upon this raised platform, were his

bed, and this broken dish held his drink. But he has not been here

this season, for the phoebes built their nest upon this shelf last

summer. I find some embers left, as if he had but just gone out, where

he baked his pot of beans; and while at evening he smoked his pipe,

whose stemless bowl lies in the ashes, chatted with his only companion,

if perchance he had any, about the depth of the snow on the morrow,

already falling fast and thick without, or disputed whether the last

sound was the screech of an owl or the creak of a bough, or imagination

only; and through this broad chimney-throat, in the late winter

evening, ere he stretched himself upon the straw, he looked up to learn

the progress of the storm, and, seeing the bright stars of Cassiopeia's

chair shining brightly down upon him, fell contentedly asleep.

See how many traces from which we may learn the chopper's history.

From this stump we may guess the sharpness of his ax, and from the

slope of the stroke, on which side he stood, and whether he cut down

the tree without going round it or changing hands; and from the flexure

of the splinters, we may know which way it fell. This one chip

contains inscribed on it the whole history of the wood-chopper and of

the world. On this scrap of paper, which held his sugar or salt

perchance, or was the wadding of his gun, sitting on a log in the

forest, with what interest we read the tattle of cities, of those

larger huts, empty and to let, like this, in High Streets and Broadways.

WALT WHITMAN.

THE MIRACLES OF NATURE.

[From _Leaves of Grass_.]

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,

Every inch of space is a miracle,

Every square yard of the surface of the earth

is spread with the same,

Every cubic foot of the interior swarms with the same.

* * * * * * * *

To me the sea is a continual miracle,

The fishes that swim--the rocks--the motion

of the waves--the ships with men in them,

What stranger miracles are there?

* * * * * * * *

I was thinking the day most splendid,

till I saw what the not-day exhibited;

I was thinking this globe enough,

till there tumbled upon me myriads of other globes;

O, how plainly I see now that this life cannot exhibit

all to me--as the day cannot;

O, I see that I am to wait for what will be exhibited by death.

* * * * * * * *

O Death!

O, the beautiful touch of Death, soothing and benumbing

a few moments, for reasons.

* * * * * * * *

The earth never tires,

The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first--

Nature is rude and incomprehensible at first;

Be not discouraged--keep on--there are divine things,

well enveloped;

I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful

than words can tell.

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!

O captain! my captain! our fearful trip is done;

The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won;

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:

But O heart! heart! heart!

Leave you not the little spot

Where on the deck my captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

O captain! my captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills;

For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding;

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

O captain! dear father!

This arm I push beneath you;

It is some dream that on the deck

You've fallen cold and dead.

My captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;

But the ship, the ship is anchored safe, its voyage closed and done;

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!

But I, with silent tread,

Walk the spot my captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

THE COURTIN'.

Zekle crep' up, quite unbeknown,

An' peeked in thru the winder,

An' there sot Huldy all alone,

'ith no one nigh to hender.

Agin the chimbly crooknecks hung,

An' in amongst 'em rusted

The ole queen's arm thet Gran'ther Young

Fetched back from Concord busted.

The wannut logs shot sparkles out

Toward the pootiest, bless her!

An' leetle fires danced all about

The chiny on the dresser.

The very room, coz she wuz in,

Looked warm from floor to ceilin',

An' she looked full ez rosy agin

Ez th' apples she wuz peelin'.

She heerd a foot an' knowed it, tu,

A-raspin' on the scraper;

All ways to once her feelin's new

Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin' o' l'itered on the mat,

Some doubtfle o' the seekle;

His heart kep' goin' pitypat,

But hern went pity Zekle.

THE PIOUS EDITOR'S CREED.

[From _Biglow Papers_.]

I du believe in Freedom's cause,

Ez fur away as Paris is;

I love to see her stick her claws

In them infarnal Pharisees;

It's wal enough agin a king

To dror resolves an' triggers--

But libbaty's a kind o' thing

Thet don't agree with niggers.

I du believe the people want

A tax on teas an' coffees,

Thet nothin' aint extravygunt,

Pervidin' I'm in office;

Fer I hev loved my country sence

My eye-teeth filled their sockets,

An' Uncle Sam I reverence--

Partic'larly his pockets.

I du believe in any plan

O' levyin' the taxes,

Ez long ez, like a lumberman,

I git jest wut I axes;

I go free-trade thru thick an' thin,

Because it kind o' rouses

The folks to vote--an' keeps us in

Our quiet custom-houses.

* * * * * * * *

I du believe with all my soul

In the gret Press's freedom,

To pint the people to the goal

An' in the traces lead 'em;

Palsied the arm thet forges jokes

At my fat contracts squintin',

An' withered be the nose that pokes

Inter the gov'ment printin'!

I du believe thet I should give

Wut's his'n unto Caesar,

Fer it's by him I move an' live,

Frum him my bread and cheese air;

I du believe thet all o' me

Doth bear his souperscription,--

Will, conscience, honor, honesty,

An' things o' thet description.

I du believe in prayer an' praise

To him thet hez the grantin'

O' jobs,--in every thin' that pays,

But most of all in CANTIN';

This doth my cup with marcies fill,

This lays all thought o' sin to rest,--

I _don't_ believe in princerple,

But, O, I _du_ in interest.

I du believe in bein' this

Or thet, ez it may happen

One way or t'other hendiest is

To ketch the people nappin';

It aint by princerples nor men

My preudent course is steadied,--

I scent wich pays the best; an' then

Go into it baldheaded.

I du believe thet holdin' slaves

Comes nat'ral tu a Presidunt,

Let 'lone the rowdedow it saves

To hev a wal-broke precedunt;

Fer any office, small or gret,

I couldn't ax with no face,

Without I'd ben, thru dry an' wet,

Th' unrizzost kind o' doughface.

I du believe wutever trash

'll keep the people in blindness,--

Thet we the Mexicuns can thrash

Right inter brotherly kindness;

Thet bombshells, grape, an' powder 'n' ball

Air good-will's strongest magnets;

Thet peace, to make it stick at all,

Must be druv in with bagnets.

In short, I firmly du believe

In Humbug generally,

Fer it's a thing that I perceive

To hev a solid vally;

This heth my faithful shepherd ben,

In pasturs sweet heth led me,

An' this 'll keep the people green

To feed ez they hev fed me.

EDWARD EVERETT HALE.

[From _The Man Without a Country_.[1]]

The rule adopted on board the ships on which I have met "the man

without a country" was, I think, transmitted from the beginning. No

mess liked to have him permanently, because his presence cut off all

talk of home or of the prospect of return, of politics or letters, of

peace or of war--cut off more than half the talk men liked to have at

sea. But it was always thought too hard that he should never meet the

rest of us except to touch hats, and we finally sank into one system.

He was not permitted to talk with the men unless an officer was by.

With officers he had unrestrained intercourse, as far as he and they

chose. But he grew shy, though he had favorites; I was one. Then the

captain always asked him to dinner on Monday. Every mess in succession

took up the invitation in its turn. According to the size of the ship,

you had him at your mess more or less often at dinner. His breakfast

he ate in his own state-room--he always had a state-room--which was

where a sentinel or somebody on the watch could see the door. And

whatever else he ate or drank, he ate or drank alone. Sometimes, when

the marines or sailors had any special jollification, they were

permitted to invite "Plain-Buttons," as they called him. Then Nolan

was sent with some officer, and the men were forbidden to speak of home

while he was there. I believe the theory was that the sight of his

punishment did them good. They called him "Plain-Buttons" because,

while he always chose to wear a regulation army uniform, he was not

permitted to wear the army button, for the reason that it bore either

the initials or the insignia of the country he had disowned.

I remember soon after I joined the navy I was on shore with some of the

older officers from our ship and from the _Brandywine_, which we had

met at Alexandria. We had leave to make a party and go up to Cairo and

the Pyramids. As we jogged along (you went on donkeys then), some of

the gentlemen (we boys called them "Dons," but the phrase was long

since changed) fell to talking about Nolan, and some one told the

system which was adopted from the first about his books and other

reading. As he was almost never permitted to go on shore, even though

the vessel lay in port for months, his time at the best hung heavy; and

every body was permitted to lend him books, if they were not published

in America, and made no allusion to it. These were common enough in

the old days, when people in the other hemisphere talked of the United

States as little as we do of Paraguay. He had almost all the foreign

papers that came into the ship, sooner or later; only somebody must go

over them first, and cut out any advertisement or stray paragraph that

alluded to America. This was a little cruel sometimes, when the back

of what was cut might be as innocent as Hesiod. Right in the midst of

one of Napoleon's battles, or one of Canning's speeches, poor Nolan

would find a great hole, because on the back of the page of that paper

there had been an advertisement of a packet for New York, or a scrap

from the President's message. I say this was the first time I ever

heard of this plan, which afterward I had enough and more than enough

to do with. I remember it, because poor Phillips, who was of the

party, as soon as the allusion to reading was made, told a story of

something which happened at the Cape of Good Hope on Nolan's first

voyage; and it is the only thing I ever knew of that voyage. They had

touched at the Cape, and had done the civil thing with the English

admiral and the fleet, and then, leaving for a long cruise up the

Indian Ocean, Phillips had borrowed a lot of English books from an

officer, which, in those days, as indeed in these, was quite a

windfall. Among them, as the devil would order, was the _Lay of the

Last Minstrel_, which they had all of them heard of, but which most of

them had never seen. I think it could not have been published long.

Well, nobody thought there could be any risk of any thing national in

that, though Phillips swore old Shaw had cut out the "Tempest" from

Shakespeare before he let Nolan have it, because he said "the Bermudas

ought to be ours, and, by Jove, should be one day." So Nolan was

permitted to join the circle one afternoon when a lot of them sat on

deck smoking and reading aloud. People do not do such things so often

now; but when I was young we got rid of a great deal of time so. Well,

so it happened that in his turn Nolan took the book and read to the

others; and he read very well, as I know. Nobody in the circle knew a

line of the poem, only it was all magic and border chivalry, and was

ten thousand years ago. Poor Nolan read steadily through the fifth

canto, stopped a minute and drank something, and then began without a

thought of what was coming:

"Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,

Who never to himself hath said"--

It seemed impossible to us that any body ever heard this for the first

time; but all these fellows did then, and poor Nolan himself went on,

still unconsciously or mechanically:

"This is my own, my native land!"

Then they all saw something was to pay; but he expected to get through,

I suppose, turned a little pale, but plunged on:

"Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,

As home his footsteps he hath turned

From wandering on a foreign strand?--

If such there breathe, go, mark him well."

By this time the men were all beside themselves, wishing there was any

way to make him turn over two pages; but he had not quite presence of

mind for that; he gagged a little, colored crimson, and staggered on:

"For him no minstrel raptures swell;

High though his titles, proud his name,

Boundless his wealth as wish can claim,

Despite these titles, power, and pelf,

The wretch, concentered all in self;"--

and here the poor fellow choked, could not go on, but started up, swung

the book into the sea, vanished into his state-room. "And by Jove,"

said Phillips, "we did not see him for two months again. And I had to

make up some beggarly story to that English surgeon why I did not

return his Walter Scott to him."

[1]See page 195.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

[From _Marco Bozzaris_.]

Come to the bridal-chamber, Death!

Come to the mother's when she feels

For the first time her first-born's breath;

Come when the blessed seals

That close the pestilence are broke,

And crowded cities wail its stroke;

Come in consumption's ghastly form,

The earthquake shock, the ocean-storm;

Come when the heart beats high and warm,

With banquet-song, and dance, and wine:

And thou art terrible--the tear,

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier;

And all we know, or dream, or fear

Of agony, are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free,

Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word;

And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be.

Come, when his task of fame is wrought--

Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought--

Come in her crowning hour--and then

Thy sunken eye's unearthly light

To him is welcome as the sight

Of sky and stars to prisoned men;

Thy grasp is welcome as the hand

Of brother in a foreign land;

Thy summons welcome as the cry

That told the Indian isles were nigh

To the world-seeking Genoese,

When the land-wind, from woods of palm,

And orange-groves, and fields of balm,

Blew o'er the Haytian seas.

Bozzaris! with the storied brave

Greece nurtured in her glory's time,

Rest thee--there is no prouder grave,

Even in her own proud clime.

She wore no funeral weeds for thee,

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume,

Like torn branch from death's leafless tree

In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,

The heartless luxury of the tomb;

But she remembers thee as one

Long loved, and for a season gone;

For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed,

Her marble wrought, her music breathed;

For thee she rings the birthday bells;

Of thee her babes' first lisping tells;

For thine her evening prayer is said,

At palace couch and cottage bed;

Her soldier, closing with the foe,

Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;

His plighted maiden, when she fears

For him, the joy of her young years,

Thinks of thy fate and checks her tears.

And she, the mother of thy boys,

Though in her eye and faded cheek

Is read the grief she will not speak,

The memory of her buried joys,

And even she who gave thee birth,

Will by their pilgrim-circled hearth

Talk of thy doom without a sigh:

For thou art Freedom's now and Fame's,

One of the few, the immortal names,

That were not born to die.

ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.

Green be the turf above thee,

Friend of my better days!

None knew thee but to love thee,

Nor named thee but to praise.

Tears fell, when thou wert dying,

From eyes unused to weep,

And long where thou art lying

Will tears the cold turf steep.

When hearts, whose truth was proven

Like thine, are laid in earth,

There should a wreath be woven

To tell the world their worth;

And I, who woke each morrow

To clasp thy hand in mine,

Who shared thy joy and sorrow,

Whose weal and woe were thine--

It should be mine to braid it

Around thy faded brow;

But I've in vain essayed it,

And feel I cannot now.

While memory bids me weep thee,

Nor thoughts nor words are free,

The grief is fixed too deeply

That mourns a man like thee.

CHARLES FARRAR BROWNE.

[From _Lecture on the Mormons_.]

Brother Kimball is a gay and festive cuss, of some seventy summers, or

some'er's there about. He has one thousand head of cattle and a

hundred head of wives. He says they are awful eaters.

Mr. Kimball had a son, a lovely young man, who was married to ten

interesting wives. But one day while he was absent from home these ten

wives went out walking with a handsome young man, which so enraged Mr.

Kimball's son--which made Mr. Kimball'a son so jealous--that he shot

himself with a horse-pistol.

The doctor who attended him--a very scientific man--informed me that

the bullet entered the parallelogram of his diaphragmatic thorax,

superinducing hemorrhage in the outer cuticle of his basilicon

thaumaturgist. It killed him. I should have thought it would.

(_Soft Music_.)

I hope this sad end will be a warning to all young wives who go out

walking with handsome young men. Mr. Kimball's son is now no more. He

sleeps beneath the cypress, the myrtle, and the willow. The music is a

dirge by the eminent pianist for Mr. Kimball's son. He died by request.

I regret to say that efforts were made to make a Mormon of me while I

was in Utah.

It was leap-year when I was there, and seventeen young widows, the

wives of a deceased Mormon, offered me their hearts and hands. I

called on them one day, and, taking their soft white hands in mine,

which made eighteen hands altogether, I found them in tears, and I

said, "Why is this thus? What is the reason of this thusness?"

They hove a sigh--seventeen sighs of different size. They said:

"O, soon thou wilt be gonested away!"

I told them that when I got ready to leave a place I wentested.

They said, "Doth not like us?"

I said, "I doth--I doth."

I also said, "I hope your intentions are honorable, as I am a lone

child, my parents being far--far away."

Then they said, "Wilt not marry us?"

I said, "O, no, it cannot was!"

Again they asked me to marry them, and again I declined, when they

cried,

"O, cruel man! this is too much! O, too much!"

I told them that it was on account of the muchness that I

declined. . . .

(_Pointing to Panorama_)

A more cheerful view of the desert.

The wild snow-storms have left us and we have thrown our wolf-skin

overcoats aside. Certain tribes of far-western Indians bury their

distinguished dead by placing them high in air and covering them with

valuable furs. That is a very fair representation of those mid-air

tombs. Those animals are horses. I know they are, because my artist

says so. I had the picture two years before I discovered the fact.

The artist came to me about six months ago and said, "It is useless to

disguise it from you any longer, they are horses."

It was while crossing this desert that I was surrounded by a band of

Ute Indians. They were splendidly mounted. They were dressed in

beaver-skins, and they were armed with rifles, knives, and pistols.

What could I do? What could a poor old orphan do? I'm a brave man.

The day before the battle of Bull's Run I stood in the highway while

the bullets--those dreadful messengers of death--were passing all

around me thickly--in wagons--on their way to the battle-field. But

there were too many of these Injuns. There were forty of them, and

only one of me, and so I said:

"Great chief, I surrender."

His name was Wocky-bocky. He dismounted and approached me. I saw his

tomahawk glisten in the morning sunlight. Fire was in his eye.

Wocky-bocky came very close

(_Pointing to Panorama_)

to me and seized me by the hair of my head. He mingled his swarthy

fingers with my golden tresses, and he rubbed his dreadful tomahawk

across my lily-white face. He said:

"Torsha arrah darrah mishky bookshean!"

I told him he was right.

Wocky-bocky again rubbed his tomahawk across my face, and said:

"Wink-ho-loo-boo!"

Says I, "Mr. Wocky-bocky," says I, "Wocky, I have thought so for years,

and so's all our family."

He told me I must go to the tent of the Strong Heart and eat raw dog.

It don't agree with mo. I prefer simple food. I prefer pork-pie,

because then I know what I'm eating. But as raw dog was all they

proposed to give to me I had to eat it or starve. So at the expiration

of two days I seized a tin plate and went to the chief's daughter, and

I said to her in a silvery voice--in a kind of German-silvery voice--I

said:

"Sweet child of the forest, the pale-face wants his dog."

There was nothing but his paws. I had paused too long--which reminds

me that time passes--a way which time has. I was told in my youth to

seize opportunity. I once tried to seize one. He was rich; he had

diamonds on. As I seized him he knocked me down. Since then I have

learned that he who seizes opportunity sees the penitentiary.

SAMUEL LANGHORNE CLEMENS.

THE JUMPING FROG OF CALAVERAS COUNTY.

"Well, there was a feller here once by the name of Jim Smiley in the

winter of '49, or may be it was the spring of '50--I don't recollect

exactly, somehow, though what makes me think it was one or the other is

because I remember the big flume warn't finished when he first come to

the camp. But any way, he was the curiousest man about, always betting

on anything that turned up you ever see, if he could get any body to

bet on the other side; and if he couldn't he'd change sides. Any way

that suited the other side would suit _him_--any way just so's he got a

bet _he_ was satisfied. But still he was lucky, uncommon lucky; he

most always came out winner. He was always ready and laying for a

chance. There couldn't be no solit'ry thing mentioned but that

feller'd offer to bet on it and take any side you please, as I was just

telling you. If there was a horse-race you'd find him flush or you'd

find him busted at the end of it. If there was a dog-fight, he'd bet

on it; if there was a cat-fight, he'd bet on it; if there was a

chicken-fight, he'd bet on it. Why, if there was two birds setting on

a fence, he would bet you which one would fly first. Or if there was a

camp-meeting, he would be there reg'lar to bet on Parson Walker, which

he judged to be the best exhorter about here, and so he was, too, and a

good man. If he even see a straddle-bug start to go anywheres he would

bet you how long it would take him to get to--to wherever he was going

to; and if you took him up he would follow that straddle-bug to Mexico

but what he would find out where he was bound for and how long he was

on the road. Lots of the boys here has seen that Smiley, and can tell

you about him. Why, it never made no difference to _him_, he'd bet

_any_ thing--the dangdest feller. Parson Walker's wife laid very sick

once for a good while, and it seemed as if they warn't going to save

her; but one morning he come in and Smiley up and asked him how she

was, and he said she was consid'able better--thank the Lord for his

inf'nit mercy!--and coming on so smart that, with the blessing of

Providence, she'd get well yet; and Smiley, before he thought, says,

'Well, I'll resk two-and-a-half she don't, any way.'"

* * * * * * * *

"Well, this yer Smiley had rat-terriers, and chicken-cocks, and

tom-cats, and all them kind of things till you couldn't rest, and you

couldn't fetch nothing for him to bet on but he'd match you. He

ketched a frog one day and look him home, and said he cal'lated to

educate him, and so he never done nothing for three months but set in

his back-yard and learn that frog to jump. And you bet you he _did_

learn him, too. He'd give him a little punch behind, and the next

minute you'd see that frog whirling in the air like a doughnut--see him

turn one summerset, or may be a couple, if he got a good start, and

come down flat-footed and all right, like a cat. He got him up so in

the matter of ketching flies, and kep' him in practice so constant,

that he'd nail a fly every time as fur as he could see him. Smiley

said all a frog wanted was education and he could do 'most any thing,

and I believe him. Why, I've seen him set Dan'l Webster down here on

this floor--Dan'l Webster was the name of the frog--and sing out,

'Flies, Dan'l, flies!' and quicker'n you could wink he'd spring

straight up and snake a fly off'n the counter there and flop down on

the floor ag'in as solid as a gob of mud, and fall to scratching the

side of his head with his hind foot as indifferent as if he hadn't no

idea he'd been doin' any more'n any frog might do. You never see a

frog so modest and straightfor'ard as he was, for all he was so gifted.

And when it come to fair and square jumping on a dead level he could

get over more ground at one straddle than any animal of his breed you

ever see. Jumping on a dead level was his strong suit, you understand,

and when it come to that, Smiley would ante up money on him, as long as

he had a red. Smiley was monstrous proud of his frog, and well he

might be, for fellers that had traveled and been every-wheres all said

he laid over any frog that ever _they_ see.

"Well, Smiley kep' the beast in a little lattice-box, and he used to

fetch him down-town sometimes and lay for a bet. One day a feller--a

stranger in the camp he was--come acrost him with his box and says:

"'What might it be that you've got in the box?'

"And Smiley says, sorter indifferent like, 'It might be a parrot, or it

might be a canary, may be, but it ain't--it's only just a frog.'

"And the feller took it, and looked at it careful, and turned it round

this way and that, and says, 'H'm--so 'tis. Well, what's _he_ good

for?'

"'Well,' Smiley says, easy and careless, 'he's good enough for _one_

thing, I should judge--he can outjump any frog in Calaveras County.'

"The feller took the box again and took another long, particular look

and give it back to Smiley, and says, very deliberate; 'Well,' he says,

'I don't see no p'ints about that frog that's any better'n any other

frog.'

"'May be you don't,' Smiley says. 'May be you understand frogs, and

may be you don't understand 'em; may be you've had experience, and may

be you aint only a amature, as it were. Anyways, I've got my opinion,

and I'll resk forty dollars that he can outjump any frog in Calaveras

County.'

"And the feller studied a minute, and then says, kinder sad like,

"'Well, I'm only a stranger-here, and I aint got no frog; but if I had

a frog I'd bet you!'

"And then Smiley says, 'That's all right--that's all right; if you'll

hold my box a minute I'll go and get you a frog.' And so the feller

took the box, and put up his forty dollars along with Smiley's, and set

down to wait.

"So he set there a good while, thinking and thinking to hisself; and

then he got the frog out and pried his mouth open, and took a teaspoon

and filled him full of quail-shot--filled him pretty near up to his

chin--and set him on the floor. Smiley, he went to the swamp and

slopped around in the mud for a long time, and finally he ketched a

frog, and fetched him in, and give him to this feller, and says, 'Now,

if you're ready, set him along-side of Dan'l, with his forepaws just

even with Dan'l, and I'll give the word.' Then he says,

'One--two--three--_git_!' and him and the feller touched up the frogs

from behind, and the new frog hopped off lively, but Dan'l give a

heave, and hysted up his shoulders--so--like a Frenchman, but it warn't

no use--he couldn't budge; he was planted as solid as a church, and

wouldn't no more stir than if he was anchored out. Smiley was a good

deal surprised, and he was disgusted too, but he didn't have no idea

what the matter was, of course.

"The feller took the money and started away; but when he was going out

at the door he sorter jerked his thumb over his shoulder--so--at Dan'l,

and says again, very deliberate, 'Well,' he says, 'I don't see no

p'ints about that frog that's any better'n any other frog.'

"Smiley, he stood scratching his head and looking down at Dan'l a long

time; and at last he says, 'I do wonder what in the nation that frog

throwed off for. I wonder if there aint something the matter with

him--he 'pears to look mighty baggy, somehow.' And he ketched Dan'l by

the nap of the neck, and hefted him, and says, 'Why, blame my cats if

he don't weigh five pound!' and turned him upside down, and he belched

out a double handful of shot. And then he see how it was, and he was

the maddest man. He set the frog down and took out after the feller,

but he never ketched him."

INDEX.

_An Index to the American Authors and Writings

and the Principal American Periodicals mentioned

in this Volume_.

Abraham Lincoln, 143.

Adams and Liberty, 60.

Adams, John, 49.

Adams, J. Q., 72, 85.

Adams, Samuel, 43, 44.

After-Dinner Poem, 135.

After the Funeral, 142.

Age of Reason, The, 51-53, 60.

Ages, The, 153.

Alcott, A. B., 93, 104.

Aldrich, T. B., 170, 197.

Algerine Captive, The, 63.

Algic Researches, 130.

Alhambra, The, 74.

All Quiet Along the Potomac, 184.

Alnwick Castle, 81.

Alsop, Richard, 55, 56.

American, The, 206.

American Civil War, The, 182.

American Conflict, The, 182.

American Flag, The, 80.

American Note-Books, 95, 114, 116, 119, 128.

American Scholar, The, 93, 104, 123.

Ames, Fisher, 50, 51.

Among My Books, 143.

Anabel Lee, 165.

Anarchiad, The, 55.

Army Life in a Black Regiment, 186.

Army of the Potomac, The, 183.

Art of Book-Making, The, 77.

"Artemus Ward," 188, 189-193, 194.

Arthur Mervyn, 63, 65.

At Teague Poteet's, 203.

Atlantic Monthly, The, 136, 143, 150, 151, 185, 186, 195, 197, 208.

Atlantis, 169.

Auf Wiedersehen, 142.

Autobiography, Franklin's, 28, 38, 39, 40, 73.

Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, The, 132, 136, 137.

Autumn, 125.

Backwoodsman, The, 72.

Ballad of the Oysterman, 133.

Ballads and Other Poems, 126.

Bancroft, George, 123, 138, 145, 146.

Barbara Frietchie, 158.

Barlow, Joel, 51, 52, 55-58.

Battle Hymn of the Republic, 183.

Battle of the Kegs, 59.

Battlefield, The, 154.

Bay Fight, The, 184.

Bay Psalm Book, The, 21.

Bedouin Song, 172.

Beecher, H. W., 175, 176.

Beecher, Lyman, 98, 175.

Beers, Mrs. E. L., 184.

Beleaguered City, The, 126, 129.

Belfry of Bruges, The, 126, 127.

Beverly, Robert, 17.

Biglow Papers, The, 139-142, 159, 188.

"Bill Nye," 193.

Black Cat, The, 166.

Black Fox of Salmon River, The, 157.

Blair, James, 14.

Blithedale Romance, The, 95, 118, 172, 209.

Bloody Tenent of Persecution, The, 22, 23.

Blue and the Gray, The, 184.

Boker, G. H., 197.

Bostonians, The, 209.

Boys, The, 134.

Bracebridge Hall, 75, 76, 187.

Bradford's Journal, 21, 24, 25, 31, 33.

Brahma, 105, 109.

Brainard, J. G. C., 156, 157, 175.

Brick Moon, The, 196.

Bridal of Pennacook, The, 157, 159.

Bridge, The, 129.

Broken Heart, The, 77.

Brown, C. B., 63-65.

Browne, C. F. (See "Artemus Ward.")

Brownell, H. H., 184, 185.

Bryant, W. C., 68, 80, 124, 125, 133, 151-155, 162, 169.

Buccaneer, The, 89.

Building of the Ship, The, 127.

Bundle of Letters, A, 206.

Burnett, Mrs. F. H., 205.

Bushnell, Horace, 99.

Busy-Body, The, 38, 53, 74.

Butler, W. A., 170.

Byrd, Wm., 16, 17.

Cable, G. W., 203.

Calhoun, J. C., 46, 86.

Cambridge Thirty Years Ago, 123.

Cape Cod, 111.

Capture of Fugitive Slaves, 140.

Cary, Alice, 173.

Cary, Phoebe, 173.

Cask of Amontillado, The, 166.

Cassandra Southwick, 159.

Cathedral, The, 144.

Cecil Dreeme, 185.

Century Magazine, The, 150, 183, 197.

Chambered Nautilus, The, 135.

Chance Acquaintance, A, 208.

Channing, W. E., 73, 90-92, 93, 97-100, 106.

Channing, W. E., Jr., 106, 110, 119.

Channing, W. H., 106.

Chapel of the Hermits, The, 158.

Character of Milton, The, 91.

Charleston, 184.

Children of Adam, 177.

Choate, Rufus, 89, 90.

Christian Examiner, The, 91.

Circular Letters, by Otis and Quincy, 44.

City in the Sea, The, 162.

Clara Howard, 63.

Clari, 84.

Clarke, J. F., 105, 106.

Clay, Henry, 86.

Clemens, S. L. (See "Mark Twain.")

Columbiad, The, 56, 57.

Common Sense, 51.

Companions of Columbus, 74.

Condensed Novels, 200.

Conduct of Life, The, 107.

Confederate States of America, The, 182.

Conquest of Canaan, 57.

Conquest of Granada, 73, 74, 78.

Conquest of Mexico, 145.

Conquest of Peru, 145.

Conspiracy of Pontiac, The, 147.

Constitution and the Union, The, 87.

Constitution of the United States, The, 45, 85.

Contentment, 85.

Contrast, The, 63.

Conversations on the Gospels, 104.

Conversations on Some of the Old Poets, 143.

Cooke, J. E., 169.

Cooper, J. F., 61, 71, 73, 81-84, 89, 107, 130, 147, 168, 204.

Coral Grove, The, 175.

Cotton, John, 22, 23, 28, 29.

Count Frontenac and New France, 147.

Courtin', The, 141, 188.

Courtship of Miles Standish, The, 26.

Cow Chase, The, 59.

Cranch, C.P., 95, 106.

Crime against Kansas, The, 149

Crisis, The, 51.

Croaker Papers, The, 81.

Culprit Fay, The, 80.

Curtis, G. W., 95, 197.

Daisy Miller, 206.

Dana, C. A., 95, 106, 151.

Dana, R. H., 68, 89.

Danbury News Man, 59, 189.

Dante, Longfellow's, 131.

Davis, Jefferson, 182.

Day is Done, The, 128.

Day of Doom, The, 34.

Death of the Flowers, The, 153, 154.

Declaration of Independence, The, 45, 59, 85.

Deerslayer, The, 83, 84.

Democratic Vistas, 180.

Derby, G. H., 190.

Descent into the Maelstrom, 166.

Deserted Road, The, 173.

Dial, The, 93, 98, 105, 106.

Dialogue Between Franklin and the Gout, 39.

Diamond Lens, The, 186.

Discourse of the Plantation of Virginia, A, 12.

Dolph Heyliger, 75.

Domain of Arnheim, The, 166.

Dorchester Giant, The, 132.

Drake, J. R., 80, 81, 89.

Draper, J. W., 182.

Dream Life, 175.

Drifting, 173.

Driving Home the Cows, 184.

Drum Taps, 180.

Dutchman's Fireside, The, 79.

Dwight, J. S., 95, 100, 106.

Dwight, Theodore, 55, 56.

Dwight, Timothy, 55, 57, 58.

Early Spring in Massachusetts, 111.

Echo, The, 56.

Echo Club, The, 172.

Edgar Huntley, 63, 65.

Edith Linsey, 170.

Edwards, Jonathan, 35-37, 58, 91, 97, 99.

Eggleston, Edward, 202.

Elevator, The, 63, 210.

Eliot, John, 21, 23.

Elsie Venner, 137.

Emerson, Charles, 106.

Emerson, R. W., 88, 93, 96-113, 119, 122, 123,

128, 129, 138, 151, 154, 160, 179.

Endicott's Red Cross, 25, 118.

English Note-Books, 119.

English Traits, 103, 109.

Ephemerae, 176.

Epilogue to Cato, 60.

Eternal Goodness, 158.

Ethan Brand, 117.

Europeans, The, 206, 207.

Evangeline, 129, 130.

Evening Wind, The, 153.

Everett, Edward, 89, 90, 133, 138, 189.

Excelsior, 127.

Excursions, 111.

Expediency of the Federal Constitution, 48.

Eyes and Ears, 176.

F. Smith, 170.

Fable for Critics, A, 105, 142, 144.

Facts in the case of M. Valdemar, The, 164.

Fall of the House of Usher, The, 166.

Familists' Hymn, The, 25.

Fanshawe, 116.

Farewell Address, Washington's, 49.

Faust, Taylor's, 172.

Federalist, The, 48, 49.

Ferdinand and Isabella, 123, 145.

Final Judgment, The, 35.

Finch, F. M., 184.

Fire of Driftwood, The, 128.

Fireside Travels, 123.

Fitz Adam's Story, 141.

Flint, Timothy, 72.

Flood of Years, The, 155.

Footpath, The, 142.

Footsteps of Angels, 126.

Foregone Conclusion, A, 207.

Forest Hymn, 152.

Fortune of the Republic, 107.

Foster, S. C., 173, 174.

France and England in North America, 147.

Franklin, Ben., 28, 37, 40, 52, 53, 73, 74.

Freedom of the Will, 35.

French Poets and Novelists, 205.

Freneau, Philip, 60-62.

Fuller, Margaret, 93, 95, 99, 100, 105, 106, 109, 119, 131.

Galaxy Magazine, The, 197.

Garrison, W. L., 26, 87, 147, 156, 157, 174.

Garrison of Cape Ann, The, 32.

Geography of the Mississippi Valley, 72.

Georgia Spec, The, 63.

Ghost Ball at Congress Hall, The, 170.

Give Me the Old, 170.

Godey's Lady's Book, 150, 160.

Godfrey, Thomas, 63.

Gold Bug, The, 163.

Golden Legend, The, 130.

Good News from Virginia, 18.

Good Word for Winter, A, 143.

Goodrich, S. G., 69, 72, 116.

Graham's Magazine, 150, 160, 162, 164, 171.

Grandfather's Chair, 32.

Grandissimes, The, 203.

Greeley, Horace, 95, 171, 182.

Green River, 153.

Greene, A. G., 85.

Greenfleld Hill, 58.

Guardian Angel, The, 137, 138.

Hail, Columbia! 59, 60, 80.

Hale, E. E., 122, 164, 195, 196.

Halleck, F. G., 80, 81, 89, 109.

Halpine, C. G., 186.

Hamilton, Alexander, 48, 49, 51, 87.

Hannah Thurston, 172.

Hans Breitmann Ballads, 202.

Hans Pfaall, 163.

Harbinger, The, 94, 95.

Harper's Monthly Magazine, 150, 151, 197.

Harris, J. C., 202.

Harte, F. B., 193, 198-202.

Hasty Pudding, 57.

Haunted Palace, The, 165.

Hawthorne, Julian, 118.

Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 9, 18, 25, 32, 56, 63,

93, 95, 105, 106, 108, 114-120, 124, 128,

129, 137, 138, 150, 160, 166, 172, 182, 185,

187, 188, 204, 205, 209.

Hay, John, 201, 202.

Health, A, 85.

Heathen Chinee, The, 200.

Hedge, F. H., 95.

Height of the Ridiculous, The, 132.

Henry, Patrick, 43, 44, 48.

Hiawatha, 61, 130.

Higginson, T. W., 75, 95, 105, 186.

His Level Best, 195.

History of New England, Winthrop's, 24-27.

History of Plymouth Plantation, Bradford's, 24, 25.

History of the Dividing Line, 16, 17.

History of the United Netherlands, 146.

History of the United States, Bancroft's, 123, 146;

Higginson's, 75.

History of Virginia, Beverly's, 17; Smith's, 15; Stith's, 17.

Hoffman, C. F., 170.

Holland, J. G., 197.

Holmes, O. W., 29, 85, 93, 94, 122, 123, 131-138,

141, 151, 153, 160, 183, 186, 187, 188.

Home, Sweet Home, 84.

Homesick in Heaven, 135.

Hooker, Thomas, 28, 30, 31, 99.

Hoosier Schoolmaster, The, 202.

Hopkins, Lemuel, 55.

Hopkinson, Francis, 59.

Hopkinson, Joseph, 59.

Horse-Shoe Robinson, 168.

House of the Seven Gables, The, 115, 118.

Howe, Mrs. J. W., 183.

Howells, W. D., 63, 203-205, 207-210.

Humphreys, David, 55, 56.

Hymn at the Completion of Concord Monument, 110.

Hymn of the Moravian Nuns, 125.

Hymn to the Night, 126.

Hymn to the North Star, 152.

Hyperion, 131.

Ichabod, 158.

If, Yes, and Perhaps, 195.

Iliad, Bryant's, 155.

Illustrious Providences, 29.

In the Tennessee Mountains, 203.

In the Twilight, 142.

In War Time, 157.

Independent, The, 176.

Indian Bible, Eliot's, 21.

Indian Burying-Ground, The, 61.

Indian Student, The, 61.

Indian Summer, 208, 209.

Ingham Papers, 195.

Inklings of Adventure, 169.

Innocents Abroad, 193, 194.

International Episode, An, 206, 207.

Irving, Washington, 42, 53, 68, 71, 73-82,

89, 117, 138, 187, 188, 194, 206.

Israfel, 162.

Italian Journeys, 208.

Italian Note-Books, 119.

James, Henry, 185, 203-210.

Jane Talbot, 63.

Jay, John, 48, 49.

Jefferson, Thomas, 14, 45-48, 50, 52, 61.

Jesuits in North America, The, 147.

Jim, 201.

Jim Bludso, 201.

John Brown's Body, 59, 183.

John Godfrey's Fortune, 172.

"John Phoenix," 190.

John Underhill, 25.

Jonathan to John, 141.

"Josh Billings," 193.

Journey to the Land of Eden, A, 17.

Judd, Sylvester, 144.

Jumping Frog, The, 193.

June, 153, 154.

Justice and Expediency, 157.

Kansas and Nebraska Bill, The, 149.

Katie, 184.

Kennedy, J. P., 168.

Key into the Language of America, A, 23.

Key, F. S., 60.

Kidd, the Pirate, 75.

King's Missive, The, 159.

Knickerbocker Magazine, The, 75, 79, 116, 147, 160.

Knickerbocker's History of New York, 68, 73, 75, 76, 187.

Lady of the Aroostook, The, 207, 209.

Lanier, Sidney, 202.

La Salle and the Discovery of the Great West, 147.

Last Leaf, The, 85, 133.

Last of the Mohicans, The, 83, 84.

Last of the Valerii, The, 205.

Latest Form of Infidelity, The, 99.

Laus Deo, 158.

Leatherstocking Tales, 61, 83, 84.

Leaves of Grass, 176, 177, 179.

Lecture on the Mormons, 190-192.

Legend of Brittany, 138.

Legend of Sleepy Hollow, 75, 77.

Legends of New England, 156, 157.

Legends of the Province House, 118.

Leland, C. G., 202.

Letter on Whitewashing, 59.

Letters and Social Aims, 107.

Letters from Under a Bridge, 169, 170.

Letters of a Traveler, 155.

Liberator, The, 86, 147, 174.

Life of Columbus, Irving's, 74, 78.

Life of Goldsmith, 79.

Life of John of Barneveld, 146.

Life of Washington, Irving's, 78.

Ligeia, 165.

Light of Stars, The, 126.

Lincoln, Abraham, 51, 133, 180, 186, 189.

Lines on Leaving Europe, 170.

Lippincott's Magazine, 197.

Literary Recreations, 160.

Literati of New York, 160.

Little Breeches, 201.

Livingston, William, 53.

Locke, David R., 193.

Longfellow, H. W., 18, 25, 26, 61, 115, 116,

123-131, 133, 138, 139, 141, 142, 151, 159,

160, 162, 167, 172, 179, 197.

Lost Arts, 148.

Lost Cause, The, 182.

Lowell, J. R., 12, 93, 96, 104, 105, 107, 122,

123, 138-144, 151, 154, 159, 160, 172, 174,

183, 187, 188, 197.

Luck of Roaring Camp, The, 199.

Lunatic's Skate, The, 170.

Lyrics of a Day, 184.

MacFingal, 54, 55, 59, 73.

Madison, James, 48, 49, 61.

Madonna of the Future, The, 205.

Magnalia Christi Americana, 19, 28-34,73.

Mahomet and his Successors, 78.

Maine Woods, The, 111.

"Major Jack Downing," 189.

Man of the Crowd, The, 166.

Man-of-War Bird, The, 179.

Man Without a Country, The, 164, 195.

Marble Faun, The, 115, 117, 118, 119.

Marco Bozzaris, 81.

Margaret, 144.

"Mark Twain," 188, 189, 193, 194.

Maryland, My Maryland, 183.

Masque of the Gods, The, 171.

Masque of the Red Death, 166.

Mather, Cotton, 19, 20, 21, 23, 26, 28-34, 36, 73.

Mather, Increase, 29, 31.

Maud Muller, 158.

May-Day, 107.

Maypole of Merrymount, The, 25.

Memoranda of the Civil War, 180.

Memorial History of Boston, 159.

Men Naturally God's Enemies, 35.

Merry Mount, 145.

Messenger, R. H., 170.

Miggles, 200.

"Miles O'Reilly," 186.

Minister's Black Veil, The, 117.

Minister's Wooing, The, 175.

Mitchell, D. G., 175.

Mocking Bird, The, 202.

Modern Instance, A, 208, 209.

Modern Learning, 59.

Modest Request, A, 134.

Money Diggers, The, 75.

Montcalm and Wolfe, 147.

Monterey, 170.

Moore, C. C., 170.

Moore, Frank, 183.

Moral Argument Against Calvinism, The, 90.

Morris, G. P., 170.

Morton's Hope, 145.

Mosses from an Old Manse, 114, 117.

Motley, J. L., 123, 138, 145, 146.

Mount Vernon, 56.

"Mrs. Partington," 189.

MS. Found In a Bottle, 168.

Murder of Lovejoy, The, 123.

Murders in the Rue Morgue, The, 163.

Murfree, Mary N., 203.

Music-Grinders, The, 133.

My Aunt, 133.

My Captain, 180.

My Double and How He Undid Me, 196.

My Garden Acquaintance, 143.

My Lite is Like the Summer Rose, 85.

My Old Kentucky Home, 173.

My Search for the Captain, 186.

My Study Windows, 143.

My Wife and I, 175.

Mystery of Gilgal, The, 201.

Mystery of Marie Roget, The, 163.

Narrative of A. Gordon Pym, The, 166.

Nathaniel Hawthorne and His Wife, 118.

Nature, 93, 101, 103, 107.

Naval History of the United States, 81.

Nearer Home, 173.

Negro Melodies, 173.

Nelly was a Lady, 173.

New England Tragedies, 25.

New England Two Centuries Ago, 141, 143.

New System of English Grammar, A, 190.

New York Evening Post, The, 152, 155.

New York Tribune, The, 95, 171.

Newell, R. H., 193.

North American Review, The, 89, 116, 124, 143, 151, 152.

Norton, Andrews, 99.

Notes on Virginia, 47.

Nothing to Wear, 170.

Nux Postcoenatica, 134.

O, Susanna, 173.

O'Brien, F. J., 185.

Observations on the Boston Port Bill, 44.

Occultation of Orion, The, 127, 139.

Ode at the Harvard Commemoration, 142.

Ode for a Social Meeting, 134.

Ode to Freedom, 140.

Odyssey, Bryant's, 155.

Old Clock on the Stairs, The, 127.

Old Creole Days, 203.

Old Folks at Home, 173.

Old Grimes, 85.

Old Ironsides, 132.

Old Oaken Bucket, The, 84.

Old Pennsylvania Farmer, The, 171.

Old Régime in Canada, The, 147.

Old Sergeant, The, 184.

On a Certain Condescension in Foreigners, 141.

One Hoss Shay, The, 135, 188.

Oregon Trail, The, 147.

Ormond, 63, 64.

"Orpheus C. Kerr," 193.

Orphic Sayings, 105.

Osgood, Mrs. K. P., 184.

Otis, James, 43-45.

Our Master, 158.

Our Old Home, 119.

Out of the Question, 209.

Outcasts of Poker Flat, The, 199, 200.

Outre-Mer, 124.

Overland Monthly, The, 199.

Over-Soul, The, 105.

Paine, R. T., 60.

Paine, Tom, 51-53.

Panorama, The, 157.

Paper, 39.

Parker, Theodore, 97-100, 106.

Parkman, Francis, 123, 145, 146, 147.

Parlor Car, The, 210.

Partisan, The, 168.

Passionate Pilgrim, A, 305.

Pathfinder, The, 83.

Paulding, J. K., 72, 74, 79,80.

Payne, J. H., 84.

Pearl of Orr's Island, The, 175.

Pencilings by the Way, 169.

Pension Beaurepas, The, 206.

Percival, J. G., 175.

Percy, George, 12, 19.

"Peter Parley," 69.

"Petroleum V. Nasby," 193.

Phenomena Quaedam Apocalyptica, 33.

Phillips, Wendell, 122, 123, 147, 148, 157,

Philosophic Solitude, 53.

Philosophy of Composition, 163.

Phoenixiana, 189.

Piatt, J. J., 184, 202, 208.

Pictures of Memory, 173.

Pilot, The, 84.

Pink and White Tyranny, 175.

Pinkney, E. C., 85.

Pioneer, The, 138.

Pioneers, The, 71, 83.

Pioneers of France in the New World, 147.

Plain Language from Truthful James, 200

Planting of the Apple-Tree, The, 155.

Plato, Emerson on, 108.

Poe, E. A., 63, 80, 85, 106, 116, 117, 130, 138,

150, 153, 160-169, 182, 186, 196.

Poems of the Orient, 171.

Poems of Two Friends, 208.

Poems on Slavery, 128.

Poet at the Breakfast Table, The, 136.

Poetic Principle, The, 164.

Poetry: A Metrical Essay, 133.

Poet's Hope, A, 105.

Political Green House, The, 56.

Pollard, E. A., 182.

Pons, Maximus, 173.

Poor Richard's Almanac, 39, 40.

Portraits of Places, 207.

Prairie, The, 83.

Prentice, G. D., 156, 189.

Prescott, W. H., 123, 145, 146, 151, 182.

Present Crisis, The, 140.

Pride of the Village, The, 77.

Prince Deukalion, 171.

Prince of Parthia, The, 63.

Problem, The, 110.

Professor at the Breakfast Table, The, 136, 137.

Progress to the Mines, A, 17.

Prologue, The, 135.

Prophecy of Samuel Sewell, The, 33.

Prophet, The, 171.

Psalm of Life, The, 126, 127.

Purloined Letter, The, 163.

Putnam's Monthly, 123, 197.

Quaker Widow, The, 171.

Quincy, Josiah, 43-45.

Rag Man and Rag Woman, The, 196.

Randall, J. R., 183.

Randolph, John, 46.

Raven, The, 163, 165.

Read, T. B., 173.

Reaper and the Flowers, The, 126.

Rebellion Record, The, 183.

Recollections of a Life-time, 69, 72.

Red Rover, The, 84.

Register, The, 210.

Remarks on Associations, 91.

Remarks on National Literature, 91, 100.

Reply to Hayne, Webster's, 87.

Representative Men, 102, 107, 109.

Resignation, 128.

Reveries of a Bachelor, 175.

Rhoecus, 138.

Rhymes of Travel, 171.

Riding to Vote, 184.

Rights of the British Colonies, 45.

Ripley, George, 95, 99, 100, 106, 151.

Rip Van Winkle, 75.

Rip Van Winkle, M.D., 134.

Rise and Fall of the Confederate States, 182.

Rise and Fall of the Slave Power, 182.

Rise of the Dutch Republic, 146.

Rob of the Bowl, 168.

Roderick Hudson, 206.

Roughing It, 193, 194.

Salmagundi, 74, 79, 155.

Sandys, George, 16, 19.

San Francisco, 198.

Scarlet Letter, The, 35, 117, 118.

School Days, 156.

Schoolcraft, H. R., 130.

Science of English Verse, 202.

Scribner's Monthly, 197.

Scripture Poems, 169.

Seaside and Fireside, 126, 127.

Seaweed, 127, 129.

Selling of Joseph, The, 33.

September Gale, The, 133.

Sewall, J, M., 60.

Sewall, Samuel, 32, 33.

Shakespeare, Ode, 89.

Shaw, H. W., 193.

Shepherd of King Admetus, The, 138.

Sheridan's Ride, 173.

Shillaber, B. P., 189.

Sigourney, Mrs. L. H., 107, 175.

Silas, Lapham, 209.

Simms, W. G., 168.

Simple Cobbler of Agawam, The, 20.

Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God, 35.

Skeleton in Armor, The, 127.

Skeleton in the Closet, The, 196.

Sketch Book, The, 73-75, 77.

Skipper Ireson's Ride, 158.

Sleeper, The, 165.

Sleeping Car, The, 63.

Smith, Elihu, 55.

Smith, John, 11, 12, 15, 19, 24.

Smith, Seba, 189.

Snow-Bound, 159.

Society and Solitude, 107.

Song for a Temperance Dinner, 134.

Song of the Chattahoochie, 202.

Southern Literary Messenger, The, 160, 162.

Southern Passages and Pictures, 169.

Sparkling and Bright, 170.

Specimen Days, 180.

Specimens of Foreign Standard Literature, 100.

Sphinx, The, 135.

Sprague, Charles, 89.

Spring, 170.

Spy, The, 83.

Squibob Papers, 180.

Star Papers, 176.

Star-Spangled Banner, The, 60, 80.

Stedman, E. C., 197.

Stephens, A. H., 182.

Stith, William, 17.

Stoddard, R. H., 170, 197.

Story of Kennett, The, 172.

Stowe, Mrs. H. B., 174, 175.

Strachey, William, 11.

Stuart, Moses, 98.

Suburban Sketches, 208.

Sumner, Charles, 122, 132, 124, 142, 148, 157, 174.

Supernaturalism in New England, 160.

Swallow Barn, 168.

Swinton, W., 183.

Sybaris and Other Homes, 195.

Tales of a Traveler, 75.

Tales of a Wayside Inn, 159.

Tales of the Glauber Spa, 155.

Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque, 166.

Tamerlane, 161.

Tanglewood Tales, 119.

Taylor, Bayard, 170-173.

Telling the Bees, 159.

Ten Times One is Ten, 195.

Tennessee's Partner, 200.

Tent on the Beach, The, 159.

Thanatopsis, 68, 80, 125, 152, 153, 155.

Their Wedding Journey, 208.

Theology, Dwight's, 58.

Thirty Poems, 154.

Thoreau, H. D., 93, 96, 106, 109, 110, 114,

119, 122, 123, 125, 151, 179, 182.

Timrod, Henry, 184.

To a Waterfowl, 153.

To Helen, 162.

To M---- from Abroad, 170.

To One in Paradise, 165.

To Seneca Lake, 175.

Tour on the Prairies, A, 71.

Tramp Abroad, A, 193.

Transcendentalist, The, 101, 102.

Travels, Dwight's, 53.

Treatise Concerning Religious Affections, 36.

Triumph of Infidelity, 58.

True Grandeur of Nations, The, 149.

True Relation, Smith's, 15.

True Repertory of the Wrack of Sir Thomas Gates, 11.

Trumbull, John, 54, 55, 73.

Twice-Told Tales, 115, 117, 118.

Two Rivers, 112.

Tyler, Royall, 63.

Ulalume, 165.

Uncle Ned, 173.

Uncle Remus, 202.

Uncle Tom's Cabin, 174.

Under the Willows, 142.

Undiscovered Country, The, 209.

Unknown Dead, The, 184.

Unseen Spirits, 170.

Valley of Unrest, The, 162.

Vanity Fair, 190.

Vassall Morton, 145.

Venetian Life, 208.

Views Afoot, 171.

Villa Franca, 142.

Village Blacksmith, The, 127.

Virginia Comedians, The, 196.

Vision of Columbus, The, 56, 57.

Vision of Sir Launfal, The, 140, 141.

Visit from St. Nicholas, A, 170.

Voices of Freedom, 157.

Voices of the Night, 124, 126.

Voluntaries, 110.

Von Kempelen's Discovery, 154.

Walden, 111.

Wants of Man, The, 85.

War Lyrics, 184.

Ward, Nathaniel, 20.

Ware, Henry, 99.

Washers of the Shroud, The, 142.

Washington, George, 49, 51.

Washington as a Camp, 185.

Washington Square, 185.

'Way Down South, 173.

Webster, Daniel, 73, 86-89, 90, 158, 187.

Webster's Spelling-Book, 69.

Week on the Concord and Merrimac Rivers, A, 111.

Western Windows, 202.

Westminster Abbey, 77.

Westover MSS., The, 16.

Westward Ho! 72.

What Mr. Robinson thinks, 140.

What was It?, 186.

Whistle, The, 39.

Whitaker, Alexander, 18.

White, R. G., 197.

Whitman, Walt, 126, 176-180, 183.

Whittier, J. G., 18, 25, 26, 32, 33, 93, 133,

138, 155-160, 167, 174, 175, 179, 183, 185, 197.

Wieland, 63, 65.

Wigglesworth, Michael, 34.

Wild Honeysuckle, The, 61.

Wilde, R. H., 84.

William Wilson, 166.

Williams, Roger, 22, 23.

Willis, N. P., 71, 153, 169, 171, 176.

Willson Forceythe, 184.

Wilson, Henry, 182.

Winter Evening Hymn to My Fire, 142,

Winthrop, John, 12, 21, 23-28, 31, 33.

Winthrop, Theodore, 184.

Witchcraft, 143.

Witch's Daughter, The, 157.

Wolfert's Roost, 75.

Wolfert Webber, 75.

Woman in the Nineteenth Century, 105.

Wonder Book, 119.

Wonders of the Invisible World, 21, 32.

Woods, Leonard, 98.

Woods in Winter, 125.

Woodman, Spare that Tree, 170.

Woodworth, Samuel, 84.

Woolman's Journal, 65, 66, 157.

Wound-Dresser, The, 178.

Wrath Upon the Wicked, 35.

Wreck of the Hesperus, The, 127, 129.

Yankee Doodle, 59.

Yankee in Canada, 111.

Year's Life, A, 138.

Yemassee, The, 168.