CHAPTER XXX.

MASTER BYLES GRIDLEY CALLS ON MISS CYNTHIA BADLAM.

Miss Cynthia Badlam was seated in a small parlor which she was accustomed

to consider her own during her long residences at The Poplars. The entry

stove warmed it but imperfectly, and she looked pinched and cold, for the

evenings were still pretty sharp, and the old house let in the chill

blasts, as old houses are in the habit of doing. She was sitting at her

table with a little trunk open before her. She had taken some papers from

it, which she was looking over, when a knock at her door announced a

visitor, and Master Byles Gridley entered the parlor.

As he came into the room, she gathered the papers together and replaced

them in the trunk, which she locked, throwing an unfinished piece of

needlework over it, putting the key in her pocket, and gathering herself up

for company. Something of all this Master Gridley saw through his round

spectacles, but seemed not to see, and took his seat like a visitor making

a call of politeness.

A visitor at such an hour, of the male sex, without special provocation,

without social pretext, was an event in the life of the desolate spinster.

Could it be--No, it could not--and yet--and yet! Miss Cynthia threw back

the rather common-looking but comfortable shawl which covered her

shoulders, and showed her quite presentable figure, arrayed with a still

lingering thought of that remote contingency which might yet offer itself

at some unexpected moment; she adjusted the carefully plaited cap, which

was not yet of the _lasciate ogni speranza_ pattern, and as she obeyed

these instincts of her sex, she smiled a welcome to the respectable,

learned, and independent bachelor. Mr. Gridley had a frosty but kindly age

before him, with a score or so of years to run, which it was after all not

strange to fancy might be rendered more cheerful by the companionship of a

well-conserved and amiably disposed woman,--if any such should happen to

fall in his way.

That smile came very near disconcerting the plot of Master Byles Gridley.

He had come on an inquisitor's errand, his heart secure, as he thought,

against all blandishments, his will steeled to break down all resistance.

He had come armed with an instrument of torture worse than the thumb-screw,

worse than the pulleys which attempt the miracle of adding a cubit to the

stature, worse than the brazier of live coals brought close to the naked

soles of the feet,--an instrument which, instead of trifling with the

nerves, would clutch all the nerve-_centres_ and the heart itself in its

gripe, and hold them until it got its answer, if the white lips had life

enough left to shape one. And here was this unfortunate maiden lady smiling

at him, setting her limited attractions in their best light, pleading with

him in that natural language which makes any contumacious bachelor feel as

guilty as Cain before any single woman. If Mr. Gridley had been alone, he

would have taken a good sniff at his own bottle of _sal volatile_; for his

kind heart sunk within him as he thought of the errand upon which he had

come. It would not do to leave the subject of his vivisection under any

illusion as to the nature of his designs.

"Good evening, Miss Badlam," he said, "I have come to visit you on a matter

of business."

What was the internal panorama which had unrolled itself at the instant of

his entrance, and which rolled up as suddenly at the sound of his serious

voice and the look of his grave features? It cannot be reproduced, though

pages were given to it; for some of the pictures were near, and some were

distant; some were clearly seen, and some were only hinted; some were not

recognized in the intellect at all, and yet they were implied, as it were,

behind the others. Many times we have all found ourselves glad or sorry,

and yet we could not tell what thought it was that reflected the sunbeam or

cast the shadow. Look into Cynthia's suddenly exalted consciousness and see

the picture, actual and potential, unroll itself in all its details of the

natural, the ridiculous, the selfish, the pitiful, the human. Glimpses,

hints, echoes, suggestions, involving tender sentiments hitherto unknown,

we may suppose, to that unclaimed sister's breast,--pleasant excitement of

receiving congratulations from suddenly cordial friends; the fussy delights

of buying furniture and shopping for new dresses,--(it seemed as if she

could hear herself saying, "_Heavy_ silks,--_best_ goods, if you

please,")--with delectable thumping down of flat-sided pieces of calico,

cambric, "rep," and other stuffs, and rhythmic evolution of measured yards,

followed by sharp snip of scissors, and that cry of rending tissues dearer

to woman's ear than any earthly sound until she hears the voice of her own

first-born,--(much of this potentially, remember,)--thoughts of a

comfortable settlement, an imposing social condition, a cheerful household,

and by and by an Indian summer of serene widowhood,--all these, and

infinite other involved possibilities had mapped themselves in one long

swift flash before Cynthia's inward eye, and all vanished as the old man

spoke those few words. The look on his face, and the tone of his cold

speech, had instantly swept them all away, like a tea-set sliding in a

single crash from a slippery tray.

What could be the "business" on which he had come to her with that solemn

face? she asked herself, as she returned his greeting and offered him a

chair. She was conscious of a slight tremor as she put this question to her

own intelligence.

"Are we like to be alone and undisturbed?" Mr. Gridley asked. It was a

strange question,--men do act strangely sometimes. She hardly knew whether

to turn red or white.

"Yes, there is nobody like to come in at present," she answered. She did

not know what to make of it. What was coming next,--a declaration, or an

accusation of murder?

"My business," Mr. Gridley said, very gravely, "relates to this. I wish to

inspect papers which I have reason to believe exist, and which have

reference to the affairs of the late Malachi Withers. Can you help me to

get sight of any of these papers not to be found at the Registry of Deeds

or the Probate Office?"

"Excuse me, Mr. Gridley, but may I ask you what particular concern you have

with the affairs of my relative, Cousin Malachi Withers, that's been dead

and buried these half-dozen years?"

"Perhaps it would take some time to answer that question fully, Miss

Badlam. Some of these affairs do concern those I am interested in, if not

myself directly."

"May I ask who the person or persons may be on whose account you wish to

look at papers belonging to my late relative, Malachi Withers?"

"You can ask me almost anything, Miss Badlam, but I should really be very

much obliged if you would answer my question first. Can you help me to get

a sight of any papers relating to the estate of Malachi Withers, not to be

found at the Registry of Deeds or the Probate Office,--any of which you may

happen to have any private and particular knowledge?"

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Gridley; but I don't understand why you come to me

with such questions. Lawyer Penhallow is the proper person, I should think,

to go to. He and his partner that was--Mr. Wibird, you know--settled the

estate, and he has got the papers, I suppose, if there are any, that ain't

to be found at the offices you mention."

Mr. Gridley moved his chair a little, so as to bring Miss Badlam's face a

little more squarely in view.

"Does Mr. William Murray Bradshaw know anything about any papers, such as I

am referring to, that may have been sent to the office?"

The lady felt a little moisture stealing through all her pores, and at the

same time a certain dryness of the vocal organs, so that her answer came in

a slightly altered tone which neither of them could help noticing.

"You had better ask Mr. William Murray Bradshaw yourself about that," she

answered. She felt the hook now, and her spines were rising, partly with

apprehension, partly with irritation.

"Has that young gentleman ever delivered into your hands any papers

relating to the affairs of the late Malachi Withers, for your safe

keeping?"

"What do you mean by asking me these questions, Mr. Gridley? I don't choose

to be catechised about Murray Bradshaw's business. Go to him, if you

please, if you want to find out about it."

"Excuse my persistence, Miss Badlam, but I must prevail upon you to answer

my question. Has Mr. William Murray Bradshaw ever delivered into your hands

any papers relating to the affairs of the late Malachi Withers, for your

safe keeping?"

"Do you suppose I am going to answer such questions as you are putting me

because you repeat them over, Mr. Gridley? Indeed I sha' n't. Ask him, if

you please, whatever you wish to know about his doings."

She drew herself up and looked savagely at him. She had talked herself into

her courage. There was a color in her cheeks and a sparkle in her eye; she

looked dangerous as a cobra.

"Miss Cynthia Badlam," Master Gridley said, very deliberately, "I am afraid

we do not entirely understand each other. You must answer my question

precisely, categorically, point-blank, and on the instant. Will you do this

at once, or will you compel me to show you the absolute necessity of your

doing it, at the expense of pain to both of us? Six words from me will make

you answer all my questions."

"You can't say six words, nor sixty, Mr. Gridley, that will make me answer

one question I do not choose to. I defy you!"

"I will not _say_ one, Miss Cynthia Badlam. There are some things one does

not like to speak in words. But I will show you a scrap of paper,

containing just six words and a date,--not one more nor one less. You shall

read them. Then I will burn the paper in the flame of your lamp. As soon

after that as you feel ready, I will ask the same question again."

Master Gridley took out from his pocket-book a scrap of paper, and handed

it to Cynthia Badlam. Her hand shook as she received it, for she was

frightened as well as enraged, and she saw that Mr. Gridley was in earnest

and knew what he was doing.

She read the six words, he looking at her steadily all the time, and

watching her as if he had just given her a drop of prussic acid.

No cry. No sound from her lips. She stared as if half stunned for one

moment, then turned her head and glared at Mr. Gridley as if she would have

murdered him if she dared. In another instant her face whitened, the scrap

of paper fluttered to the floor, and she would have followed it but for the

support of both Mr. Gridley's arms. He disengaged one of them presently,

and felt in his pocket for the _sal volatile_. It served him excellently

well, and stung her back again to her senses very quickly. All her defiant

aspect had gone.

"Look!" he said, as he lighted the scrap of paper in the flame. "You

understand me, and you see that I must be answered the next time I ask my

question."

She opened her lips as if to speak. It was as when a bell is rung in a

vacuum,--no words came from them,--only a faint gasping sound, an effort at

speech. She was caught tight in the heart-screw.

"Don't hurry yourself, Miss Cynthia," he said, with a certain relenting

tenderness of manner. "Here, take another sniff of the smelling-salts. Be

calm, be quiet,--I am well disposed towards you,--I don't like to give you

trouble. There, now, I must have the answer to that question; but take your

time,--take your time."

"Give me some water,--some water!" she said, in a strange hoarse whisper.

There was a pitcher of water and a tumbler on an old marble sideboard near

by. He filled the tumbler, and Cynthia emptied it as if she had just been

taken from the rack, and could have swallowed a bucketful.

"What do you want to know?" she asked.

"I wish to know all that you can tell me about a certain paper, or certain

papers, which I have reason to believe Mr. William Murray Bradshaw

committed to your keeping."

"There is only one paper of any consequence. Do you want to make him kill

me? or do you want to make me kill myself?"

"Neither, Miss Cynthia, neither. I wish to see that paper, but not for any

bad purpose. Don't you think, on the whole, you have pretty good reason to

trust me? I am a very quiet man, Miss Cynthia. Don't be afraid of me; only

do what I ask,--it will be a great deal better for you in the end."

She thrust her trembling hand into her pocket, and took out the key of the

little trunk. She drew the trunk towards her, put the key in the lock, and

opened it. It seemed like pressing a knife into her own bosom and turning

the blade. That little trunk held all the records of her life the forlorn

spinster most cherished;--a few letters that came nearer to love-letters

than any others she had ever received; an album, with flowers of the

summers of 1840 and 1841 fading between its leaves; two papers containing

locks of hair, half of a broken ring, and other insignificant mementos

which had their meaning, doubtless, to her,--such a collection as is often

priceless to one human heart, and passed by as worthless in the

auctioneer's inventory. She took the papers out mechanically, and laid them

on the table. Among them was an oblong packet, sealed with what appeared to

be the office-seal of Messrs. Penhallow and Bradshaw.

"Will you allow me to take that envelope containing papers, Miss Badlam?"

Mr. Gridley asked, with a suavity and courtesy in his tone and manner that

showed how he felt for her sex and her helpless position.

She seemed to obey his will as if she had none of her own left. She passed

the envelope to him, and stared at him vacantly while he examined it. He

read on the back of the package: "_Withers Estate_--old papers--of no

account apparently. Examine hereafter."

"May I ask when, where, and of whom you obtained these papers, Miss

Badlam?"

"Have pity on me, Mr. Gridley,--have pity on me. I am a lost woman if you

do not. Spare me! for God's sake, spare me! There will no wrong come of all

this, if you will but wait a little while. The paper will come to light

when it is wanted, and all will be right. But do not make me answer any

more questions, and let me keep this paper. O Mr. Gridley! I am in the

power of a dreadful man--"

"You mean Mr. William Murray Bradshaw?"

"I mean him."

"Has there not been some understanding between you that he should become

the approved suitor of Miss Myrtle Hazard?"

Cynthia wrung her hands and rocked herself backward and forward in her

misery, but answered not a word. What _could_ she answer, if she had

plotted with this "dreadful man" against a young and innocent girl, to

deliver her over into his hands, at the risk of all her earthly hopes and

happiness?

Master Gridley waited long and patiently for any answer she might have the

force to make. As she made none, he took upon himself to settle the whole

matter without further torture of his helpless victim.

"This package must go into the hands of the parties who had the settlement

of the estate of the late Malachi Withers. Mr. Penhallow is the survivor of

the two gentlemen to whom that business was intrusted.--How long is Mr.

William Murray Bradshaw like to be away?"

"Perhaps a few days,--perhaps weeks,--and then he will come back and kill

me,--or--or--worse! Don't take that paper, Mr. Gridley,--he isn't like you;

you wouldn't--but he would--he would send me to everlasting misery to gain

his own end, or to save himself. And yet he is n't every way bad, and if he

did marry Myrtle she 'd think there never was such a man,--for he can talk

her heart out of her, and the wicked in him lies very deep and won't ever

come out, perhaps, if the world goes right with him." The last part of this

sentence showed how Cynthia talked with her own conscience; all her mental

and moral machinery lay open before the calm eyes of Master Byles Gridley.

His thoughts wandered a moment from the business before him; he had just

got a new study of human nature, which in spite of himself would be shaping

itself into an axiom for an imagined new edition of "Thoughts on the

Universe,"--something like this,--_The greatest saint may be a sinner that

never got down to "hard pan."_--It was not the time to be framing axioms.

"Poh! poh!" he said to himself; "what are you about, making phrases, when

you have got a piece of work like this in hand?" Then to Cynthia, with

great gentleness and kindness of manner: "Have no fear about any

consequences to yourself. Mr. Penhallow must see that paper,--I mean those

papers. You shall not be a loser nor a sufferer if you do your duty now in

these premises."

Master Gridley, treating her, as far as circumstances permitted, like a

gentleman, had shown no intention of taking the papers either stealthily or

violently. It must be with her consent. He had laid the package down upon

the table, waiting for her to give him leave to take it. But just as he

spoke these last words, Cynthia, whose eye had been glancing furtively at

it while he was thinking out his axiom, and taking her bearings to it

pretty carefully, stretched her hand out, and, seizing the package, thrust

it into the sanctuary of her bosom.

"Mr. Penhallow must see those papers, Miss Cynthia Badlam," Mr. Gridley

repeated calmly. "If he says they or any of them can be returned to your

keeping, well and good. But see them he must, for they have his office seal

and belong in his custody, and, as you see by the writing on the back, they

have not been examined. Now there may be something among them which is of

immediate importance to the relatives of the late deceased Malachi Withers,

and therefore they must be forthwith submitted to the inspection of the

surviving partner of the firm of Wibird and Penhallow. This I propose to

do, with your consent, this evening. It is now twenty-five minutes past

eight by the true time, as my watch has it. At half past eight exactly I

shall have the honor of bidding you good evening, Miss Cynthia Badlam,

whether you give me those papers or not. I shall go to the office of Jacob

Penhallow, Esquire, and there make one of two communications to him; to

wit, these papers and the facts connected therewith, or another statement,

the nature of which you may perhaps conjecture."

There is no need of our speculating as to what Mr. Byles Gridley, an

honorable and humane man, would have done, or what would have been the

nature of that communication which he offered as an alternative to the

perplexed woman. He had not at any rate miscalculated the strength of his

appeal, which Cynthia interpreted as he expected. She bore the heart-screw

about two minutes. Then she took the package from her bosom, and gave it

with averted face to Master Byles Gridley, who, on receiving it, made her a

formal but not unkindly bow, and bade her good evening.

"One would think it had been lying out in the dew," he said, as he left the

house and walked towards Mr. Penhallow's residence.

THEMISTOCLES.

So! Ye drag me, men of Athens,

Hither to your council-hall,

Armed with judges and informers,

That your doom on me may fall,--

Doom that Athens oft hath levelled

On her noblest sons of yore,--

Doom that made her foes triumphant,

And each heart that loved her sore.

Oft, as I have seen her heroes

Brought to this ignoble end,

Have I pondered,--when should Fortune

To my lips the cup commend?

Read the foul indictment, falsehood

After falsehood rolling on;

Far away my thoughts shall wander,

Thinking of the moments gone,

When with tears and prayers ye dragged me

Hither to your council-hall,

Young and old, and wives and children,

Echoing one despairing call,--

"Speak some word of comfort, Archon,

Ere the Persian dig our grave!

Speak, Themistocles, and save us,--

Thou alone hast power to save!"

Is it over? Let me hear it,--

Let me hear once more the end,--

"For Themistocles betrays us,

And is sworn the Persian's friend--"

No, not that! Take back the falsehood!

Curse the hand that wrote the lie;

Charge what deadly crime it lists you,

'Tis no dreadful thing to die.

But shall all my free devotion,

All my care for Athens' weal,

Turn to treason and corruption,

Stamped with such a lying seal?

Was 't for Persia then I led you

Up to proud Athena's height,--

Bade you view this barren country,

And the sea to left and right,--

Bade you leave your plain and mountain,--

Save to dig their shining ore,--

Bade you grasp the ocean's sceptre,

Spoil the wealth of every shore,

Spread your white sails to the breezes,

Unrestrained like them and free,

Lords of no contracted city,

But the monarchs of the sea!

Persia's friend! Have ye forgotten

How the lord of Persia came,

Bridging seas, and cleaving mountains,

With the terrors of his name,--

How he burst through Tempe's portal,

Trod the dauntless Spartan down,

Dragged the vile Boeotian captive,

Dared e'en Delphi's sacred crown?

And the craven wail of terror

Rang through Athens' every street;

Then ye came and begged for counsel,

Kneeling, clinging to my feet.

Then I bade you leave your city,

Leave your temples and your halls,

Trusting, as the god gave answer,

To your country's wooden walls.

And the Persian, entering proudly,

Found a city of the dead;

Athens' corpse his only victim,

Her immortal soul had fled!

Was 't for Persia in the council

With your false allies I toiled,

Bade the Spartan, "Strike, but hear me,"

Ere my country should be spoiled?

Or that all that night their galleys

In the narrow strait I kept?

For we felt the Persian closing,

And no son of Athens slept.

But when broke the golden dawning

O'er Pentelicus afar,

Rose the glad Hellenic paean,

Bursting with the morning star.

For we saw the Persian squadrons

Ship on ship in thousands pour,

And we knew the pass was narrow

'Twixt the island and the shore.

Calmly, as no foe were near us,

All our morning tasks we wrought,

Lying there in silent order,

As though fight we never fought.

But we grasped our oars all eager

Till the tough pine burned each hand,

Watching till the steersman's signal

For the onset gave command.

Then we smote the sea together,

And our galleys onward flew,

While from all the Hellenic navy,

As we dashed along the blue,

Pealed one loud, triumphant war-cry,--

"Now, ye sons of Hellas, come,

Conquer freedom for your country,

Freedom each one for his home,

Freedom for your wives and children,

For the altars where ye bow,

For your fathers' honored ashes,

For them all ye 're fighting now!"[1]

On the mountain height the tyrant

Bade them set his golden throne,

And in pitch of pride surveyed them,--

All the fleet he called his own,--

Heard the war-cry far resounding,

Heard the oars' responsive dash,

And the shock of squadrons smiting

Beak to beak with sudden clash,--

Saw them locked in wild confusion,

Prow on prow and keel on keel,--

Heard the thundering crash of timbers,

And the ring of clanging steel,--

Saw his ponderous ships entangled

In the close and narrow strait,

And our light-winged galleys darting

Boldly in the jaws of fate,--

Saw the mad disorder seize them,

As we grappled fast each prow,

Leaped like tigers on the bulwarks,

Hurled them to the depths below,--

Saw his bravest on the island

Slaughtered down in deadly fight,

Whom he fondly placed to crush us,

If perchance we turned to flight,--

Saw one last despairing struggle,--

Then the shout that all was lost,

And his matchless navy turning,

Fleeing from the hated coast,--

Saw them stranded on the island,

Rent and shattered on the main,--

Heard the shrieks of myriads wounded,

Saw the heaps of thousands slain,

While the sea was red with carnage,

And the air with shouts was wild,

"Woe to Persia's slaves and tyrant!

Hail to Athens, ocean's child!"

No, ye have not all forgotten,

All your hearts have not grown cold,

When of Athens' countless triumphs,

This, the noblest tale, is told.

Oft perchance my acts have wronged you,

But ye dare not charge me this,

That the Persian is my master,

When ye think of Salamis.

More I might; but it sufficeth,--

Here I wait the word of doom;

Strike! But think that I, the culprit,

Raised your city from the tomb.

*....*....*....*

Guilty! Well! The fate of others

Now at length descends on me;

Envy strikes the loftiest ever,

As the lightning on the tree.

Banished! Athens aye hath willed it

For her truest souls of yore;

Now I know thee, Aristides,

As I never knew before.

O forgive me, gallant rival,

If I e'er have wrought thee ill;

Think but of the glorious morning

When we stood on yonder hill,

When Miltiades arrayed us

In the central ranks to stand,

When we charged adown the mountain

On the motley Persian band,

When the shouting wings swept forward,

And we stood, like sea-cliffs fast,

Smiling to behold the nations

Break in foam upon us cast;

When we chased them to the galleys,

Slaughtered thousands by the wave,

Sent them back in rout to Susa,

Heaped the mound above our brave,

And forever through the ages

Sounds our glory, rolling on,

For Miltiades and Athens,

For ourselves and Marathon.

Men of Athens! By your sentence

I am banished from your state;

Humbly to that doom I bow me,

And I leave you to your fate.

Not to me thine awful ending,

Athens, shall the years unfold;

Long shall night have closed these eyelids

Ere that ruin men behold.

Still, when I am long forgotten,

Shall thy haughty sway extend,

Isles and cities, lords and kingdoms,

Forced to court, to sue, to bend,

As, from year to year increasing,

Still thy marts new wealth enclose,

And thy far-resplendent treasures

Dazzle e'en thy fiercest foes.

Wider ports and swifter navies,

Broader fields and richer mines,

Deadlier fights and braver armies,

Statelier halls and fairer shrines,

Loftier accents poured in council,

Nobler thoughts in sweeter song,

Loud proclaim the crown of Hellas

Doth of right to thee belong;

Till thy heart be drunk with glory,

And thy brain be crazed with power,

And the gods o'erhear thy boasting

In some mad, triumphant hour.

Then, when one by one thy subjects

Turn and beard thee in despair,

Calling Sparta to the rescue,

In thy death and spoil to share,--

When thy vines and groves lie desert,

And within thy crowded wall

Pest and famine slay thy chosen,

Slay the foremost chief of all,--

When thy armies throng the dungeons,

And thy shipwrecks heap the strand,--

When thine ancient strain of heroes

Gives no more the proud command,

But thy wisest heads turn faithless,

And thy truest hearts grow dull,

Making all thy counsel folly,

All thy desperate valor null,--

When each fond and mad endeavor,

Clutching at thy fallen crown,

Deeper in the roaring whirlpool

Of perdition sucks thee down,

When at last thy foes surround thee,

Dig the trench, and hem thee in,--

When the dreadful word is spoken,

Which to whisper were a sin,--

When at length, in vile subjection,

Unto Sparta thou shalt sue,

Swearing thou wilt humbly serve her,

Will she but thy life renew,--

In that hour of keenest torture,

When thy star is sunk in night,

Think!--but not of me, whose valor

Thou so foully didst requite;--

Think not of thine outraged heroes,

But of her who banished these,

Think of Athens, false and fickle,

Think not of Themistocles.

But if e'er, in after ages,

Once again thy star _should_ rise,--

If some noble son _should_ save thee,

Like a god that left the skies,

If thy shackles should be broken,

And thou leap to new renown,

Then remember me, my darling,

City of the violet crown!

Then shall endless shouts of triumph

Sound the glories of thy name,

And the songs of generations

All thy matchless gifts proclaim;

Then be every wrong forgotten,

Then be every debt repaid,

And the wreath of every hero

On Athena's altar laid.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The foregoing description is nearly a translation from the _Persae_ of

AEschylus.

BEN JONSON.

Authors are apt to be popularly considered as physically a feeble folk,--as

timid, nervous, dyspeptic rhymers or prosers, unfitted to grapple with the

rough realities of life. We shall endeavor, in the following pages, to

present our readers with the image of one calculated to reverse this

impression,--the image of a stalwart man of letters, who lived two

centuries and a half ago, in the greatest age of English literature,--who

undeniably had brawny fists as well as forgetive faculties,--one who could

handle a club as readily as a pen, hit his mark with a bullet as surely as

with a word, and, a sort of cross between the bully and the bard, could

shoulder his way through a crowd of prize-fighters to take his seat among

the tuneful company of immortal poets. This man, Ben Jonson, commonly

stands next to Shakespeare in a consideration of the dramatic literature of

the age of Elizabeth; and certainly, if the "thousand-souled" Shakespeare

may be said to represent mankind, Ben as unmistakably stands for

English-kind. He is "Saxon" England in epitome,--John Bull passing from a

name into a man,--a proud, strong, tough, solid, domineering individual,

whose intellect and personality cannot be severed, even in thought, from

his body and personal appearance. Ben's mind, indeed, was rooted in Ben's

character; and his character took symbolic form in his physical frame. He

seemed built up, mentally as well as bodily, out of beef and sack, mutton

and Canary; or, to say the least, was a joint product of the English mind

and the English larder, of the fat as well as the thought of the land, of

the soil as well as the soul of England. The moment we attempt to estimate

his eminence as a dramatist, he disturbs the equanimity of our judgment by

tumbling head-foremost into the imagination as a big, bluff, burly, and

quarrelsome man, with "a mountain belly and a rocky face." He is a very

pleasant boon companion as long as we make our idea of his importance agree

with his own; but the instant we attempt to dissect his intellectual

pretensions, the living animal becomes a dangerous subject,--his

countenance flames, his great hands double up, his thick lips begin to

twitch with impending invective; and while the critic's impression of him

is thus all the more vivid, he is checked in its expression by a very

natural fear of the consequences. There is no safety but in taking this

rowdy leviathan of letters at his own valuation; and the relation of

critics towards him is as perilous as that of the juries towards the Irish

advocate, who had an unpleasant habit of challenging them to personal

combat whenever they brought in a verdict against any of his clients. There

is, in fact, such a vast animal force in old Ben's self-assertion, that he

bullies posterity as he bullied his contemporaries; and while we admit his

claims to rank next to Shakespeare among the dramatists of his age, we beg

our readers to understand that we do it under intimidation.

The qualities of this bold, racy, and brawny egotist can be best conveyed

in a biographical form. He was born in 1574, the grandson of a gentleman

who, for his religion, lost his estate, and for a time his liberty, in

Queen Mary's time, and the son of a clergyman in humble circumstances, who

died about a month before his "rare" offspring was born. His mother,

shortly after the death of her husband, married a master-bricklayer. Ben,

who as a boy doubtless exhibited brightness of intellect and audacity of

spirit, seems to have attracted the attention of Camden, who placed him in

Westminster School, of which he was master. Ben there displayed so warm a

love of learning, and so much capacity in rapidly acquiring it, that, at

the age of sixteen, he is said to have been removed to the University of

Cambridge, though he stated to Drummond, long afterwards, that he was

"master of arts in both the Universities, by their favor, not his studie."

His ambition at this time, if we may believe some of his biographers, was

to be a clergyman; and had it been gratified, he would probably have

blustered his way to a bishopric, and proved himself one of the most

arrogant, learned, and pugnacious disputants of the English Church

Militant,--perhaps have furnished the type of that peculiar religionist

compounded of bully, pedant, and bigot which Warburton was afterwards, from

the lack of models, compelled to originate. But after residing a few months

at the University, Ben, deserted by his friends and destitute of money,

found it impossible to carry out his design; and he returned disappointed

to his mother's house. As she could not support him in idleness, the

stout-hearted student adopted the most obvious means of earning his daily

bread, and for a short time followed the occupation of his father-in-law,

going to the work of bricklaying, according to the tradition, with a trowel

in one hand, but with a Horace in the other. His enemies among the

dramatists did not forget this when he became famous, but meanly sneered at

him as "the lime-and-mortar poet." When we reflect that in the aristocratic

age of good Queen Bess, play-writing, even the writing of Hamlets and

Alchymists, was, if we may trust Dr. Farmer, hardly considered "a

creditable employ," we may form some judgment of the position of the

working classes, when a mechanic was thus deemed to have no rights which a

playwright "was bound to respect."

We have no means of deciding whether or not Ben was foolish enough to look

upon his trade as degrading; that it was distasteful we know from the fact

that he soon exchanged the trowel for the sword; and we hear no more of his

dealing with bricks, if we may except his questionable habit of sometimes

carrying too many of them in his hat. At the age of eighteen he ran away to

the Continent, and enlisted as a volunteer in the English army in Flanders,

fully intending, doubtless, that, as fate seemed against his being a Homer

or an Aristotle, to try if fortune would not make him an Alexander or a

Hannibal. As ill-luck would have it, however, his abundant vitality had

little scope in martial exercise. He does not appear to have been in any

general engagement, though he signalized his personal prowess in a manner

which he was determined should not be forgotten through any diffidence of

his own. Boastful as he was brave, he was never weary of bragging how he

had encountered one of the enemy, fought with him in presence of both

armies, killed him, and triumphantly "taken _opima spolia_ from him."

After serving one campaign, our Ajax-Thersites returned, at the age of

nineteen, to England, bringing with him, according to Gifford, "the

reputation of a brave man, a smattering of Dutch, and an empty purse." To

these accomplishments he probably added that of drinking; for, as "our army

in Flanders" ever drank terribly as well as "swore terribly," it may be

supposed that Ben there laid, deep and wide, the foundation of his

bacchanalian habits. Arrived in London, and thrown on his own resources for

support, he turned naturally to the stage, and became an actor in a minor

play-house, called the Green Curtain. Though he was through life a good

reader, and though at this time he was not afflicted with the scurvy, which

eventually so punched his face as to make one of his satirists compare it,

with witty malice, to the cover of a warming-pan, he still never rose to

any eminence as an actor. He had not been long at the Green Curtain when a

quarrel with one of his fellow performers led to a duel, in which Jonson

killed his antagonist, was arrested on a charge of murder, and, in his own

phrase, was brought "almost at the gallowes,"--an unpleasant proximity

which he hastened to increase by relieving the weariness of imprisonment in

discussions on religion with a Popish priest, also a prisoner, and by being

converted to Romanism. As the zealous professors of the old faith had

passed, in Elizabeth's time, from persecutors into martyrs, Ben, the

descendant of one of Queen Mary's victims, evinced more than his usual

worldly prudence in seizing this occasion to join their company, as he

could reasonably hope that, if he escaped hanging on the charge of

homicide, he still might contrive to be beheaded on a charge of treason.

In regard, however, to the original cause of his imprisonment, it would

seem that, on investigation, it was found the duel had been forced upon

him, that his antagonist had taken the precaution of bringing into the

field a sword ten inches longer than his own, and thus, far from intending

to be the victim of murder, had not unsagaciously counted on committing it.

Jonson was released; but, apparently vexed at this propitious turn to his

fortunes, instead of casting about for some means of subsistence, he almost

immediately married a woman as poor as himself,--a wife whom he afterwards

curtly described as "a shrew, yet honest." A shrew, indeed! As if Mrs.

Jonson must not often have had just occasion to use her tongue tartly!--as

if her redoubtable Ben did not often need its acrid admonitions! They seem

to have lived together until 1613, when they separated.

Absolute necessity now drove Jonson again to the stage, probably both as

actor and writer. He began his dramatic career, as Shakespeare began his,

by doing job-work for the managers; that is, by altering, recasting, and

making additions to old plays. At last, in 1596, in his twenty-second year,

he placed himself at a bound among the famous dramatists of the time, by

the production, at the Rose Theatre, of his comedy of "Every Man in his

Humor." Two years afterwards, having in the mean time been altered and

improved, it was, through the influence of Shakespeare, accepted by the

players of the Blackfriars' Theatre, Shakespeare himself acting the

characterless part of the Elder Knowell.

Among the writers of the Elizabethan age, an age in which, for a wonder,

there seemed to be a glut of genius, Ben is prominent more for racy

originality of personal character, weight or understanding, and quickness

of fancy, than for creativeness of imagination. His first play, "Every Man

in his Humor," indicates to a great extent the quality and the kind of

power with which he was endowed. His prominent characteristic was

will,--will carried to self-will, and sometimes to self-exaggeration almost

furious. His understanding was solid, strong, penetrating, even broad, and

it was well furnished with matter derived both from experience and books;

but, dominated by a personality so fretful and fierce, it was impelled to

look at men and things, not in their relations to each other, but in their

relations to Ben. He had reached that ideal of stormy conceit in which,

according to Emerson, the egotist declares, "Difference from me is the

measure of absurdity." Even the imaginary characters he delineated as a

dramatist were all bound, as by tough cords, to the will that gave them

being, lacked that joyous freedom and careless grace of movement which

rightfully belonged to them as denizens of an ideal world, and had to obey

their master Ben, as puppets obey the show-man. His power of external

observation was pitilessly keen and searching, and it was accompanied by a

rich, though somewhat coarse and insolent vein of humor; but his egotism

commonly directed his observation to what was below, rather than above

himself, and gave to his humor a scornful, rather than a genial tone. He

huffs even in his hilarity; his fun is never infectious; and his very

laughter is an assertion of superior wisdom. He has none of that humanizing

humor which, in Shakespeare, makes us like the vagabonds we laugh at, and

which insures for Dogberry and Nick Bottom, Autolychus and Falstaff, warmer

friends among readers than many great historic dignities of the state and

the camp can command.

In regard to the materials of the dramatist, Jonson, in his vagrant career,

had seen human nature under many aspects; but he had surveyed it neither

with the eye of reason, nor the eye of imagination. His mind fastened on

the hard actualities of observation, without passing to what they implied

or suggested. Deficient thus in philosophic insight and poetic insight, his

shrewd, contemptuous glance rarely penetrated beneath the manners and

eccentricities of men. His attention was arrested, not by character, but by

prominent peculiarities of character,--peculiarities which almost

transformed character into caricature. To use his own phrase, he delineated

humors rather than persons, that is, individuals under the influence of

some dominant affectation, or whim, or conceit, or passion, that drew into

itself, colored, and mastered the whole nature,--"an acorn," as Sir Thomas

Browne phrases it, "in their young brows, which grew to an oak in their old

heads." He thus inverts the true process of characterization. Instead of

seeing the trait as an offshoot of the individual, he individualizes the

trait. Every man is _in_ his humor, instead of every humor being in its

man. In order that there should be no misconception of his purpose, he

named his chief characters after their predominant qualities, as Morose,

Surly, Sir Amorous La Fool, Sir Politic Would Be, Sir Epicure Mammon, and

the like; and, apprehensive even then that his whole precious meaning would

not be taken in, he appended to his _dramatis personae_ further explanations

of their respective natures.

This distrust of the power of language to lodge a notion in another brain

is especially English; but Ben, of all writers, seems to have been most

impressed with the necessity of pounding an idea into the perceptions of

his countrymen. His mode resembles the attempt of that honest Briton, who

thus delivered his judgment on the French nation: "I hate a Frenchman, sir.

Every Frenchman is either a puppy or a rascal, sir." And then, fearful that

he had not been sufficiently explicit, he added, "Do you take my idea?"

With all abatements, however, the comedy of "Every Man in his Humor" is a

remarkable effort, considered as the production of a young man of

twenty-three. The two most striking characters are Kitely and Captain

Bobadil. Give Jonson, indeed, a peculiarity to start with, and he worked it

out with logical exactness. So intense was his conception of it, that he

clothed it in flesh and blood, gave it a substantial existence, and

sometimes succeeded in forcing it into literature as a permanent character.

Bobadil, especially, is one of Ben's masterpieces. He is the most colossal

coward and braggart of the comic stage. He can swear by nothing less

terrible than "by the body of Caesar," or "by the foot of Pharaoh," when his

oath is not something more terrific still, namely, "by my valor"! Every

schoolboy knows the celebrated passage in which the boasting Captain offers

to settle the affairs of Europe by associating with himself twenty other

Bobadils, as cunning i' the fence as himself, and challenging an army of

forty thousand men, twenty at a time, and killing the whole in a certain

number of days. Leaving out the cowardice, we may say there was something

of Bobadil in Jonson himself; and it may be shrewdly suspected that his

conceit of destroying an army in this fashion came into his head in the

exultation of feeling which followed his own successful exploit, in the

presence of both armies, when he was a soldier in Flanders. Old John Dennis

described genius "as a furious joy and pride of school at the conception of

an extraordinary hint." Ben had this "furious joy and pride," not only in

the conception of extraordinary hints, but in the doing of extraordinary

things.

Jonson followed up his success by producing the plays of "Every Man out of

his Humor," and "Cynthia's Revels," dramatic satires on the manners,

follies, affectations, and vices of the city and the court. One good result

of Jonson's egotism was, that it made him afraid of nothing. He openly

appeared among the dramatists of his day as a reformer, and, poor as he

was, refused to pander to popular tastes, whether those tastes took the

direction of ribaldry, or blasphemy, or bombast. He had courage, morality,

earnestness; but then his courage was so blustering, his morality so

irascible, and his devotion to his own ideas of art so exclusive, that he

was constantly defying and insulting the persons he proposed to teach.

Other dramatists said to the audience, "Please to applaud this"; but Ben

said, "Now, you fools, we shall see if you have sense enough to applaud

this!" The stage, to be sure, was to be exalted and improved, but it was to

be done by his own works, and the glory of literature was to be associated

with the glory of Master Benjamin. This conceit, by making him insensible

to Shakespeare's influence, made him next to Shakespeare perhaps the most

original dramatist of the time. He differed from his brother dramatists not

in degree, but in kind. He felt it was not for him to imitate, but to

produce models for imitation; not for him to catch the spirit of the age,

but to originate a better. In short, he felt and taught belief in Ben; and,

high as posterity rates the literature of the age of Elizabeth, it would be

supposed from his prologues and epilogues that he conceived his fat person

to have fallen on evil days.

In "Every Man out of his Humor" and "Cynthia's Revels," he is in a raging

passion throughout. His verse groans with the weight of his wrath. "My

soul," he exclaims,

"Was never ground into such oily colors

To flatter vice and daub iniquity.

But with an armed and resolved hand

I 'll strip the ragged follies of the time

Naked as at their birth,

... and with a whip of steel

Print wounding lashes on their iron ribs."

But though he exhausts the whole rhetoric of railing, invective, contempt,

and scorn, we yet find it difficult to feel any of the indignation he

labors to excite. Admiration, however, cannot be refused to Jonson's prose

style in these as in his other plays. It is terse, sharp, swift,

biting,--every word a die that stamps its object in a second. Occasionally

the author's veins, to use his own apt expression, seem to "run

quicksilver," and "every phrase comes forth steeped in the very brine of

conceit, and sparkles like salt in fire." Yet, though we have whole scenes

in which there is brightness in every sentence, the result of the whole is

something like dulness, as the object of the whole is to exalt himself and

depress others. But in these plays, in strange contrast with their general

character, we have a few specimens of that sweetness of sentiment,

refinement of fancy, and indefinite beauty of imagination, which, occupying

some secluded corner of his large brain, seemed to exist apart from his

ordinary powers and passions. Among these, the most exquisite is this Hymn

to Diana, which partakes of the serenity of the moonlight, whose goddess it

invokes.

"Queen and huntress chaste and fair,

Now the sun is laid to sleep,

Seated in thy silver chair,

State in wonted manner keep.

Hesperus entreats thy light,

Goddess excellently bright!

"Earth, let not thy envious shade

Dare itself to interpose;

Cynthia's shining orb was made

Heaven to clear when day did close.

Bless us, then, with wished sight,

Goddess excellently bright.

"Lay thy bow of pearl apart,

And thy crystal-gleaming quiver;

Give unto the flying hart

Space to breathe how short soever,--

Thou that mak'st a day of night,

Goddess excellently bright."

If, as Jonson's adversaries maliciously asserted, "every line of his poetry

cost him a cup of sack," we must, even in our more temperate days, pardon

him the eighteen cups which, in this melodious lyric, went into his mouth

as sack, but, by some precious chemistry, came out through his pen as

pearls.

It was inevitable that the imperious attitude Jonson had assumed, and the

insolent pungency of his satire, should rouse the wrath of the classes he

lampooned, and the enmity of the poets he ridiculed and decried. Among

those who conceived themselves assailed, or who felt insulted by his

arrogant tone, were two dramatists, Thomas Dekkar and John Marston. They

soon recriminated; and as Ben was better fitted by nature to dispense than

to endure scorn and derision, he in 1601 produced "The Poetaster," the

object of which was to silence forever, not only Dekkar and Marston, but

all other impudent doubters of his infallibility. The humor of the thing

is, that, in this elaborate attempt to convict his adversaries of calumny

in taxing him with self-love and arrogance, he ostentatiously exhibits the

very qualities he disclaims. He keeps no terms with those who profess

disbelief in Ben. They are "play-dressers and plagiaries," "fools or

jerking pedants," "buffoon barking wits," tickling "base vulgar ears with

beggarly and barren trash," while his are

"The high raptures of a happy Muse,

Borne on the wings of her immortal thought,

That kicks at earth with a disdainful heel,

And beats at heaven's gate with her bright hoofs."

Dekkar retorted in a play called "Satiromastrix; or, the Untrussing of the

Humorous Poet"; but, though the scurrility is brilliantly bitter, it is

less efficient and hearted than Jonson's. This literary controversy,

conducted in acted plays, had to the public of that day a zest similar to

that we should enjoy if the editors of two opposing political newspapers

should meet in a hall filled with their subscribers, and fling their

thundering editorials in person at each other's heads. The theatre-goers

seem to have declared for Dekkar and Marston; and Ben, disgusted with such

a proof of their incapacity of judgment, sulked and growled in his den, and

for two years gave nothing to the stage. He had, however, found a patron,

who enabled him to do this without undergoing the famine of insufficient

meat, and the still more dreadful drought of insufficient drink; for, in a

gossiping diary of the period, covering these two years, we are informed,

"B. J. now lives with one Townsend, and scorns the world." While, however,

pleasantly engaged in this characteristic occupation, for which he had a

natural genius, he was meditating a play which he thought would demonstrate

to all judging spirits his possession equally of the acquirements of the

scholar and the talents of the dramatist. In the conclusion of the

Apologetic Dialogue which accompanies "The Poetaster," he had hinted his

purpose in these energetic lines:--

"Once I 'll say,--

To strike the ears of Time in these fresh strains,

As shall, beside the cunning of their ground,

Give cause to some of wonder, some despite,

And more despair to imitate their sound.

I that spend half my nights and all my days

Here in a cell, to get a dark, pale face,

To come forth with the ivy and the bays,

And in this age can hope no better grace,--

Leave me! There 's something come into my thought,

That must and shall be sung high and aloof,

Safe from the wolf's black jaw, and the dull ass's hoof!"

Accordingly, in 1603, he produced his weighty tragedy of "Sejanus," at

Shakespeare's theatre, The Globe,--Shakespeare himself acting one of the

inferior parts. Think of Shakespeare laboriously committing to memory the

blank verse of Jonson!

Though "Sejanus" failed of theatrical success, its wealth of classic

knowledge and solid thought made it the best of all answers to his

opponents. It was as if they had questioned his capacity to build a ship,

and he had confuted them with a man-of-war. To be sure, they might

reiterate their old charge of "filching by translation," for the text of

"Sejanus" is a mosaic; but it was one of Jonson's maxims that he deserved

as much honor for what he made his own by _Jonsonizing_ the classics as for

what he originated. Indeed, in his dealings with the great poets and

historians of Rome, whose language and whose spirit he had patiently

mastered, he acted the part, not of the pickpocket, but of the conqueror.

He did not meanly crib and pilfer in the territories of the ancients: he

rather pillaged, or, in our American phrase, "annexed" them. "He has done

his robberies so openly," says Dryden, "that one sees he fears not to be

taxed by any law. He invades authors like a monarch, and what would be

theft in any other poet is only victory in him."

One incident connected with the bringing out of "Sejanus" should not be

omitted. Jonson told Drummond that the Earl of Northampton had a mortal

enmity to him "for beating, on a St. George's day, one of his attenders";

and he adds, that Northampton had him "called before the Councell for his

Sejanus," and accused him there both of "Poperie and treason."

Jonson's relations with Shakespeare seem always to have been friendly; and

about this time we hear of them as associate members of the greatest of

literary and the greatest of convivial clubs,--the club instituted by Sir

Walter Raleigh, and known to all times as the "Mermaid," so called from the

tavern in which the meetings were held. Various, however, as were the

genius and accomplishments it included, it lacked one phase of ability

which has deprived us of all participation in its wit and wisdom. It could

boast of Shakespeare, and Jonson, and Raleigh, and Camden, and Beaumont,

and Selden, but, alas! it had no Boswell to record its words,

"So nimble, and so full of subtile flame."

There are traditions of "wit-combats" between Shakespeare and Jonson; and

doubtless there was many a discussion between them touching the different

principles on which their dramas were composed; and then Ben, astride his

high horse of the classics, probably blustered and harangued, and

graciously informed the world's greatest poet that he sometimes wanted art

and sometimes sense, and candidly advised him to check the fatal rapidity

and perilous combinations of his imagination,--while Shakespeare smilingly

listened, and occasionally put in an ironic word, deprecating such austere

criticism of a playwright like himself, who accommodated his art to the

humors of the mob that crowded the "round O" of The Globe. There can be no

question that Shakespeare saw Ben through and through, but he was not a man

to be intolerant of foibles, and probably enjoyed the hectoring egotism of

his friend as much as he appreciated his real merits. As for Ben, the

transcendent genius of his brother dramatist pierced through even the thick

hide of his self-sufficiency. "I did honor him," he finely says, "this side

of idolatry, as much as any other man."

On the accession of James of Scotland to the English throne, Jonson was

employed by the court and city to design a splendid pageant for the

monarch's reception; and, with that absence of vindictiveness which

somewhat atoned for his arrogance, he gave his recent enemy, Dekkar, three

fifths of the job. About the same time he was reconciled to Marston; and in

1605 assisted him and Chapman in a comedy called "Eastward Hoe!" One

passage in this, reflecting on the Scotch, gave mortal offence to James's

greedy countrymen, who invaded England in his train, and were ravenous and

clamorous for the spoils of office. Captain Seagul, in the play, praises

what was then the new settlement of Virginia, as "a place without

sergeants, or courtiers, or lawyers, or intelligencers, only a few

industrious Scots perhaps, who indeed are dispersed over the whole earth.

But as for them, there are no greater friends to Englishmen and England,

when they are out on 't, in the world, than they are; and, for my own part,

I would a hundred thousand of them were there, for we are all one

countrymen now, ye know, and we should find ten times more comfort of them

there than we do here." This bitter taunt, which probably made the theatre

roar with applause, was so represented to the king, that Marston and

Chapman were arrested and imprisoned. Jonson nobly insisted on sharing

their fate; and as he had powerful friends at court, and was esteemed by

James himself, his course may have saved his friends from disgraceful

mutilations. A report was circulated that the noses and ears of all three

were to be slit and Jonson tells us, that, in an entertainment he gave to

Camden, Selden, and other friends after his liberation, his old mother

exhibited a paper full of "lustie strong poison," which she said she

intended to have mixed _in his drink_, in case the threat of such a

shameful punishment had been officially announced. The phrase "his drink"

is very characteristic; and, whatever liquid was meant, we may be sure that

it was not water, and that the good lady would have daily had numerous

opportunities to mix the poison with it.

The five years which succeeded his imprisonment carried Jonson to the

height of his prosperity and glory. During this period he produced the

three great comedies on which his fame as a dramatist rests,--"The Fox,"

"The Silent Woman," and "The Alchymist,"--and also many of the most

beautiful of those Masques, performed at court, in which the ingenuity,

delicacy, richness, and elevation of his fancy found fittest expression.

His social position was probably superior to Shakespeare's. He was really

the Court Poet long before 1616, when he received the office, with a

pension of a hundred marks. We have Clarendon's testimony to the fact that

"his conversation was very good, and with men of the best note." Among his

friends occurs the great name of Bacon.

In 1618, when "Ben Jonson" had come to be familiar words on the lips of all

educated men in the island, he made his celebrated journey on foot to

Scotland, and was hospitably entertained by the nobility and gentry around

Edinburgh. Taylor, the water poet, in his "Pennylesse Pilgrimage" to

Scotland, has this amiable reference to him. "At Leith," he says, "I found

my long approved and assured good friend, Master Benjamin Jonson, at one

Master John Stuart's house. I thank him for his great kindness; for, at my

taking leave of him, he gave me a piece of gold of two-and-twenty

shillings' value, to drink his health in England." One object of Jonson's

journey was to visit Drummond of Hawthornden. He passed three or four weeks

with Drummond at Hawthornden, and poured out his mind to him without

reserve or stint. The finical and fastidious poet was somewhat startled at

this irruption of his burly guest into his dainty solitude; took notes of

his free conversation, especially when he decried his contemporaries; and

further carried out the rites of hospitality by adding a caustic, though

keen, summary of his qualities of character. Thus, according to his dear

friend's charitable analysis, Ben "was a great lover and praiser of

himself; a contemner and scorner of others; given rather to losse a friend

than a jest; jealous of every word and action of those about him

(especiallie after drink, which is one of the elements in which he liveth);

a dissembler of ill parts which raigne in him, a bragger of some good that

he wanteth; thinketh nothing well bot what either he himself or some of his

friends and countrymen have said or done; he is passionately kynde and

angry; careless either to gaine or keep; vindictive, but, if he be well

answered, at himself." It is not much to the credit of Jonson's insight,

that, after flooding his pensively taciturn host with his boisterous and

dogmatic talk, he parted with him under the impression that he was leaving

an assured friend. Ah! your demure listeners to your unguarded

conversation,--they are the ones that give the fatal stabs!

A literal transcript of Drummond's original notes of Jonson's

conversations, made by Sir Robert Sibbald about the year 1710, has been

published in the collections of the Shakespeare Society. This is a more

extended report than that included in Drummond's works, though still not so

full as the reader might desire. The stoutness of Ben's character is felt

in every utterance. Thus he tells Drummond that "he never esteemed of a man

for the name of a lord,"--a sentiment which he had expressed more

impressively in his published epigram on Burleigh:--

"Cecil, the grave, the wise, the great, the good,

What is there more that can ennoble blood?"

He had, it seems, "a minde to be a churchman, and, so he might have favour

to make one sermon to the King, he careth not what thereafter sould befall

him; for he would not flatter though he saw Death." Queen Elizabeth is the

mark of a most scandalous imputation, and the mildest of Ben's remarks

respecting her is that she "never saw herself, after she became old, in a

true glass; they painted her, _and sometymes would vermilion_ her nose."

"Of all styles," he said, "he most loved to be named Honest, and hath of

that one hundreth letters so naming him." His judgments on other poets were

insolently magisterial. "Spenser's stanzas pleased him not, nor his

matter"; Samuel Daniel was a good honest man, but no poet; Donne, though

"the first poet in the world in some things," for "not keeping of accent,

deserved hanging"; Abram Fraunce, "in his English hexameters, was a foole";

Sharpham, Day, and Dekkar were all rogues; Francis Beaumont "loved too much

himself and his own verses." Some biographical items in the record of these

conversations are of interest. It seems that the first day of every new

year the Earl of Pembroke sent him twenty pounds "to buy bookes." By all

his plays he never gained two hundred pounds. "Sundry tymes he hath

devoured his bookes," that is, sold them to supply himself with

necessaries. When he was imprisoned for killing his brother actor in a

duel, in the Queen's time, "his judges could get nothing of him to all

their demands but I and No. They placed two damn'd villains, to catch

advantage of him, with him, but he was advertised by his keeper"; and he

added, as if the revenge was as terrible as the offence, "of the spies he

hath ane epigrame." He told a few personal stories to Drummond, calculated

to moderate our wonder that Mrs. Jonson was a shrew; and, as they were

boastingly told, we must suppose that his manners were not so austere as

his verse. But perhaps the most characteristic image he has left of

himself, through these conversations, is this: "He hath consumed a whole

night in lying looking to his great toe, about which he hath seen Tartars

and Turks, Romans and Carthaginians, feight in his imagination."

Jonson's fortunes seem to have suffered little abatement until the death of

King James, in 1625. Then declining popularity and declining health

combined their malice to break the veteran down; and the remaining twelve

years of his life were passed in doing battle with those relentless enemies

of poets,--want and disease. The orange--or rather the lemon--was squeezed,

and both court and public seemed disposed to throw away the peel. In the

epilogue to his play of "The New Inn," brought out in 1630, the old tone of

defiance is gone. He touchingly appeals to the audience as one who is "sick

and sad"; but, with a noble humility, he begs they will refer none of the

defects of the work to mental decay.

"All that his weak and faltering tongue doth crave

Is that you not refer it to his brain;

That 's yet unhurt, although set round with pain."

The audience were insensible to this appeal. They found the play dull, and

hooted it from the stage. Perhaps, after having been bullied so long, they

took delight in having Ben "on the hip." Charles the First, however, who up

to this time seems to have neglected his father's favorite, now generously

sent him a hundred pounds to cheer him in his misfortunes; and shortly

after he raised his salary, as Court Poet, from a hundred marks to a

hundred pounds, adding, in compliment to Jonson's known tastes, a tierce of

Canary,--a wine of which he was so fond as to be nicknamed, in ironical

reference to a corpulence which rather assimilated him to the ox, "a Canary

bird." It is to this period, we suppose, we must refer his testimony to his

own obesity in his "Epistle to my Lady Coventry."

"So you have gained a Servant and a Muse:

The first of which I fear you will refuse,

And you may justly; being a tardy, cold,

Unprofitable chattel, fat and old,

Laden with belly, and doth hardly approach

His friends, but to break chairs or crack a coach.

His weight is twenty stone, within two pound;

And that 's made up, as doth the purse abound."

As his life declined, it does not appear that his disposition was

essentially modified. There are two characteristic references to him in his

old age, which prove that Ben, attacked by palsy and dropsy, with a

reputation perceptibly waning, was Ben still. One is from Sir John

Suckling's pleasantly malicious "Session of the Poets":--

"The first that broke silence was good old Ben,

Prepared before with Canary wine,

And he told them plainly he deserved the bays,

For his were called works where others were but plays.

*....*....*....*

Apollo stopped him there, and bade him not go on;

'T was merit, he said, and not presumption,

Must carry 't; at which Ben turned about,

And in great choler offered to go out."

That is a saucy touch,--that of Ben's rage when he is told that presumption

is not, before Apollo, to take the place of merit, or even to back it!

The other notice is taken from a letter from Howel to Sir Thomas Hawk,

written the year before Jonson's death:--

"I was invited yesternight to a solemn supper by B. J., where you were

deeply remembered. There was good company, excellent cheer, choice wines,

and jovial welcome. One thing intervened which almost spoiled the relish of

the rest,--that B. began to engross all the discourse, to vapor extremely

by himself, and, by vilifying others, to magnify his own Muse. For my part,

I am content to dispense with the Roman infirmity of Ben, now that time has

snowed upon his pericranium."

But this snow of time, however it may have begun to cover up the solider

qualities of his mind, seems to have left untouched his strictly poetic

faculty. That shone out in his last hours, with more than usual splendor,

in the beautiful pastoral drama of "The Sad Shepherd"; and it may be

doubted if, in his whole works, any other passage can be found so exquisite

in sentiment, fancy, and expression as the opening lines of this charming

product of his old age:--

"Here she was wont to go! and here! and here!

Just where those daisies, pinks, and violets grow:

The world may find the Spring by following her;

For other print her airy steps ne'er left:

Her treading would not bend a blade of grass,

Or shake the downy blow-ball from his stalk!

But like the soft west-wind she shot along,

And where she went the flowers took thickest root,

As she had sowed them with her odorous foot!"

Before he completed "The Sad Shepherd," he was struck with mortal illness;

and the brave old man prepared to meet his last enemy, and, if possible,

convert him into a friend. As early as 1606 he had returned to the English

Church, after having been for twelve years a Romanist; and his penitent

death-bed was attended by the Bishop of Winchester. He died in August,

1637, in his sixty-fourth year, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. The

inscription on the common pavement stone which was laid over his grave

still expresses, after a lapse of two hundred years, the feelings of all

readers of the English race,--

"O RARE BEN JONSON!"

It must be admitted, however, that this epithet is sufficiently indefinite

to admit widely differing estimates of the value of his works. In a

critical view, the most obvious characteristic of his mind is its bulk; but

its creativeness bears no proportion to its massiveness. His faculties,

ranged according to their relative strength, would fall into this

rank:--first, BEN; next, understanding; next, memory; next, humor; next,

fancy; and last and least, imagination. Thus, in the strictly poetic action

of his mind, his fancy and imagination being subordinated to his other

faculties, and not co-ordinated with them, his whole nature is not kindled,

and his best masques and sweetest lyrics give no idea of the general

largeness of the man. In them the burly giant becomes gracefully _petite_;

it is Fletcher's Omphale "smiling the club" out of the hand of Hercules,

and making him, for the time, "spin her smocks." Now the greatest poetical

creations of Shakespeare are those in which he is greatest in reason, and

greatest in passion, and greatest in knowledge, as well as greatest in

imagination,--his poetic power being

"Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone,

Binding all things with beauty."

His mind is "one entire and perfect chrysolite," while Jonson's rather

suggests the pudding-stone. The poet _in_ Ben, being thus but a

comparatively small portion _of_ Ben, works by effort, rather than

efficiency, and leaves the impression of ingenuity rather than

inventiveness. But in his tragedies of "Sejanus" and "Catiline," and

especially in his three great comedies of "The Fox," "The Alchymist," and

"The Silent Woman," the whole man is thrust forward, with his towering

individuality, his massive understanding, his wide knowledge of the baser

side of life, his relentless scorn of weakness and wickedness, his vivid

memory of facts and ideas derived from books. They seem written with his

fist. But, though they convey a powerful impression of his collective

ability, they do not convey a poetic impression, and hardly an agreeable

one. His greatest characters, as might be expected, are not heroes or

martyrs, but cheats or dupes. His most magnificent cheat is Volpone, in

"The Fox"; his most magnificent dupe is Sir Epicure Mammon, in "The

Alchymist"; but in their most gorgeous mental rioting in imaginary objects

or sense, the effect is produced by a dogged accumulation of successive

images, which are linked by no train of strictly imaginative association,

and are not fused into unity of purpose by the fire of passion-penetrated

imagination.

Indeed, it is a curious psychological study to watch the laborious process

by which Jonson drags his thoughts and fancies from the reluctant and

resisting soil of his mind, and then lays them, one after the other, with a

deep-drawn breath, on his page. Each is forced into form by main strength,

as we sometimes see a pillar of granite wearily drawn through the street by

a score of straining oxen. Take, for example, Sir Epicure Mammon's detail

of the luxuries he will revel in when his possession of the philosopher's

stone shall have given him boundless wealth. The first cup of Canary and

the first tug of invention bring up this enormous piece of humor:--

"My flatterers

Shall be the pure and gravest of divines

That I can get for money."

Then another wrench of the mind, and, it is to be feared, another inlet of

the liquid, and we have this:--

"My meat shall all come in in Indian shells,

Dishes of agate, set in gold, and studded

With emeralds, sapphires, hyacinths, and rubies."

Glue that on, and now for another tug:--

"My shirts

I 'll have of taffeta-sarsnet, soft and light

As cobwebs; and for all my other raiment,

It shall be such as might provoke the Persian,

Were he to teach the world riot anew."

And then, a little heated, his imagination is stung into action, and this

refinement of sensation flashes out:--

"My gloves of fishes' and birds' skins perfumed

_With gums of Paradise and Eastern air_."

And now we have an extravagance jerked violently out from his logical

fancy:--

"I will have all my beds blown up, not stuffed;

Down is too hard."

But all this patient accumulation of particulars, each costing a mighty

effort of memory or analogy, produces no cumulative effect. Certainly, the

word "strains," as employed to designate the effusions of poetry, has a

peculiar significance as applied to Jonson's verse. No hewer of wood or

drawer of water ever earned his daily wages by a more conscientious putting

forth of daily labor. Critics--and among the critics Ben is the most

clamorous--call upon us to admire and praise the construction of his

plays. But his plots, admirable of their kind, are still but elaborate

contrivances of the understanding, all distinctly thought out beforehand by

the method of logic, not the method of imagination; regular in external

form, but animated by no living internal principle; artful, but not

artistic; ingenious schemes, not organic growths; and conveying the same

kind of pleasure we experience in inspecting other mechanical contrivances.

His method is neither the method of nature nor the method of art, but the

method of artifice. A drama of Shakespeare may be compared to an oak; a

drama by Jonson, to a cunningly fashioned box, made of oak-wood, with some

living plants growing in it. Jonson is big; Shakespeare is great.

Still we say, "O rare Ben Jonson!" A large, rude, clumsy, English force,

irritable, egotistic, dogmatic, and quarrelsome, but brave, generous, and

placable; with no taint of a malignant vice in his boisterous foibles; with

a good deal of the bulldog in him, but nothing of the spaniel, and one

whose growl was ever worse than his bite;--he, the bricklayer's apprentice,

fighting his way to eminence through the roughest obstacles, capable of

wrath, but incapable of falsehood, willing to boast, but scorning to creep,

still sturdily keeps his hard-won position among the Elizabethan worthies

as poet, playwright, scholar, man of letters, man of muscle and brawn; as

friend of Beaumont and Fletcher and Chapman and Bacon and Shakespeare; and

as ever ready, in all places and at all times, to assert the manhood of Ben

by tongue and pen and sword.

UNCHARITABLENESS.

I hold society responsible for a great deal.

I wondered once where all the disconsolate came from,--where all the human

wrecks tossed up by the waves of misfortune received their injuries, and

what became of those who sailed from port in early youth and were never

heard of more. I marvelled, too, that there were so many unhappy bachelors,

so many forlorn maids, so many neither wife nor maid; but at all these

things I wonder no longer. I have solved the problem I set myself. Society

makes them all.

I am not going to analyze society to please any one. I make mine own.

Hyacinth, I dare swear, makes his. Why shall I paint it? It is you, it is

I, it is both of us, and many more. Can I sketch the figures in a

kaleidoscope ere they change? If I could, I might say what society is or

was. To-day members of circles marry, or are given in marriage. Disease

comes and war decimates; foul tongues asperse, and the unity that was

perfect is so no longer. The whole world is society, and I believe there

was not so much confusion at the Tower of Babel after all. Men speak in

different tongues, but their motives are the same in all climes.

I love or I hate my Celtic friend. The sea rolls between us, but from afar

the same sun warms us. If he does a good deed, I shall applaud it; or, if

he is mean, shall I not smite him? The world looks on, and puts us all to

the test alike. We love or we hate.

Are there no Procrustean couches in these days? If my neighbor is too

short, what shall I do but stretch him? if he is too long, I am the one who

shall hack off his superfluous inches.

Ah! believe me, sceptic, there is a mote in thine eye, but in mine there is

no beam. It is I who am immaculate. "The king can do no wrong." I am a

king unto myself; but, whether king or commoner, how lenient I am to my own

faults,--how intensely alive to my neighbor's!

If Kubla Khan decide to build his pleasure dome,--nay, if he but hint at

it,--I set myself to wonder where he can possibly have obtained the funds.

Not in commerce surely. Not in that vulgar little furnishing-store in which

he has toiled early and late for twenty years. He is doubtless a spy of the

government,--a detective of some kind; and, now that I recall it, he

certainly was away some time during the Rebellion. In short, there are many

ways by which he may have procured this money dishonestly. Rather than

believe my neighbor quite honest and beyond reproach, I discuss the topic

of his supposed fall from virtue with our mutual neighbors, until at last I

bring them to the conclusion I have long ago arrived at, which is, if the

truth were known, that Kubla Khan is no better than the law compels him to

be.

I do this, of course, solely from a regard for virtue, from a sense of

duty. The times, I say in my discussions, are such that one must know his

associates thoroughly; and so I believe, or profess to believe, K. K. to be

a rogue rather than an honest, upright man.

I have a right to my opinion, have I not? Most unquestionably. While this

tongue and beard can wag, I will assert the privilege of free speech. But

have I a right to traduce my neighbor? What business is it of mine if he

has money, and sees fit to build a house with it? Am I his banker, that I

give heed to his concerns? Why cannot I look on with delight, and even help

select the site of the future edifice? All of his previous life has been

blameless and without reproach; but now I suddenly discover that my

neighbor is not trustworthy. Is this charity?

Perhaps I do not touch upon Kubla Khan and his prospective chateau at all.

My neighbors in the house adjoining engross my attention. Come! let us

watch for the butcher and the baker, that we may see what our neighbors'

fare is. I will engage that I can fix to a shilling the amount of their

weekly bills. Such meanness are some people guilty of, that they live upon

a sum that would not keep my boy in tarts. I am certain that our neighbors

take ice but every other day in the summer, and if the milk they buy is not

swill-fed, then I am no judge. The steaks are not porter-house, but

rump-steaks. Last Saturday night I saw Pater-familias bring home a smoked

shoulder,--not a _ham_, because that is much dearer; and--will it be

believed?--the bonnets the girls wear are revamped from those of last year.

Young Threadpaper dances attendance upon them, and I am sure of all low

things a man milliner is the lowest. Two weeks ago Pater-familias rode down

town with me, and I saw upon his shoe an immense patch, while his hat was

so shiny, with frequent caressings from a silk handkerchief, that it seemed

to be varnished and polished.

His clothes are very unfashionable, too. He is invariably a year behind the

style; and how can one respect a person who does not wear garments of the

prevalent cut?

There must be something mysterious about this man. If there is, I am the

one to ferret it out. Let me see. His manner is reticent. From this I

deduce the fact that he has at some time been a convict. All men who have

been incarcerated are just so quiet. I was once in a jail in Massachusetts,

with other persons, and one poor fellow, taking advantage of our presence,

whispered to his neighbor, whereat the jailer swore awfully, and punished

him; but the rest were very quiet, just like my neighbor. It is certainly

suspicious.

He is economical, too. Ah! that follows quite naturally. Remorse has seized

him, and he is now endeavoring to pay off his indebtedness, or do something

else which I cannot fathom just now; thus making his family suffer doubly

for his misdeed.

O, I cry in the pride of my heart, truly "the sins of the fathers are

visited upon the children," and I not only fix the nature of my neighbor's

transgression, but the very jail in which he was incarcerated.

Fool and blind that I am! If I had but a tithe of that intuition I boast, I

might have discerned that my neighbor was one of those rare individuals we

sometimes read of in tracts, but seldom meet in the flesh,--one of those

heroes who fight daily battles with trial, temptation, suffering, and

privation in many shapes, that he may live honorably before men, and leave

a heritage of honor to his children when he goeth to his long home. I might

have seen that this man worked early and late without complaint, that he

might pay debts his dead father incurred for his education, and that the

poor decrepit old lady whom no physician can cure is his mother. She costs

him a pretty penny for her support, I warrant me, and accuses him in her

dotage with harboring a desire to get rid of her. What wonder if he is

reticent to the world? Look in his eye. It is the eye of an honest man.

Take his hand. 'T is a true palm, and many a beggar shall be refused at

Dives's door, but not at his.

But he is poor; he looks downcast. Come, let us beslime him with the breath

of suspicion. Let us gossip about him. Let us look askance at him, and

direct our children to avoid his,--when they play their little hour, to run

swiftly past that wretched abode of silence.

Silence! said I. Ah! that is a queer silence which reigns in my neighbor's

dwelling. When he comes to his family there are shouts and laughter, and

rosy-mouthed roisterers stand ready to pillage the plethoric pockets laden

to the flaps with bananas and oranges he has starved himself to procure. I

do not hear that he discusses his neighbor's affairs, or that he distils

into his oolong one drop of bitter scandal by way of flavor. Nay, I am

certain that I might lose five hundred dollars per diem, and the world

would be none the wiser through him.

So much for externals.

How sharply we see things which have no existence! How quickly we discern

faults in our neighbors, but how slow we are to find out our own!

Now I look at it, there is a grievous rent in my neighbor's doublet; but

look at mine own. How it fits! Is it not immaculate? I have a suit of

character in which I am triply armed,--a coat of mail of reputation which I

defy slander to pierce. The man who wrote

"He that is down need fear no fall,

He that is up no pride,

He that is humble ever shall

Have God to be his guide,"

knew nothing about human nature. I fancy I could teach that genius a thing

or two. The springs of human action are not concealed to me. Ah, no! I see

them all, in my own conceit, and no mean motive of other people escapes me.

But how shall my neighbor fare at my hands in argument? Well, I trust, if

he agree with me. That is, provided he sees things as I do. If he sees the

shield to be gold, and I see it so also, what sagacity he has! what

judgment! "A man of fine talents," I say to my son. "See that you emulate

him. Mark how quickly he grasps the same points that I did,--with what nice

discrimination he avoids irrelevant matters, and treats only the main

idea." Next to myself, I say in my heart, there is no one but my neighbor

who could have solved this riddle so quickly.

But let him dare to disagree with me,--let him say the shield is gold when

I say it is silver, or brass if I like,--and what depth of stultification

is too deep for him,--what pit of error too dark for him to stumble in? He

is a sophisticator, a casuist; he chases every paltry side-issue until his

brains are so muddled that he cannot tell what he does think; he is a mole,

an owl, a bat; he is a blockhead, to boot.

What! differ from _me_?--the idiot! I say the shield _is_ silver; how can

it be gold? Is it not white? doth it not glisten? hath it not lustre? what

else can it be?

My neighbor suggests sportively that it is tin; whereupon I impugn my

neighbor's good-sense; and that is a logical conclusion of the controversy.

It does not occur to me that a man may differ in opinion from his fellows,

and yet not be a convicted felon or a disturber of the peace. His views are

his; foolish, perhaps, from my standpoint; yet, because he is not so wise

as I, is he any the less entitled to courtesy, to consideration and

charity,--is he the less a fond father, a patriot, or an honorable man? Why

insist that of all the world I am sagest and always right?

Why shall I break the images men set up? Iconoclast that I am, reflection

would show me what long years ago my copy-book told me, _Humanum est

errare_,--and that violence, intolerance, and discourtesy are poor weapons

to fight prejudice and bigotry with. Come! let us throw them aside

hereafter; let none be persecuted or derided in social circles for their

opinions' sake. There are more forcible arguments than vituperation and

personality, and if we cannot convince, let us be content.

The world is made for all. When my Uncle Toby took the fly and let him out,

he did as men should to others who differ in opinion. Go! I say to the

sceptic, the world is wide enough for thee and me.

At the commencement of this paper, I said it was no mystery where the

disconsolate came from,--society made them; and I reassert it as my

conviction that the supply is far ahead of the demand. I say too many in

society are hollow and false, and not true to themselves, nor to the

instinct planted in every human breast.

By word or deed I convey to my _vis-a-vis_ in the crowded _salon_ my

opinion that our host's daughter is a failure; the money spent upon her

education is thrown away. She has no air, no manner, no tone. My

_vis-a-vis_ understands me, and, taking her cue, goes to the cherished of

her heart, and straightway repeats the slander, and we smile and smile and

are villains.

"Vanity of vanities, all is vanity, saith the Preacher," and I say after

him, Is there nothing but nettles in the world's garden,--nothing but

noxious weeds? Have we no traits and sentiments which are lofty and

ennobling? Why cannot we see these and talk about them? But whoever went to

a party where the guests talked of virtue?

Here is Straitlace. His wife is in the country; he will therefore bear

watching. Come! let us invent and suppose, let us pry and peek. Ah, ha! I

see a letter,--a _billet-doux_, a delicately scented one, and he is so

close to me in the cars that, by the merest accident I assure you, I am

able to read the beginning,--"Dearest of my soul."

There, that is quite enough. Dearest of her soul, indeed! Do wives begin

letters in that way? Not many. Shocking! Dreadful! And then my comrades and

I roll the sweet morsel under our tongues, when, after all, the model

husband was only reading his model wife's letter.

Or look at this phase of uncharitableness. What a happy faculty my

countrymen have for finding out each other's business. I move into some

country village, where a small but select community meet and agitate

various topics for the moral regeneration of all. I am from the city, and

therefore have some ways easily noticed. I am unquestionably "stuck up,"

and am hardly settled in my place before a tea-party is held, not to do me

honor, but to sit in inquest upon me and my family.

Are our virtues discussed at the inquest? Have we any good qualities? Are

we not almost outcasts? How we drawl our words, for example. We wear white

skirts, when balmorals are good enough for most folks. We starve our

children, too, because they get only bread and milk for tea, and no pies

or cakes. In short, how very far below our neighbors we are in social

standing!

Go to, ye shallow dissemblers, retailers of scandal, disturbers of the

peace! Leave _us_ in peace, and possess your souls in patience. We are

human, and frail even as you are. We have faults and virtues. Why not

extend the hand of friendship to us? Why not be courteous, instead of

making us detest your presence,--instead of souring our tempers, and making

us feel as though every one's hand was against us?

There is that Abigail, whom I have often seen lounging at the next door

below. She snuffeth scandal from afar. She heareth the whisperings and

innuendoes of them that traffic in reputations, and she loseth little time

ere she adorns the secret meetings of the conspirators with her presence.

Away with her to the scaffold! she is chiefest among the malefactors. Offer

her up a sacrifice to charity, and let none say nay!

Suppose I stand by when the tale-bearer begins his monotonous song, what am

I to lose by keeping silent, as he tears my neighbor to pieces?

There were two maidens, saith the fable, one of whom was lovely to look

upon, while the other was plain; but when the former spake, toads and

serpents fell from her lips, while from the unlovely lips came diamonds and

pearls. I know which I should have wooed, and I hope won, for I value more

a quiet life than false lips and a tongue that speaketh lies.

"Speech is silvern, but silence is golden." I shall be silent when the

detractor begins his tale.

"Teach me to hide the faults I see,

And feel for others' woe,"

saith the poet, and, though he may be accused of uttering a platitude, I

subscribe to it. I am willing to forgive and forget, instead of enlarging

upon all the flaws, all the weaknesses, of human nature. I shall not

thunder on the roof of some hapless wretch who has stumbled, fallen by the

wayside, and cry, "Come out! come out! thou villain, and do penance for

thy sin." I will rather give him my hand and help him arise. I will set him

up again, and I will back him against all takers that he never slips again.

"One touch of nature makes the whole world kin," saith another poet; but he

meant good, not bad nature, for he knew full well how to set communities by

the ears with his sharp sayings.

To-day it is the sister against her brother, the son against his father,

and the world is so full of evil, if we might believe the scandal-mongers,

that no good will ever exist again in it.

"Let those who dance pay the piper," says Worldly-mindedness, and he

chuckles as he says it for a sharp thing. But there are some who like

dancing that have not the wherewithal, and to those I offer my purse. If a

man fall down, I am not going to jump upon his back and jeer him. He has

danced, and cannot pay now; but what of that? Some day he will.

Here is one hand and one heart that shall never betray. Come to me, ye

scandal-torn and society-ridden. Come to me, ye whom venomous tongues have

harried, and ye whose characters hang in shreds about you, come also. Ye

have faults, and so have I. Somewhere ye have good traits, and these are

what I respect.

Let us defy the "they-says," and as for those whose shibboleth is, "I have

it upon good authority," we will give them the go-by.

We will laugh to see the tribulation of them that sit in council, and hold

foul revelry over their neighbors' shortcomings; they shall read of our

resolutions, and there shall be no comfort in the cup of tea any more which

Tabbies sip delectably, while they tear Miss Bright-eyes to pieces. There

shall lurk a maggot in the shreds of dried beef which these modern ghouls

rend, as they rend my fair name; and may the biscuits be as heavy upon

their stomachs as tale-bearing shall one day be upon their consciences.

_Thou shalt not bear false witness._

If I am unlike you, gentle reader, guiltless of this crying sin, I know you

will not condemn me, will not decry me, make little of me, or seek to

poison men's minds against me. You will have that charity for me which is

not puffed up; and where I err, or you are ignorant of my motive, hold your

peace.

To-day there are dear ones in exile, or in the bonds of sin, for this very

practice. There are lives hopelessly lost to virtue, and others imbittered

forever. Families are separated, and high hopes and aspirations crushed,

while the fountains of affection which should be filled to the brim afford

only a trickling stream, or, worse still, foul lees which never will

subside. There are shadows in many homes, and empty chairs that never will

be filled. The child on the floor misses its playfellow, the wife her

husband, the mother her son, the betrothed her lover, and still the

tale-bearers go upon their rounds, and their feet never, never rest.

THE ROSE ROLLINS.

PART I.

There lived a few years ago in one of the small seaport towns of New

England a solitary, friendless man, of the name of John Chidlaw,--a

gray-headed, stoop-shouldered, hollow-chested person of about fifty years

of age at the time our story begins. He was sober, steady, and industrious,

and always had been so since his first appearance in the place, but somehow

he never got ahead. He was thriftless, people used to say, and they got in

the habit of calling him "Johnny," and then "Old Johnny," until nobody

called him anything else, unless it were here and there some poor child or

sympathetic woman, who said "Uncle Johnny," with that sort of gentle

kindness that is never bestowed on the prosperous.

He did not resent anything, even pity, but took his hard fortune as a

matter of course, and the heavier the burden, why, the more he bent his

shoulders, but he did not complain. Nobody had ever asked his history,--the

history of a man who has patches at his knees, and whose elbows are out, is

not, by those more fortunate persons who have no patches at their knees,

and whose elbows are not out, generally supposed to be of an interesting

character. John Chidlaw was, therefore, never bothered with questions.

Could he lift a heavy log? Could he tend a saw-mill? Could he drive a team,

or carry a hod of bricks? These, and the like, were the questions that were

asked him mostly; and as he could say yes to any and all of these, and as

people did not require him to say more, he seldom did say more, but lifted

the log, or drove the team, as the case might be, in silence.

He looked a good deal older than he was,--not that his head was so gray,

and not that his shoulders bent so much, but the rather that there was an

utter absence of buoyancy, an indurated and inflexible style and expression

about the whole man, as if, in fact, he had been born old. You could not

think of him as having ever been a boy, with cherry cheeks, and laughing

eyes, and steps that were careless and fleet as the wind, but he had had

his boyhood and his boyhood's dream, as will appear by and by.

It had happened to him at one time that a saw had gone into his hand, and

left a jagged and ugly scar across the back; another time it had happened

that his horse had run away, upsetting his cart, and breaking one of his

legs, so that he limped thereafter, and was disabled from some of the

harder kinds of work he had been used to do. He had been dismissed by one

and another, in consequence of his inability to make a full day's work, and

was sitting one day on a pile of bricks in the outer edge of the town where

he lived, quite down-hearted, and chewing, not the cud of sweet and bitter

fancies, but, instead thereof, a bit of pine stick, which he held partly in

and partly out of his mouth.

His eyes looked solemnly out from under his gray eyebrows as now and then a

whistling teamster drove by, throwing a whole cloud of hot, suffocating

dust over him. Sometimes a pedler, or some stroller with a monkey on his

shoulder and an organ on his back, would nod to him as he passed; but the

pedler did not think of exhibiting his wares, nor the organman of grinding

out a tune, or of setting his monkey to playing tricks, for the like of old

Johnny. The sun was growing large toward the setting, and nothing had

turned up, when all at once there was a wild whirl of wheels, and a crying

and shouting and holding up of hands by all the men and boys along the

road. A horse was running away. On he came, galloping furiously, while the

old heavy-topped buggy to which he was attached rattled and creaked and

swayed from side to side frightfully,--frightfully, because it was in

imminent danger of being crushed all to pieces; and sitting still and

solemnly upright, swaying with the buggy, and in imminent danger of being

crushed to pieces too, was a child,--a beautiful little girl, with a cloud

of yellow curls rippling down her bare shoulders. Her white dress fluttered

in the wind, and her hat was swimming on the pond half a mile in the rear;

but still she sat, sober and quiet as though she had been on her mother's

knees, and not so much as puckering her pretty lip for all the tumult and

fright.

A dozen men were in the road, some with rails in their arms, with which

they no doubt intended to intercept the mad creature; but the best

intentions fail sometimes, and the men with rails in their arms threw them

down, and got themselves out of the way, as soon as the danger came near

them.

John Chidlaw went into the road among the rest, but without a rail in his

arms. He did not, however, get himself out of the way,--not he. He threw

himself with might and main upon the neck of the frightened beast, and

there he held, and was dragged along,--half the time, as it seemed, under

his very feet.

"That's you, Johnny!" "Go it!" "Good for you!" were the cheers and calls of

encouragement that followed him. The horse was valuable, and he was in

danger of breaking his neck; and what matter about John Chidlaw! He had no

friends!

He required not to be thus stimulated, if they had but known it: he had

been stimulated sufficiently already, by the tossing hair and fair face of

the little girl, to peril his life, and he was not the man to look back

when he had his hand to the plough.

The blood besmeared his face, and streamed down his neck, and wet his

shirt-bosom and sleeves, and still the voices cried, "Hold on, Johnny!"

They thought he was being battered to death, though the blood was from the

mouth of the horse, for the entire weight of the man was being dragged by

the bit.

At the toll-gate an old woman ran out with a broom,--she could have shut

the gate, but did not,--and when Johnny had stopped the horse, which he did

a little farther on, she told him that but for his being in the way she

could have stopped the beast at once, and that, if he was as badly battered

as he seemed, she would be at the pains of getting the poor-house cart, and

seeing that he was carted away! The old carriage was surrounded in a few

minutes, and the child lifted out, and kissed and coaxed, and petted and

praised, and fed with candies and cakes, and handed from the arms of one to

another; and the feet and legs of the horse were carefully examined, and he

was dashed with cool water, and combed and rubbed, and petted and patted,

and given a variety of either grand or endearing names; but nobody looked

after Johnny, and the only kindness shown him was that of the old woman

with the broom.

But even Fortune tires of frowning at last, and the time of her relenting

toward John Chidlaw was at hand.

He was washing the blood from his face in a wayside puddle, when the man

who owned the horse and buggy came breathlessly up. "My good friend," he

said, slapping him on the shoulder, "you have saved my child's life!" And

then his hand slipped from shoulder to waist, and he positively hugged the

astonished Johnny, who was almost awe-struck at first, for the hugger was

well to do, and he that was hugged was exceeding poor, as the reader knows.

"My name," he said, introducing himself, "is Hilton, David Hilton, and I

keep the ferry at the lower end of the town; should n't wonder if I could

put business in your way! You can turn your hand to a'most anything, I

reckon,--a man of your build mostly can."

A fortnight later, and John Chidlaw was the master of a little black

sailboat not much bigger than a canoe, and his business was to carry

butchers' meat, bread, poultry, and vegetables from the market-town in

which he lived to the great hotels situated on the hills above the opposite

shore. His boat had, therefore, in his eyes, somewhat the dignity of a

merchantman; and as he was entitled to a part of the profits of the trade

he carried on, he was at once a proud and a happy man. He had christened

his boat "The Rose Rollins," and kept her as neat and trim as she could be.

He wore a sailor's jacket, from professional pride, and used all the

nautical phrases he could muster. His shoulders got the better of their

stoop, and his chest of its hollowness, in a wonderfully short time; and

one day, when he was asked about the scar on his hand, he answered that he

had been bitten by a whale when he was a young man at sea. It will be

perceived that he was gaining confidence, and growing in worldly wisdom.

The questioner was a very timid person, but she said she guessed she could

trust herself with an old sailor like that, and at once went aboard. She

was a milliner, laden with boxes for the ladies in the opposite hotels, and

was the first female passenger the master of the Rose had had;--for his

legitimate trade was merchandise, and not the transportation of men and

women; but occasionally, as his confidence grew, he had taken a passenger

or two across the ferry, on his own hook, as he phrased it.

"I took such a wiolent fancy to the name o' your wessel," says the

milliner, "and that is how I come to take passage with you. Ain't she a

nice little thing, though?"

"Trim as a gal o' sixteen!" says John. "But had n't you better unlade

yourself o' your merchandise, and fix to enjoy the sail some?"--and he

began taking the boxes from her lap.

"O sir, you 're wery good!" says the milliner, quite blushing. And then she

adjusted her skirts, and flirted them about as she adjusted them, and then

she untied her bonnet-strings and knotted them up again, for nothing in the

world but the pleasure of tying knots in ribbon apparently; but John

Chidlaw thought he had never in his life seen such a graceful and

enchanting performance. He brought his jacket directly, and offered to

spread it over the board on which she was sitting.

"Oh, you 're wery good, wery good, I am sure, sir,--but I 'm a-givin' you

too much trouble!"--and, saying so, she partly rose and allowed the seat to

be cushioned as proposed. The wind caught the bright ribbons, and fluttered

them in the man's face as he was thus employed.

"Oh!" says the milliner, with a little start; and then she says, "The nasty

winds have such a wulgar way of catchin' up a body's things"; and she pulls

back the innocent strings and holds them against her bosom by main force.

"Pray, miss, don't haul 'em round that way on my account; they did n't hurt

me none! Why, I thought 't was a butterfly at fust, and then I thought 't

was a hummin'-bird, and them was allers pleasin' things to me, both on

'em."

The woman was flattered. In the first place she was not young,--not much

younger than he, in fact,--and he had addressed her as "miss"; and in the

next place his comparing her ribbons to butterflies and humming-birds

seemed the same as a personal compliment.

"O Captain!" she says, coloring up, "did you think so, werily?"--and then

she changes the subject, and talks about the appearance of the clouds, and

the prospect of rain. "I suppose you old sailors can tell, purty much," she

says, "whether it 's a-goin' to rain, or whether the clouds will ewaporate

into mist; and I should really walue your judgment, for if my things

should git wet, you see, it would cost me a wery considerable sum!"

"I'll just take an obserwation!" says John; and he set his foot on a

bread-basket, and cocked up one eye. He had never given the sound of _w_ to

his _v_ before, but he had noticed that his fair passenger did so, and he

adopted the pronunciation, partly in gallantry, partly because it struck

him as elegant. While he was taking the observation, a bright thought came

to him. "I guess we shall have foul weather afore long," says he. "When the

clouds hev sich disjinted shapes as they hev this mornin', it 's generally

portentous; but I can knock up a canvas kiver in a minute, and if it still

looks like fur rain when we go into port, why, I would adwise you just to

stay aboard,--it sha'n't cost you a cent more, not if you make a dozen

trips!"