CHAPTER XXIII.

There was naturally great surprise when Walter Monroe returned home to

dinner and Alice was found to be missing. It was evident that it was

not an accidental detention, for her trunk had been sent for an hour

previous, and the messenger either could not or would not give any

information as to her whereabouts. Mrs. Monroe was excessively

agitated,--her faculties lost in a maze, like one beholding an accident

without power of thought or motion. To Walter it was a heavy blow; he

feared that his own advances had been the occasion of her leaving the

house, and he reproached himself bitterly for his headlong folly. Their

dinner was a sad and cheerless meal; the mother feeling all a woman's

solicitude for a friendless girl; the son filled with a tumult of

sorrow, remorse, love, and pity.

"Poor Alice!" said Mrs. Monroe; "perhaps she has found no home."

"Don't, mother! The thought of her in the streets, or among suspicious

strangers, or vulgar people, is dreadful. We must leave no means untried

to find her. Did she leave no word, no note?"

"No,--none that I know of."

"Have you looked?"

She shook her head. Walter left his untasted food, and hastily looked in

the hall, then in the parlor, and at last in the library. There was the

note in her own delicate hand.

"DEAR WALTER,--

"Don't be offended. I cannot eat the bread of idleness now that your

fortune is gone and your salary stopped. If I need your assistance, you

will hear from me. Comfort your mother, and believe that I shall be

happier earning my own living. We shall meet in better times. God bless

you both for your kindness to one who had no claim upon you!

"ALICE."

"The dear creature!" said Mrs. Monroe, taking the note and kissing it.

"Why did you let her trunk go, mother? You might have detained the man

who came for it, and sent for me. I would have followed him to the ends

of the earth."

"I don't know, my son. I was confused. I hardly knew what happened. I

shook so that I sat down, and Bridget must have got it."

Tears ran down her cheeks, and her hands trembled so that her fork

dropped.

"Never mind, dear mother. Pray, be calm. I did not wish to disturb you."

There was a ring at the door. A gentleman wished to see Mr. Monroe.

Rising from the table, he went into the parlor.

"Mr. Monroe," began the stranger, in an agitated manner, "do you know

anything of a young lady named Lee,--Alice Lee?"

"Yes," replied Monroe, with equal excitement, "I know her well. What of

her? Where is she? Have you found her?"

"Found her?" said the other, with surprise. "Is she not here?"

"No,--she left this morning."

"And left no word where she was going?"

"None."

"Let me beg of you not to trifle with me. Did she not hear my voice, my

step, and attempt to excuse herself through you?"

"Sir!" exclaimed Walter.

"I beg pardon. I have been in search of her for two days. I could not

believe she had eluded me just at the last. I do not wish to doubt your

word."

"And who may you be, Sir, to take such an interest in the lady?"

"I can satisfy you fully. My name is Greenleaf."

"The painter?"

"Yes. You must have heard her speak of me."

"Never, to my recollection."

"Have you known her long?"

"She is my cousin. It is only recently that she came here, and her

acquaintances of a year ago might naturally have been passed over."

"You seem surprised at her leaving you so abruptly. You will join me in

making search for her?"

"I shall search for her, myself, as long as there is hope."

"Let me confess," said Greenleaf, "that I have the strongest reasons for

my haste. She is betrothed to me."

"Since you have honored me with your confidence, I will return it, so

far as to tell you what I heard from her this morning. I think I

can remember the precise words:--'I have received a wound from the

faithlessness of one lover, which never will heal.' If you are the

person, I hope the information will be as agreeable to you as her

absence and ill-judging independence are to me. I wish you good

morning."

"Then she has heard!" said Greenleaf, soliloquizing. "I am justly

punished." Then aloud. "I shall not take offence at your severity of

tone. I have but one thought now. Good morning!"

He left the house, like one in a dream. Alice, homeless in the

streets this bitter day,--seeking for a home in poverty-stricken

boarding-houses,--asking for work from tailors or milliners,--exposed

to jeers, coarse compliments, and even to utter want!--the thought was

agony. The sorrows of a whole life were concentrated in this one hour.

He walked on, frantically, peering under every bonnet as he passed,

looking wistfully in at the shop-windows, expecting every moment to

encounter her sad, reproachful face.

Walter had been somewhat ill for several days, and the accumulation of

misfortunes now pressed upon him heavily. He did not tell his mother

of the strange interview, but sat down moodily by the grate, in the

library. He was utterly perplexed where in the city to search for Alice;

and with his mental depression came a bodily infirmity and nervousness

that made him incapable of effort. An hour passed in gloomy

reverie,--drifting without aim upon a shoreless ocean, under a sullen

sky,--when he was roused by the entrance of Easelmann.

"In the dumps? I declare, Monroe, I shouldn't have thought it of you."

"I am really ill, my friend."

"Pooh! Don't let your troubles make you believe that. Cheer up. You'll

find employment presently, and you'll be surprised to find how well you

are."

"I hope I shall be able to make the experiment."

"Well, suppose you walk out with me. There is a tailor I want you to

see."

"A tailor? I can't sew or use shears, either."

"No,--nor sit cross-legged; I know that. But this tailor is no common

Snip. He is a man of ideas and character. He has something to propose to

you."

"Indeed! I am much obliged to you. To-morrow I will go with you; but,

really, I feel too feeble to-day," said Monroe, languidly.

"Well, as you please; to-morrow it shall be. How is your mother?"

"Quite well, I thank you."

"And the pretty cousin, likewise, I hope?"

"She was quite well this morning."

"Isn't she at home?"

"No,--she has gone out."

"Confound you, Monroe! you have never let me have a glimpse of her.

Now I am not a dangerous person; quite harmless, in fact; received

trustfully by matrons with grown-up daughters. You needn't hide her."

"I don't know. Some young ladies are quite apt to be fascinated by

elderly gentlemen who know the world and still take an interest in

society."

"Yes,--a filial sort of interest, a grand-daughterly reverence and

respect. The sight of gray hair is a wonderful antidote to any tenderer

feeling."

"I am very sorry not to oblige you; but the truth is, that Cousin Alice,

hearing of my losses, has left the house abruptly, to earn her own

living, and we do not know where she has gone."

"The independent little minx! Now I rather like that. There's the proper

spirit. She'll take good care of herself; I haven't a doubt."

"But it is a most mortifying step to us. It is a reflection upon our

hospitality. I would have worked my fingers off for her."

"No doubt. But she will merely turn hers into nutmeg-graters, by

pricking them with her needle, and save you from making stumps of

your own. Oh, never fear,--we shall find her presently. I'll make

a description of her, and leave it with all the slop-shop fellows.

'Strayed or stolen: A young lady answering to the name of Alice; five

feet and no inches; dressed in black; pale, blue-eyed, smiles when

properly spoken to; of no use to any person but the owner. One thousand

dollars reward, and no questions asked.' Isn't that it? It won't be

necessary to add, that the disconsolate advertiser is breaking his heart

on account of her absence."

"My dear Easelmann, I know your kindly heart; but I cannot be rallied

out of this depression. I have only the interest of a cousin, a

friend, a protector, in the girl; but her going away, after my other

misfortunes, has plunged me into an abyss. I can't be cheerful."

"One word more, my dear fellow, and I go. You know I threatened to bore

you every day; but I sha'n't continue the terebrations long at a time.

You told me about the way your notes were disposed of. Now they are

yours, beyond question, and you can recover them from the holder; he has

no lien upon them whatever, for Sandford was not authorized to pledge

them. It's only a spoiling of the Egyptians to fleece a broker."

"Perhaps the notes themselves are worthless, or will be. Nearly

everybody has failed; the rest will go shortly."

"I see you are incurable; the melancholy fit must have its course, I

suppose. But don't hang yourself with your handkerchief, nor drown

yourself in your wash-basin. Good bye!"

On his way down Washington Street, Easelmann met his friend Greenleaf,

whom he had not seen before for many days.

"Whither, ancient mariner? That haggard face and glittering eye of yours

might hold the most resolute passer-by."

"You, Easelmann! I am glad to see you. I am in trouble."

"No doubt; enthusiastic people always are. You fretted your nurse

and your mother, your schoolmaster, your mistress, and, most of all,

yourself. A sharp sword cuts its own scabbard."

"She is gone,--left me without a word."

"Who, the Sandford woman? I always told you she would."

"No,--I left her, though not so soon as I should."

"A fine story! She jilted you."

"No,--on my honor. I'll tell you about it some other time. But Alice, my

betrothed, I have lost her forever."

"Melancholy Orpheus, how? Did you look over your shoulder, and did she

vanish into smoke?"

"It is her father who has gone over the Styx. She is in life; but she

has heard of my flirtation"--

"And served you right by leaving you. Now you will quit capering in a

lady's chamber, and go to work, a sadder and a wiser man."

"Not till I have found her. You may think me a trifler, Easelmann; but

every nerve I have is quivering with agony at the thought of the pain I

have caused her."

"Whew-w-w." said Easelmann. "Found her? Then she's eloped too! I just

left a disconsolate lover mourning over a runaway mistress. It seems to

be epidemic. There is a stampede of unhappy females. We must compress

the feet of the next generation, after the wise custom of China, so that

they can't get away."

"Whom have you seen?"

"Mr. Monroe, an acquaintance of mine."

"The same. The lady, it seems, is his cousin,--and is, or was, my

betrothed."

"And you two brave men give up, foiled by a country-girl of twenty, or

thereabouts!"

"How is one to find her?"

"What is the advantage of brains to a man who doesn't use them?

Consider; she will look for employment. She won't try to teach, it would

be useless. She is not strong enough for hard labor. She is too modest

and reserved to take a place in a shop behind a counter, where she would

be sure to be discovered. She will, therefore, be found in the employ

of some milliner, tailor, or bookbinder. How easy to go through those

establishments!"

"You give me new courage. I will get a trades-directory and begin at

once."

"To-morrow, my friend. She hasn't got a place yet, probably."

"So much the better. I shall save her the necessity."

"Go, then," said Easelmann. "You'll be happier, I suppose, to be running

your legs off, if it is to no purpose. A lover with a new impulse is

like a rocket when the fuse is lighted; he must needs go off with a

rush, or ignobly fizz out."

"Farewell, for to-day. I'll see you to-morrow," said Greenleaf, already

some paces off.

[To be continued.]

PRAYER FOR LIFE.

Oh, let me not die young!

Full-hearted, yet without a tongue,--

Thy green earth stretched before my feet, untrod,--

Thy blue sky bending over,

As her most tender lover,

With infinite meaning in its starry eyes,

Full of thy silent majesty, O God!

And wild, weird whispers from the solemn deep

Of the Great Sea ascending, with the sweep

Of the Wind-angel's wings across the skies,

Burdened with hints of awful memories,

Whose half-guessed grandeur thrills us till we weep!--

I love thy marvellous world too well--

Its sunny nooks of hill and dell,

Its majesty of mountains, and the swell

Of volumed waters--for my heart to yearn

Away from the deep truth which veils its splendor

In beauty there less dazzling, but more tender.

With grave delight I turn

To all its glories, from the tiniest bloom

Whose hour-long life just sweetens its own tomb

As with funereal spices,

To the far stars which burn

And blossom in fire through their vast periods,--

Borne in thy palm,

Like the pale lotus in the hand of Isis,

When throned white, and calm,

In solemn conclave of the mythic gods.

Oh, let me not die young,

A brother unclaimed among

The countless millions of thy happy flock,

Whose deepest joy is to obey,

Whereby they feel the measured sway

Of thy life in them, their own living part,

Whether in centuried pulses of the rock

By slow disintegration

Ascending to its higher,

Or the quick fluttering of the Storm-god's heart,--

An instant's palpitation

Through all its arteries of fire!

One common blood runs down life's myriad veins,

From Archangelic Hierarchs who float

Broad-winged in the God-glory, to the mote

That trembles with a braided dance

In the warm sunset's vivid glance;

And one great Heart that boundless flow sustains!

In all the creatures of thy hand divine

Thy love-light is a living guest,

Whether a petal's palm confine

Its glitter to a lily's breast,

Or in unbounded space a starry line

Stretches, till flagging Thought must droop her wing to rest.

Oh, let me not die young,

A powerless child among

The ancient grandeurs of thy awful world!

I catch some fragment of the mighty song

Which, ere to darkness hurled,

My elder brothers in the eternal throng

Have caught before,--

Faint murmurs of the surge,

The deep, surrounding, everlasting roar

Of a life-ocean without port or shore,--

Ere I depart, compelled to urge

My fragile bark with trembling from the verge

Of this Earth-island, into that Unknown,

Where worlds, like souls forlorn, go wandering alone!

Oh, let me not die young,

With all that song unsung,

A swift and voiceless fugitive,

From darkness coming and in darkness lost,

Before thy solemn Pentecost,

Dawning within the soul, shall give

The burning utterance of its flaming tongue,--

The boon whereby to other souls we live!

Thy worlds are flashing with immortal splendor,

For human speech on heights of human song

Faintly to render,

And pour back along

Its mountain grandeur, the accumulate rain

Of star-light, dream-light, thoughts of joy and pain,

Of love, hate, right and wrong,

In floods of utterance sublime and strong,

In dewy effluence beautiful and tender.

The kindred darknesses

Of caverned earth and fathomless thought,

Of Life and Death, and their twin mysteries,

Before and After, on my spirit press

Tempting and awful, with high promise fraught,

And guardian terrors, whose out-flashing swords

Beleaguer Paradise and the holy Tree

Sciential. Step by step the way is fought

That leads from Darkness, through her miscreant hordes,

Back to the heavens of wise, and true, and free:

Minerva's Gorgon, Ammon's cyclic Asp,

And the fierce flame-sword of the Cherubim,

That flashed like hate across the pallid gasp

Of exiled Eve and Adam, flare, and glare,

And hiss venenate, round the steps of him

Who thirsts for heavenly Wisdom, if he dare

Climb to her bosom, or with artless grasp

Pluck the sweet fruits that hang around him, ripe and fair.

Oh! glorious Youth

Is the true age of prophecy, when Truth

Stands bared in beauty, and the young blood boils

To hurl us in her arms, before the blur

Of time makes dim her rounded form,

Or the cold blood recoils

From the polluted swarm

Of armed Chimeras that environ her.

But worthy Age to ripened fruit shall bring

The glorious blooming of its hopeful spring,

And pile the garners of immortal Truth

With sheaves of golden grain,

To sow the world again,

And fill the eager wants of the New Age's youth.

A thousand flashes of uncertain light

Cleave the thick darkness, driving far athwart

The up-piled glooms, as lightnings plough their bright

Fire-furrows through the barren cloud

They sow with thunders. Thought on burning thought

Shatters the doubts and terrors which have bowed

Weak hearts on weaker leaning in a crowd

Self-crushing and self-fettering; gleams are caught

From some far centre set by God to keep

His brave world spinning, or some drifting isle

Of swift wildfire shot out by the wide sweep

Of wings demoniac,

Far winnowing and black,

Our cheated souls to 'wilder and beguile.

Only the years, the imperturbable,

Impassionate years, can sheave the scattered rays

Into one sun, these mingled arrows tell

Each to its quiver, the divine and fell,

And life's lone meteors to their centre trace.

O Father, let me not die young!

Earth's beauty asks a heart and tongue

To give true love and praises to her worth;

Her sins and judgment-sufferings call

For fearless martyrs to redeem thy Earth

From her disastrous fall.

For though her summer hills and vales might seem

The fair creation of a poet's dream,--

Ay, of the Highest Poet,

Whose wordless rhythms are chanted by the gyres

Of constellate star-choirs,

That with deep melody flow and overflow it,--

The sweet Earth,--very sweet, despite

The rank grave-smell forever drifting in

Among the odors from her censers white

Of wave-swung lilies and of wind-swung roses,--

The Earth sad-sweet is deeply attaint with sin!

The pure air, which incloses

Her and her starry kin,

Still shudders with the unspent palpitating

Of a great Curse, that to its utmost shore

Thrills with a deadly shiver

Which has not ceased to quiver

Down all the ages, nathless the strong beating

Of Angel-wings, and the defiant roar

Of Earth's Titanic thunders.

Fair and sad,

In sin and beauty, our beloved Earth

Has need of all her sons to make her glad;

Has need of martyrs to re-fire the hearth

Of her quenched altars,--of heroic men

With Freedom's sword, or Truth's supernal pen,

To shape the worn-out mould of nobleness again.

And she has need of Poets who can string

Their harps with steel to catch the lightning's fire,

And pour her thunders from the clanging wire,

To cheer the hero, mingling with his cheer,

Arouse the laggard in the battle's rear,

Daunt the stern wicked, and from discord wring

Prevailing harmony, while the humblest soul

Who keeps the tune the warder angels sing

In golden choirs above,

And only wears, for crown and aureole,

The glow-worm light of lowliest human love,

Shall fill with low, sweet undertones the chasms

Of silence, 'twixt the booming thunder-spasms.

And Earth has need of Prophets fiery-lipped

And deep-souled, to announce the glorious dooms

Writ on the silent heavens in starry script,

And flashing fitfully from her shuddering tombs,--

Commissioned Angels of the new-born Faith,

To teach the immortality of Good,

The soul's God-likeness, Sin's coeval death,

And Man's indissoluble Brotherhood.

Yet never an age, when God has need of him,

Shall want its Man, predestined by that need,

To pour his life in fiery word or deed,--

The strong Archangel of the Elohim!

Earth's hollow want is prophet of his coming:

In the low murmur of her famished cry,

And heavy sobs breathed up despairingly,

Ye hear the near invisible humming

Of his wide wings that fan the lurid sky

Into cool ripples of new life and hope,

While far in its dissolving ether ope

Deeps beyond deeps, of sapphire calm, to cheer

With Sabbath gleams the troubled Now and Here.

Father! thy will be done,

Holy and righteous One!

Though the reluctant years

May never crown my throbbing brows with white,

Nor round my shoulders turn the golden light

Of my thick locks to wisdom's royal ermine:

Yet by the solitary tears,

Deeper than joy or sorrow,--by the thrill,

Higher than hope or terror, whose quick germen,

In those hot tears to sudden vigor sprung,

Sheds, even now, the fruits of graver age,--

By the long wrestle in which inward ill

Fell like a trampled viper to the ground.

By all that lifts me o'er my outward peers

To that supernal stage

Where soul dissolves the bonds by Nature bound,--

Fall when I may, by pale disease unstrung,

Or by the hand of fratricidal rage,

I cannot now die young!

* * * * *

ODDS AND ENDS FROM THE OLD WORLD

My first visit to Turin dates as far back as 1831. We are so personal,

that our impressions of things depend less on their intrinsic worth

than on such or such extrinsic circumstance which may affect our mental

vision at the moment. I suppose mine was affected by the mist and rain

which graced the capital of Piedmont on the morning of my arrival there.

Another incident, microscopic, and almost too ludicrous to mention,

had no less its weight in the scale of prepossession. I was tired and

hungry, and, while the _diligence_ was being unloaded, I entered a

_caffé_ close by, and called for some buttered toast. My hair (I had

plenty at that time) stood on end at the answer I received. There was no

buttered toast to be had, the waiter said. "It was not the custom." I

confess I augured ill of a city from whose _caffés_, unlike all others

throughout Italy, such a staple of breakfast was banished.

I am fond of buttered toast, I own. If it is a weakness, I candidly

plead guilty. My mother--bless her soul!--brought me up in the faith of

buttered toast. I had breakfasted upon it all my life. I could conceive

of no breakfast without it. Hence the shock I felt. "Not the custom!"

Why not, I wondered. A problem of no easy solution, I can tell you! It

has been haunting me for the last seven-and-twenty years. If I had a

thousand dollars,--a bold supposition for one of the brotherhood of the

pen,--I would even now found a prize, and adjudge that sum to the best

memoir on this question:--"Why is buttered toast excluded from the

_caffés_ of Turin?" It is not from lack of proper materials,--for heaps

of butter and mountains of rolls are to be seen on every side; it is not

from lack of taste,--for the people which has invented the _grisini_,

and delights in the white truffle, shows too keen a sense of what is

dainty not to exclude the charge of want of taste.

"Pray, what are the _grisini?_ what is the white truffle?" asks the

inquisitive reader.--The _grisini_ are bread idealized, bread under the

form of walking-sticks a third of a little finger in diameter, and from

which every the least particle of crumb has been carefully eliminated.

It is light, easy of digestion, cracks without effort under your teeth,

and melts in your mouth. It is savory eaten alone, excellent with your

viands, capital sopped in wine. A good Turinese would rather have no

dinner at all than sit down to one without a good-sized bundle of these

torrified reeds on his right or left. Beware of the spurious imitations

of this inimitable mixture of flour, which you will light on in some

_passages_ in Paris! They possess nothing of the _grisini_ but the name.

"I have it!" I fancy I hear some imaginative reader exclaim at this

place. "The passion for the _grisini_ accounts most naturally for the

want of buttered toast in Turin. Don't you see that it is replaced by

the _grisini?_"

A mistake, a profound mistake. _Grisini_ are _never_ served with your

coffee or chocolate. Try again.

The white truffle,--white, mark you, and not to be confounded with its

black, hard, knotty, poor cousin of Périgord,--well, the white truffle

is--the white truffle. There are things which admit of no definition. It

would only spoil them. Define the Sun, if you dare. "Look at it," would

be your answer to the indiscreet questioner. And so I say to you,--Taste

it, the white truffle. Not that you will relish it, on a first or second

trial. No. It requires a sort of initiation. Ambrosia, depend upon it,

would prove unpalatable, at first, to organs degraded by coarse mortal

food. It has,--the white truffle, I mean, not the ambrosia, which I have

never tasted,--it has a shadow of a shade of mitigated garlic flavor,

which demands time and a certain training of the gustatory apparatus, to

be fully appreciated. Try again, and it will grow upon you,--again

and again, and you will go crazy after the white truffle. I have seen

persons, who had once turned up their noses at it, declare themselves

capable of any crime to get at it. Nature gave it to Piedmont, "_e poi

ruppe la stampa_." Gold you may find in different places, and under

different latitudes;--the white truffle is an exclusive growth of

Piedmont.

To return. If it is not the want of proper materials, or of taste to use

them, what can be the cause of the unjust ostracism against buttered

toast?

A Genoese friend of mine accounts for it on the same principle on which

another friend of mine, a Polish refugee in London, accounted for the

difference, nay, in many points, the direct opposition, between English

and French habits of life,--that is to say, on the principle of national

antagonism. Why does the English Parliament hold its sittings at night?

my Polish friend would ask. The reason is obvious. _Because_, the French

Parliament sits in broad day, when it sits at all. Why is winter the

season of _villeggiatura_ in England? _Because_ in France it is summer

and autumn. Why are beards and moustaches tabooed in Great Britain?

_Because_ it is common to wear them in France. Why are new pipes

preferred in England for smoking? _Because_ in France the older and more

_culottée_ a pipe, the more welcome it is. And so on, _ad infinitum_.

Arguing on the same principle, my Genoese friend avers that buttered

toast is proscribed at Turin _because_ it is so justly popular in Genoa.

The Genoese, in fact, excel in the preparation of that dainty article.

They have, for the purpose, delicious little rolls, which they cut in

two and suit to all tastes and whims. The upper or under crust, soft or

hard, deep brown or light brown, with much or little butter, with cold

or hot butter, with butter visible or invisible:--be as capricious in

your orders as you like, and never fear tiring the waiter. Proteus

himself never took so many shapes.

There is some speciousness in my Genoese friend's argument. The

_Superba_, naturally enough, cannot forget that she was first and is

now second. Turin, on her side, does not intend to have her official

supremacy disputed. No wonder that the two noble cities should look at

each other rather surlily, and stick to their own individuality. "Hence

it is," concludes my friend, "that the comparatively easy Apennines have

proved to this day an impassable barrier to the buttered toast on one

side, and to the _grisini_ on the other."

"But not so to the white truffle," I put in, triumphantly. "The Genoese

have adopted that; and honor to them for having done so! What do you say

to this, eh?"

My friend scratched his head in quest of a new argument. We will leave

him to his embarrassment, and have done with this string of digressions.

I was saying, that my first visit to Turin dated as far back as 1831. On

that journey I had a singular travelling-companion, a beautiful fish,

a John Dory, carefully wrapped up, and neatly laid in a wicker-basket,

like a babe in its cradle. The officers of the _octroi_, who examined my

basket, complimented me on my choice,--nay, grew so enthusiastic about

my John Dory, that, if I remember right, they let it pass duty-free.

The mistress of the house, at whose table it was served, paid it a

well-deserved tribute of admiration, but lamented the unskilfulness of

the hand which had cleaned it: "How stupid to cut it to the very throat!

See what a gap!" I laughed in my sleeve and held my tongue. It was a

frightful gap, to be sure,--but not bigger than was necessary to admit

of an oilskin-covered parcel, a pound at least in weight, a parcel full

to the brim of treasonable matter, revolutionary pamphlets, regulations

of secret societies, and what not. My John Dory was a horse of Troy in

miniature. But Turin stood this one better than Troy the other.

Turin was, or seemed to me, gloomy and chilly at that time, though the

season was mild, and the sky had cleared up. Jesuits, carabineers, and

spies lorded it; distrust was the order of the day. People went about

their business, exchanged a hasty and well-timed _sciaô_, (_schiavo_,)

and gave up all genial intercourse. Far keener than the breath of

neighboring snow-capped Mount Cenis, the breath of despotism froze alike

tongues and souls. How could buttered toast, emblem of softness, thrive

in so hard a temperature? I left as soon as I could, and with a feeling

of relief akin to joy.

I was in no haste to revisit Turin, nor, had I been, would circumstances

have permitted my doing so. The fish had a tail for me as well as for

many others, and a very long tail too. Most of the years intervening

between 1831 and 1848 I had to spend abroad,--out of Italy, I mean. Time

enough for reflection. Plenty of worry and anxiety, and difficulties of

many a kind. Rough handling from the powers that were, cold indifference

from the masses. A flow of gentle sympathy, now and then, from a kindred

heart or two,--God bless them!--a live spring in a desert. A hard

apprenticeship,--still, useful in many ways, to develop the sense

of realities, to teach one to do without a host of things deemed

indispensable before to keep the soul in tune. I declare, for my part,

I don't regret those long years of erratic life. I bless them, on the

contrary; for they opened my eyes to the worth of my country. The right

point of view to take in physical or moral beauty, in its fulness, is

only at a distance.

The great convulsion of '48 flung wide the gates of Italy to the

wanderer, and I returned to Turin. I had left it at freezing-point,

and I found it at white-heat. Half Europe revolutionized,--France a

republic, Vienna in a blaze, Hungary in arms, Radetzky driven out of

Milan, a Piedmontese army in Lombardy,--there was more than enough to

turn the heads of the Seven Sages of Greece. No wonder ours were turned.

Serve a splendid banquet and pour out generous wine to a shipwrecked

crew who have long been starving, and ten to one they will overfeed

themselves and get drunk and quarrel. We did both, alas!--and those who

are drunk and quarrel are likely to be overpowered by those who keep

sober and united. We were divided about the sauce with which the hare

should be dressed, and, in the heat of argument, lost sight of this

little fact, that a hare, to be dressed at all, must first be caught.

The first reverses overtook us thus occupied. They did not sober us;

quite the contrary; we fell to doing what Manzoni's capons did.

By-the-by, since that revered name comes under my pen, I may as well

state, what every one will be glad to hear, that the author of the

"Promessi Sposi" has perfectly recovered from his late illness. It

cannot be but that the wail of a nation has reached even across the

Atlantic, without the aid of an electric cable. He looks strong and

healthy, and likely to be long spared to the love and veneration of his

country. I have this on the authority of a witness _de visu et auditu_,

a friend of his and mine, who visited the great man, not a fortnight

ago, in his retreat of Brusuglio, near Milan.

To leave the author for his book. Do you recollect Renzo tying four fat

capons by the legs, and carrying them, with their heads hanging down, to

Signor Azzeccagarbugli,--and the capons, in that awkward predicament,

finding no better occupation than to peck at each other? "As is too

often the case with companions in misfortune," observes the author, in

his quiet, humoristic way. We were just as wise. Instead of saying, _Mea

culpa_, we began to recriminate, and find fault with everything and

everybody. It was the fault of the Ministers, of the _Camarilla_, of the

army, of the big epaulets, of the King. Dynastic interest, of course,

was not forgotten in the indictment.

Dynastic interest, forsooth! So long as it combines and makes but one

with the interest of the nation, I should like to know where is the

great harm of it. As if kings alone were defiled with that pitch! As

if we had not, each and all of us, low and high, rich and poor, our

dynastic interest, and were not eager enough in its pursuit! As if

anybody scrupled at or were found fault with for pushing on his sons,

enlarging his business, rounding his estate, in the view of transmitting

it, thus improved, to his kindred and heirs!

But who thought of such things under the smart of defeat? I do not

intend, by this _post-facto_ grumbling, to give myself credit for having

been wiser than others. By no means. I played my part in the chorus of

fault-finders, and cried out as loud as anybody. The upshot was what

might have been expected. Independence went to the dogs--for a while.

Liberty, thank God, remained in this little corner, at least,--liberty,

the great lever for those who use it wisely. I know of nations, far more

experienced than we are in political matters, and whose programme in

1848 was far less complicated than ours, who cannot say as much for

themselves.

The times were unpropitious to the buttered-toast question, and it

had quite slipped out of my mind. I have never traced the string of

associations which reminded me of it, on one certain morning. Once more

I made bold to ask if I could have buttered toast. "Impossible," said

the waiter, curtly. I was piqued. "How impossible?" said I. "Erase that

word from your Dictionary, if you are to drive the Austrians from Italy.

Take a roll, cut it in halves, have it toasted, and serve hot with

butter." Long was the manipulation, and the result but indifferent,--the

toast hard and cold, the butter far from fresh; but it was a step in

advance, and I chuckled over it. For a short time, alas! Mine was the

fate of all reformers. Routine stood in my way. The waiters fled at my

approach, and vied with each other as to who should _not_ serve me. I

gave up the attempt in disgust. Shortly after, I left Turin,--without

joy this time, but also without regret.

Ten years have elapsed, and here I am again, on my third visit. The

journey from Genoa to Turin took, ten years ago, twenty-four hours by

_diligence_. Now it is accomplished in four by railway. To say that this

accelerated ratio of travelling represents but fairly the average of

progress realized in almost all directions, within this space of

time, is no mere form of speech. To whatever side I turn, my eyes are

agreeably surprised by material signs of improvement. From what but

yesterday was waste land, where linen was spread to dry, steam-engines

raise their shrill cry, and a double terminus sends forth and receives,

in its turn, merchandise, passengers, and ideas. At the gate of the

city, so to say, a gigantic work, the piercing of Mount Cenis, is

actually going on. Where I left, literally left, cows browsing in peace,

two new quarters have risen, as if by magic,--that of Portanuova,

aristocratic and rich, and that of San Salvario, less showy, but not

less comfortable. A third is in contemplation; nay, already begun,--to

be raised on the spot where once stood the citadel, (and prison for

political offenders,) of sinister memory, now levelled with the ground.

I take this last as a capital novelty. Another, more significant still,

is the Protestant Temple, which stares me in the face,--a poor work of

Art, if you will, but no less the embodiment of one of the most precious

conquests, religious freedom. I would fain not grow emphatic,--but when

I contrast the present with the past, when I recollect, for instance,

how the Jews were formerly treated, and see them now in Parliament, I

cannot help warming up a little. Monuments to Balbo, the stanch patriot

and nervous biographer of Dante,--to General Bava, the conqueror at

Goito,--to Pepe, the heroic defender of Venice, grace the public walks.

One to Gioberti, the eminent philosopher, is in course of preparation.

If these are not signs of radically changed times, and changed for the

better, I don't know what are.

Nor is the moral less improved than the material physiognomy of the

city. I see a thriving, orderly community,--no trace of antagonism, but

a free, good-natured intercourse between all classes, and a general

look of ease and contentment. Of course, there are poor in Turin, as

everywhere else,--except Japan, if we may credit travellers; but nowhere

are my eyes saddened by the spectacle of that abject destitution which

blunts, nay, destroys, the sense of self-respect. The operatives,

especially,--what are here called the _braccianti_,--this salt of all

cities, this nursery of the army and navy, this inexhaustible source of

production and riches, impress me by their appearance of comfort and

good-humor. It gladdens one's heart to watch them, as they walk arm in

arm of an evening, singing in chorus, or fill the pits of the cheaper

theatres, or sit down at fashionable _caffés_ in their jackets, with a

self-confidence and freedom of manner pleasant to behold. The play of

free institutions is not counteracted here, thank God, by the despotism

of conventionalities. No shadow of frigid respectability hangs over

people's actions and freezes spontaneousness.

But this is all on the surface; let us go deeper, if we can, and have a

peep at the workings beneath. I knock for information on this head at

the mind and heart of all sorts of people. I note down the answers of

the Minister and of the Deputy, as well as those of the waiter who

serves my coffee and of the man who blacks my shoes, and here is what

I find,--a growing sense of the benefits of liberty, a deep-rooted

attachment to the _Rè galantuomo_, (the King, honest man,) a juster

appreciation of the difficulties which beset the national enterprise,

(the freeing of Italy from Austria,) and an honest confidence of

overcoming them with God's help. This last feeling, I am glad to say,

is, as it ought to be, general in the army. This is what I find in the

bulk. There is no lack of dissenters, who regret the past, and take a

gloomy view of the future. I describe no Utopia. Unanimity is no flower

of this earth.

This improved state of things and feelings, within so short a period of

time, reflects equal credit on the people which benefits by it and on

the men who have lately presided over its destinies. Among these last it

were invidious not to mention, with well-deserved praise, the active and

accomplished statesman who introduced free trade, caused Piedmont to

take its share in the Crimean War, and last, not least, by a bold and

skilful move, brought the Italian question before the Congress of Paris.

During the summer of 1848, I rented a couple of rooms in the Via dell'

Arcivescovado. There often fell upon my ear, wafted across the court

from the windows opposite mine, a loud and regular declamation. I

fancied it was a preacher learning by heart his sermon, or an actor his

part. I was told one day that it was Count Cavour, the owner of the

house, who, as a prelude to his parliamentary career, was addressing an

imaginary assembly. The fact struck me the more, as the Count was not a

member of Parliament at the time. He was elected a Deputy and took his

seat not long after. I was present at his _début_. It was not brilliant.

Count Cavour was not born an orator; his delivery was far from fluent.

He had many things to say, and wanted to say them all at once. The sense

of the House was not favorable to the new member,--that of the public

galleries still less so. No man was less spoiled by popularity than he.

I have no other reason for mentioning these particulars than to put in

relief the strength of will and the perseverance which one so situated

must have brought to bear, in order to conquer his own deficiencies and

the popular prejudice, and attain, against wind and tide, the high place

he holds in the estimation of Parliament and of the country. That Count

Cavour has made himself, if not properly an orator, in the high sense of

the word, a nervous, fluent, and most agreeable speaker, is sufficiently

attested by the untiring attention with which his speeches, occupying

sometimes two whole sittings, are listened to in both Houses. He never

puts them in writing, and seldom, if ever, makes use of notes.

Life is substantial in Turin, and on a broad, homely scale. By which you

are not to understand, either that the male portion of the inhabitants

feast on whole oxen, like Homer's heroes, or that, the fair sex are

draped in tunics of homespun wool, like the Roman matrons of old. They

are not so primitive as that. You may have at any restaurant a smaller

morsel than an ox or even an ox's shoulder; and as to ladies' finery,

there is no _article de Paris_, no indispensable inutility, no

crinoline, hoop, or cage, of impossible materials, shape, and

dimensions, which you may not find under the Portici, or in Vianuova,

a facility of which the Turinese beauties give themselves the benefit

rather freely. What I meant to say, when I spoke of life on a broad,

homely scale, was simply this:--that in Turin, generally speaking, the

great art of putting the appearance in the place of the substance, and

juggling the principal under the accessories, has yet to be learned. If

you ask for a room, a dinner, a bath, they take you in good earnest,

and supply you with the genuine article. When I put up at the _Hôtel de

Londres_, from which I am writing, I had to run no gantlet between a

double line of solemn-looking, white-cravated waiters; yet I have only

to ring my bell, to be attended to with promptitude, with zeal, nay,

_con amore_. My kind hostess, Signora Viarengo, does not wear a triple

or quadruple row of flounces, but looks after my wardrobe when I am out,

and, if anything wants mending, has it mended. The room which I occupy

is not furnished in a dashing style, nor has it a _parquet ciré_, but it

is on the first floor, and thrice as large and lofty and half as dear as

that I had at Meurice's on the _quatrième_; and a Titan might stretch

himself down at ease on the bed in which I sleep. The dining-room of the

hotel is not glittering with gilt stucco and chandeliers; but the dinner

served to me there (and served at any hour) is copious and first-rate,--

four dishes of _entremets_, butter, _salame_, celery, radishes, to whet

the appetite,--a soup,--a first course of three dishes, two of meat, one

of vegetables,--a second of three dishes, one of them a roasted fowl,

--salad, a sweet dish,--a mountain of Parmesan, or Gorgonzola, with

peaches, pears, and grapes, for dessert. Gargantua would cry for mercy.

For all this, and a bottle of wine, I pay three francs. For the bath

establishment, close by, I lack the satisfaction, it is true, of seeing

my revered image reproduced _ad infinitum_, by a vista of mirrors; but I

have a bathing-tub like a lake, and linen enough to dry a hippopotamus.

If I go to the theatre, (there are five open at this season, November,

without reckoning three or four minor ones: Italian opera at the

Nazionale and the Carignano; Italian play at the Gerbino and the

Alfieri; French _vaudeville_ at the d'Angennes,)--if I go to the

theatre, the relative obscurity of the house, I own, allows me to enjoy

but imperfectly the display of fine toilets and ivory shoulders; but the

concentration of light on the stage enhances the scenic effect, and is

on the side of Art. At least, they think so here, and like it so. It is

the custom.

This takes me back some twenty-seven years, to the waiter's answer, _à

propos_ of buttered toast, "It is not the custom," and recalls to me

that important question. Well, even that has not remained stationary in

the general movement. Not that buttered toast has received its great or

even small letters of naturalization. But you have only to ask for it,

and it will be served without demur. So far the neck of routine is

broken. What next? We shall find out on our fourth visit, if God grants

us life. Meanwhile I feel that Turin will be regretted this time.

* * * * *

TWO SNIFFS.

From the lounge where Fred Shaw was lying, he could easily look out of

the low window into Senter Place, and at the usually "uninterrupted view

across the street." Just now it was interrupted so fully with a driving

snow-storm, that the houses opposite were scarcely visible. The wind

tossed the great flakes up and across and whirled them in circles, as if

loath to let them go at all to the ground. There was something lively

and merry in it, too, as if the flakes themselves were joyful and

dancing in the abundance of their life,--as if they and the wind had a

life of their own, as well as poor stupid mortals, that cowered under

cover, and shut themselves away from the broad, free air. How foolish

it is, to be sure! Here comes one now, turning into the place,--well

covered, a fur tippet about his face,--slapping his arms on his chest,

--a defiant smile on his brown face, and a look of expectancy in his

eyes. Yes! there they are at the window,--wife and children! The smile

melts into a broad laugh, as the snow-flakes dash madly at his eyes and

nose. There they are,--rosy, well, and warm! From the warmest corner of

his heart comes up a quick throb that takes away his breath;--he runs up

the steps,--the door opens,--one, two, three little faces,--it shuts.

The snow-flakes gallop on again, madly, joyfully.

Behind the man who ran up the steps, a girl of eighteen walked swiftly

and firmly over the drifting heaps on the sidewalk. Her eyes glanced

upward at the sky. There are four immense clouds, of a very light gray,

with silver edges, trying to meet over a speck of blue. They tumble and

clamber, and press all for the same point; but whether the wind is too

variable for them to gather in one mass, or for whatever meteorological

reason, she does not guess, but she is attracted to the sky and gazes at

it as she walks rapidly on.

Fred recognizes the blue eyes and glowing face, as they go past the

window. It is only Sister Minnie. Not coming here, after all! No. And

the clouds could not overcome and hide the blue sky. It shone out

serenely and hopefully, like Minnie's own encouraging spirit. She

breasts the storm gallantly. If she can only get round the corner into

C-- Street! But here all the tempest seems collected to battle with

her--She wraps herself a little closer, and holds her breath. A few

steps more,--she turns round,--places her back full at the driving

storm,--and draws a long breath. Now for it! The flakes stop suddenly,

as if awed by the quiet determination in the young face. They fall to

the ground, stilly. The blue sky looks out, the sun shimmers white for

five minutes. Minnie walks rapidly, runs up the steps,--rings, and takes

into the house with her a full, fresh life, that vibrates from cellar to

attic in harmonious energy.

The afternoon wanes. Fred has dined. He takes his meerschaum from the

teapoy by his side and examines it critically. How for the color? Is it

just the right shade to stop? No. A very little darker. This is growing

quite beautiful. Almost like an agate. Which of those six is the

prettiest, after all? He thinks a seventh, which he remembers lying

on Little's mantel-piece, outdoes the whole. That of Little's was not

carved, nor silver-mounted even, and yet connoisseurs pronounced it

worth a hundred and fifty dollars. Not one of these is worth ten. He

smokes again, and looks at the cannel coal as it leaps into flame. The

room is very still; not a footfall can be heard in the house;--partly

because the doors are hung with a view to silence and the floors thickly

carpeted, and partly because there are only two servants in-doors, and

those men. The cook cannot speak English, and Fred's own man, a jewel in

his way, is taciturn to a fault. If Fred would be honest with himself,

he would acknowledge that the third-hand chatter of anybody's kitchen

would often be a delightful relief to his solitude. But then how could

he follow up his system of self-culture? That and society are quite

incompatible things. However, he yawns fearfully.

But what then? Has the man no mind, no cultivation, no taste? Things do

not indicate any such want. The walls of the room in which he is

just now lounging have their crimson and gold almost covered with

pictures,--copies of rare Murillos and Raphaels, and an original head of

a boy, by Greuze, with the lips as fresh as they were a hundred years

ago. An exquisite "Dying Stork," in bronze, stands on a bracket below

Sassoferrato's sweetest Madonna, and Retzsch's "Hamlet" lies open on a

side-table. The three Canovian Graces stand in a corner opposite him,

and he glances at the pedestal which stands ready to receive "Eve at the

Fountain." The pedestal has been there two weeks already, waiting for

the "Oxford" to arrive with its many precious Art-burdens. It stands

near the window; it will be a good light for it. Fred wishes, for the

hundredth time, that it would come along. There are books, surely? Oh,

yes, one side of the room is a complete bookcase,--tasteful, inside and

out.

The small room which opens into this luxurious sitting-room has a high

north window, and near it stands Fred's easel, with a half-finished head

on a canvas. Already it has changed its aspect twenty times. Sometimes

it is a Nymph, sometimes a Naiad, sometimes Undine. Once, he dashed all

the green of the wood-nymph's forest, with one stroke, into green water,

intending to put in Undine, with a boat. He has not fulfilled his

intention; but he works on, with the luxurious abandonment of genius to

its spell, be it what it may. He does not care what it ends in. One

of Fred's theories is, that the imagination, by constant and intense

exercise, may so project the image it conceives, as to make it the

subject of ocular contemplation and imitation. Why not? All objects of

sight are painted on a flat surface, and it is by experience, comparison,

nay, in some measure by the will, that we get our ideas of their shape

and distance. Poor Blake's insane painting of imaginary heads, which he

saw three or six feet from him, was the only true and rational method

of painting at all. Think of your thought,--intensify it,--create

it,--create it perfectly,--define it carefully,--group it gracefully,

--color it exquisitely,--project it, by an intense effort of the will,

into the space before you. There it stands. Now paint it.

He is fond of dwelling on this theory; and as nobody takes the trouble

to contradict him, he has come to believe it truth, through hearing it

often repeated. He has explained it to Minnie more than twenty times,

and says he is almost ready to paint. Not quite. He must lie on the sofa

a year, perhaps two years longer, before he will be able to satisfy

himself. But then, what is a year, two, ten years, in an eternity of

fame?

The conception being completely projected from the brain in a visible

form, what remains but the mechanical imitation of it? Anybody can do

that. The thing is the conception. In vain Minnie suggests the vulgar

notion of acquiring facility by drawing and copying things in general.

"Entirely unnecessary, Minnie. What! is not genius before rules? Why

should I imitate Titian's tints, when I can copy my own fancies? When I

get my ideal perfected, you will soon see it real. I can copy it in

half an hour. If it is in me, it will come out of me, like Curran's

eloquence."

"But," says Minnie, doubtfully, looking at the easel where the golden

curls and heavenly eyes of an angel are obscured by the russet-brown of

a beginning wood-nymph, "why don't you keep to one idea, Fred?"

"Oh, because I choose to be fancy-free. I will not have my imagination

trammelled. Let it wander at its own sweet will. You will see, Minnie,

by-and-by. Now, here I have been getting up a head,--not painting it,

you know. Sometimes I can almost see the eyes. But they elude me,--I

haven't quite command of them yet. But I shall get it,--I shall get it

yet!"

Minnie remembers the same things said to her ever since she was a child.

Fred used to tell it all over to her then. He was so much older than she

was,--fourteen years,--that she was quite flattered by being thought

worthy to listen to his theories of all sorts. However, since she had

come to think for herself, one by one all these theories had faded out

of her mind and seemed like last year's clouds. She had discovered that

it was useless to controvert them, and generally listened with some

pretence of patience. The last time she had said, at the first pause,--

"Now, Fred, I must go. But I want you to contribute a little, if you

will, to my poor's library, and if you will, a little, too, to poor

Sophia."

"Little Sister Minnie," answered Fred, curtly, "don't annoy me. If you

enjoy digging out beggar-women, and adorning them with all sorts of

comforts and pleasures, do it. I don't ask you not to. Will you give me

the same privilege of following my own pleasure?"

"But, Fred!" said Minnie, astonished, "only last week, what did you do

for poor Sophia? More than I could in a year,--two, three years! For

you know I have only my thirty dollars quarterly for everything, and

sometimes I have so little to give!"

"Why do you give, then, dear Minnie?" said Fred, languidly smiling.

"Oh, if you ask that, why did you give, last Monday? You gave--let me

see--fifty-four dollars; every cent you had in your purse. Oh,

the things I bought for her with it! Paid rent, bought medicine,

blankets,--oh, so many needed comforts! Now, why did _you_ give?" said

Minnie, with a triumphant smile,--"for now I have him," she thought.

"To save myself pain,--that's all."

Minnie looked puzzled.

"Nothing else, I do assure you. No very great virtue in that. The fact

was, I was bored, and, to tell the truth, somewhat shocked, by your

'poor Sophia's' ailments, which I came upon so inopportunely,--and I

was glad to empty my pockets to get rid of the uncomfortable feeling."

"Well, then, save yourself pain again, Fred,--for I assure you she

suffers constantly for want of simple alleviations, which a small sum of

money would afford her. Oh, she needs so many things, and everything is

so dear! And she has so many helpless children, and no husband, and so

bowed with rheumatism"--

"Minnie! excuse me for interrupting you; but can you find nothing but

rheumatism to talk about? It is of all subjects the least tasteful to

me."

"My dear Fred!" And there Minnie stopped. She was both hurt and puzzled.

Fred laughed. His good-humor returned at the sight of her mystified

face, and the opportunity of explaining some of his theories of morals.

"In the first place, Minnie, what do we live for?"

Minnie had not thought. She was only eighteen, and had acted.

"Well, I dare say you have never considered the subject. I have, a great

deal. You see, Minnie, we are born to pursue happiness. You allow that."

"Yes,--I suppose so," said Minnie.

"Well, then, if I look at the wrong thing, and call it happiness, it is

my mistake, and I only shall pay for it. You find your happiness in an

active life and works of mercy. Very well, do so. You devote a certain

part of your income, small as it is, to that sort of pleasure. I devote

mine to my pleasures. They are different from yours. You might call them

selfish. What then? So are yours. I don't say you are not modest and

humble, and all that; but you do enjoy your old women, and your fussy

charity-schools. Very well. That is all I do with my drawing, my

lounging, my smoking, my reading. And I think, Minnie," added Fred,

laughing, "I have the added grace of humility; for I am far from making

a merit of my sort of life."

"No,--it would be difficult to make a merit of it," said Minnie.

That was clear enough. Fred loved to have her for an auditor. So long as

she could not see over him, he was as good as infinite to her.

"In the first place, Minnie, you must allow, it is a duty to surround

ourselves with the beautiful in all things. It conduces to the highest

self-culture; and self-culture is our first duty."

"Is it? Surely, it cannot be! Oh, you mean we ought rather to attend to

our own faults than those of others?"

"I mean as I say. Self-culture is our first duty, both moral and

intellectual. I might add, also, that to take care of Number One is a

dictate of common prudence. You allow that? Well. First, then, the body

cared for, all right. Then the morals,--attend to your own, and let

other people's alone. Then, thirdly, your intellect. Now, then, it

becomes a positive duty, 'the duty that lies nearest to me,' to

cultivate that. And to do that, Minnie, I am obliged to draw on myself

to my very last dollar. To refine the taste by familiarity with the

highest objects of taste, to appreciate Art, to develop the intellect,

to bring one's self to conceive and grasp the Universal, the Beautiful,

to raise one's self in the scale of created things by creative fancies

imitating the Highest,--ah! in fact, Minnie, self-culture becomes a

duty,--indeed, our first duty."

Something in Minnie's face--it was not a smile--made Fred turn the

subject a little.

"Now, really, if every one would take care of one, and that one himself,

don't you see there would be no more want or suffering in this weary

world? no more need of blankets or dispensaries? Each is happy,

comfortable, and self-cultured in his proportion. A universal harmony

prevails. Like the planets, self-revolving, and moving, each in his

chosen orbit, they shout and sing for joy. How much better this than

to be eccentrically darting off in search of somebody's tears to wipe,

somebody's wounds to bandage,--who, indeed, would have neither wounds

nor grief, if they would follow my simple rule!"

Minnie laughed a little at her brother's grave sophistry, but had no

wish to contest the point with him.

"It is no merit in me, but, as you say, rather self-indulgence, to be

looking up and relieving destitute cases. But it would be merit in you,

if you don't like it; and you might have all that, and none of the

annoyances."

Her bright face glowed; and Fred liked to look at her when she was

excited; the coloring beat Titian's, he thought.

"You don't know how painful to me it is to hold out empty hands to so

many sufferers"--

But now Minnie's face looked so sorrowful that there was nothing

specially beautiful in the coloring, and Fred said, impatiently,--

"You bore me, Minnie. I am waiting to take my afternoon nap."

And he turned positively over towards the wall.

The sight of Minnie, swiftly walking through the driving storm to-day,

brought up to Fred's memory all the talk they had had in that very room,

he lying in the same place, a fortnight ago. Since that day he had not

seen Minnie, except casually; and, indeed, she seemed very busy and

very happy, if one might judge by her lighted face and her laden arm.

Something keener than philosophy, subtiler than Epicurus, pricked Fred,

as Minnie vanished into the cloud of snowflakes.

"Pshaw!"

He glanced around the apartment. It was still luxurious; but "custom had

staled the infinite variety" of its ornament and furnishing. Already he

was dissatisfied with this and that. Where to place a new bas-relief

that had struck him at Cotton's the day before, and which he had

purchased on the spot, without considering that there was no room for

it in the library? There it leaned against the wall,--not so big as the

Vicar's family-picture, but quite as much in the way.

"The room looks loaded. I ought to have a gallery for these things. I

wonder if I couldn't buy Carter's house, and push a gallery through from

the top of my stairway."

He touched the bell, and lay down again.

Martin entered softly, let down the crimson curtains, so as to exclude

the vanishing light, and stirred the crimson cannel into a newer

radiance.

"This weather frets my nerves, Martin. My face aches. Give me the bottle

of chloroform in my chamber."

He inhaled the subtile fluid two or three times, and handed it back to

Martin. It made no difference, he said. He would try to sleep. So Martin

went out on tiptoe and closed the door.

The chloroform probably did relieve him, for he thought no more of the

uneasiness in his face; but he was not only not at all sleepy, but

every sense seemed wide awake,--wide awake to its utmost capacity of

perception. It was as if a misty veil were suddenly removed from before

his eyes, and he saw, what indeed had always been there, but what in his

abstraction or inattention he had never before noticed. For instance, he

noticed at once that Martin had not quite closed the curtains, but had

left an inch or two open, and the window open besides. The air, however,

had grown soft, and the wind must have gone down, for it did not stir

the drapery. He looked again, to be certain he was right. Yes,--there

was an inch clear, where the wind might come in, if it liked. Martin was

growing blind or stupid. However, he did not so much think that. On the

whole, it was more likely that his own senses were sharpening.

That would be a good thing, though,--to be wiser and sharper and

clearer-sighted than all the rest of the world! He would like that

advantage. And why might he not have it? Already he perceived a marked

difference from his usual sensuous condition. It was unnatural,

preternatural,--and yet, a state which could be produced at will. It

was easily done. Just homoeopathy, in fact. A little sniff, a minute

dose, and he could see and hear with a miraculous clearness; but people

would take a dozen, and then they grew stupid.

He looked again around the room. Was it fancy, now? Perhaps it was. It

was not likely the Madonna was winking in a heretic's parlor. Besides,

it was the same sort of no-motion he had watched many a time in the

twilight, when the door seemed to swing backward and forward in the

dusky air, following the dilation and contraction of his own eyes. He

tried it now on the Madonna. He opened his eyes as widely as possible,

and the drooping lids of the picture evidently half-raised themselves

from the dark, soft orbs. He nearly closed his own, and hers bent again

in serenest contemplation.

He looked at the bronze figure of the "Dying Stork," which was placed

below the picture, and started to see that it moved also, and with a

strange, unnatural, galvanic sort of movement, like the "animated oat,"

which moves when placed on the hand after being warmed a moment in the

mouth. The legs sprung against the reeds and flags, in the same way.

Lastly, he looked at the bas-relief which stood near, leaning against

the wall. It was very, very strange. Had the old fable of Pygmalion a

truth in it, then? And could the same genius that created also give life

and warmth to its productions? Beneath the marble he could see the soft,

living pulse, distinctly; and the wind that blew over the mountains,

beyond the river, ruffled the waves about the tiny boat. Even the star

above the child's head sparkled in the depths of the sky.

Fred was delighted. "It is enchantment!" he said. But no,--it was one

of those miracles that have not yet become commonplace. The poetic life

that his perceptions were now able to enjoy, in inanimate nature, would

be such a perpetual gratification to his taste,--such an incentive to

explorations and discoveries! He could not felicitate himself enough.

"A thousand times better than the microscope," said he to himself

again. "Atoms are annoying and disgusting to look at, with their

incomprehensible and frightful minuteness, and their horrible celerity.

One does not like to think that everything is composed of myriads, be

they ever so beautiful,--which they are not, that ever I could see, but

chiefly all head or a wriggling tail. Bah! This is much better. Hark! I

can hear the waves dash,--the hope-song of the child,--and the breeze

moving against the delicate sails!

"How delightful it will be to travel, with this new-found faculty!

Whenever I choose, I can have the talking bird, the singing tree, and

the laughing water! I always thought those peeps into irrational nature

the chief charm of the Arabian tales. How little did I dream of ever

being able to read with my own eyes the riddle of the world! By-the-way,

let me look at my Graces, and see if they, too, are conscious forms of

beauty."

He turned to the group. Alas! even the Graces were not proof against the

ordeal of constant society. Perhaps, if he had reflected, he would

not have expected it. In truth, it was surprising to see how many

disagreeable sentiments they all three contrived to express, without

untwining their arms, or loosening their fond and graceful hold on each

other. A slight elevation of the eyebrow, a curve of the lovely mouth,

or a shrug from the Parian shoulders,--how expressive,--how surprising!

But Fred need not have been surprised; they never set up for Faith,

Hope, and Charity. What he most wondered at was that they still looked

so lovely, when they were clearly full of all pagan naughtiness. They

might as well have been women.

Fred pondered on this for some time. Then, it seemed, everything had

a latent life in it. He had suspected as much. "There is always a

something," said he, "in what we make, not only beyond what we intend

to make, but different from it. We study a long time the powers of

position,--in chess, for example;--how much is produced by one move

that we did not anticipate, and perhaps cannot ascertain,--certainly not

prevent! How many times we are wittier than we meant to be,--striking

out, by our unconscious blow, thoughts related to the one we utter, but

far more brilliant,--and ourselves becoming conscious of the very good

thing we have said only by its effect on the company! So it is, I fancy,

with all our mental movements. The brain acts independently of the will

in sleep. Why not, in a great measure, when awake? Probably, as all

Nature has a movement of its own, so all Art may be made to have, by

the infusion and absorption of so much of the creative energy of the

artist,--hidden to the common eye, but palpitating to the instructed

touch, throbbing or sparkling to the instructed eye. Yes, it must be

so. The south-wind sighs a thousand times more mournfully through the

keyhole than Thalberg can make it do on the piano. What music there was

in those stones the man brought round, the other day, and played on with

a stick! And now, the sound here from the gas-tube, how wailing, how

sorrowful!--now, how triumphant!"

Fred was so delighted with watching the gas-burner, and listening to the

wild music which floated through it, that he did not at first observe

that the wind had risen and was blowing almost a gale. Presently, in his

speculations as to the cause of such a sudden flood of melody, he hit on

the possibility of a current of air.

"But, then, how comes the air to be so full of music? Never mind,--I'll

put the window down."

However, just as he was putting it down, a snow-flake, one of a hundred,

all pressing for the same point, flew past him, and alighted on the

green velvet tabouret.

It was nothing,--only a snow-flake,--and another time, Fred would have

thought nothing of it. But in the novel awakening of his faculties, even

a snow-flake had a new interest. With intense eagerness he watched the

movement of the little thing,--and yet, feeling that he might be on

forbidden ground, he had the presence of mind to seem not to see or

hear. If inanimate Nature were once to suspect his new insight, what a

bustle there would be! He almost closed his eyes, and lay still, where

he could watch and yet seem asleep. His prudence and caution were well

rewarded.

The snow-flake was, as he suspected, as much alive as the wind; and that

was singing, shouting, dying away in ecstasies, at this very moment.

He glanced at her. Lithe, sparkling, graceful, she gathered her soft

drapery about her, and stood poised delicately on one foot, while she

looked around the apartment in which she found herself. Fred could see

that she was moulded more beautifully than the Graces,--by so much more

as Nature is fairer than all Art,--and that she had an inward pure

coldness, beside which Diana's was only stone. Yet it was not

indifference, like that of the wild huntress,--not an incapacity to

feel, but only that her time had not come; when it should, she would

melt as well as another. Now she stood still and calm. She did not

once look at him. She had seen human beings before,--plenty of them.

Something else attracted her,--thrilled her, evidently; for the

faintest rose-color suffused her beautiful form; she changed her

attitude, and bent forward her graceful head.

Something about "warming his hands by thinking on the frosty Caucasus"

passed through Fred's mind, and some law of association impelled him to

look at the fire. It was queer enough, that, as many times as he had

looked at that fire by the hour together, he had never before noticed

its shape or expression. Only last night, he had watched it, dancing and

flickering just as it did now, and never once suspected the truth!

Mailed figures! Yes, plenty of them,--golden-helmeted and sworded like

the seraphim! A glorious band, gathering, twining, shooting past each

other,--jousting, tilting,--with blazing banners, and a field broader

than that of the "Cloth of Gold"; for this reached to and mingled with

the clouds--yea, tinted them with flame-color and roses,--and garlanded

the earth with crimson blossoms that nestled among her forests on the

far-off horizon. What a wide field, indeed! And how far might these

blazes and flames go, when once they set out? To the stars, perhaps.

Fred did not see what should stop them. The atmosphere might, possibly.

He must study that out.

Meanwhile how strangely far he could see! What a power it was! What a

new interest it gave to Nature! Nature, he must confess, had always

seemed rather flat to him, on the whole. He had always liked

the imitations better than the original,--pictures better than

people,--busts better than philosophers. But now the case is altered. He

has got what his friend Norris calls "glorification-spectacles." Now he

can have perpetual amusement. Why, it is vastly better than Asmodeus

peeping in at the tops of houses. By the same token, snow-flakes are

more interesting than humanity.

Speaking of snow-flakes, what does he see, but that she is evidently

yielding to the soft enchantment of the nearest flame-god,--drawn

thither by resistless affinity, and melting, in his burning arms, to

the most delicate vapor! Snow-flake no more, yet not absorbed nor lost!

Rather taking her true place, transported from the earth-tempests to a

warmer and higher sphere of action.

That might be, but not yet. In their new vaporous condition, in which

both had lost some of their prominent qualities, they had acquired new

relations, perhaps new duties. At all events, they did not at once

ascend to their kindred ether,--but swam, glided, floated, above

and around, and finally separated. Watching them keenly, Fred could

distinctly see that the sometime snow-flake left her sphere and came

gradually towards himself. As the vaporous shape floated nearer, it also

grew larger, so that, although Fred could not have said certainly that

the size was human, it relieved him from the impression of any fairy

or elf or sprite. No, it was nothing of that sort. It was just the

gentlest, calmest, serenest face and form in the world,--with the same

look of pure sweetness he had noticed on her first entrance,--with a

peculiar surprised look in her wide-open eyes, that he had seen but in

one human face. As well tell the truth,--the face, expression, and all,

were as like Annie Peyton's, as her portrait, drawn in water-colors,

could possibly have been.

The shape sat down by him,--her vaporous garment still folding softly

around her, and her clear, open eyes fixed on him. There was no need of

speech, for he read her face as if written by Heaven's own hand; and the

coarse and selfish philosophy which had sufficed partially to stun and

confuse Minnie fled at the presence of the spirit. Not a word still from

the calm, sweet face. It looked on him with pity and surprise. Then all

the ideas and convictions that throng on the mind warped, but not lost,

pressed on him. He hid his face in the sofa-cushions.

His presence of mind returned as a new thought struck him. It was an

ocular delusion, surely. He sprang up, took three or four turns across

the room, rubbed his eyes smartly, and took his seat again. For a moment

he would not look towards the chair. When at last he did look, the airy,

soft form was still there, looking steadily into his eyes.

"What an idea!" exclaimed he, impatiently. "I might put my hands through

it, like the flame of a candle. It is nothing but vapor. What is it made

of? Nothing but a snow-flake and the gas from cannel coal. I saw it,

myself, melting and falling together into this beautiful shape. But then

it is only a shape. It is not a body. Oh, but then it may be a soul! Who

knows what souls are made of? Snow-flakes and vapor, perhaps. Who knows

indeed?"

He looked about the room. Everything was in its natural and usual place.

The fire burned merrily; the wind swept fitfully without, and all

was quiet within. A very uncomfortable feeling, of mingled awe and

curiosity, took possession of him. He did not quite like to look at the

shape. He thought,--

"Can this be the spiritual body that St. Paul says is to supersede the

natural one? If this is indeed, the soul of Annie Peyton,--why, she

knows, somehow, what is in mine. And, by Jove! I can see her soul now,

too, without any trouble! She can't hide her real feelings now from me,

any more than I can my character from her. There's some good in it,

anyhow!"

With some effort, he raised his eyes,--very respectfully, indeed;

for though he was only about to look at a soul, he was full as much

overpowered as if it had been the body. His eyes fell.

"If I dared to look! But she knows how I feel. I suppose she sees me

now,--shivering from head to foot like a----Somehow, I can't look her

in the eyes. However, this won't do!" And he looked quickly and timidly

into the now smiling face.

He need not have been so timid. If a soul could discern evil, it could,

also, good; and this spirit was quick to see the last. Without a

word,--but when were words necessary to souls?--with only a glance, she

expressed so much love and pity for him, that Fred was ashamed to look

her in the face. "Oh! if she could really see him," he thought, "would

she look so?" Perhaps so. For the Intelligence that sees the evil

can clearest of all see the mitigations, the causes, and the sore

temptations; and the fruit of the widest knowledge is the widest love.

Something like this passed from the soul that sat opposite Fred into his

awakening and sensitive consciousness:--

"You have never tasted the pleasures of useful activity," the sweet face

said. "Come with me, and we will look together, and see what good may

come, and also what enjoyment, from it."

Now it was, for the first time, that Fred fully understood his position.

It came like a gleam of light on his puzzled intellect, and made that

quite clear which had before been so mystical and cloudy, that he had

been ready to rub his eyes, and to doubt, almost, the evidence of his

senses. He remembered his old and a thousand times repeated theory of

"projected images." Here it was. Instead of a fancy, a thought, here was

the whole of Annie Peyton's soul (which, to be sure, had often enough

occupied his mind) projected from his own, perhaps, so as to be a

subject of contemplation to his bodily eyes. Or, what was more likely,

the soul itself of Annie Peyton might have left her body for a time in

a dream. It was among the possibilities, though he had never before

believed it to be. But then, again, how could his soul go off on an

exploring tour with Annie's? His soul was safe in his body, and that,

namely, the body, lying on the sofa,--the room close, the window down.

Just then, he glanced toward the window, and remembered that he had not

fastened it at all. There was room enough for a soul to pass easily. But

then, again, how was his soul to pass,--to get out, in the first place,

of his body? Easily enough. The concentrated effort of will, which could

give shape to a fancy, and place it outside the eye, could, by sustained

action, separate all the perceptive powers from the senses,--in short,

the spirit from its envelope.

"To know, to perceive, to suffer, to rejoice, do not require skin and

bones. The heart weeps while the eye is dry; the lips smile while the

heart is breaking. One might have a conventional soul,--to keep house,

as it were, and do all the honors of society, while the real one went

abroad to regions of truth and beauty, and bathed in living waters!"

While Fred continued so to think and speculate, and also to separate,

and, as it were, classify his ideas, he was pleased to perceive,

that, without any very strong volition on his part, but only from the

analytical processes of his reason, that portion of his mind which

perceived and enjoyed the truth of things became condensed and separated

from the conventional, the factitious, and the merely sensual. The

qualities, or states, or whatever the metaphysician calls them, fell

off him, as garments do in a dream, and left himself, his very self,

separate, and a little distant, from his body. He perceived this rather

than saw it. He knew it, but could not assert it. The body, with its

bodily wants and limitations, leaned on the couch, half slumberously;

while the mind, himself, full of vague aspirations, keen intellectual

hunger, and overlaid with error, obstinacy, and the thick crust of

self-contemplation, which stifles all true progress,--these assimilated

qualities made himself, what he felt he was, not an attractive object to

himself more than to anybody else. All his perceptions pointed inward,

and cramped and narrowed his existence. He felt very, very small.

"This is strange," he reasoned, "that I should have such a sense of

contraction! I crowd on myself, as it were. My thoughts hit me, press

me, instead of elevating me. I cannot see why; for the habit of looking

up to no goodness or intelligence but the Supreme must surely be a good

one, and self-education and development the noblest process for a human

being."

He said this in a mechanical sort of way, as if it were a lesson he

remembered at school. But it made no impression on him, and did not

relieve his difficulty. He knew it, somehow, to be false, and felt

it falling off as he spoke, as if it were the last remnant of gauzy

sophistry.

Fred had never been fond of church-going, nor was he much given to

reading the Holy Scriptures. Indeed, he rather affected the style of the

Latter-Day Saints, who look for a better and nobler Messiah than came in

the Son of Mary. But just now, fifty texts of Scripture, which he must

have learned long ago at his mother's knee, came crowding upon his

memory.

"Though I have all gifts, and have not charity, I am nothing."

"He that is least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he."

"He that loveth not his brother, whom he hath seen, how can he love God,

whom he hath not seen?"

"Little children, love one another."

"Bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ."

And so on,--interminably. In a helpless, vague way, he looked at the

shadow by his side.

"You like pictures, and paint them," said she, speaking for the first

time;--and the voice was precisely the tone he had recognized in the

music of the wind; he had thought then it was like hers;--"look with me

at these two."

They were, indeed, magnificent pictures. They reached from floor to

ceiling. Fred was artist enough to enjoy fully the wide sweep of sky and

land,--the mountains in the distance, and the firmament studded with

stars. A figure wandered up and down the space, sometimes to the tops

of the mountains, sometimes to the clefts of the rocks. When he saw the

stars, he calculated their distances;--when he saw the moon, he weighed

her, and guessed about the atmosphere on the other side;--when the gold

and diamonds shone in the clefts of the rocks, he gathered and analyzed

them. The Leviathan he studied and classed. He groped and reached

constantly, and, having gathered, looked at his gatherings,

dissatisfied. He was ever searching out knowledge. Meanwhile, a gnat put

him in a passion, and unleavened bread destroyed his peace. Though he

might sleep on rose-leaves, as he could not command the wind, they came

often to double under him, and annoy him with bad dreams.

"When shall I be a disembodied spirit, and no longer subject to the

petty annoyances that belong to the flesh?" cried he, fretfully. "My

knowledge, too, is a moth,--only vexing me by a sense of the limitations

of my condition. If I could grasp Nature,--if I could handle the

stars,--if I could wake the thunder,--if I could summon the cloud! That

would be worth something,--to send the comets on their errands! But what

avails it, to know that they go?--how far from me when they start, and

how many millions of miles before they turn to come back? If I could

move only one of these subtile energies that mock me while I look them

in the face!"

The philosopher dozed. A storm came on, and swept over all creation.

When he awoke, it was clearing away, and one side of the heavens was

heaped with gold-lined clouds, and the darkness of the other spanned

with the seven-hued bow. He looked admiringly at the clouds and

critically at the rainbow, and added to his memorandum-book.

"What use?" said he, mournfully; "delicate dew, and refracted light!"

He continued to ponder and murmur, to explore, to ascertain, to grumble.

He had rheumatic pains, for the elements had no mercy on him; he rubbed

himself as he was able, and added to his stores of knowledge. He was

very, very learned. When he reached a shelter, he lay down. If no human

love welcomed him, and no gentle lip soothed him, he had self-culture,

especially in the sciences.

All this Fred knew as soon as he looked at him.

"If he were wise, he would not stop at knowledge, which is, of course,

unsatisfactory,--but dive beyond, as I have done, into the essence of

things," said Fred to himself. "If he could pierce through the veil that

covers all things, he would find amusement enough to last a lifetime. In

vegetable life, the jealousies and passions of flowers,--in the quiet

eventfulness of the mineral kingdom, to see forms of living beauty in

crystals,--finally, in all the under-mechanism of creation, what a

fund of enjoyment and instruction! I think I should never cease to be

delighted and entertained."

Fred glanced from the picture to the fireplace. The shovel and tongs

were just laughing at him; and though they composed their countenances

immediately, he had caught the expression, and was excessively annoyed.

Philosophy at length came to his aid, especially as the poker expressed

only profound deference, preserving a martial attitude and immovable

features. After all, why should he care for a pair of tongs? One must

cultivate phlegm, if one is a philosopher; and a shovel, after all, is

not so bad as a pretty woman. He heard the cool wind distinctly blowing

across the mountains in the picture, and saw the stars coming out again.

Then Fred knew he had been looking at a diorama, and that the exhibition

was over.

He heard a hearty laugh at a little distance, and perceived that the

picture, which at first had seemed to spread out over the whole wall,

was really divided into two parts, something like an exhibition he

remembered of dissolving views. This was delightful. The first picture

faded out into gloom, and gave place to a bright, cheerful room in the

third story of a house in the city. There were only two rooms,--this,

and a small anteroom. The furniture was simple, even poor. Through the

window the snow was seen falling, and the blaze flickered, in cheerful

contrast, on the hearth. A woman, neither young nor pretty, stood with

an astonished expression, and an elderly man laughed loudly, and sat

down before the fire.

"What in the world shall I do?" said the woman.

"Do, my dear?--why, bring me my dressing-gown"; said he, laughing again

so cheerily, that it was contagious; and as she brought the coarse

wadded garment he asked for, she laughed too.

"A pretty kettle of fish!" said she.

"Yes! Now what shall we do? Not a dollar in our pockets!"

"Nor a coat to your back!" broke in the woman.

Then they both laughed again, loudly and heartily.

Fred remembered now what they were laughing at. The man was a minister,

well known in Boston, and the woman was his wife. He had just come in,

running through the storm, and almost out of breath.

"Wife! my coat! Don't you see I am in my shirt-sleeves? I've got a

snow-bank on my back!"

"Why! where in the world--what have you done with your coat?"

"Oh! that I am almost ashamed to tell you; it seems such a parading sort

o' thing to do in the streets! But you may depend, I didn't stand at the

corners long, to be seen of men, in this driving storm! Fact was, wife,

I just took it off of my back, and gave it to poor old M'Carty;--he'd

nothing on but rags, and was fairly shaking with the cold. I knew I'd

another to home,--and what does a man want of two coats? One's enough

for anybody. Besides, didn't our Lord particularly tell his disciples

not to have but one? Say, now, wife!"

The wife looked blank and embarrassed.

"Well, wife! what now?"

"Only"----and she paused again.

"Only what? Out with it! You think it was silly! But, wife, you'd 'a'

done the same thing;--you couldn't 'a' helped it, nohow. Providence

seemed to 'a' cast him in my way o' purpose. I tell you, wife, it was as

plain-spoken as it could be,--'Be ye warmed!' Why, you'd 'a' done the

same thing, wife!"

"My goodness! I _have_ done it, husband! A man and his wife and three

little children came along, not half an hour ago, looking so miserable

and cold, that, as I thought, as you say, you had one coat, and that

was all you really needed, I just out with the other, and put it on the

man's back. The thankfullest creature you ever saw!"

And here the man had broken into the hearty laugh Fred heard.

When the man put on his dressing-gown, which was comfortable for the

fireside, the wife renewed her question. He answered with a bright

smile,--

"The Son of Man, my dear we know, had not where to lay his head; but

then he always trusted in God. God never fails his children. Thanks to

Him!" added he, reverently, and raising loving eyes to heaven, as if he

really spoke to somebody there,--"Thanks to Him! there's bountiful hands

and tender hearts, a plenty of 'em, in the city of Boston. I've only got

to strike, and the waters 'll flow out! yes,--rivers of water!"

The wife looked down, and said, meditatively, "It makes me think what

our dear Saviour said to poor Peter,--'O thou of little faith, wherefore

didst thou doubt?'"

The man answered in a clear, joyful tone, "Oh, you won't doubt more'n

half a minute to time, wife!--and I won't doubt at all!"

With that, the two aged Christians struck up a sweet Wesleyan melody;

and that, too, was in the same soft minor key that Fred had heard

singing through the gas-burner. They finished the little hymn, and

the woman scraped some corn from a cob into the corn-popper. In a few

minutes, she had filled a large bowl with the parched corn.

"I declare, they look like them hyacinths in the window,--don't they?

What a lovely white color!"

"I think, wife," answered the man, as he took a handful of the kernels

and looked at them, "this corn is a good deal like human nature. When

we're all shut up in ourselves, we're poor creatures;--but touch us with

the live coals of the Holy Spirit, and we turn out something refreshing.

Fact is, wife, we're good for nothing, till we're turned inside out."

The picture faded. It was a very homely one.

Fred turned to the soul by his side, but she was no longer visible.

"Escaped, somehow! I wonder, now, how?"

But he had scarcely spoken, when he saw, by a slight movement of the

door, that she must have gone out that way. It was just closing. With a

tremendous effort of will, he tried to follow her, but in vain. He

had been so much in the habit of looking after himself only, that his

untrained faculties refused to obey him. As a last resource, he sank

passively towards the form which still lay prone on the couch. How he

was again to join soul and body he could not guess. But, apparently,

there was no difficulty. The spirit which had called him out of himself,

for a little while, had departed, and, with her, both the power and the

desire of separation. He joined his sensuous existence with ease and

pleasure, and with no perceptible lapse of consciousness. No sooner had

he obtained the use of his tongue, than he made an inarticulate noise.

The door, which had been all that time swinging, opened again, and the

velvet-footed Martin appeared.

"Who went out, Martin?"

"Out of here, Sir? No one, Sir."

"Who opened the door, then?--What's that in your hand?"

"The chloroform, Sir, you just handed me."

"Just handed you?"

"Yes, Sir;--you gave it back to me not a quarter of a minute ago."

"Have I been asleep, Martin?"

"I should judge not, Sir. You didn't take more than two sniffs at the

bottle. I just had time to go to the door when you spoke to me."

"Martin,--is the window close?"

"Perfectly close, Sir."

"You may go."

* * * * *

PALFREY'S AND ARNOLD'S HISTORIES.[A]

[Footnote A: _History of New England during the Stuart Dynasty._ By John

Gorham Palfrey. Vol. I. Boston: Little, Brown, & Co. 1858. 8vo. pp. 638.

_History of the State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations._ By

Samuel Greene Arnold & Co. 1859. 8vo. pp. 574.]

The London "Times," in its comments upon a recent desponding utterance

of foreboding for our republic, by President Buchanan, in his Fort

Duquesne Letter, affirms that the horizon of England is clearing while

our own is darkening. Mr. Bright, true to the omen of his name, thinks

better of our country. He seizes upon all fit occasions, as in his late

speech at Manchester, to hold up to his countrymen the opposite view,

so far at least as concerns our republic. He loves to recommend to

his constituents American notions and institutions. Perhaps it may be

allowed,--though this is hardly to be affirmed, if any decisive argument

depends upon it,--that the peculiar institutions, political and social,

of the two nations, have been on trial long enough, side by side,

through the same race of men and in the pursuit of the same interests,

to enable a wise discerner to strike the balance between them, in

respect to their efficiency and their security as intrusted with the

welfare and destiny of millions. If we can learn to look at the

large experiment in that light, all that helps to put the real issue

intelligently before us will be of equal interest to us, from whichever

side of the water it may present itself. For ourselves, we believe that

the best security against despair for our country is a knowledge of its

history. If the study of our annals does not train up patriots among us,

we must consent to lose our heritage. We are glad to be assured that our

historians do not intend to allow the republic to decay before they have

written out in full the tale of its life. Their records, well digested,

may prove to be the pledges of its vigor and permanence.

There are those in the land, who, for reasons suggested by President

Buchanan, and for others, of darker omen, to which he makes no

reference, do despair, or greatly fear. What with an honest hate of some

public iniquities among us,--the tolerance and strengthening of which

many of our politicians regard as the vital conditions of our national

existence,--and a dread of the excesses incident to our large liberty,

it is not strange that some of our own citizens should accord in

sentiment with the London "Times." Probably the same proportion of

persons may be now living among the native population of our national

soil, appeared at the era of the Revolution, preferring English

institutions to our own, and predicting that her government will outlast

our own. Discussions raised upon the present aspect of affairs in either

country will not settle the issue thus opened. A real knowledge of our

own institutions and a reasonable confidence in their permanence are

to be found only in an intelligent and very intimate acquaintance with

their growth and development. In our histories are to be found the

materials of our prophecies.

We welcome, therefore, with infinite satisfaction, the two admirable

volumes whose titles we have set down. For reasons which will appear

before we conclude our remarks upon them, we find it convenient to unite

their titles and to write about them together; but for distinctness of

subject and marked individuality in the mode of treatment, no two books

can stand more widely apart. Abilities and culture and aptitudes of the

very highest order have been brought to the composition of each of

them. An exhaustive use of abundant materials, and a most conscientious

fidelity in digesting them into high-toned philosophical narrations, are

marked features of both the volumes, and we will not venture upon the

ungracious office of instituting comparisons, in these respects, between

their authors. We must make a slight report of the story of each of

them, and of the method and spirit in which it is told, and then

confront them for mutual cross-examination.

Our historians have learned to write their books with full as much

reference to their being read abroad as at home. The problem with which

they first have to deal, therefore, is, how to make the men and the

incidents and the cardinal points of our annals look as large to

foreigners as they do to us. Many of our town-histories are written in

the tone and style of Mr. Poole's "Little Pedlington,"--the epithet

_Little_ being suppressed in the title, but obtruded on every page. The

intensity and emphasis of our historic strain appear to foreigners to be

disproportionate to the subject-matter of the story. Mr. Punch always

represents a Yankee as larger than his garments. His trousers never

cover his ankles; his cuffs stop far short of his wrists; his long neck

extends beyond the reach of even his capacious collar; and the bone in

him lacks amplitude of muscle. But Mr. Punch, with all his wisdom, does

not fully understand the composition of a Yankee, as the greatest common

multiple of a Teuton, Dane, Norman, Frank, Kelt, and Englishman. Dr.

Palfrey's volume will largely conciliate our cousins beyond the water

to our own conceit of our annals, because, more distinctly and cogently

than any previous record in pamphlet or folio, it identifies the springs

and purposes of our heroic age with an era and a type of men which

English historians now exalt on their own noblest pages.

Dr. Palfrey has had precisely that natural endowment, training,

experience, mental discipline, and intercourse with the world in public

and private relations, to furnish him with the best qualifications for

the work to which he has devoted the autumn of an eminently useful and

honored life. The sinewy fibre of his theme is religion. And he is a

religious man of the highest pattern, deeply skilled in its scholarly

lore, erudite in its Scriptural and controversial elements, and

practised in the sagacity which it imparts for understanding and

interpreting human nature. Religion enters into the subject-matter of

his narrative, not so much in its philosophical bearings as in its

civico-ecclesiastical and institutional relations; where it becomes the

spine of the social fabric, traversed and perforated with the nervous

life-chords for all the members of the organism. His education has

been that of the highest ideal of New England,--through books and men,

through professional duties and public services, bringing him into

relations with youth, with men and women, and with the forms and the

routine work of civil and political administrations. He has at his

command the language of devotion, the rhetoric and logic of philosophy,

and the technicalities of jurisprudence. To his personal friends, and

they are very many in every walk of life, it is a matter of grateful

recognition that he escaped from a political arena whose conflicts were

not congenial with his delicacy of taste or of conscience, in season to

give the vigor of his best years to the composition of a work which will

spread his fame to other lands and identify it forever with what is of

most reverent and honored remembrance on his native soil.