CHAPTER V.

The "nest" looked out upon the street by two front windows, that were

immediately over the sign of the Hendrik Athenæum and Circulating

Library. There was also a small side-window, affording a view of a

bit of yard, quite private, and pleasant in its season, with an oval

patch of grass, some hollyhocks, a grape-vine trained over a pretty

structure of lattice to form a sort of summer-house, and a martin-box,

in a decidedly original church-pattern, mounted on a tall, white pole.

Of course the scene was cheerless and unsightly now; lumpy brown

patches of earth showed through the unequally melting snow, where the

grass-plot should have been; a few naked and ugly sticks were all

the promise of the hollyhocks' yellow glory; the bare grape-vine

showed on the dingy lattice like a tangled mesh of weather-stained

ropes; and "there were no birds in last year's nest" to make the

martin-box look social.

This little window was Madeline's chosen seat; and hither she brought,

sometimes a book, but more frequently a portion of Miss Wimple's

work from the millinery department, and wholesomely employed her mind,

skilfully her fingers. Here she could look out upon the earth and sky,

and enjoy, unspied, the sympathy of their desolation,--never daring

to think of all the maddening memories that lay under the front

windows: those she had never once approached, never even turned her

eyes towards; Miss Wimple had observed that.

But on the day of the installation of the basque and the flounces,

and the promotion of the skimped delaine, late in the afternoon,

the twilight (falling, as Madeline sat at the side-window, gazing

vacantly down upon the forlornness of the little yard, and Miss Wimple

stood at the front window, gazing as abstractedly down upon the hard,

pitiless coldness of the street),--the thoughts of both intent on the

_must_ of their parting on the morrow, and the _how_ of Madeline's

going,--suddenly Madeline left her safe seat, and came and leaned upon

Miss Wimple's shoulder, looking over it into the street. Only a

minute, half a minute, but--surely the Enemy tempted her!--too long;

for ere Miss Wimple, quick as she was to take the alarm, could turn

and lead her away, Madeline's vigilant, fierce glance had caught

sight of him, (alack! Philip Withers!) and, ashen-pale, with parted

lips and suspended breath, and wide, blazing eyes, she stood, rooted

there, and stared at him. But Miss Wimple dragged her away just in

time,--no, he had not seen her,--and for a brief space the two women

stood together, near the bed, in the corner farthest from the window;

and Miss Wimple held Madeline's face close down upon her own shoulder,

and pressed her hand commandingly, and whispered, "Hush!"

So they stood in silence,--no cry, no word, escaped. And when,

presently, Madeline, with a long heart-heaved sigh, raised her head

and looked Miss Wimple in the face, there was blood on her lips. And

blood was on Miss Wimple's dress. Yea! the basqued and flounced

disguise was raggedly rent at the shoulder.

Then Madeline went and lay down upon the bed, and turned her face to

the wall,--and there was no noise. And Miss Wimple covered the blood

and the rents on her shoulder with her mother's lace cape,--the

familiar companion of the skimped delaine,--and went down into the

shop.

When Miss Wimple, having put up the bars, ascended to the nest to

join Madeline in the little cot,--Madeline slept quietly enough; but

a trace of blood, with all its sad story, was on her lips, and a

lingering frown of pain on her brow. Very carefully, not to disturb

her, Miss Wimple lay down by her side, but not to sleep;--her

thoughts were anxiously busy with the morrow.

In the morning, when Miss Wimple awoke, her eyes met the eyes of

Madeline, no longer fierce and wild, but full of patience and tender

gratitude. The brave Magdalen, leaning on her elbow in the bed, had

been watching Miss Wimple as she slept, her poor heart fairly

oppressed with its thankfulness to God, and to his saving minister.

When, Miss Wimple opened her eyes, Madeline bent over her and kissed

her on the forehead, and Miss Wimple smiled. Then both arose and put

on their garments,--Madeline the skimped delaine, and Miss Wimple

the flounces. Oh! the grotesque pathos of that exchange!--and

Madeline did not remark with what haste, and a certain awkward

bashfulness, Miss Wimple retired to a far corner and covered her

shoulders with the lace cape.

All that day the two women were very still;--the approaching hour of

parting was not adverted to between them, but the low tone in which

they spake of other and lesser things showed that it was first of

all in their thoughts and on their hearts. To the latest moment they

merely _understood each other_. The cars went from the branch

station at ten o'clock. It was nine when Miss Wimple released from

its old-fashioned bandbox--as naturally as if it had been all along

agreed upon between them, and not, as was truly the case, utterly

forgotten until then--her well-saved and but little used bonnet of

black straw, and put it on Madeline's head, kissing her, as a mother

does her child, as she tied the bow under her chin; and she took

from the bed the faithful shawl, and drew it snugly, tenderly,

around Madeline's shoulders,--Madeline only blushing; to resist, to

remonstrate, she well knew, had been in vain. There had been some

exchanging of characters, you perceive, no less than of costumes.

"And now where shall we put those?" asked Miss Wimple, holding in

her hand Mr. Osgood's check, and a trifle of ready money for the

immediate needs of the journey.

Madeline replied by silently drawing from her bosom the little

pocket-book, and handing it to her friend, who opened it in a

matter-of-course way that was full of delicacy; and--no doubt

accidentally, and innocently, as to any trick of pretty sentiment--

deposited the check and the bank-note beside that card.

And now it was time to part. Miss Wimple took up the dim chamber-lamp,

and led Madeline down the stairs,--both silent, calm: those were not

crying women. As they entered the shop, Miss Wimple immediately set

down the lamp on the nearest end of the counter, and went with

Madeline straight to the door, whither its slender ray hardly reached,

and where the blood-spots and the rents on her shoulder might not be

noticed,--or, at least, not clearly defined. Then, with a

business-like "Ah! I had forgotten,"--admirably feigned,--she hastily

removed the shawl from Madeline's shoulders, and the lace cape from

her own; and she put the lace cape on Madeline, and covered it with

the shawl. This time Madeline shrank, and would have forbidden the

charitable surprise; but Miss Wimple moved as though to open the door,

and said,--

"Madeline, in mind, and heart, and soul, do you feel ready?"

"Yes!"

"Then go!--Believe in God and yourself, and do the best you can."

And Madeline said,--

"And you, also, must believe in me, and pray for me; be patient with

me, and wait. If the time should ever come when I can comfort you,

with God's help I will hasten to you, wherever you may be."

And they kissed each other, and both said, "God bless you!"

So Madeline departed quickly, and presently was lost in the shadows

beyond the shop-lamps.

[Next morning, when Sally Wimple went to take down the bars, her

neighbors were astonished; for it was already reported and believed

that she had been seen going from the Athenæum to the ten o'clock

train the night before.]

Then Miss Wimple closed the door and went back to her room, where she

sat down on the bed and had a good cry, which was a great comfort.

When, after that, she arose, and, standing before the glass to

undress herself, perceived the blood-stains and the rents, she

straightway went and brought her work-basket, and, seating herself

under the dim lamp, without fear or hesitation cut down the dress,

_low-neck_--There!--Then she lay down in the bed and slept sweetly,

with a smile on her face.

Ah! cunning, artless Sally Wimple! No wonder the dashing directness

of your character had ever by your neighbors been mistaken for

simplicity. The thing which was easiest for you to do was ever the

hardest thing for you to bear. In the morning, this new Godiva of

Hendrik--not less to be honored than she of Coventry, in all she

underwent and overcame--descended to her shop, "clothed on with

chastity"; and then her dreadful trial began. I claim for her even

more merit than the pure heart of the world has accorded to her

namesake who:

"took the tax away,

And built herself an everlasting name,"

by as much as her task was harder, herself more helpless, and her

reward less. Like her of Coventry,

"left alone, the passions of her mind,

As winds from all the compass shift and blow,

Made war upon each other for an hour,

Till Pity won."

She said to the World,--"If this woman pay your tax, she dies."

And the World mocked,--"You would not let your little finger ache

for such as this!"

"But I would die," said she,--"and more,--I will bear your mocking

and your hisses!"

"Oh! ay, ay, ay! you talk!" said the World.

But we have seen already. She had no herald to send forth and

"bid him cry, with sound of trumpet, all the hard condition." No

palfrey awaited her, "wrapt in purple, blazoned with armorial gold."

For her, indeed,

"The little wide-mouthed heads upon the spout,

Had cunning eyes to see..."

"...the blind walls

Were full of chinks and holes; and, overhead,

Fantastic gables stared."

She had her low churls, her Peeping Toms,--"compact of thankless

earth," who bored moral auger-holes in fear, and spied. Her nudeness

was more complete than hers of Coventry, by as much as ridicule is

more ruthless than coarse curiosity.

Not merely the delicacy of her "inmost bower," but all the

protection of her forlornness, she exposed naked to the town, to

take that tax away; and when it was removed, she could not hope to

build herself "an everlasting name." Ah, no! Godiva of Hendrik may

not live in any "city's ancient legend." This poor story must be all

her monument; let us lay the cap-stone, then.

* * * * *

All the angers of scorn in Hendrik were pointed at Miss Wimple; all

the sharp tongues of Hendrik hissed at her; and her good name fell

at once into the portion of the vilest weeds. Simon Blount saw and

heard, and his soul was sorely troubled. Like all _true_ love, loyal

and vigilant, his love for Sally was clear-sighted and sagacious.

Infatuation is either gross passion or pretence,--the flash and

bogus jewelry of the heart; but true love, though its eyes may ache

with the seeing, sees ever sharply. All beautiful examples teach

that the blindness of Love is not a parable, but an imposture; and

Simon saw that Sally was in a false position,--false to herself and

to him; for she denied him that confidence which he had a right to

share, sharing, as he did, all the scandal and the scorn; and in that,

she was unconsciously unjust. She denied herself the aid and comfort

of his tender counsel and his approbation, the protection of his

understanding and believing, when for him to understand and believe

was for her to be safe and bold. For even the pride of Sally Wimple,

overdone, could become arrogance; even her disinterestedness,

intemperately indulged in, could take on the form of selfishness.

Simon went to Sally, and said: "Tell me what all this means." But

Sally, weak now in her very strength, said: "Nothing! Let my ways be

my own ways still; I alone am answerable for them. Is 'believing and

waiting' so hard to do? I did not send for you."

Then Simon conceived a tremendous _coup de coeur_, a daring one

enough, as women go,--women of such stuff as the Sally Wimples of

this world are made of. He said, "I will try the old trick, the

foolish old trick that I always despised, but which must have

something sound in it, after all, since it has served the turn,

through all time, of people in my predicament." So Simon went over

(not with his heart,--trust him!--but with his legs) to Adelaide

Splurge. Miss Wimple, never guessing, saw him go, and made no sign,

though her heart fairly cracked: "He will return one day," she

thought; "if it be too late then, so much the better for him, perhaps."

Of Adelaide, the town had begun, some time since, to say, that she

had tired of Philip Withers,--that she did not appreciate him, could

not understand him,--he was too deep for her. Foolish town! She had

only found him out, and learned to hate him as fiercely as she

despised him unutterably. She had truly loved the man, and her shrewd

heart had played the detective for his Madeline secret.

For such a Fouché a slighter clue would have sufficed to lead to the

conviction of so besotted a traitor, than many an incautious hint of

his, and many a tale-telling vaunt of his irresistible egotism,

afforded her; for, like all the weak wretches of his sort, there was

not a more bungling lout, to try the patience of a clever man, than

Philip Withers, when his game lay between his safety and his vanity.

To Adelaide's hand Simon Blount came timely and well-trained. At once

she set him on Withers, as one would hie on a good dog at a thief;

and it was not long before she had the pleasure of seeing the chase

brought to the ground.

Withers had heard of a graceful neck, and white, dimpled shoulders,

at the Athenæum; so accomplished a connoisseur as he must not let

them pass unappreciated. So he hastened to discharge his duty to

æsthetic society by honoring them with his admiration and exalting

patronage. On any transparent pretext,--the more transparent the

better, he thought, for the proprietress of the white shoulders and

the bewitching shape, who "no doubt understood,"--he dropped in

often at the little bookstore, to begin with a "how-do?" and

conclude with an "_au revoir_,"--the ineffable puppy! upon whose

vicious vanity the cold, still, statuesque scorn of Miss Wimple was

grandly lost. At last, at the Splurge house one evening, in the

presence of Adelaide and Simon, he was betrayed by his egotism into

boasting, by insinuation, of certain successes at the Circulating

Library most damaging to Miss Wimple's reputation for understanding

and good taste; he was "in her books," he said.

An accordant glance passed between Adelaide and Simon. When Withers

retired, Simon followed him, and under Adelaide's window, and under

her eyes, he boxed the ears of Philip, the Debonair. After that,

Mr. Withers was discreeter.

But Miss Wimple's trial was not yet at its worst. The low-necked

dress had been as unseasonable as the substitution of the hooped

skirt for the quilted petticoat was imprudent. Before Madeline had

been gone a week, she contracted, as was to be feared, a heavy cold,

which within a month assumed a chronic bronchial form, attended with

alarming symptoms. The extreme dejection of spirits, consequent upon

her persecuted loneliness, had predisposed her to disease in the

first place, and aggravated its character when it came.

At last she fell dangerously ill, and with the closing of the

shop--for she could hire no one to attend in it--came poverty in its

most dreadful form. But for the charity of her kind physician, who

sent a servant-girl, a mere child, to nurse her, and daily kept her

supplied with proper nourishment from his own house, she would, so

it seemed to her, have died of neglect and starvation. Yet better,

she thought, to depart even so, than linger on, when such lingering

taxed the patience and the faith beyond the loftiest examples of

religion. Miss Wimple was too stout-hearted to cry for death, though

she felt, that, having lived with heroism, she could at least die

with presence of mind. She waited, with a composure that had a

strange quality of pride.

In her New York home, Mrs. Morris, the governess, was as happy as

she dared to feel. In Mr. Osgood's family she had found all things

as Miss Wimple had promised. Treated with studious deference and

consideration, not unmixed with affection, she enjoyed for her

secret thoughts the most privileged privacy. Her brave gratitude was

superior to the distress a weaker woman might have suffered from the

necessity of making Mr. Osgood unreservedly acquainted with her story,

in order to enlist his aid to procure tidings of Miss Wimple, whose

safety, health, and happiness were now far dearer to her than her own.

She did tell him all, and had reason to thank God for the courage

that made it a possible, even an easy, thing for her to do. Her

truly noble benefactor and protector, receiving her communication as

if he then heard it for the first time, assured her that in thus

confiding in the freedom of his mind, and in his honor, she had set

up a new and stronger claim to his interest and friendly care. She

had but enlarged his obligation to his until then unknown

correspondent for having given his children, to whom their governess

had already truly endeared herself, so admirable a teacher, so

precious a friend.

["But why," you will ask, "did not Madeline write to Miss Wimple?"

Because that provident angel had, without explanation, exacted from

her a promise that she would in no case write _first_. In truth,

Miss Wimple foresaw her own various suffering, and sought to spare

Madeline some cruel pangs, and herself the hard trial of disingenuous

correspondence.]

And Mr. Osgood would have started at once for Hendrik, where he was

not personally known to any one, to procure tidings of Miss Wimple

and allay the anxiety of Mrs. Morris, had Madeline not found, that

very day, her name in the _Herald's_ list of letters waiting to be

called for in the New York Post-Office. That letter was, indeed, for

Madeline, and its contents were as follows:--

"To Miss MADELINE SPLURGE,--Miss Wimple, of Hendrik, is very ill, and

poor, and friendless. It has been suggested to the writer of this

that you can help her. If you can, and will, there is no time to lose.

A FRIEND."

The "friend" was Simon Blount. Ever since the Athenæum was closed,

he had hung anxiously about the place, frequently dropping in upon

the neighbors to ask--quite by-the-byishly, and by chance, it seemed

to them--after the health of Miss Wimple; and sometimes he waylaid

the little servant, as she passed to and fro between the bookstore

and the doctor's residence, and plied her with questions. On such

occasions he was sure to make the little maid the depository of certain

silver secrets, which forthwith she revealed to Miss Wimple in the

shape of whole basketfuls of comfortable stuff, "from the Doctor."

Adelaide had given the hint for this letter. Calling at the Athenæum

one day, about a fortnight after Madeline's departure, her quick eye

caught sight of a bit of paper lying on the counter, whereon was

freshly written, "Madeline Splurge." Miss Wimple had been entering

some trifling charge in the course of her small book-keeping, and,

still dallying with the pen, a passing thought, less idle than

anxious, had traced the name. On that slight foundation Adelaide had

built a happy guess, though Simon knew it not,--and though he

accepted her suggestion, it amazed him.

Let us lift the curtain now, on the last, an extraordinary, _tableau_.

In the Wimple nest a strange company are met at the bidding of

Madeline Splurge, who couches a flashing lance for the life and the

honor of her benefactress.

Proudly, condescendingly, haughtily superior to the least sparing of

herself,--as one who stooped at the bidding of Duty,--she had told

her story, from first to last, omitting nothing; with head erect,

pale lips, and flashing eyes,--with a passing flush, perhaps, at the

more shameful passages, but with no faltering, no dodging, no

self-excusing, no beseeching,--scornfully when she spoke of home, and

the beginning of the end,--redly, hatefully, wickedly dangerous,

when Philip Withers came on the scene,--with tremulous lips and the

low tones of Gratitude's most moving eloquence for the story of

Miss Wimple and her sublimely simple sacrifice,--modestly and with

grateful deference, at the mention of Mr. Osgood and his rare

chivalry.

Then, taking from her bosom a small morocco pocket-book, and from

the pocket-book a card, she said,--

"And now to toss that _thing_ to the geese of Hendrik! Read that,

slowly, distinctly, that all may hear!"--and she placed the card in

Simon's hand, who ran his eye over it for a moment, then stood up,

and read:--

"MADELINE,--For God's sake be merciful, be reasonable! I will comply

with your hardest terms,--I will share all I possess with you,

[Adelaide smiled,]--I will even marry you after a time; but do not,

I implore you, in your recklessness, involve me in your unnecessary

ruin; do not fling me under the playful feet of that ingenious shrew

Adelaide. Meet me at the bridge tonight, in memory of our dear old

love."

"P.W."

When Simon had read the card, he let it fall on the floor, with a

gesture of disgust, and, without looking at Withers, who slunk,

pitifully wilted, into a corner, returned to his place on a low stool,

where he resumed his former attitude, holding the hand of Sally

Wimple, who now, with closed eyes, reclined on Madeline's bosom,

--that bosom that was, for her weariness, the type of the complete

rest that crowns and blesses a brave struggle,--of that

all-for-the-best-ness that comes of the heart's clearings-up. Only

Adelaide broke the silence; with her gaze fixed full on Withers, and

a triumphant sneer crowning her happy lips, she uttered one word by

way of chorus,--"Joseph!"

At that word a faint flush flitted athwart the cheeks of Madeline,

and she moved as if uneasy; but she did not speak again, nor turn

her eyes to any face but Miss Wimple's.

Josephine Splurge was there; but, perceiving no opening that she

could fill to advantage with a delightful quotation, and having no

pickle at hand whereto she might give all her mind, she supported a

graceful silence with back hair and an attitude.

Mrs. Splurge was there,--and that was all. Not clearly understanding what

she was called upon to say or do under the circumstances, nor prepared

to take the responsibility of saying or doing anything without being

called upon, she said and did nothing at all. Mrs. Splurge, who had had

some experience in that wise, had never been of so little consequence

before.

Near the head of the bed, his looks directed toward Miss Wimple with

an expression of benevolent solicitude, sat a gentleman of middle age,

rather handsome, his hair inclined to gray, his attire fine, but

studiously simple.

"Mrs. Morris," he said, "may I be permitted to speak a word here?"

"Surely, Mr. Osgood."

"Then, ladies and gentlemen, since doubtless we understand each

other by this time, I think it advisable that we retire, and leave

Miss Wimple to much-needed repose."

All arose and passed out, Mrs. Splurge leading the way, Mr. Osgood

holding the door. Last of all, and with a pitiful shyness, as if

dodging some fresh discomfiture and exposure, came Philip Withers.

"The door is at your service, Sir," said Mr. Osgood, as he passed;

"to be sure, the window were more appropriate for your passage; but

to attach importance to your existence by suddenly endangering it is

an honor I am not prepared to pay you."

Madeline remained with Miss Wimple.

Now Miss Wimple is Simon Blount's wife, and they live with his mother.

The debt of the Athenæum is paid.

Adelaide abides at the Splurge house,--a reserved, bitter,

forbidding woman.

Mrs. Splurge still lives; but that is of as little consequence as

ever.

I assert it for an astonishing fact,--Philip Withers married

Josephine! Truly, the ways of Providence are as just as they are

inscrutable. The meanness of Withers, mated to the selfish, helpless,

peevish stupidity of Josephine, made an ingenious retribution.

When I was at the opera, a few nights since, I saw in a private box

a benevolent-looking gentleman of middle age, evidently well-born

and accustomed to wealth. He was accompanied by a lady in elegant

mourning,--a lady of decided beauty and distinguished appearance.

Miss Flora McFlimsey was there:--"That," said she, "is Mrs. Morris,

of Fourteenth Street,--a mysterious governess in the family of

Mr. Osgood; and the gentleman is Mr. Osgood."

NATURE AND THE PHILOSOPHER.

What dost thou here, pale chemist, with thy brow

Knotted with pains of thought, nigh hump-backed o'er

Thy alembics and thy stills? These garden-flowers,

Whose perfumes spice the balmy summer-air,

Teach us as well as thee. Thou dost condense

Healthy aromas into poison-drops,

Narcotic drugs of dangerous strength and power,--

And wines of paradise to thee become

Intoxicating essences of hell.

Cold crystallizer of the warm heaven's gold!

Thou rigorous analyst! thou subtile brain!

Gathering thought's sunshine to a focus heat

That blinds and burns and maddens! What, my friend!

Are we, then, salamanders? Do we live

A charmèd life? Do gases feed like air?

Pray you, pack up your crucibles and go!

Your statements are too awfully abstract;

Your logic strikes too near our warm tap-roots:

We shall breathe freer in our natural air

Of common sense. What are your gallipots

And Latin labels to this fresh bouquet?--

Friend, 'tis a pure June morning. Ask the bees,

The butterflies, the birds, the little girls.

We are after flowers. You are after--what?

Aconite, hellebore, pulsatilla, rheum.

Take them and go! and take your burning lens!

We dare not bask in the sun's genial beams

Drawn to that spear-like point. Truth comes and goes,

Life-giving in diffusion. Nature flows, extends,

And veils us with herself,--herself God's veil.

But you persist in opening your bladders,

And the three gases that compose the air

You bid us take a breath of, one by one.

For Mother Nature you should have respect:

She does not like these teasings and these jokes.

Philosopher you seem; you'd state all fair;

You would go deep and broad. You're right; but then

Forget not there's an outer to your inner,--

A whole that binds your parts,--a truth for man

As well as chemist,--and your lecture-room,

With magic vials and quaint essences

And odors strange, may teach your students less

Than this June morning, with the sun and flowers.

THOMAS JEFFERSON.[1]

The biography before us is so voluminous that it can hardly maintain

the popularity to which its subject entitles it. He must be a bold

man, and to some degree forgetful of the brevity of life, who, for

any ordinary purpose of information or amusement, undertakes to read

these huge octavos. True, the theme is somewhat extended;

Jefferson's life was a protracted and busy one; he took a leading

part in complicated transactions, and promulgated doctrines which

cannot be summarily discussed. But the author's prolixity has not

grown out of the extent of his theme alone. He is both diffuse and

digressive. He introduces much irrelevant matter, and tells

everything in a round-about-way. By a judicious exercise of the arts

of elimination and compression, we think that all which illustrates

the subject might have been comprised in one volume much smaller

than the smallest of these.

But Mr. Randall's most serious fault arises from his desire to be

thought a fine writer. Without making long extracts, it is

impossible to give any conception of the absurdities into which this

childish ambition has led him. The tropes and metaphors, the tawdry

tinsel, the common tricks of feeble rhetoricians are reproduced here

as if they were the highest results of rhetorical art. The display is

often amusing. Thus, in describing Mrs. John Adams, Mr. Randall says:

"Her lofty lineaments carried a trace of the Puritan severity. They

were those of the helmed Minerva, and not of the cestus-girdled Venus."

We do not mention this in order to justify a strain of captious

criticism, but to ask Mr. Randall, in all seriousness, how it was

possible for him to associate a staid and sensible New England

matron with Venus and Minerva? What would he say of a writer who

should gravely tell us that Washington's features were those of the

cloud-compelling Jupiter, not of Mars, slayer of men,--and that

Franklin's countenance resembled that of the wily Ulysses, not that

of the far-ruling Agamemnon? We might fill this paper with passages

like the one we have quoted. What is the use of this kind of writing?

It does not convey any meaning; there is no beauty in it; it

increases the size and price of books; it corrupts the taste of the

young, is offensive to persons of good sense, and mortifying to

those who take pride in the literary reputation of their country. It

is the bane of our literature. Many of our prose-writers constantly

put language upon paper the use of which in ordinary life would be

received by a court as evidence of insanity. If they do so for

display, they take the readiest course to defeat their purpose. There

is nothing so fascinating as simplicity and earnestness. A writer

who has an object, and goes right on to accomplish it, will compel

the attention of his readers. But it seems, that in art, as well as

in morals and politics, the plainest truths are the last to be

understood.

We make these strictures with reluctance. This biography, in many

respects, is valuable, and Mr. Randall might easily have made it

interesting. He had a subject worthy of any pen, and an abundance of

new material. He does not lack skill. His unstudied passages, though

never elegant, are well enough. He is industrious. Though we must

dissent from some of his conclusions, he is entitled to the praise

of being accurate, and is free from prejudice,--except that amiable

prejudice which has been well called the _lues Boswelliana_.[1]

His delineations of famous personages, though marked by the faults of

which we have spoken, show quite unusual perception of character. He

has a thorough appreciation of Jefferson's noblest characteristics,

and an honorable sympathy with the philosophy of which Jefferson was

a teacher.

[Footnote 1: _The Life of Thomas Jefferson_. By HENRY S. RANDALL, LL.

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

With resources and qualifications like these, he might have produced

a biography which the country would have received with gratitude,

and which would have conferred an enviable reputation upon him; as

it is, through his neglect of a few wholesome rules which he must

have learned when a school-boy, the years of labor he has spent over

this book will go for nothing, and the hopes he has built upon it

will be disappointed.

There is much conflict of opinion as to the character of Jefferson,

and the value of his services. We doubt whether there is another

person in our history, as to whom there still exists so strong a

feeling of dislike on the one hand, and of admiration on the other.

By some he is regarded as a theorist and a demagogue, who, for

selfish purposes, opposed the purest patriots, and disseminated

doctrines which will pervert our institutions and destroy our social

fabric; by others he is revered as the philosopher who first

asserted the rights of man, and the statesman who first defined the

functions of our government and demonstrated the principles upon

which it should he administered. His detractors and admirers both

bear witness to the extent and permanency of his influence. He saw

all the phases of our national life. He assisted in the struggle for

liberty, and in the contest which gave form to that liberty,--while

it was his happy fortune to inaugurate the system by which, with

occasional deviations, the republic, for more than fifty years, has

been governed. He heard the discussion of the Stamp Act, and the

debate on the admission of Missouri. He shared in the dispute which

the establishment of the Constitution produced, and lived to witness

the outbreak of the quarrel which now threatens the existence of the

Constitution. His influence was felt through the whole of this long

period. Nor was it confined to affairs alone. He took part in all

the intellectual action of his countrymen. He was an adept in science,

an ingenious mechanic, and a contributor to literature. He stimulated

adventure, and was the judicious patron of architecture and the fine

arts. More than any man of his day, to the labors of a practical

statesman he brought a mind disciplined by a liberal philosophy; and

he adorned the most exalted stations with the graceful fame of

learning and polite accomplishments. It is impossible for us to

touch every point of his great career. It is difficult to dwell upon

a single point without being seduced into a discussion too extended

for these pages. We may, however, be permitted, in a rapid manner,

to present Mr. Jefferson in some of those relations which seem to us

to throw the strongest light upon his character and teachings.

Peter Jefferson, the father of Thomas, was a notable man. His

parents were poor, and in early life he went into the backwoods of

Virginia as a surveyor. He is described as a person of great stature

and strength. His mind was equally robust. He was a natural

mathematician, and was remarkable for hardihood and perseverance.

His temper was equable, but his passions were strong and his anger

terrible. In youth his education had been neglected; but, by the

wise employment of his leisure, he obtained considerable reputation

for learning throughout the rude region where he lived. This huge

man, with gigantic strength and fierce passions, is said to have

been endowed with tender sympathies, and to have had a scholar's love

for Shakspeare and Addison.

Social distinctions were strictly observed at that day, but Peter

Jefferson broke through them and married a daughter of the Randolph

family.

Thomas, the third child and oldest son of this marriage, was born at

Shadwell, his father's estate, on the 2d of April, 1743. The

characteristics of the sire descended to the son, the physical

attributes in milder, and the intellectual in more active forms.

Like many men of his class, Peter Jefferson had perhaps an undue

sense of the obstacles he had encountered through lack of education,

and was careful to provide for that of his children. As soon as

possible, Thomas was sent to school, and when nine years old, under

the tuition of a Scottish clergyman, he was introduced to the study

of Latin, Greek, and French. His father died when he was fourteen

years old, leaving a considerable estate, and particular directions

that Thomas should receive a thorough classical training. The

executor had some doubt as to whether it would be prudent to send

the lad to college in obedience to the paternal request; whereupon

Thomas addressed him in a little argument, which is a curious

exhibition of the proclivities of his mind. In the mathematical

manner which afterwards became common with him, he urged that at

home he would lose one fourth of his time on account of the company

which was attracted by his presence, and that entertaining so many

guests would be a heavier charge upon the estate than the expense of

his residence at Williamsburg.

The young disputant prevailed, and, in 1760, he was sent to William

and Mary College. He remained there two years. His acquirements,

during this time, though probably not so great as Mr. Randall would

have us believe, must have been large. He had equal aptitude for the

classics and mathematics. In the latter his proficiency was

remarkable, and he always retained his taste for it. Though never a

critical classical scholar, he could read Latin with ease. He was

conversant with French, and had some familiarity with Greek. In

later life he studied Anglo-Saxon and Italian. But Jefferson

terminated his collegiate course with a possession far more valuable

than all the learning he could gather in the narrow curriculum of a

colonial college; study had excited in him that eager thirst for

knowledge which is an appetite of the mind almost as unconquerable

as the appetites of the body.

After leaving college, he remained at Williamsburg, and entered the

office of Mr. Wyeth, a leader at the Virginia bar. Williamsburg was

the capital and the centre of the most refined society of the

province. Francis Fauquier was governor. He was an Englishman, of

distinguished family, who had lost a large property in a single

night's play, and had taken the appointment to Virginia to repair

his fortunes. To some of the vices and most of the accomplishments

of a man of the world he added fine talents and many solid

attainments. He was, withal, a skilful musician and a fascinating

conversationist. Mr. Wyeth, and Dr. Small, professor of mathematics

at the college, were in the habit of dining with the governor at

stated times, for the purpose of conversation. Jefferson, though not

yet twenty years old, was admitted to these parties. Fauquier

organized a musical society, and Jefferson, who played upon the

violin, belonged to this likewise. In these associations, the young

student acquired the easy courtesy and conversational art which

afterwards greatly contributed to his success, and distinguished him

even among the gentlemen of Paris.

His life, between twenty and thirty, was judiciously employed. A

closer student could hardly have been found at Edinburgh or

Heidelberg. He pursued his profession persistently, and, in addition,

made incursions into the fields of _belles-lettres_ and political

and physical science. He early conceived a prejudice against

metaphysical speculation, which was never removed. We cannot believe

that his partiality for romance was much greater. He undoubtedly had

that appreciation of the value of this department of letters which

every man of sense has, and included it within the circle of his

reading because it contains much desirable knowledge. The severest

criticism which can be made upon his taste for poetry is conveyed by

the statement, that, when young, he admired Ossian, and, when old,

admired Moore.

His summers were spent at Shadwell. The responsible charge of a

large estate rested upon him, and he introduced into his affairs and

studies the extraordinary system which, through life, he carried

into all matters, great or small. He commenced keeping a garden-book,

which, with interruptions caused by absence, was continued until he

was eighty-one years old. It contains memoranda of vegetable phenomena,

and statements of all kinds of information, in any way affecting the

economy of horticulture. He likewise kept a farm-book. His accounts

were noted, without the loss of a day, through his entire life, and

every item of personal expense was separately stated. We often find

entries like these: "11 d. paid to the barber,"--"4 d. for whetting

penknife,"--and "1s. put in the church-box." On the 4th of July, 1776,

we find:--"pd. Sparhawk, for a thermometer, £3 15s.--pd. for 7 prs.

women's gloves, 27s.--gave, in charity, 1s. 6d." His meteorological

register informs us, that, at 6 o'clock, A.M., of the same

memorable day, the mercury stood 68° above; at noon, at 76°; and at 9,

P.M., at 73-1/2°. Entries were regularly made in this register,

three times a day. Separate books were kept for special accounts,

like the expenses of the Presidential mansion. In addition, he made

minute records of observation in natural history, and a curious

"Statement of the Vegetable Market of Washington, during a Period of

Eight Years, wherein the Earliest and Latest Appearance of each

Article, within the whole Eight Years, is noted." This table mentions

_thirty-seven_ different articles, and was compiled during his

Presidency. He made a collection of the vocabularies of fifty Indian

languages, and two collocations of those passages in the New

Testament which contain the doctrines of Jesus. One of these,

entitled, "The Life and Morals of Jesus of Nazareth," is an octavo

volume, with a complete index. The texts are written out in Greek,

Latin, French, and English, and placed in parallel columns.

Mr. Randall makes a long argument to defend Jefferson from the common

imputation, that a man who was so fond of detail could not have had

much capacity for higher effort. It was hardly worth while to expose

a delusion which is so apparent, especially in the case of Jefferson.

Men are often seen with great aptitude for the accumulation of facts,

and none for the comprehension of principles. Such men, though never

great, are always useful. But the most useless and unfortunate

organization is that quite common one, where a speculative mind is

found which has not sufficient energy to lay hold of details. These

philosophers, as the foolish call them, are the ingenious contrivers

of the impracticable reforms, the crazy enterprises, and the

numberless panaceas for all human ills, which are constantly urged

upon the public, and which, under the name of progress, are the most

serious obstacles to progress. Both faculties are necessary to one

who undertakes high and useful action. Mr. Jefferson was a

philosopher because he was a constant and accurate observer; he was

correct in his generalizations because he was so in matters of detail.

His career at the bar was short. The acquisition of a science like

the law was an easy task for a mind so ingenious and active as his.

He had no talent as an advocate, but was at once successful in the

more retired and not less difficult departments of the profession.

During seven years' practice, his income averaged three thousand

dollars a year;--a large sum then, and no mean reward at the present

day.

When twenty-nine years old, he married Mrs. Martha Skelton, a young

and childless widow, of great beauty. In relation to this affair

a pleasant anecdote is told. Mr. Jefferson had a number of rivals.

Two of these gentlemen met, one evening, in the drawing-room of

Mrs. Skelton's house. While waiting for her to enter, they heard her

singing in an adjoining room, and Jefferson playing an accompaniment

upon the violin. There was something in the burden of the air, and

in the expression with which the performers rendered it, which

conveyed unpleasant suggestions; and the two suitors, after

listening awhile, departed without seeing the lady. The inevitable

account-book mentions the sums paid to the clergyman, fiddlers, and

servants, on the occasion of the marriage.

His wife's fortune, as he informs us, doubled his own, and placed

him in a position of pecuniary independence. He soon abandoned his

profession, and thenceforward his career was a public one. He

entered political life at the time when it first became evident that

a war with England must occur, and threw himself into the extreme

party. He was admirably fitted for success in a legislative body.

His talents were deliberative, rather than executive. He had no power

in debate, but he possessed qualities which we believe are more

uniformly influential in a public assemblage,--tact, industry, a

conciliatory disposition, and systematic habits of thought. He was

always familiar with the details of legislation. The majority of the

members of a legislature can seldom know much about its business.

Those questions which excite popular attention and become party

tests are inquired into; but most matters attract no attention and

are not party tests. Only a few men of great industry and rare

powers are familiar with these. In the British House of Commons, it

is said, there are not more than thirty or forty such members. In

either branch of our Congress the proportion is no larger. It is a

great power to know that which others find it necessary to know; and

if to this information one adds good judgment and a persuasive

intellect, his influence will be almost unbounded. Young as he was,

no one could approach Jefferson without seeing that he had read and

thought much. While most of his comrades in Virginia had been

wasting their youth in horse-racing and cock-fighting, he had been an

enthusiastic student of books and Nature. Upon all subjects likely

to excite inquiry his knowledge was full and precise, and his

opinions those of a sagacious and philosophic mind. His manners were

attractive; he never engaged in dispute; he expressed himself freely

to those who sought his society for information or an intelligent

comparison of opinion; but his lips were closed in the presence of a

disputant. The patience with which he listened to others, and the

modest candor with which he expressed himself, usually disarmed the

contentions; when they did not, he went no farther. If his views

were false, he did not wish them to prevail; if they were true, he

felt certain that sooner or later they would prevail. A temperament

like this might have placed a less firm man under the imputation of

disingenuousness; but such an imputation could not rest upon him. No

one was in doubt as to his opinions. He generally anticipated inquiry,

and selected his ground before others saw that action would be

necessary. There were capable lawyers and men of wide experience in

our Revolutionary legislatures, but there was no one whose influence

was more powerful and felt upon a greater variety of subjects than

that of Jefferson.

He might, however, have possessed all of these characteristics, and

enjoyed the consideration among his fellow-legislators which they

confer, without being well known to the public, if he had not united

to them the ability to write elegant and forcible English. The

circumstances of the time made literary talents unusually valuable.

The daily press has driven the essayist out of the political field.

But for several generations elaborate disquisitions upon politics

had been usual in England; in this regard pamphlets then occupied

the place of our newspapers. Bolingbroke, Swift, Johnson, and Burke,

all the serious and some of the gay writers, acquired repute by this

kind of effort. Neither were the speeches of leading men circulated

then as at present. At the time of the Revolution, an oration never

reached those who did not hear it. This gave a great advantage to

the writer. The pamphlets of Otis and Thomas Paine were read by

multitudes who never heard a word of the eloquence of Henry and Adams.

A high standard of taste had been created, and success in political

dissertation was difficult, but, when obtained, it was of

proportionate value, and the source of wide and permanent influence.

Jefferson found a function requiring much the same talents with that

of the pamphleteer, but possessing some advantages over it. The only

means which the Continental Congress and the colonial legislatures

had of communicating with their constituents and the mother country

was by formal addresses. These documents were arguments upon public

questions, possessing the force which an argument always has when it

is the expression of great numbers of minds. An audience was certain.

At home they were sure to be read, and in England they attracted the

attention of every one connected with affairs. Jefferson's literary

talents were soon discovered. One successful performance in the

Virginia House of Delegates established a reputation which the

Declaration of Independence has made immortal.

In every point of view, Jefferson is entitled to a high place in

American literature. As a mere rhetorician, he has few equals; as a

political writer, not more than two or three. An adherence to

logical forms and the use of mathematical illustrations are his most

noticeable faults. But they are not found in his more elaborate

performances. He has the supreme merit of perfect clearness,

naturalness, and grace of expression. Though never eloquent, he

sometimes rises to an earnest and dignified declamation. Not

infrequently he has achieved the highest success, and clothed

valuable thought in language so appropriate, that the phrases have

passed into the national vocabulary and become popular catchwords.

His first inaugural address contains more of those expressions which

are daily heard in our political discussions than any other American

composition. There has been some speculation as to how it was

possible for a gentleman, with no other discipline than that afforded

by a colonial establishment, to obtain a mastery over so difficult

an art. There is little reason for surprise. Jefferson's training

had been good; he was familiar with the best models; above all,

Nature had given him the qualities which, with the requisite

knowledge, insure literary success,--good sense, good taste, and an

ear sensitive to the melody of prose.

We do not propose to follow Jefferson throughout his political career.

As to his Revolutionary services there is little difference of

opinion. His course during the administrations of Washington and

Adams has given occasion to most of the criticism which he has

encountered. We will direct our attention chiefly to that period of

his life. He appeared then as the leader of a party which was intent

upon carrying certain principles into operation, and for a

comprehension of his conduct an examination of those principles is

necessary.

Mr. Randall would have done a good service, if he had made a brief

analysis of Jefferson's political system. It affords a fine theme

and is much needed, because Jefferson himself left no systematic

exposition of his doctrines. They must be sought for through a large

number of state papers and a voluminous correspondence. Like all

public men, he has been misrepresented both by opponents and

adherents. There is a vague impression abroad that he enunciated

certain liberal theories, that he was an ardent philanthropist, and

that his opinions were those which have prevailed among the modern

French philosophers; but the boundaries of his system do not seem to

be well defined in the public mind. His theory of politics may, with

sufficient accuracy, be said to be embraced in the following

propositions:--First. All men are politically equal. Second. A

representative government upon the basis of universal suffrage is

the direct result of that equality, and the surest means of

preserving it. Third. The sphere of government is limited, and its

action must be confined to that sphere.

The first proposition is contained in the statement which occurs in

the Declaration of Independence, "that all men are created equal."

This remark has been severely criticized, and we think there has

been much confusion as to its meaning. Jefferson could not have

intended to say that all men are equal in the sense of being alike.

Such an assertion would be absurd. Undoubtedly he recognized, as

every one must, the infinite diversity and disparity of intellectual

and physical qualities. He was speaking of man in his social relations,

and in the same sentence he qualified the general assertion by

particularizing the respects as to which the quality exists,--saying,

that men "are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights;

that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness."

The equality of which he spoke does not consist in equal endowments,

but in equal rights,--in the right of each man to the enjoyment of his

individual gifts, whatever they may be.

The proposition, that a representative government upon the basis of

universal suffrage is the direct result of man's equality and the

surest means of preserving it, opens a wide field for discussion,

into which we will not enter. It is not peculiar to Jefferson. We

must, however, remark, that he did not hold the extreme opinions

upon this subject which have been attributed to him. He thought that

popular institutions could be established, and the elective

franchise safely made universal, only in an intelligent and virtuous

community. In France he advised La Fayette and Barnave to be

contented with a constitutional monarchy. When the South American

States rebelled, and Clay and many other statesmen were enraptured

with the prospect of a Continent of Republics, Jefferson declared

that they were not prepared for republican governments, and could not

maintain them. At the same time, he was very far from thinking, as

some of our modern writers do, that men can become fit for freedom

by remaining slaves.

The third proposition, that the sphere of government is limited and

its action should be confined to that sphere, is the one to the

illustration of which Mr. Jefferson specially devoted himself. Upon

his services in this respect rest his claims to consideration as a

political philosopher.

It has been the custom to think that the government was the only

source of honor; it is still looked upon as the source of the

highest honor. By barbarians the monarch is deified. In many

civilized countries of our own time kings are said to rule by

special favor of the Deity; no one stands erect, no loud word is

spoken in their presence; and, indeed, everywhere they are

approached with a reverence so great that more could hardly be shown

to God himself. This homage is not given on account of eminent

personal attributes. These persons are well understood to be often

mean in mind and meaner in morals. The same feeling is shown towards

other high officials. To be in the public service is eagerly coveted;

such employment attracts the finest minds, and is most munificently

rewarded. It is so in this country. We are accustomed to confer upon

official characters honors which we would refuse to a Shakspeare or

a Newton. Yet it is well known, that, while the comprehension and

elucidation of the great laws which govern society are a labor which

will task the strength of the strongest, in ordinary times affairs

may be, and generally are, quite acceptably administered by men of

no marked intellectual superiority. It is not necessary to say that

the sentiment must be wrong which leads us to such strange errors,

--which obliterates the broadest distinctions, and persuades us to

give to feebleness and vice rewards which should be given to genius

and virtue alone.

For the wisest purposes, the Creator has planted within us an

instinctive disposition to revere the illustrious of our kind. To

win that admiration is the most powerful incentive to action,--it is

the ardent desire of passionate natures. The sweet incense of

popular applause is more delicious than wine to the senses of man.

Deservedly obtained, it heals every wound, and soothes all pain; nay,

the mere hope of it will steel him against every danger, and sustain

him amidst disease, penury, neglect, and oppression. To bestow this

reverence is a pleasure hardly less exquisite. While we commune with

the intellects and contemplate the virtues of the great, some portion

of their exceeding light descends upon us, their aspiring spirits

enter our breasts and raise us to higher levels. But to yield our

homage to those who do not deserve it is to pervert a pure and noble

instinct. We cannot worship the degraded, except by sinking to lower

depths of degradation.

When one considers that the admitted functions of government have

been almost without limit, this mistaken sentiment is not to be

wondered at. Why should not they who are able to provide for every

want of the body or soul be revered as Superior beings? Governments

have established creeds, and set bounds to science; they have been

the censors of literature, and held men in slavery; they have told

the citizen how many meals to eat, how many prayers to say, how to

wear his beard, and in what manner to educate his children; there is

no action so trivial, no concern so important, nor any sentiment so

secret, that the governing power has not interfered with and sought

to control it. This system has invariably failed; constantly coming

in contact with each man's sense of individuality, it has been the

prolific source of revolutions, despotisms, the ruin of states, the

extirpation of races,--and in its mildest forms, where life has been

preserved, everything which makes life desirable has been destroyed.

In most countries this system still exists to a great degree, nor is

there any country whence it is entirely eradicated.

Seeing the constant and uniform occurrence of these evils, Mr.

Jefferson was led to believe that they were not caused by a

remediable imperfection in the existing system, but by radical

defects. He concluded that they were produced by an attempt on the

part of government to do what it could not,--that the power of

government was limited by absolute and inherent laws, like those

which limit the strength of man,--and that there were certain

functions belonging to government, in going beyond which it not only

failed of its purpose, but did positive harm. In this view, the

definition of these functions becomes a task of great difficulty and

involves the whole science of politics. We cannot follow his entire

line of argument, and without detail there is danger that our

statement will not be sufficiently qualified. His general theory,

however, is simple, and is drawn from his first proposition as to

the equal rights of man. He held that the object of society is the

preservation of these great rights. Since experience teaches us, that,

however incompetent we may be to decide upon the interests of others,

we are able to regulate our own, this social purpose will be best

accomplished by leaving to each one all the liberty consistent with

the general safety. Security, being the only common object, should

be the sole duty of the common agent. The government being confined

to the performance of this negative duty, it must not exercise its

power except when necessary. The inquiry, Is it necessary? not, Is

it advantageous? is the test to be applied to every measure. The

rigid application of this rule excludes the state from any

interference with commerce and industry,--from all matters of

religion and opinion,--and limits its financial operations to

providing in the most direct manner for its own support. But it is

to be noticed, that it is consistent with this scheme, and indeed

the fruit of it, that, in the sphere which it does occupy, the

government should be absolute.

Mr. Jefferson formed the governmental machinery in strict accordance

with this principle. As many measures are necessary for one portion

of a community and not for another, he insisted that local affairs

should be placed in the hands of local authorities. The integrity of

his system depends not only upon the limitation of the governing

power, in a general sense, but as well upon the division and

dispersion of it.

The principal exception which Jefferson made was in respect of

education. But, according to his view, this can hardly be regarded

as an exception. The general safety depends so directly upon that

recognition of mutual rights which is not to be found except among

intelligent men, that he advised the establishment, not only of

common schools, but likewise of colleges and schools of Art.

To those who objected, that this system would limit the action and

decrease the splendor of a nation, Jefferson replied, that its

effects were quite the reverse. In proportion as a government

assumes the duties which ought to be performed by the citizen, it

acts as a check upon individual and national development. Under a

despotism, culture must be confined to a few, nor can there be much

variety of effort and production. Under a government which is

confined to its proper field, the talents of each man may be freely

used, and he will not be forced into relations for which he is

unsuited. The absurd prejudice, that public employment is the most

honorable, will pass away. The man of letters and the man of science,

the poet, the artist, and the inventor, the financier, the navigator,

the merchant, every one who performs beneficial service and displays

great qualities, will be rewarded. Every one who is conscious that

he possesses such qualities will be stimulated to strive for that

reward. This universal action will give birth to all the things which

adorn a state. Social disturbances will excite investigation, and

evils which governments have never been able to reach may be removed.

Competition will make the accumulation of large estates difficult,

property will be equalized, but no motive to effort destroyed.

Science will be encouraged. Every day will add to the number of

those contrivances which facilitate labor, increase production,

lessen distance, and raise man from the degradation of an existence

wholly occupied with providing for his physical wants. Under these

elastic laws, religion, philanthropy, art, learning, the social

amenities, the domestic influences, all humanizing agents, will have

opportunity and work harmoniously for the advancement of the race.

It will be seen that Mr. Jefferson's political system was that which,

in the language of the modern schools, is called individual theory.

It has been said, that it is based upon too favorable an estimate of

human character, and that he obtained it from the French philosophers.

It seems to us that the reproach of Utopian opinions may more justly

be thrown upon his opponents. The latter do not escape the evil from

which they fly. They proceed upon the belief that man is unfit for

self-government; but since every government is one of men, if he

cannot control himself, how shall he rule over others? Whatever may

be said about the superiority of men of genius, it is certain that

there never has existed an intellect capable of providing for all the

minute and varying necessities of each individual among many millions.

The history of legislation shows that the best-disciplined minds

find it difficult to devise a single statute affecting a single

interest which will be precise in its terms and equal in its

operation. These railers at the majority of their kind seem to expect

in the minority a greater than human perfection. Mr. Jefferson

proceeded upon a mere moderate estimate of the abilities, and a more

just appreciation of the weakness of men. It is _because_ we are

easily led astray and blinded by passion, that he thought us unfit

to govern others, and that we should limit our efforts to

self-government. His confidence in man was no greater than that

which is the foundation of Christianity. The whole Christian scheme

is one of the broadest democracy. The most important truths are

there submitted to the general judgment and conscience of mankind,

with no other recommendation than their value and the force of the

evidence by which they are attested. Can it be said that we are not

fit to decide upon a tax, yet are fit to decide our fate for all the

mysterious future? If Jefferson was an enthusiast, every clergyman

who calls his bearers to repentance must be mad. He did have confidence

in his fellows,--he did believe that we are not helpless slaves of sin,

that the evils which afflict us are not inevitable,--and that we have

power to lead lives of justice and virtue. Who will accuse him because

of this confidence?

The charge of French principles originated in a political contest.

It was true in the narrow application which it had at first, but

false in that which was afterwards given to it. There is a marked

distinction between him and the politicians of France. Rousseau,

perhaps the ablest, certainly the most popular, of those who

preceded the Revolution, is an example. The _Contrat Social_

constantly carries the idea, that the government is the seat of all

power and the source of all national action. No suggestion is made,

that there are individual functions with which the state cannot

interfere to advantage. The same opinions prevailed among the

Encyclopedists and Economists, they were announced by the Gironde

and the Mountain, and practically carried out by Robespierre and

Barras. The Girondists made cautious approaches towards federalism,

but one looks in vain through the speeches of Vergniaud for an

intimation of individualism. The modern _doctrinaires_ have retained

the same principles. Legitimists, Imperialists, Republicans,

Socialists, and Communists are all in favor of a centralized and

unlimited government. The last two classes wish to exercise the

governing power upon the minutest details of life,--to establish

public baths, shops, theatres, dwellings, to control the amusements

and direct the occupations of the citizen, and to divide his social

status by law. Comte himself, whose general system might be expected

to lead him to a different conclusion, outdoes them all, and proposes

to prescribe creeds, establish fasts, feasts, and forms of worship,

and even to name those who shall receive divine honors. There is no

trace here of that scrupulous regard for personal independence and

that invincible distrust of governmental action which characterized

Jefferson. It is true, he and the Gallic writers agreed upon certain

fundamental propositions; but they were peculiar neither to him nor

them. Some of the same principles were announced by Locke and

Beccaria, by Hobbes, who maintained the omnipotence of the state,

and by Grotius, who insisted upon the divine right of kings. To

agree with another upon certain matters does not make one his

disciple. No one mistakes the doctrines of Paul for those of Mohammed,

because both taught the immortality of the soul. To confound

Jefferson with Rousseau or Condorcet is about as reasonable as to

confound Luther with Loyola, or Ricardo with Jeremy Bentham.

Although we deny that Jefferson was indebted to France for his

political system, it cannot be claimed that he was the author of it.

He himself used to assert, that the scheme of a limited and

decentralized government was produced by the events which caused the

settlement of the country and the subsequent union of the colonies.

The emigration to America was stimulated by the great Protestant and

Catholic dispute which occupied Europe nearly two centuries, and

during which time the original thirteen colonies were founded. The

sentiment of religious freedom was the active principle of all the

alliances, wars, intrigues, and adventures of that stormy period.

The rights of conscience were maintained, in defiance of the rack and

the stake. They were stubbornly asserted in regard to the smallest

matters. Lines of separation, so fine as hardly to be perceptible,

were defended to the last. The Catholic was not more irreconcilably

opposed to the Protestant, than the Lutheran to the Quaker, or the

Puritan to the Baptist. Men who differed merely about the meaning of

a single passage of Scripture thought each other unfit to sit at the

same table. The immigrants were exiles. By the conditions under

which they acted, as being from the defeated party, and as being

among those whom defeat did not subdue, they must have had the

enthusiasm of their time in its most earnest form. Each man came

here intent upon his right to worship God in his own way. _That_ he

could never forget. It had been impressed upon him by everything which

can affect the understanding or touch the heart of man,--by the memory

of success and defeat,--by his own sufferings and the martyrdom of

his brethren,--by Bunyan's fable and by Milton's song.

But they did not lack bigotry. They were as ready to persecute those

who differed with them here as they had been at home. The last and

greatest social truth, that the surest way of protecting our own

liberties is by respecting those of others, was forced upon the

colonists. So general had been the stimulants to emigration, that

every European sect and party was represented in America. Hither

came Calvinists and Lutherans, Cavaliers and Roundheads, Conformists

and Non-Conformists, the precise Quaker and the elegant Huguenot,

those who fled from the tyranny of Louis and those who fled from the

tyranny of Charles, worshippers of the Virgin and men who believed

that to kneel before a crucifix was as idolatrous as to kneel before

the seven-headed idols of Hindostan. These sects and parties were so

equally balanced that toleration became a necessity. Seeing that

they could not oppress, men were led to think oppression wrong, and

toleration was exalted to a virtue. The theocratic spirit which

prevailed at first passed away, and the great principle was

established that governments have nothing to do with religion. It

does not require much penetration to discover that a government

which has unlimited power over the person and property of the

citizen will not long respect the scruples of his conscience.

Religious liberty gave birth to political freedom. The separation of

the settlements from each other, even in the same establishment, made

local provisions necessary for defence, and for the transaction of

local business, and led to the division of the government.

When united action was necessary, the colonies did not attempt to

reconcile their differences; they made a union for those purposes

which were common to all. The general principles which were asserted

during the Revolution were logical necessities of that event. It was

a rebellion against an unjust exercise of power. Why unjust? For no

other reason than because the Americans had an equal right with

Englishmen to govern themselves. But that right must be one which

was common to all men. The rebels knew this. They did not follow

Burke through his labored argument to prove that the measures of the

British ministry were inexpedient. They could not defend their

conduct before the world upon the narrow ground of a violation of the

relations between a dependency and its mother country. Those

relations were not understood, and such a defence would not have

been listened to. They appealed at once to the laws of God, and for

their justification addressed those universal human instincts which

give us our ideas of national and individual freedom. The

declaration that men are created equal excited no surprise _then_.

They believed it without a thought that it had entered the mind of a

fantastic recluse in the retirement of _l'Hermitage_, and, in

obedience to that belief, they severed the ties of tradition and

kindred, exposed their homes and the lives of those whose lives were

dearer to them than their own to the rage of civil war, and placed

all they hoped for and everything they loved upon the perilous

hazard of the sword.

At such a time Jefferson was led to the pursuit of politics. He was

not in the situation of one who, in disgust at the misery which

surrounds him, retires to his study, and, from the impulses of a

kind heart, the dreams of poets, and the speculations of philosophers,

fashions a society in which there is neither envy, anger, ambition,

nor avarice, but where, amid Arcadian joys, all men live in peace

and happiness. He was compelled to think because he had need to act,

--to make real laws for real societies. To do this, he did not

meditate upon human frailty and perfectibility; he did not attempt

to frame institutions carefully graduated to suit the dissimilar

dispositions, faculties, and desires of men. In the spirit with

which he had observed the phenomena of Nature in order to discover

the laws which produced them, he inspected the social phenomena of

his country to learn the laws by which it might be governed. He

studied the processes by which a few hamlets, hastily built upon a

savage shore, had grown into powerful communities,--by which the

heirs to centuries of bitter recollections had been made to forget

the jealousies of race, the enmities of party, the bad hatred of sect,

and united into one brotherhood for the accomplishment of a common

and noble purpose. He took man as he found him, and believed he could

govern himself because he had done so. He endeavored to give

symmetry to the system which was already established. It is not

strange that in this way he arrived at rules of policy, and assisted

to put in operation a government, more perfectly adapted to our wants,

more nicely adjusted to our strength and our weakness, giving freer

opportunity to individual effort, and more firmly establishing

national prosperity, better able to resist sedition or foreign

assault, than any which painful toil has created, or the imaginations

of the benevolent conceived, from the days of Plato to those of

Fourier.

In our next number we shall allude to certain questions, raised by

Mr. Randall's book, connected with the early politics of the country;

and we shall likewise undertake the more pleasing task of describing

the domestic life and the character of Jefferson.

* * * * *

A PRISONER OF WAR.

Rügen is a small island, and its chief town is named Rügen also.

They are both part of Prussia, as they were in 1807, when Prussia

and France were at war. At that time Herr Grosshet was burgomaster,

and a very important burgomaster, it should be understood,--taking

in proof thereof Herr Grosshet's own opinion on the subject.

According to the same high authority the burgomaster was also

wondrously sharp; and the consequence of the burgomaster's sharpness

was, that an amount of smuggling went on in the town which was

simply audacious. None knew better than the burgomaster that the

smuggling was audacious; scarcely a shopkeeper he knew, but laughed

to his nose; but his dignity was so great, and he had made the

central authority believe so strongly in him, that he could not lay

a complaint; and the consequence of _that_ was, that, though the

townspeople laughed at their mayor, they would not have parted with

him on any account. Not a soul in the town but knew of the smuggling,

--not a soul who, publicly, was in the least aware of that illegality.

Bertha, as she was commonly called, did not positively belong to the

town, but she had lived in it for sixteen years,--at the beginning

of which time a very great commotion was created by her discovery,

at the age of three, sitting staring on the sea-beach.

She was adopted by the town generally; for there were kind hearts in

it,--as most towns have, for that matter; but she was specially

adopted by Frau Klass, who took her home and straightway reared her,

under the name of Bertha,--for the reason that she had once had a

daughter with that name. The new Bertha in time met with a proposal

from a flaxen-haired young sailor named Daniel, who left Rügen the

next day with a considerably lightened heart. When the foundling had

reached nineteen, three things had happened:--Dan had been away three

years, and the town had given him up forever; Bertha's mother was

no more; and Bertha rather found it her duty to submit to be married

to the most odious of his sex, Jodoque by name,--a man who was detested

by no one more heartily than by Bertha herself.

I say Bertha found it her duty to be married, and thus:--Frau Klass

called Jodoque her nephew, and tried to justify a testament in

Bertha's favor by suggesting to her the compensation to her nephew

of marrying him. Thus Frau Klass tried to follow both her inclination

and her duty, and died serenely at a great age,--assuring Bertha

with her last breath that Daniel must be dead, and that Jodoque was

an admirable youth, when known, and not at all poor.

So Bertha came into possession of a little farm and a little house.

_She_ tried to reconcile duty with inclination by suggesting to

Jodoque the propriety of waiting; and he _had_ waited, till he began

to question the probability of his ever entering upon the tenancy of

his late aunt's farm.

But Bertha at last yielded a consent; and the entire town, ever

bearing in mind its universal parentage of Bertha, determined to go

to great lengths of rejoicing on the wedding-day; and the burgomaster,

a fool and a good man, was certainly not indifferent.

I have said France and Prussia were at war at this time; and, indeed,

there were a score of young French prisoners at the fort,--or rather,

nineteen, for one got away the very day before that mentioned as

Bertha's wedding-day. Two hours after his escape he was kissing the

hand of Bertha herself, who had promised him her protection, and

hidden him in Frau Klass's own dark room.

Bertha had served the young Frenchman--who shall be called Max--with

his breakfast, and was sitting in her porch, wondering about a good

many things, when Herr Jodoque arrived. She was thinking how she

should get the prisoner away,--what would be said of her, if found

out,--how decidedly odious Jodoque was,--how handsome the Frenchman

was,--and how she thought he was better-looking even than Daniel,

the sailor who had been away three years.

So Herr Jodoque came up to the door of the little cottage, bringing

with him a basket. Jodoque believed in the burgomaster as a grand man,

and though nobody knew better than Jodoque that he was not very

clever, he rather tried in manner to imitate the important mayor.

It is, and was, the custom in Rügen for the bridegroom to make a

present, in a fancy basket, to the bride; and that the town might

not talk, Jodoque brought _his_ bride a basket, though it was not

particularly large, nor was it particularly heavy.

Here is an inventory of its contents, which, with itself, Jodoque

laid down with considerable effect:--_Imprimis_,--one piece of cloth,

on the use of which Jodoque gave an essay. _Item_,--three cards of

knitting-wool, for mittens. _Item_ and _finis_,--one white rabbit,

the skin of which, Jodoque suggested, would make him a cap.

"Good!" said Bertha;--"Jodoque," she added.

"My angel!"

"You know Madame Kurrig's?"

"At the very other end of the town?"

"Go there!"

"Go there, angel?--why?"

"The silver teapot"--

"_My_ sil--my aunt's silver teapot?"

"Just so,--Madame Kurrig"--

"Has got it?--I go!--My aunt's silver teapot!"

He ran down the little road towards the silver teapot,--for, indeed,

Madame Kurrig did not bear a superior character,--but he had not

proceeded far when he came upon the burgomaster, who was in great

tribulation. Only nineteen prisoners were at the fort, and the

governor had sent down a rather imperative message to the mayor,

who, replying that his loyal town could not conceal a fugitive,

met with such an answer as he had never received before in all his

life. It is a deplorable fact that he and the town were recommended

to go to a place, a visit to which the burgomaster at least hoped he

should not be compelled to make.

The burgomaster was in the habit of asking people's opinions and

never listening to their answers, and he now asked Jodoque what he

was to do. Jodoque suggesting that the mayor could not want advice,

the mayor admitted there was something in that,--but still a word

was a word. Things, in fact, were in a pretty state, for the

burgomaster, now he had to do with the escape of a French prisoner.

And this was the case. The French were off the town, and at that

time the French had the luck to be generally sure in the matter of

victory. Now if the French took the town, and learned that the

burgomaster had taken a Frenchman, (for the burgomaster felt sure he

could recover the runaway, if he chose,) the burgomaster would

perform that _pas seul_ upon the ambient air which is far from a

pleasant feat; while if the French did _not_ take the town, and it

was brought home to him that he had neglected the duties of his

office, he would lose the position of burgomaster and be a degraded

man.

Jodoque sadly wanted to reach Madame Kurrig's, but the burgomaster

sadly wanted help,--though he would not confess it openly;--so he

hooked himself on to Jodoque and uttered this sentence,--"And this

detested smuggler, too!"--The effect of which was, that Jodoque

became utterly pale and trembled violently. This behavior the

burgomaster attributed to his own proper presence, and asked himself,

--Could he survive degradation? No, better the tight-rope performance!

So he made up his mind to recapture the missing Frenchman.

He, meantime, being a blithe, courageous young midshipman, was gayly

chattering with his protectress. There he was laughing at her

good-naturedly as she trembled for his sake, and chattering broken

German as best he could. Wealth is a good thing, and health a better;

but surely high spirited hope is worth more than the philosopher's

stone.

"No, Mademoiselle,--I could bear the dark room no longer. Better an

hour in the light of your blue eyes than an age in that dark room!"

"Still--nevertheless--it is dangerous to leave the room. The

burgomaster"--

"Cannot see all the way here from the town; besides, if he could,

your presence would dazzle him, and I should be safe."

"So you can trust your secret with me,--a woman?"

"I would trust it with two women,--three,--for with every disclosure

there would be a fear the less that I should be found. You cannot

comprehend that,--now consider."

"La! I cannot."

"How good you are! How would they punish you, if they learned the

truth?"

"Oh, a good heart--I do think I have a good heart--don't weigh this

way and that when there is a good action to be done."

"And done for the sake of a poor stranger."

"Stranger? Nonsense! I meet you,--you are in misfortune; therefore we

are old friends. And an old friend may surely lend a room to her old

friend."

"And your name?"

"They call me Bertha."

"And you are single?"

"If you ask me that question an hour hence, I shall say, 'No.'"

"No!--the only harsh word you have used."

"Why harsh?"

"Well, shut up in a dark room, you have your thoughts to yourself;

and you think, and think, and think again; and you always think of

the same thing; and then--then you wake up, and there's an end to

your dream."

"And how do you know I have not dreamt?--The clothes I got for you

fit you well; you look a German. Ah, you make a grimace!"

"So, you are going to be married."

"In one hour--less five minutes."

"Ah! which way am I to go?"

"Straight back into the house."

"Nonsense!--I should compromise you."

"The house is mine; surely I may do as I like with it."

"And when may I reach the coast?"

"When the night reaches us."

"Good!--and--and good-bye!"

"Well,--yes,--good-bye, I suppose,--and--and promise me one thing?"

"I do promise."

"Don't look at him."

"Him! Whom?"

"My husband--who is coming."

"He is so handsome?"

"Oh, magnificent! Good-bye! good-bye!"

Here he ran back into the dark room, while Bertha, who was a spoilt

child, if the truth may be told, pulled moodily at one of the two

long, black plaits of hair she wore. And it must be set down, sad as

it is, that, seeing Jodoque coming up the road to claim her,

accompanied by a sailorly-looking personage, she went in and shut

the door with a deal of vigor.

The sailorly-looking personage was young, broad-chested, handsome,

and had not been in that part of Prussia for some six years. Jodoque,

prompted to sudden hospitality, had offered the sailorly personage a

seat at his marriage dinner-table, and he, with a great laugh,

accepted the invitation. He strolled leisurely on by the side of the

bridegroom, until he heard the bride's name, when behold the effect

produced! For he started back, and at first showed signs of choking

his informant. However, after an awkward stare, he moved on again.

They soon came up to the door, and Jodoque was wondering why his

bride did not open it wide to him, when a bright, stout little woman,

dressed out in her best, came tripping through the garden-gate,

through which the two had just passed. This little woman's name was

Doome;--nobody knew why she was called Doome, but everybody called

her Doome, all over the little town.

"Good morning, gentlemen! God preserve you, Jodoque! Good morning,

Bertha!"--for here the door opened.

As she opened and appeared at the door, the sailor looked hard at her;

but she did not start as she returned his look. _He_ thought all

women were alike and forgot; but if this broad-chested sailor could

have seen his own blue jacket of six years before, perhaps it would

have been a good argument to induce him to pardon Bertha's

forgetfulness.

"Good day, Miss!" said he, and brushed his cap from his head.

The same explanation touching the sailor's presence was then given

to Bertha that I have given to you,--given as the whole party were

welcomed into the plain little house by its very far from plain

mistress.

"Do you remember faces, Mistress?" said the sailor to Doome.

"Yes, friend sailor."

"Do you remember them for six years?"

"La! no woman can remember for six years," said Doome.

"I think _you_ could, Mistress," said the sailor.

And thereupon the stout little Doome blushed and curtsied.

Meanwhile the bride was thinking of the young Frenchman, and how she

could keep her secret, with half the town at the house and about it,

as there would be in another half-hour. She thought more of the

young stranger every moment, and especially when she gazed upon her

future,--which seemed to grow more disagreeable each time she

looked at it.

The young sailor, keeping his eyes away from Bertha,--who set to work

drawing a huge mug of beer, in which piece of hospitality Jodoque

hoveringly helped her,--and addressing himself to Doome, said,--

"Do you know, I was nearly snapped up by a shark some months ago?"

With a sympathetic shudder the little woman replied, "The shark was

doubly cruel--who could--who could take out of the world so--so fine

a young man!"

"Ah! I wish he had!"

"Wish he had?"

"Yes,--his teeth wouldn't have been half so sharp as the teeth

biting away at my heart now!"

"Dear!"

"Have you ever had a lover?"

Here the little woman laughed outright. A lover! She could have

honestly answered, "Yes," if the handsome sailor had asked her if

she had had several score. _A_ lover, indeed!

"Ah! well, suppose you only had one, when you were a poor girl, and

he left you, what then?"

"Oh, I'd kill him first, and cry myself dead afterwards."

"Well, _my_ sweetheart has gone from me."

"What! what!--given _you_ up for _any one_?"

"Yes, and--and--I don't think he's my master,--unless it's in dollars."

"Ah!--And who saved you from the shark?"

"A young French officer,--bless him! He harpooned my sealy friend,

and found a friend for life,--though it a'n't much a poor

sailor-fellow can do for an officer. And, though we're at war with

the French, I'd be hanged sooner than fire at his ship."

Here Bertha, assisted by Jodoque, set the big jug down upon the

table with a bang. And here, too, something fell down in a

neighboring room,--precisely as though a person, journeying in a dark

chamber, had upset a heavy wooden chair. The noise sent Doome right

into the sailor's arms, and also sent Jodoque right behind Bertha,

who turned pale.

"There's some one in the room," said Jodoque.

"No, no!" said Bertha--"'tis poor aunt's room; no one goes there.

It's only the rats,--that's all,--only the rats."

For a stranger, the sailor showed a great deal of curiosity; for he

turned very red, and said, "Suppose you look and see."

"Oh, no, no! Never mind. 'Tis only rats. No one ever goes into that

room. My dear, dear guardian died in that room."

"Yes, Mistress," said the sailor, "but rats don't throw down chairs

and tables."

"No, surely no!" said Jodoque.

"And if the house were mine," said the sailor, suiting the action to

the word, "why, I'd go up to the door like this,--and I'd put my

hand on the latch, and click it should go,--and--"

Bertha ran up to the door too, laid her hand upon the sailor's arm,

and drew him away, as he quite willingly let her. Indeed, he

trembled and looked pleadingly at her, as she touched him; and he

murmured to himself, "Six years make a good deal of change."

"You, a guest, have no right to touch that door."

"If I were your husband, I should have."

"Surely,--but you are not."

"Yes, but this honest man here is as good as your husband."

"No!"

"No?" said the other three; and Jodoque, but for presence of mind,

might have overthrown the big jug of beer.

"No,--for, truly, I'm not going to marry Jodoque."

"Not going to marry me?"

"Not going to marry him?--Why, as sure as you call me Doome, there

are the townsfolk, and the musicians, and the good father, and the

burgomaster, all with their faces already turned this way, I would

wager these new ribbons of mine!"

"Let them all come!"

"To send them back again?"

"No, to witness my marriage."

"And who's the bridegroom?"

"Somebody all of you have forgotten."