I did not at first comprehend the extent of my undertaking. By

degrees I began to appreciate it: I saw and felt, at last, that it

was an enormous task, and even after I had resolved upon it, again

and again my courage gave way, and I ceased my efforts in despair.

Still I returned to the work by spasms. I found, for instance, that

my geography was all wrong: Asia stood up edgewise in my imagination,

just as I had seen it on an old smoky map in Lieutenant Smith's

study; Africa was in the south-east corner of creation, and Europe

was somewhere in the north-east. In fact, my map of the world was

very Chinese in its projection. I knew better, but still I had

thus conceived it, and the obstinate bump of locality insisted upon

presenting its outlines to my mind according to this arrangement. I

had similar jumbles of conception and habit as to other things. This

would not do; so I re-learned the elements of geography; I revised

my history, my chronology, my natural history, in all of which I had

caught casual glimpses of knowledge. What I read I read earnestly. I

determined to pass no word without ascertaining its meaning, and I

persevered in this, doggedly, for five-and-twenty years.

My friend Sheldon was of inestimable service to me in my studies.

Possessing advantages over me in age, experience, and education, he

made many rough places smooth to my stumbling feet. Especially when,

during my early efforts in thinking, my mind was assailed with doubts

as to the truth of the Christian religion, his clear intelligence and

sincere faith did much to help me through my difficulties.

CHAPTER XII.

WAR WITH ENGLAND--IN THE ARMY--MY UNCLE'S ADVICE--CAMPAIGNING--ON

THE MARCH--OUR MILITARY COSTUME--MY FIRST SOLDIER'S SUPPER.

During my residence at Hartford war was declared against Great

Britain. For some time Connecticut held aloof from all participation

in the struggle. But when, in 1813, our own territory was threatened,

all feeling vanished before the instinct of self-preservation, and

the strong feeling of animosity which then raged against England.

Anticipating this state of things, the state government had made

preparations for the emergency.

As it was midsummer--a period when the husbandmen could ill afford to

leave their farms--orders were sent by Governor Smith to dispatch at

once the companies of militia from the larger towns to the defence of

New London and the neighboring country. At that time I belonged to

an artillery company, and this was among those ordered to the coast.

I received a summons at four o'clock in the afternoon to be ready to

march next day at sunrise. I went at once to consult my uncle--who,

by the way, was at that time not only mayor of the city, but

Lieutenant-Governor of the State. He had a short time before promised

to make me one of his aids, and perhaps thought I should expect him

now to fulfill his engagement. He soon set that matter at rest.

"You must, of course, go," said he. "We old federalists cannot

shelter our nephews when there is a question of defending our own

territory."

"Ought I not to consult my parents?" said I.

"I will go down and see them to-morrow," he replied.

"Certainly, then, I shall go. I wish to go. My only feeling is, that

my mother may have some anxiety."

"I will see her to-morrow. You may be at ease on that subject. Be

ready to march at sunrise, according to your orders. I will come and

see you before you start."

The next morning, while it was yet dark, he came, gave me some

letters of introduction, and also supplied me with ten dollars--a

welcome addition to my light purse. After a little advice he

said,--"I have only one thing to add: If you come to a fight, _don't

run away till the rest do_. Goodby!"

The next morning, June 7, 1813, about sunrise, the whole company,

nearly sixty in number, mounted in wagons, departed. At sunset we

were on the heights two miles back of New London. No provision had

been made for us, and so we went supperless to bed in a large empty

barn. I scarcely closed my eyes, partly because it was my first

experiment in sleeping on the floor, and partly because of the

terrific snoring of a fellow-soldier by my side. Never have I heard

such a succession of choking, suffocating, strangling sounds, as

issued from his throat. I expected that he would die, and, indeed,

once or twice I thought he was dead. Strange to say, he got up the

next morning in excellent condition, and seemed, indeed, to feel

better for the exercise. This man became quite a character before the

campaign was over: he got the title, of Æolus, and as he could not

be tolerated in the barracks, he was provided with a tent at a good

distance, where he blew his blast without restraint. At the close of

the campaign he was the fattest man in the company.

I was glad to see the daylight. The weather was fine, and as the

sun came up we saw the British fleet--some half-dozen large ships

of war--lying off the mouth of the Thames. They seemed very near

at hand, and for the first time I realized my situation--that of

a soldier who was likely soon to be engaged in battle. I said

nothing of my emotions: indeed, words were unnecessary. I watched

the countenances of my companions as they first caught a view of

the black and portentous squadron, and I read in almost every

face a reflection of my own feelings. We were, however, not all

sentimentalists. There were among us, as doubtless in all such

companies, a supply of witty, reckless Gallios, who gave a cheerful

turn to our thoughts. We soon dispersed among the inhabitants,

scattered over the neighboring hills and valleys, for breakfast. Like

hungry wolves we fell upon the lean larders, and left famine behind.

Of course every one offered to pay, but not one person would accept

a farthing: we were, indeed, received as protectors and deliverers.

It was something, after all, to be soldiers! With our stomachs

fortified, and our consciousness flattered, we came cheerfully

together.

At ten o'clock we were mustered, and began our march all in our best

trim: cocked hats, long-tailed blue coats, with red facings, white

pantaloons, and shining cutlasses at our sides. Our glittering cannon

moved along with the solemnity of elephants. It was, in fact, a fine

company--all young men, and many from the best families in Hartford.

As we entered New London the streets presented some confusion, for

the people were still removing back into the country, as an attack

was daily expected. A few military companies were also gathering into

the town. We were, however, not wholly overlooked: women put their

heads out of the windows and smiled their gratitude as we passed

along. Men stopped and surveyed us with evident signs of approbation.

It was a glorious thing to belong to such a company! At last we

came to a halt in one of the public squares. Then there was racing

and chasing of aids-de-camp for four mortal hours, during which our

martial pride drooped a little in the broiling sun. At four o'clock

in the afternoon we were transported across the Thames to the village

of Groton, and took up our quarters in a large house on the bank of

the river, vacated for our use. Two immense kettles--the one filled

with junks of salt beef, and the other with unwashed potatoes--were

swung upon the kitchen trammels, and at six o'clock in the evening we

were permitted each to fish out his dinner from the seething mass.

That was my first soldier's supper; and, after all, it was a welcome

meal.

CHAPTER XIII.

NEW LONDON--OUR MILITARY REPUTATION--SENT WITH A LETTER--BRITISH

CANNON-BALLS--OUT OF HARM'S WAY--AN ALARM--ON GUARD--TAKE A

PRISONER--STRANGE EMOTIONS--MY LEFT-HAND CHUM--A GRATEFUL COUNTRY.

New London is situated on the western bank of the river Thames, three

miles from its mouth. It has now ten or twelve thousand inhabitants,

but at the time I am speaking of there were not more than four

thousand. The entrance to the river is broad, and affords a fine

harbor. This is defended by Fort Trumbull on the western side of the

river, half a mile below the city. It contained a garrison of six or

seven hundred soldiers during the war of 1812.

Opposite to New London is the village of Groton, the main street

running along the river bank; on an eminence some hundred rods

from the river, and commanding a view of the surrounding country,

including the harbor and the islands which lie scattered near it

in the Sound, is the site of Fort Griswold. The old fort is now

in ruins, but in my time it was in tolerable repair. Our company,

as well as other portions of the militia, labored upon it, and

strengthened it, as well by completing its works as by erecting a

small redoubt upon the south-eastern side. To the defence of the

latter, in case of attack, the Hartford company was assigned.

The officers of our company were rigid disciplinarians, and

accordingly we were drilled for about four hours each day. We soon

gained much reputation for our martial exercises and our tidy

appearance. Many people came over from New London to witness our

performances, among whom were often persons of distinction. On

Sundays we marched two miles to church, and being in our best guise,

caused quite a sensation. Men and women, boys and girls, streamed

along at our flanks, often in a broiling sun, yet always with

admiring looks.

After a morning drill we were generally at leisure for the rest of

the day, taking our turns, however, on guard, and in other occasional

duties. Most of the soldiers gave up their rations of mess beef and

potatoes, and lived on their own resources. We formed ourselves into

a general club for a supply of fresh fish. Every day three of us went

out fishing, and generally returned with a half-bushel basket full of

various kinds, among which the blackfish or tataug, now so greatly

esteemed, was always abundant. I was employed by the captain to keep

his journal of our proceedings, and sometimes I was dispatched to New

London, or to some one of the officers along the line, with a letter

or a parcel.

I remember that on one occasion H. A----, my special companion, and

myself, were sent with a letter to an officer who commanded a small

picket on the eastern shore, near the mouth of the river; that is,

at Point Groton. It was a distance of some three miles. The weather

was pleasant, and our route lay along the shore of the stream,

which opens into a wide bay as it meets the Sound. As we approached

the southern point of the shore we found ourselves quite near to

the British squadron. One of the vessels, which we knew as the

"Acasta"--for we had learned all their names--was under full sail in

a light wind, and coming up toward the shore. She was already so near

that we could see the men, and note every movement on the deck. While

we were admiring the beautiful appearance of the ship, we suddenly

saw several white puffs issue from her sides and uncoil themselves

into volumes of smoke. Then came a deafening roar; a moment after,

and in the very midst of it, there were wild howls in the air above

our heads. At a little distance beyond the ground was ploughed up,

scattering the soil around, and the top of one of the forest trees,

of which a few were scattered here and there, was cut asunder and

fell almost at our feet.

We understood the joke in an instant, and so did the lieutenant

who commanded the picket. He was the object of the attack, and the

broadside of the "Acasta," sending its shot over our heads, had

hurled one or two balls crashing through the roof of the little

fish-hut which he and his men occupied. In less than five minutes

they were seen trotting off at a round pace, with their cannon

jerking right and left over the rough ground behind them. Several

other shots were fired, but the party escaped in safety. My companion

and myself ensconced ourselves behind the rocks, and though it

was grave sport we enjoyed it exceedingly. We could trace the

cannon-balls as they flew by, looking like globes of mist twinkling

through the air. Several of them passed close over our heads, and

grooved the earth in long trenches at our sides. The noise they

made as they rose high in the air was a strange mixture, between

a howl and a scream. After having thus showed her teeth and made

a great noise the frigate returned to her anchorage, and all was

quiet. I hope I shall not degrade myself as a soldier in your eyes

by confessing that this was the only battle in which I was engaged

during this glorious war!

I must, however, mention one circumstance which tried the souls of

our company. On a certain Saturday a large accession to the British

force arrived in the bay, the whole number of vessels of all kinds

amounted to fourteen. This looked very much like an attack, and

accordingly there was a feverish anxiety among the inhabitants of New

London and the vicinity, and a general bustle in the army from Groton

Point to Allyn's Mountain. A large body of militia was set to work

upon Fort Griswold. Our company was drilled in the little redoubt

which we were to defend, and every preparation was made to give the

enemy a warm reception. The general idea was, that a landing of

British troops would be made on the eastern side, and that we should

take the brunt of the first attack.

The sun set in clouds, and as the evening advanced bursts of thunder,

attended by flashes of lightning, muttered along the distant horizon.

Our company was admonished to sleep on their arms. Everything wore a

rather ominous appearance. There were no signs of cowardice in the

men, but they looked thoughtful; and when the wit of the company

let off some of his best jokes--which would ordinarily have set the

whole corps in a roar--he was answered by a dead silence. It chanced

that I was that night on guard. My turn came at ten o'clock. Taking

my gun, I paced the bank of the river in front of our barracks. I

had received orders to let nothing pass by land or water. It was

intensely dark, but at frequent intervals thin flashes of lightning

sprang up against the distant sky behind dark rolling masses of

clouds.

Gradually the lights in the streets and windows of New London,

stretching in a long line on the opposite side of the river, were

extinguished one by one; a few remaining, however, as sentinels,

indicating anxiety and watchfulness. The sounds on all sides were at

last hushed, "and left the world to darkness and to me." More than

half of my two-hours' watch had passed when I heard the dip of oars

and the flapping of waves against the prow of a boat. I looked in

the direction of the sounds, and at last descried the dusky outline

of a small craft stealing down the river. I cried out,--"Boat ahoy!

who goes there?" My voice echoed portentously in the silence, but

no answer was given, and the low, black, raking apparition glided

on its way. Again I challenged, but there was still no reply. On

went the ghost! I cocked my gun. The click sounded ominously on the

still night air. I began to consider the horror of shooting some

fellow-being in the dark. I called a third time, and not without

avail. The rudder was turned, the boat whirled on her heel, and a

man came ashore. According to my orders I marshalled him to the

guard-room, and gave notice of what had happened to the captain.

The man was only a fisherman going home, but he was detained till

morning. So, you see, I can boast that I made one prisoner. My watch

was soon over, and returning to my station I laid down to sleep.

All was soon quiet, and I was buried in profound repose, when

suddenly there was a cry in the main barrack-room overhead,--"Alarm!

alarm!"

"Alarm! alarm!" was echoed by twenty voices, attended by quick,

shuffling sounds, and followed by a hurried rush of men down the

staircase. A moment after the guard in front discharged his musket,

and was answered by a long line of reports up and down the river,

from the various sentinels, extending for half-a-dozen miles. Then

came the roll of drums and the mustering of the men. Several of our

company had been out to see what was going on: they came back saying

that the enemy was approaching! J. M---- distinctly heard the roar of

cannon, and positively saw the flash of muskets. B. W---- found out

that the attack had already begun upon our southern pickets. Nobody

doubted that our time had come!

In a very few minutes our company was drawn up in line, and the

roll was called. It was still dark, but the faint flash gave us

now and then a glimpse of each other's faces. I think we were a

ghostly-looking set, but it was, perhaps, owing to the blueish

complexion of the light. J. S----, of West Hartford, who marched

at my left shoulder--usually the lightest-hearted fellow in the

company--whispered to me,--"Goodrich, I'd give fifty dollars to be

at West Division!" For myself, I felt rather serious, and asked

a certain anxious feeling in my stomach,--"What's to be done?"

Johnson, our captain, was a man of nerve and ready speech. When the

roll was finished, he said in a clear, hearty tone,--"All right, my

good fellows! Every man at his post!" These few words--which were,

however, more politic than true, for one fellow was taken with sudden

colic, and could not be got out--were electrical. We were ready to

take our places in the redoubt.

Messengers were now sent to the two neighboring posts to inquire into

the state of facts. Word was brought that the first alarm came from

our barracks! The matter was inquired into, and it turned out that

the whole affair was originated by a corporal of ours, who, in a fit

of nightmare, jumped up and cried,--"Alarm! alarm!"

Our martial ardor soon reconciled itself to this rather ludicrous

denouement, though several persons, who had been somewhat chapfallen,

became suddenly inflated with courage, which signalized itself with

outbursts of "Hang the British!" "They're a pack of sneaking cowards,

after all!" and the like. The next morning was fresh and fair. The

skirmishing thunder-gusts of the night had cleared the air, and even

distant objects seemed near at hand. Before us lay the whole British

fleet, still and harmless, in the glassy bay. My lefthand chum, J.

S----, who, in the dark hour, would have given fifty dollars to be

at West Division, was now himself again. "Come on here, you black

old Ramilies!" said he, dashing the doubled fist of his right hand

into the palm of his left: "Come on here, you black-hearted British

bull-dogs, and we'll do your business for you!"

Our period of service was brief. In about six weeks from the time

of our departure we were dismissed, and returned to our homes. Thus

closed my military career, so far as relates to active service.

The remembrances of my first and last campaign are, on the whole,

pleasant. There were feelings of fraternity established between the

members of the company which have continued to this day. My country

has not been unmindful of my services; for I have received two

land-warrants, giving me a title to some hundred and sixty acres,

with the fresh virgin soil of the Far West upon them. Say not that

republics are ungrateful!

CHAPTER XIV.

EFFECTS OF WAR IN NEW ENGLAND--PERSONAL EXPERIENCE--NEWS OF

PEACE--ILLUMINATIONS--CONFESSIONS.

I remember perfectly well the universal state of anxiety and

depression which prevailed in New England during the latter part of

the war. The acts of government, the movements of fleets and armies,

furnish no idea of the condition of society in its daily life.

Let me give you a few items as indications of the embarrassments,

vexations, and privations which the war had brought unto every man's

house and home. Such a thing as silver or gold money was almost

unknown. The chief circulation consisted of bills of suspended banks,

or what were called "facilities;" that is, bank notes, authorized

by the legislature of Connecticut, redeemable in three years after

the war. These were at fifteen to twenty-five per cent. discount

compared with specie. Banks issued notes of fifty, twenty-five, and

twelve-and-a-half cents. Barbers issued bills payable in shaving,

and various institutions adopted a similar course. The whole mass

acquired the title of "rag-money," "shin-plasters," &c.: a large

portion of it was notoriously worthless, either as being counterfeit,

or issued by irresponsible parties, yet it generally passed without

scrutiny.

I had personal experience of the universal depression. In the summer

of 1814 I was out of my time, and cast about for some employment.

I went to New York for this object, but found not the slightest

encouragement. After some reflection I established a manufactory of

pocket-books, in connection with one of my friends, who furnished

the capital. The greatest difficulty was to find the materials. I

made expeditions to Boston, Charlestown, Providence, &c., and was

not able to obtain over fifty pieces of morocco fit for the purpose.

In December I went to New York, and was more successful. I made a

considerable purchase, and dispatched my goods by the carrier. Pretty

well content with my success, I had gone in the evening to a concert

at the City Hotel. While listening to the music there was a murmur

in the streets. Soon the door of the concert-room was thrown open,

and in rushed a man all breathless with excitement. He mounted on a

table, and swinging a white handkerchief aloft, cried out,--

"Peace! peace! peace!"

The music ceased: the hall was speedily vacated. I rushed into the

street, and oh, what a scene!

It was on the evening of Saturday, the 11th of February, 1815, that

the news of the treaty of peace reached New York. In half-an-hour

after Broadway was one living sea of shouting, rejoicing people.

"Peace! peace! peace!" was the deep, harmonious, universal anthem.

The whole spectacle was enlivened by a sudden inspiration. Somebody

came with a torch: the bright idea passed into a thousand brains. In

a few minutes thousands and tens of thousands of people were marching

about with candles, lamps, torches, making the jubilant street appear

like a gay and gorgeous procession. The whole night Broadway sang its

song of peace. We were all democrats--all federalists! Old enemies

rushed into each other's arms: every house was in a revel: every

heart seemed melted by a joy which banished all evil thought and

feeling. Nobody asked, that happy night, what were the terms of the

treaty: we had got peace--that was enough! I moved about for hours

in the ebbing and flowing tide of people, not being aware that I

had opened my lips. The next morning I found that I was hoarse from

having joined in the exulting cry of "Peace! peace!"

The next day, Sunday, all the churches sent up hymns of thanksgiving

for the joyous tidings. I set out in the stage-coach on Monday

morning for Connecticut. All along the road the people saluted us

with swinging of hats and cries of rejoicing. At one place, in a

rather lonesome part of the road, a schoolmaster came with the whole

school at his heels to ask us if the news was true. We told him it

was; whereupon he tied his bandanna pocket-handkerchief to a broom,

swung it aloft, and the whole school hosannaed, "Peace! peace!" At

all our stopping-places the people were gathered to rejoice in the

good tidings. At one little tavern I looked into a room, by chance,

the door being open, and there I saw the good-wife, with a chubby

boy in her lap--both in a perfect gale of merriment--the child

crying out, "Peath! peath!" Oh, ye makers of war, reflect upon this

heartfelt verdict of the people in behalf of peace!

We arrived at New Haven in the evening, and found it illuminated:

the next day I reached Hartford, and there also was a grand

illumination. The news spread over the country, carrying with it a

wave of shouts and rejoicings. Boston became clamorous with pealing

bells; the schools had a jubilee; the blockaded shipping, rotting at

the dilapidated wharves, got out their dusty buntings, and these,

ragged and forlorn, now flapped merrily in the breeze. At night the

city flamed far and wide--from Beacon street down the Bay, telling

the glorious tale even unto Cape Cod. So spread the news over the

country, everywhere, carrying joy to every heart--with, perhaps, a

single exception. At Washington, the authors of the war peeped into

the dispatches, and found that the treaty had no stipulations against

the Orders in Council, Paper Blockades, and Impressments, which were

the pretexts for the war. All that could be maintained was, that we

had made war, charging the enemy with very gross enormities, and we

had made peace, saying not one word about them!

So the war was ended.

Let us be frank, and confess the truth: the war, in the aspects in

which history thus presents it, was disgraceful to the authors of it:

it was, in many respects, disastrous to the country; and yet it has

left us some wholesome lessons. It has shown the danger and folly

of plunging a great country into a national conflict for narrow and

selfish purposes, because, under such circumstances, the people will

be divided, and it will be a partisan, and not a patriotic war; it

has put on record another instance in which war has been declared

in boasting, and ended precisely where it began, after years of

violence, sorrow, and bloodshed. It has shown, also--in connection

with subsequent events--the superiority of peace to war, even in

obtaining the ends of justice; for let it be remembered that Daniel

Webster extorted from Great Britain, by the force of argument, that

which the sword could not achieve.

CHAPTER XV.

EVIL EFFECTS OF NIGHT STUDY--COMMENCEMENT OF A LITERARY

CAREER--THOUGHTS ON DANCING--NEW YORK--SARATOGA--DEATH OF MY

UNCLE--BECOME A BOOKSELLER--COLD SUMMER--T'OTHER SIDE OF OHIO.

I have told you that my apprenticeship terminated in the summer of

1814. Previous to that time I had made some advances in the study

of the French language, under M. Value, or, to give him his title,

the Count Value. This person had spent his early life in Paris, but

afterward migrated to St. Domingo, where he owned a large estate.

In the insurrection of 1794 he escaped only with his life. With

admirable cheerfulness and serenity he devoted himself to teaching

French and dancing, as means of support. He settled for a time at New

Haven, where, at the age of seventy, he was captivated by a tall,

red-haired schoolmistress of twenty, whom he married.

The Count finally established himself at Hartford, and I became one

of his pupils. I pursued my studies with considerable assiduity, and

to practise myself in French, I translated Chateaubriand's René.

One of my friends had just established a newspaper at Middletown,

and my translation was published there. About this time my health

was feeble, and my eyes became seriously affected in consequence

of my night studies. Unaware of the danger, I persevered, and thus

laid the foundation of a nervous weakness and irritability of my

eyes, which has since been to me a rock ahead in the whole voyage of

life. From that time I have never been able to read or write without

pain. As if by a kind of fatality, I seemed to be afterwards drawn

into a literary career, for which I was doubly disqualified--first

by an imperfect education, and next by defective eyesight. Oh! what

penalties have I paid for thus persisting in a course which seems to

have been forbidden to me by Providence. After a long and laborious

life, I feel a profound consciousness that I have done nothing well;

at the same time, days, months, nay years, have I struggled with the

constant apprehension that I should terminate my career in blindness!

How little do we know, especially in the outset of our existence,

what is before us! It is well that we do not know, for the prospect

would often overwhelm us.

In the autumn of 1814, as already stated, I established, in company

with a friend, a pocket-book factory at Hartford; but the peace put a

speedy termination to that enterprise. We came out of it with a small

loss, and my kind-hearted partner pocketed this, "for he had money,

and I had none." He forgave me, and would have done the same had the

deficit been more considerable, for he was a true friend.

Early in the following spring, I made an arrangement to go to Paris

as a clerk in the branch of the importing house of Richards, Taylor

& Wilder, of New York. About a month afterwards the news came that

Napoleon had suddenly returned from Elba, and as business was

prostrated by that event, my engagement failed. For nearly a year,

my health continued indifferent, and my eyes in such a state that

I was incapable of undertaking any serious business. I spent my

time partly at Berlin, and partly at Hartford. I read a little, and

practised my French with Value and his scholars. I also felt the need

of disciplining my hands and feet, which about these days seemed to

me to have acquired a most absurd development, giving me a feeling

of great embarrassment when I entered into company. I therefore

took lessons in dancing, and, whether I profited by it or not as to

manners, I am persuaded that this portion of my education was highly

beneficial to me in other points of view.

As many good people have a prejudice against dancing, I am disposed

to write down my experience on the subject. In the winter, our

good old teacher had weekly cotillion parties, for the purpose of

improving his scholars. The young men invited the young women, and

took them to these gatherings, and after the exercises conducted

them home again. I know this will sound strange to those who only

understand metropolitan manners at the present day; but I never

knew an instance, in my own experience or observation, in which the

strictest propriety was departed from. These parties took place in

the evening: they began at eight o'clock, and continued till ten or

eleven--sometimes till twelve. The company consisted entirely of

young persons, from fifteen to twenty years of age: they included

the children of the respectable inhabitants, with a number of young

ladies from the boarding-schools. Some of these I have since seen

the wives of bishops, senators, and governors of States--filling

the first stations to which women can aspire in this country, and

I am satisfied that these Hartford parties, under the auspices of

our amiable and respected old teacher, were every way refining and

elevating: not only did they impart ease of manner, but, as I think,

purity of sentiment.

In the spring of 1815 I paid a visit to New York, and having letters

of introduction to Oliver Wolcott and Archibald Gracie, I called on

these gentlemen. My lodgings were at the City Hotel, situated on the

western side of Broadway, between Thames and Cedar Streets, the space

being now occupied by warehouses. It was then the chief hotel of New

York, and was kept by a model landlord, named Jennings, with a model

bar-keeper by the name of Willard. The latter was said never to sleep

night or day, for at all hours he was at his post, and never forgot a

customer, even after an absence of twenty years.

It was late in the spring, and Mr. Gracie called for me and took me

to his country seat, occupying a little promontory on the western

side of Hurlgate, a charming spot. Contiguous to it were the summer

residences of many of the leading citizens of New York.

Here I spent a fortnight very agreeably. Mr. Gracie was at

this period distinguished alike on account of his wealth, his

intelligence, and his amiable and honorable character. Never have

I witnessed anything more charming--more affectionate, dignified,

and graceful, than the intercourse of the family with one another.

Not many years after, Mr. Gracie lost his entire fortune by the

vicissitudes of commerce, but his character was beyond the reach of

accident. He is still remembered with affectionate respect by all

those whose memories reach back to the times in which he flourished,

and when it might be said, without disparagement to any other man,

that he was the first merchant in New York.

Early in the ensuing summer, my uncle, Chauncey Goodrich, being in

bad health, paid a visit to Saratoga and Ballston for the benefit of

the waters, and I accompanied him. We soon returned, however, for

it was now apparent that he had a disease of the heart, which was

rapidly tending to a fatal result. Experiencing great suffering at

intervals, he gradually yielded to the progress of his malady, and

at last, on the 18th of August, 1815, while walking the room, and

engaged in cheerful conversation, he faltered, sank into a chair, and

instantly expired. "His death," says the historian, "was a shock to

the whole community. Party distinctions were forgotten, under a sense

of the general calamity; and in the simple but expressive language

which was used at his funeral, 'all united in a tribute of respect to

the man who had so long been dear to us, and done us so much good.'"

To me, the loss was irreparable; leaving, however, in my heart a

feeling of gratitude that I had witnessed an example of the highest

intellectual power united with the greatest moral excellence, and

that, too, in one whose relationship to me enforced and commended its

teachings to my special observance. Alas, how little have I done in

life that is worthy of such inspiration!

Not long after this, my friend George Sheldon, who had established

himself as a bookseller and publisher, invited me to become his

partner, and this I did early in the year 1816. We pursued the

business for nearly two years, during which time we published,

among other works, Scott's Family Bible, in five volumes quarto--a

considerable enterprise for that period in a place like Hartford. In

the autumn of 1817 I had gone to Berlin, for the purpose of making a

short excursion for the benefit of my health, when a messenger came

from Hartford, saying that my partner was very ill, and wished me

to return. I immediately complied, and on entering the room of my

friend I found him in a high fever, his mind already wandering in

painful dreams. As I came to his bedside he said,--"Oh, take away

these horrid knives, they cut me to the heart!" I stooped over him

and said,--

"There are no knives here; you are only dreaming."

"Oh, is it you?" said he. "I am glad you have come. Do stay with me,

and speak to me, so as to keep off these dreadful fancies."

I did stay by him for four days and nights; but his doom was sealed.

His mind continued in a state of wild delirium till a few minutes

before his death. I stood gazing at his face, when a sudden change

came over him: the agitated and disturbed look of insanity had

passed--a quiet pallor had come over his countenance, leaving it

calm and peaceful. He opened his eyes, and, as if waking from sleep,

looked on me with an aspect of recognition. His lips moved, and he

pronounced the name of his wife: she came, with all the feelings of

youth and love--ay, and of hope, too, in her heart. She bent over

him: he raised his feeble and emaciated arms and clasped her to his

heart: he gave her one kiss, and passed to another life!

The summer of 1816 was probably the coldest that has been known in

this century. In New England--from Connecticut to Maine--there were

severe frosts in every month. The crop of Indian corn was almost

entirely cut off: of potatoes, hay, oats, &c., there was not,

probably, more than half the usual supply. The means of averting

the effects of such a calamity--now afforded by railroads, steam

navigation, canals, and other facilities of intercommunication--did

not then exist. The following winter was severe, and the ensuing

spring backward. At this time I made a journey into New Hampshire,

passing along the Connecticut river, in the region of Hanover. It was

then June, and the hills were almost as barren as in November. I saw

a man at Orford who had been forty miles for a half-bushel of Indian

corn, and paid two dollars for it!

Along the seaboard it was not difficult to obtain a supply of food,

although every article was dear. In the interior it was otherwise:

the cattle died for want of fodder, and many of the inhabitants

nearly perished from starvation. The desolating effects of the war

still lingered over the country, and at last a kind of despair seized

upon some of the people. In the pressure of adversity many persons

lost their judgment, and thousands feared or felt that New England

was destined, henceforth, to become a part of the frigid zone. At the

same time, Ohio--with its rich soil, its mild climate, its inviting

prairies--was opened fully upon the alarmed and anxious vision. As

was natural under the circumstances, a sort of stampede took place

from cold, desolate, worn-out New England, to this land of promise.

I remember very well the tide of emigration through Connecticut

on its way to the West, during the summer of 1817. Some persons

went in covered wagons--frequently a family consisting of father,

mother, and nine small children, with one at the breast--some on

foot, and some crowded together under the cover, with kettle,

gridirons, feather-beds, crockery, and the family Bible, Watts's

Psalms and Hymns, and Webster's Spelling book--the lares and penates

of the household. Others started in ox-carts, and trudged on at

the rate of ten miles a-day. In several instances I saw families

on foot--the father and boys taking turns in dragging along an

improvised hand-wagon, loaded with the wreck of the household

goods--occasionally giving the mother and baby a ride. Many of

these persons were in a state of poverty, and begged their way as

they went. Some died before they reached the expected Canaan; many

perished after their arrival, from fatigue and privation; and others

from the fever and ague, which was then certain to attack the new

settlers.

It was, I think, in 1818, that I published a small tract, entitled,

"T'other Side of Ohio," that is, the other view, in contrast to

the popular notion that it was the paradise of the world. It was

written by Dr. Hand, a talented young physician of Berlin, who had

made a visit to the West about this time. It consisted mainly of

vivid but painful pictures of the accidents and incidents attending

this wholesale migration. The roads over the Alleghanies, between

Philadelphia and Pittsburg, were then rude, steep, and dangerous, and

some of the more precipitous slopes were consequently strewn with the

carcases of wagons, carts, horses, oxen, which had made ship-wreck

in their perilous descents. The scenes on the road--of families

gathered at night in miserable sheds, called taverns--mothers frying,

children crying, fathers swearing, were a mingled comedy and tragedy

of errors. Even when they arrived at their new homes, along the banks

of the Muskingum, or the Scioto, frequently the whole family--father,

mother, children--speedily exchanged the fresh complexion and

elastic step of their first abodes, for the sunken cheek and languid

movement, which mark the victim of intermittent fever.

The instances of homesickness, described by this vivid sketcher, were

touching. Not even the captive Israelites, who hung their harps upon

the willows along the banks of the Euphrates, wept more bitter tears,

or looked back with more longing to their native homes, than did

these exiles from New England; mourning the land they had left, with

its roads, schools, meeting-houses; its hope, health, and happiness!

Two instances, related by the traveller, I must mention. He was one

day riding in the woods, apart from the settlements, when he met a

youth some eighteen years of age, in a hunting-frock, and with a

fowling-piece in his hand. The two fell into conversation.

"Where are you from?" said the youth, at last.

"From Connecticut," was the reply.

"That is near the old Bay State?"

"Yes."

"And have you been there?"

"To Massachusetts? Yes, many a time."

"Let me take your hand, stranger. My mother was from the Bay State,

and brought me here when I was an infant. I have heard her speak of

it. Oh, it must be a lovely land! I wish I could see a meeting-house

and a school-house, for she is always talking about them. And the

sea--the sea--oh, if I could see that! Did you ever see it, stranger?"

"Yes, often."

"What, the real, salt sea--the ocean--with the ships upon it?"

"Yes."

"Well," said the youth, scarcely able to suppress his emotion, "if I

could see the old Bay State and the ocean, I should be willing then

to die!"

In another instance the traveller met, somewhere in the valley of the

Scioto, a man from Hartford, by the name of Bull. He was a severe

democrat, and feeling sorely oppressed with the idea that he was no

better off in Connecticut under federalism than the Hebrews in Egypt,

joined the throng and migrated to Ohio. He was a man of substance,

but his wealth was of little avail in a new country, where all the

comforts and luxuries of civilization were unknown.

"When I left Connecticut," said he, "I was wretched from thinking of

the sins of federalism. After I had got across Byram river, which

divides that State from New York, I knelt down and thanked the Lord

for that He had brought me and mine out of such a priest-ridden land.

But I've been well punished, and I'm now preparing to return; when I

again cross Byram river, I shall thank God that He has permitted me

to get back again!"

CHAPTER XVI.

MARRIAGE--WALTER SCOTT--BYRON--SIDNEY SMITH'S TAUNT--PUBLICATION

OF ORIGINAL AMERICAN WORKS--MRS. SIGOURNEY.

Early in the year 1818 I was married to the daughter of Stephen Rowe

Bradley, of Westminster, Vermont. Thus established in life, I pursued

the business of bookseller and publisher at Hartford for four years.

My vocation gave me the command of books, but I was able to read

very little--my eyes continuing to be so weak that I could hardly do

justice to my affairs. However, I dipped into a good many books, and

acquired a considerable knowledge of authors and their works.

During the period in which Scott had been enchanting the world with

his poetry--that is, from 1805 to 1815--I had shared in the general

intoxication. The Lady of the Lake delighted me beyond expression,

and even now, it seems to me the most pleasing and perfect of

metrical romances. These productions seized powerfully upon the

popular mind, partly on account of the romance of their revelations,

and partly also because of the simplicity of the style, and the easy

flow of the versification. Everybody could read and comprehend them.

One of my younger sisters committed the whole of the Lady of the Lake

to memory, and was accustomed of an evening to sit at her sewing,

while she recited it to an admiring circle of listeners. All young

poets were inoculated with the octo-syllabic verse, and newspapers,

magazines, and even volumes, teemed with imitations and variations

inspired by the "Wizard Harp of the North." Not only did Scott

himself continue to pour out volume after volume, but others produced

set poems in his style, some of them so close in their imitation

as to be supposed the works of Scott himself, trying the effect of

a disguise. At last, however, the market was overstocked, and the

general appetite began to pall with a surfeit, when a sudden change

took place in the public taste.

It was just at this point that Byron produced his first canto of

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Scott speedily appreciated the eclipse

to which his poetical career was doomed by the rising genius of

Byron. He now turned his attention to prose fiction, and in July,

1814, completed and published Waverley, which had been begun some

eight or ten years before. Guy Mannering came out the next year,

and was received with a certain degree of eagerness. The Antiquary,

Black Dwarf, Old Mortality, Rob Roy, and the Heart of Mid-Lothian,

followed in quick succession. I suspect that never, in any age, have

the productions of any author created in the world so wide and deep

an enthusiasm. This emotion reached its height upon the appearance

of Ivanhoe in 1819, which, I think, proved the most popular of these

marvellous productions.

At this period, although there was a good deal of mystery as to

their authorship, the public generally referred them to Scott. He

was called the "Great Unknown"--a title which served to create even

an adventitious interest in his career. The appearance of a new tale

from his pen caused a greater sensation in the United States than did

some of the battles of Napoleon, which decided the fate of thrones

and empires. Everybody read these works; everybody--the refined

and the simple--shared in the delightful dreams which seemed to

transport them to remote ages and distant climes, and made them live

and breathe in the presence of the stern Covenanters of Scotland,

the gallant bowmen of Sherwood Forest, or even the Crusaders in

Palestine, where Coeur de Lion and Saladin were seen struggling for

the mastery! I can testify to my own share in this intoxication. I

was not able, on account of my eyes, to read these works myself, but

I found friends to read them to me. To one good old maid--Heaven

bless her!--I was indebted for the perusal of no less than seven of

these tales.

Of course, there were many editions of these works in the United

States, and among others, I published an edition, I think, in eight

volumes, octavo--including those which had appeared at that time.

About this time I began to think of trying to bring out original

American works. It must be remembered that I am speaking of a

period prior to 1820. At that date, Bryant, Irving, and Cooper, the

founders of our modern literature, had just commenced their literary

career. Neither of them had acquired a positive reputation. Halleck,

Percival, Brainard, Longfellow, Willis, were at school--at least, all

were unknown. The general impression was that we had not, and could

not have, a literature. It was the precise point at which Sydney

Smith had uttered that bitter taunt in the Edinburgh Review--"Who

reads an American book?" It proved to be that "darkest hour just

before the dawn." The successful booksellers of the country were for

the most part the mere reproducers and sellers of English books. It

was positively injurious to the commercial credit of a bookseller to

undertake American works, unless they might be Morse's Geographies,

classical books, school-books, devotional books, or other utilitarian

works.

Nevertheless, about this time, I published an edition of Trumbull's

poems, in two volumes, octavo, and paid him a thousand dollars and

a hundred copies of the work, for the copyright. I was seriously

counselled against this by several booksellers--and, in fact,

Trumbull had sought a publisher in vain for several years previous.

There was an association of designers and engravers at Hartford,

called the "Graphic Company," and as I desired to patronize the

liberal arts there, I employed them to execute the embellishments.

For so considerable an enterprise, I took the precaution to get a

subscription, in which I was tolerably successful. The work was at

last produced, but it did not come up to the public expectation, or

the patriotic zeal had cooled, and more than half the subscribers

declined taking the work. I did not press it, but putting a good face

upon the affair, I let it pass, and--while the public supposed I had

made money by my enterprise, and even the author looked askance at me

in the jealous apprehension that I had made too good a bargain out of

him--I quietly pocketed a loss of about a thousand dollars. This was

my first serious adventure in patronizing American literature.

About the same period I turned my attention to books for education

and books for children, being strongly impressed with the idea that

there was here a large field for improvement. I wrote, myself,

a small arithmetic, and half-a-dozen toy-books, and published

them anonymously. I also employed several persons to write school

histories, and educational manuals of chemistry, natural philosophy,

&c., upon plans which I prescribed--all of which I published; but

none of these were very successful at that time. Some of them,

passing into other hands, are now among the most popular and

profitable school-books in the country.

It was before this period that Miss Huntly, now Mrs. Sigourney,

was induced to leave her home in Norwich, and make Hartford her

residence. This occurred about the year 1814. Ere long she was the

presiding genius of our social circle. I shall not write her history,

nor dilate upon her literary career, yet I may speak of her influence

in this new relation--a part of which fell upon myself. Mingling in

the gayeties of our social gatherings, and in no respect clouding

their festivity, she led us all toward intellectual pursuits and

amusements. We had even a literary coterie under her inspiration,

its first meetings being held at Mr. Wadsworth's. I believe one

of my earliest attempts at composition was made here. The ripples

thus begun, extended over the whole surface of our young society,

producing a lasting and refining effect. It could not but be

beneficial thus to mingle in intercourse with one who has the faculty

of seeing poetry in all things and good everywhere. Few persons

living have exercised a wider influence than Mrs. Sigourney. No one

that I now know can look back upon a long and earnest career of such

unblemished beneficence.

CHAPTER XVII.

DOMESTIC TROUBLES--SKETCH OF BRAINARD--AUNT LUCY'S

BACK-PARLOR--THE FALL OF NIAGARA--DEATH OF BRAINARD.

In 1821, clouds and darkness began to gather around my path. By a

fall from a horse, I was put upon crutches for more than a year, and

a cane for the rest of my life. Ere long death entered my door, and

my home was desolate. I was once more alone--save only that a child

was left me, to grow to womanhood, and to die a youthful mother,

loving and beloved. My affairs became embarrassed, my health failed,

and my only hope of renovation was in a change of scene.

Before I give you a sketch of my experience and observations

abroad, I must present the portrait of my friend Brainard. He came

to Hartford in February, 1822, to take the editorial charge of the

Connecticut Mirror. He was now twenty-six years old, and had gained

some reputation for wit and poetical talent. One day a young man,

small in stature, with a curious mixture of ease and awkwardness,

of humor and humility, came into my office, and introduced himself

as Mr. Brainard. I gave him a hearty welcome, for I had heard very

pleasant accounts of him. As was natural, I made a complimentary

allusion to his poems, which I had seen and admired. A smile,

yet shaded with something of melancholy, came over his face as he

replied,--

"Don't expect too much of me; I never succeeded in anything yet. I

never could draw a mug of cider without spilling more than half of

it!"

I afterwards found that much truth was thus spoken in jest. This was,

in point of fact, precisely Brainard's appreciation of himself. All

his life, feeling that he could do something, he still entertained

a mournful and disheartening conviction that, on the whole, he was

doomed to failure and disappointment. There was sad prophecy in this

presentment--a prophecy which he at once made and fulfilled.

We soon became friends, and, at last, intimates. I was now boarding

at "Ripley's"--a good old-fashioned tavern, over which presided

Major Ripley, respected for revolutionary services, an amiable

character, and a long Continental queue. In the administration

of the establishment he was ably supported by his daughter, Aunt

Lucy--the very genius of tavern courtesy, cookery, and comfort.

Here Brainard joined me, and we took rooms side by side. Thus, for

more than a year, we were together, as intimate as brothers. He

was of a child-like disposition, and craved constant sympathy. He

soon got into the habit of depending upon me in many things, and at

last--especially in dull weather, or when he was sad, or something

went wrong with him--he would creep into my bed, as if it were his

right. At that period of gloom in my own fortunes, this was as well a

solace to me as to him. After my return from Europe we resumed these

relations, and for some months more we were thus together.

I cannot do better than sketch a single incident, which will give

you some insight into Brainard's character. The scene opens in

Miss Lucy's little back-parlor--a small, cosy, carpeted room, with

two cushioned rocking-chairs, and a bright hickory fire. It is a

chill November night, about seven o'clock of a Friday evening. The

Mirror--Brainard's paper--is to appear the next morning. The week

has thus far passed, and he has not written for it a line. How the

days have gone he can hardly tell. He has read a little--dipped

into Byron, pored over the last Waverly novel, and been to see his

friends; at all events, he has got rid of the time. He has not felt

competent to bend down to his work, and has put it off till the last

moment. No further delay is possible. He is now not well; he has a

severe cold.

Miss Lucy, who takes a motherly interest in him, tells him not to go

out, and his own inclinations suggest the charms of a quiet evening

in the rocking chair, by a good fire--especially in comparison with

going to his comfortless office, and drudging for the press. He

lingers till eight, and then suddenly rousing himself, by a desperate

effort, throws on his cloak and sallies forth. As was not uncommon, I

go with him. A dim fire is kindled in the small Franklin stove in his

office, and we sit down. Brainard, as was his wont, especially when

he was in trouble, falls into a curious train of reflections, half

comic and half serious.

"Would to Heaven," he says, "I were a slave! I think a slave, with

a good master, has a good time of it. The responsibility of taking

care of himself--the most terrible burden of life--is put on his

master's shoulders. Madame Roland, with a slight alteration, would

have uttered a profound truth. She should have said--'Oh, Liberty,

Liberty, thou art a humbug!' After all, liberty is the greatest

possible slavery, for it puts upon a man the responsibility of taking

care of himself. If he goes wrong, why, he's condemned! If a slave

sins, he's only flogged, and gets over it, and there's an end of it.

Now, if I could only be flogged, and settle the matter that way, I

should be perfectly happy. But here comes my tormentor."

The door is now opened, a boy with a touselled head and inky

countenance enters, saying curtly--"Copy, Mr. Brainard!"

"Come in fifteen minutes!" says the editor, with a droll mixture of

fun and despair.

[Illustration: WHITTLING.]

Brainard makes a few observations, and sits down at his little narrow

pine table--hacked along edges with many a restless penknife. He

seems to notice the marks, and pausing a moment, says,--

"This table reminds me of one of my brother William's stories.

There was an old man in Groton, who had but one child, and she was

a daughter. When she was about eighteen, several young men came to

see her. At last she picked out one of them, and desired to marry

him. He seemed a fit match enough, but the father positively refused

his consent. For a long time he persisted, and would give no reason

for his conduct. At last he took his daughter aside, and said--'Now,

Sarah, I think pretty well of this young man in general, but I've

observed that he's given to whittling. There's no harm in that, but

the point is this: he whittles and whittles, and never makes nothing!

Now, I tell you, I'll never give my only daughter to such a feller as

that!' Whenever Bill told this story, he used to insinuate that this

whittling chap, who never made anything, was me! At any rate, I think

it would have suited me exactly."

Some time passed in similar talk, when, at last, Brainard turned

suddenly, took up his pen, and began to write. I sat apart, and left

him to his work. Some twenty minutes passed, when, with a smile on

his face, he got up, approached the fire, and taking the candle to

light his paper, read as follows:--

"THE FALLS OF NIAGARA.

"The thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain,

While I look upwards to thee. It would seem

As if God pour'd thee from his 'hollow hand,'

And hung his bow upon thy awful front;

And spoke in that loud voice that seem'd to him

Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake,

'The sound of many waters;' and had bade

Thy flood to chronicle the ages back,

And notch his cent'ries in the eternal rocks!"

He had hardly done reading when the boy came. Brainard handed him the

lines--on a small scrap of coarse paper--and told him to come again

in half-an-hour. Before this time had elapsed, he had finished and

read me the following stanza:--

"Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we

That hear the question of that voice sublime?

Oh! what are all the notes that ever rung

From war's vain trumpet by thy thundering side?

Yea, what is all the riot man can make,

In his short life, to thy unceasing roar?

And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him

Who drown'd a world, and heap'd the waters far

Above its loftiest mountains? A light wave,

That breathes and whispers of its Maker's might."

These lines having been furnished, Brainard left his office, and we

returned to Miss Lucy's parlor. He seemed utterly unconscious of

what he had done. I praised the verses, but he thought I only spoke

warmly from friendly interest. The lines went forth, and produced a

sensation of delight over the whole country. Almost every exchange

paper that came to the office had extracted them. Even then he would

scarcely believe that he had done anything very clever. And thus,

under these precise circumstances, were composed the most suggestive

and sublime stanzas upon Niagara that were ever penned. Brainard had

never, as he told me, been within less than five hundred miles of the

cataract, nor do I believe that, when he went to the office, he had

meditated upon the subject.

The reader will see, from the circumstances I have mentioned, that

I know the history of most of Brainard's pieces, as they came

out, from time to time, in his newspaper. Nearly all of them were

occasional--that is, suggested by passing events, or incidents in the

poet's experience.

Early in the year 1825 I persuaded Brainard to make a collection of

his poems, and have them published. At first his lip curled at the

idea, as being too pretentious. He insisted that he had done nothing

to justify the publication of a volume. Gradually he began to think

of it, and, at length, I induced him to sign a contract authorizing

me to make arrangements for the work. He set about the preparation,

and at length--after much lagging and many lapses--the pieces were

selected and arranged. When all was ready, I persuaded him to go to

New York with me to settle the matter with a publisher.

One anecdote, in addition to those already before the public, and I

shall close this sketch. Brainard's talent for repartee was of the

first order. On one occasion, Nathan Smith, an eminent lawyer, was

at Ripley's tavern, in the midst of a circle of judges and lawyers

attending the court. He was an Episcopalian, and at this time was

considered by his political adversaries--unjustly, no doubt--as the

paid agent of that persuasion, now clamoring for a sum of money from

the State, to lay the foundation of a "Bishops' Fund." He was thus

regarded somewhat in the same light as O'Connell, who, while he was

the great patriot leader of Irish independence, was, at the same

time, liberally supported by the "rint." By accident, Brainard came

in, and Smith, noticing a little feathery attempt at whiskers down

his cheeks, rallied him upon it.

"It will never do," said he; "you cannot raise it, Brainard. Come,

here's sixpence--take that, and go to the barber's and get it shaved

off! It will smooth your cheek, and ease your conscience."

Brainard drew himself up, and said with great dignity--as Smith held

out the sixpence on the point of his forefinger--"No, sir, you had

better keep it for the Bishops' Fund!"

In Brainard's editorial career--though he was negligent, dilatory,

sometimes almost imbecile, from a sort of constitutional

inertness--still a train of inextinguishable light remains to gleam

along his path. Many a busy, toiling editor has filled his daily

columns for years, without leaving a living page behind him; while

Brainard, with all his failings and irregularities, has left a

collection of gems which will be cherished to immortality. And among

all that he wrote idly and recklessly, as it might seem--there is not

a line that, "dying, he could wish to blot." His love of parents,

of home, of kindred, was beautiful indeed; his love of nature, and

especially of the scenes of his childhood, was the affection of one

never weaned from the remembrance of his mother's breast. He was true

in friendship, chivalrous in all that belonged to personal honor.

I never heard him utter a malignant thought--I never knew him to

pursue an unjust design. At the early age of eight-and-twenty, with

a submissive spirit, he resigned himself to death, and in pious,

gentle, cheerful faith, he departed on the 26th of September, 1828.

CHAPTER XVIII.

MY FIRST VISIT TO EUROPE--HURRICANE--ARRIVAL AT

LIVERPOOL--LONDON--TRAVEL ON THE CONTINENT--RETURN

TO BRISTOL--INTERVIEW WITH HANNAH MORE--DESIGN IN

TRAVELLING--VISIT TO IRELAND AND SCOTLAND.

It was on the 16th of November, 1823, that I set sail in the

"Canada," Captain Macy, on my first visit to Europe. I have now

before me four volumes of notes made during my tour; which I might,

perhaps, have ventured to publish when they were fresh; but since

that period the world has been inundated with tales of travels, I

shall therefore only indulge in a rapid outline of my adventures, and

a few sketches of men and things, which may perchance be of interest

to the reader.

Our voyage was, as usual at that season of the year, tempestuous.

As we approached the British Islands we were beset by a regular

hurricane. On the 5th of December, the Captain kindly informed us

that we were almost precisely in the situation of the "Albion," the

day before she was wrecked on the rocky headland of Kinsale, at the

south-east extremity of Ireland; an event which had spread a general

gloom throughout the United States. As night set in we were struck

by a squall, and with difficulty the vessel was brought round, so

as to lie to. The storm was fearful; and the frequent concussions

of the waves upon the ship, sounding like reports of artillery,

made her reel and stagger like a drunken man. The morning came at

last, and the weather was fair, but our deck was swept of its boats,

bulwarks, and hen-coops. Our old cow in her hovel, the covering of

the steerage, and that of the companion-way, were saved. The next

morning we took a pilot, and on the 8th of December entered the dock

at Liverpool.

I had suffered fearfully by sea-sickness, and had scarcely strength

to walk ashore. I felt such horror--such disgust of the sea--that

I could easily have pledged myself never to venture upon it again.

However, this all passed away like a dream: my strength revived;

and even my constitution, shattered by long suffering, seemed to

be renovated. With the return of health and spirits, my journey to

London was delightful. Though it was December, the landscape was

intensely green, while the atmosphere was dark as twilight. And

this was England! Oh, what emotions filled my breast as I looked on

Kenilworth, Warwick, and Lichfield, and at last on London!

I remained in the latter place about a month, and then went to

Paris. In April I visited Switzerland and a portion of Germany, and

followed the Rhine to Cologne. Thence I travelled through Flanders

and Holland, and taking a sloop at Rotterdam, swung down the

Maese, and in May reached London again. I soon after departed for

Bristol, taking Salisbury and Stonehenge on my way. Having reached

that city, and seen its sights, I hired a post-coach, and went to

Barley-wood, some ten miles distant. Hannah More was still living

there! The house was a small thatched edifice--half cottage and half

villa--tidily kept, and garnished with vines and trellises. Its site

was on a gentle hill, sloping to the south-east, and commanding

a charming view over the undulating country around, including the

adjacent village of Wrington, with a wide valley sloping to the

Bristol Channel; the latter sparkling in the distance, and bounded

by the Welsh mountains in the far horizon. Behind the house, and

on the crown of the hill, was a small copse, threaded with neat

gravel walks, and at particular points embellished with objects of

interest. In one place there was a little rustic temple, with this

motto--"_Audi, Hospes, contemnere opes_;" in another, there was a

stone monument, erected to the memory of Bishop Porteus, who had been

a particular friend of the proprietor of the place. A little further

on I found another monument, with this inscription: "_To John Locke,

born in this village, this monument is erected by Mrs. Montague, and

presented to Hannah More._" From this sequestered spot an artificial

opening was cut through the foliage of the trees, giving a view of

the house--about a mile distant--in which Locke was born!

Mrs. More was now seventy-nine years of age, and was very infirm,

having kept her room for two years. She received me with great

cordiality, and mentioned several Americans who had visited her, and

others, with whom she had held correspondence. Her mind and feelings

were alive to every subject that was suggested. She spoke very

freely of her writings and her career. I told her of the interest I

had taken, when a child, in the story of the Shepherd of Salisbury

Plain; upon which she recounted its history, remarking that the

character of the hero was modelled from life, though the incidents

were fictitious. Her tract, called Village Politics, by Will Chip,

was written at the request of the British Ministry, and two million

copies were sold the first year, She showed me copies of Coelebs

in Search of a Wife--the most successful of her works--in French

and German; and a copy of one of her Sacred Dramas, Moses in the

Bulrushes, on palm-leaves, in the Cingalese tongue; it having been

translated into that language by the Missionary School at Ceylon.

She showed me also the knife with which the leaf had been prepared,

and the scratches made in it to receive the ink. She expressed a

warm interest in America, and stated that Wilberforce had always

exerted himself to establish and maintain good relations between

Great Britain and our country. I suggested to her that, in the

United States, the general impression--that of the great mass of

the people--was that the English were unfriendly to us. She said

it was not so. I replied that the Americans all read the English

newspapers, and generally the products of the British press; that

feelings of dislike, disgust, animosity, certainly pervaded most of

these publications; and it was natural to suppose that these were

the reflections of public opinion in Great Britain: at all events,

our people regarded them as such, and hence inferred that England

was our enemy. She expressed great regret at this state of things,

and said all good people should strive to keep peace between the two

countries: to all which I warmly assented.

My interview with this excellent lady was, on the whole, most

gratifying. Regarding her as one of the greatest benefactors of the

age--as, indeed, one of the most remarkable women that had ever

lived--I looked upon her not only with veneration, but affection.

Besides, I felt that I owed her a special debt; and my visit to her

was almost like a pilgrimage to the shrine of a divinity. When I

left America, I had it in mind to render my travels subservient to

a desire I had long entertained of making an improvement in books

for the young. I had sought in London, France, and Germany, for

works that might aid my design. It is true I had little success; for

while scientific and classical education was sedulously encouraged

on the Continent, as well as in England, it seemed to be thought

that Dilworth and Mother Goose had done all that could be done. In

this interview with Mrs. More I had the subject still in mind; and

discerning by what she had accomplished the vast field that was

open, and actually inviting cultivation, I began from this time to

think of attempting to realize the project I had formed. It is true

that, in some respects, the example I had just contemplated differed

from my own scheme. Hannah More had written chiefly for the grown-up

masses; whereas my plan was to begin further back--with the children.

Her means, however, seemed adapted to my purpose: her success, to

encourage my attempt. She had discovered that truth could be made

attractive to simple minds. Fiction was, indeed, often her vehicle;

but it was not her end. The great charm of these works, which had

captivated the million, was their verisimilitude. Was there not,

then, a natural relish for truth in all minds; or, at least, was

there not a way of presenting it, which made it even more interesting

than romance? Did not children love truth? If so, was it necessary to

feed them on fiction? Could not History, Natural History, Geography,

Biography, become the elements of juvenile works, in place of fairies

and giants, and mere monsters of the imagination? These were the

inquiries that from this time filled my mind.

Taking leave of Barley-wood and its interesting occupant, I traversed

Wales, and embarking at Holyhead, passed over to Ireland. Having

seen Dublin, with the extraordinary contrasts of sumptuousness in

some of its streets and edifices, with the fearful squalidness and

poverty in others, I passed on to the North; and after visiting the

Giant's Causeway returned to Belfast, and embarked in a steamboat

for Greenock. Thence I proceeded toward Dumbarton, and in the early

evening, as I approached the town in a small steamer, I realized in

the distance before me the scene of the song,--

"The sun has gone down o'er the lofty Ben Lomond,

And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene."

On the morrow I went to Loch Lomond, crossing the lake in a

steamboat; thence on foot to Callender; and spent two days around

Loch Katrine, amid the scenery of the Lady of the Lake. With a copy

of that poem in my hand, which I had bought of a countryman on the

borders of Loch Lomond, I easily traced out the principal landmarks

of the story: "Ellen's Isle," nearly in the middle of the lake;

on the northern shore, "the Silver Strand," where the maiden met

Fitz-James; far to the east, Benain, rearing its "forehead fair"

to the sky; to the south, the rocky pyramid called "Roderick's

Watchtower;" and still beyond, the "Goblin's Cave." Leaving the lake,

I passed through the Trosachs, a wild, rocky glen, and the scene of

the most startling events in the poem. At last I came to Coilantogle

Ford, where the deadly struggle took place between the two heroes of

the poem--Roderick and Fitz-James. Finally, I went to the borders of

Loch Achray, a placid sheet of water, beautiful by nature, but still

more enchanting through the delightful associations of poetic art.

"The minstrel came once more to view

The eastern ridge of Benvenue,

For, ere he parted, he would say

Farewell to lovely Loch Achray.

Where shall he find, in foreign land,

So lone a lake, so sweet a strand!"

* * * * *

But I must forbear. I have pledged myself not to weary my reader with

descriptions of scenery, and especially with that which is familiar

to every one. I will try not to sin again: at least till I get out of

Scotland. Having spent two days in this region of poetry and romance,

I left for Glasgow, and at last reached Edinburgh.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE EDINBURGH LIONS--LITERARY CELEBRITIES--JEFFREY IN

THE FORUM--SIR WALTER AT THE DESK--RIDING WITH SCOTCH

LADIES--BEAUTIFUL SCENERY--A SCOTCH MIST.

Edinburgh was then decidedly the literary metropolis of the three

kingdoms; not through the amount of its productions, but their

superiority. I had several letters of introduction; among them one to

Blackwood; another to Constable; another to Miss Y----. The latter

proved fortunate. Her father was a Writer to the Signet; an elderly

gentleman of excellent position, and exceedingly fond of showing off

"Auld Reekie." Well, indeed, might he be; for of all the cities I

have seen, it is, in many respects, the most interesting. I am told

it is gloomy in winter; but now it was summer. And in these high

latitudes, nature makes ample amends in this season for the gloom and

inclemency of the winter.

The day after delivering my letters, Mr. Y---- called on me, and

showed me the lions of the town. Many of them--all, indeed--were

interesting; but I pass them by, and shall only linger a short

time at the Court of Sessions, which is the supreme civil court

of Scotland. This, with the High Court of Justiciary--the supreme

criminal court--forms the College of Justice, and constitutes the

supreme tribunal of Scotland. Their sessions are held in the old

Parliament House, situated in the centre of the Old Town.

We entered a large Gothic hall, opening, as I observed, into various

contiguous apartments. Here I saw a considerable number of persons,

mostly lawyers and their clients; some sauntering, some meditating,

some gathered in groups and conversing together. There was a large

number of people distributed through the several apartments, and in

the grand hall there was a pervading hum of voices, which rose and

rumbled, and died away amid the groinings of the roof above.

Among the persons in this hall, a man some thirty years of age, tall

and handsome, dressed in a gown, but without the wig, attracted my

particular attention. He was walking apart, and there was a certain

look of coldness and haughtiness about him. Nevertheless, for some

undefinable reason, he excited in me a lively curiosity.

"Who is that gentleman?" said I, to my guide.

"That large, noble-looking person, with a gown and wig? That is

Cranstoun, one of our first lawyers, and the brother-in-law of Dugald

Stuart."

"No: that person beyond, and to the left? He is without a wig."

"Oh, that's Cockburn; a fiery Whig, and one of the keenest fellows we

have at the bar."

"Yes: but I mean that younger person near the corner."

"Oh, that small, red-faced, freckled man? Why, that's Moncrief; a

very sound lawyer. His father, Sir Harry Moncrief, is one of the most

celebrated divines in Scotland."

"No, no; it is that tall, handsome, proud-looking person, walking by

himself."

"Oh, I see: that's Lockhart, Sir Walter Scott's son-in-law. Would you

like to know him?"

"Yes."

And so I was introduced to a man who, at that time, was hardly less

an object of interest to me than Scott himself. Though a lawyer by

profession, he had devoted himself to literature, and was now in the

very height of his career. Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk, Valerius,

and other works, had given him a prominent rank as a man of talent;

and, besides, in 1820, he had married the eldest daughter of the

"Great Unknown." My conversation with him was brief at this time, but

I afterwards became well acquainted with him.

My guide now led me into one of the side-rooms, where I saw a judge

and jury, and a lawyer addressing them. The latter was a very small

man, without gown or wig, apparently about forty years of age, though

he might be somewhat older. He was of dark complexion, with an eye

of intense blackness, and almost painfully-piercing expression. His

motions were quick and energetic, his voice sharp and penetrating;

his general aspect exciting curiosity rather than affection. He was

speaking energetically, and as we approached the bar my conductor

said to me, in a whisper, "Jeffrey!"

We paused, and listened intently. The case in itself seemed dry

enough: something, I believe, about a _stoppage in transitu_. But

Jeffrey's pleading was admirable; clear, progressive, logical.

Occasionally, in fixing upon a weak point of his adversary, he

displayed a leopard-like spring of energy, altogether startling. He

seized upon a certain point in the history of the case, and insisted

that the property in question rested at that period in the hands of

the defendant's agent, for at least a fortnight. This he claimed to

be fatal to his adversary's plea. Having stated the facts, with a

clearness which seemed to prove them, he said, turning with startling

quickness upon his antagonist,--"Now, I ask my learned brother to

tell me, what was the state of the soul during that fortnight?" To a

jury of Scotch Presbyterians, familiar with theological metaphysics,

this allusion was exceedingly pertinent and effective.

We passed into another room. Three full-wigged judges were seated

upon a lofty bench, and beneath them, at a little table in front, was

a large man, bent down and writing laboriously. As I approached, I

caught a side-view of his face. There was no mistaking him: it was

Sir Walter himself!

Was it not curious to see the most renowned personage in the three

kingdoms sitting at the very feet of these men: they the court, and

he the clerk? They were indeed all "lords," and their individual

names were suggestive to the ear: one was Robertson, son of the

historian of Charles V.; another was Gillies, brother of the renowned

Grecian scholar of that name; another, Mackenzie, son of the author

of the Man of Feeling. These are high titles; but what were they to

the author of Waverley?

Mr. Y---- introduced me to him at once, breaking in upon his

occupation with easy familiarity. As he arose from his seat, I was

surprised at his robust, vigorous frame. He was very nearly six feet

in height, full-chested, and of a farmer-like aspect. His complexion

seemed to have been originally sandy, but now his hair was grey. He

had the rough, freckled, weather-beaten skin of a man who is much in

the open air; his eye was small and grey, and peering out keenly and

inquisitively from beneath a heavy brow, edged with something like

grey, twisted bristles: the whole expression of his face, however,

was exceedingly agreeable.

He greeted me kindly, the tone of his voice being hearty, yet with a

very decided Scotch accent. A few commonplace remarks, and one or two

inquiries as to my acquaintance with American literary men, was all

that passed between us on this occasion; but subsequently, as will be

seen, I was more highly favored.

One morning I found a note at my hotel, from Miss Y----, inviting

me to breakfast. I went at ten, and we had a pleasant chat. She

then proposed a ride, to which I acceded. She was already in her

riding-habit; so without delay we went forth, calling first upon Mrs.

Russell. She led us into another room, and there, on the floor, in

a romp with her two boys, was Francis Jeffrey! Think of the first

lawyer in Scotland, the lawgiver of the great republic of letters

throughout Christendom, having a rough-and-tumble on the floor, as

if he were himself a boy! Let others think as they will, I loved him

from that moment; and ever after, as I read his criticisms, cutting

and scorching as they often were, I fancied that I could still see

a kind and genial spirit shining through them all. At least it is

certain that, behind his editorial causticity, there was in private

life a fund of gentleness and geniality which endeared him to all who

enjoyed his intimacy. I was now introduced to him, and he seemed a

totally different being from the fierce and fiery gladiator of the

legal arena, where I had before seen him. His manners were gentle and

gentlemanly: polite to the ladies and gracious to me.

We found Mrs. Russell in a riding-dress, and prepared to accompany

us in our excursion. Taking leave of Mr. Jeffrey, we went to the

stable, and having mounted, walked our steeds gently out of the town

by Holyrood, and to the east of Arthur's seat, leaving Portobello

on the left. We rode steadily, noting a few objects as we passed,

until at last, reaching an elevated mound, we paused, and the ladies

directed my attention to the scenes around. We were some two miles

south of the town, upon one of the slopes of the Braid Hills. What a

view was before us! The city, a vast smoking hive, to the north; and

to the right, Arthur's Seat, bald and blue, seeming to rise up and

almost peep into its streets and chimneys. Over and beyond all was

the sea. The whole area between the point where we stood and that

vast azure line, blending with the sky, was a series of abrupt hills

and dimpling valleys, threaded by a network of highways and byways;

honeycombed in spots by cities and villages, and elsewhere sprinkled

with country seats.

It is an unrivalled scene of varied beauty and interest. The natural

site of Edinburgh is remarkable, consisting of three rocky ledges,

steepling over deep ravines. These have all been modified by art; in

one place a lake has been dried up, and is now covered with roads,

bridges, tenements, gardens, and lawns. The sides of the cliffs are

in some instances covered with masses of buildings, occasionally

rising tier above tier--in one place presenting a line of houses a

dozen stories in height! The city is divided by a deep chasm into

two distinct parts: the Old Town, dark and smoky, and justifying the

popular appellation of "Auld Reekie;" the other, the New Town, with

the fresh architecture and the rich and elaborate embellishments of a

modern city. Nearly from the centre of the Old Town rises the Castle,

three hundred and eighty feet above the level of the sea; on one side

looking down almost perpendicularly, two hundred feet into the vale

beneath; on the other, holding communication with the streets by

means of a winding pathway. In the new town is Calton Hill, rich with

monuments of art and memorials of history. From these two commanding

positions the views are unrivalled.

But I forget that I have taken you to the Braid Hills. My amiable

guides directed my attention to various objects--some far and some

near, and all with names familiar to history, or song, or romance.

Yonder mass of dun and dismal ruins was Craigmillar Castle, once

the residence of Queen Mary. Nearly in the same direction, and

not remote, is the cliff, above whose bosky sides peer out the

massive ruins of Roslin Castle; further south are glimpses of

Dalkieth Palace, the sumptuous seat of the Duke of Buccleuch; there

is the busy little village of Lasswade, which takes the name of

"Gandercleugh" in the Tales of my Landlord; yonder winds the Esk,

and there the Galawater--both familiar in many a song; and there is

the scenery of the Gentle Shepherd, presenting the very spot where

that inimitable colloquy took place between Peggy and her companion

Jenny,--

"Gae farer up the burn to Habbie's How

Where a' the sweets o' spring an' summer grow:

Between twa birks, out o'er a little linn,

The water fa's and makes a singan din:

A pool, breast deep, beneath as clear as glass,

Kisses wi' easy whirls the bordering grass.

We'll end our washing while the morning's cool,

And when the day grows hot we'll to the pool,

There wash oursels--it's healthful now in May,

An' sweetly caller on sae warm a day."

While we were surveying these scenes the rain began to fall in a

fine, insinuating mizzle; soon large drops pattered through the

fog, and at last there was a drenching shower. I supposed the ladies

would seek some shelter; not they: accustomed to all the humors

of this drizzly climate, and of course defying them. They pulled

off their green veils, and stuffed them into their saddle-pockets:

then chirruping to their steeds, they sped along the road, as if

mounted on broomsticks. I was soon wet through, and so, doubtless,

were they. However, they took to it as ducks to a pond. On we went,

the water--accelerated by our speed--spouting in torrents from our

stirrups. In all my days I had never such an adventure. And the

coolness with which the ladies took it, that was the most remarkable.

Indeed, it was provoking; for as they would not accept sympathy, of

course they could not give it, though my reeking condition would have

touched any other heart than theirs. On we went, till at last, coming

to the top of the hill, we suddenly cropped out into the sunshine,

the shower still scudding along the valley beneath us. We continued

our ride, getting once more soaked on our way, and again drying in

the sun. At last we reached home, having made a circuit of fifteen

miles. Scarcely a word was said of the rain. I saw the ladies to

their residences, and was thankful when I found myself once more in

my hotel.

As a just moral of this adventure, I suggest to any American, who may

ride with Scotch ladies around Edinburgh, not to go forth in his best

dress-coat, and pantaloons without straps.

CHAPTER XX.

BLACKWOOD--THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY--SIR WALTER SCOTT--MR. AND MRS.

LOCKHART--ORIGIN OF "TAM O'SHANTER"--LAST WORDS OF SCOTT.

I delivered my letter of introduction to Blackwood, and he treated

me very kindly. I found him an exceedingly intelligent and agreeable

gentleman. The Magazine which bears his name was then in its glory,

and of course a part of its radiance shone on him. He was a man of

excellent judgment in literary matters, and his taste, no doubt,

contributed largely to the success of the Magazine.

Of course I was gratified at receiving from him a note, inviting

me to dine with him the next day. His house was on the south of

the old town, nearly two miles distant. The persons present were

such as I should myself have selected: among them Lockhart and

James Ballantyne. I sat next the latter, and found him exceedingly

agreeable and gentlemanlike. He was a rather large man, handsome,

smooth in person and manner, and very well dressed. It must be

remembered, that at this time Scott did not acknowledge that he was

the author of the Waverley novels, nor did his friends. Perhaps the

mystery was even promoted by them; for, no doubt, it added to the

interest excited by his works. However, the veil was not closely

preserved in the circle of intimacy. Ballantyne said to me, in

the course of a conversation which turned upon the popularity of

authors, as indicated by the sale of their works,--"We have now in

course of preparation forty thousand volumes of Scott's poems and the

works of the author of Waverley:" evidently intimating the identity

of their authorship.

The next day I went to St. Giles's Church, to see the General

Assembly, then holding its annual session there. This body

consisted of nearly four hundred members, chosen by different

parishes, boroughs, and universities. The sessions are attended by

a Commissioner appointed by the Crown, but he is seated outside of

the area assigned to the Assembly, and has no vote, and no right of

debate. He sits under a canopy, with the insignia of royalty, and a

train of gaily-dressed pages. He opens the sessions in the name of

the King, the Head of the Church: the Moderator then opens it in the

name of the Lord Jesus Christ, _the only true Head of the Church_! It

appears that the Scotch, in bargaining for a union with England, took

good care to provide for their religious independence, and this they

still jealously preserve.

The aspect of the Assembly was similar to that of the House of

Commons, though somewhat graver. I observed that the debates were

often stormy, with scraping of the floor, laughing aloud, and cries

of "Hear, hear!" The members were, in fact, quite disorderly, showing

at least as little regard for decorum as ordinary legislatures. Sir

Walter Scott once remarked, in my hearing, that it had never yet been

decided how many more than six members could speak at once!

The persons here pointed out to me as celebrities were Dr. Chalmers,

the famous pulpit orator; Dr. Cook, the ecclesiastical historian; and

Dr. Baird, principal of the University. The first of these was now at

the height of his fame. He had already begun those reforms which,

some years later, resulted in a disruption of the Scottish Church.

A few days after the dinner at Mr. Blackwood's I dined with Mr.

Lockhart. Besides the host and hostess, there were present Sir Walter

Scott, his son, Charles Scott, Mr. Blackwood, and three or four

other persons. At dinner I sat next Sir Walter. Everything went off

pleasantly, with the usual ease, hospitality, and heartiness of an

English dinner.

After the ladies had retired the conversation became general and

animated. Byron was the engrossing topic. Sir Walter spoke of him

with the deepest feeling of admiration and regret. A few weeks

before, on the receipt of the news of his death, he had written

an obituary notice of him, in which he compared him to the sun,

withdrawn from the heavens at the very moment when every telescope

was levelled to discover either his glory or his spots.

Lockhart and Blackwood both told stories, and we passed a pleasant

half hour. The wine was at last rather low, and our host ordered the

servant to bring more. Upon which Scott said, "No, no, Lokert"--such

was his pronunciation of his son-in-law's name--"we have had enough:

let us go and see the ladies." And so we gathered to the parlor.

Mrs. Lockhart spoke with great interest of Washington Irving, who had

visited the family at Abbotsford. She said that he slept in a room

which looked out on the Tweed. In the morning, when he came down to

breakfast, he was very pale, and being asked the reason, confessed

that he had not been able to sleep. The sight of the Tweed from his

window, and the consciousness of being at Abbotsford, so filled his

imagination, so excited his feelings, as to deprive him of slumber.

Our lively hostess was requested to give us some music, and instantly

complied--the harp being her instrument. She sang Scotch airs, and

played several pibrochs, all with taste and feeling. Her range of

tunes seemed inexhaustible. Her father sat by, and entered heartily

into the performances. He beat time vigorously with his lame leg, and

frequently helped out a chorus, the heartiness of his tones making

up for some delinquencies in tune and time. Often he made remarks

upon the songs, and told anecdotes respecting them. When a certain

pibroch had been played, he said it reminded him of the first time he

ever saw Miss Edgeworth. There had come to Abbotsford a wild Gaelic

peasant from the neighborhood of Staffa, and it was proposed to him

to sing a a pibroch common in that region. He had consented, but

required the whole party present to sit in a circle on the floor,

while he should sing the song, and perform a certain pantomimic

accompaniment, in the centre. All was accordingly arranged in the

great hall, and the performer had just begun his wild chant, when

in walked a small but stately lady, and announced herself as Miss

Edgeworth!

Mrs. Lockhart asked me about the American Indians, expressing great

curiosity concerning them. I told the story of one who was tempted to

go into the rapids of the Niagara river, just above the Falls, for

a bottle of rum. This he took with him, and having swam out to the

point agreed upon, he turned back and attempted to regain the land.

For a long time the result was doubtful: he struggled powerfully, but

in vain; inch by inch he receded from the shore; and at last, finding

his doom sealed, he raised himself above the water, wrenched the

cork from the bottle, and putting the latter to his lips, yielded to

the current, and thus went down to his doom.

Sir Walter then said that he had read an account of an Indian, who

was in a boat, approaching a cataract; by some accident it was drawn

into the current, and the savage saw that his escape was impossible.

Upon this he arose, wrapped his robe of skins around him, seated

himself erect, and, with an air of imperturbable gravity, went over

the falls.

"The most remarkable thing about the American Indians," said

Blackwood, "is their being able to follow in the trail of their

enemies, by their footprints left in the leaves, upon the grass, and

even upon the moss of the rocks. The accounts given of this seem

hardly credible."

"I can readily believe it, however," said Sir Walter. "You must

remember that this is a part of their education. I have learned

at Abbotsford to discriminate between the hoof-marks of all our

neighbors' horses, and I taught the same thing to Mrs. Lockhart. It

is, after all, not so difficult as you might think. Every horse's

foot has some peculiarity, either of size, shoeing, or manner of

striking the earth. I was once walking with Southey--a mile or more

from home--across the fields. At last we came to a bridle-path

leading towards Abbotsford, and here I noticed fresh hoof-prints. Of

this I said nothing; but pausing, and looking up with an inspired

expression, I said to Southey,--'I have a gift of second sight: we

shall have a stranger to dinner!'

"'And what may be his name?' was the reply.

"'Scott,' said I.

"'Ah, it is some relation of yours,' he said; 'you have invited him,

and you would pass off, as an example of your Scottish gift of

prophecy, a matter previously agreed upon!'

"'Not at all,' said I. 'I assure you that, till this moment, I never

thought of such a thing.'

"When we got home, I was told that Mr. Scott, a farmer living some

three or four miles distant, and a relative of mine, was waiting to

see me. Southey looked astounded. The man remained to dinner, and he

was asked if he had given any intimation of his coming. He replied

in the negative: that, indeed, he had no idea of visiting Abbotsford

when he left home. After enjoying Southey's wonder for some time,

I told him that I saw the tracks of Mr. Scott's horse in the

bridle-path, and inferring that he was going to Abbotsford, easily

foresaw that we should have him to dinner."

Presently the conversation turned upon Burns. Scott knew him well.

He said that Tam O'Shanter was written to please a stonecutter,

who had executed a monument for the poet's father, on condition

that he should write him a witch-story in verse. He stated that

Burns was accustomed in his correspondence, more especially with

ladies, to write an elaborate letter, and then send a copy of it to

several persons; modifying local and personal passages to suit each

individual. He said that of some of these letters he had three or

four copies, thus addressed to different persons, and all in the

poet's handwriting.

The evening passed in pleasant conversation, varied by the music

of Mrs. Lockhart's voice and harp; and some amusing imitations by

a gentleman of the party, till twelve o'clock. It will readily be

supposed that my eye often turned upon the chief figure in this

interesting group. I could not for a moment forget his presence;

though nothing could be more unpretending and modest than his whole

air and bearing.

The general effect of his face was that of calm dignity; and

now, in the presence of children and friends, lighted by genial

emotions, it was one of the pleasantest countenances I have ever

seen. When standing or walking, his manly form, added to an aspect

of benevolence, completed the image; at once exciting affection and

commanding respect.

His manners were quiet, unpretending, absolutely without

self-assertion. He appeared to be happy, and desirous of making

others so. He was the only person present who seemed unconscious that

he was the author of Waverley. His intercourse with his daughter was

most charming. She seemed quite devoted to him; watching his lips

when he was speaking, and seeking in everything to anticipate and

fulfil his wishes. When she was singing, his eye dwelt upon her; his

ear catching and seeming to relish every tone. Frequently, when she

was silent, his eye rested upon her, and the lines came to my mind,--

"Some feelings are to mortals given,

With less of earth in them than heaven:

And if there be a human tear

From passion's dross refined and clear,

A tear so limpid and so meek

It would not stain an angel's cheek:

'Tis that which pious fathers shed

Upon a duteous daughter's head!"

Eight years later, when I was again in London, Scott was on his

death-bed at Abbotsford. Overburdened with the struggle to extricate

himself from the wreck of his fortunes, his brain had given way,

and the mighty intellect was in ruins. On the morning of the 17th he

woke from a paralytic slumber; his eye clear and calm, every trace of

delirium having passed away. Lockhart came to his bedside. "My dear,"

he said, "I may have but a moment to speak to you. Be a good man: be

virtuous; be religious: be a good man. Nothing else will give you any

comfort when you are called upon to lie here!"

These were almost the last words he spoke; he soon fell into a

stupor, which became the sleep of death. So he died, with all his

children around him. "It was a beautiful day," says his biographer;

"so warm, that every window was wide open; and so perfectly still,

that the sound of all others most delicious to his ear--the gentle

ripple of the Tweed over its pebbles--was distinctly audible, as we

knelt around the bed; and his eldest son kissed and closed his eyes!"

CHAPTER XXI.

EN ROUTE FOR LONDON--"THE LAIRD O'COCKPEN"--LOCALITIES OF

LEGENDARY FAME--DIFFERENCE OF ENGLISH AND AMERICAN SCENERY.

Early in June I set out for London. My route led me through the

village of Dalkeith, and the possessions of the Duke of Buccleuch,

which extended for thirty miles on both sides of the road. We were

constantly meeting objects which revived historical or poetic

reminiscences. Among these was Cockpen, the scene of the celebrated

ballad; and as I rode by the whole romance passed before my mind. I

fancied that I could even trace the pathway along which the old laird

proceeded upon his courtship, as well as the residence of

"The penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree;"

who was so daft as to reject his offer, although

"His wig was well powthered and as gude as new;

His waistcoat was red, and his coat it was blue;

A ring on his finger, a sword and cocked hat--

And wha could refuse the laird wi' a' that?"

We crossed the Galawater and the Ettrick, and travelled along the

banks of the Tweed. We passed Abbotsford on our left; and further

on saw the Eildon Hills, "cleft in three" by the wondrous wizard,

Michael Scott; as duly chronicled in the Lay of the Last Minstrel.

We proceeded along the banks of the Teviot, a small limpid stream,

where barefooted lassies were washing, as in the days of Allan

Ramsay. We saw Netherby Hall, and a little beyond Cannobie Lea,

the scenes of the song Young Lochinvar. All these, and many more

localities of legendary fame, were passed in the course of a

forenoon's progress in the stage-coach.

One day's journey brought me to Carlisle: thence I travelled through

the lake district, looking with delight upon Windermere, Rydal,

Grassmere, Helvellyn, Derwentwater, and Skiddaw. Then turning

eastward, I passed over a hilly and picturesque country, to the

ancient and renowned city of York. Having lingered, half entranced,

amid its antiquities, and looked almost with worship upon its

cathedral--the most beautiful I have ever seen--I departed, and soon

found myself once more in London.