As I shall not return to the subject again, I must say a few words

as to the impression England makes upon the mind of an American

traveller. I have visited this country several times within the last

thirty years, and I shall group my impressions in one general view.

The whole may be summed up in a single sentence, which is, that

England is incomparably the most beautiful country in the world! I do

not speak of it in winter, when encumbered with fogs; when there is

"No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon,

No dusk, no dawn--no proper time of day;

No sky, no earthly view, no distance looking blue;

No road, no street, no t'other side the way!"

I take her, as I do any other beauty who sits for her portrait,

in her best attire; that is, in summer. The sun rises here as high

in June as it does in America. Vegetation is just about as far

advanced. The meadows, the wheat-fields, the orchards, the forests

are in their glory. There is one difference, however, between the two

countries; the sun in England is not so hot, the air is not so highly

perfumed, the buzz of the insects is not so intense. Everything is

more tranquil. With us, all nature, during summer, appears to be in

haste: as if its time was short; as if it feared the coming frost.

In England, on the contrary, there seems to be a confidence in the

seasons, as if there were time for the ripening harvests; as if the

wheat might swell out its fat sides, the hop amplify its many-plaited

flowers, the oats multiply and increase their tassels; each and all

attaining their perfection at leisure. In the United States, the

period of growth of most vegetables is compressed into ten weeks; in

Great Britain, it extends to sixteen.

If we select the middle of June as a point of comparison, we shall

see that in America there is a spirit, vigor, energy in the climate,

as indicated by vegetable and animal life, unknown in Europe. The air

is clearer, the landscape is more distinct, the bloom more vivid,

the odors more pungent. A clover-field in America, in full bloom,

is by many shades more ruddy than the same thing in England: its

breath even is sweeter: the music of the bees stealing its honey is

of a higher key. A summer forest with us is of a livelier green than

in any part of Great Britain; the incense breathed upon the heart,

morning and evening, is, I think, more full and fragrant. And yet, if

we take the summer through, this season is pleasanter in England than

with us. It is longer, its excitements are more tranquil, and, being

spread over a larger space, the heart has more leisure to appreciate

them, than in the haste and hurry of our American climate.

There is one fact worthy of notice, which illustrates this

peculiarity of the English summer: the trees there are all of a more

sturdy, or, as we say, _stubbed_ form and character. The oaks, the

elms, the walnuts, beeches, are shorter and thicker, as well in the

trunks as the branches, than ours. The leaves are thicker, the twigs

larger in circumference. I have noticed particularly the recent

growths of apple-trees, and they are at once shorter and stouter than

in America. This quality in the trees gives a peculiarity to the

landscape: the forest is more solid and less graceful than ours. If

you will look at an English painting of trees, you notice the fact

I state, and perceive the effect it gives, especially to scenes of

which trees constitute a prevailing element. All over Europe, in

fact, the leaves of the trees have a less feathery appearance than in

America; and in general the forms of the branches are less arching,

and, of course, less beautiful. Hence it will be perceived that

European pictures of trees differ in this respect from American ones:

the foliage in the former being more solid, and the sweep of the

branches more angular.

But it is in respect to the effects of human art and industry that

the English landscape has the chief advantage over ours. England

is an old country, and shows on its face the influences of fifteen

centuries of cultivation. It is, with the exception of Belgium, the

most thickly-settled country of Europe.

It is under a garden-like cultivation; the ploughing is straight

and even, as if regulated by machinery; the boundaries of estates

consist, for the most part, of stone mason-work, the intermediate

divisions being hedges, neatly trimmed, and forming a beautiful

contrast to our stiff stone walls and rail fences. In looking from

the top of a hill over a large extent of country, it is impossible

not to feel a glow of delight at the splendor of the scene: the

richness of the soil, its careful and skilful cultivation, its green,

tidy boundaries chequering the scene, its teeming crops, its fat

herds, its numberless and full-fleeced sheep.

Nor must the dwellings be overlooked. I pass by the cities and the

manufacturing villages, which, in most parts, are visible in every

extended landscape; sometimes, as in the region of Manchester,

spreading out for miles, and sending up wreaths of smoke from a

thousand tall, tapering chimneys. I am speaking now of the country;

and here are such residences as are unknown to us. An English castle

would swallow up a dozen of our wood or brick villas. The adjacent

estate often includes a thousand acres; and these, be it remembered,

are kept almost as much for ornament as use. Think of a dwelling

that might gratify the pride of a prince, surrounded by several

square miles of wooded park, and shaven lawn, and winding stream,

and swelling hill; and all having been for a hundred, perhaps five

hundred years, subjected to every improvement which the highest art

could suggest! There is certainly a union of unrivalled beauty and

magnificence in the lordly estates of England. We have nothing in

America which at all resembles them.

And then there is every grade of imitation of these high examples

scattered over the whole country. The greater part of the surface

of England belongs to wealthy proprietors, and these have alike the

desire and the ability to give an aspect of neatness, finish, and

elegance, not only to their dwellings and the immediate grounds,

but to their entire estates. The prevailing standard of taste thus

leads to a universal beautifying of the surface of the country.

Even the cottager feels the influence of this omnipresent spirit:

the brown thatch over his dwelling, and the hedge before his door,

must be neatly trimmed: the green ivy must clamber up and festoon

his windows; and the little yard in front must bloom with roses and

lilies, and other gentle flowers, in their season.

So much for the common aspect of England as the traveller passes over

it. The seeker after the picturesque may find abundant gratification

in Devonshire, Derbyshire, Westmoreland, though Wales and Scotland,

and parts of Ireland, are still more renowned for their beauty. So

far as combinations of nature are concerned, nothing in the world can

surpass some of our own scenery; as along the upper waters of the

Housatonic and the Connecticut, or among the islands of Lake George,

and a thousand other places: but these lack the embellishments of art

and the associations of romance or song, which belong to the rival

beauties of British landscapes.

I confine these remarks to a single topic, the aspect of England as

it meets the eye of an American traveller. The English do not and

cannot enjoy the spectacle as an American does; for they are born

to it, and have no experience which teaches them to estimate it by

common and inferior standards. Having said so much on this subject,

I shall not venture to speak of English society: of the lights and

shadows of life beneath the myriad roofs of towns and cities. The

subject would be too extensive; and besides, it has been abundantly

treated by others. I only say, in passing, that the English people

are the best studied at home. John Bull, out of his own house,

is generally a rough customer: here, by his fireside, with wife,

children, and friends, he is generous, genial, gentlemanly. There is

no hospitality like that of an Englishman, when you have crossed his

threshold. Everywhere else he will annoy you. He will poke his elbow

into your sides in a crowded thoroughfare; he will rebuff you if,

sitting at his side in a railway-carriage, you ask a question by way

of provoking a little conversation: he carries at his back a load of

prejudices, like the bundle of Christian in the Pilgrim's Progress;

and, instead of seeking to get rid of them, he is always striving to

increase his collection. If he becomes a diplomat, his great business

is to meddle in everybody's affairs; if an editor, he is only happy

in proportion as he can say annoying and irritating things. And yet,

catch this same John Bull at home, and his crusty, crocodile armor

falls off, and he is the very best fellow in the world: liberal,

hearty, sincere,--the perfection of a gentleman.

CHAPTER XXII.

LONDON AGAIN--JACOB PERKINS AND HIS STEAM-GUN--DUKES OF

WELLINGTON, SUSSEX, AND YORK--BRITISH LADIES AT A REVIEW--HOUSE

OF COMMONS AND ITS ORATORS--CATALANI--DISTINGUISHED

FOREIGNERS--EDWARD IRVING COMPARED TO EDMUND KEAN--BYRON LYING

IN STATE.

London, when I first knew it, was not what it is now. Its population

has at least doubled since 1824. At that time Charing Cross was a

filthy, triangular thoroughfare, a stand for hackney-coaches, a

grand panorama of show-bills pasted over the surrounding walls,

with the King's Mews in the immediate vicinity: this whole area is

now the site of Trafalgar Square. This is an index of other and

similar changes that have taken place all over the city. At the

present day, London not only surpasses in its extent, its wealth, its

accumulations of all that belongs to art, the extent of its commerce,

the vastness of its influence, all the cities that now exist, but all

that the world has before known.

King George IV. was then on the throne, and though he was shy of

showing himself in public, I chanced to see him several times, and

once to advantage, at Ascot Races. For more than an hour his majesty

stood in the pavilion, surrounded by the Duke of Wellington, the

Duke of York, the Marquis of Anglesea, and other persons of note.

But for the star on his left breast, and the respect paid to him, he

might have passed as only an over-dressed and rather sour old rake. I

noticed that his coat sat very close and smooth, and was told that

he was trussed and braced by stays. It was said to be the labor of

at least two hours to prepare him for a public exhibition. He was a

dandy to the last. The wrinkles of his coat, after it was on, were

cut out by the tailor, and carefully drawn up with the needle. He

had the gout, and walked badly. I imagine there were few among the

thousands gathered to the spectacle who were really less happy than

his majesty--the monarch of the three kingdoms.

I saw the Duke of Wellington not only on this, but on many subsequent

occasions. I think the portraits give a false idea of his personal

appearance. He was really a rather small, thin, insignificant-looking

man, unless you saw him on horseback. He then seemed rather stately,

and in a military dress, riding always with inimitable ease, he

sustained the image of the great general. At other times I never

could discover in his appearance anything but the features and aspect

of an ordinary, and certainly not prepossessing, old man. I say this

with great respect for his character, which, as a personification of

solid sense, indomitable purpose, steady loyalty, and unflinching

devotion to a sense of public duty, I conceive to be one of the

finest in British history.

At this period our countryman, Jacob Perkins, was astonishing London

with his steam-gun. He was certainly a man of extraordinary genius,

and was the originator of numerous useful inventions. At the time

of which I write, he fancied that he had discovered a new mode of

generating steam, by which he was not only to save a vast amount of

fuel, but to obtain a marvellous increase of power. So confident was

he of success, that he told me he felt certain of being able, in a

few months, to go from London to Liverpool with the steam produced

by a gallon of oil. Such was his fertility of invention, that while

pursuing one discovery others came into his mind, and, seizing upon

his attention, kept him in a whirl of experiments, in which many

things were begun, and comparatively nothing completed.

Though the steam-gun never reached any practical result, it was for

some time the admiration of London. I was present at an exhibition

of its wonderful performances in the presence of the Duke of Sussex,

the Duke of Wellington, and other persons of note. The purpose of the

machine was to discharge bullets by steam, instead of gunpowder, and

with great rapidity--at least a hundred a minute. The balls were put

in a sort of tunnel, and by working a crank back and forward, they

were let into the chamber of the barrel one by one, and expelled by

the steam. The noise of each explosion was like that of a musket; and

when the discharges were rapid, there was a ripping uproar, quite

shocking to tender nerves. The balls--carried about a hundred feet

across the smithy--struck upon an iron target, and were flattened to

the thickness of a shilling piece.

The whole performance was indeed quite formidable, and the

Duke of Sussex seemed greatly excited. I stood close to him;

and when the bullets flew pretty thick, and the discharge came

to its climax, I heard him say to the Duke of Wellington, in

an under-tone,--"Wonderful, wonderful--wonderful! wonderful,

wonderful--wonderful! wonderful, wonderful--wonderful!" and so he

went on, without variation. It was, in fact, a very good commentary

upon the performance.

Having spoken of the Duke of Sussex, I must say a few words of his

brother, the Duke of York, whom I had seen at Ascot. He was there

interested in the race, for he had entered a horse by the name of

Moses, for one of the prizes. Some person reflected upon him for

this. His ready reply was, that he was devoted to _Moses and the

profits_. Despite his disgrace in the Flanders campaign, and his

notorious profligacy, he was still a favorite among the British

people. There was about him a certain native honorableness and

goodness of heart, which always existed, even in the midst of his

worst career.

I saw the Duke on another occasion, at a cavalry review on Hounslow

Heath. The Duke of Wellington was among the spectators. He was now

in military dress, and mounted on a fine chestnut-colored horse. His

motions were quick, and frequently seemed to indicate impatience.

Several ladies and gentlemen on horseback were admitted to the

review, and within the circle of the sentries stationed to exclude

the crowd. I obtained admission by paying five shillings; for I

learned that in England money is quite as mighty as in America.

The privileged group of fair ladies and brave men, gathered upon a

grassy knoll to observe the evolutions of the soldiers, presented

an assemblage such as the aristocracy of England alone can furnish.

Those who imagine that this is an effeminate generation, should learn

that both the men and women belonging to the British nobility, taken

together, are without doubt the finest race in the world. One thing

is certain, these ladies could stand fire; for although the horses

leaped and pranced at the discharges of the troops, their fair riders

seemed as much at ease as if upon their own feet. Their horsemanship

was indeed admirable, and suggested those habits of exercise and

training, to which their full rounded forms and blooming countenances

gave ample testimony.

The performances consisted of various marches and

counter-marches--sometimes slow, and sometimes quick--across the

extended plain. The evolutions of the flying-artillery excited

universal admiration. When the whole body--about four thousand

horse--rushed in a furious gallop over the ground, the clash of

arms, the thunder of hoofs, the universal shudder of the earth--all

together created more thrilling emotions in my mind, than any other

military parade I ever beheld. I have seen eighty thousand infantry

in the field; but they did not impress my imagination as forcibly as

these few regiments of cavalry at Hounslow Heath. One incident gave

painful effect to the spectacle. As the whole body were sweeping

across the field, a single trooper was pitched from his horse and

fell to the ground. A hundred hoofs passed over him, and trampled

him into the sod. On swept the gallant host, as heedless of their

fallen companion as if only a feather had dropped from of their caps.

The conflict of cavalry in real battle, must be the most fearful

exhibition which the dread drama of war can furnish. On this occasion

both the King and the Duke of York were present; so that it was one

off universal interest. About fifty ladies on horseback rode back and

forth over the field, on the flanks of the troops, imitating their

evolutions.

I have been often at the House of Commons; but I shall now only speak

of a debate, in July, 1824, upon the petition, I believe, of the

City of London, for a recognition of the independence of some of the

South American States. Canning was then Secretary of Foreign Affairs,

and took the brunt of the battle made upon the Ministry. Sir James

Mackintosh led, and Brougham followed him, on the same side.

I shall not attempt to give you a sketch of the speeches: a mere

description of the appearance and manner of the prominent orators

will suffice. Sir James, then nearly sixty years old, was a man

rather above the ordinary size; and with a fine, philanthropic face.

His accent was decidedly Scotch, and his voice shrill and dry. He

spoke slowly, often hesitated, and was entirely destitute of what

we call eloquence. There was no easy flow of sentences, no gush of

feeling, no apparent attempt to address the heart or the imagination.

His speech was a rigid lecture, rather abstract and philosophical;

evidently addressed to the stern intellect of stern men. He had a

good deal of gesture, and once or twice was boisterous in tone and

manner. His matter was logical; and occasionally he illustrated his

propositions by historical facts, happily narrated. On the whole he

made the impression upon my mind that he was a very philosophical,

but not very practical, statesman.

Brougham's face and figure are familiar to every one; and making

allowance for added years, there is little change in his appearance

since the time of which I speak. He had abundance of words, as

well as ideas. In his speech on the occasion I describe, he piled

thought upon thought, laced sentence within sentence, mingled satire

and philosophy, fact and argument, history and anecdote, as if he

had been a cornucopia, and was anxious to disburden himself of his

abundance. In all this there were several hard hits, and Canning

evidently felt them. As he rose to reply, I took careful note of

his appearance; for he was then, I imagine, the most conspicuous of

the British Statesmen. He was a handsome man, with a bald, shining

head, and a figure slightly stooping in the shoulders. His face was

round, his eye large and full, his lips a little voluptuous: the

whole bearing a lively and refined expression. In other respects,

his appearance was not remarkable. His voice was musical; and he

spoke with more ease and fluency than most other orators of the House

of Commons; yet even he hesitated, paused, and repeated his words,

not only in the beginning, but sometimes in the very midst of his

argument. He, however, riveted the attention of the Members; and his

observations frequently brought out the ejaculation of "hear, hear,"

from both sides of the House. Brougham and Mackintosh watched him

with vigilant attention; now giving nods of assent, and now signs of

disapprobation.

Of course, I visited the House of Lords, paying two shillings and

sixpence for admittance. The general aspect of the assembly was

eminently grave and dignified. Lord Eldon was the Chancellor--a

large, heavy, iron-looking man--the personification of bigoted

Conservatism. He was so opposed to reforms, that he shed tears when

the punishment of death was abolished for stealing five shillings

in a dwelling-house! When I saw him, his head was covered with the

official wig: his face sufficed, however, to satisfy any one that his

obstinacy of character was innate.

While I was here, a Committee from the House of Commons was

announced; they had brought up a message to the Lords. The

Chancellor, taking the seals in his hands, approached the Committee,

bowing three times, and they doing the same. Then they separated,

each moving backward, and bowing. To persons used to such a ceremony,

this might be sublime; to me it was ludicrous: and all the more

so, on account of the ponderous starchness of the chief performer

in the solemn farce. There was a somewhat animated debate while

I was present, in which Lords Liverpool, Lauderdale, Harrowby and

Grey participated; yet nothing was said or done that would justify

particular notice at this late day.

A great event happened in the musical world while I was in

London--the appearance of Catalani at the Italian Opera, after

several years of absence. The opera was _Le Nozze di Figaro_. I had

never before seen an opera; and could not, even by the enchantments

of music, have my habits of thought and my common sense so

completely overturned and bewitched, as to see the whole business of

life--intrigue, courtship, marriage, cursing, shaving, preaching,

praying, loving, hating--done by singing, instead of talking, and yet

feel that it was all right and proper. It requires both a musical ear

and early training fully to appreciate and feel the opera.

Madame Catalani was a large handsome woman; a little masculine

and past forty. She was not only a very clever actress, but was

deemed to have every musical merit--volume, compass, clearness of

tone, surpassing powers of execution. Her whole style was dramatic;

bending even the music to the sentiments of the character and

the song. I could appreciate, uninstructed as I was, her amazing

powers; though, to say the truth, I was quite as much astonished as

pleased. Pasta and Garcia, both of whom I afterwards heard, gave me

infinitely greater pleasure; chiefly because their voices possessed

that melody of tone which excites sympathy in every heart; even

the most untutored. Madame Catalani gave the opera a sort of epic

grandeur--an almost tragic vehemence of expression; Pasta and Garcia

rendered it the interpreter of those soft and tender emotions, for

the expression of which God seems to have given music to mankind. It

was, no doubt, a great thing to hear the greatest cantatrice of the

age; but I remember Madame Catalani as a prodigy, rather than as an

enchantress. On the occasion I am describing, she sang, by request,

"Rule Britannia" between the acts; which drew forth immense applause,

in which I heartily joined: not that I liked the words, but that I

felt the music.

It was about this time that a great attraction was announced at one

of the theatres; nothing less than the King and Queen of the Sandwich

Islands, who had graciously condescended to honor the performance

with their presence. They had come to visit England, and pay their

homage to George the Fourth; hence the Government deemed it necessary

to receive them with hospitality, and pay them such attentions

as were due to their rank and royal blood. The king's name was

Kamehamaha; but he had also the sub-title or surname of Rhio-Rhio:

which, being interpreted, meant Dog of Dogs. Canning's wit got the

better of his reverence, and so he profanely suggested that, if his

majesty was a Dog of Dogs, what must the queen be? However, there was

an old man about the court, who had acquired the title of Poodle,

and he was selected as a fit person to attend upon their majesties.

They had their lodgings at the Adelphi Hotel, and might be seen at

all hours of the day, looking at the puppet-shows in the streets with

intense delight. Of all the institutions of Great Britain, Punch and

Judy evidently made the strongest and most favorable impression upon

the royal party.

They were, I believe, received at a private interview by the King at

Windsor: everything calculated to gratify them was done. I saw them

at the theatre, dressed in a European costume, with the addition

of some barbarous finery. The king was an enormous man--six feet

three or four inches; the queen was short, but otherwise of ample

dimensions. Besides these persons, the party comprised five or six

other members of the king's household. They had all large, round,

flat faces, of a coarse, though good-humored expression. Their

complexion was a ruddy brown, not very unlike the American Indians;

their general aspect, however, was very different. They looked with

a kind of vacant wonder at the play, evidently not comprehending it;

the farce, on the contrary, seemed greatly to delight them. It is sad

to relate that this amiable couple never returned to their country;

both died in England--victims either to the climate, or to the change

in their habits of living.

Among the prominent objects of interest in London at this period was

Edward Irving, then preaching at the Caledonian Chapel, Cross Street,

Hatton Garden. He was now in the full flush of his fame; and such was

the eagerness to hear him, that it was difficult to get admission.

People of all ranks--literary men, philosophers, statesmen,

noblemen, persons of the highest name and influence, with a full and

diversified representation of the fair sex--crowded to his church. I

was so fortunate as to get a seat in the pew of a friend, a privilege

which I appreciated all the more when I counted twenty coroneted

coaches standing at the door, some of those who came in them not

being able to obtain even an entrance into the building. The interior

was crowded to excess; the aisles were full; and even fine ladies

seemed happy to get seats upon the pulpit stairway. Persons of the

highest title were scattered here and there, and cabinet ministers

were squeezed in with the mass of common humanity.

Mr. Irving's appearance was very remarkable. He was over six feet

in height, very broad-shouldered, with long, black hair hanging in

heavy, twisted ringlets down upon his shoulders. His complexion was

pallid, yet swarthy; the whole expression of his face, owing chiefly

to an unfortunate squint, was half-sinister and half-sanctified,

creating in the minds of the beholder a painful doubt whether he was

a great saint or a great sinner.

There was a strange mixture of saintliness and dandyism in the whole

appearance of this man. His prayer was affected--strange, quaint,

peculiar in its phraseology, yet solemn and striking. His reading of

the psalm was peculiar, and a fancy crossed my mind that I had heard

something like it, but certainly not in a church. I was seeking to

trace out a resemblance between this strange parson and some star

of Drury Lane or Covent Garden. Suddenly I found the clue: Edward

Irving in the pulpit was imitating Edmund Kean upon the stage! And

he succeeded admirably--his tall and commanding person giving him an

immense advantage over the little, insignificant, yet inspired actor.

He had the tones of the latter, his gestures, his looks even, as I

had often seen him in Richard the Third and Shylock. He had evidently

taken lessons of the renowned tragedian, but whether in public or

private is not for me to say.

In spite of the evident affectation, the solemn dandyism, the

dramatic artifices of the performer--for, after all, I could only

consider the preacher as an actor--the sermon was very impressive.

The phraseology was rich, flowing, redundant, abounding in

illustration, and seemed to me carefully modelled after that of

Jeremy Taylor. Some of the pictures presented to the imagination

were startling, and once or twice it seemed as if the whole audience

was heaving and swelling with intense emotion, like a sea rolling

beneath the impulses of a tempest. Considered as a display of

oratorical art, it was certainly equal to anything I have ever heard

from the pulpit; yet it did not appear to me calculated to have any

permanent effect in enforcing Christian truth upon the conscience.

The preacher seemed too much a player, and too little an apostle.

The after-thought was, that the whole effect was the result of stage

trick, and not of sober truth.

The character and career of Edward Irving present a strange series of

incongruities. He was born in Scotland in 1792; he became a preacher,

and acquired speedy notoriety, as much by his peculiarities as his

merits. He attracted the attention of Dr. Chalmers, and through his

influence was for a time assistant-minister in the parish of St.

John's, at Glasgow. From this place he was called to the Caledonian

Chapel, where I heard him. His fame continued to increase; and having

published a volume of discourses, under the quaint title, For the

Oracles of God, four Orations: for Judgment to come, an Argument in

Nine Parts: three large editions of the work were sold in the space

of six months. Wherever he preached crowds of eager listeners flocked

to hear him. His eccentricities increased with his fame. He drew

out his discourses to an enormous length, and on several occasions

protracted the services to four hours! He soon became mystical,

and took to studying unfulfilled prophecy as the true key to the

interpretation of the Scriptures. From this extravagance he passed

to the doctrine that Christians, by the power of faith, can attain

to the working of miracles, and speaking with unknown tongues, as

in the primitive ages. Such at last were his vagaries, that he was

cut off from communion with the Scottish Church; in consequence, he

became the founder of a sect which continues to the present time in

England, bearing the title of "Irvingites." Worn out with anxiety

and incessant labors, he died at Glasgow, while on a journey for his

health, in 1834, at the early age of forty-two.

One more event I must notice--the arrival in London of the remains

of Lord Byron, and their lying in state previous to interment.

His body had been preserved in spirits, and was thus brought from

Greece, attended by five persons of his lordship's suite. Having been

transferred to the coffin, it lay in state at the house of Sir Edward

Knatchbull, where such were the crowds that rushed to behold the

spectacle, that it was necessary to defend the coffin with a stout

wooden railing. When I arrived at the place the lid was closed. I

was told, however, that the countenance, though the finer lines had

collapsed, was so little changed as to be easily recognised by his

acquaintances. The general muscular form of the body was perfectly

preserved.

The aspect of the scene, even as I witnessed it, was altogether

very impressive. The coffin was covered with a pall, enriched by

escutcheons wrought in gold. On the top was a lid, set round with

black plumes. Upon it were these words,--

"GEORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON.

BORN IN LONDON, 22D JANUARY, 1788.

DIED AT MISSOLONGHI, APRIL 19TH, 1824."

At the head of the coffin was an urn containing the ashes of his

brain and heart: this being also covered with a rich pall, wrought

with figures in gold. The windows were closed, and the darkened room

was feebly illumined by numerous wax tapers.

And this was all that remained of Byron! What a lesson upon the pride

of genius, the vanity of rank, the fatuity of fame,--all levelled in

the dust, and, despite the garnished pall and magnificent coffin,

their possessor bound to pass through the same process of corruption

as the body of a common beggar!

CHAPTER XXIII.

RETURN TO THE UNITED STATES--BOSTON AND ITS WORTHIES--BUSINESS

OPERATIONS--ACKERMANN'S "FORGET-ME-NOT" THE PARENT OF ALL OTHER

ANNUALS--THE AMERICAN SPECIES--THEIR DECLINE.

Having made a hurried excursion to Paris and back to London, I

departed for Liverpool, and thence embarked for the United States,

arriving there in October, 1824. I remained at Hartford till

October, 1826, and then removed to Boston, with the intention of

publishing original works, and at the same time of trying my hand at

authorship--the latter part of my plan, however, known only to myself.

At that time Boston was recognized as the literary metropolis of the

Union--the admitted Athens of America. Edward Everett had established

the North-American Review, and though he had now just left the

editorial chair, his spirit dwelt in it, and his fame lingered around

it. R. H. Dana, Edward T. Channing, George Bancroft, and others,

were among the rising lights of the literary horizon. Society was

strongly impressed with literary tastes, and genius was respected

and cherished. The day had not yet come when it was glory enough for

a college professor to marry a hundred thousand dollars of stocks,

or when it was the chief end of a lawyer to become the attorney of

an insurance company, or a bank, or a manufacturing corporation. A

Boston imprint on a book was equal to a certificate of good paper,

good print, good binding, and good matter. And while such was the

state of things at Boston, at New York the Harpers, who till recently

had been mere printers in Dover street, had scarcely entered upon

their career as publishers; and the other shining lights in the

trade, at the present time, were either unborn, or in the nursery, or

at school.

What a revolution do these simple items suggest, wrought in the space

of thirty years! The sceptre has departed from Judah: New York is now

the acknowledged metropolis of American literature, as well as of art

and commerce. Nevertheless, if we look at Boston literature at the

present time, as reflected in its publishing lists, we shall see that

the light of other days has not degenerated; for since the period

of which I speak, Prescott, Longfellow, Hawthorne, Whipple, Holmes,

Lowell, Hilliard, have joined the Boston constellation of letters.

It cannot interest the reader to hear in detail my business

operations in Boston at this period. It will be sufficient to say

that, among other works, I published an edition of the novels of

Charles Brockden Brown, with a life of the author, furnished by

his widow, she having a share of the edition. I also published an

edition of Hannah More's works, and of Mrs. Opie's works: these

being, I believe, the first complete collections of the writings of

these authors. In 1827 I published Sketches by N. P. Willis, his

first adventure in responsible authorship. The next year I issued

the Commonplace Book of Prose, the first work of the now celebrated

Dr. Cheever. This was speedily followed by the Commonplace Book of

Poetry, and Studies in Poetry, by the same author.

In 1828 I published a first, and soon after a second, volume of

the Legendary, designed as a periodical, and intended to consist

of original pieces in prose and verse, principally illustrative of

American history, scenery, and manners. This was edited by N. P.

Willis, and was, I believe, his first editorial engagement. Among

the contributors were Halleck, Miss Sedgwick, Miss Francis, Mrs.

Sigourney, Willis, Pierpont, and other popular writers of that day.

It was kindly treated by the press, which generously published,

without charge, the best pieces in full, saving the reading million

the trouble of buying the book and paying for the chaff, which

was naturally found with the wheat. Despite this courtesy, the

work proved a miserable failure. The time had not come for such a

publication. At the present day, with the present accessories and the

present public spirit, I doubt not that such an enterprise would be

eminently successful.

The first work of the Annual kind, entitled the Forget-Me-Not, was

issued by the Ackermanns of London, in the winter of 1823, while I

was in that city. It was successfully imitated by Carey and Lea at

Philadelphia, in a work entitled the Atlantic Souvenir, and which was

sustained with great spirit for several years. In 1828 I commenced

and published the first volume of the Token, which I continued for

fifteen years; editing it myself, with the exception of the volume

for 1829, which came out under the auspices of Mr. Willis. In 1836,

the Atlantic Souvenir ceased; and after that time, by arrangement

with the publishers, its title was added to that of the Token.

The success of this species of publication stimulated new

enterprises of the kind, and a rage for them spread over Europe

and America. The efforts of the first artists and the best writers

were at length drawn into them; and for nearly twenty years

every autumn produced an abundant harvest of Diadems, Bijous,

Amaranths, Bouquets, Hyacinths, Amulets, Talismans, Forget-Me-Nots,

&c. Under these seductive titles they became messengers of love,

tokens of friendship, signs and symbols of affection, and luxury

and refinement; and thus they stole alike into the palace and the

cottage, the library, the parlor, and the boudoir. The public taste

grew by feeding on these luscious gifts, and soon craved even more

gorgeous works of the kind; whence came Heath's Book of Beauty,

Lady Blessington's Flowers of Loveliness, Bulwer's Pilgrims of the

Rhine, Butler's Leaflets of Memory, Christmas with the Poets, and

many others of similar design and execution. Many of the engravings

of these works cost 500 dollars each, and many a piece of poetry 50

dollars a page. On several of these works the public spent 50,000

dollars a-year!

At last the race of Annuals drew near the end of its career, yet not

without having produced a certain revolution in the public taste.

Their existence had sprung, at least in part, from steel-engraving,

which had been invented and introduced by our countryman, Jacob

Perkins. This enabled the artist to produce works of greater delicacy

than had ever before been achieved; steel also gave the large number

of impressions which the extensive sales of the Annuals demanded, and

which could not have been obtained from copper. These works scattered

gems of art far and wide, making the reading mass familiar with fine

specimens of engraving; and not only cultivating an appetite for this

species of luxury, but exalting the general standard of taste all

over the civilized world.

And thus, though the Annuals, by name, have perished, they have

left a strong necessity in the public mind for books enriched by

all the embellishments of art. Hence we have illustrated editions

of Byron, Rogers, Thomson, Cowper, Campbell, and others; including

our own poets, Bryant, Halleck, Sigourney, Longfellow, Read, &c.

Wood-engraving, which since then has risen into such importance, has

lent its potent aid in making books one of the chief luxuries of

society, from the nursery to the parlor.

In comparison with many of these works, the Token was a very modest

affair. The first year I offered prizes for the best pieces in

prose and poetry. The highest for prose was awarded to the author

of Some Passages in the Life of an Old Maid. A mysterious man, in

a mysterious way, presented himself for the money, and, giving due

evidence of his authority to receive it, it was paid to him; but who

the author really was never transpired, though I had, and still have,

my confident guess upon the subject. Even the subsequent volumes,

though they obtained favor in their day, did not approach the

splendor of the modern works of a similar kind. Nevertheless, some of

the engravings, from the designs of Allston, Leslie, Newton, Cole,

Inman, Chapman, Fisher, Brown, Alexander, Healy, and others, were

very clever, even compared with the finest works of the present day.

The literary contributions were, I believe, equal, on the whole, to

any of the Annuals, American or European. Here were inserted some

of the earliest productions of Willis, Hawthorne, Miss Francis (now

Mrs. Child), Miss Sedgwick, Mrs. Hale, Pierpont, Greenwood, and

Longfellow. Several of these authors first made acquaintance with

the public through the pages of this work. It is a curious fact that

the latter, Longfellow, wrote prose, and at that period had shown

neither a strong bias nor a particular talent for poetry.

The Token was continued annually till 1842, when it finally ceased.

The day of Annuals had, indeed, passed before this was given up;

and the last two or three years it had only lingered out a poor and

fading existence. As a matter of business, it scarcely paid its

expenses, and was a serious drawback upon my time and resources for

fifteen years; a punishment, no doubt, fairly due to an obstinate

pride, which made me reluctant to abandon a work with which my name

and feelings had become somewhat identified.

CHAPTER XXIV.

"THE TOKEN"--N. P. WILLIS AND NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE--COMPARISON

BETWEEN THEM--LADY AUTHORS--PUBLISHERS' PROFITS--AUTHORS AND

PUBLISHERS.

I may here say, with propriety, a few words more as to the

contributors for the Token. The most prominent writer for it was N.

P. Willis; his articles were the most read, the most admired, the

most abused, and the most advantageous to the work. I published his

first book; and his two first editorial engagements were with me:

hence the early portion of his literary career fell under my special

notice.

He had begun to write verses very early; and while in College, before

he was eighteen, he had acquired an extended reputation, under the

signature of "Roy." In 1827, when he was just twenty years old, I

published his volume, entitled Sketches. It elicited quite a shower

of criticism, in which praise and blame were about equally dispensed:

at the same time the work sold with a readiness quite unusual for a

book of poetry at that period. It is not calculated to establish the

infallibility of critics, to look over these notices at the present

day: many of the pieces which were then condemned have now taken

their places among the acknowledged gems of our literature; and

others, which excited praise at the time, have faded from the public

remembrance.

One thing is certain, everybody thought Willis worth criticising.

He has been, I suspect, more written about than any other literary

man in the history of American literature. Some of the attacks upon

him proceeded, no doubt, from a conviction that he was a man of

extraordinary gifts, and yet of extraordinary affectations; and the

lash was applied in kindness, as that of a schoolmaster to a beloved

pupil's back; some of them were dictated by envy; for we have had

no other example of literary success so early, so general, and so

flattering. That Mr. Willis made mistakes in literature and life,

at the outset, may be admitted by his best friends; for it must be

remembered that, before he was five-and-twenty, he was more read than

any other American poet of his time; and besides, being possessed

of an easy and captivating address, he became the pet of society,

and especially of the fairer portion of it. Since that period, his

life, on the whole, has been one of serious, useful, and successful

labor. His reputation as a poet has hardly advanced, and probably

the public generally regard some of his early verses as his best.

As an essayist, however, he stands in the first rank; distinguished

for a keen sagacity in analyzing society, a fine perception of the

beauties of nature, and an extraordinary talent for endowing trifles

with interest and meaning. As a traveller, he is among the most

entertaining, sagacious, and instructive.

His style is certainly peculiar, and is deemed affected, tending to

an excess of refinement, and displaying an undue hankering for grace

and melody; sometimes sacrificing sense to sound. This might once

have been a just criticism, but the candid reader of his works now

before the public will deem it hypercritical. His style is suited to

his thought; it is flexible, graceful, musical, and is adapted to

the playful wit, the piquant sentiment, the artistic descriptions of

sea, earth, and sky, of which they are the vehicle. In the seeming

exhaustlessness of his resources, in his prolonged freshness, in his

constantly-increasing strength, Mr. Willis has refuted all the early

prophets, who regarded him only as a precocity, destined to shine a

few brief years and fade away.

As to his personal character, I need only say, that from the

beginning he had a larger circle of steadfast friends than almost any

man within my knowledge. There has been something in his works which

has made women generally both his literary and personal admirers. For

so many favors he has given the world an ample return; for, with all

his imputed literary faults--some real and some imaginary--I regard

him as having contributed more to the amusement of society than

almost any other of our living authors.

It is not easy to conceive of a stronger contrast than is presented

by comparing Nathaniel Hawthorne with N. P. Willis. The former was

for a time one of the principal writers for the Token, and his

admirable sketches were published side by side with those of the

latter. Yet it is curious to remark, that everything Willis wrote

attracted immediate attention, and excited ready praise, while the

productions of Hawthorne were almost entirely unnoticed.

The personal appearance and demeanor of these two gifted young men,

at the early period of which I speak, was also in striking contrast.

Willis was slender, his hair sunny and silken, his cheeks ruddy,

his aspect cheerful and confident. He met society with a ready and

welcome hand, and was received readily and with welcome. Hawthorne,

on the contrary, was of a rather sturdy form, his hair dark and

bushy, his eyes steel-grey, his brow thick, his mouth sarcastic, his

complexion stony, his whole aspect cold, moody, distrustful. He stood

aloof, and surveyed the world from shy and sheltered positions.

There was a corresponding difference in the writings of these two

persons. Willis was all sunshine and summer, the other chill, dark,

and wintry; the one was full of love and hope, the other of doubt

and distrust; the one sought the open daylight--sunshine, flowers,

music--and found them everywhere; the other plunged into the dim

caverns of the mind, and studied the grisly spectres of jealousy,

remorse, despair.

I had seen some anonymous publication which seemed to me to indicate

extraordinary powers. I inquired of the publishers as to the

writer, and through them a correspondence ensued between me and "N.

Hawthorne." This name I considered a disguise, and it was not till

after many letters had passed that I met the author, and found it

to be his true title, representing a very substantial personage. At

this period he was unsettled as to his views: he had tried his hand

in literature, and considered himself to have met with a fatal rebuff

from the reading world. His mind vacillated between various projects,

verging, I think, toward a mercantile profession. I combated his

despondence, and assured him of triumph, if he would persevere in a

literary career.

He wrote numerous articles, which appeared in the Token: occasionally

an astute critic seemed to see through them, and to discover the mind

that was in them; but in general they passed without notice. Such

articles as "Sights from a Steeple," "Sketches beneath an Umbrella,"

the "Wives of the Dead," the "Prophetic Pictures," now universally

acknowledged to be productions of extraordinary depth, meaning, and

power,--extorted hardly a word of either praise or blame, while

columns were given to pieces since totally forgotten. I felt annoyed,

almost angry, indeed, at this. I wrote several articles in the

papers, directing attention to these productions, and finding no echo

of my views, I recollect to have asked John Pickering, a gentleman in

whose critical powers I had great confidence, to read some of them,

and give me his opinion of them. He did as I requested; his answer

was that they displayed a wonderful beauty of style, with a sort of

second-sight, which revealed, beyond the outward forms of life and

being, a sort of spirit-world, somewhat as a lake reflects the earth

around it and the sky above it; yet he deemed them too mystical to

be popular. He was right, no doubt, at that period; but, ere long,

a large portion of the reading world obtained a new sense--how, or

where, or whence, is not easily determined--which led them to study

the mystical, to dive beneath and beyond the senses. Hawthorne was,

in fact, a kind of Wordsworth in prose: less kindly, less genial

toward mankind, but deeper and more philosophical. His fate was

similar: at first he was neglected, at last he had worshippers.

In 1837 I recommended Mr. Hawthorne to publish a volume, comprising

his various pieces, which had appeared in the Token and elsewhere. He

consented, but as I had ceased to be a publisher, it was difficult

to find any one who would undertake to bring out the work. I applied

to the agent of the Stationers' Company, but he refused; until at

last I relinquished my copyrights on such of the tales as I had

published to Mr. Hawthorne, and joined a friend of his in a bond to

indemnify them against loss; and thus the work was published by the

Stationers' Company, under the title of Twice-Told Tales, and for the

author's benefit. It was deemed a failure for more than a year, when

a breeze seemed to rise and fill its sails, and with it the author

was carried on to fame and fortune.

Among the most successful of the writers for the Token was Miss

Francis, now Mrs. Child. I have not seen her for many years, but

I have many pleasant remembrances of her lively conversation, her

saucy wit, her strong good sense, and her most agreeable person and

presence. To Rev. F. W. P. Greenwood I was indebted not only for

some of the best contributions, but for excellent counsel and advice

in my literary affairs. He was a man of genius, gentle manners, and

apostolic dignity of life and character.

To Mr. Pierpont I was indebted for encouragement and sympathy in my

whole career, and for some of the best poems which appeared in the

work I am noticing. I remember once to have met him, and to have

asked him to give me a contribution for the Token. He stopped and

said, reflectingly, "I had a dream not long ago, which I have thought

to put into verse. I will try, and if I am successful you shall have

it." A few days after he gave me the lines, now in all the gem-books,

beginning,--

"Was it the chime of a tiny bell

That came so sweet to my dreaming ear--

Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell,

That he winds on the beach so mellow and clear,

When the winds and the waves lie together asleep,

And the moon and the fairy are watching the deep--

She dispensing her silvery light,

And he his notes, as silvery quite,

While the boatman listens and ships his oar,

To catch the music that comes from the shore?

Hark! the notes on my ear that play

Are set to words; as they float, they say,

'Passing away, passing away!'"

Next to Willis, Mrs. Sigourney was my most successful and liberal

contributor: to her I am indebted for a large part of the success of

my editorial labors in the matter now referred to. To Miss Sedgwick,

also, the Token owes a large share of its credit with the public. To

B. B. Thacher, also among the good and the departed; to Mrs. Osgood,

to John Neale, A. H. Everett, Mr. Longfellow, H. T. Tuckerman, Epes

and John Sargent, Miss Leslie, J. T. Fields, O. W. Holmes--to all

these, and to many others, I owe the kind remembrance which belongs

to good deeds, kindly and graciously bestowed.

It is not to be supposed that in a long career, both as bookseller

and editor, I should have escaped altogether the annoyances and

vexations which naturally attach to these vocations. The relation of

author and publisher is generally regarded as that of the cat and

the dog, both greedy of the bone, and inherently jealous of each

other. The authors have hitherto written the accounts of the wrangles

between these two parties, and the publishers have been traditionally

gibbeted as a set of mean, mercenary wretches, coining the heart's

blood of genius for their own selfish profits. Great minds, even in

modern times, have not been above this historical prejudice. The poet

Campbell is said to have been an admirer of Napoleon because he shot

a bookseller.

Nevertheless, speaking from my own experience, I suspect, if the

truth were told, that, even in cases where the world has been taught

to bestow all its sympathy in behalf of the author, it would appear

that while there were claws on one side there were teeth on the

other. My belief is, that where there have been quarrels there have

generally been mutual provocations. I know of nothing more vexatious,

more wearisome, more calculated to beget impatience, than the

egotisms, the exactions, the unreasonableness of authors, in cases I

have witnessed. That there may be examples of meanness, stupidity,

and selfishness in publishers, is indisputable. But, in general, I am

satisfied that an author who will do justice to a publisher will have

justice in return.

I could give some curious instances of this. A schoolmaster came

to me once with a marvellously clever grammar; it was sure to

overturn all others. He had figured out his views in a neat hand,

like copper-plate. He estimated that there were always a million

of children at school who would need his grammar; providing for

books worn out, and a supply for new comers, half-a-million would

be wanted every year. At one cent a copy for the author--which he

insisted was exceedingly moderate--this would produce to him five

thousand dollars a year; but if I would publish the work, he would

condescend to take half that sum annually, during the extent of the

copyright--twenty-eight years! I declined, and he seriously believed

me a heartless blockhead. He obtained a publisher at last, but the

work never reached a second edition. Every publisher is laden with

similar experiences.

I once employed a young man to block out some little books to be

published under the nominal authorship of Solomon Bell: these I

remodelled, and one or two volumes were issued. Some over-astute

critic announced them as veritable _Peter Parleys_, and they had a

sudden sale. The young man who had assisted me, and who was under

the most solemn obligations to keep the matter secret, thought he

had an opportunity to make his fortune; so he publicly claimed the

authorship, and accused me of duplicity! The result was that the

books fell dead from that hour; the series was stopped; and his

unprinted manuscripts, for which I had paid him, became utterly

worthless. A portion I burnt, and a portion still remain amidst the

rubbish of other days.

In other instances I was attacked in the papers, editorially and

personally, by individuals who were living upon the employment I gave

them. I was in daily intercourse with persons of this character, who,

while flattering me to my face, I knew to be hawking at me in print.

These I regarded and treated as trifles at the time; they are less

than trifles now. One thing may be remarked, that, in general, such

difficulties come from poor and unsuccessful writers. They have been

taught that publishers and booksellers are vampires, and naturally

feed upon the vitals of genius; assuming--honestly, no doubt--that

they are of this latter class, they feel no great scruple in taking

vengeance upon those whom they regard as their natural enemies.

My editorial experience also furnished me with some amusing

anecdotes. An editor of a periodical once sent me an article for the

Token, entitled La Longue-vue; the pith of the story consisted in a

romantic youth's falling in love with a young lady, two miles off,

through a telescope! I ventured to reject it; and the Token for that

year was duly damned in the columns of the offended author.

In judging of publishers one thing should be considered, and

that is, that two-thirds of the original works issued by them are

unprofitable. An eminent London publisher once told me, that he

calculated that out of ten publications four involved a positive, and

often a heavy, loss; three barely paid the cost of paper, print, and

advertising; and three paid a profit. Nothing is more common than

for a publisher to pay money to an author, every farthing of which

is lost. Self-preservation, therefore, compels the publisher to look

carefully to his operations. One thing is certain, he is generally

the very best judge as to the value of a book, in a marketable point

of view: if he rejects it, it is solely because he thinks it will not

pay, not because he despises genius.

Happily, at the present day, the relations between these two

parties--authors and publishers--are on a better footing than in

former times. Indeed, a great change has taken place in the relative

positions of the two classes. Nothing is now more marketable than

good writing, whatever may be its form--poetry or prose, fact or

fiction, reason or romance. Starving, neglected, abused genius, is a

myth of bygone times. If an author is poorly paid, it is because he

writes poorly. I do not think, indeed, that authors are adequately

paid, for authorship does not stand on a level with other professions

as to pecuniary recompense, but it is certain that a clever,

industrious, and judicious writer may make his talent the means of

living.

CHAPTER XXV.

BECOME AN AUTHOR--HIS REAL NAME A PROFOUND SECRET--HOW IT WAS

DIVULGED--GREAT SUCCESS--ILLNESS--THE DOCTORS DISAGREE--ENGLISH

IMITATIONS--CONDUCT OF A LONDON BOOKSELLER--OBJECTIONS TO

PARLEY'S TALES--MOTHER GOOSE.

Though I was busily engaged in publishing various works, I found

time to make my long-meditated experiment in the writing of books

for children. The first attempt was made in 1827, and bore the

title of the Tales of Peter Parley about America. No persons but my

wife and one of my sisters were admitted to the secret: for, in the

first place, I hesitated to believe that I was qualified to appear

before the public as an author; and, in the next place, nursery

literature had not then acquired the respect in the eyes of the world

it now enjoys. It is since that period that persons of acknowledged

genius--Scott, Dickens, Lamartine, Mary Howitt, in Europe; and

Todd, Gallaudet, Abbott, Miss Sedgwick, Mrs. Child, and others, in

America--have stooped to the composition of books for children and

youth.

I published my little book, and let it make its way. It came before

the world untrumpeted, and for some months seemed not to attract

the slightest attention. Suddenly I began to see notices of it in

the papers all over the country, and in a year from the date of

its publication it had become a favorite. In 1828 I published

the Tales of Peter Parley about Europe; in 1829, Parley's Winter

Evening Tales; in 1830, Parley's Juvenile Tales, and Parley's Asia,

Africa, Sun, Moon, and Stars. About this time the public guessed

my secret. Mrs. Sarah J. Hale, to whom I am indebted for many kind

offices in my literary career, first discovered and divulged it; yet

I could have wished she had not done me this questionable favor.

Though the authorship of the Parley books has been to me a source of

some gratification, you will see, in the sequel, that it has also

subjected me to endless vexations.

I shall not enter into the details of my proceedings at this busy

and absorbed period of my life. I had now obtained a humble position

in literature, and was successful in such unambitious works as I

attempted. I gave myself up almost wholly for about four years--that

is, from 1828 to 1832--to authorship, generally writing fourteen

hours a-day.--A part of the time I was entirely unable to read, and

could write but little, on account of the weakness of my eyes. In my

larger publications I employed persons to block out work for me: this

was read to me, and then I put it into style, generally writing by

dictation, my wife being my amanuensis. Thus embarrassed, I still, by

dint of incessant toil, produced five or six volumes a-year, most of

them small, but some of larger compass.

In the midst of these labors--that is, in the spring of 1832--I was

suddenly attacked with symptoms which seemed to indicate a disease of

the heart, rapidly advancing to a fatal termination. In the course

of a fortnight I was so reduced as not to be able to mount a pair of

stairs without help, and a short walk produced palpitation of the

heart, so violent, in several instances, as almost to deprive me of

consciousness. There seemed no hope but in turning my back upon my

business, and seeking a total change of scene and climate. In May I

embarked for England, and after a few weeks reached Paris. I here

applied to Baron Larroque, who, assisted by L'Herminier--both eminent

in the treatment of diseases of the heart--subjected me to various

experiments, but without the slightest advantage. At this period I

was obliged to be carried upstairs, and never ventured to walk or

ride alone, being constantly subject to nervous spasms, which often

brought me to the verge of suffocation.

Despairing of relief here, I proceeded to London, and was carefully

examined by Sir Benjamin Brodie. He declared that I had no organic

disease; that my difficulty was nervous irritability; and that

whereas the French physicians had interdicted wine, and required me

to live on a light vegetable diet, I must feed well upon good roast

beef, and take two generous glasses of port with my dinner! Thus

encouraged, I passed on to Edinburgh, where I consulted Abercrombie,

then at the height of his fame. He confirmed the views of Dr. Brodie,

in the main; and, regarding the irregularity of my vital organs

as merely functional, still told me that, without shortening my

life, it would probably never be wholly removed. He told me of an

instance in which a patient of his, who, having been called upon to

testify before the committee of the House of Commons, in the trial

of Warren Hastings, from mere embarrassment had been seized with

palpitation of the heart, which, however, continued till his death,

many years after. Even this sombre view of my case was then a relief.

Four-and-twenty years have passed since that period, and thus far my

experience has verified Dr. Abercombie's prediction. These nervous

attacks pursue me to this day: yet I have become familiar with them;

and, regarding them only as troublesome visitors, I receive them

patiently and bow them out as gently as I can.

After an absence of six months I returned to Boston, and, by the

advice of my physician, took up my residence in the country. I

built a house at Jamaica Plain, four miles from the city, and here

I continued for more than twenty years. My health was partially

restored, and I resumed my literary labors, which I continued

steadily, from 1833 to 1850, with a few episodes of lecturing and

legislating, three voyages to Europe, and an extensive tour to the

South. It would be tedious and unprofitable, were I even to enumerate

my various works, produced from the beginning to the present time. I

may sum up the whole in a single sentence: I am the author and editor

of about one hundred and seventy volumes, and of these seven millions

have been sold!

I have said, that however the authorship of Parley's Tales has made

me many friends, it has also subjected me to many annoyances. When

I was in London, in 1832, I learned that Mr. Tegg, a prominent

publisher there, had commenced the republication of Parley's Tales.

I called upon him, and found that he had one of them actually in the

press. The result of our interview was a contract, in which I engaged

to prepare several of these works, which he agreed to publish,

allowing me a small consideration. Four of these works I prepared

on the spot, and after my return to America prepared and forwarded

ten others. Some time after, I learned that the books, or at least

a portion of them, had been published in London, and were very

successful. I wrote several letters to Mr. Tegg on the subject, but

could get no reply.

Ten years passed away, and being in pressing need of all that I might

fairly claim as my due, I went to London, and asked him to render me

an account of his proceedings under the contract. I had previously

learned, on inquiry, that he had indeed published four or five of

the works, as we had agreed, but, taking advantage of these, which

passed readily into extensive circulation, he proceed to set aside

the contract, and to get up a series of publications upon the model

of those I had prepared for him, giving them in the title-pages the

name of Parley, and passing them off, by every artifice in his power,

as the genuine works of that author. He had thus published over a

dozen volumes, which he was circulating as Peter Parley's Library.

The speculation, as I was told, had succeeded admirably; and I was

assured that many thousand pounds of profit had been realized thereby.

To my request for an account of his stewardship the publisher

replied, in general terms, that I was misinformed as to the success

of the works in question; that, in fact, they had been a very

indifferent speculation; that he found the original works were not

adapted to his purpose, and he had consequently got up others; that

he had created, by advertising and other means, an interest in these

works, and had thus greatly benefited the name and fame of Parley;

and, all things considered, he thought he had done more for me than

I had for him: therefore, in his view, if we considered the account

balanced, we should not be very far from a fair adjustment.

To this answer I made a suitable reply, but without obtaining

the slightest satisfaction. The contract I had made was a hasty

memorandum, and judicially, perhaps, of no binding effect on him. And

besides, I had no money to expend in litigation. A little reflection

satisfied me that I was totally at his mercy: a fact of which his

calm and collected manner assured me he was even more conscious than

myself. The discussion was not prolonged. At the second interview

he cut the whole matter short, by saying,--"Sir, I do not owe you a

farthing: neither justice nor law requires me to pay you anything.

Still, I am an old man, and have seen a good deal of life, and have

learned to consider the feelings of others as well as my own. I will

pay you four hundred pounds, and we will be quits! If we cannot do

this, we can do nothing." In view of the whole case, this was as

much as I expected, and so I accepted the proposition. I earnestly

remonstrated with him against the enormity of making me responsible

for works I never wrote, but as to all actual claims on the ground of

the contract I gave him a receipt in full, and we parted.

It is not to be supposed that the annoyances arising from the

falsification of the name of Parley, which I have just pointed out,

have been the only obstacles which have roughened the current of my

literary life. Not only the faults and imperfections of execution in

my juvenile works--and no one knows them so well as myself--have been

urged against them, but the whole theory on which they are founded

has been often and elaborately impugned.

It is quite true, that when I wrote the first half-dozen of Parley's

Tales I had formed no philosophy upon the subject: I simply used my

experience with children in addressing them. I followed no models, I

put on no harness of the schools, I pored over no learned examples.

I imagined myself on the floor with a group of boys and girls, and

I wrote to them as I would have spoken to them. At a later period

I had reflected on the subject, and embodied in a few simple lines

the leading principle of what seemed to me the true art of teaching

children,--and that is, to consider that their first ideas are simple

and single, and formed of images of things palpable to the senses;

and hence that these images are to form the staple of lessons to be

communicated to them.

THE TEACHER'S LESSON.

I saw a child, some four years old,

Along a meadow stray;

Alone she went, uncheck'd, untold,

Her home not far away.

She gazed around on earth and sky,

Now paused, and now proceeded;

Hill, valley, wood, she passed them by

Unmarked, perchance unheeded.

And now gay groups of roses bright

In circling thickets bound her--

Yet on she went with footsteps light,

Still gazing all around her.

And now she paused, and now she stooped,

And plucked a little flower;

A simple daisy 'twas, that drooped

Within a rosy bower.

The child did kiss the little gem,

And to her bosom press'd it;

And there she placed the fragile stem,

And with soft words caressed it.

I love to read a lesson true

From nature's open book--

And oft I learn a lesson new

From childhood's careless look.

Children are simple, loving, true--

'Tis God that made them so;

And would you teach them?--be so, too,

And stoop to what they know.

Begin with simple lessons, things

On which they love to look;

Flowers, pebbles, insects, birds on wings--

These are God's spelling-book!

And children know His A B C,

As bees where flowers are set;

Wouldst thou a skilful teacher be?

Learn then this alphabet.

From leaf, from page to page,

Guide thou thy pupil's look;

And when he says, with aspect sage,

"Who made this wondrous book?"

Point thou with reverend gaze to heaven,

And kneel in earnest prayer

That lessons thou hast humbly given

May lead thy pupil there!

From this commencement I proceeded, and came to the conclusion that

in feeding the mind of children with facts, we follow the evident

philosophy of nature and Providence; inasmuch as these had created

all children to be ardent lovers of things they could see and

hear, and feel and know. Thus I sought to teach them history, and

biography, and geography, and all in the way in which nature would

teach them,--that is, by a large use of the senses, and especially

by the eye. I selected as subjects for my books things capable of

sensible representation, such as familiar animals, birds, trees;

and of these I gave pictures, as a starting-point. The first line I

wrote was, "Here I am; my name is Peter Parley;" and before I went

further, gave an engraving representing my hero, as I wished him to

be conceived by my pupils. Before I began to talk of a lion, I gave

a picture of a lion; my object being, as you will perceive, to have

the child start with a distinct image of what I was about to give an

account of. Thus I secured his interest in the subject, and thus I

was able to lead his understanding forward in the path of knowledge.

These views, of course, led me in a direction exactly opposite to

the old theories in respect to nursery-books, in two respects. In

the first place, it was thought that education should, at the very

threshold, seek to spiritualize the mind, and lift it above sensible

ideas, and to teach it to live in the world of imagination. A cow

was very well to give milk, but when she got into a book she must

jump over the moon; a little girl going to see her grandmother was

well enough as a matter of fact, but to be suited to the purposes of

instruction she must end her career by being eaten up by a wolf. My

plan was, in short, deemed too utilitarian, too materialistic, and

hence it was condemned by many persons, and among them the larger

portion of those who had formed their tastes upon the old classics,

from Homer down to Mother Goose!

This was one objection; another, was that I aimed at making education

easy--thus bringing up the child in habits of receiving knowledge

only as made into pap, and of course putting it out of his power

to relish and digest the stronger meat, even when his constitution

demanded it.

On these grounds, and still others, my little books met with

opposition, sometimes even in grave Quarterlies, and often in those

sanctified publications, entitled "Journals of Education." In

England, at the period that the name of Parley was most current--both

in the genuine as well as the false editions--the feeling against my

juvenile works was so strong among the conservatives, that an attempt

was made to put them down by reviving the old nursery-books. In order

to do this, a publisher in London reproduced these works, employing

the best artists to illustrate them, and bringing them out in all

the captivating luxuries of modern typography. Nay, such was the

reverence at the time for the old favorites of the nursery, that a

gentleman of the name of Halliwell expended a vast amount of patient

research and antiquarian lore in hunting up and setting before the

world the history of these performances, from "Hey diddle diddle" to

"A farmer went trotting upon his grey mare--

Bumpety, bumpety, bump!"

To all this I made no direct reply; I ventured, however, to suggest

my views in the following article inserted in Merry's Museum for

August, 1846.

Dialogue

BETWEEN TIMOTHY AND HIS MOTHER.

_Timothy._ Mother! mother! do stop a minute, and hear me say my

poetry!

_Mother._ Your poetry, my son? Who told you how to make poetry?

_T._ Oh, I don't know; but hear what I have made up.

_M._ Well, go on.

_T._ Now don't you laugh; it's all mine. I didn't get a bit of

it out of a book. Here it is!

"Higglety, pigglety, pop!

The dog has eat the mop;

The pig's in a hurry,

The cat's in a flurry--

Higglety, pigglety--pop!"

_M._ Well, go on.

_T._ Why, that's all. Don't you think it pretty good?

_M._ Really, my son, I don't see much sense in it.

_T._ _Sense?_ Who ever thought of _sense_, in poetry? Why,

mother, you gave me a book the other day, and it was all

poetry, and I don't think there was a bit of sense in the whole

of it. Hear me read. [_Reads._]

"Hub a dub!

Three men in a tub--

And how do you think they got there?

The butcher,

The baker,

The candlestick maker,

They all jumped out of a rotten potato:

'Twas enough to make a man stare."

And here's another.

"A cat came fiddling out of a barn,

With a pair of bagpipes under her arm;

She could sing nothing but fiddle cum fee--

The mouse has married the humblebee--

Pipe, cat--dance, mouse--

We'll have a wedding at our good house!"

And here's another.

"Hey, diddle, diddle,

The cat and the fiddle,

The cow jumped over the moon--

The little dog laughed

To see the craft,

And the dish ran after the spoon."

Now, mother, the book is full of such things as these, and I

don't see any meaning in them.

_M._ Well, my son, I think as you do; they are really very

absurd.

_T._ Absurd? Why, then, do you give me such things to read?

_M._ Let me ask you a question. Do you not love to read these

rhymes, even though they are silly?

_T._ Yes, dearly.

_M._ Well, you have just learned to read, and I thought these

jingles, silly as they are, might induce you to study your

book, and make you familiar with reading.

_T._ I don't understand you, mother; but no matter.

"Higglety, pigglety, pop!

The dog has eat the mop;

The pig's in a hurry--"

_M._ Stop, stop, my son. I choose you should understand me.

_T._ But, mother, what's the use of understanding you?

"Higglety, pigglety, pop!"

_M._ Timothy!

_T._ Ma'am?

_M._ Listen to me, or you will have cause to repent it. Listen

to what I say? I gave you the book to amuse you, and improve

you in reading, not to form your taste in poetry.

_T._ Well, mother, pray forgive me. I did not mean to offend

you. But I really do love poetry, because it is so silly!

"Higglety, pigglety, pop!"

_M._ Don't say that again, Timothy!

_T._ Well, I won't; but I'll say something out of this pretty

book you gave me.

"Doodledy, doodledy, dan!

I'll have a piper to be my good man--

And if I get less meat, I shall get game--

Doodledy, doodledy, dan!"

_M._ That's enough, my son.

_T._ But, dear mother, do hear me read another.

"We're all in the dumps,

For diamonds are trumps--

The kittens are gone to St. Paul's--

The babies are bit,

The moon's in a fit--

And the houses are built without walls."

_M._ I do not wish to hear any more.

_T._ One more; one more, dear mother!

"Round about--round about--

Maggoty pie--

My father loves good ale,

And so do I."

Don't you like that, mother?

_M._ No; it is too coarse, and unfit to be read or spoken.

_T._ But it is here in this pretty book you gave me, and I like

it very much, mother. And here is a poem, which I think very

fine.

"One-ery, two-ery,

Ziccary zan,

Hollow bone, crack a bone--

Ninery ten:

Spittery spat,

It must be done,

Twiddledum, twiddledum,

Twenty-one,

Hink, spink, the puddings--"

_M._ Stop, stop, my son. Are you not ashamed to say such things?

_T._ Ashamed? No, mother. Why should I be? It's all printed

here as plain as day. Ought I to be ashamed to say any thing

that I find in a pretty book you have given me? Just hear the

rest of this.

"Hink, spink, the puddings--"

_M._ Give me the book, Timothy. I see that I have made a

mistake; it is not a proper book for you.

_T._ Well, you may take the book; but I can say the rhymes, for

I have learned them all by heart.

"Hink, spink, the puddings--"

_M._ Timothy, how dare you!

_T._ Well, mother, I won't say it, if you don't wish me to. But

mayn't I say--

"Higglety, pigglety, pop!"

_M._ I had rather you would not.

_T._ And "Doodledy, doodledy, dan"--mayn't I say that?

_M._ No.

_T._ Nor "Hey, diddle, diddle?"

_M._ I do not wish you to say any of those silly things.

_T._ Dear me, what shall I do?

_M._ I had rather you would learn some good, sensible things.

_T._ Such as what?

_M._ Watts's Hymns, and Original Hymns.

_T._ Do you call them sensible things? I hate 'em.

"Doodledy, doodledy, dan!"

_M._ [_Aside._] Dear, dear, what shall I do? The boy has got

his head turned with these silly rhymes. It was really a very

unwise thing to put a book into his hands, so full of nonsense

and vulgarity. These foolish rhymes stick like burs in his

mind, and the coarsest and vilest seem to be best remembered. I

must remedy this mistake; but I see it will take all my wit to

do it. [_Aloud._] Timothy, you must give me up this book, and I

will get you another.

_T._ Well, mother, I am sorry to part with it; but I don't care

so much about it, as I know all the best of it by heart.

"Hink, spink, the puddings stink"--

_M._ Timothy, you'll have a box on the ear, if you repeat that!

_T._ Well, I suppose I can say,

"Round about--round about--

Maggoty pie--"

_M._ You go to bed!

_T._ Well, if I must, I must. Good-night, mother!

"Higglety, pigglety, pop!

The dog has eat the mop;

The cat's in a flurry,

The cow's in a hurry,

Higglety, pigglety, pop!"

Good-night, mother!

I trust, that no one will gather from this that I condemn rhymes for

children. I know that there is a certain music in them that delights

the ear of childhood. Nor am I insensible to the fact that in Mother

Goose's Melodies, there is frequently a sort of humor in the odd

jingle of sound and sense. There is, furthermore, in many of them,

an historical significance, which may please the profound student

who puzzles it out; but what I affirm is, that many of these pieces

are coarse, vulgar, offensive, and it is precisely these portions

that are apt to stick to the minds of children. And besides, if, as

is common, such a book is the first that a child becomes acquainted

with, it is likely to give him a low idea of the purpose and meaning

of books, and to beget a taste for mere jingles.

With these views, I sought to prepare lessons which combined the

various elements suited to children--a few of them even including

frequent, repetitious rhymes--yet at the same time presenting

rational ideas and gentle kindly sentiments. Will you excuse me for

giving you one example--my design being to show you how this may be

done, and how even a very unpromising subject is capable of being

thus made attractive to children.

THE TOAD'S STORY.

Oh, gentle stranger, stop,

And hear poor little Hop

Just sing a simple song,

Which is not very long--

Hip, hip, hop.

I am an honest toad,

Living here by the road;

Beneath a stone I dwell,

In a snug little cell,

Hip, hip, hop.

It may seem a sad lot

To live in such a spot--

But what I say is true--

I have fun as well as you!

Hip, hip, hop.

Just listen to my song--

I sleep all winter long,

But in spring I peep out,

And then I jump about--

Hip, hip, hop.

When the rain patters down,

I let it wash my crown,

And now and then I sip

A drop with my lip:

Hip, hip, hop.

When the bright sun is set,

And the grass with dew is wet,

I sally from my cot,

To see what's to be got,

Hip, hip, hop.

And now I wink my eye,

And now I catch a fly,

And now I take a peep,

And now and then I sleep:

Hip, hip, hop.

And this is all I do--

And yet they say it's true,

That the toady's face is sad,

And his bite is very bad!

Hip, hip, hop.

Oh, naughty folks they be,

That tell such tales of me,

For I'm an honest toad,

Just living by the road:

Hip, hip, hop!

These were my ideas in regard to first books--toy-books--those which

are put into the hands of children to teach them the art of reading.

As to books of amusement and instruction, to follow these, I gave

them Parley's tales of travels, of history, of nature and art,

together with works designed to cultivate a love of truth, charity,

piety, and virtue, and I sought to make these so attractive as to

displace the bad books to which I have already alluded--the old

monstrosities, Puss in Boots, Jack the Giant-killer, and others of

that class. A principal part of my machinery was the character of

Peter Parley--a kind-hearted old man, who had seen much of the world,

and, not presuming to undertake to instruct older people, loved to

sit down and tell his stories to children. Beyond these juvenile

works, I prepared a graduated series upon the same general plan,

reaching up to books for the adult library.

It is true that occasionally I wrote and published a book aside

from this, my true vocation: thus I edited the Token, and published

two or three volumes of poetry. But, out of all my works, about a

hundred and twenty are professedly juvenile; and forty are for my

early readers advanced to maturity. It is true that I have written

openly, avowedly, to attract and to please children; yet it has

been my design at the same time to enlarge the circle of knowledge,

to invigorate the understanding, to strengthen the moral nerve, to

purify and exalt the imagination. Such have been my aims: how far I

have succeeded, I must leave to the judgment of others. One thing I

may perhaps claim, and that is, my example and my success have led

others, of higher gifts than my own, to enter the ample and noble

field of juvenile instruction by means of books; many of them have no

doubt surpassed me, and others will still follow surpassing them. I

look upon the art of writing for children and youth, advanced as it

has been of late years, still as but just begun.

CHAPTER XXVI.

CHILDREN MY FIRST PATRONS--A VISIT TO NEW ORLEANS--FEELINGS OF

HUMILIATION--THE MICE EAT MY PAPERS--A WRONG CALCULATION.

If thus I met with opposition, I had also my success, nay, I must

say, my triumphs. My first patrons were the children themselves, then

the mothers, and then, of course, the fathers. In the early part

of the year 1846 I made a trip from Boston to the South, returning

by the way of the Mississippi and the Ohio. I received many a kind

welcome under the name of the fictitious hero whom I had made to

tell my stories. Sometimes, it is true, I underwent rather sharp

cross-questioning, and frequently was made to feel that I held my

honors by a rather questionable title. I, who had undertaken to teach

truth, was forced to confess that fiction lay at the foundation of my

scheme! My innocent young readers, however, did not suspect me: they

had taken all I had said as positively true, and I was, of course,

Peter Parley himself.

"Did you really write that book about Africa?" said a black-eyed,

dark-haired girl of some eight years old, at Mobile.

I replied in the affirmative.

"And did you really get into prison there!"

"No; I was never in Africa."

"Never in Africa?"

"Never."

"Well, then, why did you say you had been there?"

On another occasion--I think at Savannah--a gentleman called upon

me, introducing his two grandchildren, who were anxious to see

Peter Parley. The girl rushed up to me, and kissed me at once. We

were immediately the best friends in the world. The boy, on the

contrary, held himself aloof, and ran his eye over me, up and down,

from top to toe. He then walked round, surveying me with the most

scrutinizing gaze. After this he sat down, and during the interview

took no further notice of me. At parting he gave me a keen look, but

said nothing. The next day the gentleman called and told me that his

grandson, as they were on their way home, said to him,--

"Grandfather, I wouldn't have anything to do with that man; he ain't

Peter Parley."

"How do you know that?" said the grandfather.

"Because," said the boy, "he hasn't got his foot bound up, and he

don't walk with a crutch!"

On my arrival at New Orleans I was kindly received, and had the

honors of a public welcome. The proceedings were gratifying to

me; and, even if they stood alone, would make amends for much

misunderstanding and opposition.

Hitherto I have spoken chiefly of the books I have written

for children, the design of which was as much to amuse as to

instruct them. These comprise the entire series called Parley's

Tales, with many others, bearing Parley's name. As to works for

education--school-books, including readers, histories, geographies,

&c., books for popular reading, and a wilderness of prose and poetry

admitting of no classification--it is unnecessary to recount them.

This is the closing chapter of my literary history, and I have little

indeed to say, and that is a confession.

In looking at the long list of my publications, in reflecting upon

the large numbers that have been sold, I feel far more of humiliation

than of triumph. If I have sometimes taken to heart the soothing

flatteries of the public, it has ever been speedily succeeded by

the conviction that my life has been, on the whole, a series of

mistakes, and especially in that portion of it which has been devoted

to authorship. I have written too much, and have done nothing really

well. I know, better than any one can tell me, that there is nothing

in this long catalogue that will give me a permanent place in

literature. A few things may struggle upon the surface for a time,

but--like the last leaves of a tree in autumn, forced at length to

quit their hold and drop into the stream--even these will disappear,

and my name and all I have done will be forgotten.

A recent event, half-ludicrous and half-melancholy, has led me

into this train of reflection. On going to Europe in 1851 I sent

my books and papers to a friend, to be kept till my return. Among

them was a large box of business documents--letters, accounts,

receipts, bills paid, notes liquidated--comprising the transactions

of several years, long since passed away. Shortly after my return

to New York, in preparing to establish myself and family, I caused

these things to be sent to me. On opening the particular box just

mentioned, I found it a complete mass of shavings, shreds, fragments.

My friend had put it carefully away in the upper loft of his barn,

and there it became converted into a universal mouse-nest! The

history of whole generations of the mischievous little rogues was

still visible; beds, galleries, play-grounds, birth-places, and even

graves, were in a state of excellent preservation. Several wasted

and shrivelled forms of various sizes--the limbs curled up, the eyes

extinct, the teeth disclosed, the long, slender tails straight and

stiffened--testified to the joys and sorrows of the races that had

flourished there.

On exploring this mass of ruins, I discovered here and there a file

of letters eaten through, the hollow cavity evidently having been

the happy and innocent cradle of childhood to these destroyers.

Sometimes I found a bed lined with paid bills, and sometimes the

pathway of a gallery paved with liquidated accounts. What a mass of

thoughts, of feelings, cares, anxieties, were thus made the plunder

of these thoughtless creatures! In examining the papers I found, for

instance, letters from N. P. Willis, written five-and-twenty years

ago, with only "Dear Sir" at the beginning, and "Yours truly" at

the end. I found epistles of nearly equal antiquity from many other

friends--sometimes only the heart eaten out, and sometimes the whole

body gone.

For all purposes of record, these papers were destroyed. I was alone,

for my family had not yet returned from Europe: it was the beginning

of November, and I began to light my fire with these relics. For

two whole days I pored over them, buried in the reflections which

the reading of the fragments suggested. Absorbed in this dreary

occupation, I forgot the world without, and was only conscious of

bygone scenes which came up in review before me. It was as if I had

been in the tomb, and was reckoning with the past. How little was

there in all that I was thus called to remember, save of care, and

struggle, and anxiety; and how were all the thoughts, and feelings,

and experiences, which seemed mountains in their day, levelled down

to the merest grains of dust! A note of hand--perchance of a thousand

dollars--what a history rose up in recollection as I looked over

its scarcely legible fragments!--what clouds of anxiety had its

approaching day of maturity cast over my mind! How had I been, with

a trembling heart, to some bank-president--he a god, and I a craven

worshipper--making my offering of some other note for a discount,

which might deliver me from the wrath to come! With what anxiety have

I watched the lips of the oracle, for my fate was in his hands! A

simple monosyllable--yes or no--might save or ruin me. What a history

was in that bit of paper!--and yet it was destined only to serve as

stuffing for the beds of vermin.

I ought, no doubt, to have smiled at all this; but I confess it made

me serious. Nor was it the most humiliating part of my reflections. I

have been too familiar with care, conflict, disappointment, to mourn

over them very deeply, now that they were passed. The seeming fatuity

of such a mass of labors as these papers indicated, compared with

their poor results, however it might humble, could not distress me.

But there were many things suggested by these letters, all in rags

as they were, that caused positive humiliation. They revived in my

mind the vexations, misunderstandings, controversies of other days;

and now, reviewed in the calm light of time, I could discover the

mistakes of judgment, of temper, of policy, that I had made. I turned

back to my letter-book; I reviewed my correspondence; and I came to

the conclusion that in almost every difficulty which had arisen in my

path, even if others were wrong, I was not altogether right: in most

cases, prudence, conciliation, condescension, might have averted

these evils. Thus the thorns which had wounded me and others too, as

it seemed, had generally sprung up from the seeds I had sown, or had

thriven upon the culture my own hands had unwisely bestowed.

At first I felt disturbed at the ruin which had been wrought in these

files of papers. Hesitating and doubtful, I consigned them one by one

to the flames. At last the work was complete; all had perished, and

the feathery ashes had leaped up in the strong draught of the chimney

and disappeared for ever. I felt a relief at last; I smiled at what

had happened; I warmed my chill fingers over the embers; I felt that

a load was off my shoulders. "At least," said I in my heart, "these

things are now passed; my reckoning is completed, the account is

balanced, the responsibilities of those bygone days are liquidated;

let me burden my bosom with them no more!" Alas, how fallacious my

calculation! A few months only had passed, when I was called to

contend with a formidable claim which came up from the midst of

transactions to which these extinct papers referred, and against

which they constituted my defence. As it chanced, I was able to meet

and repel it by documents which survived; but the event caused me

deep reflection. I could not but remark that, however we may seek to

cover our lives with forgetfulness, their records still exist, and

these may come up against us when we have no vouchers to meet the

charges which are thus presented. Who, then, will be our helper?