PART II.

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THE

ATLANTIC MONTHLY

_A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics._

VOL. XVII.--MARCH, 1866.--NO. CI.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by TICKNOR AND

FIELDS, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of

Massachusetts.

Transcriber's Note: Minor typos have been corrected and footnotes moved

to the end of the article.

PASSAGES FROM HAWTHORNE'S NOTE-BOOKS.

III.

Maine, _Thursday, July 20, 1837._--A drive, yesterday afternoon, to a

pond in the vicinity of Augusta, about nine miles off, to fish for white

perch. Remarkables: the steering of the boat through the crooked,

labyrinthine brook, into the open pond,--the man who acted as

pilot,--his talking with B----about politics, the bank, the iron money

of "a king who came to reign, in Greece, over a city called

Sparta,"--his advice to B---- to come amongst the laborers on the

mill-dam, because it stimulated them "to see a man grinning amongst

them." The man took hearty tugs at a bottle of good Scotch whiskey, and

became pretty merry. The fish caught were the yellow perch, which are

not esteemed for eating; the white perch, a beautiful, silvery,

round-backed fish, which bites eagerly, runs about with the line while

being pulled up, makes good sport for the angler, and an admirable dish;

a great chub; and three horned pouts, which swallow the hook into their

lowest entrails. Several dozen fish were taken in an hour or two, and

then we returned to the shop where we had left our horse and wagon, the

pilot very eccentric behind us. It was a small, dingy shop, dimly

lighted by a single inch of candle, faintly disclosing various boxes,

barrels standing on end, articles hanging from the ceiling; the

proprietor at the counter, whereon appear gin and brandy, respectively

contained in a tin pint-measure and an earthenware jug, with two or

three tumblers beside them, out of which nearly all the party drank;

some coming up to the counter frankly, others lingering in the

background, waiting to be pressed, two paying for their own liquor and

withdrawing. B---- treated them twice round. The pilot, after drinking

his brandy, gave a history of our fishing expedition, and how many and

how large fish we caught. B---- making acquaintances and renewing them,

and gaining great credit for liberality and free-heartedness,--two or

three boys looking on and listening to the talk,--the shopkeeper smiling

behind his counter, with the tarnished tin scales beside him,--the inch

of candle burned down almost to extinction. So we got into our wagon,

with the fish, and drove to Robinson's tavern, almost five miles off,

where we supped and passed the night. In the bar-room was a fat old

countryman on a journey, and a quack doctor of the vicinity, and an

Englishman with a peculiar accent. Seeing B----'s jointed and

brass-mounted fishing-pole, he took it for a theodolite, and supposed

that we had been on a surveying expedition. At supper, which consisted

of bread, butter, cheese, cake, doughnuts, and gooseberry-pie, we were

waited upon by a tall, very tall woman, young and maiden-looking, yet

with a strongly outlined and determined face. Afterwards we found her to

be the wife of mine host. She poured out our tea, came in when we rang

the table-bell to refill our cups, and again retired. While at supper,

the fat old traveller was ushered through the room into a contiguous

bedroom. My own chamber, apparently the best in the house, had its walls

ornamented with a small, gilt-framed, foot-square looking-glass, with a

hair-brush hanging beneath it; a record of the deaths of the family,

written on a black tomb, in an engraving, where a father, mother, and

child were represented in a graveyard, weeping over said tomb; the

mourners dressed in black, country-cut clothes; the engraving executed

in Vermont. There was also a wood engraving of the Declaration of

Independence, with fac-similes of the autographs; a portrait of the

Empress Josephine, and another of Spring. In the two closets of this

chamber were mine hostess's cloak, best bonnet, and go-to-meeting

apparel. There was a good bed, in which I slept tolerably well, and,

rising betimes, ate breakfast, consisting of some of our own fish, and

then started for Augusta. The fat old traveller had gone off with the

harness of our wagon, which the hostler had put on to his horse by

mistake. The tavern-keeper gave us his own harness, and started in

pursuit of the old man, who was probably aware of the exchange, and well

satisfied with it.

Our drive to Augusta, six or seven miles, was very pleasant, a heavy

rain having fallen during the night and laid the oppressive dust of the

day before. The road lay parallel with the Kennebec, of which we

occasionally had near glimpses. The country swells back from the river

in hills and ridges, without any interval of level ground; and there

were frequent woods, filling up the valleys or crowning the summits. The

land is good, the farms looked neat, and the houses comfortable. The

latter are generally but of one story, but with large barns; and it was

a good sign, that, while we saw no houses unfinished nor out of repair,

one man, at least, had found it expedient to make an addition to his

dwelling. At the distance of more than two miles, we had a view of white

Augusta, with its steeples, and the State-House, at the farther end of

the town. Observable matters along the road were the stage,--all the

dust of yesterday brushed off, and no new dust contracted,--full of

passengers, inside and out; among them some gentlemanly people and

pretty girls, all looking fresh and unsullied, rosy, cheerful, and

curious as to the face of the country, the faces of passing travellers,

and the incidents of their journey; not yet damped, in the morning

sunshine, by long miles of jolting over rough and hilly roads,--to

compare this with their appearance at midday, and as they drive into

Bangor at dusk;--two women dashing along in a wagon, and with a child,

rattling pretty speedily down hill;--people looking at us from the open

doors and windows;--the children staring from the wayside;--the mowers

stopping, for a moment, the sway of their scythes;--the matron of a

family, indistinctly seen at some distance within the house, her head

and shoulders appearing through the window, drawing her handkerchief

over her bosom, which had been uncovered to give the baby its

breakfast,--the said baby, or its immediate predecessor, sitting at the

door, turning round to creep away on all fours;--a man building a

flat-bottomed boat by the roadside: he talked with B---- about the

Boundary question, and swore fervently in favor of driving the British

"into hell's kitchen" by main force.

Colonel B----, the engineer of the mill-dam, is now here, after about a

fortnight's absence. He is a plain country squire, with a good figure,

but with rather a ponderous brow; a rough complexion; a gait stiff, and

a general rigidity of manner, something like that of a schoolmaster. He

originated in a country town, and is a self-educated man. As he walked

down the gravel path to-day, after dinner, he took up a scythe, which

one of the mowers had left on the sward, and began to mow, with quite a

scientific swing. On the coming of the mower, he laid it down, perhaps a

little ashamed of his amusement. I was interested in this; to see a man,

after twenty-five years of scientific occupation, thus trying whether

his arms retained their strength and skill for the labors of his

youth,--mindful of the day when he wore striped trousers, and toiled in

his shirt-sleeves,--and now tasting again, for pastime, this drudgery

beneath a fervid sun. He stood awhile, looking at the workmen, and then

went to oversee the laborers at the mill-dam.

* * * * *

_Monday, July 24th._--I bathed in the river on Thursday evening, and in

the brook at the old dam on Saturday and Sunday,--the former time at

noon. The aspect of the solitude at noon was peculiarly impressive,

there being a cloudless sunshine, no wind, no rustling of the

forest-leaves, no waving of the boughs, no noise but the brawling and

babbling of the stream, making its way among the stones, and pouring in

a little cataract round one side of the mouldering dam. Looking up the

brook, there was a long vista,--now ripples, now smooth and glassy

spaces, now large rocks, almost blocking up the channel; while the trees

stood upon either side, mostly straight, but here and there a branch

thrusting itself out irregularly, and one tree, a pine, leaning

over,--not bending,--but leaning at an angle over the brook, rough and

ragged; birches, alders; the tallest of all the trees an old, dead,

leafless pine, rising white and lonely, though closely surrounded by

others. Along the brook, now the grass and herbage extended close to the

water; now a small, sandy beach. The wall of rock before described,

looking as if it had been hewn, but with irregular strokes of the

workman, doing his job by rough and ponderous strength,--now chancing to

hew it away smoothly and cleanly, now carelessly smiting, and making

gaps, or piling on the slabs of rock, so as to leave vacant spaces. In

the interstices grow brake and broad-leaved forest grass. The trees that

spring from the top of this wall have their roots pressing close to the

rock, so that there is no soil between; they cling powerfully, and grasp

the crag tightly with their knotty fingers. The trees on both sides are

so thick, that the sight and the thoughts are almost immediately lost

among confused stems, branches, and clustering green leaves,--a narrow

strip of bright blue sky above, the sunshine falling lustrously down,

and making the pathway of the brook luminous below. Entering among the

thickets, I find the soil strewn with old leaves of preceding seasons,

through which may be seen a black or dark mould; the roots of trees

stretch frequently across the path; often a moss-grown brown log lies

athwart, and when you set your foot down, it sinks into the decaying

substance,--into the heart of oak or pine. The leafy boughs and twigs of

the underbrush enlace themselves before you, so that you must stoop your

head to pass under, or thrust yourself through amain, while they sweep

against your face, and perhaps knock off your hat. There are rocks mossy

and slippery; sometimes you stagger, with a great rustling of branches,

against a clump of bushes, and into the midst of it. From end to end of

all this tangled shade goes a pathway scarcely worn, for the leaves are

not trodden through, yet plain enough to the eye, winding gently to

avoid tree-trunks and rocks and little hillocks. In the more open

ground, the aspect of a tall, fire-blackened stump, standing alone, high

up on a swell of land, that rises gradually from one side of the brook,

like a monument. Yesterday, I passed a group of children in this

solitary valley,--two boys, I think, and two girls. One of the little

girls seemed to have suffered some wrong from her companions, for she

was weeping and complaining violently. Another time, I came suddenly on

a small Canadian boy, who was in a hollow place, among the ruined logs

of an old causeway, picking raspberries,--lonely among bushes and

gorges, far up the wild valley,--and the lonelier seemed the little boy

for the bright sunshine, that showed no one else in a wide space of view

except him and me.

Remarkable items: the observation of Mons. S---- when B---- was saying

something against the character of the French people,--"You ought not to

form an unfavorable judgment of a great nation from mean fellows like

me, strolling about in a foreign country." I thought it very noble thus

to protest against anything discreditable in himself personally being

used against the honor of his country. He is a very singular person,

with an originality in all his notions;--not that nobody has ever had

such before, but that he has thought them out for himself. He told me

yesterday that one of his sisters was a waiting-maid in the Rocher de

Caucale. He is about the sincerest man I ever knew, never pretending to

feelings that are not in him,--never flattering. His feelings do not

seem to be warm, though they are kindly. He is so single-minded that he

cannot understand badinage, but takes it all as if meant in earnest,--a

German trait. Revalues himself greatly on being a Frenchman, though all

his most valuable qualities come from Germany. His temperament is cool

and pure, and he is greatly delighted with any attentions from the

ladies. A short time since, a lady gave him a bouquet of roses and

pinks; he capered and danced and sang, put it in water, and carried it

to his own chamber; but he brought it out for us to see and admire two

or three times a day, bestowing on it all the epithets of admiration in

the French language,--"_Superbe! magnifique!_" When some of the flowers

began to fade, he made the rest, with others, into a new nosegay, and

consulted us whether it would be fit to give to another lady. Contrast

this French foppery with his solemn moods, when we sit in the twilight,

or after B---- is abed, talking of Christianity and Deism, of ways of

life, of marriage, of benevolence,--in short, of all deep matters of

this world and the next. An evening or two since, he began singing all

manner of English songs,--such as Mrs. Hemans's "Landing of the

Pilgrims," "Auld Lang Syne," and some of Moore's,--the singing pretty

fair, but in the oddest tone and accent. Occasionally he breaks out with

scraps from French tragedies, which he spouts with corresponding action.

He generally gets close to me in these displays of musical and

histrionic talent Once he offered to magnetize me in the manner of

Monsieur P----.

* * * * *

_Wednesday, July 26th._--Dined at Barker's yesterday. Before dinner, sat

with several other persons in the stoop of the tavern. There was B----,

J. A. Chandler, Clerk of the Court, a man of middle age or beyond, two

or three stage people, and, nearby, a negro, whom they call "the

Doctor," a crafty-looking fellow, one of whose occupations is nameless.

In presence of this goodly company, a man of a depressed, neglected air,

a soft, simple-looking fellow, with an anxious expression, in a

laborer's dress, approached and inquired for Mr. Barker. Mine host being

gone to Portland, the stranger was directed to the bar-keeper, who stood

at the door. The man asked where he should find one Mary Ann Russell,--a

question which excited general and hardly-suppressed mirth; for the said

Mary Ann is one of a knot of women who were routed on Sunday evening by

Barker and a constable. The man was told that the black fellow would

give him all the information he wanted. The black fellow asked,--

"Do you want to see her?"

Others of the by-standers or by-sitters put various questions as to the

nature of the man's business with Mary Ann. One asked,--

"Is she your daughter?"

"Why, a little nearer than that, I calkilate," said the poor devil.

Here the mirth was increased, it being evident that the woman was his

wife. The man seemed too simple and obtuse to comprehend the ridicule of

his situation, or to be rendered very miserable by it. Nevertheless, he

made some touching points.

"A man generally places some little dependence on his wife," said he,

"whether she's good or not."

He meant, probably, that he rests some affection on her. He told us that

she had behaved well, till committed to jail for striking a child; and I

believe he was absent from home at the time, and had not seen her since.

And now he was in search of her, intending, doubtless, to do his best to

get her out of her troubles, and then to take her back to his home. Some

advised him not to look after her; others recommended him to pay "the

Doctor" aforesaid for guiding him to her; which finally "the Doctor"

did, in consideration of a treat; and the fellow went off, having heard

little but gibes, and not one word of sympathy! I would like to have

witnessed his meeting with his wife.

There was a moral picturesqueness in the contrasts of the scene,--a man

moved as deeply as his nature would admit, in the midst of hardened,

gibing spectators, heartless towards him. It is worth thinking over and

studying out. He seemed rather hurt and pricked by the jests thrown at

him, yet bore it patiently, and sometimes almost joined in the laugh,

being of an easy, unenergetic temper.

Hints for characters:--Nancy, a pretty, black-eyed, intelligent

servant-girl, living in Captain H----'s family. She comes daily to make

the beds in our part of the house, and exchanges a good-morning with me,

in a pleasant voice, and with a glance and smile,--somewhat shy, because

we are not acquainted, yet capable of being made conversable. She washes

once a week, and may be seen standing over her tub, with her

handkerchief somewhat displaced from her white neck, because it is hot.

Often she stands with her bare arms in the water, talking with Mrs.

H----, or looks through the window, perhaps, at B---- or somebody else

crossing the yard,--rather thoughtfully, but soon smiling or laughing.

Then goeth she for a pail of water. In the afternoon, very probably, she

dresses herself in silks, looking not only pretty, but lady-like, and

strolls round the house, not unconscious that some gentleman may be

staring at her from behind the green blinds. After supper, she walks to

the village. Morning and evening, she goes a-milking. And thus passes

her life, cheerfully, usefully, virtuously, with hopes, doubtless, of a

husband and children.--Mrs. H---- is a particularly plump, soft-fleshed,

fair-complexioned, comely woman enough, with rather a simple

countenance, not nearly so piquant as Nancy's. Her walk has something of

the roll or waddle of a fat woman, though it were too much to call her

fat. She seems to be a sociable body, probably laughter-loving. Captain

H---- himself has commanded a steamboat, and has a certain knowledge of

life.

Query, in relation to the man's missing wife, how much desire and

resolution of doing her duty by her husband can a wife retain, while

injuring him in what is deemed the most essential point?

Observation. The effect of morning sunshine on the wet grass, on sloping

and swelling land, between the spectator and the sun at some distance,

as across a lawn. It diffused a dim brilliancy over the whole surface of

the field. The mists, slow-rising farther off, part resting on the

earth, the remainder of the column already ascending so high that you

doubt whether to call it a fog or a cloud.

* * * * *

_Friday, July 28th._--Saw my classmate and formerly intimate friend,

Cilley, for the first time since we graduated. He has met with good

success in life, in spite of circumstance, having struggled upward

against bitter opposition, by the force of his own abilities, to be a

member of Congress, after having been for some time the leader of his

party in the State Legislature. We met like old friends, and conversed

almost as freely as we used to do in college days, twelve years ago and

more. He is a singular man, shrewd, crafty, insinuating, with wonderful

tact, seizing on each man by his manageable point, and using him for his

own purpose, often without the man's suspecting that he is made a tool

of; and yet, artificial as his character would seem to be, his

conversation, at least to myself, was full of natural feeling, the

expression of which can hardly be mistaken, and his revelations with

regard to himself had really a great deal of frankness. He spoke of his

ambition, of the obstacles which he had encountered, of the means by

which he had overcome them, imputing great efficacy to his personal

intercourse with people, and his study of their characters; then of his

course as a member of the Legislature and Speaker, and his style of

speaking and its effects; of the dishonorable things which had been

imputed to him, and in what manner he had repelled the charges. In

short, he would seem to have opened himself very freely as to his public

life. Then, as to his private affairs, he spoke of his marriage, of his

wife, his children, and told me, with tears in his eyes, of the death of

a dear little girl, and how it affected him, and how impossible it had

been for him to believe that she was really to die. A man of the most

open nature might well have been more reserved to a friend, after twelve

years' separation, than Cilley was to me. Nevertheless, he is really a

crafty man, concealing, like a murder-secret, anything that it is not

good for him to have known. He by no means feigns the good-feeling that

he professes, nor is there anything affected in the frankness of his

conversation; and it is this that makes him so very fascinating. There

is such a quantity of truth and kindliness and warm affections, that a

man's heart opens to him, in spite of himself. He deceives by truth. And

not only is he crafty, but, when occasion demands, bold and fierce as a

tiger, determined, and even straightforward and undisguised in his

measures,--a daring fellow as well as a sly one. Yet, notwithstanding

his consummate art, the general estimate of his character seems to be

pretty just. Hardly anybody, probably, thinks him better than he is, and

many think him worse. Nevertheless, if no overwhelming discovery of

rascality be made, he will always possess influence; though I should

hardly think that he would take any prominent part in Congress. As to

any rascality, I rather believe that he has thought out for himself a

much higher system of morality than any natural integrity would have

prompted him to adopt; that he has seen the thorough advantage of

morality and honesty; and the sentiment of these qualities has now got

into his mind and spirit, and pretty well impregnated them. I believe

him to be about as honest as the great run of the world, with something

even approaching to high-mindedness. His person in some degree accords

with his character,--thin and with a thin face, sharp features, sallow,

a projecting brow not very high, deep-set eyes, an insinuating smile and

look, when he meets you, and is about to address you. I should think

that he would do away with this peculiar expression, for it reveals more

of himself than can be detected in any other way, in personal

intercourse with him. Upon the whole, I have quite a good liking for

him, and mean to go to Thomaston to see him.

Observation. A steam-engine across the river, which almost continually

during the day, and sometimes all night, may be heard puffing and

panting, as if it uttered groans for being compelled to labor in the

heat and sunshine, and when the world is asleep also.

* * * * *

_Monday, July 31st._--Nothing remarkable to record. A child asleep in a

young lady's arms,--a little baby, two or three months old. Whenever

anything partially disturbed the child, as, for instance, when the young

lady or a by-stander patted its cheek or rubbed its chin, the child

would smile; then all its dreams seemed to be of pleasure and happiness.

At first the smile was so faint, that I doubted whether it were really a

smile or no; but on further efforts, it brightened forth very decidedly.

This, without opening its eyes.--A constable, a homely, good-natured,

business-looking man, with a warrant against an Irishman's wife for

throwing a brickbat at a fellow. He gave good advice to the Irishman

about the best method of coming easiest through the affair. Finally

settled,--the justice agreeing to relinquish his fees, on condition that

the Irishman would pay for the mending of his old boots!

I went with Monsieur S---- yesterday to pick raspberries. He fell

through an old log bridge thrown over a hollow; looking back, only his

head and shoulders appeared through the rotten logs and among the

bushes.--A shower coming on, the rapid running of a little barefooted

boy, coming up unheard, and dashing swiftly past us, and showing the

soles of his naked feet as he ran adown the path before us, and up the

opposite rise.

* * * * *

_Tuesday, August 1st._--There having been a heavy rain yesterday, a nest

of chimney-swallows was washed down the chimney into the fireplace of

one of the front-rooms. My attention was drawn to them by a most

obstreperous twittering; and looking behind the fire-board, there were

three young birds, clinging with their feet against one of the jambs,

looking at me, open-mouthed, and all clamoring together, so as quite to

fill the room with the short, eager, frightened sound. The old birds, by

certain signs upon the floor of the room, appeared to have fallen

victims to the appetite of the cat. La belle Nancy provided a basket

filled with cotton-wool, into which the poor little devils were put; and

I tried to feed them with soaked bread, of which, however, they did not

eat with much relish. Tom, the Irish boy, gave it as his opinion that

they were not old enough to be weaned. I hung the basket out of the

window, in the sunshine, and upon looking in, an hour or two after,

found that two of the birds had escaped. The other I tried to feed, and

sometimes, when a morsel of bread was thrust into its open mouth, it

would swallow it. But it appeared to suffer a good deal, vociferating

loudly when disturbed, and panting, in a sluggish agony, with eyes

closed, or half opened, when let alone. It distressed me a good deal;

and I felt relieved, though somewhat shocked, when B---- put an end to

its misery by squeezing its head and throwing it out of the window. They

were of a slate-color, and might, I suppose, have been able to shift for

themselves.--The other day a little yellow bird flew into one of the

empty rooms, of which there are half a dozen on the lower floor, and

could not find his way out again, flying at the glass of the windows,

instead of at the door, thumping his head against the panes or against

the ceiling. I drove him into the entry and chased him from end to end,

endeavoring to make him fly through one of the open doors. He would fly

at the circular light over the door, clinging to the casement, sometimes

alighting on one of the two glass lamps, or on the cords that suspended

them, uttering an affrighted and melancholy cry whenever I came near and

flapped my handkerchief, and appearing quite tired and sinking into

despair. At last he happened to fly low enough to pass through the door,

and immediately vanished into the gladsome sunshine.--Ludicrous

situation of a man, drawing his chaise down a sloping bank, to wash in

the river. The chaise got the better of him, and, rushing downward as if

it were possessed, compelled him to run at full speed, and drove him up

to his chin into the water. A singular instance, that a chaise may run

away with a man without a horse!

* * * * *

_Saturday, August 12th._--Left Augusta a week ago this morning for

Thomaston. Nothing particular in our drive across the country.

Fellow-passenger, a Boston dry-goods dealer, travelling to collect

bills. At many of the country shops he would get out, and show his

unwelcome visage. In the tavern, prints from Scripture, varnished and on

rollers,--such as the Judgment of Christ; also, a droll set of colored

engravings of the story of the Prodigal Son, the figures being clad in

modern costume,--or, at least, that of not more than half a century ago.

The father, a grave, clerical person, with a white wig and black

broadcloth suit; the son, with a cocked hat and laced clothes, drinking

wine out of a glass, and caressing a woman in fashionable dress. At

Thomaston, a nice, comfortable, boarding-house tavern, without a bar or

any sort of wines or spirits. An old lady from Boston, with her three

daughters, one of whom was teaching music, and the other two were

school-mistresses. A frank, free, mirthful daughter of the landlady,

about twenty-four years old, between whom and myself there immediately

sprang up a flirtation, which made us both feel rather melancholy when

we parted on Tuesday morning. Music in the evening, with a song by a

rather pretty, fantastic little mischief of a brunette, about eighteen

years old, who has married within a year, and spent the last summer in a

trip to the Springs and elsewhere. Her manner of walking is by jerks,

with a quiver, as if she were made of calves-feet jelly. I talk with

everybody: to Mrs. Trott, good sense,--to Mary, good sense, with a

mixture of fun,--to Mrs. Gleason, sentiment, romance, and nonsense.

Walked with Cilley to see General Knox's old mansion,--a large,

rusty-looking edifice of wood, with some grandeur in the architecture,

standing on the banks of the river, close by the site of an old

burial-ground, and near where an ancient fort had been erected for

defence against the French and Indians. General Knox once owned a square

of thirty miles in this part of the country; and he wished to settle it

with a tenantry, after the fashion of English gentlemen. He would permit

no edifice to be erected within a certain distance of his mansion. His

patent covered, of course, the whole present town of Thomaston, with

Waldoborough and divers other flourishing commercial and country

villages, and would have been of incalculable value could it have

remained unbroken to the present time. But the General lived in grand

style, and received throngs of visitors from foreign parts, and was

obliged to part with large tracts of his possessions, till now there is

little left but the ruinous mansion and the ground immediately around

it. His tomb stands near the house,--a spacious receptacle, an iron door

at the end of a turf-covered mound, and surmounted by an obelisk of the

Thomaston marble. There are inscriptions to the memory of several of his

family; for he had many children, all of whom are now dead, except one

daughter, a widow of fifty, recently married to Hon. John H----. There

is a stone fence round the monument. On the outside of this are

the gravestones, and large, flat tombstones of the ancient

burial-ground,--the tombstones being of red freestone, with vacant

spaces, formerly inlaid with slate, on which were the inscriptions, and

perhaps coats-of-arms. One of these spaces was in the shape of a heart.

The people of Thomaston were very wrathful that the General should have

laid out his grounds over this old burial-place; and he dared never

throw down the gravestones, though his wife, a haughty English lady,

often teased him to do so. But when the old General was dead, Lady Knox

(as they called her) caused them to be prostrated, as they now lie. She

was a woman of violent passions, and so proud an aristocrat, that, as

long as she lived, she would never enter any house in Thomaston except

her own. When a married daughter was ill, she used to go in her carriage

to the door, and send up to inquire how she did. The General was

personally very popular; but his wife ruled him. The house and its

vicinity, and the whole tract covered by Knox's patent, may be taken as

an illustration of what must be the result of American schemes of

aristocracy. It is not forty years since this house was built, and Knox

was in his glory; but now the house is all in decay, while within a

stone's throw of it there is a street of smart white edifices of one and

two stories, occupied chiefly by thriving mechanics, which has been laid

out where Knox meant to have forests and parks. On the banks of the

river, where he intended to have only one wharf for his own West Indian

vessels and yacht, there are two wharves, with stores and a lime-kiln.

Little appertains to the mansion, except the tomb and the old

burial-ground, and the old fort.

The descendants are all poor, and the inheritance was merely sufficient

to make a dissipated and drunken fellow of the only one of the old

General's sons who survived to middle age. The man's habits were as bad

as possible as long as he had any money; but when quite ruined, he

reformed. The daughter, the only survivor among Knox's children,

(herself childless,) is a mild, amiable woman, therein totally differing

from her mother. Knox, when he first visited his estate, arriving in a

vessel, was waited upon by a deputation of the squatters, who had

resolved to resist him to the death. He received them with genial

courtesy, made them dine with him aboard the vessel, and sent them back

to their constituents in great love and admiration of him. He used to

have a vessel running to Philadelphia, I think, and bringing him all

sorts of delicacies. His way of raising money was to give a mortgage on

his estate of a hundred thousand dollars at a time, and receive that

nominal amount in goods, which he would immediately sell at auction for

perhaps thirty thousand. He died by a chicken-bone. Near the house are

the remains of a covered way, by which the French once attempted to gain

admittance into the fort; but the work caved in and buried a good many

of them, and the rest gave up the siege. There was recently an old

inhabitant living, who remembered when the people used to reside in the

fort.

Owl's Head,--a watering-place, terminating a point of land, six or seven

miles from Thomaston. A long island shuts out the prospect of the sea.

Hither coasters and fishing-smacks run in when a storm is anticipated.

Two fat landlords, both young men, with something of a contrast in their

dispositions;--one of them being a brisk, lively, active, jesting fat

man; the other more heavy and inert, making jests sluggishly, if at all.

Aboard the steamboat, Professor Stuart of Andover, sitting on a sofa in

the saloon, generally in conversation with some person, resolving their

doubts on one point or another, speaking in a very audible voice; and

strangers standing or sitting around to hear him, as if he were an

ancient apostle or philosopher. He is a bulky man, with a large, massive

face, particularly calm in its expression, and mild enough to be

pleasing. When not otherwise occupied, he reads, without much notice of

what is going on around him. He speaks without effort, yet thoughtfully.

We got lost in a fog the morning after leaving Owl's Head. Fired a brass

cannon, rang bell, blew steam like a whale snorting. After one of the

reports of the cannon, we heard a horn blown at no great distance, the

sound coming soon after the report. Doubtful whether it came from the

shore or a vessel. Continued our ringing and snorting; and by and by

something was seen to mingle with the fog that obscured everything

beyond fifty yards from us. At first it seemed only like a denser wreath

of fog; it darkened still more, till it took the aspect of sails; then

the hull of a small schooner came beating down towards us, the wind

laying her over towards us, so that her gunwale was almost in the water,

and we could see the whole of her sloping deck.

"Schooner ahoy!" say we. "Halloo! Have you seen Boston Light this

morning?"

"Yes; it bears north-northwest, two miles distant."

"Very much obliged to you," cries our captain.

So the schooner vanishes into the mist behind. We get up our steam, and

soon enter the harbor, meeting vessels of every rig; and the fog,

clearing away, shows a cloudy sky. Aboard, an old one-eyed sailor, who

had lost one of his feet, and had walked on the stump from Eastport to

Bangor, thereby making a shocking ulcer.

Penobscot Bay is full of islands, close to which the steamboat is

continually passing. Some are large, with portions of forest and

portions of cleared land; some are mere rocks, with a little green or

none, and inhabited by sea-birds, which fly and flap about hoarsely.

Their eggs may be gathered by the bushel, and are good to eat. Other

islands have one house and barn on them, this sole family being lords

and rulers of all the land which the sea girds. The owner of such an

island must have a peculiar sense of property and lordship; he must feel

more like his own master and his own man than other people can. Other

islands, perhaps high, precipitous, black bluffs, are crowned with a

white light-house, whence, as evening comes on, twinkles a star across

the melancholy deep,--seen by vessels coming on the coast, seen from the

mainland, seen from island to island. Darkness descending, and looking

down at the broad wake left by the wheels of the steamboat, we may see

sparkles of sea-fire glittering through the gloom.

AN OLD MAN'S IDYL.

By the waters of Life we sat together,

Hand in hand in the golden days

Of the beautiful early summer weather,

When skies were purple and breath was praise,

When the heart kept tune to the carol of birds

And the birds kept tune to the songs which ran

Through shimmer of flowers on grassy swards,

And trees with voices Æolian.

By the rivers of Life we walked together,

I and my darling, unafraid;

And lighter than any linnet's feather

The burdens of Being on us weighed.

And Love's sweet miracles o'er us threw

Mantles of joy outlasting Time,

And up from the rosy morrows grew

A sound that seemed like a marriage chime.

In the gardens of Life we strayed together;

And the luscious apples were ripe and red,

And the languid lilac and honeyed heather

Swooned with the fragrance which they shed.

And under the trees the angels walked,

And up in the air a sense of wings

Awed us tenderly while we talked

Softly in sacred communings.

In the meadows of Life we strayed together,

Watching the waving harvests grow;

And under the benison of the Father

Our hearts, like the lambs, skipped to and fro.

And the cowslips, hearing our low replies,

Broidered fairer the emerald banks,

And glad tears shone in the daisies' eyes,

And the timid violet glistened thanks.

Who was with us, and what was round us,

Neither myself nor my darling guessed;

Only we knew that something crowned us

Out from the heavens with crowns of rest;

Only we knew that something bright

Lingered lovingly where we stood,

Clothed with the incandescent light

Of something higher than humanhood.

O the riches Love doth inherit!

Ah, the alchemy which doth change

Dross of body and dregs of spirit

Into sanctities rare and strange!

My flesh is feeble and dry and old,

My darling's beautiful hair is gray;

But our elixir and precious gold

Laugh at the footsteps of decay.

Harms of the world have come unto us,

Cups of sorrow we yet shall drain;

But we have a secret which cloth show us

Wonderful rainbows in the rain.

And we hear the tread of the years move by,

And the sun is setting behind the hills;

But my darling does not fear to die,

And I am happy in what God wills.

So we sit by our household fires together,

Dreaming the dreams of long ago:

Then it was balmy summer weather,

And now the valleys are laid in snow.

Icicles hang from the slippery eaves;

The wind blows cold,--'tis growing late;

Well, well! we have garnered all our sheaves,

I and my darling, and we wait.

A RAMBLE THROUGH THE MARKET.

As a man puts on the stoutness and thicksetness of middle life, he

begins to find himself contemplating well-filled meat and fish stalls,

and piles of lusty garden vegetables, with unfeigned interest and

delight. He walks through Quincy Market, for instance, with far more

pleasure than through the dewy and moonlit groves which were the scenes

of his youthful wooings. Then he was all sentiment and poetry. Now he

finds the gratification of the mouth and stomach a chief source of

mundane delight. It is said that all the ships on the sea are sailing in

the direction of the human mouth. The stomach, with its fierce

assimilative power, is a great stimulator of commercial activity. The

table of the civilized man, loaded with the products of so many climes,

bears witness to this. The demands of the stomach are imperious. Its

ukases and decrees must be obeyed, else the whole corporeal commonwealth

of man, and the spirit which makes the human organism its vehicle in

time and space, are in a state of trouble and insurrection.

A large part of the lower organic world, both animal and vegetable, is

ground between man's molars and incisors, and assimilated through the

stomach with his body. This may be called the final cause of that part

of the lower organic world which is edible. Man is a scientific

eater,--a cooking animal. Laughter and speech are not so distinctive

traits of him as cookery. Improve his food, and he is improved both

physically and mentally. His tissue becomes finer, his skin clearer and

brighter, and his hair more glossy and hyacinthine. Cattle-breeders and

the improvers of horticulture are indirectly improving their own race by

furnishing finer and more healthful materials to be built into man's

body. Marble, cedar, rosewood, gold, and gems make a finer edifice than

thatch and ordinary timber and stones. So South-Down mutton and Devonian

beef fattened on the blue-grass pastures of the West, and the

magnificent prize vegetables and rich appetizing fruits, equal to

anything grown in the famed gardens of Alcinoüs or the Hesperides, which

are displayed at our annual autumnal fairs as evidences of our

scientific horticulture and fructiculture, adorn the frame into which

they are incorporated by mastication and digestion, as rosewood and

marble and cedar and gold adorn a house or temple.

The subject of eating and drinking is a serious one. The stomach is the

great motive power of society. It is the true sharpener of human

ingenuity, _curis acuens mortalia corda_. Cookery is the first of arts.

Chemistry is a mere subordinate science, whose chief value is that it

enables man to impart greater relish and gust to his viands. The

greatest poets, such as Homer, Milton, and Scott, treat the subject of

eating and drinking with much seriousness, minuteness of detail, and

lusciousness of description. Homer's heroes are all good

cooks,--swift-footed Achilles, much-enduring Ulysses, and the rest of

them. Read Milton's appetizing description of the feast which the

Tempter set before the fasting Saviour:--

"Our Saviour, lifting up his eyes, beheld

In ample space, under the broadest shade,

A table richly spread in regal mode,

With dishes piled, and meats of noblest sort

And savor: beasts of chase or fowl of game

In pastry built, or from the spit, or boiled,

Gris-amber steamed; all fish from sea or shore,

Freshet or purling brook, of shell or fin,

And exquisitest name, for which was drained

Pontus and Lucrine bay and Afric coast;

And at a stately sideboard, by the wine

That fragrant smell diffused in order stood

Tall stripling youths, rich clad, of fairer hue

Than Ganymed or Hylas."

It is evident that the sublime Milton had a keen relish for a good

dinner. Keats's description of that delicious moonlight spread by

Porphyro, in the room of his fair Madeline, asleep, on St. Agnes' eve,

"in lap of legends old," is another delicate morsel of Apician poetry.

"Those lucent syrups tinct with cinnamon and sugared dainties" from

Samarcand to cedared Lebanon, show that Keats had not got over his

boyish taste for sweet things, and reached the maturity and gravity of

appetite which dictated the Miltonian description. He died at

twenty-four years. Had he lived longer, he might have sung of roast and

boiled as sublimely as Milton has done.

Epicurus, in exalting cookery and eating and drinking to a plane of

philosophical importance, was a true friend of his race, and showed

himself the most sensible and wisest of all the Greek philosophers. A

psychometrical critic of the philosopher of the garden says:--

"The first and last necessity is eating. The animated world is

unceasingly eating and digesting itself. None could see this truth

clearly but an enthusiast in diet like Epicurus, who, discovering the

unexceptionableness of the natural law, proceeded to the work of

adaptation. Ocean, lake, streamlet, was separately interrogated, 'How

much delicious food do you contain? What are your preparations? When

should man partake?' In like manner did the enthusiast peregrinate

through Nature's empire, fixing his chemical eye upon plant and shrub

and berry and vine,--asking every creeping thing, and the animal

creation also, 'What can you do for man?' And such truths as the angels

sent! Sea, earth, and air were overflowing and heavily laden with

countless means of happiness. 'The whole was a cupboard of food or

cabinet of pleasure.' Life must not be sacrificed by man, for thereby he

would defeat the end sought. Man's fine love of life must save him from

taking life." (This is not doctrine to promulgate in the latitude of

Quincy Market, O clairvoyant Davis!) "In the world of fruit, berries,

vines, flowers, herbs, grains, grasses, could be found all proper food

for 'bodily ease and mental tranquillity.'

"Behold the enthusiast! classifying man's senses to be gratified at the

table. All dishes must be beautifully prepared and disposed to woo and

win the sense of sight; the assembled articles must give off odors

harmoniously blended to delight and cultivate the sense of smell; and

each substance must balance with every other in point of flavor, to meet

the natural demands of taste; otherwise the entertainment is shorn of

its virtue to bless and tranquillize the soul!...

"But lo, the fanatic in eating appears! Miserably hot with gluttonous

debauchery. He has feasted upon a thousand deaths! Belshazzar's court

fed on fish of every type, birds of every flight, brutes of every clime,

and added thereto each finer luxury known in the catalogue of the

temperate Epicurus....

"Behold the sceptics. A shivering group of acid ghouls at their scanty

board.... Bread, milk, bran, turnips, onions, potatoes, apples, yield so

much starch, so much sugar, so much nitrogen, so much nutriment! Enough!

to live is the _end_ of eating, not to be pleased and made better with

objects, odors, flavors. Therefore welcome a few articles of food in

violation of every fine sensibility. Stuff in and masticate the crudest

forms of eatables,--bad-cooking, bad-looking, bad-smelling, bad-tasting,

and worse-feeling,--down with them hastily,--and then, between your

headaches and gastric spasms, pride yourself upon virtues and temperance

not possessed by any student in the gastronomic school of Epicurus! Let

it be perpetually remembered to the credit of this apostle of

alimentation and vitativeness with temperance, that, in his religious

system, eating was a 'sacramental' process, and not a physical

indulgence merely, as the ignorant allege."

Bravo for the seer of Poughkeepsie! In the above extracts, quoted from

his "Thinker," he has vindicated the much maligned Epicurus better than

his disciples Lucretius and Gassendi have done, and by some mysterious

process (he calls it psychometry) he seems to know more of the old

Athenian, and to have a more intimate knowledge of his doctrines, than

can be found in Brucker or Ritter.

When it is considered how our mental states may be modified by what we

eat and drink, the importance of good _ingesta_, both fluid and solid,

becomes apparent. Among the good things which attached Charles Lamb to

this present life was his love of the delicious juices of meats and

fishes.

But these things are preliminary, although not impertinent to the main

subject, which is Quincy Market. After having perambulated the principal

markets of the other leading American cities, I must pronounce it

_facile princeps_ among New-World markets. A walk through it is equal to

a dose of dandelion syrup in the way of exciting an appetite for one's

dinner. Such a walk is tonic and medicinal, and should be prescribed to

dyspeptic patients. To the hungry, penniless man such a walk is like the

torture administered to the old Phrygian who blabbed to mortals the

secrets of the celestial banquets. Autumn is the season in which to

indulge in a promenade through Quincy Market, after the leaf has been

nipped by the frost and crimson-tinted, when the morning air is cool and

bracing. Then the stalls and precincts of the chief Boston market are a

goodly spectacle. Athenæus himself, the classic historian of classic

gluttons and classic bills of fare, could not but feel a glow at the

sight of the good things here displayed, if he were alive. Quincy Market

culminates at Thanksgiving time. It then attains to the zenith of good

fare.

Cleanliness and spruceness are the rule among the Quincy Market men and

stall-keepers. The matutinal display outside of apples, pears, onions,

turnips, beets, carrots, egg-plants, cranberries, squashes, etc., is

magnificent in the variety and richness of its hues. What a multitude of

orchards, meadows, gardens, and fields have been laid under contribution

to furnish this vegetable abundance! And here are their choicest

products. The foodful Earth and the arch-chemic Sun, the great

agriculturist and life-fountain, have done their best in concocting

these Quincy Market culinary vegetables. They wear a healthful,

resplendent look. Inside, what a goodly vista stretches away of fish,

flesh, and fowl! From these white stalls the Tempter could have

furnished forth the banquet the Miltonic description of which has been

quoted.

Here is a stall of ripe, juicy mutton, perhaps from the county of St.

Lawrence, in Northeastern New York. This is the most healthful and

easily digested of all meats. Its juiciness and nutritiousness are

visible in the trumpeter-like cheeks of the well-fed John Bull. The

domestic Anglo-Saxon is a mutton-eater. Let his offshoots here and

elsewhere follow suit. There is no such timber to repair the waste of

the human frame. It is a fuel easily combustible in the visceral grate

of the stomach. The mutton-eater is eupeptic. His dreams are airy and

lightsome. Somnus descends smiling to his nocturnal pillow, and not clad

in the portentous panoply of indigestion, which rivals a guilty

conscience in its night visions. The mutton department of Quincy Market

is all that it should be.

Next we come upon "fowl of game," wild ducks, pigeons, etc.--What has

become of those shoals of pigeons, those herrings of the air, which used

in the gloom and glory of a breezy autumnal day to darken the sun in

their flight, like the discharge of the Xerxean arrows at Thermopylæ?

The eye sweeps the autumnal sky in vain now for any such winged

phenomenon, at least here in New England. The days of the bough-house

and pigeon-stand strewn with barley seem to have gone by. Swift of

flight and shapely in body is the North American wild pigeon, running

upon the air fleeter than Anacreon's dove. He can lay any latitude under

contribution in a few hours, flying incredible distances during the

process of digestion. He is an ornament to the air, and the pot

also.--Here might be a descendant of Bryant's waterfowl; but its

journeyings along the pathless coast of the upper atmosphere are at an

end.

"All flesh is not the same flesh; but there is one kind of flesh of men,

another flesh of beasts, another of fishes, and another of birds." The

matter composing the vegetables and the lower animals is promoted, as

it were, by being eaten by man and incorporated into his body, which is

a breathing house not made with hands built over the boundary-line of

two worlds, the sensible and noumenal. "The human body is the highest

chemical laboratory which matter can reach. In that body the highest

qualities and richest emoluments are imparted to it, and it is indorsed

with a divine superscription." It there becomes part and parcel of the

eye, the organ of light and the throne of expression,--of the blood,

which is so eloquent in cheek and brow,--of the nerves, the

telegraph-wires of the soul,--of the persuasive tongue,--of the

tear-drop, the dew of emotion, which only the human eye can shed,--of

the glossy tresses of beauty, the nets of love.

The provision markets of a community are a good index of the grade of

its civilization. Tell me what a nation eats, what is its diet, and I

will tell you what is its literature, its religious belief, and so

forth. Solid, practical John Bull is a mutton, beef, and pudding eater.

He drinks strong ale or beer, and thinks beer. He drives fat oxen, and

is himself fat. He is no idealist in philosophy. He hates generalization

and abstract thought. He is for the real and concrete. Plain, unadorned

Protestantism is most to the taste of the middle classes of Great

Britain. Music, sculpture, and painting add not their charms to the

Englishman's dull and respectable devotions. Cross the Channel and

behold his whilom hereditary foeman, but now firm ally, the Frenchman!

He is a dainty feeder and the most accomplished of cooks. He

etherealizes ordinary fish, flesh, and fowl by his exquisite cuisine. He

educates the palate to a daintiness whereof the gross-feeding John Bull

never dreamed. He extracts the finest flavors and quintessential

principles from flesh and vegetables. He drinks light and sparkling

wines, the vintage of Champagne and Burgundy. Accordingly the Frenchman

is lightsome and buoyant. He is a great theorist and classifier. He

adheres to the ornate worship of the Mother Church when religiously

disposed. His literature is perspicuous and clear. He is an admirable

doctrinaire and generalizer,--witness Guizot and Montesquieu. He puts

philosophy and science into a readable, comprehensible shape. The

Teutonic diet of sauer-kraut, sausages, cheese, ham, etc., is

indigestible, giving rise to a vaporous, cloudy cerebral state. German

philosophy and mysticism are its natural outcome.

Baked beans, pumpkin pie, apple-sauce, onions, codfish, and Medford

rum,--these were the staple items of the primitive New England larder;

and they were an appropriate diet whereon to nourish the caucus-loving,

inventive, acute, methodically fanatical Yankee. The bean, the most

venerable and nutritious of lentils, was anciently used as a ballot or

vote. Hence it symbolized in the old Greek democracies politics and a

public career. Hence Pythagoras and his disciples, though they were

vegetable-eaters, eschewed the bean as an article of diet, from its

association with politics, demagogism, and ochlocracy. They preferred

the life contemplative and the _fallentis semita vitæ_. Hence their

utter detestation of beans, the symbols of noisy gatherings, of

demagogues and party strife and every species of political trickery. The

primitive Yankee, in view of his destiny as the founder of this

caucus-loving nation and American democracy, seems to have been

providentially guided in selecting beans for his most characteristic

article of diet.

But to move on through the market. The butter and cheese stalls have

their special attractions. The butyraceous gold in tubs and huge lumps

displayed in these stalls looks as though it was precipitated from milk

squeezed from Channel Island cows, those fawn-colored, fairest of dairy

animals. In its present shape it is the herbage of a thousand

clover-blooming meads and dewy hill-pastures in old Berkshire, in

Vermont and Northern New York, transformed by the housewife's churn into

edible gold. Not only butter and cheese are grass or of gramineous

origin, but all flesh is grass,--a physiological fact enunciated by

Holy Writ and strictly true.

Porcine flesh is too abundant here. How the New-Englander, whose Puritan

forefathers were almost Jews, and hardly got beyond the Old Testament in

their Scriptural studies, has come to make pork so capital an article in

his diet, is a mystery. Small-boned swine of the Chinese breed, which

are kept in the temple sties of the Josses, and which are capable of an

obeseness in which all form and feature are swallowed up and lost in

fat, seem to be plenty in Quincy Market. They are hooked upright upon

their haunches, in a sitting posture, against the posts of the stall.

How many pots of Sabbath morning beans one of these porkers will

lubricate!

Beef tongues are abundant here, and eloquent of good living. The mighty

hind and fore quarters and ribs of the ox,

"With their red and yellow,

Lean and tallow,"

appeal to the good-liver on all sides. They seem to be the staple flesh

of the stalls.

But let us move on to the stalls frequented by the ichthyophagi. Homer

calls the sea the barren, the harvestless! Our Cape Ann fishermen do not

find it so.

"The sounds and seas, with all their finny droves,

That to the Moon in wavering morrice move,"

are as foodful as the most fertile parts of _terra firma_. Here lie the

blue, delicate mackerel in heaps, and piles of white perch from the

South Shore, cod, haddock, eels, lobsters, huge segments of swordfish,

and the flesh of various other voiceless tenants of the deep, both

finned and shell-clad. The codfish, the symbol of Puritan aristocracy,

as the grasshopper was of the ancient Athenians, seems to predominate.

Our _frutti di mare_, in the shape of oysters, clams, and other

mollusks, are the delight of all true gastronomers. What vegetable, or

land animal, is so nutritious? Here are some silvery shad from the

Penobscot, or Kennebec, or Merrimac, or Connecticut. The dams of our

great manufacturing corporations are sadly interfering with the annual

movements of these luscious and beautiful fish. Lake Winnipiseogee no

longer receives these ocean visitors into its clear, mountain-mirroring

waters. The greedy pike is also here, from inland pond and lake, and the

beautiful trout from the quick mountain brook, "with his waved coat

dropped with gold." Who eats the trout partakes of pure diet. He loves

the silver-sanded stream, and silent pools, and eddies of limpid water.

In fact, all fish, from sea or shore, freshet or purling brook, of shell

or fin, are here, on clean marble slabs, fresh and hard. Ours is the

latitude of the fish-eater. The British marine provinces, north of us,

and Norway in the Old World, are his paradise.

Man is a universal eater.

"He cannot spare water or wine,

Tobacco-leaf, or poppy, or rose,

From the earth-poles to the line,

All between that works and grows.

* * * * * *

Give him agates for his meat;

Give him cantharids to eat;

From air and ocean bring him foods,

From all zones and altitudes;--

From all natures sharp and slimy,

Salt and basalt, wild and tame;

Tree and lichen, ape, sea-lion,

Bird and reptile, be his game."

Quincy Market sticks to the cloven hoof, I am happy to say,

notwithstanding the favorable verdict of the French _savans_ on the

flavor and nutritious properties of horse-flesh. The femurs and tibias

of frogs are not visible here. At this point I will quote _in extenso_

from Wilkinson's chapter on Assimilation and its Organs.

"In this late age, the human home has one universal season and one

universal climate. The produce of every zone and month is for the board

where toil is compensated and industry refreshed. For man alone, the

universal animal, can wield the powers of fire, the universal element,

whereby seasons, latitudes, and altitudes are levelled into one genial

temperature. Man alone, that is to say, the social man alone, can want

and duly conceive and invent that which is digestion going forth into

nature as a creative art, namely, cookery, which by recondite processes

of division and combination,--by cunning varieties of shape,--by the

insinuation of subtle flavors,--by tincturings with precious spice, as

with vegetable flames,--by fluids extracted, and added again, absorbed,

dissolving, and surrounding,--by the discovery and cementing of new

amities between different substances, provinces, and kingdoms of

nature,--by the old truth of wine and the reasonable order of

service,--in short, by the superior unity which it produces in the

eatable world,--also by a new birth of feelings, properly termed

_convivial_, which run between food and friendship, and make eating

festive,--all through the conjunction of our Promethean with our

culinary fire raises up new powers and species of food to the human

frame, and indeed performs by machinery a part of the work of

assimilation, enriching the sense of taste with a world of profound

objects, and making it the refined participator, percipient, and

stimulus of the most exquisite operations of digestion. Man, then, as

the universal eater, enters from his own faculties into the natural

viands, and gives them a social form, and thereby a thousand new aromas,

answering to as many possible tastes in his wonderful constitution, and

therefore his food is as different from that of animals in quality as it

is plainly different in quantity and resource. How wise should not

reason become, in order to our making a wise use of so vast an apparatus

of nutrition!...

"There is nothing more general in life than the digestive apparatus,

because matter is the largest, if not the greatest, fact in the material

universe. Every creature which is here must be made of something, and be

maintained by something, or must be landlord of itself.... The planetary

dinner-table has its various latitudes and longitudes, and plant and

animal and mineral and wine are grown around it, and set upon it,

according to the map of taste in the spherical appetite of our race....

Hunger is the child of cold and night, and comes upwards from the

all-swallowing ground; but thirst descends from above, and is born of

the solar rays.... Hunger and thirst are strong terms, and the things

themselves are too feverish provocations for civilized man. They are

incompatible with the sense of taste in its epicureanism, and their

gratification is of a very bodily order. The savage man, like a

boa-constrictor, would swallow his animals whole, if his gullet would

let him. This is to cheat the taste with unmanageable objects, as though

we should give an estate to a child. On the other hand, civilization,

house-building, warm apartments and kitchen fires, well-stored larders,

and especially exemption from rude toil, abolish these extreme

caricatures; and keeping appetite down to a middling level by the rote

of meals, and thus taking away the incentives to ravenous haste, they

allow the mind to tutor and variegate the tongue, and to substitute the

harmonies and melodies of deliberate gustation for such unseemly

bolting. Under this direction, hunger becomes polite; a long-drawn,

many-colored taste; the tongue, like a skilful instrument, holds its

notes; and thirst, redeemed from drowning, rises from the throat to the

tongue and lips, and, full of discrimination, becomes the gladdening

love of all delicious flavors.... In the stomach, judging by what there

is done, what a scene we are about to enter! What a palatial kitchen and

more than monasterial refectory! The sipping of aromatic nectar, the

brief and elegant repast of that Apicius, the tongue, are supplanted at

this lower board by eating and drinking in downright earnest. What a

variety of solvents, sauces, and condiments, both springing up at call

from the blood, and raining down from the mouth into the natural patines

of the meats! What a quenching of desires, what an end and goal of the

world is here! No wonder; for the stomach sits for four or five

assiduous hours at the same meal that the dainty tongue will despatch in

a twentieth portion of the time. For the stomach is bound to supply the

extended body, while the tongue wafts only fairy gifts to the close and

spiritual brain."

So far Wilkinson, the Milton of physiologists.

But lest these lucubrations should seem to be those of a mere glutton

and gastrolater,--of one like the gourmand of old time, who longed for

the neck of an ostrich or crane that the pleasure of swallowing dainty

morsels might be as protracted as possible,--let me assume a vegetable,

Pythagorean standpoint, and thence survey this accumulation of creature

comforts, that is, that portion of them which consists of dead flesh.

The vegetables and the fruits, the blazonry of autumn, are of course

ignored from this point of view. Thus beheld, Quincy Market presents a

spectacle that excites disgust and loathing, and exemplifies the fallen,

depraved, and sophisticated state of human nature and human society. In

those juicy quarters and surloins of beef and those fat porcine

carcasses the vegetable-eater, Grahamite or Brahmin, sees nothing but

the cause of beastly appetites, scrofula, apoplexy, corpulence, cheeks

flushed with ungovernable propensities, tendencies downward toward the

plane of the lower animals, bloodshot eyes, swollen veins, impure blood,

violent passions, fetid breath, stertorous respiration, sudden

death,--in fact, disease and brutishness of all sorts. A Brahmin

traversing this goodly market would regard it as a vast charnel, a

loathsome receptacle of dead flesh on its way to putrescence. His gorge

would rise in rebellion at the sight. To the Brahmin, the lower animal

kingdom is a vast masquerade of transmigratory souls. If he should

devour a goose or turkey or hen, or a part of a bullock or sheep or

goat, he might, according to his creed, be eating the temporary organism

of his grandmother. The poet Pope wrote in the true Brahminical spirit,

when he said,--"Nothing can be more shocking and horrid than one of our

kitchens sprinkled with blood, and abounding with cries of creatures

expiring, or with the limbs of dead animals scattered or hung up there.

It gives one an image of a giant's den in romance, bestrewed with the

scattered heads and mangled limbs of those who were slain by his

cruelty." Think of the porcine shambles of Cincinnati, with their

swift-handed swine-slayers!

"What loud lament and dismal miserere,"

ear-deafening and horrible, must issue from them. How can a Jew reside

in that porkopolitan municipality? The brutishness of the Bowery

butchers is proverbial. A late number of Leslie's Pictorial represents a

Bowery butcher's wagon crowded with sheep and calves so densely that

their heads are protruded against the wheels, which revolve with the

utmost speed, the brutal driver urging his horse furiously.

The first advocate of a purely vegetable diet was Pythagoras, the Samian

philosopher. His discourse delivered at Crotona, a city of Magna Græcia,

is ably reported for posterity by the poet Ovid. From what materials he

made up his report, it is impossible now to say. Pythagoras says that

flesh-eaters make their stomachs the sepulchres of the lower animals,

the cemeteries of beasts. About thirty years ago there was a vegetable

diet movement hereabouts, which created some excitement at the time. Its

adherents were variously denominated as Grahamites, and, from the fact

of their using bread made of unbolted wheat-meal, bran-eaters. There was

little of muscular Christianity in them. They were a pale, harmless set

of valetudinarians, who were, like all weakly persons, morbidly alive to

their own bodily states, and principally employed in experimenting on

the effects of various insipid articles of diet. Tea and coffee were

tabooed by these people. Ale and wine were abominations in their Index

Expurgatorius of forbidden _ingesta_. The presence of a boiled egg on

their breakfast-tables would cause some of the more sensitive of these

New England Brahmins to betake themselves to their beds for the rest of

the day. They kept themselves in a semi-famished state on principle. One

of the most liberal and latitudinarian of the sect wrote, in 1835,--"For

two years past I have abstained from the use of all the diffusible

stimulants, using no animal food, either flesh, fish, or fowl, nor any

alcoholic or vinous spirits, no form of ale, beer, or porter, no cider,

tea, or coffee; but using milk and water as my only liquid aliment, and

feeding sparingly, or rather moderately, upon farinaceous food,

vegetables, and fruit, seasoned with unmelted butter, slightly boiled

eggs, and sugar and molasses, with no condiment but common salt."

These ultra-temperance dietetical philosophers never flourished greatly.

They were too languid and too little enthusiastic to propagate their

rules of living and make converts. In a country where meat is within

reach of all, a vegetable dietary is not popular. Doubtless a less

frequent use of fleshly food would be greatly to our advantage as a

people. But utter abstinence is out of the question. A vegetable diet,

however, has great authorities in its favor, both ancient and modern.

Plautus, Plutarch, Porphyry of Tyre, Lord Bacon, Sir William Temple,

Cicero, Cyrus the Great, Pope, Newton, and Shelley have all left their

testimony in favor of it and of simplicity of living. Poor Shelley, who

in his abstract moods forgot even to take vegetable sustenance for days

together, makes a furious onslaught upon flesh-eating in his Notes to

"Queen Mab." The notes, as well as the poem, are crude productions, the

outgivings of a boy; but that boy was Shelley. It was said that he was

traceable, in his lonely wanderings in secluded places in Italy, by the

crumbs of bread which he let fall. Speculative thinkers have generally

been light feeders, eschewing stimulants, both solid and liquid, and

preferring mild food and water for drink. Those who lead an interior

life sedentary and contemplative need not gross pabulum, but would find

their inward joy at the contemplation and discovery of truth seriously

qualified and deadened by it. Spare fast is the companion of the

ecstatic moods of a high truth-seeker such as Newton, Malebranche, etc.

Immanuel Kant was almost the only profound speculative thinker who was

decidedly convivial, and given to gulosity, at least at his dinner.

Asceticism ordinarily reigns in the cloister and student's bower. The

Oxford scholar long ago, as described by Chaucer, was adust and thin.

"As lene was his hors as is a rake,

And he was not right fat, I undertake."

The ancient anchorets of the East, the children of St. Anthony, were a

long-lived sect, rivalling the many-wintered crow in longevity. Yet

their lives were vapid monotonies, only long in months and years. They

were devoid of vivid sensations, and vegetated merely. Milk-eaters were,

in the days of Homer, the longest-lived of men.

Without the ministry of culinary fire, man could not gratify his

carnivorous propensities. He would be obliged to content himself with a

vegetable diet; for, according to the comparative anatomists, man is not

structurally a flesh-eater. At any rate he is not fanged or clawed. His

teeth and nails are not like the natural cutlery found in the mouths and

paws of beasts of prey. He cannot eat raw flesh. Digger Indians are left

to do that when the meat is putrescent. Prometheus was the inventor of

roast and boiled beef, and of cookery generally, and therefore the

destroyer of the original simplicity of living which characterized

primitive man, when milk and fruits cooked by the sun, and acorns, were

the standing repasts of unsophisticated humanity. _Per contra_, Horace

makes man, in his mast-eating days, a poor creature.

"Forth from the earth when human kind

First crept, a dull and brutish herd, with nails

And fists they fought for dens wherein to couch, and _acorns_."

Don Quixote, however, in his eloquent harangue to the shepherds in the

Sierra Morena, took a different view of man during the acorn period. He

saw in it the golden age.

There are vast rice-eating populations in China and India, who are a low

grade of men, morally and physically. Exceptional cases of longevity,

like those of old Parr, Jenkins, Francisco, Pratt, and Farnham, are

often-times adduced as the results of abstemiousness and frugality of

living. These exceptional cases prove nothing whatever. These

individuals happened to reach an almost antediluvian longevity, thanks

to their inherited vitality and their listless, uneventful, monotonous

lives. Their hearts beat a dull funeral march through four or five

generations, and finally stopped. But the longevity of such mighty

thinkers and superb men as Humboldt and Goethe is glorious to

contemplate. They were never old, but were vernal in spirit to the last,

and, for aught that appears to the contrary, generous livers, not "acid

ghouls" or bran-eating valetudinarians. Shakespeare died at fifty-one,

but great thinkers and poets have generally been long-lived. "Better

fifty years of Europe" or America "than a cycle of" rice-eating

"Cathay."

The value of the animals slaughtered in this country in 1860 was, in

round numbers, $212,000,000, a sum to make the vegetable feeder stare

and gasp. How many thousands and tens of thousands of acres of herbage,

which could not be directly available for human consumption as food, had

these slaughtered animals incorporated into their frames, and rendered

edible for man! "The most fertile districts of the habitable globe,"

says Shelley, "are now actually cultivated by men for animals, at a

delay and waste of aliment absolutely incalculable." On the contrary,

the close-feeding sheep and the cow and ox utilize for man millions of

acres of vegetation which would otherwise be useless. The domestic

animals which everywhere accompany civilized man were a part of them

intended as machines to convert herbage into milk and flesh for man's

sustenance. The tame villatic fowl scratches and picks with might and

main, converting a thousand refuse things into dainty human food. A

vegetable diet is out of the question for the blubber-eating Esquimaux

and Greenlander, even if it would keep the flame of life burning in

their Polar latitudes.

The better and more nutritious the diet, the better the health. It is to

the improved garden vegetables and domestic animals that man will

hereafter owe the superior health and personal comeliness which he will

undoubtedly enjoy as our planet becomes more and more humanized, and man

asserts his proper lordship over Nature. This matter of vegetable and

animal food is dictated by climate. In the temperate zone they go well

mixed. In the tropics man is naturally a Pythagorean, but he is not so

strong, or so healthy, or moral, or intellectual, as the flesh-eating

nations of northern latitudes.

THE FREEDMAN'S STORY.

IN TWO PARTS.

PART II.

As the Freedman relates only events which came under his own

observation, it is necessary to preface the remaining portion of his

narrative with a brief account of the Christiana riot. This I extract

mainly from a statement made at the time by a member of the Philadelphia

bar, making only a few alterations to give the account greater clearness

and brevity.

* * * * *

On the 9th of September, 1851, Mr. Edward Gorsuch, a citizen of

Maryland, residing near Baltimore, appeared before Edward D. Ingraham,

Esquire, United States Commissioner at Philadelphia, and asked for

warrants under the act of Congress of September 18, 1850, for the arrest

of four of his slaves, whom he had heard were secreted somewhere in

Lancaster County. Warrants were issued forthwith, directed to H. H.

Kline, a deputy United States Marshal, authorizing him to arrest George

Hammond, Joshua Hammond, Nelson Ford, and Noah Buley, persons held to

service or labor in the State of Maryland, and to bring them before the

said Commissioner.

Mr. Gorsuch then made arrangements with John Agin and Thompson Tully,

residents of Philadelphia, and police officers, to assist Kline in

making the arrests. They were to meet Mr. Gorsuch and some companions at

Penningtonville, a small place on the State Railroad, about fifty miles

from Philadelphia. Kline, with the warrants, left Philadelphia on the

same day, about 2 P.M., for West Chester. There he hired a conveyance

and rode to Gallagherville, where he hired another conveyance to take

him to Penningtonville. Before he had driven very far, the carriage

breaking down, he returned to Gallagherville, procured another, and

started again. Owing to this detention, he was prevented from meeting

Mr. Gorsuch and his friends at the appointed time, and when he reached

Penningtonville, about 2 A.M. on the 10th of September, they had gone.

On entering the tavern, the place of rendezvous, he saw a colored man

whom he recognized as Samuel Williams, a resident of Philadelphia. To

put Williams off his guard, Kline asked the landlord some questions

about horse thieves. Williams remarked that he had seen the "horse

thieves," and told Kline he had come too late.

Kline then drove on to a place called the Gap. Seeing a person he

believed to be Williams following him, he stopped at several taverns

along the road and made inquiries about horse thieves. He reached the

Gap about 3 A.M., put up his horses, and went to bed. At half past four

he rose, ate breakfast, and rode to Parkesburg, about forty-five miles

from Philadelphia, and on the same railroad. Here he found Agin and

Tully asleep in the bar-room. He awoke Agin, called him aside, and

inquired for Mr. Gorsuch and his party. He was told they had gone to

Sadsbury, a small place on the turnpike, four or five miles from

Parkesburg.

On going there, he found them, about 9 A.M. on the 10th of September.

Kline told them he had seen Agin and Tully, who had determined to return

to Philadelphia, and proposed that the whole party should return to

Gallagherville. Mr. Gorsuch, however, determined to go to Parkesburg

instead, to see Agin and Tully, and attempt to persuade them not to

return. The rest of the party were to go to Gallagherville, while Kline

returned to Downingtown, to see Agin and Tully, should Mr. Gorsuch fail

to meet them at Parkesburg. He left Gallagherville about 11 A.M., and

met Agin and Tully at Downingtown. Agin said he had seen Mr. Gorsuch,

but refused to go back. He promised, however, to return from

Philadelphia in the evening cars. Kline returned to Downingtown, and

then met all the party except Mr. Edward Gorsuch, who had remained

behind to make the necessary arrangements for procuring a guide to the

houses where he had been informed his negroes were to be found.

About 3 P.M., Mr. Edward Gorsuch joined them at Gallagherville, and at

11 P.M. on the night of the 10th of September they all went in the cars

to Downingtown, where they waited for the evening train from

Philadelphia.

When it arrived, neither Agin nor Tully was to be seen. The rest of the

party went on to the Gap, which they reached about half past one on the

morning of the 11th of September. They then continued their journey on

foot towards Christiana, where Parker was residing, and where the slaves

of Mr. Gorsuch were supposed to be living. The party then consisted of

Kline, Edward Gorsuch, Dickinson Gorsuch, his son, Joshua M. Gorsuch,

his nephew, Dr. Thomas Pierce, Nicholas T. Hutchings, and Nathan

Nelson.

After they had proceeded about a mile they met a man who was represented

to be a guide. He is said to have been disguised in such a way that none

of the party could recognize him, and his name is not mentioned in any

proceedings. It is probable that he was employed by Mr. Edward Gorsuch,

and one condition of his services may have been that he should be

allowed to use every possible means of concealing his face and name from

the rest of the party. Under his conduct, the party went on, and soon

reached a house in which they were told one of the slaves was to be

found. Mr. Gorsuch wished to send part of the company after him, but

Kline was unwilling to divide their strength, and they walked on,

intending to return that way after making the other arrests.

The guide led them by a circuitous route, until they reached the Valley

Road, near the house of William Parker, the writer of the annexed

narrative, which was their point of destination. They halted in a lane

near by, ate some crackers and cheese, examined the condition of their

fire-arms, and consulted upon the plan of attack. A short walk brought

them to the orchard in front of Parker's house, which the guide pointed

out and left them. He had no desire to remain and witness the result of

his false information. His disguise and desertion of his employer are

strong circumstances in proof of the fact that he knew he was misleading

the party. On the trial of Hanway, it was proved by the defence that

Nelson Ford, one of the fugitives, was not on the ground until after the

sun was up. Joshua Hammond had lived in the vicinity up to the time that

a man by the name of Williams had been kidnapped, when he and several

others departed, and had not since been heard from. Of the other two,

one at least, if the evidence for the prosecution is to be relied upon,

was in the house at which the party first halted, so that there could

not have been more than one of Mr. Gorsuch's slaves in Parker's house,

and of this there is no positive testimony.

It was not yet daybreak when the party approached the house. They made

demand for the slaves, and threatened to burn the house and shoot the

occupants, if they would not surrender. At this time, the number of

besiegers seems to have been increased, and as many as fifteen are said

to have been near the house. About daybreak, when they were advancing a

second or third time, they saw a negro coming out, whom Mr. Gorsuch

thought he recognized as one of his slaves. Kline pursued him with a

revolver in his hand, and stumbled over the bars near the house. Some of

the company came up before Kline, and found the door open. They entered,

and Kline, following, called for the owner, ordered all to come down,

and said he had two warrants for the arrest of Nelson Ford and Joshua

Hammond. He was answered that there were no such men in the house.

Kline, followed by Mr. Gorsuch, attempted to go up stairs. They were

prevented from ascending by what appears to have been an ordinary _fish

gig_. Some of the witnesses described it as "like a pitchfork with blunt

prongs," and others were at a loss what to call this, the first weapon

used in the contest. An axe was next thrown down, but hit no one.

Mr. Gorsuch and others then went outside to talk with the negroes at the

window. Just at this time Kline fired his pistol up stairs. The warrants

were then read outside the house, and demand made upon the landlord. No

answer was heard. After a short interview, Kline proposed to withdraw

his men, but Mr. Gorsuch refused, and said he would not leave the ground

until he made the arrests. Kline then in a loud voice ordered some one

to go to the sheriff and bring a hundred men, thinking, as he afterwards

said, this would intimidate them. The threat appears to have had some

effect, for the negroes asked time to consider. The party outside agreed

to give fifteen minutes.

While these scenes were passing at the house, occurrences transpired

elsewhere that are worthy of attention, but which cannot be understood

without a short statement of previous events.

In the month of September, 1850, a colored man, known in the

neighborhood around Christiana to be free, was seized and carried away

by men known to be professional kidnappers, and had not been seen by his

family since. In March, 1851, in the same neighborhood, under the roof

of his employer, during the night, another colored man was tied, gagged,

and carried away, marking the road along which he was dragged with his

blood. No authority for this outrage was ever shown, and the man was

never heard from. These and many other acts of a similar kind had so

alarmed the neighborhood, that the very name of kidnapper was sufficient

to create a panic. The blacks feared for their own safety; and the

whites, knowing their feelings, were apprehensive that any attempt to

repeat these outrages would be the cause of bloodshed. Many good

citizens were determined to do all in their power to prevent these

lawless depredations, though they were ready to submit to any measures

sanctioned by legal process. They regretted the existence among them of

a body of people liable to such violence; but without combination had,

each for himself, resolved that they would do everything dictated by

humanity to resist barbarous oppression.

On the morning in question, a colored man living in the neighborhood,

who was passing Parker's house at an early hour, saw the yard full of

men. He halted, and was met by a man who presented a pistol at him, and

ordered him to leave the place. He went away and hastened to a store

kept by Elijah Lewis, which, like all places of that kind, was probably

the head-quarters of news in the neighborhood. Mr. Lewis was in the act

of opening his store when this man told him that "Parker's house was

surrounded by _kidnappers_, who had broken into the house, and _were

trying to get him away_." Lewis, not questioning the truth of the

statement, repaired immediately to the place. On the way he passed the

house of Castner Hanway, and, telling him what he had heard, asked him

to go over to Parker's. Hanway was in feeble health and unable to

undergo the fatigue of walking that distance; but he saddled his horse,

and reached Parker's during the armistice.

Having no reason to believe he was acting under legal authority, when

Kline approached and demanded assistance in making the arrests, Hanway

made no answer. Kline then handed him the warrants, which Hanway

examined, saw they appeared genuine, and returned.

At this time, several colored men, who no doubt had heard the report

that kidnappers were about, came up, armed with such weapons as they

could suddenly lay hands upon. How many were on the ground during the

affray it is _now_ impossible to determine. The witnesses on both sides

vary materially in their estimate. Some said they saw a dozen or

fifteen; some, thirty or forty; and others maintained, as many as two or

three hundred. It is known there were not two hundred colored men within

eight miles of Parker's house, nor half that number within four miles;

and it would have been almost impossible to get together even thirty at

an hour's notice. It is probable there were about twenty-five, all told,

at or near the house from the beginning of the affray until all was

quiet again. These the fears of those who afterwards testified to larger

numbers might easily have magnified to fifty or a hundred.

While Kline and Hanway were in conversation, Elijah Lewis came up.

Hanway said to him, "Here is the Marshal." Lewis asked to see his

authority, and Kline handed him one of the warrants. When he saw the

signature of the United States Commissioner, "he took it for granted

that Kline had authority." Kline then ordered Hanway and Lewis to assist

in arresting the alleged fugitives. Hanway refused to have anything to

do with it. The negroes around these three men seeming disposed to make

an attack, Hanway "motioned to them and urged them back." He then

"advised Kline that it would be dangerous to attempt making arrests, and

that they had better leave." Kline, after saying he would hold them

accountable for the fugitives, promised to leave, and beckoned two or

three times to his men to retire.

The negroes then rushed up, some armed with guns, some with

corn-cutters, staves, or clubs, others with stones or whatever weapon

chance offered. Hanway and Lewis in vain endeavored to restrain them.

Kline leaped the fence, passed through the standing grain in the field,

and for a few moments was out of sight. Mr. Gorsuch refused to leave the

spot, saying his "property was there, and he would have it or perish in

the attempt." The rest of his party endeavored to retreat when they

heard the Marshal calling to them, but they were too late; the negroes

rushed up, and the firing began. How many times each party fired, it is

impossible to tell. For a few moments everything was confusion, and each

attempted to save himself. Nathan Nelson went down the short land,

thence into the woods and towards Penningtonville. Nicholas Hutchings,

by direction of Kline, followed Lewis to see where he went. Thomas

Pierce and Joshua Gorsuch went down the long lane, pursued by some of

the negroes, caught up with Hanway, and, shielding themselves behind his

horse, followed him to a stream of water near by. Dickinson Gorsuch was

with his father near the house. They were both wounded; the father

mortally. Dickinson escaped down the lane, where he was met by Kline,

who had returned from the woods at the end of the field. Kline rendered

him assistance, and went towards Penningtonville for a physician. On his

way he met Joshua M. Gorsuch, who was also wounded and delirious. Kline

led him over to Penningtonville and placed him on the upward train from

Philadelphia. Before this time several persons living in the

neighborhood had arrived at Parker's house. Lewis Cooper found Dickinson

Gorsuch in the place where Kline had left him, attended by Joseph

Scarlett. He placed him in his dearborn, and carried him to the house of

Levi Pownall, where he remained till he had sufficiently recovered to

return home. Mr. Cooper then returned to Parker's, placed the body of

Mr. Edward Gorsuch in the same dearborn, and carried it to Christiana.

Neither Nelson nor Hutchings rejoined their party, but during the day

went by the railroad to Lancaster.

Thus ended an occurrence which was the theme of conversation throughout

the land. Not more than two hours elapsed from the time demand was first

made at Parker's house until the dead body of Edward Gorsuch was carried

to Christiana. In that brief time the blood of strangers had been

spilled in a sudden affray, an unfortunate man had been killed, and two

others badly wounded.

When rumor spread abroad the result of the affray, the neighborhood was

appalled. The inhabitants of the farm-houses and the villages around,

unused to such scenes, could not at first believe that it had occurred

in their midst. Before midday, exaggerated accounts had reached

Philadelphia, and were transmitted by telegraph throughout the country.

Many persons were arrested for participation in the riot; and, after a

long imprisonment, were arraigned for trial, on the charge of treason,

before Judges Grier and Kane, of the United States Court, sitting at

Philadelphia.

Every one knows the result. The prisoners were all acquitted; and the

country was aroused to the danger of a law which allowed bad men to

incarcerate peaceful citizens for months in prison, and put them in

peril of their lives, for refusing to aid in entrapping, and sending

back to hopeless slavery, men struggling for the very same freedom we

value as the best part of our birthright.

The Freedman's narrative is now resumed.

A short time after the events narrated in the preceding number, it was

whispered about that the slaveholders intended to make an attack on my

house; but, as I had often been threatened, I gave the report little

attention. About the same time, however, two letters were found thrown

carelessly about, as if to attract notice. These letters stated that

kidnappers would be at my house on a certain night, and warned me to be

on my guard. Still I did not let the matter trouble me. But it was no

idle rumor. The bloodhounds were upon my track.

I was not at this time aware that in the city of Philadelphia there was

a band of devoted, determined men,--few in number, but strong in

purpose,--who were fully resolved to leave no means untried to thwart

the barbarous and inhuman monsters who crawled in the gloom of midnight,

like the ferocious tiger, and, stealthily springing on their

unsuspecting victims, seized, bound, and hurled them into the ever open

jaws of Slavery. Under the pretext of enforcing the Fugitive Slave Law,

the slaveholders did not hesitate to violate all other laws made for the

good government and protection of society, and converted the old State

of Pennsylvania, so long the hope of the fleeing bondman, wearied and

heartbroken, into a common hunting-ground for their human prey. But this

little band of true patriots in Philadelphia united for the purpose of

standing between the pursuer and the pursued, the kidnapper and his

victim, and, regardless of all personal considerations, were ever on the

alert, ready to sound the alarm to save their fellows from a fate far

more to be dreaded than death. In this they had frequently succeeded,

and many times had turned the hunter home bootless of his prey. They

began their operations at the passage of the Fugitive Slave Law, and had

thoroughly examined all matters connected with it, and were perfectly

cognizant of the plans adopted to carry out its provisions in

Pennsylvania, and, through a correspondence with reliable persons in

various sections of the South, were enabled to know these hunters of

men, their agents, spies, tools, and betrayers. They knew who performed

this work in Richmond, Alexandria, Washington, Baltimore, Wilmington,

Philadelphia, Lancaster, and Harrisburg, those principal depots of

villany, where organized bands prowled about at all times, ready to

entrap the unwary fugitive.

They also discovered that this nefarious business was conducted mainly

through one channel; for, spite of man's inclination to vice and crime,

there are but few men, thank God, so low in the scale of humanity as to

be willing to degrade themselves by doing the dirty work of four-legged

bloodhounds. Yet such men, actuated by the love of gold and their own

base and brutal natures, were found ready for the work. These fellows

consorted with constables, police-officers, aldermen, and even with

learned members of the legal profession, who disgraced their respectable

calling by low, contemptible arts, and were willing to clasp hands with

the lowest ruffian in order to pocket the reward that was the price of

blood. Every facility was offered these bad men; and whether it was

night or day, it was only necessary to whisper in a certain circle that

a negro was to be caught, and horses and wagons, men and officers, spies

and betrayers, were ready, at the shortest notice, armed and equipped,

and eager for the chase.

Thus matters stood in Philadelphia on the 9th of September, 1851, when

Mr. Gorsuch and his gang of Maryland kidnappers arrived there. Their

presence was soon known to the little band of true men who were called

"The Special Secret Committee." They had agents faithful and true as

steel; and through these agents the whereabouts and business of Gorsuch

and his minions were soon discovered. They were noticed in close

converse with a certain member of the Philadelphia bar, who had lost the

little reputation he ever had by continual dabbling in negro-catching,

as well as by association with and support of the notorious Henry H.

Kline, a professional kidnapper of the basest stamp. Having determined

as to the character and object of these Marylanders, there remained to

ascertain the spot selected for their deadly spring; and this required

no small degree of shrewdness, resolution, and tact.

Some one's liberty was imperilled; the hunters were abroad; the time was

short, and the risk imminent. The little band bent themselves to the

task they were pledged to perform with zeal and devotion; and success

attended their efforts. They knew that one false step would jeopardize

their own liberty, and very likely their lives, and utterly destroy

every prospect of carrying out their objects. They knew, too, that they

were matched against the most desperate, daring, and brutal men in the

kidnappers' ranks,--men who, to obtain the proffered reward, would rush

willingly into any enterprise, regardless alike of its character or its

consequences. That this was the deepest, the most thoroughly organized

and best-planned project for man-catching that had been concocted since

the infamous Fugitive Slave Law had gone into operation, they also knew;

and consequently this nest of hornets was approached with great care.

But by walking directly into their camp, watching their plans as they

were developed, and secretly testing every inch of ground on which they

trod, they discovered enough to counterplot these plotters, and to

spring upon them a mine which shook the whole country, and put an end to

man-stealing in Pennsylvania forever.

The trusty agent of this Special Committee, Mr. Samuel Williams, of

Philadelphia,--a man true and faithful to his race, and courageous in

the highest degree,--came to Christiana, travelling most of the way in

company with the very men whom Gorsuch had employed to drag into slavery

four as good men as ever trod the earth. These Philadelphia roughs, with

their Maryland associates, little dreamed that the man who sat by their

side carried with him their inglorious defeat, and the death-warrant of

at least one of their party. Williams listened to their conversation,

and marked well their faces, and, being fully satisfied by their awkward

movements that they were heavily armed, managed to slip out of the cars

at the village of Downington unobserved, and proceeded to

Penningtonville, where he encountered Kline, who had started several

hours in advance of the others. Kline was terribly frightened, as he

knew Williams, and felt that his presence was an omen of ill to his base

designs. He spoke of horse thieves; but Williams replied,--"I know the

kind of horse thieves you are after. They are all gone; and you had

better not go after them."

Kline immediately jumped into his wagon, and rode away, whilst Williams

crossed the country, and arrived at Christiana in advance of him.

The manner in which information of Gorsuch's designs was obtained will

probably ever remain a secret; and I doubt if any one outside of the

little band who so masterly managed the affair knows anything of it.

This was wise; and I would to God other friends had acted thus. Mr.

Williams's trip to Christiana, and the many incidents connected

therewith, will be found in the account of his trial; for he was

subsequently arrested and thrown into the cold cells of a loathsome jail

for this good act of simple Christian duty; but, resolute to the last,

he publicly stated that he had been to Christiana, and, to use his own

words, "I done it, and will do it again." Brave man, receive my thanks!

Of the Special Committee I can only say that they proved themselves men;

and through the darkest hours of the trials that followed, they were

found faithful to their trust, never for one moment deserting those who

were compelled to suffer. Many, many innocent men residing in the

vicinity of Christiana, the ground where the first battle was fought for

liberty in Pennsylvania, were seized, torn from their families, and,

like Williams, thrown into prison for long, weary months, to be tried

for their lives. By them this Committee stood, giving them every

consolation and comfort, furnishing them with clothes, and attending to

their wants, giving money to themselves and families, and procuring for

them the best legal counsel. This I know, and much more of which it is

not wise, even now, to speak: 't is enough to say they were friends when

and where it cost something to be friends, and true brothers where

brothers were needed.

After this lengthy digression, I will return, and speak of the riot and

the events immediately preceding it.

The information brought by Mr. Williams spread through the vicinity like

a fire in the prairies; and when I went home from my work in the

evening, I found Pinckney (whom I should have said before was my

brother-in-law), Abraham Johnson, Samuel Thompson, and Joshua Kite at my

house, all of them excited about the rumor. I laughed at them, and said

it was all talk. This was the 10th of September, 1851. They stopped for

the night with us, and we went to bed as usual. Before daylight, Joshua

Kite rose, and started for his home. Directly, he ran back to the house,

burst open the door, crying, "O William! kidnappers! kidnappers!"

He said that, when he was just beyond the yard, two men crossed before

him, as if to stop him, and others came up on either side. As he said

this, they had reached the door. Joshua ran up stairs, (we slept up

stairs,) and they followed him; but I met them at the landing, and

asked, "Who are you?"

The leader, Kline, replied, "I am the United States Marshal."

I then told him to take another step, and I would break his neck.

He again said, "I am the United States Marshal."

I told him I did not care for him nor the United States. At that he

turned and went down stairs.

Pinckney said, as he turned to go down,--"Where is the use in fighting?

They will take us."

Kline heard him, and said, "Yes, give up, for we can and will take you

anyhow."

I told them all not to be afraid, nor to give up to any slaveholder, but

to fight until death.

"Yes," said Kline, "I have heard many a negro talk as big as you, and

then have taken him; and I'll take you."

"You have not taken me yet," I replied; "and if you undertake it you

will have your name recorded in history for this day's work."

Mr. Gorsuch then spoke, and said,--"Come, Mr. Kline, let's go up stairs

and take them. We _can_ take them. Come, follow me. I'll go up and get

my property. What's in the way? The law is in my favor, and the people

are in my favor."

At that he began to ascend the stair; but I said to him,--"See here, old

man, you can come up, but you can't go down again. Once up here, you are

mine."

Kline then said,--"Stop, Mr. Gorsuch. I will read the warrant, and then,

I think, they will give up."

He then read the warrant, and said,--"Now, you see, we are commanded to

take you, dead or alive; so you may as well give up at once."

"Go up, Mr. Kline," then said Gorsuch, "you are the Marshal."

Kline started, and when a little way up said, "I am coming."

I said, "Well, come on."

But he was too cowardly to show his face. He went down again and

said,--"You had better give up without any more fuss, for we are bound

to take you anyhow. I told you before that I was the United States

Marshal, yet you will not give up. I'll not trouble the slaves. I will

take you and make you pay for all."

"Well," I answered, "take me and make me pay for all. I'll pay for all."

Mr. Gorsuch then said, "You have my property."

To which I replied,--"Go in the room down there, and see if there is

anything there belonging to you. There are beds and a bureau, chairs,

and other things. Then go out to the barn; there you will find a cow and

some hogs. See if any of them are yours."

He said,--"They are not mine; I want my men. They are here, and I am

bound to have them."

Thus we parleyed for a time, all because of the pusillanimity of the

Marshal, when he, at last, said,--"I am tired waiting on you; I see you

are not going to give up. Go to the barn and fetch some straw," said he

to one of his men, "I will set the house on fire, and burn them up."

"Burn us up and welcome," said I. "None but a coward would say the like.

You can burn us, but you can't take us; before I give up, you will see

my ashes scattered on the earth."

By this time day had begun to dawn; and then my wife came to me and

asked if she should blow the horn, to bring friends to our assistance. I

assented, and she went to the garret for the purpose. When the horn

sounded from the garret window, one of the ruffians asked the others

what it meant; and Kline said to me, "What do you mean by blowing that

horn?"

I did not answer. It was a custom with us, when a horn was blown at an

unusual hour, to proceed to the spot promptly to see what was the

matter. Kline ordered his men to shoot any one they saw blowing the

horn. There was a peach-tree at that end of the house. Up it two of the

men climbed; and when my wife went a second time to the window, they

fired as soon as they heard the blast, but missed their aim. My wife

then went down on her knees, and, drawing her head and body below the

range of the window, the horn resting on the sill, blew blast after

blast, while the shots poured thick and fast around her. They must have

fired ten or twelve times. The house was of stone, and the windows were

deep, which alone preserved her life.

They were evidently disconcerted by the blowing of the horn. Gorsuch

said again, "I want my property, and I will have it."

"Old man," said I, "you look as if you belonged to some persuasion."

"Never mind," he answered, "what persuasion I belong to; I want my

property."

While I was leaning out of the window, Kline fired a pistol at me, but

the shot went too high; the ball broke the glass just above my head. I

was talking to Gorsuch at the time. I seized a gun and aimed it at

Gorsuch's breast, for he evidently had instigated Kline to fire; but

Pinckney caught my arm and said, "Don't shoot." The gun went off, just

grazing Gorsuch's shoulder. Another conversation then ensued between

Gorsuch, Kline, and myself, when another one of the party fired at me,

but missed. Dickinson Gorsuch, I then saw, was preparing to shoot; and I

told him if he missed, I would show him where shooting first came from.

I asked them to consider what they would have done, had they been in our

position. "I know you want to kill us," I said, "for you have shot at us

time and again. We have only fired twice, although we have guns and

ammunition, and could kill you all if we would, but we do not want to

shed blood."

"If you do not shoot any more," then said Kline, "I will stop my men

from firing."

They then ceased for a time. This was about sunrise.

Mr. Gorsuch now said,--"Give up, and let me have my property. Hear what

the Marshal says; the Marshal is your friend. He advises you to give up

without more fuss, for my property I will have."

I denied that I had his property, when he replied, "You have my men."

"Am I your man?" I asked.

"No."

I then called Pinckney forward.

"Is that your man?"

"No."

Abraham Johnson I called next, but Gorsuch said he was not his man.

The only plan left was to call both Pinckney and Johnson again; for had

I called the others, he would have recognized them, for they were his

slaves.

Abraham Johnson said, "Does such a shrivelled up old slaveholder as you

own such a nice, genteel young man as I am?"

At this Gorsuch took offence, and charged me with dictating his

language. I then told him there were but five of us, which he denied,

and still insisted that I had his property. One of the party then

attacked the Abolitionists, affirming that, although they declared there

could not be property in man, the Bible was conclusive authority in

favor of property in human flesh.

"Yes," said Gorsuch, "does not the Bible say, 'Servants, obey your

masters'?"

I said that it did, but the same Bible said, "Give unto your servants

that which is just and equal."

At this stage of the proceedings, we went into a mutual Scripture

inquiry, and bandied views in the manner of garrulous old wives.

When I spoke of duty to servants, Gorsuch said, "Do you know that?"

"Where," I asked, "do you see it in Scripture, that a man should traffic

in his brother's blood?"

"Do you call a nigger my brother?" said Gorsuch.

"Yes," said I.

"William," said Samuel Thompson, "he has been a class-leader."

When Gorsuch heard that, he hung his head, but said nothing. We then all

joined in singing,--

"Leader, what do you say

About the judgment day?

I will die on the field of battle,

Die on the field of battle,

With glory in my soul."

Then we all began to shout, singing meantime, and shouted for a long

while. Gorsuch, who was standing head bowed, said, "What are you doing

now?"

Samuel Thompson replied, "Preaching a sinner's funeral sermon."

"You had better give up, and come down."

I then said to Gorsuch,--"'If a brother see a sword coming, and he warn

not his brother, then the brother's blood is required at his hands; but

if the brother see the sword coming, and warn his brother, and his

brother flee not, then his brother's blood is required at his own hand.'

I see the sword coming, and, old man, I warn you to flee; if you flee

not, your blood be upon your own hand."

It was now about seven o'clock.

"You had better give up," said old Mr. Gorsuch, after another while,

"and come down, for I have come a long way this morning, and want my

breakfast; for my property I will have, or I'll breakfast in hell. I

will go up and get it."

He then started up stairs, and came far enough to see us all plainly. We

were just about to fire upon him, when Dickinson Gorsuch, who was

standing on the old oven, before the door, and could see into the

up-stairs room through the window, jumped down and caught his father,

saying,--"O father, do come down! do come down! They have guns, swords,

and all kinds of weapons! They'll kill you! Do come down!"

The old man turned and left. When down with him, young Gorsuch could

scarce draw breath, and the father looked more like a dead than a living

man, so frightened were they at their supposed danger. The old man stood

some time without saying anything; at last he said, as if soliloquizing,

"I want my property, and I will have it."

Kline broke forth, "If you don't give up by fair means, you will have to

by foul."

I told him we would not surrender on any conditions.

Young Gorsuch then said,--"Don't ask them to give up,--_make_ them do

it. We have money, and can call men to take them. What is it that money

won't buy?"

Then said Kline,--"I am getting tired waiting on you; I see you are not

going to give up."

He then wrote a note and handed it to Joshua Gorsuch, saying at the same

time,--"Take it, and bring a hundred men from Lancaster."

As he started, I said,--"See here! When you go to Lancaster, don't bring

a hundred men,--bring five hundred. It will take all the men in

Lancaster to change our purpose or take us alive."

He stopped to confer with Kline, when Pinckney said, "We had better give

up."

"You are getting afraid," said I.

"Yes," said Kline, "give up like men. The rest would give up if it were

not for you."

"I am not afraid," said Pinckney; "but where is the sense in fighting

against so many men, and only five of us?"

The whites, at this time, were coming from all quarters, and Kline was

enrolling them as fast as they came. Their numbers alarmed Pinckney, and

I told him to go and sit down; but he said, "No, I will go down stairs."

I told him, if he attempted it, I should be compelled to blow out his

brains. "Don't believe that any living man can take you," I said. "Don't

give up to any slaveholder."

To Abraham Johnson, who was near me, I then turned. He declared he was

not afraid. "I will fight till I die," he said.

At this time, Hannah, Pinckney's wife, had become impatient of our

persistent course; and my wife, who brought me her message urging us to

surrender, seized a corn-cutter, and declared she would cut off the head

of the first one who should attempt to give up.

Another one of Gorsuch's slaves was coming along the highroad at this

time, and I beckoned to him to go around. Pinckney saw him, and soon

became more inspirited. Elijah Lewis, a Quaker, also came along about

this time; I beckoned to him, likewise; but he came straight on, and was

met by Kline, who ordered him to assist him. Lewis asked for his

authority, and Kline handed him the warrant. While Lewis was reading,

Castner Hanway came up, and Lewis handed the warrant to him. Lewis asked

Kline what Parker said.

Kline replied, "He won't give up."

Then Lewis and Hanway both said to the Marshal,--"If Parker says they

will not give up, you had better let them alone, for he will kill some

of you. We are not going to risk our lives";--and they turned to go

away.

While they were talking, I came down and stood in the doorway, my men

following behind.

Old Mr. Gorsuch said, when I appeared, "They'll come out, and get away!"

and he came back to the gate.

I then said to him,--"You said you could and would take us. Now you have

the chance."

They were a cowardly-looking set of men.

Mr. Gorsuch said, "You can't come out here."

"Why?" said I. "This is my place, I pay rent for it. I'll let you see if

I can't come out."

"I don't care if you do pay rent for it," said he. "If you come out, I

will give you the contents of these";--presenting, at the same time, two

revolvers, one in each hand.

I said, "Old man, if you don't go away, I will break your neck."

I then walked up to where he stood, his arms resting on the gate,

trembling as if afflicted with palsy, and laid my hand on his shoulder,

saying, "I have seen pistols before to-day."

Kline now came running up, and entreated Gorsuch to come away.

"No," said the latter, "I will have my property, or go to hell."

"What do you intend to do?" said Kline to me.

"I intend to fight," said I. "I intend to try your strength."

"If you will withdraw your men," he replied, "I will withdraw mine."

I told him it was too late. "You would not withdraw when you had the

chance,--you shall not now."

Kline then went back to Hanway and Lewis. Gorsuch made a signal to his

men, and they all fell into line. I followed his example as well as I

could; but as we were not more than ten paces apart, it was difficult to

do so. At this time we numbered but ten, while there were between thirty

and forty of the white men.

While I was talking to Gorsuch, his son said, "Father, will you take all

this from a nigger?"

I answered him by saying that I respected old age; but that, if he

would repeat that, I should knock his teeth down his throat. At this he

fired upon me, and I ran up to him and knocked the pistol out of his

hand, when he let the other one fall and ran in the field.

My brother-in-law, who was standing near, then said, "I can stop

him";--and with his double-barrel gun he fired.

Young Gorsuch fell, but rose and ran on again. Pinckney fired a second

time, and again Gorsuch fell, but was soon up again, and, running into

the cornfield, lay down in the fence corner.

I returned to my men, and found Samuel Thompson talking to old Mr.

Gorsuch, his master. They were both angry.

"Old man, you had better go home to Maryland," said Samuel.

"You had better give up, and come home with me," said the old man.

Thompson took Pinckney's gun from him, struck Gorsuch, and brought him

to his knees. Gorsuch rose and signalled to his men. Thompson then

knocked him down again, and he again rose. At this time all the white

men opened fire, and we rushed upon them; when they turned, threw down

their guns, and ran away. We, being closely engaged, clubbed our rifles.

We were too closely pressed to fire, but we found a good deal could be

done with empty guns.

Old Mr. Gorsuch was the bravest of his party; he held on to his pistols

until the last, while all the others threw away their weapons. I saw as

many as three at a time fighting with him. Sometimes he was on his

knees, then on his back, and again his feet would be where his head

should be. He was a fine soldier and a brave man. Whenever he saw the

least opportunity, he would take aim. While in close quarters with the

whites, we could load and fire but two or three times. Our guns got bent

and out of order. So damaged did they become, that we could shoot with

but two or three of them. Samuel Thompson bent his gun on old Mr.

Gorsuch so badly, that it was of no use to us.

When the white men ran, they scattered. I ran after Nathan Nelson, but

could not catch him. I never saw a man run faster. Returning, I saw

Joshua Gorsuch coming, and Pinckney behind him. I reminded him that he

would like "to take hold of a nigger," told him that now was his

"chance," and struck him a blow on the side of the head, which stopped

him. Pinckney came up behind, and gave him a blow which brought him to

the ground; as the others passed, they gave him a kick or jumped upon

him, until the blood oozed out at his ears.

Nicholas Hutchings, and Nathan Nelson of Baltimore County, Maryland,

could outrun any men I ever saw. They and Kline were not brave, like the

Gorsuches. Could our men have got them, they would have been satisfied.

One of our men ran after Dr. Pierce, as he richly deserved attention;

but Pierce caught up with Castner Hanway, who rode between the fugitive

and the Doctor, to shield him and some others. Hanway was told to get

out of the way, or he would forfeit his life; he went aside quickly, and

the man fired at the Marylander, but missed him,--he was too far off. I

do not know whether he was wounded or not; but I do know, that, if it

had not been for Hanway, he would have been killed.

Having driven the slavocrats off in every direction, our party now

turned towards their several homes. Some of us, however, went back to my

house, where we found several of the neighbors.

The scene at the house beggars description. Old Mr. Gorsuch was lying in

the yard in a pool of blood, and confusion reigned both inside and

outside of the house.

Levi Pownell said to me, "The weather is so hot and the flies are so

bad, will you give me a sheet to put over the corpse?"

In reply, I gave him permission to get anything he needed from the

house.

"Dickinson Gorsuch is lying in the fence-corner, and I believe he is

dying. Give me something for him to drink," said Pownell, who seemed to

be acting the part of the Good Samaritan.

When he returned from ministering to Dickinson, he told me he could not

live.

The riot, so called, was now entirely ended. The elder Gorsuch was dead;

his son and nephew were both wounded, and I have reason to believe

others were,--how many, it would be difficult to say. Of our party, only

two were wounded. One received a ball in his hand, near the wrist; but

it only entered the skin, and he pushed it out with his thumb. Another

received a ball in the fleshy part of his thigh, which had to be

extracted; but neither of them were sick or crippled by the wounds. When

young Gorsuch fired at me in the early part of the battle, both balls

passed through my hat, cutting off my hair close to the skin, but they

drew no blood. The marks were not more than an inch apart.

A story was afterwards circulated that Mr. Gorsuch shot his own slave,

and in retaliation his slave shot him; but it was without foundation.

His slave struck him the first and second blows; then three or four

sprang upon him, and, when he became helpless, left him to pursue

others. _The women put an end to him._ His slaves, so far from meeting

death at his hands, are all still living.

After the fight, my wife was obliged to secrete herself, leaving the

children in care of her mother, and to the charities of our neighbors. I

was questioned by my friends as to what I should do, as they were

looking for officers to arrest me. I determined not to be taken alive,

and told them so; but, thinking advice as to our future course

necessary, went to see some old friends and consult about it. Their

advice was to leave, as, were we captured and imprisoned, they could not

foresee the result. Acting upon this hint, we set out for home, when we

met some female friends, who told us that forty or fifty armed men were

at my house, looking for me, and that we had better stay away from the

place, if we did not want to be taken. Abraham Johnson and Pinckney

hereupon halted, to agree upon the best course, while I turned around

and went another way.

Before setting out on my long journey northward, I determined to have an

interview with my family, if possible, and to that end changed my

course. As we went along the road to where I found them, we met men in

companies of three and four, who had been drawn together by the

excitement. On one occasion, we met ten or twelve together. They all

left the road, and climbed over the fences into fields to let us pass;

and then, after we had passed, turned, and looked after us as far as

they could see. Had we been carrying destruction to all human kind, they

could not have acted more absurdly. We went to a friend's house and

stayed for the rest of the day, and until nine o'clock that night, when

we set out for Canada.

The great trial now was to leave my wife and family. Uncertain as to the

result of the journey, I felt I would rather die than be separated from

them. It had to be done, however; and we went forth with heavy hearts,

outcasts for the sake of liberty. When we had walked as far as

Christiana, we saw a large crowd, late as it was, to some of whom, at

least, I must have been known, as we heard distinctly, "A'n't that

Parker?"

"Yes," was answered, "that's Parker."

Kline was called for, and he, with some nine or ten more, followed

after. We stopped, and then they stopped. One said to his comrades, "Go

on,--that's him." And another replied, "You go." So they contended for a

time who should come to us. At last they went back. I was sorry to see

them go back, for I wanted to meet Kline and end the day's transactions.

We went on unmolested to Penningtonville; and, in consequence of the

excitement, thought best to continue on to Parkersburg. Nothing worth

mention occurred for a time. We proceeded to Downingtown, and thence six

miles beyond, to the house of a friend. We stopped with him on Saturday

night, and on the evening of the 14th went fifteen miles farther. Here I

learned from a preacher, directly from the city, that the excitement in

Philadelphia was too great for us to risk our safety by going there.

Another man present advised us to go to Norristown.

At Norristown we rested a day. The friends gave us ten dollars, and sent

us in a vehicle to Quakertown. Our driver, being partly intoxicated, set

us down at the wrong place, which obliged us to stay out all night. At

eleven o'clock the next day we got to Quakertown. We had gone about six

miles out of the way, and had to go directly across the country. We

rested the 16th, and set out in the evening for Friendsville.

A friend piloted us some distance, and we travelled until we became very

tired, when we went to bed under a haystack. On the 17th, we took

breakfast at an inn. We passed a small village, and asked a man whom we

met with a dearborn, what would be his charge to Windgap. "One dollar

and fifty cents," was the ready answer. So in we got, and rode to that

place.

As we wanted to make some inquiries when we struck the north and south

road, I went into the post-office, and asked for a letter for John

Thomas, which of course I did not get. The postmaster scrutinized us

closely,--more so, indeed, than any one had done on the Blue

Mountains,--but informed us that Friendsville was between forty and

fifty miles away. After going about nine miles, we stopped in the

evening of the 18th at an inn, got supper, were politely served, and had

an excellent night's rest. On the next day we set out for Tannersville,

hiring a conveyance for twenty-two miles of the way. We had no further

difficulty on the entire road to Rochester,--more than five hundred

miles by the route we travelled.

Some amusing incidents occurred, however, which it may be well to relate

in this connection. The next morning, after stopping at the tavern, we

took the cars and rode to Homerville, where, after waiting an hour, as

our landlord of the night previous had directed us, we took stage. Being

the first applicants for tickets, we secured inside seats, and, from the

number of us, we took up all of the places inside; but, another

traveller coming, I tendered him mine, and rode with the driver. The

passenger thanked me; but the driver, a churl, and the most prejudiced

person I ever came in contact with, would never wait after a stop until

I could get on, but would drive away, and leave me to swing, climb, or

cling on to the stage as best I could. Our traveller, at last noticing

his behavior, told him promptly not to be so fast, but let all

passengers get on, which had the effect to restrain him a little.

At Big Eddy we took the cars. Directly opposite me sat a gentleman, who,

on learning that I was for Rochester, said he was going there too, and

afterwards proved an agreeable travelling-companion.

A newsboy came in with papers, some of which the passengers bought. Upon

opening them, they read of the fight at Christiana.

"O, see here!" said my neighbor; "great excitement at Christiana; a--a

statesman killed, and his son and nephew badly wounded."

After reading, the passengers began to exchange opinions on the case.

Some said they would like to catch Parker, and get the thousand dollars

reward offered by the State; but the man opposite to me said, "Parker

must be a powerful man."

I thought to myself, "If you could tell what I can, you could judge

about that."

Pinckney and Johnson became alarmed, and wanted to leave the cars at the

next stopping-place; but I told them there was no danger. I then asked

particularly about Christiana, where it was, on what railroad, and other

questions, to all of which I received correct replies. One of the men

became so much attached to me, that, when we would go to an

eating-saloon, he would pay for both. At Jefferson we thought of

leaving the cars, and taking the boat; but they told us to keep on the

cars, and we would get to Rochester by nine o'clock the next night.

We left Jefferson about four o'clock in the morning, and arrived at

Rochester at nine the same morning. Just before reaching Rochester, when

in conversation with my travelling friend, I ventured to ask what would

be done with Parker, should he be taken.

"I do not know," he replied; "but the laws of Pennsylvania would not

hang him,--they might imprison him. But it would be different, very

different, should they get him into Maryland. The people in all the

Slave States are so prejudiced against colored people, that they never

give them justice. But I don't believe they will get Parker. I think he

is in Canada by this time; at least, I hope so,--for I believe he did

right, and, had I been in his place, I would have done as he did. Any

good citizen will say the same. I believe Parker to be a brave man; and

all you colored people should look at it as we white people look at our

brave men, and do as we do. You see Parker was not fighting for a

country, nor for praise. He was fighting for freedom: he only wanted

liberty, as other men do. You colored people should protect him, and

remember him as long as you live. We are coming near our parting-place,

and I do not know if we shall ever meet again. I shall be in Rochester

some two or three days before I return home; and I would like to have

your company back."

I told him it would be some time before we returned.

The cars then stopped, when he bade me good by. As strange as it may

appear, he did not ask me my name; and I was afraid to inquire his, from

fear he would.

On leaving the cars, after walking two or three squares, we overtook a

colored man, who conducted us to the house of--a friend of mine. He

welcomed me at once, as we were acquainted before, took me up stairs to

wash and comb, and prepare, as he said, for company.

As I was combing, a lady came up and said, "Which of you is Mr. Parker?"

"I am," said I,--"what there is left of me."

She gave me her hand, and said, "And this is William Parker!"

She appeared to be so excited that she could not say what she wished to.

We were told we would not get much rest, and we did not; for visitors

were constantly coming. One gentleman was surprised that we got away

from the cars, as spies were all about, and there were two thousand

dollars reward for the party.

We left at eight o'clock that evening, in a carriage, for the boat,

bound for Kingston in Canada. As we went on board, the bell was ringing.

After walking about a little, a friend pointed out to me the officers on

the "hunt" for us; and just as the boat pushed off from the wharf, some

of our friends on shore called me by name. Our pursuers looked very much

like fools, as they were. I told one of the gentlemen on shore to write

to Kline that I was in Canada. Ten dollars were generously contributed

by the Rochester friends for our expenses; and altogether their kindness

was heartfelt, and was most gratefully appreciated by us.

Once on the boat, and fairly out at sea towards the land of liberty, my

mind became calm, and my spirits very much depressed at thought of my

wife and children. Before, I had little time to think much about them,

my mind being on my journey. Now I became silent and abstracted.

Although fond of company, no one was company for me now.

We landed at Kingston on the 21st of September, at six o'clock in the

morning, and walked around for a long time, without meeting any one we

had ever known. At last, however, I saw a colored man I knew in

Maryland. He at first pretended to have no knowledge of me, but finally

recognized me. I made known our distressed condition, when he said he

was not going home then, but, if we would have breakfast, he would pay

for it. How different the treatment received from this man--himself an

exile for the sake of liberty, and in its full enjoyment on free

soil--and the self-sacrificing spirit of our Rochester colored brother,

who made haste to welcome us to his ample home,--the well-earned reward

of his faithful labors!

On Monday evening, the 23d, we started for Toronto, where we arrived

safely the next day. Directly after landing, we heard that Governor

Johnston, of Pennsylvania, had made a demand on the Governor of Canada

for me, under the Extradition Treaty. Pinckney and Johnson advised me to

go to the country, and remain where I should not be known; but I

refused. I intended to see what they would do with me. Going at once to

the Government House, I entered the first office I came to. The official

requested me to be seated. The following is the substance of the

conversation between us, as near as I can remember. I told him I had

heard that Governor Johnston, of Pennsylvania, had requested his

government to send me back. At this he came forward, held forth his

hand, and said, "Is this William Parker?"

I took his hand, and assured him I was the man. When he started to come,

I thought he was intending to seize me, and I prepared myself to knock

him down. His genial, sympathetic manner it was that convinced me he

meant well.

He made me sit down, and said,--"Yes, they want you back again. Will you

go?"

"I will not be taken back alive," said I. "I ran away from my master to

be free,--I have run from the United States to be free. I am now going

to stop running."

"Are you a fugitive from labor?" he asked.

I told him I was.

"Why," he answered, "they say you are a fugitive from justice." He then

asked me where my master lived.

I told him, "In Anne Arundel County, Maryland."

"Is there such a county in Maryland?" he asked.

"There is," I answered.

He took down a map, examined it, and said, "You are right."

I then told him the name of the farm, and my master's name. Further

questions bearing upon the country towns near, the nearest river, etc.,

followed, all of which I answered to his satisfaction.

"How does it happen," he then asked, "that you lived in Pennsylvania so

long, and no person knew you were a fugitive from labor?"

"I do not get other people to keep my secrets, sir," I replied. "My

brother and family only knew that I had been a slave."

He then assured me that I would not, in his opinion, have to go back.

Many coming in at this time on business, I was told to call again at

three o'clock, which I did. The person in the office, a clerk, told me

to take no further trouble about it, until that day four weeks. "But you

are as free a man as I am," said he. When I told the news to Pinckney

and Johnson, they were greatly relieved in mind.

I ate breakfast with the greatest relish, got a letter written to a

friend in Chester County for my wife, and set about arrangements to

settle at or near Toronto.

We tried hard to get work, but the task was difficult. I think three

weeks elapsed before we got work that could be called work. Sometimes we

would secure a small job, worth two or three shillings, and sometimes a

smaller one, worth not more than one shilling; and these not oftener

than once or twice in a week. We became greatly discouraged; and, to add

to my misery, I was constantly hearing some alarming report about my

wife and children. Sometimes they had carried her back into

slavery,--sometimes the children, and sometimes the entire party. Then

there would come a contradiction. I was soon so completely worn down by

my fears for them, that I thought my heart would break. To add to my

disquietude, no answer came to my letters, although I went to the office

regularly every day. At last I got a letter with the glad news that my

wife and children were safe, and would be sent to Canada. I told the

person reading for me to stop, and tell them to send her "right now,"--I

could not wait to hear the rest of the letter.

Two months from the day I landed in Toronto, my wife arrived, but

without the children. She had had a very bad time. Twice they had her in

custody; and, a third time, her young master came after her, which

obliged her to flee before day, so that the children had to remain

behind for the time. I was so glad to see her that I forgot about the

children.

The day my wife came, I had nothing but the clothes on my back, and was

in debt for my board, without any work to depend upon. My situation was

truly distressing. I took the resolution, and went to a store where I

made known my circumstances to the proprietor, offering to work for him

to pay for some necessaries. He readily consented, and I supplied myself

with bedding, meal, and flour. As I had selected a place before, we went

that evening about two miles into the country, and settled ourselves for

the winter.

When in Kingston, I had heard of the Buxton settlement, and of the

Revds. Dr. Willis and Mr. King, the agents. My informant, after stating

all the particulars, induced me to think it was a desirable place; and

having quite a little sum of money due to me in the States, I wrote for

it, and waited until May. It not being sent, I called upon Dr. Willis,

who treated me kindly. I proposed to settle in Elgin, if he would loan

means for the first instalment. He said he would see about it, and I

should call again. On my second visit, he agreed to assist me, and

proposed that I should get another man to go on a lot with me.

Abraham Johnson and I arranged to settle together, and, with Dr.

Willis's letter to Mr. King on our behalf, I embarked with my family on

a schooner for the West. After five days' sailing, we reached Windsor.

Not having the means to take us to Chatham, I called upon Henry Bibb,

and laid my case before him. He took us in, treated us with great

politeness, and afterwards, took me with him to Detroit, where, after an

introduction to some friends, a purse of five dollars was made up. I

divided the money among my companions, and started them for Chatham, but

was obliged to stay at Windsor and Detroit two days longer.

While stopping at Windsor, I went again to Detroit, with two or three

friends, when, at one of the steamboats just landed, some officers

arrested three fugitives, on the pretence of being horse thieves. I was

satisfied they were slaves, and said so, when Henry Bibb went to the

telegraph office and learned through a message that they were. In the

crowd and excitement, the sheriff threatened to imprison me for my

interference. I felt indignant, and told him to do so, whereupon he

opened the door. About this time there was more excitement, and then a

man slipped into the jail, unseen by the officers, opened the gate, and

the three prisoners went out, and made their escape to Windsor. I

stopped through that night in Detroit, and started the next day for

Chatham, where I found my family snugly provided for at a boarding-house

kept by Mr. Younge.

Chatham was a thriving town at that time, and the genuine liberty

enjoyed by its numerous colored residents pleased me greatly; but our

destination was Buxton, and thither we went on the following day. We

arrived there in the evening, and I called immediately upon Mr. King,

and presented Dr. Willis's letter. He received me very politely, and

said that, after I should feel rested, I could go out and select a lot.

He also kindly offered to give me meal and pork for my family, until I

could get work.

In due time, Johnson and I each chose a fifty-acre lot; for although

when in Toronto we agreed with Dr. Willis to take one lot between us,

when we saw the land we thought we could pay for two lots. I got the

money in a little time, and paid the Doctor back. I built a house, and

we moved into it that same fall, and in it I live yet.

When I first settled in Buxton, the white settlers in the vicinity were

much opposed to colored people. Their prejudices were very strong; but

the spread of intelligence and religion in the community has wrought a

great change in them. Prejudice is fast being uprooted; indeed, they do

not appear like the same people that they were. In a short time I hope

the foul spirit will depart entirely.

I have now to bring my narrative to a close; and in so doing I would

return thanks to Almighty God for the many mercies and favors he has

bestowed upon me, and especially for delivering me out of the hands of

slaveholders, and placing me in a land of liberty, where I can worship

God under my own vine and fig-tree, with none to molest or make me

afraid. I am also particularly thankful to my old friends and neighbors

in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania,--to the friends in Norristown,

Quakertown, Rochester, and Detroit, and to Dr. Willis of Toronto, for

their disinterested benevolence and kindness to me and my family. When

hunted, they sheltered me; when hungry and naked, they clothed and fed

me; and when a stranger in a strange land, they aided and encouraged me.

May the Lord in his great mercy remember and bless them, as they

remembered and blessed me.

* * * * *

The events following the riot at Christiana and my escape have become

matters of history, and can only be spoken of as such. The failure of

Gorsuch in his attempt; his death, and the terrible wounds of his son;

the discomfiture and final rout of his crestfallen associates in crime;

and their subsequent attempt at revenge by a merciless raid through

Lancaster County, arresting every one unfortunate enough to have a dark

skin,--is all to be found in the printed account of the trial of Castner

Hanway and others for treason. It is true that some of the things which

did occur are spoken of but slightly, there being good and valid reasons

why they were passed over thus at that time in these cases, many of

which might be interesting to place here, and which I certainly should

do, did not the same reasons still exist in full force for keeping

silent. I shall be compelled to let them pass just as they are recorded.

But one event, in which there seems no reason to observe silence, I will

introduce in this place. I allude to the escape of George Williams, one

of our men, and the very one who had the letters brought up from

Philadelphia by Mr. Samuel Williams. George lay in prison with the

others who had been arrested by Kline, but was rendered more uneasy by

the number of rascals who daily visited that place for the purpose of

identifying, if possible, some of its many inmates as slaves. One day

the lawyer previously alluded to, whose chief business seemed to be

negro-catching, came with another man, who had employed him for that

purpose, and, stopping in front of the cell wherein George and old

Ezekiel Thompson were confined, cried out, "_That's_ him!" At which the

man exclaimed, "_It is, by God! that is him!_"

These ejaculations, as a matter of course, brought George and Ezekiel,

who were lying down, to their feet,--the first frightened and uneasy,

the latter stern and resolute. Some mysterious conversation then took

place between the two, which resulted in George lying down and covering

himself with Ezekiel's blanket. In the mean time off sped the man and

lawyer to obtain the key, open the cell, and institute a more complete

inspection. They returned in high glee, but to their surprise saw only

the old man standing at the door, his grim visage anything but inviting.

They inserted the key, click went the lock, back shot the bolt, open

flew the door, but old Ezekiel stood there firm, his eyes flashing fire,

his brawny hands flourishing a stout oak stool furnished him to rest on

by friends of whom I have so often spoken, and crying out in the most

unmistakable manner, every word leaving a deep impression on his

visitors, "The first man that puts his head inside of this cell I will

split to pieces."

The men leaped back, but soon recovered their self-possession; and the

lawyer said,--"Do you know who I am? I am the lawyer who has charge of

this whole matter, you impudent nigger, I will come in whenever I

choose."

The old man, if possible looking more stern and savage than before,

replied,--"I don't care who you are; but if you or any other

nigger-catcher steps inside of my cell-door I will beat out his brains."

It is needless to say more. The old man's fixed look, clenched teeth,

and bony frame had their effect. The man and the lawyer left, growling

as they went, that, if there was rope to be had, that old Indian nigger

should certainly hang.

This was but the beginning of poor George's troubles. His friends were

at work; but all went wrong, and his fate seemed sealed. He stood

charged with treason, murder, and riot, and there appeared no way to

relieve him. When discharged by the United States Court for the first

crime, he was taken to Lancaster to meet the second and third. There,

too, the man and the lawyer followed, taking with them that infamous

wretch, Kline. The Devil seemed to favor all they undertook; and when

Ezekiel was at last discharged, with some thirty more, from all that had

been so unjustly brought against him, and for which he had lain in the

damp prison for more than three months, these rascals lodged a warrant

in the Lancaster jail, and at midnight Kline and the man who claimed to

be George's owner arrested him as a fugitive from labor, whilst the

lawyer returned to Philadelphia to prepare the case for trial, and to

await the arrival of his shameless partners in guilt. This seemed the

climax of George's misfortunes. He was hurried into a wagon, ready at

the door, and, fearing a rescue, was driven at a killing pace to the

town of Parkesburg, where they were compelled to stop for the night,

their horses being completely used up. This was in the month of January,

and the coldest night that had been known for many years. On their

route, these wretches, who had George handcuffed and tied in the wagon,

indulged deeply in bad whiskey, with which they were plentifully

supplied, and by the time they reached the public-house their fury was

at its height. 'T is said there is honor among thieves, but villains of

the sort I am now speaking of seem to possess none. Each fears the

other. When in the bar-room, Kline said to the other,--"Sir, you can go

to sleep. I will watch this nigger."

"No," replied the other, "I will do that business myself. You don't fool

me, sir."

To which Kline replied, "Take something, sir?"--and down went more

whiskey.

Things went on in this way awhile, until Kline drew a chair to the

stove, and, overcome by the heat and liquor, was soon sleeping soundly,

and, I suppose, dreaming of the profits which were sure to arise from

the job. The other walked about till the barkeeper went to bed, leaving

the hostler to attend in his place, and he also, somehow or other, soon

fell asleep. Then he walked up to George, who was lying on the bench,

apparently as soundly asleep as any of them, and, saying to himself,

"The damn nigger is asleep,--I'll just take a little rest myself,"--he

suited the action to the word. Spreading himself out on two chairs, in a

few moments he was snoring at a fearful rate. Rum, the devil, and

fatigue, combined, had completely prostrated George's foes. It was now

his time for action; and, true to the hope of being free, the last to

leave the poor, hunted, toil-worn bondman's heart, he opened first one

eye, then the other, and carefully examined things around. Then he rose

slowly, and keeping step to the deep-drawn snores of the miserable,

debased wretch who claimed him, he stealthily crawled towards the door,

when, to his consternation, he found the eye of the hostler on him. He

paused, knowing his fate hung by a single hair. It was only necessary

for the man to speak, and he would be shot instantly dead; for both

Kline and his brother ruffian slept pistol in hand. As I said, George

stopped, and, in the softest manner in which it was possible for him to

speak, whispered, "A drink of water, if you please, sir." The man

replied not, but, pointing his finger to the door again, closed his

eyes, and was apparently lost in slumber.

I have already said it was cold; and, in addition, snow and ice covered

the ground. There could not possibly be a worse night. George shivered

as he stepped forth into the keen night air. He took one look at the

clouds above, and then at the ice-clad ground below. He trembled; but

freedom beckoned, and on he sped. He knew where he was,--the place was

familiar. On, on, he pressed, nor paused till fifteen miles lay between

him and his drunken claimant; then he stopped at the house of a tried

friend to have his handcuffs removed; but, with their united efforts,

one side only could be got off, and the poor fellow, not daring to rest,

continued his journey, forty odd miles, to Philadelphia, with the other

on. Frozen, stiff, and sore, he arrived there on the following day, and

every care was extended to him by his old friends. He was nursed and

attended by the late Dr. James, Joshua Gould Bias, one of the faithful

few, whose labors for the oppressed will never be forgotten, and whose

heart, purse, and hand were always open to the poor, flying slave. God

has blessed him, and his reward is obtained.

I shall here take leave of George, only saying, that he recovered and

went to the land of freedom, to be safe under the protection of British

law. Of the wretches he left in the _tavern_, much might be said; but it

is enough to know that they awoke to find him gone, and to pour their

curses and blasphemy on each other. They swore most frightfully; and the

disappointed Southerner threatened to blow out the brains of Kline, who

turned his wrath on the hostler, declaring he should be taken and held

responsible for the loss. This so raised the ire of that worthy, that,

seizing an iron bar that was used to fasten the door, he drove the whole

party from the house, swearing they were damned kidnappers, and ought to

be all sent after old Gorsuch, and that he would raise the whole

township on them if they said one word more. This had the desired

effect. They left, not to pursue poor George, but to avoid pursuit; for

these worthless man-stealers knew the released men brought up from

Philadelphia and discharged at Lancaster were all in the neighborhood,

and that nothing would please these brave fellows--who had patiently and

heroically suffered for long and weary months in a felon's cell for the

cause of human freedom--more, than to get a sight at them; and Kline, he

knew this well,--particularly old Ezekiel Thompson, who had sworn by his

heart's blood, that, if he could only get hold of that Marshal Kline, he

should kill him and go to the gallows in peace. In fact, he said the

only thing he had to feel sorry about was, that he did not do it when he

threatened to, whilst the scoundrel stood talking to Hanway; and but for

Castner Hanway he would have done it, anyhow. Much more I could say; but

short stories are read, while long ones are like the sermons we go to

sleep under.

NANTUCKET.

Thompson and I had a fortnight's holiday, and the question arose how

could we pass it best, and for the least money.

We are both clerks, that is to say, shopmen, in a large jobbing house;

but although, like most Americans, we spend our lives in the din and

bustle of a colossal shop, where selling and packing are the only

pastime, and daybooks and ledgers the only literature, we wish it to be

understood that we have souls capable of speculating upon some other

matters that have no cash value, yet which mankind cannot neglect

without becoming something little better than magnified busy bees, or

gigantic ants, or overgrown social caterpillars. And although I say it

myself, I have quite a reputation among our fellows, that I have earned

by the confident way in which I lay down a great principle of science,

æsthetics, or morals. I confess that I am perhaps a little given to

generalize from a single fact; but my manner is imposing to the weaker

brethren, and my credit for great wisdom is well established in our

street.

Under these circumstances it became a matter of some importance to

decide the question, Where can we go to the best advantage, pecuniary

and æsthetical?

We had both of us, in the pursuit of our calling,--that is to say, in

hunting after bad debts and drumming up new business,--travelled over

most of this country on those long lines of rails that always remind me

of the parallels of latitude on globes and maps; and we wondered why

people who had once gratified a natural curiosity to see this land

should ever travel over it again, unless with the hope of making money

by their labor. Health, certainly, no one can expect to get from the

tough upper-leathers and sodden soles of the pies offered at the

ten-minutes-for-refreshment stations, nor from their saturated

spongecakes. As to pleasure, I said to Thompson,--"the pleasure of

travelling consists in the new agreeable sensations it affords. Above

all, they must be new. You wish to move out of your set of thoughts and

feelings, or else why move at all? But all the civilized world over,

locomotives, like huge flat-irons, are smoothing customs, costumes,

thoughts, and feelings into one plane, homogeneous surface. And in this

country not only does Nature appear to do everything by wholesale, but

there is as little variety in human beings. We have discovered the

political alkahest or universal solvent of the alchemists, and with it

we reduce at once the national characteristics of foreigners into our

well-known American compound. Hence, on all the great lines of travel,

Monotony has marked us for her own. Coming from the West, you are

whirled through twelve hundred miles of towns, so alike in their outward

features that they seem to have been started in New England nurseries

and sent to be planted wherever they might be wanted;--square brick

buildings, covered with signs, and a stoutish sentry-box on each flat

roof; telegraph offices; express companies; a crowd of people dressed

alike, 'earnest,' and bustling as ants, with seemingly but one idea,--to

furnish materials for the statistical tables of the next census. Then,

beyond, you catch glimpses of many smaller and neater buildings, with

grass and trees and white fences about them. Some are Gothic, some

Italian, some native American. But the glory of one Gothic is like the

glory of another Gothic, the Italian are all built upon the same

pattern, and the native American differ only in size. There are three

marked currents of architectural taste, but no individual character in

particular buildings. Everywhere you see comfort and abundance; your

mind is easy on the great subject of imports, exports, products of the

soil, and manufactures;--a pleasant and strengthening prospect for a

political economist, or for shareholders in railways or owners of lands

in the vicinity. This 'unparalleled prosperity' must be exciting to a

foreigner who sees it for the first time; but we Yankees are to the

manner born and bred up. We take it all as a matter of course, as the

young Plutuses do their father's fine house and horses and servants.

Kingsley says there is a great, unspoken poetry in sanitary reform. It

may be so; but as yet the words only suggest sewers, ventilation, and

chloride of lime. The poetry has not yet become vocal; and I think the

same may be said of our 'material progress.' It seems thus far very

prosaic. 'Only a great poet sees the poetry of his own age,' we are

told. We every-day people are unfortunately blind to it."

Here I was silent. I had dived into the deepest recesses of my soul.

Thompson waited patiently until I should rise to the surface and blow

again. It was thus:--

"Have you not noticed that the people we sit beside in railway cars are

becoming as much alike as their brown linen 'dusters,' and unsuggestive

except on that point of statistics? They are intelligent, but they carry

their shops on their backs, as snails do their houses. Their thoughts

are fixed upon the one great subject. On all others, politics included,

they talk from hand to mouth, offering you a cold hash of their favorite

morning paper. Even those praiseworthy persons who devote their time to

temperance, missions, tract-societies, seem more like men of business

than apostles. They lay their charities before you much as they would

display their goods, and urge their excellence and comparative cheapness

to induce you to lay out your money.

"The fact is, that the traveller is daily losing his human character,

and becoming more and more a package, to be handled, stowed, and

'forwarded' as may best suit the convenience and profit of the

enterprising parties engaged in the business. If at night he stops at a

hotel, he rises to the dignity of an animal, is marked by a number, and

driven to his food and litter by the herdsmen employed by the master of

the establishment. To a thinking man, it is a sad indication for the

future to see what slaves this hotel-railroad-steamboat system has made

of the brave and the free when they travel. How they toady captains and

conductors, and without murmuring put up with any imposition they please

to practise upon them, even unto taking away their lives! As we all pay

the same price at hotels, each one hopes by smirks and servility to

induce the head-clerk to treat him a little better than his neighbors.

There is no despotism more absolute than that of these servants of the

public. As Cobbett said, 'In America, public servant means master.' None

of us can sing, 'Yankees never will be slaves,' unless we stay at home.

We have liberated the blacks, but I see little chance of emancipation

for ourselves. The only liberty that is vigorously vindicated here is

the liberty of doing wrong."

Here I stopped short. It was evident that my wind was gone, and any

further exertion of eloquence out of the question for some time. I was

as exhausted as a _Gymnotus_ that has parted with all its electricity.

Thompson took advantage of my helpless condition, and carried me off

unresisting to a place which railways can never reach, and where there

is nothing to attract fashionable travellers. The surly Atlantic keeps

watch over it and growls off the pestilent crowd of excursionists who

bring uncleanness and greediness in their train, and are pursued by the

land-sharks who prey upon such frivolous flying-fish. A little town,

whose life stands still, or rather goes backward, whose ships have

sailed away to other ports, whose inhabitants have followed the ships,

and whose houses seem to be going after the inhabitants; but a town in

its decline, not in its decay. Everything is clean and in good repair;

everybody well dressed, healthy, and cheerful. Paupers there are none;

and the new school-house would be an ornament to any town in

Massachusetts. That there is no lack of spirit and vigor may be known

from the fact that the island furnished five hundred men for the late

war.

When we caught sight of Nantucket, the sun was shining his best, and the

sea too smooth to raise a qualm in the bosom of the most delicately

organized female. The island first makes its appearance, as a long, thin

strip of yellow underlying a long, thinner strip of green. In the middle

of this double line the horizon is broken by two square towers. As you

approach, the towers resolve themselves into meeting-houses, and a large

white town lies before you.

At the wharf there were no baggage smashers. Our trunks were

"Taken up tenderly,

Lifted with care,"

and carried to the hotel for twenty-five cents in paper. I immediately

established the fact, that there are no fellow-citizens in Nantucket of

foreign descent. "For," said I, "if you offered that obsolete fraction

of a dollar to the turbulent hackmen of our cities, you would meet with

offensive demonstrations of contempt." I seized the opportunity to add,

_apropos_ of the ways of that class of persons: "Theoretically, I am a

thorough democrat; but when democracy drives a hack, smells of bad

whiskey and cheap tobacco, ruins my portmanteau, robs me of my money,

and damns my eyes when it does not blacken them, if I dare protest,--I

hate it."

The streets are paved and clean. There are few horses on the island, and

these are harnessed single to box-wagons, painted green, the sides of

which are high enough to hold safely a child, four or five years of age,

standing. We often inquired the reasons for this peculiar build; but the

replies were so unsatisfactory, that we put the green box down as one of

the mysteries of the spot.

It seemed to us a healthy symptom, that we saw in our inn none of those

alarming notices that the keepers of hotels on the mainland paste up so

conspicuously, no doubt from the very natural dislike to competition,

"Beware of pickpockets," "Bolt your doors before retiring," "Deposit

your valuables in the safe, or the proprietors will not be responsible."

There are no thieves in Nantucket; if for no other reason, because they

cannot get away with the spoils. And we were credibly informed, that the

one criminal in the town jail had given notice to the authorities that

he would not remain there any longer, unless they repaired the door, as

he was afraid of catching cold from the damp night air.

In the afternoons, good-looking young women swarm in the streets,

"Airy creatures,

Alike in voice, though not in features,"

I could wish their voices were as sweet as their faces; but the American

climate, or perhaps the pertness of democracy, has an unfavorable effect

on the organs of speech. Governor Andrew must have visited Nantucket

before he wrote his eloquent lamentation over the excess of women in

Massachusetts. I am fond of ladies' society, and do not sympathize with

the Governor. But if that day should ever come, which is prophesied by

Isaiah, when seven women shall lay hold of one man, saying, "We will eat

our own bread and wear our own apparel, only let us be called by thy

name," I think Nantucket will be the scene of the fulfilment, the women

are so numerous and apparently so well off. I confess that I envy the

good fortune of the young gentlemen who may be living there at that

time. We saw a foreshadowing of this delightful future in the water. The

bathing "facilities" consist of many miles of beach, and one

bathing-house, in which ladies exchange their shore finery for their

sea-weeds. Two brisk young fellows, Messrs. Whitey and Pypey, had come

over in the same boat with us. We had fallen into a traveller's

acquaintance with them, and listened to the story of the pleasant life

they had led on the island during previous visits. We lost sight of them

on the wharf. We found them again near the bath-house, in the hour of

their glory. There they were, disporting themselves in the clear water,

swimming, diving, floating, while around them laughed and splashed

fourteen bright-eyed water-nymphs, half a dozen of them as bewitching as

any Nixes that ever spread their nets for soft-hearted young _Ritters_

in the old German romance waters. Neptune in a triumphal progress, with

his Naiads tumbling about him, was no better off than Whitey and Pypey.

They had, to be sure, no car, nor conch shells, nor dolphins; but, as

Thompson remarked, these were unimportant accessories, that added but

little to Neptune's comfort. The nymphs were the essential. The

spectacle was a saddening one for us, I confess; the more so, because

our forlorn condition evidently gave a new zest to the enjoyment of our

friends, and stimulated them to increased vigor in their aquatic

flirtations. Alone, unintroduced, melancholy, and a little sheepish, we

hired towels at two cents each from the ladylike and obliging colored

person who superintended the bath-house, and, withdrawing to the

friendly shelter of distance, dropped our clothes upon the sand, and hid

our envy and insignificance in the bosom of the deep.

And the town was brilliant from the absence of the unclean

advertisements of quack-medicine men. That irrepressible species have

not, as yet, committed their nuisance in its streets, and disfigured the

walls and fences with their portentous placards. It is the only clean

place I know of. The nostrum-makers have labelled all the features of

Nature on the mainland, as if our country were a vast apothecary's shop.

The Romans had a gloomy fashion of lining their great roads with tombs

and mortuary inscriptions. The modern practice is quite as dreary. The

long lines of railway that lead to our cities are decorated with

cure-alls for the sick, the _ante-mortem_ epitaphs of the fools who buy

them and try them.

"No place is sacred to the meddling crew

Whose trade is----"

posting what we all should take. The walls of our domestic castles are

outraged with _graffiti_ of this class; highways and byways display

them; and if the good Duke with the melancholy Jaques were to wander in

some forest of New Arden, in the United States, they would be sure to

"Find _elixirs_ on trees, _bitters_ in the running brooks,

_Syrups_ on stones, and _lies_ in everything."

Last year, weary of shop, and feeling the necessity of restoring tone to

the mind by a course of the sublime, Thompson and I paid many dollars,

travelled many miles, ran many risks, and suffered much from

impertinence and from dust, in order that we might see the wonders of

the Lord, his mountains and his waterfalls. We stood at the foot of the

mountain, and, gazing upward at a precipice, the sublime we were in

search of began to swell within our hearts, when our eyes were struck by

huge Roman letters painted on the face of the rock, and held fast, as if

by a spell, until we had read them all. They asked the question, "Are

you troubled with worms?"

It is hardly necessary to say that the sublime within us was instantly

killed. It would be fortunate, indeed, for the afflicted, if the

specific of this charlatan St. George were half as destructive to the

intestinal dragons he promises to destroy. Then we turned away to the

glen down which the torrent plunged. And there, at the foot of the fall,

in the midst of the boiling water, the foam, and spray, rose a tall crag

crowned with silver birch, and hung with moss and creeping vines,

bearing on its gray, weather-beaten face: "Rotterdam Schnapps." Bah! it

made us sick. The caldron looked like a punch-bowl, and the breath of

the zephyrs smelt of gin and water.

Thousands of us see this dirty desecration of the shrines to which we

make our summer pilgrimage, and bear with the sacrilege meekly, perhaps

laugh at the wicked generation of pill-venders, that seeks for places to

put up its sign. But does not this tolerance indicate the note of

vulgarity in us, as Father Newman might say? Is it not a blot on the

people as well as on the rocks? Let them fill the columns of newspapers

with their ill-smelling advertisements, and sham testimonials from the

Reverend Smith, Brown, and Jones; but let us prevent them from setting

their traps for our infirmities in the spots God has chosen for his

noblest works. What a triple brass must such men have about their

consciences to dare to flaunt their falsehoods in such places! It is a

blasphemy against Nature. We might use Peter's words to them,--"Thou

hast not lied unto men, but unto God." Ananias and Sapphira were slain

for less. But they think, I suppose, that the age of miracles has

passed, or survives only in their miraculous cures, and so coolly defy

the lightnings of Heaven. I was so much excited on this subject that

Thompson suggested to me to give up my situation, turn Peter the Hermit,

and carry a fiery scrubbing-brush through the country, preaching to all

lovers of Nature to join in a crusade to wash the Holy Places clean of

these unbelieving quacks.

It is pleasant to see that the Nantucket people are all healthy, or, if

ailing, have no idea of being treated as they treat bluefish,--offered a

red rag or a white bone, some taking sham to bite upon, and so be hauled

in and die. As regards the salubrity of the climate, I think there can

be no doubt. The faces of the inhabitants speak for themselves on that

point. I heard an old lady, not very well preserved, who had been a

fortnight on the island, say to a sympathizing friend, into whose ear

she was pouring her complaints, "I sleeps better, and my stomach is

sweeter." She might have expressed herself more elegantly, but she had

touched the two grand secrets of life,--sound sleep and good digestion.

Another comfort on this island is, that there are few shops, no

temptation to part with one's pelf, and no beggars, barelegged or

barefaced, to ask for it. I do not believe that there are any cases of

the _cacoethes subscribendi_. The natives have got out of the habit of

making money, and appear to want nothing in particular, except to go

a-fishing.

They have plenty of time to answer questions good-humoredly and

_gratis_, and do not look upon a stranger as they do upon a stranded

blackfish,--to be stripped of his oil and bone for their benefit. "I

feel like a man among Christians," I declaimed,--"not, as I have often

felt in my wanderings on shore, like Mungo Park or Burton, a traveller

among savages, who are watching for an opportunity to rob me. I catch a

glimpse again of the golden age when money was money. The blessed old

prices of my youth, which have long since been driven from the continent

by

'paper credit, last and best supply,

That lends corruption lighter wings to fly,'

have taken refuge here before leaving this wicked world forever. The

_cordon sanitaire_ of the Atlantic has kept off the pestilence of

inflation."

One bright afternoon we took horse and "shay" for Siasconset, on the

south side of the island. A drive of seven miles over a country as flat

and as naked of trees as a Western prairie, the sandy soil covered with

a low, thick growth of bayberry, whortleberry, a false cranberry called

the meal-plum, and other plants bearing a strong family likeness, with

here and there a bit of greensward,--a legacy, probably, of the flocks

of sheep the natives foolishly turned off the island,--brought us to the

spot. We passed occasional water-holes, that reminded us also of the

West, and a few cattle. Two or three lonely farm-houses loomed up in the

distance, like ships at sea. We halted our rattle-trap on a bluff

covered with thick green turf. On the edge of this bluff, forty feet

above the beach, is Siasconset, looking southward over the ocean,--no

land between it and Porto Rico. It is only a fishing village; but if

there were many like it, the conventional shepherd, with his ribbons,

his crooks, and his pipes, would have to give way to the fisherman.

Seventy-five cosey, one-story cottages, so small and snug that a

well-grown man might touch the gables without rising on tip-toe, are

drawn up in three rows parallel to the sea, with narrow lanes of turf

between them,--all of a weather-beaten gray tinged with purple, with

pale-blue blinds, vines over the porch, flowers in the windows, and

about each one a little green yard enclosed by white palings. Inside are

odd little rooms, fitted with lockers, like the cabin of a vessel.

Cottages, yards, palings, lanes, all are in proportion and harmony.

Nothing common or unclean was visible,--no heaps of fish-heads, served

up on clam-shells, and garnished with bean-pods, potato-skins, and

corn-husks; no pigs in sight, nor in the air,--not even a cow to imperil

the neatness of the place. There was the brisk, vigorous smell of the

sea-shore, flavored, perhaps, with a suspicion of oil, that seemed to be

in keeping with the locality.

We sat for a long time gazing with silent astonishment upon this

delightful little toy village, that looked almost as if it had been made

at Nuremberg, and could be picked up and put away when not wanted to

play with. It was a bright, still afternoon. The purple light of sunset

gave an additional charm of color to the scene. Suddenly the _lumen

juventæ purpureum_, the purple light of youth, broke upon it. Handsome,

well-dressed girls, with a few polygynic young men in the usual island

proportion of the sexes, came out of the cottages, and stood in the

lanes talking and laughing, or walked to the edge of the bluff to see

the sun go down. We rubbed our eyes. Was this real, or were we looking

into some showman's box? It seemed like the Petit Trianon adapted to an

island in the Atlantic, with Louis XV. and his marquises playing at

fishing instead of farming.

A venerable codfisher had been standing off and on our vehicle for some

time, with the signal for speaking set in his inquisitive countenance. I

hailed him as Mr. Coffin; for Cooper has made Long Tom the legitimate

father of all Nantucketers. He hove to, and gave us information about

his home. There was a picnic, or some sort of summer festival, going on;

and the gay lady-birds we saw were either from Nantucket, or relatives

from the main. There had once been another row of cottages outside of

those now standing; but the Atlantic came ashore one day in a storm, and

swallowed them up. Nevertheless, real property had risen of late. "Why,"

said he, "do you see that little gray cottage yonder? It rents this

summer for ten dollars a month; and there are some young men here from

the mainland who pay one dollar a week for their rooms without board."

Thompson said his sensations were similar to those of Captain Cook or

Herman Melville when they first landed to skim the cream of the fairy

islands of the Pacific.

I was deeply moved, and gave tongue at once. "It is sad to think that

these unsophisticated, uninflated people must undergo the change

civilization brings with it. The time will come when the evil spirit

that presides over watering-places will descend upon this dear little

village, and say to the inhabitants that henceforth they must catch men.

Neatness, cheapness, good-feeling, will vanish; a five-story hotel will

be put up,--the process cannot be called building; and the sharks that

infest the coast will come ashore in shabby coats and trousers, to prey

upon summer pleasure-seekers."

"In the mean time," said Thompson, "why should not we come here to live?

We can wear old clothes, and smoke cigars of the _Hippalektryon_ brand.

Dr. Johnson must have had a poetic prevision of Nantucket when he wrote

his _impecunious_ lines:

'Has Heaven reserved, in pity for the poor,

No pathless waste or undiscovered shore,

No secret island in the boundless main?'

This is the island. What an opening for young men of immoderately small

means! The climate healthy and cool; no mosquitoes; a choice among seven

beauties, perhaps the reversion of the remaining six, if Isaiah can be

relied upon. In our regions, a thing of beauty is an expense for life;

but with a house for three hundred dollars, and bluefish at a cent and a

half a pound, there is no need any more to think of high prices and the

expense of bringing up a family. If the origin of evil was, that

Providence did not create money enough, here it is in some sort

Paradise."

"That's Heine," said I; "but Heine forgot to add, that one of the

Devil's most dangerous tricks is to pretend to supply this sinful want

by his cunning device of inconvertible paper money, which lures men to

destruction and something worse."

Our holiday was nearly over. We packed up our new sensations, and

steamed away to piles of goods and columns of figures. Town and steeples

vanished in the haze, like the domes and minarets of the enchanted isle

of Borondon. Was not this as near to an enchanted island as one could

hope to find within twenty-five miles of New England? Nantucket is the

gem of the ocean without the Irish, which I think is an improvement.

THE SNOW-WALKERS.

He who marvels at the beauty of the world in summer will find equal

cause for wonder and admiration in winter. It is true the pomp and the

pageantry are swept away, but the essential elements remain,--the day

and the night, the mountain and the valley, the elemental play and

succession and the perpetual presence of the infinite sky. In winter the

stars seem to have rekindled their fires, the moon achieves a fuller

triumph, and the heavens wear a look of a more exalted simplicity.

Summer is more wooing and seductive, more versatile and human, appeals

to the affections and the sentiments, and fosters inquiry and the art

impulse. Winter is of a more heroic cast, and addresses the intellect.

The severe studies and disciplines come easier in winter. One imposes

larger tasks upon himself, and is less tolerant of his own weaknesses.

The tendinous part of the mind, so to speak, is more developed in

winter; the fleshy, in summer. I should say winter had given the bone

and sinew to Literature, summer the tissues and blood.

The simplicity of winter has a deep moral. The return of Nature, after

such a career of splendor and prodigality, to habits so simple and

austere, is not lost either upon the head or the heart. It is the

philosopher coming back from the banquet and the wine to a cup of water

and a crust of bread.

And then this beautiful masquerade of the elements,--the novel disguises

our nearest friends put on! Here is another rain and another dew, water

that will not flow, nor spill, nor receive the taint of an unclean

vessel. And if we see truly, the same old beneficence and willingness to

serve lurk beneath all.

Look up at the miracle of the falling snow,--the air a dizzy maze of

whirling, eddying flakes, noiselessly transforming the world, the

exquisite crystals dropping in ditch and gutter, and disguising in the

same suit of spotless livery all objects upon which they fall. How novel

and fine the first drifts! The old, dilapidated fence is suddenly set

off with the most fantastic ruffles, scalloped and fluted after an

unheard-of fashion! Looking down a long line of decrepit stone-wall, in

the trimming of which the wind had fairly run riot, I saw, as for the

first time, what a severe yet master artist old Winter is. Ah, a severe

artist! How stern the woods look, dark and cold and as rigid against the

horizon as iron!

All life and action upon the snow have an added emphasis and

significance. Every expression is underscored. Summer has few finer

pictures than this winter one of the farmer foddering his cattle from a

stack upon the clean snow,--the movement, the sharply-defined figures,

the great green flakes of hay, the long file of patient cows,--the

advance just arriving and pressing eagerly for the choicest

morsels,--and the bounty and providence it suggests. Or the chopper in

the woods,--the prostrate tree, the white new chips scattered about, his

easy triumph over the cold, coat hanging to a limb, and the clear, sharp

ring of his axe. The woods are rigid and tense, keyed up by the frost,

and resound like a stringed instrument. Or the road-breakers, sallying

forth with oxen and sleds in the still, white world, the day after the

storm, to restore the lost track and demolish the beleaguering drifts.

All sounds are sharper in winter; the air transmits better. At night I

hear more distinctly the steady roar of the North Mountain. In summer it

is a sort of complacent pur, as the breezes stroke down its sides; but

in winter always the same low, sullen growl.

A severe artist! No longer the canvas and the pigments, but the marble

and the chisel. When the nights are calm and the moon full, I go out to

gaze upon the wonderful purity of the moonlight and the snow. The air is

full of latent fire, and the cold warms me--after a different fashion

from that of the kitchen-stove. The world lies about me in a "trance of

snow." The clouds are pearly and iridescent, and seem the farthest

possible remove from the condition of a storm,--the ghosts of clouds,

the indwelling beauty freed from all dross. I see the hills, bulging

with great drifts, lift themselves up cold and white against the sky,

the black lines of fences here and there obliterated by the depth of the

snow. Presently a fox barks away up next the mountain, and I imagine I

can almost see him sitting there, in his furs, upon the illuminated

surface, and looking down in my direction. As I listen, one answers him

from behind the woods in the valley. What a wild winter sound,--wild and

weird, up among the ghostly hills. Since the wolf has ceased to howl

upon these mountains, and the panther to scream, there is nothing to be

compared with it. So wild! I get up in the middle of the night to hear

it. It is refreshing to the ear, and one delights to know that such wild

creatures are still among us. At this season Nature makes the most of

every throb of life that can withstand her severity. How heartily she

indorses this fox! In what bold relief stand out the lives of all

walkers of the snow! The snow is a great telltale, and blabs as

effectually as it obliterates. I go into the woods, and know all that

has happened. I cross the fields, and if only a mouse has visited his

neighbor, the fact is chronicled.

The Red Fox is the only species that abounds in my locality; the little

Gray Fox seems to prefer a more rocky and precipitous country, and a

less vigorous climate; the Cross Fox is occasionally seen, and there are

traditions of the Silver Gray among the oldest hunters. But the Red Fox

is the sportsman's prize, and the only fur-bearer worthy of note in

these mountains.[A] I go out in the morning, after a fresh fall of snow,

and see at all points where he has crossed the road. Here he has

leisurely passed within rifle-range of the house, evidently

reconnoitring the premises, with an eye to the hen-coop. That sharp,

clear, nervous track,--there is no mistaking it for the clumsy

foot-print of a little dog. All his wildness and agility are

photographed in that track. Here he has taken fright, or suddenly

recollected an engagement, and, in long, graceful leaps, barely touching

the fence, has gone careering up the hill as fleet as the wind.

The wild, buoyant creature, how beautiful he is! I had often seen his

dead carcase, and, at a distance, had witnessed the hounds drive him

across the upper fields; but the thrill and excitement of meeting him in

his wild freedom in the woods were unknown to me, till, one cold winter

day, drawn thither by the baying of a hound, I stood far up toward the

mountain's brow, waiting a renewal of the sound, that I might determine

the course of the dog and choose my position,--stimulated by the

ambition of all young Nimrods, to bag some notable game. Long I waited,

and patiently, till, chilled and benumbed, I was about to turn back,

when, hearing a slight noise, I looked up and beheld a most superb fox,

loping along with inimitable grace and ease, evidently disturbed, but

not pursued by the hound, and so absorbed in his private meditations

that he failed to see me, though I stood transfixed with amazement and

admiration not ten yards distant. I took his measure at a glance,--a

large male, with dark legs, and massive tail tipped with white,--a most

magnificent creature; but so astonished and fascinated was I by his

sudden appearance and matchless beauty, that not till I had caught the

last glimpse of him, as he disappeared over a knoll, did I awake to my

position as a sportsman, and realize what an opportunity to distinguish

myself I had unconsciously let slip. I clutched my gun, half angrily, as

if it was to blame, and went home out of humor with myself and all

fox-kind. But I have since thought better of the experience, and

concluded that I bagged the game after all, the best part of it, and

fleeced Reynard of something more valuable than his fur without his

knowledge.

This is thoroughly a winter sound,--this voice of the hound upon the

mountain,--and one that is music to many ears. The long, trumpet-like

bay, heard for a mile or more,--now faintly back in the deep recesses of

the mountain,--now distinct, but still faint, as the hound comes over

some prominent point, and the wind favors,--anon entirely lost in the

gully,--then breaking out again much nearer, and growing more and more

pronounced as the dog approaches, till, when he comes around the brow of

the mountain, directly above you, the barking is loud and sharp. On he

goes along the northern spur, his voice rising and sinking, as the wind

and lay of the ground modify it, till lost to hearing.

The fox usually keeps half a mile ahead, regulating his speed by that of

the hound, occasionally pausing a moment to divert himself with a mouse,

or to contemplate the landscape, or to listen for his pursuer. If the

hound press him too closely, he leads off from mountain to mountain, and

so generally escapes the hunter; but if the pursuit be slow, he plays

about some ridge or peak, and falls a prey, though not an easy one, to

the experienced sportsman.

A most spirited and exciting chase occurs when the farm-dog gets close

upon one in the open field, as sometimes happens in the early morning.

The fox relies so confidently upon his superior speed, that I imagine he

half tempts the dog to the race. But if the dog be a smart one, and

their course lies down hill, over smooth ground, Reynard must put his

best foot forward; and then, sometimes, suffer the ignominy of being run

over by his pursuer, who, however, is quite unable to pick him up, owing

to the speed. But when they mount the hill, or enter the woods, the

superior nimbleness and agility of the fox tell at once, and he easily

leaves the dog far in his rear. For a cur less than his own size he

manifests little fear, especially if the two meet alone, remote from the

house. In such cases, I have seen first one turn tail, then the other.

A novel spectacle often occurs in summer, when the female has young. You

are rambling on the mountain, accompanied by your dog, when you are

startled by that wild, half-threatening squall, and in a moment perceive

your dog, with inverted tail and shame and confusion in his looks,

sneaking toward you, the old fox but a few rods in his rear. You speak

to him sharply, when he bristles up, turns about, and, barking, starts

off vigorously, as if to wipe out the dishonor; but in a moment comes

sneaking back more abashed than ever, and owns himself unworthy to be

called a dog. The fox fairly shames him out of the woods. The secret of

the matter is her sex, though her conduct, for the honor of the fox be

it said, seems to be prompted only by solicitude for the safety of her

young.

One of the most notable features of the fox is his large and massive

tail. Seen running on the snow, at a distance, his tail is quite as

conspicuous as his body; and, so far from appearing a burden, seems to

contribute to his lightness and buoyancy. It softens the outline of his

movements, and repeats or continues to the eye the ease and poise of his

carriage. But, pursued by the hound on a wet, thawy day, it often

becomes so heavy and bedraggled as to prove a serious inconvenience, and

compels him to take refuge in his den. He is very loath to do this; both

his pride and the traditions of his race stimulate him to run it out,

and win by fair superiority of wind and speed; and only a wound or a

heavy and mopish tail will drive him to avoid the issue in this manner.

To learn his surpassing shrewdness and cunning, attempt to take him with

a trap. Rogue that he is, he always suspects some trick, and one must be

more of a fox than he is himself to overreach him. At first sight it

would appear easy enough. With apparent indifference he crosses your

path, or walks in your footsteps in the field, or travels along the

beaten highway, or lingers in the vicinity of stacks and remote barns.

Carry the carcass of a pig, or a fowl, or a dog, to a distant field in

midwinter, and in a few nights his tracks cover the snow about it.