The inexperienced country youth, misled by this seeming carelessness of

Reynard, suddenly conceives a project to enrich himself with fur, and

wonders that the idea has not occurred to him before, and to others. I

knew a youthful yeoman of this kind, who imagined he had found a mine of

wealth on discovering on a remote side-hill, between two woods, a dead

porker, upon which it appeared all the foxes of the neighborhood had

nightly banqueted. The clouds were burdened with snow; and as the first

flakes commenced to eddy down, he set out, trap and broom in hand,

already counting over in imagination the silver quarters he would

receive for his first fox-skin. With the utmost care, and with a

palpitating heart, he removed enough of the trodden snow to allow the

trap to sink below the surface. Then, carefully sifting the light

element over it and sweeping his tracks full, he quickly withdrew,

laughing exultingly over the little surprise he had prepared for the

cunning rogue. The elements conspired to aid him, and the falling snow

rapidly obliterated all vestiges of his work. The next morning at dawn,

he was on his way to bring in his fur. The snow had done its work

effectually, and, he believed, had kept his secret well. Arrived in

sight of the locality, he strained his vision to make out his prize

lodged against the fence at the foot of the hill. Approaching nearer,

the surface was unbroken, and doubt usurped the place of certainty in

his mind. A slight mound marked the site of the porker, but there was no

foot-print near it. Looking up the hill, he saw where Reynard had walked

leisurely down toward his wonted bacon, till within a few yards of it,

when he had wheeled, and with prodigious strides disappeared in the

woods. The young trapper saw at a glance what a comment this was upon

his skill in the art, and, indignantly exhuming the iron, he walked home

with it, the stream of silver quarters suddenly setting in another

direction.

The successful trapper commences in the fall, or before the first deep

snow. In a field not too remote, with an old axe, he cuts a small place,

say ten inches by fourteen, in the frozen ground, and removes the earth

to the depth of three or four inches, then fills the cavity with dry

ashes, in which are placed bits of roasted cheese. Reynard is very

suspicious at first, and gives the place a wide berth. It looks like

design, and he will see how the thing behaves before he approaches too

near. But the cheese is savory and the cold severe. He ventures a little

closer every night, until he can reach and pick a piece from the

surface. Emboldened by success, like other foxes, he presently digs

freely among the ashes, and, finding a fresh supply of the delectable

morsels every night, is soon thrown off his guard, and his suspicions

are quite lulled. After a week of baiting in this manner, and on the eve

of a light fall of snow, the trapper carefully conceals his trap in the

bed, first smoking it thoroughly with hemlock boughs to kill or

neutralize all smell of the iron. If the weather favors and the proper

precautions have been taken, he may succeed, though the chances are

still greatly against him.

Reynard is usually caught very lightly, seldom more than the ends of his

toes being between the jaws. He sometimes works so cautiously as to

spring the trap without injury even to his toes; or may remove the

cheese night after night without even springing it. I knew an old

trapper who, on finding himself outwitted in this manner, tied a bit of

cheese to the pan, and next morning had poor Reynard by the jaw. The

trap is not fastened, but only encumbered with a clog, and is all the

more sure in its hold by yielding to every effort of the animal to

extricate himself.

When Reynard sees his captor approaching, he would fain drop into a

mouse-hole to render himself invisible. He crouches to the ground and

remains perfectly motionless until he perceives himself discovered, when

he makes one desperate and final effort to escape, but ceases all

struggling as you come up, and behaves in a manner that stamps him a

very timid warrior,--cowering to the earth with a mingled look of shame,

guilt, and abject fear. A young farmer told me of tracing one with his

trap to the border of a wood, where he discovered the cunning rogue

trying to hide by embracing a small tree. Most animals, when taken in a

trap, show fight; but Reynard has more faith in the nimbleness of his

feet than in the terror of his teeth.

Entering the woods, the number and variety of the tracks contrast

strongly with the rigid, frozen aspect of things. Warm jets of life

still shoot and play amid this snowy desolation. Fox-tracks are far less

numerous than in the fields; but those of hares, skunks, partridges,

squirrels, and mice abound. The mice-tracks are very pretty, and look

like a sort of fantastic stitching on the coverlid of the snow. One is

curious to know what brings these tiny creatures from their retreats;

they do not seem to be in quest of food, but rather to be travelling

about for pleasure or sociability, though always going post-haste, and

linking stump with stump and tree with tree by fine, hurried strides.

That is when they travel openly; but they have hidden passages and

winding galleries under the snow, which undoubtedly are their main

avenues of communication. Here and there these passages rise so near the

surface as to be covered by only a frail arch of snow, and a slight

ridge betrays their course to the eye. I know him well. He is known to

the farmer as the deer-mouse, to the naturalist as the _Hesperomys

leucopus_,--a very beautiful creature, nocturnal in his habits, with

large ears, and large, fine eyes, full of a wild, harmless look. He

leaps like a rabbit, and is daintily marked, with white feet and a white

belly.

It is he who, far up in the hollow trunk of some tree, lays by a store

of beech-nuts for winter use. Every nut is carefully shelled, and the

cavity that serves as storehouse lined with grass and leaves. The

wood-chopper frequently squanders this precious store. I have seen half

a peck taken from one tree, as clean and white as if put up by the most

delicate hands,--as they were. How long it must have taken the little

creature to collect this quantity, to hull them one by one, and convey

them up to his fifth-story chamber! He is not confined to the woods, but

is quite as common in the fields, particularly in the fall, amid the

corn and potatoes. When routed by the plough, I have seen the old one

take flight with half a dozen young hanging to her teats, and with such

reckless speed, that some of the young would lose their hold, and fly

off amid the weeds. Taking refuge in a stump with the rest of her

family, the anxious mother would presently come back and hunt up the

missing ones.

The snow-walkers are mostly night-walkers also, and the record they

leave upon the snow is the main clew one has to their life and doings.

The hare is nocturnal in his habits, and though a very lively creature

at night, with regular courses and run-ways through the wood, is

entirely quiet by day. Timid as he is, he makes little effort to conceal

himself, usually squatting beside a log, stump, or tree, and seeming to

avoid rocks and ledges where he might be partially housed from the cold

and the snow, but where also--and this consideration undoubtedly

determines his choice--he would be more apt to fall a prey to his

enemies. In this as well as in many other respects he differs from the

rabbit proper (_Lepus sylvaticus_); he never burrows in the ground, or

takes refuge in a den or hole, when pursued. If caught in the open

fields, he is much confused and easily overtaken by the dog; but in the

woods, he leaves him at a bound. In summer, when first disturbed, he

beats the ground violently with his feet, by which means he would

express to you his surprise or displeasure; it is a dumb way he has of

scolding. After leaping a few yards, he pauses an instant, as if to

determine the degree of danger, and then hurries away with a much

lighter tread.

His feet are like great pads, and his track has little of the sharp,

articulated expression of Reynard's, or of animals that climb or dig.

Yet it is very pretty, like all the rest, and tells its own tale. There

is nothing bold or vicious or vulpine in it, and his timid, harmless

character is published at every leap. He abounds in dense woods,

preferring localities filled with a small undergrowth of beech and

birch, upon the bark of which he feeds. Nature is rather partial to him

and matches his extreme local habits and character with a suit that

corresponds with his surroundings,--reddish-gray in summer and white in

winter.

The sharp-rayed track of the partridge adds another figure to this

fantastic embroidery upon the winter snow. Her course is a clear, strong

line, sometimes quite wayward, but generally very direct, steering for

the densest, most impenetrable places,--leading you over logs and

through brush, alert and expectant, till, suddenly, she bursts up a few

yards from you, and goes humming through the trees,--the complete

triumph of endurance and vigor. Hardy native bird, may your tracks never

be fewer, or your visits to the birch-tree less frequent!

The squirrel-tracks--sharp, nervous, and wiry--have their histories

also. But who ever saw squirrels in winter? The naturalist says they are

mostly torpid; yet evidently that little pocket-faced depredator, the

chipmunk, was not carrying buckwheat for so many days to his hole for

nothing;--was he anticipating a state of torpidity, or the demands of a

very active appetite? Red and gray squirrels are more or less active all

winter, though very shy, and, I am inclined to think, partially

nocturnal in their habits. Here a gray one has just passed,--came down

that tree and went up this; there he dug for a beech-nut, and left the

bur on the snow. How did he know where to dig? During an unusually

severe winter I have known him to make long journeys to a barn, in a

remote field, where wheat was stored. How did he know there was wheat

there? In attempting to return, the adventurous creature was frequently

run down and caught in the deep snow.

His home is in the trunk of some old birch or maple, with an entrance

far up amid the branches. In the spring he builds himself a summer-house

of small leafy twigs in the top of a neighboring beech, where the young

are reared and much of the time passed. But the safer retreat in the

maple is not abandoned, and both old and young resort thither in the

fall, or when danger threatens. Whether this temporary residence amid

the branches is for elegance or pleasure, or for sanitary reasons or

domestic convenience, the naturalist has forgotten to mention.

The elegant creature, so cleanly in its habits, so graceful in its

carriage, so nimble and daring in its movements, excites feelings of

admiration akin to those awakened by the birds and the fairer forms of

nature. His passage through the trees is almost a flight. Indeed, the

flying-squirrel has little or no advantage over him, and in speed and

nimbleness cannot compare with him at all. If he miss his footing and

fall, he is sure to catch on the next branch; if the connection be

broken, he leaps recklessly for the nearest spray or limb, and secures

his hold, even if it be by the aid of his teeth.

His career of frolic and festivity begins in the fall, after the birds

have left us and the holiday spirit of nature has commenced to subside.

How absorbing the pastime of the sportsman, who goes to the woods in the

still October morning in quest of him! You step lightly across the

threshold of the forest, and sit down upon the first log or rock to

await the signals. It is so still that the ear suddenly seems to have

acquired new powers, and there is no movement to confuse the eye.

Presently you hear the rustling of a branch, and see it sway or spring

as the squirrel leaps from or to it; or else you hear a disturbance in

the dry leaves, and mark one running upon the ground. He has probably

seen the intruder, and, not liking his stealthy movements, desires to

avoid a nearer acquaintance. Now he mounts a stump to see if the way is

clear, then pauses a moment at the foot of a tree to take his bearings,

his tail, as he skims along, undulating behind him, and adding to the

easy grace and dignity of his movements. Or else you are first advised

of his proximity by the dropping of a false nut, or the fragments of the

shucks rattling upon the leaves. Or, again, after contemplating you

awhile unobserved, and making up his mind that you are not dangerous, he

strikes an attitude on a branch, and commences to quack and bark, with

an accompanying movement of his tail. Late in the afternoon, when the

same stillness reigns, the same scenes are repeated. There is a black

variety, quite rare, but mating freely with the gray, from which he

seems to be distinguished only in color.

The track of the red squirrel may be known by its smaller size. He is

more common and less dignified than the gray, and oftener guilty of

petty larceny about the barns and grain-fields. He is most abundant in

old bark-peelings, and low, dilapidated hemlocks, from which he makes

excursions to the fields and orchards, spinning along the tops of the

fences, which afford, not only convenient lines of communication, but a

safe retreat if danger threatens. He loves to linger about the orchard;

and, sitting upright on the topmost stone in the wall, or on the tallest

stake in the fence, chipping up an apple for the seeds, his tail

conforming to the curve of his back, his paws shifting and turning the

apple, he is a pretty sight, and his bright, pert appearance atones for

all the mischief he does. At home, in the woods, he is the most

frolicsome and loquacious. The appearance of anything unusual, if, after

contemplating it a moment, he concludes it not dangerous, excites his

unbounded mirth and ridicule, and he snickers and chatters, hardly able

to contain himself; now darting up the trunk of a tree and squealing in

derision, then hopping into position on a limb and dancing to the music

of his own cackle, and all for your special benefit.

There is something very human in this apparent mirth and mockery of the

squirrels. It seems to be a sort of ironical laughter, and implies

self-conscious pride and exultation in the laugher, "What a ridiculous

thing you are, to be sure!" he seems to say; "how clumsy and awkward,

and what a poor show for a tail! Look at me, look at me!"--and he capers

about in his best style. Again, he would seem to tease you and to

provoke your attention; then suddenly assumes a tone of good-natured,

childlike defiance and derision; that pretty little imp, the chipmunk,

will sit on the stone above his den, and defy you, as plainly as if he

said so, to catch him before he can get into his hole if you can. You

hurl a stone at him, and "No you didn't" comes up from the depth of his

retreat.

In February another track appears upon the snow, slender and delicate,

about a third larger than that of the gray squirrel, indicating no haste

or speed, but, on the contrary, denoting the most imperturbable ease and

leisure, the footprints so close together that the trail appears like a

chain of curiously carved links. Sir _Mephitis chinga_, or, in plain

English, the skunk, has woke up from his six-weeks nap, and come out

into society again. He is a nocturnal traveller, very bold and impudent,

coming quite up to the barn and outbuildings, and sometimes taking up

his quarters for the season under the hay-mow. There is no such word as

hurry in his dictionary, as you may see by his path upon the snow. He

has a very sneaking, insinuating way, and goes creeping about the fields

and woods, never once in a perceptible degree altering his gait, and, if

a fence crosses his course, steers for a break or opening to avoid

climbing. He is too indolent even to dig his own hole, but appropriates

that of a woodchuck, or hunts out a crevice in the rocks, from which he

extends his rambling in all directions, preferring damp, thawy weather.

He has very little discretion or cunning, and holds a trap in utter

contempt, stepping into it as soon as beside it, relying implicitly for

defence against all forms of danger upon the unsavory punishment he is

capable of inflicting. He is quite indifferent to both man and beast,

and will not hurry himself to get out of the way of either. Walking

through the summer fields at twilight, I have come near stepping upon

him, and was much the more disturbed of the two. When attacked in the

open fields he confounds the plans of his enemies by the unheard-of

tactics of exposing his rear rather than his front. "Come if you dare,"

he says, and his attitude makes even the farm-dog pause. After a few

encounters of this kind, and if you entertain the usual hostility

towards him, your mode of attack will speedily resolve itself into

moving about him in a circle, the radius of which will be the exact

distance at which you can hurl a stone with accuracy and effect.

He has a secret to keep, and knows it, and is careful not to betray

himself until he can do so with the most telling effect. I have known

him to preserve his serenity even when caught in a steel trap, and look

the very picture of injured innocence, manoeuvring carefully and

deliberately to extricate his foot from the grasp of the naughty jaws.

Do not by any means take pity on him, and lend a helping hand.

How pretty his face and head! How fine and delicate his teeth, like a

weasel's or cat's! When about a third grown, he looks so well that one

covets him for a pet. He is quite precocious however, and capable, even

at this tender age, of making a very strong appeal to your sense of

smell.

No animal is more cleanly in its habits than he. He is not an awkward

boy, who cuts his own face with his whip; and neither his flesh nor his

fur hints the weapon with which he is armed. The most silent creature

known to me, he makes no sound, so far as I have observed, save a

diffuse, impatient noise, like that produced by beating your hand with a

whisk-broom, when the farm-dog has discovered his retreat in the stone

fence. He renders himself obnoxious to the farmer by his partiality for

hens' eggs and young poultry. He is a confirmed epicure, and at

plundering hen-roosts an expert. Not the full-grown fowls are his

victims, but the youngest and most tender. At night Mother Hen receives

under her maternal wings a dozen newly hatched chickens, and with much

pride and satisfaction feels them all safely tucked away in her

feathers. In the morning she is walking about disconsolately, attended

by only two or three of all that pretty brood. What has happened? Where

are they gone? That pickpocket, Sir Mephitis, could solve the mystery.

Quietly has he approached, under cover of darkness, and, one by one,

relieved her of her precious charge. Look closely, and you will see

their little yellow legs and beaks, or part of a mangled form, lying

about on the ground. Or, before the hen has hatched, he may find her

out, and, by the same sleight of hand, remove every egg, leaving only

the empty blood-stained shells to witness against him. The birds,

especially the ground-builders, suffer in like manner from his

plundering propensities.

The secretion upon which he relies for defence, and which is the chief

source of his unpopularity, while it affords good reasons against

cultivating him as a pet, and mars his attractiveness as game, is by no

means the greatest indignity that can be offered to a nose. It is a

rank, living smell, and has none of the sickening qualities of disease

or putrefaction. Indeed, I think a good smeller will enjoy its most

refined intensity. It approaches the sublime, and makes the nose tingle.

It is tonic and bracing, and, I can readily believe, has rare medicinal

qualities. I do not recommend its use as eye-water, though an old farmer

assures me it has undoubted virtues when thus applied. Hearing, one

night, a disturbance among his hens, he rushed suddenly out to catch the

thief, when Sir Mephitis, taken by surprise, and, no doubt, much annoyed

at being interrupted, discharged the vials of his wrath full in the

farmer's face, and with such admirable effect, that, for a few moments,

he was completely blinded, and powerless to revenge himself upon the

rogue; but he declared that afterwards his eyes felt as if purged by

fire, and his sight was much clearer.

In March, that brief summary of a bear, the raccoon, comes out of his

den in the ledges, and leaves his sharp digitigrade track upon the

snow,--travelling not unfrequently in pairs,--a lean, hungry couple,

bent on pillage and plunder. They have an unenviable time of

it,--feasting in the summer and fall, hibernating in winter, and

starving in spring. In April, I have found the young of the previous

year creeping about the fields, so reduced by starvation as to be quite

helpless, and offering no resistance to my taking them up by the tail,

and carrying them home.

But with March our interest in these phases of animal life, which winter

has so emphasized and brought out, begins to decline. Vague rumors are

afloat in the air of a great and coming change. We are eager for Winter

to be gone, since he too is fugitive, and cannot keep his place.

Invisible hands deface his icy statuary; his chisel has lost its

cunning. The drifts, so pure and exquisite, are now earth-stained and

weather-worn,--the flutes and scallops, and fine, firm lines, all gone;

and what was a grace and an ornament to the hills is now a

disfiguration. Like worn and unwashed linen appear the remains of that

spotless robe with which he clothed the world as his bride.

But he will not abdicate without a struggle. Day after day he rallies

his scattered forces, and night after night pitches his white tents on

the hills, and forges his spears at the eaves and by the dripping rocks;

but the young Prince in every encounter prevails. Slowly and reluctantly

the gray old hero retreats up the mountain, till finally the south rain

comes in earnest, and in a night he is dead.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] A spur of the Catskills.

TO HERSA.

Maiden, there is something more

Than raiment to adore;

Thou must have more than a dress,

More than any mode or mould,

More than mortal loveliness,

To captivate the cold.

Bow the knightly when they bow,

To a star behind the brow,--

Not to marble, not to dust,

But to that which warms them;

Not to contour nor to bust,

But to that which forms them,--

Not to languid lid nor lash,

Satin fold nor purple sash,

But unto the living flash

So mysteriously hid

Under lash and under lid.

But, vanity of vanities,--

If the red-rose in a young cheek lies,

Fatal disguise!

For the most terrible lances

Of the true, true knight

Are his bold eyebeams;

And every time that he opens his eyes,

The falsehood that he looks on dies.

If the heavenly light be latent,

It can need no earthly patent.

Unbeholden unto art--

Fashion or lore,

Scrip or store,

Earth or ore--

Be thy heart,

Which was music from the start,

Music, music to the core!

Music, which, though voiceless,

Can create

Both form and fate,

As Petrarch could a sonnet

That, taking flesh upon it,

Spirit-noiseless,

Doth the same inform and fill

With a music sweeter still!

Lives and breathes and palpitates,

Moves and moulds and animates,

And sleeps not from its duty

Till the maid in whom 'tis pent--

From a mortal rudiment,

From the earth-cell

And the love-cell,

By the birth-spell

And the love-spell--

Come to beauty.

Beauty, that, (Celestial Child,

From above,

Born of Wisdom and of Love,)

Can never die!

That ever, as she passeth by,

But casteth down the mild

Effulgence of her eye,

And, lo! the broken heart is healed,

The maimed, perverted soul

Ariseth and is whole!

That ever doing the fair deed,

And therein taking joy,

(A pure and priceless meed

That of this earth hath least alloy,)

It comes at last,

All mischance forever past,--

Every beautiful procedure

Manifest in form and feature,--

To be revealed:

There walks the earth an heavenly creature!

Beauty is music mute,--

Music's flower and fruit,

Music's creature--

Form and feature--

Music's lute.

Music's lute be thou,

Maiden of the starry brow!

(Keep thy _heart_ true to know how!)

A Lute which he alone,

As all in good time shall be shown,

Shall prove, and thereby make his own,

Who is god enough to play upon it.

Happy, happy maid is she

Who is wedded unto Truth:

Thou shalt know him when he comes,

(Welcome youth!)

Not by any din of drums,

Nor the vantage of his airs;

Neither by his crown,

Nor his gown,

Nor by anything he wears.

He shall only well known be

By the holy harmony

That his coming makes in thee!

AN AMAZONIAN PICNIC.

It was about half past six o'clock on the morning of the 27th of

October, 1865, that we left Manaos, (or as the maps usually call it,

Barra do Rio Negro,) on an excursion to the Lake of Hyanuary, on the

western side of the Rio Negro. The morning was unusually fresh for these

latitudes, and a strong wind was blowing up so heavy a sea in the river,

that, if it did not actually make one sea-sick, it certainly called up

very vivid and painful associations. We were in a large eight-oared

custom-house barge, our company consisting of his Excellency, Dr.

Epaminondas, President of the Province,[B] his secretary, Senhor

Codicera, Senhor Tavares Bastos, the distinguished young deputy from the

Province of Alagoas, Major Coutinho, of the Brazilian Engineer Service,

Mr. Agassiz and myself, Mr. Bourkhardt, his artist, and two of our

volunteer assistants. We were preceded by a smaller boat, an Indian

montaria, in which was our friend and kind host, Senhor Honorio, who had

undertaken to provide for our creature comforts, and had the care of a

boatful of provisions. After an hour's row we left the rough waters of

the Rio Negro, and rounding a wooded point, turned into one of those

narrow, winding igarapés (literally, "boat-paths"), with green forest

walls, which make the charm of canoe excursions in this country. A

ragged drapery of long, faded grass hung from the lower branches of the

trees, marking the height of the last rise of the river,--some eighteen

or twenty feet above its present level. Here and there a white heron

stood on the shore, his snowy plumage glittering in the sunlight;

numbers of ciganas (the pheasants of the Amazons) clustered in the

bushes; once a pair of king vultures rested for a moment within gunshot,

but flew out of sight as our canoe approached; and now and then an

alligator showed his head above water. As we floated along through this

picturesque channel, so characteristic of the wonderful region to which

we were all more or less strangers,--for even Dr. Epaminondas and Senhor

Tavares Bastos were here for the first time,--the conversation turned

naturally enough upon the nature of this Amazonian Valley, its physical

conformation, its origin and resources, its history past and to come,

both alike and obscure, both the subject of wonder and speculation.

Senhor Tavares Bastos, although not yet thirty, is already distinguished

in the politics of his country; and from the moment he entered upon

public life to the present time, the legislation in regard to the

Amazons, its relation to the future progress and development of the

Brazilian empire, has been the object of his deepening interest. He is a

leader in that class of men who advocate the most liberal policy in this

matter, and has already urged upon his countrymen the importance, even

from selfish motives, of sharing their great treasure with the world. He

was little more than twenty years of age when he published his papers on

the opening of the Amazons, which have done more, perhaps, than anything

else of late years to attract attention to the subject.

There are points where the researches of the statesman and the

investigator meet, and natural science is not without its influence,

even on the practical bearings of this question. Shall this region be

legislated for as sea or land? Shall the interests of agriculture or

navigation prevail in its councils? Is it essentially aquatic or

terrestrial? Such were some of the inquiries which came up in the course

of the discussion. A region of country which stretches across a whole

continent, and is flooded for half the year, where there can never be

railroads, or highways, or even pedestrian travelling, to any great

extent, can hardly be considered as dry land. It is true that, in this

oceanic river system, the tidal action has an annual, instead of a

daily, ebb and flow; that its rise and fall obey a larger light, and are

regulated by the sun, and not the moon; but it is nevertheless subject

to all the conditions of a submerged district, and must be treated as

such. Indeed, these semiannual changes of level are far more powerful in

their influence on the life of the inhabitants than any marine tides.

People sail half the year over districts where, for the other half, they

walk, though hardly dry-shod, over the soaked ground; their occupations,

their dress, their habits, are modified in accordance with the dry and

wet seasons. And not only the ways of life, but the whole aspect of the

country, the character of the landscape, are changed. At this moment

there are two most picturesque falls in the neighborhood of Manaos,--the

Great and Little Cascades, as they are called,--favorite resorts for

bathing, picnics, etc., which, in a few months, when the river shall

have risen above their highest level, will have completely disappeared.

Their bold rocks and shady nooks will have become river-bottom. All that

one hears or reads of the extent of the Amazons and its tributaries does

not give one an idea of its immensity as a whole. One must float for

months upon its surface, in order to understand how fully water has the

mastery over land along its borders. Its watery labyrinth is not so much

a network of rivers, as an ocean of fresh water cut up and divided by

land, the land being often nothing more than an archipelago of islands

in its midst. The valley of the Amazons is indeed an aquatic, not a

terrestrial, basin; and it is not strange, when looked upon from this

point of view, that its forests should be less full of life,

comparatively, than its rivers.

But while we were discussing these points, talking of the time when the

banks of the Amazons will teem with a population more active and

vigorous than any it has yet seen,--when all civilized nations shall

share in its wealth,--when the twin continents will shake hands, and

Americans of the North come to help Americans of the South in developing

its resources,--when it will be navigated from north to south, as well

as from east to west, and small steamers will run up to the head-waters

of all its tributaries,--while we were speculating on these things, we

were approaching the end of our journey; and, as we neared the lake,

there issued from its entrance a small, two-masted canoe, evidently

bound on some official mission, for it carried the Brazilian flag, and

was adorned with many brightly colored streamers. As it drew near we

heard music; and a salvo of rockets, the favorite Brazilian artillery on

all festive occasions, whether by day or night, shot up into the air.

Our arrival had been announced by Dr. Carnavaro of Manaos, who had come

out the day before to make some preparations for our reception, and this

was a welcome to the President on his first visit to the Indian village.

When they came within speaking distance, a succession of hearty cheers

went up for the President; for Tavares Bastos, whose character as the

political advocate of the Amazons makes him especially welcome here; for

Major Coutinho, already well known from his former explorations in this

region; and for the strangers within their gates,--for the Professor and

his party. When the reception was over, they fell into line behind our

boat, and so we came into the little port with something of state and

ceremony.

This pretty Indian village is hardly recognized as a village at once,

for it consists of a number of _sitios_ (palm-thatched houses),

scattered through the forest; and though the inhabitants look on each

other as friends and neighbors, yet from our landing-place only one

_sitio_ was to be seen,--that at which we were to stay. It stood on a

hill which sloped gently up from the lake shore, and consisted of a mud

house,--the rough frame being filled in and plastered with

mud,--containing two rooms, beside several large palm-thatched sheds

outside. The word _shed_, which we connect with a low, narrow out-house,

gives no correct idea, however, of this kind of structure, universal

throughout the Indian settlements, and common also among the whites. The

space enclosed is generally large, the sloping roof of palm-thatch is

lifted very high on poles made of the trunks of trees, thus allowing a

free circulation of air, and there are usually no walls at all. They are

great open porches, or verandas, rather than sheds. One of these rooms

was used for the various processes by which the mandioca root is

transformed into farinha, tapioca, and tucupi, a kind of intoxicating

liquor. It was furnished with the large clay ovens, covered with immense

shallow copper pans, for drying the farinha, with the troughs for

kneading the mandioca, the long straw tubes for expressing the juice,

and the sieves for straining the tapioca. The mandioca room is an

important part of every Indian _sitio_; for the natives not only depend,

in a great degree, upon the different articles manufactured from this

root for their own food, but it makes an essential part of the commerce

of the Amazons. Another of these open rooms was a kitchen; while a

third, which served as our dining-room, is used on festa days and

occasional Sundays as a chapel. It differed from the rest in having the

upper end closed in with a neat thatched wall, against which, in time of

need, the altar-table may stand, with candles and rough prints or

figures of the Virgin and Saints. A little removed from this more

central part of the establishment was another smaller mud house, where

most of the party arranged their hammocks; Mr. Agassiz and myself being

accommodated in the other one, where we were very hospitably received by

the senhora of the _sitio_, an old Indian woman, whose gold ornaments,

necklace, and ear-rings were rather out of keeping with her calico skirt

and cotton waist. This is, however, by no means an unusual combination

here. Beside the old lady, the family consisted, at this moment, of her

_afilhada_ (god-daughter), with her little boy, and several other women

employed about the place; but it is difficult to judge of the population

of the _sitios_ now, because a great number of the men have been taken

as recruits for the war with Paraguay, and others are hiding in the

forest for fear of being pressed into the same service.

The breakfast-table, covered with dishes of fish fresh from the lake,

and dressed in a variety of ways, with stewed chicken, rice, etc., was

by no means an unwelcome sight, as it was already eleven o'clock, and we

had had nothing since rising, at half past five in the morning, except a

hot cup of coffee; nor was the meal the less appetizing that it was

spread under the palm-thatched roof of our open, airy dining-room,

surrounded by the forest, and commanding a view of the lake and wooded

hillside opposite, the little landing below, where were moored our barge

with its white awning, the gay canoe, and two or three Indian montarias,

making the foreground of the picture. After breakfast our party

dispersed, some to rest in their hammocks, others to hunt or fish, while

Mr. Agassiz was fully engaged in examining a large basket of

fish,--Tucunarés, Acaras, Curimatas, Surubims, etc.,--just brought in

from the lake for his inspection, and showing again what every

investigation demonstrates afresh, namely, the distinct localization of

species in every different water-basin, be it river, lake, igarapé, or

forest pool. Though the scientific results of the expedition have no

place in this little sketch of a single excursion, let me make a general

statement as to Mr. Agassiz's collections, to give you some idea of his

success. Since arriving in Pará, although his exploration of the

Amazonian waters is but half completed, he has collected more species

than were known to exist in the whole world fifty years ago. Up to this

time, something more than a hundred species of fish were known to

science from the Amazons;[C] Mr. Agassiz has already more than eight

hundred on hand, and every day adds new treasures. He is himself

astonished at this result, revealing a richness and variety in the

distribution of life throughout these waters of which he had formed no

conception. As his own attention has been especially directed to their

localization and development, his collection of fishes is larger than

any other; still, with the help of his companions, volunteers as well as

regular assistants, he has a good assortment of specimens from all the

other classes of the animal kingdom likewise.

One does not see much of the world between one o'clock and four in this

climate. These are the hottest hours of the day, and there are few who

can resist the temptation of the cool swinging hammock, slung in some

shady spot within doors or without. I found a quiet retreat by the lake

shore, where, though I had a book in my hand, the wind in the trees

overhead, and the water rippling softly around the montarias moored at

my side, lulled me into that mood of mind when one may be lazy without

remorse or ennui, and one's highest duty seems to be to do nothing. The

monotonous notes of a _violon_, a kind of lute or guitar, came to me

from a group of trees at a little distance, where our boatmen were

resting in the shade, the red fringes of their hammocks giving to the

landscape just the bit of color which it needed. Occasionally a rustling

flight of paroquets or ciganas overhead startled me for a moment, or a

large pirarucu plashed out of the water; but except for these sounds,

Nature was silent, and animals as well as men seemed to pause in the

heat and seek shelter.

Dinner brought us all together again at the close of the afternoon in

our airy banqueting-hall. As we were with the President, our picnic was

of a much more magnificent character than are our purely scientific

excursions, of which we have had many. On such occasions, we are forced

to adapt our wants to our means; and the make-shifts to which we are

obliged to resort, if they are sometimes inconvenient, are often very

amusing. But now, instead of teacups doing duty as tumblers, empty

barrels serving as chairs, and the like incongruities, we had a silver

soup tureen and a cook and a waiter, and knives and forks enough to go

round, and many other luxuries which such wayfarers as ourselves learn

to do without. While we were dining, the Indians began to come in from

the surrounding forest to pay their respects to the President; for his

visit was the cause of great rejoicing, and there was to be a ball in

his honor in the evening. They brought an enormous cluster of game as an

offering. What a mass of color it was, looking more like an immense

bouquet of flowers than like a bunch of birds! It was composed entirely

of toucans with their red and yellow beaks, blue eyes, and soft white

breasts bordered with crimson, and of parrots, or papagaios, as they

call them here, with their gorgeous plumage of green, blue, purple, and

red.

When we had dined we took coffee outside, while our places around the

table were filled by the Indian guests, who were to have a dinner-party

in their turn. It was pleasant to see with how much courtesy several of

the Brazilian gentlemen of our party waited upon these Indian senhoras,

passing them a variety of dishes, helping them to wine, and treating

them with as much attention as if they had been the highest ladies of

the land. They seemed, however, rather shy and embarrassed, scarcely

touching the nice things placed before them, till one of the gentlemen

who has lived a good deal among the Indians, and knows their habits

perfectly, took the knife and fork from one of them, exclaiming,--"Make

no ceremony, and don't be ashamed; eat with your fingers, all of you, as

you're accustomed to do, and then you'll find your appetites and enjoy

your dinner." His advice was followed; and I must say they seemed much

more comfortable in consequence, and did better justice to the good

fare. Although the Indians who live in the neighborhood of the towns

have seen too much of the conventionalities of civilization not to

understand the use of a knife and fork, no Indian will eat with one if

he can help it; and, strange to say, there are many of the whites in the

upper Amazonian settlements who have adopted the same habits. I have

dined with Brazilian senhoras of good class and condition, belonging to

the gentry of the land, who, although they provided a very nice service

for their guests, used themselves only the implements with which Nature

had provided them.

When the dinner was over, the room was cleared of the tables, and swept;

the music, consisting of a guitar, flute, and violin, called in; and the

ball was opened. At first the forest belles were rather shy in the

presence of strangers; but they soon warmed up, and began to dance with

more animation. They were all dressed in calico or muslin skirts, with

loose white cotton waists, finished around the neck with a kind of lace

they make themselves by drawing out the threads from cotton or cambric

so as to form an open pattern, sewing those which remain over and over

to secure them. Much of this lace is quite elaborate, and very fine.

Many of them had their hair dressed either with white jessamine or with

roses stuck into their round combs, and several wore gold beads and

ear-rings. Some of the Indian dances are very pretty; but one thing is

noticeable, at least in all that I have seen. The man makes all the

advances, while the woman is coy and retiring, her movements being very

languid. Her partner throws himself at her feet, but does not elicit a

smile or a gesture; he stoops, and pretends to be fishing, making

motions as if he were drawing her in with a line; he dances around her,

snapping his fingers as though playing on the castanets, and half

encircling her with his arms; but she remains reserved and cold. Now and

then they join together in something like a waltz; but this is only

occasionally, and for a moment. How different from the negro dances, of

which we saw many in the neighborhood of Rio! In those the advances come

chiefly from the women, and are not always of a very modest character.

The moon was shining brightly over lake and forest, and the ball was

gayer than ever, at ten o'clock, when I went to my room, or rather to

the room where my hammock was slung, and which I shared with Indian

women and children, with a cat and her family of kittens, who slept on

the edge of my mosquito-net, and made frequent inroads upon the inside,

with hens and chickens and sundry dogs, who went in and out at will. The

music and dancing, the laughter and talking outside, continued till the

small hours. Every now and then an Indian girl would come in to rest for

a while, take a nap in a hammock, and then return to the dance. When we

first arrived in South America, we could hardly have slept soundly under

such circumstances; but one soon becomes accustomed, on the Amazons, to

sleeping in rooms with mud floors and mud walls, or with no walls at

all, where rats and birds and bats rustle about in the thatch over one's

head, and all sorts of unwonted noises in the night remind you that you

are by no means the sole occupant of your apartment. This remark does

not apply to the towns, where the houses are comfortable enough; but if

you attempt to go off the beaten track, to make canoe excursions, and

see something of the forest population, you must submit to these

inconveniences. There is one thing, however, which makes it far

pleasanter to lodge in the Indian houses here than in the houses of our

poorer class at home. One is quite independent in the matter of bedding;

no one travels without his own hammock and the net which in many places

is a necessity on account of the mosquitoes. Beds and bedding are almost

unknown here; and there are none so poor as not to possess two or three

of the strong and neat twine hammocks made by the Indians themselves

from the fibres of the palm. Then the open character of their houses, as

well as the personal cleanliness of the Indians, makes the atmosphere

fresher and purer there than in the houses of our poor. However untidy

they may be in other respects, they always bathe once or twice a day, if

not oftener, and wash their clothes frequently. We have never yet

entered an Indian house where there was any disagreeable odor, unless it

might be the peculiar smell from the preparation of the mandioca in the

working-room outside, which has, at a certain stage in the process, a

slightly sour smell. We certainly could not say as much for many houses

where we have lodged when travelling in the West, or even "Down East,"

where the suspicious look of the bedding and the close air of the room

often make one doubtful about the night's rest.

We were up at five o'clock; for the morning hours are very precious in

this climate, and the Brazilian day begins with the dawn. At six o'clock

we had had coffee, and were ready for the various projects suggested for

our amusement. Our sportsmen were already in the forest; others had gone

off on a fishing excursion in a montaria; and I joined a party on a

visit to a _sitio_ higher up the lake. Mr. Agassiz, as has been

constantly the case throughout our journey, was obliged to deny himself

all these parties of pleasure; for the novelty and variety of the

species of fish brought in kept him and his artist constantly at work.

In this climate the process of decomposition goes on so rapidly, that,

unless the specimens are attended to at once, they are lost; and the

paintings must be made while they are quite fresh, in order to give any

idea of their vividness of tint. We therefore left Mr. Agassiz busy with

the preparation of his collections, and Mr. Bourkhardt painting, while

we went up the lake through a strange, half-aquatic, half-terrestrial

region, where the land seemed hardly redeemed from the water. Groups of

trees rose directly from the lake, their roots hidden below its surface,

while numerous blackened and decayed trunks stood up from the water in

all sorts of picturesque and fantastic forms. Sometimes the trees had

thrown down from their branches those singular aerial roots so common

here, and seemed standing on stilts. Here and there, when we coasted

along by the bank, we had a glimpse into the deeper forest, with its

drapery of lianas and various creeping vines, and its parasitic sipos

twining close around the trunks, or swinging themselves from branch to

branch like loose cordage. But usually the margin of the lake was a

gently sloping bank, covered with a green so vivid and yet so soft that

it seemed as if the earth had been born afresh in its six months'

baptism, and had come out like a new creation. Here and there a palm

lifted its head above the line of the forest, especially the light,

graceful Assai palm, with its tall, slender, smooth stem and crown of

feathery leaves vibrating with every breeze.

Half an hour's row brought us to the landing of the _sitio_ for which we

were bound. Usually the _sitios_ stand on the bank of the lake or river,

a stone's throw from the shore, for convenience of fishing, bathing,

etc. But this one was at some distance, with a very nicely-kept winding

path leading through the forest; and as it was far the neatest and

prettiest _sitio_ I have seen here, I may describe it more at length. It

stood on the brow of a hill which dipped down on the other side into a

wide and deep ravine. Through this ravine ran an igarapé, beyond which

the land rose again in an undulating line of hilly ground, most

refreshing to the eye after the flat character of the upper Amazonian

scenery. The fact that this _sitio_, standing now on a hill overlooking

the valley and the little stream at its bottom, will have the water

nearly flush with the ground around it when the igarapé is swollen by

the rise of the river, gives an idea of the change of aspect between the

dry and wet seasons. The establishment consisted of a number of

buildings, the most conspicuous of which was a large and lofty open

room, which the Indian senhora told me was their reception-room, and was

often used, she said, by the _brancos_ (whites) from Manaos and the

neighborhood for an evening dance, when they came out in a large

company, and passed the night. A low wall, some three or four feet in

height, ran along the sides of this room, wooden benches being placed

against them for their whole length. The two ends were closed from top

to bottom by very neat thatched walls; the palm-thatch here, when it is

made with care, being exceedingly pretty, fine, and smooth, and of a

soft straw color. At the upper end stood an immense embroidery-frame,

looking as if it might have served for Penelope's web, but in which was

stretched an unfinished hammock of palm-thread, the senhora's work. She

sat down on the low stool before it, and worked a little for my benefit,

showing me how the two layers of transverse threads were kept apart by a

thick, polished piece of wood, something like a long, broad ruler.

Through the opening thus made the shuttle is passed with the

cross-thread, which is then pushed down and straightened in its place by

means of the same piece of wood.

When we arrived, with the exception of the benches I have mentioned and

a few of the low wooden stools roughly cut out of a single piece of wood

and common in every _sitio_, this room was empty; but immediately a

number of hammocks, of various color and texture, were brought and slung

across the room from side to side, between the poles supporting the

roof, and we were invited to rest. This is the first act of hospitality

on arriving at a country-house here; and the guests are soon stretched

in every attitude of luxurious ease. After we had rested, the gentlemen

went down to the igarapé to bathe, while the senhora and her daughter, a

very pretty Indian woman, showed me over the rest of the establishment.

She had the direction of everything now; for the master of the house was

absent, having a captain's commission in the army; and I heard here the

same complaints which meet you everywhere in the forest settlements, of

the deficiency of men on account of the recruiting. The room I have

described stood on one side of a cleared and neatly swept ground, around

which, at various distances, stood a number of little thatched

houses,--_casinhas_, as they call them,--consisting mostly only of one

room. But beside these there was one larger house, with mud walls and

floor, containing two or three rooms, and having a wooden veranda in

front. This was the senhora's private establishment. At a little

distance farther down on the hill was the mandioca kitchen, with several

large ovens, troughs, etc. Nothing could be neater than the whole area

of this _sitio_; and while we were there, two or three black girls were

sent out to sweep it afresh with their stiff twig brooms. Around was the

plantation of mandioca and cacao, with here and there a few

coffee-shrubs. It is difficult to judge of the extent of these _sitio_

plantations, because they are so irregular, and comprise such a variety

of trees,--mandioca, coffee, cacao, and often cotton, being planted

pellmell together. But every _sitio_ has its plantation, large or small,

of one or other or all of these productions.

On the return of the gentlemen from the igarapé, we took leave, though

very kindly pressed to stay and breakfast. At parting, the senhora

presented me with a wicker-basket of fresh eggs, and some _abacatys_, or

alligator pears, as we call them. We reached the house just in time for

a ten-o'clock breakfast, which assembled all the different parties once

more from their various occupations, whether of work or play. The

sportsmen returned from the forest, bringing a goodly supply of toucans,

papagaios, and paroquets, with a variety of other birds; and the

fishermen brought in treasures again for Mr. Agassiz.

After breakfast I retired to the room where we had passed the night,

hoping to find a quiet time for writing up letters and journal. But it

was already occupied by the old senhora and her guests, lounging about

in the hammocks or squatting on the floor and smoking their pipes. The

house was, indeed, full to overflowing, as the whole party assembled for

the ball were to stay during the President's visit. In this way of

living it is an easy matter to accommodate any number of people; for if

they cannot all be received under the roof, they are quite as well

satisfied to put up their hammocks under the trees outside. As I went to

my room the evening before, I stopped to look at quite a pretty picture

of an Indian mother with her two little children asleep on either arm,

all in one hammock, in the open air.

My Indian friends were too much interested in my occupations to allow of

my continuing them uninterruptedly. They were delighted with my books,

(I happened to have Bates's "Naturalist on the Amazons" with me, in

which I showed them some pictures of Amazonian scenery and insects,) and

asked me many questions about my country, my voyage, and my travels

here. In return, they gave me much information about their own way of

life. They said the present gathering of neighbors and friends was no

unusual occurrence; for they have a great many festas which, though

partly religious in character, are also occasions of great festivity.

These festas are celebrated at different _sitios_ in turn, the saint of

the day being carried, with all his ornaments, candles, bouquets, etc.,

to the house where the ceremony is to take place, and where all the

people of the the village congregate. Sometimes they last for several

days, and are accompanied by processions, music, and dances in the

evening. But the women said the forest was very sad now, because their

men had all been taken as recruits, or were seeking safety in the woods.

The old senhora told me a sad story of the brutality exercised in

recruiting the Indians. She assured me that they were taken wherever

they were caught, without reference to age or circumstances, often

having women and children dependent upon them; and, if they made

resistance, were carried off by force, frequently handcuffed, or with

heavy weights attached to their feet. Such proceedings are entirely

illegal; but these forest villages are so remote, that the men employed

to recruit may practise any cruelty without being called to account for

it. If they bring in their recruits in good condition, no questions are

asked. These women assured me that all the work of the _sitios_--the

making of farinha, the fishing, the turtle-hunting--was stopped for want

of hands. The appearance of things certainly confirms this, for one sees

scarcely any men about in the villages, and the canoes one meets are

mostly rowed by women.

I must say that the life of the Indian woman, so far as we have seen it,

and this is by no means the only time that we have been indebted to

Indians for hospitality, seems to me enviable in comparison with that of

the Brazilian lady in the Amazonian towns. The former has a healthful

out-of-door life; she has her canoe on the lake or river, and her paths

through the forest, with perfect liberty to come and go; she has her

appointed daily occupations, being busy not only with the care of her

house and children, but in making farinha or tapioca, or in drying and

rolling tobacco, while the men are fishing and turtle-hunting; and she

has her frequent festa days to enliven her working life. It is, on the

contrary, impossible to imagine anything more dreary and monotonous than

the life of the Brazilian senhora in any of the smaller towns. In the

northern provinces, especially, old Portuguese notions about shutting

women up and making their home-life as colorless as that of a cloistered

nun, without even the element of religious enthusiasm to give it zest,

still prevail. Many a Brazilian lady passes day after day without

stirring beyond her four walls, scarcely even showing herself at the

door or window; for she is always in a careless dishabille, unless she

expects company. It is sad to see these stifled existences; without any

contact with the world outside, without any charm of domestic life,

without books or culture of any kind, the Brazilian senhora in this part

of the country either sinks contentedly into a vapid, empty, aimless

life, or frets against her chains, and is as discontented as she is

useless.

On the day of our arrival the dinner had been interrupted by the

entrance of the Indians with their greetings and presents of game to the

President; but on the second day it was enlivened by quite a number of

appropriate toasts and speeches. I thought, as we sat around the

dinner-table, there had probably never before been gathered under the

palm-roof of an Indian house on the Amazons a party combining so many

different elements and objects. There was the President, whose interest

is, of course, in administering the affairs of the province, in which

the Indians come in for a large share of his attention;--there was the

young statesman, whose whole heart is in the great national question of

peopling the Amazonian region and opening it to the world, and in the

effect this movement is to have upon his country;--there was the able

engineer, whose scientific life has been passed in surveying the great

river and its tributaries with a view to their future navigation;--and

there was the man of pure science, come to study the distribution of

animal life in their waters, with no view to practical questions. The

speeches touched upon all these interests, and were received with

enthusiasm, each one closing with a toast and music, for our little band

of the night before had been brought in to enliven the scene. The

Brazilians are very happy in their after-dinner speeches, and have great

facility in them, whether from a natural gift or from much practice. The

habit of drinking healths and giving toasts is very general throughout

the country; and the most informal dinner among intimate friends does

not conclude without some mutual greetings of this kind.

As we were sitting under the trees afterwards, having yielded our places

in the primitive dining-room to the Indian guests, the President

suggested a sunset row on the lake. The hour and the light were most

tempting; and we were soon off in the canoe, taking no boatmen, the

gentlemen preferring to row themselves. We went through the same lovely

region, half water, half land, over which we had passed in the morning,

floating between patches of greenest grass, and large forest-trees, and

blackened trunks standing out of the lake like ruins. We did not go very

fast nor very far, for our amateur boatmen found the evening warm, and

their rowing was rather play than work; they stopped, too, every now and

then, to get a shot at a white heron or into a flock of paroquets or

ciganas, whereby they wasted a good deal of powder to no effect. As we

turned to come back, we were met by one of the prettiest sights I have

ever seen. The Indian women, having finished their dinner, had taken the

little two-masted canoe, dressed with flags, which had been prepared for

the President's reception, and had come out to meet us. They had the

music on board, and there were two or three men in the boat; but the

women were some twelve or fifteen in number, and seemed, like genuine

Amazons, to have taken things into their own hands. They were rowing

with a will; and as the canoe drew near, with music playing and flags

flying, the purple lake, dyed in the sunset and smooth as a mirror, gave

back the picture. Every tawny figure at the oars, every flutter of the

crimson and blue streamers, every fold of the green and yellow national

flag at the prow, was as distinct below the surface as above it. The

fairy boat, for so it looked floating between glowing sky and water, and

seeming to borrow color from both, came on apace, and as it approached

our friends greeted us with many a _Viva!_ to which we responded as

heartily. Then the two canoes joined company, and we went on together,

taking the guitar sometimes into one and sometimes into the other, while

Brazilian and Indian songs followed each other. Anything more national,

more completely imbued with tropical coloring and character, than this

evening scene on the lake, can hardly be conceived. When we reached the

landing, the gold and rose-colored clouds were fading into soft masses

of white and ashen gray, and moonlight was taking the place of sunset.

As we went up the green slope to the _sitio_, a dance on the grass was

proposed, and the Indian girls formed a quadrille; for thus much of

outside civilization has crept into their native manners, though they

throw into it so much of their own characteristic movements that it

loses something of its conventional aspect. Then we returned to the

house, where while here and there groups sat about on the ground

laughing and talking, and the women smoking with as much enjoyment as

the men. Smoking is almost universal among the common women here, nor is

it confined to the lower classes. Many a senhora, at least in this part

of Brazil, (for one must distinguish between the civilization upon the

banks of the Amazons and in the interior, and that in the cities along

the coast,) enjoys her pipe while she lounges in her hammock through the

heat of the day.

The following day the party broke up. The Indian women came to bid us

good by after breakfast, and dispersed in various directions, through

the forest paths, to their several homes, going off in little groups,

with their babies, of whom there were a goodly number, astride on their

hips, and the older children following. Mr. Agassiz passed the morning

in packing and arranging his fishes, having collected in these two days

more than seventy new species: such is the wealth of life everywhere in

these waters. His studies had been the subject of great curiosity to the

people about the _sitio_; one or two were always hovering around to look

at his work, and to watch Mr. Bourkhardt's drawing. They seemed to think

it extraordinary that any one should care to take the portrait of a

fish. The familiarity of these children of the forest with the natural

objects about them--plants, birds, insects, fishes--is remarkable. They

frequently ask to see the drawings, and, in turning over a pile

containing several hundred colored drawings of fish, they will scarcely

make a mistake; even the children giving the name instantly, and often

adding, "_He filho d'elle_,"--"It is the child of such a one,"--thus

distinguishing the young from the adult, and pointing out their

relation. The scientific work excites great wonder among the Indians,

wherever we go; and when Mr. Agassiz succeeds in making them understand

the value he attaches to his collections, he often finds them efficient

assistants.

We dined rather earlier than usual,--our chief dish being a stew of

parrots and toucans,--and left the _sitio_ at about five o'clock, in

three canoes, the music accompanying us in the smaller boat. Our Indian

friends stood on the shore as we left, giving us a farewell greeting

with cheers and waving hats and hands. The row through the lake and

igarapé was delicious; and we saw many alligators lying lazily about in

the quiet water, who seemed to enjoy it, after their fashion, as much as

we did. The sun had long set as we issued from the little river, and the

Rio Negro, where it opens broadly out into the Amazons, was a sea of

silver. The boat with the music presently joined our canoe; and we had a

number of the Brazilian _modinhas_, as they call them,--songs which seem

especially adapted for the guitar and moonlight. These _modinhas_ have

quite a peculiar character. They are little, graceful, lyrical snatches

of song, with a rather melancholy cadence; even those of which the words

are gay not being quite free from this undertone of sadness. One hears

them constantly sung to the guitar, a favorite instrument with the

Brazilians as well as the Indians. This put us all into a somewhat

dreamy mood, and we approached the end of our journey rather silently.

But as we came toward the landing, we heard the sound of a band of brass

instruments, effectually drowning our feeble efforts, and saw a crowded

canoe coming towards us. They were the boys from an Indian school in the

neighborhood of Manaos, where a certain number of boys of Indian

parentage, though not all of pure descent, receive an education at the

expense of the province, and are taught a number of trades. Among other

things, they are trained to play on a variety of instruments, and are

said to show a remarkable facility for music. The boat, which, from its

size, was a barge rather than a canoe, looked very pretty as it came

towards us in the moonlight; it seemed full to overflowing, the children

all standing up, dressed in white uniforms. This little band comes

always on Sunday evenings and festa days to play before the President's

house. They were just returning, it being nearly ten o'clock; but the

President called to them to turn back, and they accompanied us to the

beach, playing all the while. Thus our pleasant three-days picnic ended

with music and moonlight.

FOOTNOTES:

[B] Without entering here upon the generosity shown not only by the

Brazilian government, but by individuals also, to this expedition,--a

debt which it will be my pleasant duty to acknowledge fully hereafter in

a more extended report of our journey,--I cannot omit this opportunity

of thanking Dr. Epaminondas, the enlightened President of the Province

of the Amazonas, for the facilities accorded to me during my whole stay

in the region now under his administration.--_Louis Agassiz._

[C] Mr. Wallace speaks of having collected over two hundred species in

the Rio Negro; but as these were unfortunately lost, and never

described, they cannot be counted as belonging among the possessions of

the scientific world.

DOCTOR JOHNS.

XLIX.

At about the date of this interview which we have described as having

taken place beyond the seas,--upon one of those warm days of early

winter, which, even in New England, sometimes cheat one into a feeling

of spring,--Adèle came strolling up the little path that led from the

parsonage gate to the door, twirling her muff upon her hand, and

thinking--thinking--But who shall undertake to translate the thought of

a girl of nineteen in such moment of revery? With the most matter of

fact of lives it would be difficult. But in view of the experience of

Adèle, and of that fateful mystery overhanging her,--well, think for

yourself,--you who touch upon a score of years, with their hopes,--you

who have a passionate, clinging nature, and only some austere, prim

matron to whom you may whisper your confidences,--what would you have

thought, as you twirled your muff, and sauntered up the path to a home

that was yours only by sufferance, and yet, thus far, your only home?

The chance villagers, seeing her lithe figure, her well-fitting pelisse,

her jaunty hat, her blooming cheeks, may have said, "There goes a

fortunate one!" But if the thought of poor Adèle took one shape more

than another, as she returned that day from a visit to her sweet friend

Rose, it was this: "How drearily unfortunate I am!" And here a little

burst of childish laughter breaks on her ear. Adèle, turning to the

sound, sees that poor outcast woman who had been the last and most

constant attendant upon Madame Arles coming down the street, with her

little boy frolicking beside her. Obeying an impulse she was in no mood

to resist, she turns back to the gate to greet them; she caresses the

boy; she has kindly words for the mother, who could have worshipped her

for the caress she has given to her outcast child.

"I likes you," says the sturdy urchin, sidling closer to the parsonage

gate, over which Adèle leans. "You's like the French ooman."

Whereupon Adèle, in the exuberance of her kindly feelings, can only lean

over and kiss the child again.

Miss Johns, looking from her chamber, is horrified. Had it been summer,

she would have lifted her window and summoned Adèle. But she never

forgot--that exemplary woman--the proprieties of the seasons, any more

than other proprieties; she tapped upon the glass with her thimble, and

beckoned the innocent offender into the parsonage.

"I am astonished, Adèle!"--these were her first words; and she went on

to belabor the poor girl in fearful ways,--all the more fearful because

she spoke in the calmest possible tones. She never used others, indeed;

and it is not to be doubted that she reckoned this forbearance among her

virtues.

Adèle made no reply,--too wise now for that; but she winced, and bit her

lip severely, as the irate spinster "gave Miss Maverick to understand

that an intercourse which might possibly be agreeable to her French

associations could never be tolerated at the home of Dr. Johns. For

herself, she had a reputation for propriety to sustain; and while Miss

Maverick made a portion of her household, she must comply with the rules

of decorum; and if Miss Maverick were ignorant of those rules, she had

better inform herself."

No reply, as we have said,--unless it may have been by an impatient

stamp of her little foot, which the spinster could not perceive.

But it is the signal, in her quick, fiery nature, of a determination to

leave the parsonage, if the thing be possible. From her chamber, where

she goes only to arrange her hair and to wipe off an angry tear or two,

she walks straight into the study of the parson.

"Doctor," (the "New Papa" is reserved for her tenderer or playful

moments now,) "are you quite sure that papa will come for me in the

spring?"

"He writes me so, Adaly. Why?"

Adèle seeks to control herself, but she cannot wholly. "It's not

pleasant for me any longer here, New Papa,--indeed it is not";--and her

voice breaks utterly.

"But, Adaly!--child!" says the Doctor, closing his book.

"It's wholly different from what it once was; it's irksome to Miss

Eliza,--I know it is; it's irksome to me. I want to leave. Why doesn't

papa come for me at once? Why shouldn't he? What is this mystery, New

Papa? Will you not tell me?"--and she comes toward him, and lays her

hand upon his shoulder in her old winning, fond way. "Why may I not

know? Do you think I am not brave to bear whatever must some day be

known? What if my poor mother be unworthy? I can love her! I can love

her!"

"Ah, Adaly," said the parson, "whatever may have been her unworthiness,

it can never afflict you more; I believe that she is in her grave,

Adaly."

Adèle sunk upon her knees, with her hands clasped as if in prayer. Was

it strange that the child should pray for the mother she had never seen?

From the day when Maverick had declared her unworthiness, Adèle had

cherished secretly the hope of some day meeting her, of winning her by

her love, of clasping her arms about her neck and whispering in her ear,

"God is good, and we are all God's children!" But in her grave! Well, at

least justice will be done her then; and, calmed by this thought, Adèle

is herself once more,--earnest as ever to break away from the scathing

looks of the spinster.

The Doctor has not spoken without authority, since Maverick, in his

reply to the parson's suggestions respecting marriage, has urged that

the party was totally unfit, to a degree of which the parson himself was

a witness, and by further hints had served fully to identify, in the

mind of the old gentleman, poor Madame Arles with the mother of Adèle. A

knowledge of this fact had grievously wounded the Doctor; he could not

cease to recall the austerity with which he had debarred the poor woman

all intercourse with Adèle upon her sick-bed. And it seemed to him a

grave thing, wherever sin might lie, thus to alienate the mother and

daughter. His unwitting agency in the matter had made him of late

specially mindful of all the wishes and even caprices of Adèle,--much to

the annoyance of Miss Eliza.

"Adaly, my child, you are very dear to me," said he; and she stood by

him now, toying with those gray locks of his, in a caressing manner

which he could never know from a child of his own,--never. "If it be

your wish to change your home for the little time that remains, it shall

be. I have your father's authority to do so."

"Indeed I do wish it, New Papa";--and she dropped a kiss upon his

forehead,--upon the forehead where so few tender tokens of love had ever

fallen, or ever would fall. Yet it was very grateful to the old

gentleman, though it made him think with a sigh of the lost ones.

The Doctor talked over the affair with Miss Eliza, who avowed herself as

eager as Adèle for a change in her home, and suggested that Benjamin

should take counsel with his old friend, Mr. Elderkin; and it is quite

possible that she shrewdly anticipated the result of such a

consultation.

Certain it is that the old Squire caught at the suggestion in a moment.

"The very thing, Doctor! I see how it is. Miss Eliza is getting on in

years; a little irritable, possibly,--though a most excellent person,

Doctor,--most excellent! and there being no young people in the house,

it's a little dull for Miss Adèle, eh, Doctor? Grace, you know, is not

with us this winter; so your lodger shall come straight to my house, and

she shall take the room of Grace, and Rose will be delighted, and Mrs.

Elderkin will be delighted; and as for Phil, when he happens with

us,--as he does only off and on now,--he'll be falling in love with her,

I haven't a doubt; or, if he doesn't, I shall be tempted to myself.

She's a fine girl, eh, Doctor?"

"She's a good Christian, I believe," said the Doctor gravely.

"I haven't a doubt of it," said the Squire; "and I hope that a bit of a

dance about Christmas time, if we should fall into that wickedness,

wouldn't harm her on that score,--eh, Doctor?"

"I should wish, Mr. Elderkin, that she maintain her usual propriety of

conduct, until she is again in her father's charge."

"Well, well, Doctor, you shall talk with Mrs. Elderkin of that matter."

So, it is all arranged. Miss Johns expresses a quiet gratification at

the result, and--it is specially agreeable to her to feel that the

responsibility of giving shelter and countenance to Miss Maverick is now

shared by so influential a family as that of the Elderkins. Rose is

overjoyed, and can hardly do enough to make the new home agreeable to

Adèle; while the mistress of the house--mild, and cheerful, and sunny,

diffusing content every evening over the little circle around her

hearth--wins Adèle to a new cheer. Yet it is a cheer that is tempered by

many sad thoughts of her own loneliness, and of her alienation from any

motherly smiles and greetings that are truly hers.

Phil is away at her coming; but a week after he bursts into the house on

a snowy December night, and there is a great stamping in the hall, and a

little grandchild of the house pipes from the half-opened door, "It's

Uncle Phil!" and there is a loud smack upon the cheek of Rose, who runs

to give him welcome, and a hearty, honest grapple with the hand of the

old Squire, and then another kiss upon the cheek of the old mother, who

meets him before he is fairly in the room,--a kiss upon her cheek, and

another, and another, Phil loves the old lady with an honest warmth that

kindles the admiration of poor Adèle, who, amid all this demonstration

of family affection, feels herself more cruelly than ever a stranger in

the household,--a stranger, indeed, to the interior and private joys of

any household.

Yet such enthusiasm is, somehow, contagious; and when Phil meets Adèle

with a shake of the hand and a hearty greeting, she returns it with an

outspoken, homely warmth, at thought of which she finds herself blushing

a moment after. To tell truth, Phil is rather a fine-looking fellow at

this time,--strong, manly, with a comfortable assurance of manner,--a

face beaming with _bonhomie_, cheeks glowing with that sharp December

drive, and a wild, glad sparkle in his eye, as Rose whispers him that

Adèle has become one of the household. It is no wonder, perhaps, that

the latter finds the bit of embroidery she is upon somewhat perplexing,

so that she has to consult Rose pretty often in regard to the different

shades, and twirl the worsteds over and over, until confusion about the

colors shall restore her own equanimity. Phil, meantime, dashes on, in

his own open, frank way, about his drive, and the state of the ice in

the river, and some shipments he had made from New York to Porto

Rico,--on capital terms, too.

"And did you see much of Reuben?" asks Mrs. Elderkin.

"Not much," and Phil (glancing that way) sees that Adèle is studying her

crimsons; "but he tells me he is doing splendidly in some business

venture to the Mediterranean with Brindlock; he could hardly talk of

anything else. It's odd to find him so wrapped up in money-making."

"I hope he'll not be wrapped up in anything worse," said Mrs. Elderkin,

with a sigh.

"Nonsense, mother!" burst in the old Squire; "Reuben'll come out all

right yet."

"He says he means to know all sides of the world, now," says Phil, with

a little laugh.

"He's not so bad as he pretends to be, Phil," answered the Squire. "I

knew the Major's hot ways; so did you, Grace (turning to the wife). It's

a boy's talk. There's good blood in him."

And the two girls,--yonder, the other side of the hearth,--Adèle and

Rose, have given over their little earnest comparison of views about the

colors, and sit stitching, and stitching, and thinking--and thinking--

L.

Phil had at no time given over his thought of Adèle, and of the

possibility of some day winning her for himself, though he had been

somewhat staggered by the interview already described with Reuben. It is

doubtful, even, if the quiet _permission_ which this latter had granted

(or, with an affectation of arrogance, had seemed to grant) had not

itself made him pause. There are some things which a man never wants any

permission to do; and one of those is--to love a woman. All the

permissions--whether of competent authority or of incompetent--only

retard him. It is an affair in which he must find his own permit, by his

own power; and without it there can be no joy in conquest.

So when Phil recalled Reuben's expression on that memorable afternoon in

his chamber,--"You _may_ marry her, Phil,"--it operated powerfully to

dispossess him of all intention and all earnestness of pursuit. The

little doubt and mystery which Reuben had thrown, in the same interview,

upon the family relations of Adèle, did not weigh a straw in the

comparison. But for months that "may" had angered him and made him

distant. He had plunged into his business pursuits with a new zeal, and

easily put away all present thought of matrimony, by virtue of that

simple "may" of Reuben's.

But now when, on coming back, he found her in his own home,--so tenderly

cared for by mother and by sister,--so coy and reticent in his presence,

the old fever burned again. It was not now a simple watching of her

figure upon the street that told upon him; but her constant

presence;--the rustle of her dress up and down the stairs; her fresh,

fair face every day at table; the tapping of her light feet along the

hall; the little musical bursts of laughter (not Rose's,--oh, no!) that

came from time to time floating through the open door of his chamber.

All this Rose saw and watched with the highest glee,--finding her own

little, quiet means of promoting such accidents,--and rejoicing (as

sisters will, where the enslaver is a friend) in the captivity of poor

Phil. For an honest lover, propinquity is always dangerous,--most of

all, the propinquity in one's own home. The sister's caresses of the

charmer, the mother's kind looks, the father's playful banter, and the

whisk of a silken dress (with a new music in it) along the balusters you

have passed night and morning for years, have a terrible executive

power.

In short, Adèle had not been a month with the Elderkins before Phil was

tied there by bonds he had never known the force of before.

And how was it with Adèle?

That strong, religious element in her,--abating no jot in its

fervor,--which had found a shock in the case of Reuben, met none with

Philip. He had slipped into the mother's belief and reverence, not by

any spell of suffering or harrowing convictions, but by a kind of

insensible growth toward them, and an easy, deliberate, moderate living

by them, which more active and incisive minds cannot comprehend. He had

no great wastes of doubt to perplex him, like Reuben, simply because his

intelligence was of a more submissive order, and never tested its faiths

or beliefs by that delicately sensitive mental apparel with which Reuben

was clothed all over, and which suggested a doubt or a hindrance where

Phil would have recognized none;--the best stuff in him, after all, of

which a hale, hearty, contented man can be made,--the stuff that takes

on age with dignity, that wastes no power, that conserves every element

of manliness to fourscore. Too great keenness does not know the name of

content; its only experience of joy is by spasms, when Idealism puts its

prism to the eye and shows all things in those gorgeous hues, which

to-morrow fade. Such mind and temper shock the _physique_, shake it

down, strain the nervous organization; and the body, writhing under

fierce cerebral thrusts, goes tottering to the grave. Is it strange if

doubts belong to those writhings? Are there no such creatures as

constitutional doubters, or, possibly, constitutional believers?

It would have been strange if the calm, mature repose of Phil's

manner,--never disturbed except when Adèle broke upon him suddenly and

put him to a momentary confusion, of which the pleasant fluttering of

her own heart gave account,--strange, if this had not won upon her

regard,--strange, if it had not given hint of that cool, masculine

superiority in him, with which even the most ethereal of women like to

be impressed. There was about him also a quiet, business-like

concentration of mind which the imaginative girl might have overlooked

or undervalued, but which the budding, thoughtful woman must needs

recognize and respect. Nor will it seem strange, if, by contrast, it

made the excitable Reuben seem more dismally afloat and vagrant. Yet how

could she forget the passionate pressure of his hand, the appealing

depth of that gray eye of the parson's son, and the burning words of his

that stuck in her memory like thorns?

Phil, indeed, might have spoken in a way that would have driven the

blood back upon her heart; for there was a world of passionate

capability under his calm exterior. She dreaded lest he might. She

shunned all provoking occasion, as a bird shuns the grasp of even the

most tender hand, under whose clasp the pinions will flutter vainly.

When Rose said now, as she was wont to say, after some generous deed of

his, "Phil is a good, kind, noble fellow!" Adèle affected not to hear,

and asked Rose, with a bustling air, if she was "quite sure that she had

the right shade of brown" in the worsted work they were upon.

So the Christmas season came and went. The Squire cherished a

traditional regard for its old festivities, not only by reason of a

general festive inclination that was very strong in him, but from a

desire to protest in a quiet way against what he called the pestilent

religious severities of a great many of the parish, who ignored the day

because it was a high holiday in the Popish Church, and in that other,

which, under the wing of Episcopacy, was following, in their view, fast

after the Babylonish traditions. There was Deacon Tourtelot, for

instance, who never failed on a Christmas morning--if weather and

sledding were good--to get up his long team (the restive two-year-olds

upon the neap) and drive through the main street, with a great clamor of

"Haw, Diamond!" and "Gee, Buck and Bright!"--as if to insist upon the

secular character of the day. Indeed, with the old-fashioned New-England

religious faith, an exuberant, demonstrative joyousness could not

gracefully or easily be welded. The hopes that reposed even upon

Christ's coming, with its tidings of great joy, must be solemn. And the

anniversary of a glorious birth, which, by traditionary impulse, made

half the world glad, was to such believers like any other day in the

calendar. Even the good Doctor pointed his Christmas prayer with no

special unction. What, indeed, were anniversaries, or a yearly

proclamation of peace and good-will to men, with those who, on every

Sabbath morning, saw the heavens open above the sacred desk, and heard

the golden promises expounded, and the thunders of coming retribution

echo under the ceiling of the Tabernacle?

The Christmas came and went with a great lighting-up of the Elderkin

house; and there were green garlands which Rose and Adèle have plaited

over the mantel, and over the stiff family portraits; and good Phil--in

the character of Santa Claus--has stuffed the stockings of all the

grandchildren, and--in the character of the bashful lover--has played

like a moth about the blazing eyes of Adèle.

Yet the current of the village gossip has it, that they are to marry.

Miss Eliza, indeed, shakes her head wisely, and keeps her own counsel.

But Dame Tourtelot reports to old Mistress Tew,--"Phil Elderkin is goin'

to marry the French girl."

"Haöw?" says Mrs. Tew, adjusting her tin trumpet.

"Philip Elderkin--is--a-goin' to marry the French girl," screams the

Dame.

"Du tell! Goin' to settle in Ashfield?"

"I don't know."

"No! Where, then?" says Mistress Tew.

I don't KNOW," shrieks the Dame.

"Oh!" chimes Mrs. Tew; and after reflecting awhile and smoothing out her

cap-strings, she says,--"I've heerd the French gurl keeps a cross in her

chamber."

"_She_ DOOZ," explodes the Dame.

"I want to know! I wonder the Squire don't put a stop to 't."

"Doan't believe _he would if he_ COULD," says the Dame, snappishly.

"Waal, waal! it's a wicked world we're a-livin' in, Miss Tourtelot." And

she elevates her trumpet, as if she were eager to get a confirmation of

that fact.

LI.

In those days to which our narrative has now reached, the Doctor was far

more feeble than when we first met him. His pace has slackened, and

there is an occasional totter in his step. There are those among his

parishioners who say that his memory is failing. On one or two Sabbaths

of the winter he has preached sermons scarce two years old. There are

acute listeners who are sure of it. And the spinster has been horrified

on learning that, once or twice, the old gentleman--escaping her

eye--has taken his walk to the post-office, unwittingly wearing his best

cloak wrong-side out; as if--for so good a man--the green baize were not

as proper a covering as the brown camlet!

The parson is himself conscious of these short-comings, and speaks with

resignation of the growing infirmities which, as he modestly hints, will

compel him shortly to give place to some younger and more zealous

expounder of the faith. His parochial visits grow more and more rare.

All other failings could be more easily pardoned than this; but in a

country parish like Ashfield, it was quite imperative that the old

chaise should keep up its familiar rounds, and the occasional tea-fights

in the out-lying houses be honored by the gray head of the Doctor or by

his evening benediction. Two hour-long sermons a week and a Wednesday

evening discourse were very well in their way, but by no means met all

the requirements of those steadfast old ladies whose socialities were

both exhaustive and exacting. Indeed, it is doubtful if there do not

exist even now, in most country parishes of New England, a few most

excellent and notable women, who delight in an overworked parson, for

the pleasure they take in recommending their teas, and plasters, and

nostrums. The more frail and attenuated the teacher, the more he takes

hold upon their pity; and in losing the vigor of the flesh, he seems to

their compassionate eyes to grow into the spiritualities they pine for.

But he must not give over his visitings; _that_ hair-cloth shirt of

penance he must wear to the end, if he would achieve saintship.

Now, just at this crisis, it happens that there is a tall, thin, pale

young man--Rev. Theophilus Catesby by name, and nephew of the late

Deacon Simmons (now unhappily deceased)--who has preached in Ashfield on

several occasions to the "great acceptance" of the people. Talk is

imminent of naming him colleague to Dr. Johns. The matter is discussed,

at first, (agreeably to custom,) in the sewing-circle of the town. After

this, it comes informally before the church brethren. The duty to the

Doctor and to the parish is plain enough. The practical question is, how

cheaply can the matter be accomplished?

The salary of the good Doctor has grown, by progressive increase, to be

at this date some seven hundred dollars a year,--a very considerable

stipend for a country parish in that day. It was understood that the

proposed colleague would expect six hundred. The two joined made a

somewhat appalling sum for the people of Ashfield. They tried to combat

it in a variety of ways,--over tea-tables and barn-yard gates, as well

as in their formal conclaves; earnest for a good thing in the way of

preaching, but earnest for a good bargain, too.

"I say, Huldy," said the Deacon, in discussion of the affair over his

wife's fireside, "I wouldn't wonder if the Doctor 'ad put up somethin'

handsome between the French girl's boardin', and odds and ends."

"What if he ha'n't, Tourtelot? Miss Johns's got property, and what's

_she_ goin' to do with it, I want to know?"

On this hint the Deacon spoke, in his next encounter with the Squire

upon the street, with more boldness.

"It's my opinion, Squire, the Doctor's folks are pooty well off, now;

and if we make a trade with the new minister, so's he'll take the

biggest half o' the hard work of the parish, I think the old Doctor 'ud

worry along tol'able well on three or four hundred a year; heh, Squire?"

"Well, Deacon, I don't know about that;--don't know. Butcher's meat is

always butcher's meat, Deacon."

"So it is, Squire; and not so dreadful high, nuther. I've got a likely

two-year-old in the yard, that'll dress abaout a hundred to a quarter,

and I don't pretend to ask but twenty-five dollars; know anybody that

wants such a critter, Squire?"

With very much of the same relevancy of observation the affair is

bandied about for a week or more in the discussions at the

society-meetings, with danger of never coming to any practical issue,

when a wiry little man--in a black Sunday coat, whose tall collar chafes

the back of his head near to the middle--rises from a corner where he

has grown vexed with the delay, and bursts upon the solemn conclave in

this style:--

"Brethren, I ha'n't been home to chore-time in the last three days, and

my wife is gittin' worked up abaout it. Here we've bin a-settin' and

a-talkin' night arter night, and arternoon arter arternoon for more 'n a

week, and 'pears to me it 's abaout time as tho' somethin' o' ruther

ought to be done. There's nobody got nothin' agin the Doctor that I've

_heerd_ of. He's a smart old gentleman, and he's a clever old gentleman,

and he preaches what I call good, stiff doctrine; but we don't feel much

like payin' for light work same as what we paid when the work was

heavy,--'specially if we git a new minister on our hands. But then,

brethren, I don't for one feel like turnin' an old hoss that's done good

sarvice, when he gits stiff in the j'ints, into slim pastur', and I

don't feel like stuffin' on 'em with bog hay in the winter. There's

folks that dooz; but _I_ don't. Now, brethren, I motion that we

continner to give as much as five hundred dollars to the old Doctor, and

make the best dicker we can with the new minister; and I'll clap ten

dollars on to my pew-rent; and the Deacon there, if he's anything of a

man, 'll do as much agin. I know he's able to."

Let no one smile. The halting prudence, the inevitable calculating

process through which the small country New-Englander arrives at his

charities, is but the growth of his associations. He gets hardly; and

what he gets hardly he must bestow with self-questionings. If he lives

"in the small," he cannot give "in the large." His pennies, by the

necessities of his toil, are each as big as pounds; yet his charities,

in nine cases out of ten, bear as large a proportion to his revenue as

the charities of those who count gains by tens of thousands. Liberality

is, after all, comparative, and is exceptionally great only when its

sources are exceptionally small. That "_widow's mite_"--the only charity

ever specially commended by the great Master of charities--will tinkle

pleasantly on the ear of humanity ages hence, when the clinking millions

of cities are forgotten.

The new arrangement all comes to the ear of Reuben, who writes back in a

very brusque way to the Doctor: "Why on earth, father, don't you cut all

connection with the parish? You've surely done your part in that

service. Don't let the 'minister's pay' be any hindrance to you, for I

am getting on swimmingly in my business ventures,--thanks to Mr.

Brindlock. I enclose a check for two hundred dollars, and can send you

one of equal amount every quarter, without feeling it. Why shouldn't a

man of your years have rest?"

And the Doctor, in his reply, says: "My rest, Reuben, is God's work. I

am deeply grateful to you, and only wish that your generosity were

hallowed by a deeper trust in His providence and mercy. O Reuben!

Reuben! a night cometh, when no man can work! You seem to imagine, my

son, that some slight has been put upon me by recent arrangements in the

parish. It is not so; and I am sure that none has been intended. A

servant of Christ can receive no reproach at the hands of his people,

save this,--that he has failed to warn them of the judgment to come, and

to point out to them, the ark of safety."

Correspondence between the father and son is not infrequent in these

days; for, since Reuben has slipped away from home control

utterly,--being now well past one and twenty,--the Doctor has forborne

that magisterial tone which, in his old-fashioned way, it was his wont

to employ, while yet the son was subject to his legal authority. Under

these conditions, Reuben is won into more communicativeness,--even upon

those religious topics which are always prominent in the Doctor's

letters; indeed, it would seem that the son rather enjoyed a little

logical fence with the old gentleman, and a passing lunge, now and then,

at his severities; still weltering in his unbelief, but wearing it more

lightly (as the father saw with pain) by reason of the great crowd of

sympathizers at his back.

"It is so rare," he writes, "to fall in with one who earnestly and

heartily seems to believe what he says he believes. And if you meet him

in a preacher at a street-corner, declaiming with a mad fervor, people

cry out, 'A fanatic!' Why shouldn't he be? I can't, for my life, see.

Why shouldn't every fervent believer of the truths he teaches rush

through the streets to divert the great crowd, with voice and hand, from

the inevitable doom? I see the honesty of your faith, father, though

there seems a strained harshness in it when I think of the complacency

with which you must needs contemplate the irremediable perdition of such

hosts of outcasts. In Adèle, too, there seems a beautiful singleness of

trust; but I suppose God made the birds to live in the sky.

"You need not fear my falling into what you call the Pantheism of the

moralists; it is every way too cold for my hot blood. It seems to me

that the moral icicles with which their doctrine is fringed (and the

fringe is the beauty of it) must needs melt under any passionate human

clasp,--such clasp as I should want to give (if I gave any) to a great

hope for the future. I should feel more like groping my way into such

hope by the light of the golden candlesticks of Rome even. But do not be

disturbed, father; I fear I should make, just now, no better Papist than

Presbyterian."

The Doctor reads such letters in a maze. Can it indeed be a son of his

own loins who thus bandies language about the solemn truths of

Christianity?

"How shall I give thee up, Ephraim! How shall I set thee as Zeboim!"

LII.

In the early spring of 1842,--we are not quite sure of the date, but it

was at any rate shortly after the establishment of the Reverend

Theophilus Catesby at Ashfield,--the Doctor was in the receipt of a new

letter from his friend Maverick, which set all his old calculations

adrift. It was not Madame Arles, after all, who was the mother of Adèle;

and the poor gentleman found that he had wasted a great deal of needless

sympathy in that direction. But we shall give the details of the news

more succinctly and straightforwardly by laying before our readers some

portions of Maverick's letter.

"I find, my dear Johns," he writes, "that my suspicions in regard to a

matter of which I wrote you very fully in my last were wholly untrue.

How I could have been so deceived, I cannot even now fairly explain; but

nothing is more certain, than that the person calling herself Madame

Arles (since dead, as I learn from Adèle) was not the mother of my

child. My mistake in this will the more surprise you, when I state that

I had a glimpse of this personage (unknown to you) upon my visit to

America; and though it was but a passing glimpse, it seemed to

me--though many years had gone by since my last sight of her--that I

could have sworn to her identity. And coupling this resemblance, as I

very naturally did, with her devotion to my poor Adèle, I could form but

one conclusion.

"The mother of my child, however, still lives. I have seen her. You will

commiserate me in advance with the thought that I have found her among

the vile ones of what you count this vile land. But you are wrong, my

dear Johns. So far as appearance and present conduct go, no more

reputable lady ever crossed your own threshold. The meeting was

accidental, but the recognition on both sides absolute, and, on the part

of the lady, so emotional as to draw the attention of the _habitués_ of

the café where I chanced to be dining. Her manner and bearing, indeed,

were such as to provoke me to a renewal of our old acquaintance, with

honorable intentions,--even independent of those suggestions of duty to

herself and to Adèle which you have urged.

"But I have to give you, my dear Johns, a new surprise. All overtures of

my own toward a renewal of acquaintance have been decisively repulsed. I

learn that she has been living for the past fifteen years or more with

her brother, now a wealthy merchant of Smyrna, and that she has a

reputation there as a _dévote_, and is widely known for the charities

which her brother's means place within her reach. It would thus seem

that even this French woman, contrary to your old theory, is atoning for

an early sin by a life of penance.

"And now, my dear Johns, I have to confess to you another deceit of

mine. This woman--Julie Chalet when I knew her of old, and still wearing

the name--has no knowledge that she has a child now living. To divert

all inquiry, and to insure entire alienation of my little girl from all

French ties, I caused a false mention of the death of Adèle to be

inserted in the Gazette of Marseilles. I know you will be very much

shocked at this, my dear Johns, and perhaps count it as large a sin as

the grosser one; that I committed it for the child's sake will be no

excuse in your eye, I know. You may count me as bad as you

choose,--only give me credit for the fatherly affection which would

still make the path as easy and as thornless as I can for my poor

daughter.

"If Julie, the mother of Adèle, knew to-day of her existence,--if I

should carry that information to her,--I am sure that all her rigidities

would be consumed like flax in a flame. That method, at least, is left

for winning her to any action upon which I may determine. Shall I use

it? I ask you as one who, I am sure, has learned to love Adèle, and who,

I hope, has not wholly given over a friendly feeling toward me. Consider

well, however, that the mother is now one of the most rigid of

Catholics; I learn that she is even thinking of conventual life. I know

her spirit and temper well enough to be sure that, if she were to meet

the child again which she believes lost, it would be with an impetuosity

of feeling and a devotion that would absorb every aim of her life. This

disclosure is the only one by which I could hope to win her to any

consideration of marriage; and with a mother's rights and a mother's

love, would she not sweep away all that Protestant faith which you, for

so many years, have been laboring to build up in the mind of my child?

Whatever you may think, I do not conceive this to be impossible; and if

possible, is it to be avoided at all hazards? Whatever I might have owed

to the mother I feel in a measure absolved from by her rejection of all

present advances. And inasmuch as I am making you my father confessor, I

may as well tell you, my dear Johns, that no particular self-denial

would be involved in a marriage with Mademoiselle Chalet. For myself, I

am past the age of sentiment; my fortune is now established; neither

myself nor my child can want for any luxury. The mother, by her present

associations and by the propriety of her life, is above all suspicion;

and her air and bearing are such as would be a passport to friendly

association with refined people here or elsewhere. You may count this a

failure of Providence to fix its punishment upon transgressors: I count

it only one of those accidents of life which are all the while

surprising us.

"There was a time when I would have had ambition to do otherwise; but

now, with my love for Adèle established by my intercourse with her and

by her letters, I have no other aim, if I know my own heart, than her

welfare. It should be kept in mind, I think, that the marriage spoken

of, if it ever take place, will probably involve, sooner or later, a

full exposure to Adèle of all the circumstances of her birth and

history. I say this will be involved, because I am sure that the warm

affections of Mademoiselle Chalet will never allow of the concealment of

her maternal relations, and that her present religious perversity (if

you will excuse the word) will not admit of further deceits. I tremble

to think of the possible consequences to Adèle, and query very much in

my own mind, if her present blissful ignorance be not better than

reunion with a mother through whom she must learn of the ignominy of her

birth. Of Adèle's fortitude to bear such a shock, and to maintain any

elasticity of spirits under it, you can judge better than I.

"I propose to delay action, my dear Johns, and of course my sailing for

America, until I shall hear from you."

Our readers can surely anticipate the tone of the Doctor's reply. He

writes:--

"Duty, Maverick, is always duty. The issues we must leave in the hands

of Providence. One sin makes a crowd of entanglements; it is never weary

of disguises and deceits. We must come out from them all, if we would

aim at purity. From my heart's core I shall feel whatever shock may come

to poor, innocent Adèle by reason of the light that may be thrown upon

her history; but if it be a light that flows from the performance of

Christian duty, I shall never fear its revelations. If we had been

always true, such dark corners would never have existed to fright us

with their goblins of terror. It is never too late, Maverick, to begin

to be true.

"I find a strange comfort, too, in what you tell me of that religious

perversity of Mademoiselle Chalet which so chafes you. I have never

ceased to believe that most of the Romish traditions are of the Devil;

but with waning years I have learned that the Divine mysteries are

beyond our comprehension, and that we cannot map out His purposes by any

human chart. The pure faith of your child, joined to her buoyant

elasticity,--I freely confess it,--has smoothed away the harshness of

many opinions I once held.

"Maverick, do your duty. Leave the rest to Heaven."

COMMUNICATION WITH THE PACIFIC.

It is remarkable that, while we have been fighting for national

existence, there has been a constant growth of the Republic. This is not

wholly due to the power of democratic ideas, but owing in part to the

native wealth of the country,--its virgin soil, its mineral riches. So

rapid has been the development that the maps of 1864 are obsolete in

1866. Civilization at a stride has moved a thousand miles, and taken

possession of the home of the buffalo. Miners with pick and spade are

tramping over the Rocky Mountains, exploring every ravine, digging

canals, building mills, and rearing their log cabins. The merchant, the

farmer, and the mechanic follow them. The long solitude of the centuries

is broken by mill-wheels, the buzzing of saws, the stroke of the axe,

the blow of the hammer and trowel. The stageman cracks his whip in the

passes of the mountains. The click of the telegraph and the rumbling of

the printing-press are heard at the head-waters of the Missouri, and

borne on the breezes there is the laughter of children and the sweet

music of Sabbath hymns, sung by the pioneers of civilization.

Communities do not grow by chance, but by the operation of physical

laws. Position, climate, latitude, mountains, lakes, rivers, coal, iron,

silver, and gold are forces which decree occupation, character, and the

measure of power and influence which a people shall have among the

nations. Rivers are natural highways of trade, while mountains are the

natural barriers. The Atlantic coast is open everywhere to commerce; but

on the Pacific shore, from British Columbia to Central America, the

rugged wall of the coast mountains, cloud-capped and white with snow,

rises sharp and precipitous from the sea, with but one river flowing

outward from the heart of the continent. The statesman and the political

economist who would truly cast the horoscope of our future must take

into consideration the Columbia River, its latitude, its connection with

the Missouri, the Mississippi, the Lakes, and the St. Lawrence.

How wonderful the development of the Pacific and Rocky Mountain sections

of the public domain! In 1860 the population of California, Oregon, and

the territories lying west of Kansas, was six hundred and twenty-three

thousand; while the present population is estimated at one million,

wanting only facility of communication with the States to increase in a

far greater ratio.

In 1853 a series of surveys were made by government to ascertain the

practicability of a railroad to the Pacific. The country, however, at

that time, was not prepared to engage in such an enterprise; but now the

people are calling for greater facility of communication with a section

of the country abounding in mineral wealth.

Of the several routes surveyed, we shall have space in this article to

notice only the line running from Lake Superior to the head-waters of

the Missouri, the Columbia, and Puget Sound, known as the Northern

Pacific Railroad.

The public domain north of latitude 42°, through which it lies,

comprises about seven hundred thousand square miles,--a territory larger

than England, Ireland, Scotland, France, Spain, Portugal, Belgium,

Holland, all the German States, Switzerland, Denmark, and Sweden.

The route surveyed by Governor Stevens runs north of the Missouri River,

and crosses the mountains through Clark's Pass. Governor Stevens

intended to survey another line up the valley of the Yellow Stone; and

Lieutenant Mullan commenced a reconnoissance of the route when orders

were received from Jeff Davis, then Secretary of War, to disband the

engineering force.

THE ROUTE.

Recent explorations indicate that the best route to the Pacific will be

found up the valley of this magnificent river. The distances are as

follows:--From the Mississippi above St. Paul to the western boundary of

Minnesota, thence to Missouri River, two hundred and eighty miles, over

the table-land known as the Plateau du Coteau du Missouri, where a road

may be constructed with as much facility and as little expense as in the

State of Illinois. Crossing the Missouri, the line strikes directly west

to the Little Missouri,--the Wah-Pa-Chan-Shoka,--the _heavy-timbered_

river of the Indians, one hundred and thirty miles. This river runs

north, and enters the Missouri near its northern bend. Seventy miles

farther carries us to the Yellow Stone. Following now the valley of this

stream two hundred and eighty miles, the town of Gallatin is reached, at

the junction of the Missouri Forks and at the head of navigation on that

stream. The valley of the Yellow Stone is very fertile, abounding in

pine, cedar, cotton-wood, and elm. The river has a deeper channel than

the Missouri, and is navigable through the summer months. At the

junction of the Big Horn, its largest tributary, two hundred and twenty

miles from the mouth of the Yellow Stone, in midsummer there are ten

feet of water. The Big Horn is reported navigable for one hundred and

fifty miles. From Gallatin, following up the Jefferson Fork and Wisdom

River, one hundred and forty miles, we reach the Big Hole Pass of the

Rocky Mountains, where the line enters the valley of the St. Mary's, or

Bitter Root Fork, which flows into the Columbia. The distance from Big

Hole Pass to Puget Sound will be about five hundred and twenty miles,

making the entire distance from St. Paul to Puget Sound about sixteen

hundred miles, or one hundred and forty-three miles shorter than that

surveyed by Governor Stevens. The distance from the navigable waters of

the Missouri to the navigable waters of the Columbia is less than three

hundred miles.

CHARACTERISTICS OF THE LINE.

"Rivers are the natural highways of nations," says Humboldt. This route,

then, is one of Nature's highways. The line is very direct. The country

is mostly a rolling prairie, where a road may be constructed as easily

as through the State of Iowa. It may be built with great rapidity.

Parties working west from St. Paul and east from the Missouri would meet

on the plains of Dacotah. Other parties working west from the Missouri

and east from the Yellow Stone would meet on the "heavy-timbered river."

Iron, locomotives, material of all kinds, provisions for laborers, can

be delivered at any point along the Yellow Stone to within a hundred

miles of the town of Gallatin, and they can be taken up the Missouri to

that point by portage around the Great Falls. Thus the entire line east

of the Rocky Mountains may be under construction at once, with iron and

locomotives delivered by water transportation, with timber near at hand.

The character of the country is sufficient to maintain a dense

population. It has always been the home of the buffalo, the favorite

hunting-ground of the Indians. The grasses of the Yellow Stone Valley

are tender and succulent. The climate is milder than that of Illinois.

Warm springs gush up on the head-waters of the Yellow Stone. Lewis and

Clark, on their return from the Columbia, boiled their meat in water

heated by subterraneous fires. There are numerous beds of coal, and also

petroleum springs.

"Large quantities of coal seen in the cliffs to-day,"[D] is a note in

the diary of Captain Clark, as he sailed down the Yellow Stone, who also

has this note regarding the country: "High waving plains, rich, fertile

land, bordered by stony hills, partially supplied by pine."[E]

Of the country of the Big Horn he says: "It is a rich, open country,

supplied with a great quantity of timber."

Coal abounds on the Missouri, where the proposed line crosses that

stream.[F]

The gold mines of Montana, on the head-waters of the Missouri, are

hardly surpassed for richness by any in the world. They were discovered

in 1862. The product for the year 1865 is estimated at $16,000,000. The

Salmon River Mines, west of the mountains, in Idaho, do not yield so

fine a quality of gold, but are exceedingly rich.

Many towns have sprung into existence on both sides of the mountains. In

Eastern Montana we have Gallatin, Beaver Head, Virginia, Nevada,

Centreville, Bannock, Silver City, Montana, Jefferson, and other mining

centres. In Western Montana, Labarge, Deer Lodge City, Owen, Higginson,

Jordan, Frenchtown, Harrytown, and Hot Spring. Idaho has Boisee, Bannock

City, Centreville, Warren, Richmond, Washington, Placerville, Lemhi,

Millersburg, Florence, Lewiston, Craigs, Clearwater, Elk City, Pierce,

and Lake City,--all mining towns.

A gentleman who has resided in the territory gives us the following

information:--

"The southern portion of Montana Territory is mild; and from the

testimony of explorers and settlers, as well as from my own experience

and observation, the extreme northern portion is favored by a climate

healthful to a high degree, and quite as mild as that of many of the

Northern and Western States. This is particularly the case west of the

mountains, in accordance with the well-known fact, that the isothermal

line, or the line of heat, is farther north as you go westward from the

Eastern States toward the Pacific.

"At Fort Benton [one hundred and thirty miles directly north from

Gallatin], in about 48° of north latitude, a trading post of the

American Fur Company, their horses and cattle, of which they have large

numbers, are never housed or fed in winter, but get their own living

without difficulty....

"Northeastern Montana is traversed by the Yellow Stone, whose source is

high up in the mountains, from thence winding its way eastward across

the Territory and flowing into the Missouri at Fort Union; thus crossing

seven degrees of longitude, with many tributaries flowing into it from

the south, in whose valleys, in connection with that of the Yellow

Stone, there are hundreds of thousands of acres of tillable land, to say

nothing of the tributaries of the Missouri, among which are the

Jefferson, Madison, and Gallatin forks, along which settlements are

springing up, and agriculture is becoming a lucrative business. These

valleys are inviting to the settler. They are surrounded with hills and

mountains, clad with pine, while a growth of cotton-wood skirts the

meandering streams that everywhere flow through them, affording

abundance of water-power.

"The first attempt at farming was made in the summer of 1863, which was

a success, and indicates the productiveness of these valleys. Messrs.

Wilson and Company broke thirty acres last spring, planting twelve acres

of potatoes,--also corn, turnips, and a variety of garden sauce, all of

which did well. The potatoes, they informed me, yielded two hundred

bushels per acre, and sold in Virginia City, fifty miles distant, at

twenty-five cents per pound, turnips at twenty cents, onions at forty

cents, cabbage at sixty cents, peas and beans at fifty cents per pound

in the pod, and corn at two dollars a dozen ears. Vines of all kinds

seem to flourish; and we see no reason why fruit may not be grown here,

as the climate is much more mild than in many of the States where it is

a staple.

"The valley at the Three Forks, as also the valley along the streams, as

they recede from the junction, are spacious, and yield a spontaneous

growth of herbage, upon which cattle fatten during the winter....

"The Yellow Stone is navigable for several hundred miles from its mouth,

penetrating the heart of the agricultural and mineral regions of Eastern

Montana.... The section is undulating, with ranges of mountains, clad

with evergreens, between which are beautiful valleys and winding

streams, where towns and cities will spring up to adorn these mountain

retreats, and give room for expanding civilization....