CHAPTER I.

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THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY.

A MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS.

VOL. I.--DECEMBER, 1857.--NO. II.

FLORENTINE MOSAICS.

[Concluded.]

VI.

THE CARMINE.

The only part of this ancient church which escaped destruction by fire

in 1771 was, most fortunately, the famous Brancacci chapel. Here are

the frescos by Masolino da Panicale, who died in the early part of the

fifteenth century,--the Preaching of Saint Peter, and the Healing of

the Sick. His scholar, Masaccio, (1402-1443,) continued the series,

the completion of which was entrusted to Filippino Lippi, son of Fra

Filippo.

No one can doubt that the hearty determination evinced by Masolino and

Masaccio to deal with actual life, to grapple to their souls the

visible forms of humanity, and to reproduce the types afterwards in

new, vivid, breathing combinations of dignity and intelligent action,

must have had an immense effect upon the course of Art. To judge by

the few and somewhat injured specimens of these masters which are

accessible, it is obvious that they had much more to do in forming the

great schools of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, than a painter

of such delicate, but limited genius as that of Fra Angelico could

possibly have. Certainly, the courage and accuracy exhibited in the

nude forms of Adam and Eve expelled from paradise, and the expressive

grace in the group of Saint Paul conversing with Saint Peter in

prison, where so much knowledge and power of action are combined with

so much beauty, all show an immense advance over the best works of the

preceding three quarters of a century.

Besides the great intrinsic merits of these paintings, the Brancacci

chapel is especially interesting from the direct and unquestionable

effect which it is known to have had upon younger painters. Here

Raphael and Michel Angelo, in their youth, and Benvenuto Cellini

passed many hours, copying and recopying what were then the first

masterpieces of painting, the traces of which study are distinctly

visible in their later productions; and here, too, according to

Cellini, the famous punch in the nose befell Buonarotti, by which his

well-known physiognomy acquired its marked peculiarity. Torregiani,

painter and sculptor of secondary importance, but a bully of the first

class,--a man who was in the habit of knocking about the artists whom

he could not equal, and of breaking both their models and their

heads,--had been accustomed to copy in the Brancacci chapel, among the

rest. He had been much annoyed, according to his own account, by

Michel Angelo's habit of laughing at the efforts of artists inferior

in skill to himself, and had determined to punish him. One day,

Buonarotti came into the chapel as usual, and whistled and sneered at

a copy which Torregiani was making. The aggrieved artist, a man of

large proportions, very truculent of aspect, with a loud voice and a

savage frown, sprang upon his critic, and dealt him such a blow upon

the nose, that the bone and cartilage yielded under his hand,

according to his own account, as if they had been made of

dough,--_"come se fosse stato un cialdone."_ This was when both

were very young men; but Torregiani, when relating the story many

years afterwards, always congratulated himself that Buonarotti would

bear the mark of the blow all his life. It may be added, that the

bully met a hard fate afterwards. Having executed a statue in Spain

for a grandee, he was very much outraged by receiving only thirty

scudi as his reward, and accordingly smashed the statue to pieces with

a sledge-hammer. In revenge, the Spaniard accused him of heresy, so

that the unlucky artist was condemned to the flames by the

Inquisition, and only escaped that horrible death by starving himself

in prison before the execution.

VII.

SANTA TRINITÀ.

In the chapel of the Sassetti, in this church, is a good set of

frescos by Dominic Ghirlandaio, representing passages from the life of

Saint Francis. They are not so masterly as his compositions in the

Santa Maria Novella. Moreover, they are badly placed, badly lighted,

and badly injured. They are in a northwestern corner, where light

never comes that comes to all. The dramatic power and Flemish skill in

portraiture of the man are, however, very visible, even in the

darkness. No painter of his century approached him in animated

grouping and powerful physiognomizing. Dignified, noble, powerful, and

natural, he is the exact counterpart of Fra Angelico, among the

_Quattrocentisti_. Two great, distinct systems,--the shallow,

shrinking, timid, but rapturously devotional, piously sentimental

school, of which Beato Angelico was _facile princeps_, painfully

adventuring out of the close atmosphere of the _miniatori_ into

the broader light and more gairish colors of the actual, and falling

back, hesitating and distrustful; and the hardy, healthy, audacious

naturalists, wreaking strong and warm human emotions upon vigorous

expression and confident attitude;--these two widely separated streams

of Art, remote from each other in origin, and fed by various rills, in

their course through the century, were to meet in one ocean at its

close. This was then the fulness of perfection, the age of Angelo and

Raphael, Leonardo and Correggio.

VIII.

SAN MARCO.

Fra Beato Angelico, who was a brother of this Dominican house, has

filled nearly the whole monastery with the works of his

hand. Considering the date of his birth, 1387, and his conventual

life, he was hardly less wonderful than his wonderful epoch. Here is

the same convent, the same city; while instead merely of the works of

Cimabue, Giotto, and Orgagna, there are masterpieces by all the

painters who ever lived to study;--yet imagine the snuffy old monk who

will show you about the edifice, or any of his brethren, coming out

with a series of masterpieces! One might as well expect a new

Savonarola, who was likewise a friar in this establishment, to preach

against Pio Nono, and to get himself burned in the Piazza for his

pains.

In the old chapter-house is a very large, and for the angelic Frater a

very hazardous performance,--a Crucifixion. The heads here are full

of feeling and feebleness, except those of Mary Mother and Mary

Magdalen, which are both very touching and tender. There is, however,

an absolute impotence to reproduce the actual, to deal with groups of

humanity upon a liberal scale. There is his usual want of

discrimination, too, in physiognomy; for if the seraphic and

intellectual head of the penitent thief were transferred to the

shoulders of the Saviour in exchange for his own, no one could dispute

that it would be an improvement.

Up stairs is a very sweet Annunciation. The subdued, demure, somewhat

astonished joy of the Virgin is poetically rendered, both in face and

attitude, and the figure of the angel has much grace. A small, but

beautiful composition, the Coronation of the Virgin, is perhaps the

most impressive of the whole series.

Below is a series of frescos by a very second-rate artist,

Poccetti. Among them is a portrait of Savonarola; but as the reformer

was burned half a century before Poccetti was born, it has not even

the merit of authenticity. It was from this house that Savonarola was

taken to be imprisoned and executed in 1498. There seems something

unsatisfactory about Savonarola. One naturally sympathizes with the

bold denouncer of Alexander VI.; but there was a lack of benevolence

in his head and his heart. Without that anterior depression of the

sinciput, he could hardly have permitted two friends to walk into the

fire in his stead, as they were about to do in the stupendous and

horrible farce enacted in the Piazza Gran Duca. There was no lack of

self-esteem either in the man or his head. Without it, he would

scarcely have thought so highly of his rather washy scheme for

reorganizing the democratic government, and so very humbly of the

genius of Dante, Petrarch, and others, whose works he condemned to the

flames. A fraternal regard, too, for such great artists as Fra

Angelico and Fra Bartolommeo,--both members of his own convent, and

the latter a personal friend,--might have prevented his organizing

that famous holocaust of paintings, that wretched iconoclasm, by which

he signalized his brief period of popularity and power. In weighing,

gauging, and measuring such a man, one ought to remember, that if he

could have had his way and carried out all his schemes, he would have

abolished Borgianism certainly, and perhaps the papacy, but that he

would have substituted the rhapsodical reign of a single demagogue,

perpetually seeing visions and dreaming dreams for the direction of

his fellow-citizens, who were all to be governed by the hallucinations

of this puritan Mahomet.

IX.

THE MEDICI CHAPEL.

The famous cemetery of the Medici, the Sagrestia Nuova, is a ponderous

and dismal toy. It is a huge mass of expensive, solemn, and insipid

magnificence, erected over the carcasses of as contemptible a family

as ever rioted above the earth, or rotted under it. The only man of

the race, Cosmo il Vecchio, who deserves any healthy admiration,

although he was the real assassin of Florentine and Italian freedom,

and has thus earned the nickname of _Pater Patriae,_ is not buried

here. The series of mighty dead begins with the infamous Cosmo, first

grand duke, the contemporary of Philip II. of Spain, and his

counterpart in character and crime. Then there is Ferdinando I., whose

most signal achievement was not eating the poisoned pie prepared by

the fair hands of Bianca Capello. There are other Ferdinandos, and

other Cosmos,--all grand-ducal and _pater-patrial,_ as Medici

should be.

The chapel is a vast lump of Florentine mosaic, octagonal, a hundred

feet or so in diameter, and about twice as high. The cupola has some

brand-new frescos, by Benvenuto. "Anthropophagi, whose heads do grow

beneath their shoulders," may enjoy these pictures upon domes. For

common mortals it is not agreeable to remain very long upside down,

even to contemplate masterpieces, which these certainly are not.

The walls of the chapel are all incrusted with gorgeous marbles and

precious stones, from malachite, porphyry, lapis-lazuli, chalcedony,

agate, to all the finer and more expensive gems which shone in Aaron's

ephod. When one considers that an ear-ring or a brooch, half an inch

long, of Florentine mosaic work, costs five or six dollars, and that

here is a great church of the same material and workmanship as a

breastpin, one may imagine it to have been somewhat expensive.

The Sagrestia Nuova was built by Michel Angelo, to hold his monuments

to Lorenzo de' Medici, duke of Urbino, and grandson of Lorenzo the

Magnificent, and to Julian de' Medici, son of Lorenzo Magnifico.

It is not edifying to think of the creative soul and plastic hands of

Buonarotti employed in rendering worship to such creatures. This

Lorenzo is chiefly known as having married Madeleine de Boulogne, and

as having died, as well as his wife, of a nameless disorder,

immediately after they had engendered the renowned Catharine de'

Medici, whose hideous life was worthy of its corrupt and poisoned

source.

Did Michel Angelo look upon his subject as a purely imaginary one?

Surely he must have had some definite form before his mental vision;

for although sculpture cannot, like painting, tell an elaborate story,

still each figure must have a moral and a meaning, must show cause for

its existence, and indicate a possible function, or the mind of the

spectator is left empty and craving.

Here, at the tomb of Lorenzo, are three masterly figures. An heroic,

martial, deeply contemplative figure sits in grand repose. A

statesman, a sage, a patriot, a warrior, with countenance immersed in

solemn thought, and head supported and partly hidden by his hand, is

brooding over great recollections and mighty deeds. Was this Lorenzo,

the husband of Madeleine, the father of Catharine? Certainly the mind

at once dethrones him from his supremacy upon his own tomb, and

substitutes an Epaminondas, a Cromwell, a Washington,--what it

wills. 'Tis a godlike apparition, and need be called by no mortal

name. We feel unwilling to invade the repose of that majestic reverie

by vulgar invocation. The hero, nameless as he must ever remain, sits

there in no questionable shape, nor can we penetrate the sanctuary of

that marble soul. Till we can summon Michel, with his chisel, to add

the finishing strokes to the grave, silent face of the naked figure

reclining below the tomb, or to supply the lacking left hand to the

colossal form of female beauty sitting upon the opposite sepulchre, we

must continue to burst in ignorance. Sooner shall the ponderous

marble jaws of the tomb open, that Lorenzo may come forth to claim his

right to the trophy, than any admirer of human genius will doubt that

the shade of some real hero was present to the mind's eye of the

sculptor, when he tore these stately forms out of the enclosing rock.

A colossal hero sits, serene and solemn, upon a sepulchre. Beneath him

recline two vast mourning figures, one of each sex. One longs to

challenge converse with the male figure, with the unfinished

Sphinx-like face, who is stretched there at his harmonious length,

like an ancient river-god without his urn. There is nothing appalling

or chilling in his expression, nor does he seem to mourn without

hope. 'Tis a stately recumbent figure, of wonderful anatomy, without

any exaggeration of muscle, and, accordingly, his name is----Twilight!

Why Twilight should grieve at the tomb of Lorenzo, grandson of Lorenzo

Magnifico, any more than the grandfather would have done, does not

seem very clear, even to Twilight himself, who seems, after all, in a

very crepuscular state upon the subject. The mistiness is much aided

by the glimmering expression of his half-finished features.

But if Twilight should be pensive at the demise of Lorenzo, is there

any reason why Aurora should weep outright upon the same occasion?

This Aurora, however, weeping and stately, all nobleness and all

tears, is a magnificent creation, fashioned with the audacious

accuracy which has been granted to few modern sculptors. The figure

and face are most beautiful, and rise above all puny criticism; and as

one looks upon that sublime and wailing form, that noble and nameless

child of a divine genius, the flippant question dies on the lip, and

we seek not to disturb that passionate and beautiful image of woman's

grief by idle curiosity or useless speculation.

The monument, upon the opposite side, to Julian, third son of Lorenzo

Magnifico, is of very much the same character. Here are also two

mourning figures. One is a sleeping and wonderfully beautiful female

shape, colossal, in a position less adapted to repose than to the

display of the sculptor's power and her own perfections. This is

Night. A stupendously sculptured male figure, in a reclining attitude,

and exhibiting, I suppose, as much learning in his _torso_ as

does the famous figure in the Elgin marbles, strikes one as the most

triumphant statue of modern times.

The figure of Julian is not agreeable. The neck, long and twisted,

suggests an heroic ostrich in a Roman breastplate. The attitude, too,

is ungraceful. The hero sits with his knees projecting beyond the

perpendicular, so that his legs seem to be doubling under him, a

position deficient in grace and dignity.

It is superfluous to say that the spectator must invent for himself

the allegory which he may choose to see embodied in this stony

trio. It is not enough to be told the words of the charade,--Julian,

Night, Morning. One can never spell out the meaning by putting

together the group with the aid of such a key. Night is Night,

obviously, because she is asleep. For an equally profound reason, Day

is Day, because he is not asleep; and both, looked at in this vulgar

light, are creations as imaginative as Simon Snug, with his lantern,

representing moonshine. If the figures should arise and walk across

the chapel, changing places with the couple opposite them, as if in a

sepulchral quadrille, would the allegory become more intelligible?

Could not Day or Night move from Julian's monument, and take up the

same position at Lorenzo's tomb, or "Ninny's tomb," or any other tomb?

Was Lorenzo any more to Aurora than Julian, that she should weep for

him only?

Therefore one must invent for one's self the fable of those immortal

groups. Each spectator must pluck out, unaided, the heart of their

mystery. Those matchless colossal forms, which the foolish chroniclers

of the time have baptized Night and Morning, speak an unknown language

to the crowd. They are mute as Sphinx to souls which cannot supply the

music and the poetry which fell from their marble lips upon the ear of

him who created them.

X.

PALAZZO RICCARDI.

The ancient residence of Cosmo Vecchio and his successors is a

magnificent example of that vast and terrible architecture peculiar to

Florence. This has always been a city, not of streets, but of

fortresses. Each block is one house, but a house of the size of a

citadel; while the corridors and apartments are like casemates and

bastions, so gloomy and savage is their expression. Ancient Florence,

the city of the twelfth and beginning of the thirteenth centuries, the

Florence of the nobles, the Florence of the Ghibellines, the Florence

in which nearly every house was a castle, with frowning towers

hundreds of feet high, machicolated battlements, donjon keeps,

oubliettes, and all other appurtenances of a feudal stronghold, exists

no longer. With the expulsion of the imperial faction, and the advent

of the municipal Guelphs,--that proudest, boldest, most successful,

and most unreasonable _bourgeoisie_ which ever assumed organized

life,--the nobles were curtailed of all their privileges. Their city

castles, too, were shorn of their towers, which were limited to just

so many ells, cloth measure, by the haughty shopkeepers who had

displaced the grandees. The first third of the thirteenth century--the

epoch of the memorable Buondelmonti street fight which lasted thirty

years--was the period in which this dreadful architecture was fixed

upon Florence. Then was the time in which the chains, fastened in

those huge rings which still dangle from the grim house-fronts, were

stretched across the street; thus enclosing and fettering a compact

mass of combatants in an iron embrace, while from the rare and narrow

murder-windows in the walls, and from the beetling roofs, descended

the hail of iron and stone and scalding pitch and red-hot coals to

refresh the struggling throng below.

After this epoch, and with the expiration of the imperial house of the

Hohenstaufen, the nobles here, as in Switzerland, sought to popularize

themselves, to become municipal.

Der Adel steigt von seinen alten Burgen,

Und schwört den Städten seinen Bürger-Eid,

said the prophetic old Attinghausen, in his dying moments. The change

was even more extraordinary in Florence. The expulsion of some of the

patrician families was absolute. Others were allowed to participate

with the plebeians in the struggle for civic honors, and for the

wealth earned in commerce, manufactures, and handicraft. It became a

severe and not uncommon punishment to degrade offending individuals or

families into the ranks of nobility, and thus deprive them of their

civil rights. Hundreds of low-born persons have, in a single day, been

declared noble, and thus disfranchised. And the example of Florence

was often followed by other cities.

The result was twofold upon the aristocracy. Those who municipalized

themselves became more enlightened, more lettered, more refined, and,

at the same time, less chivalrous and less martial than their

ancestors. The characters of buccaneer, land-pirate, knight-errant

could not be conveniently united with those of banker, exchange

broker, dealer in dry goods, and general commission agents.

The consequence was that the fighting business became a specialty, and

fell into the hands of private companies. Florence, like Venice, and

other Italian republics, jobbed her wars. The work was done by the

Hawkwoods, the Sforzas, the Bracciones, and other chiefs of the

celebrated free companies, black bands, lance societies, who

understood no other profession, but who were as accomplished in the

arts of their own guild as were any of the five major and seven minor

crafts into which the Florentine burgesses were divided.

This proved a bad thing for the liberties of Florence in the end. The

chieftains of these military clubs, usually from the lowest ranks,

with no capacity but for bloodshed, and no revenue but rapine, often

ended their career by obtaining the seigniory of some petty republic,

a small town, or a handful of hamlets, whose liberty they crushed with

their own iron, and with the gold obtained, in exchange for their

blood, from the city bankers. In the course of time such seigniories

often rolled together, and assumed a menacing shape to all who valued

municipal liberty. Sforza--whose peasant father threw his axe into a

tree, resolving, if it fell, to join, as a common soldier, the roving

band which had just invited him; if it adhered to the wood, to remain

at home a laboring hind--becomes Duke of Milan, and is encouraged in

his usurpation by Cosmo Vecchio, who still gives himself the airs of

first-citizen of Florence.

The serpent, the well-known cognizance of the Visconti, had already

coiled itself around all those fair and clustering cities which were

once the Lombard republics, and had poisoned their vigorous life. The

Ezzelinos, Carraras, Gonzagas, Scalas, had crushed the spirit of

liberty in the neighborhood of Venice. All this had been accomplished

by means of mercenary adventurers, guided only by the love of plunder;

while those two luxurious and stately republics--the one an oligarchy,

the other a democracy--looked on from their marble palaces, enjoying

the refreshing bloodshowers in which their own golden harvests were so

rapidly ripening.

Meanwhile a gigantic despotism was maturing, which was eventually to

crush the power, glory, wealth, and freedom of Italy.

This _palazzo_ of Cosmo the Elder is a good type of Florentine

architecture at its ultimate epoch, just as Cosmo himself was the

largest expression of the Florentine citizen in the last and over-ripe

stage.

The Medici family, unheard of in the thirteenth century, obscure and

plebeian in the middle of the fourteenth, and wealthy bankers and

leaders of the democratic party at its close, culminated in the early

part of the fifteenth in the person of Cosmo. The _Pater

Patriae,_--so called, because, having at last absorbed all the

authority, he could afford to affect some of the benignity of a

parent, and to treat his fellow-citizens, not as men, but as little

children,--the Father of his Country had acquired, by means of his

great fortune and large financial connections, an immense control over

the destinies of Florence and Italy. But he was still a private

citizen in externals. There was, at least, elevation of taste,

refinement of sentiment in Cosmo's conception of a great citizen. His

habits of life were elegant, but frugal. He built churches, palaces,

villas. He employed all the great architects of the age. He adorned

these edifices with masterpieces from the pencils and chisels of the

wonderful _Quattrocentisti_, whose productions alone would have

given Florence an immortal name in Art history. Yet he preserved a

perfect simplicity of equipage and apparel. In this regard, faithful

to the traditions of the republic, which his family had really changed

from a democracy to a ploutarchy, he had the good taste to scorn the

vulgar pomp of kings,--"the horses led, and grooms besmeared with

gold,"--all the theatrical paraphernalia and plebeian tinsel "which

dazzle the crowd and set them all agape"; but his expenditures were

those of an intellectual and accomplished oligarch. He was worthy, in

many respects, to be the chief of those haughty merchants and

manufacturers, who wielded more power, through the length of their

purses and the cultivation of their brains, than did all the

contemporaneous and illiterate barons of the rest of Christendom, by

dint of castle-storming and cattle-stealing.

In an age when other nobles were proud of being unable to write their

own names, or to read them when others wrote them, the great princes

and citizens of Florence protected and cultivated art, science, and

letters. Every citizen received a liberal education. Poets and

philosophers sat in the councils of the republic. Philosophy,

metaphysics, and the restoration of ancient learning occupied the

minds and diminished the revenues of its greater and inferior

burghers. In this respect, the Medici, and their abetters of the

fifteenth century, discharged a portion of the debt which they had

incurred to humanity. They robbed Italy of her freedom, but they gave

her back the philosophy of Plato. They reduced the generality of

Florentine citizens, who were once omnipotent, to a nullity; but they

had at least, the sense to cherish Donatello and Ghiberti,

Brunelleschi and Gozzoli, Ficino and Politian.

It is singular, too, with what comparatively small means the Medici

were enabled to do such great things. Cosmo, unquestionably the

greatest and most successful citizen that ever lived,--for he almost

rivalled Pericles in position, if not in talent, while he surpassed

him in good fortune,--was, during his lifetime, the virtual sovereign

of the most enlightened and wealthy and powerful republic that had

existed in modern times. He built the church of San Marco, the church

of San Lorenzo, the cloister of San Verdiano. On the hill of Fiesole he

erected a church and a convent. At Jerusalem he built a church and a

hospital for pilgrims. All this was for religion, the republic, and

the world. For himself he constructed four splendid villas, at

Careggi, Fiesole, Caffaggiolo, and Trebbio, and in the city the

magnificent palace in the Via Larga, now called the Riccardi.

In thirty-seven years, from 1434 to 1471, he and his successors

expended eight millions of francs (663,755 gold florins) in buildings

and charities,--a sum which may be represented by as many, or, as some

would reckon, twice as many, dollars at the present day. Nevertheless,

the income of Cosmo was never more than 600,000 francs, (50,000 gold

florins,) while his fortune was never thought to exceed three millions

of francs, or six hundred thousand dollars. Being invested in

commerce, his property yielded, and ought to have yielded, an income

of twenty _per cent_. Nevertheless, an inventory made in 1469

showed, that, after twenty-nine years, he left to his son Pietro a

fortune but just about equal in amount to that which he had himself

received from his father.

With six hundred thousand dollars for his whole capital, then, Cosmo

was able to play his magnificent part in the world's history; while

the Duke of Milan, son of the peasant Sforza, sometimes expended more

than that sum in a single year. So much difference was there between

the position and requirements of an educated and opulent

first-citizen, and a low-born military _parvenu_, whom, however,

Cosmo was most earnest to encourage and to strengthen in his designs

against the liberties of Lombardy.

This Riccardi palace, as Cosmo observed after his poor son Peter had

become bed-ridden with the gout, was a marvellously large mansion for

so small a family as one old man and one cripple. It is chiefly

interesting, now, for the frescos with which Benozzo Gozzoli has

adorned the chapel. The same cause which has preserved these beautiful

paintings so fresh, four centuries long, has unfortunately always

prevented their being seen to any advantage. The absence of light,

which has kept the colors from fading, is most provoking, when one

wishes to admire the works of a great master, whose productions are so

rare.

Gozzoli, who lived and worked through the middle of the fifteenth

century, is chiefly known by his large and graceful compositions in

the Pisan Campo Santo. These masterpieces are fast crumbling into

mildewed rubbish. He had as much vigor and audacity as Ghirlandaio,

with more grace and freshness of invention. He has, however, nothing

of his dramatic power. His genius is rather idyllic and

romantic. Although some of the figures in these Medici palace frescos

are thought to be family portraits, still they hardly seem very

lifelike. The subjects selected are a Nativity, and an Adoration of

the Magi. In the neighborhood of the window is a choir of angels

singing Hosanna, full of freshness and vernal grace. The long

procession of kings riding to pay their homage, "with tedious pomp and

rich retinue long," has given the artist an opportunity of exhibiting

more power in perspective and fore-shortening than one could expect at

that epoch. There are mules and horses, caparisoned and bedizened;

some led by grinning blackamoors, others ridden by showy kings,

effulgent in brocade, glittering spurs, and gleaming cuirasses. Here

are horsemen travelling straight towards the spectator,--there, a

group, in an exactly opposite direction, is forcing its way into the

picture,--while hunters with hound and horn are pursuing the stag on

the neighboring hills, and idle spectators stand around, gaping and

dazzled; all drawn with a free and accurate pencil, and colored with

much brilliancy;--a triumphant and masterly composition, hidden in a

dark corner of what has now become a great dusty building, filled with

public offices.

XI.

FIESOLE.

Here sits on her hill the weird old Etrurian nurse of Florence,

withered, superannuated, feeble, warming her palsied limbs in the sun,

and looking vacantly down upon the beautiful child whose cradle she

rocked. Fiesole is perhaps the oldest Italian city. The inhabitants of

middle and lower Italy were Pelasgians by origin, like the earlier

races of Greece. The Etrurians were an aboriginal stock,--that is to

say, as far as anything can be definitely stated regarding their

original establishment in the peninsula; for they, too, doubtless

came, at some remote epoch, from beyond the Altai mountains.

In their arts they seem to have been original,--at least, until at a

later period they began to imitate the culture of Greece. They were

the only ancient Italian people who had the art-capacity; and they

supplied the wants of royal Rome, just as Greece afterwards supplied

the republic and the empire with the far more elevated creations of

her plastic genius.

The great works undertaken by the Tarquins, if there ever were

Tarquins, were in the hands of Etrurian architects and sculptors. The

admirable system of subterranean drainage in Rome, by which the swampy

hollows among the seven hills were converted into stately streets, and

the stupendous _cloaca maxima_, the buried arches of which have

sustained for more than two thousand years, without flinching, the

weight of superincumbent Rome, were Etrurian performances, commenced

six centuries before Christ.

It would appear that this people had rather a tendency to the useful,

than to the beautiful. Unable to assimilate the elements of beauty and

grace furnished by more genial races, this mystic and vanished nation

was rather prone to the stupendously and minutely practical, than

devoted to the beautiful for its own sake.

At Fiesole, the vast Cyclopean walls, still fixed and firm as the

everlasting hills, in their parallelopipedal layers, attest the

grandeur of the ancient city. Here are walls built, probably, before

the foundation of Rome, and yet steadfast as the Apennines. There are

also a broken ring or two of an amphitheatre; for the Etrurians

preceded and instructed the Romans in gladiatorial shows. It is

suggestive to seat one's self upon these solid granite seats, where

twenty-five hundred years ago some grave Etrurian citizen, wrapped in

his mantle of Tyrrhenian purple, his straight-nosed wife at his side,

with serpent bracelet and enamelled brooch, and a hopeful family

clustering playfully at their knees, looked placidly on, while slaves

were baiting and butchering each other in the arena below.

The Duomo is an edifice of the Romanesque period, and contains some

masterpieces by Mino da Fiesole. On a fine day, however, the church is

too dismal, and the scene outside too glowing and golden, to permit

any compromise between nature and Mino. The view from the Franciscan

convent upon the brow of the hill, site of the ancient acropolis, is

on the whole the very best which can be obtained of Florence and the

Val d' Arno. All the verdurous, gently rolling hills which are heaped

about Firenze la bella are visible at once. There, stretched languidly

upon those piles of velvet cushions, reposes the luxurious, jewelled,

tiara-crowned city, like Cleopatra on her couch. Nothing, save an

Oriental or Italian city on the sea-coast, can present a more

beautiful picture. The hills are tossed about so softly, the sunshine

comes down in its golden shower so voluptuously, the yellow Arno moves

along its channel so noiselessly, the chains of villages, villas,

convents, and palaces are strung together with such a profuse and

careless grace, wreathing themselves from hill to hill, and around

every coigne of vantage, the forests of olive and the festoons of vine

are so poetical and suggestive, that we wonder not that civilized man

has found this an attractive abode for twenty-five centuries.

Florence is stone dead. 'Tis but a polished tortoise-shell, of which

the living inhabitant has long since crumbled to dust; but it still

gleams in the sun with wondrous radiance.

Just at your feet, as you stand on the convent terrace, is the Villa

Mozzi, where, not long ago, were found buried jars of Roman coins of

the republican era, hidden there by Catiline, at the epoch of his

memorable conspiracy. Upon the same spot was the favorite residence of

Lorenzo Magnifico; concerning whose probable ponderings, as he sat

upon his terrace, with his legs dangling over Florence, much may be

learned from the guide-book of the immortal Murray, so that he who

runs may read and philosophize.

Looking at Florence from the hill-top, one is more impressed than ever

with the appropriateness of its name. _The City of Flowers_ is

itself a flower, and, as you gaze upon it from a height, you see how

it opens from its calyx. The many bright villages, gay gardens,

palaces, and convents which encircle the city, are not to be regarded

separately, but as one whole. The germ and heart of Florence, the

compressed and half hidden Piazza, with its dome, campanile, and long,

slender towers, shooting forth like the stamens and pistils, is

closely folded and sombre, while the vast and beautiful corolla

spreads its brilliant and fragrant circumference, petal upon petal,

for miles and miles around.

THE BATTLE OF LEPANTO.

It was two hours before dawn on Sunday, the memorable seventh of

October, 1571, when the fleet weighed anchor. The wind had become

lighter, but it was still contrary, and the galleys were indebted for

their progress much more to their oars than to their sails. By sunrise

they were abreast of the Curzolares, a cluster of huge rocks, or rocky

islets, which, on the north, defends the entrance of the Gulf of

Lepanto. The fleet moved laboriously along, while every eye was

strained to catch the first glimpse of the hostile navy. At length the

watch from the foretop of the _Real_ called out, "A sail!" and

soon after announced that the whole Ottoman fleet was in

sight. Several others, climbing up the rigging, confirmed his report;

and in a few moments more word was sent to the same effect by Andrew

Doria, who commanded on the right. There was no longer any doubt; and

Don John, ordering his pendant to be displayed at the mizzen-peak,

unfurled the great standard of the League, given by the pope, and

directed a gun to be fired, the signal for battle. The report, as it

ran along the rocky shores, fell cheerily on the ears of the

confederates, who, raising their eyes towards the consecrated banner,

filled the air with their shouts.

The principal captains now came on board the _Real_ to receive

the last orders of the commander-in-chief. Even at this late hour

there were some who ventured to intimate their doubts of the

expediency of engaging the enemy in a position where he had a decided

advantage. But Don John cut short the discussion. "Gentlemen," he

said, "this is the time for combat, not for counsel." He then

continued the dispositions he was making for the assault.

He had already given to each commander of a galley written

instructions as to the manner in which the line of battle was to be

formed, in case of meeting the enemy. The armada was now formed in

that order. It extended on a front of three miles. Far on the right a

squadron of sixty-four galleys was commanded by the Genoese, Andrew

Doria, a name of terror to the Moslems. The centre, or _battle_, as it

was called, consisting of sixty-three galleys, was led by John of

Austria, who was supported on the one side by Colonna, the

captain-general of the pope, and on the other by the Venetian

captain-general, Veniero. Immediately in the rear was the galley of

the _Comendador_ Requesens, who still remained near the person of his

former pupil; though a difference which arose between them on

the voyage, fortunately now healed, showed that the young

commander-in-chief was wholly independent of his teacher in the art of

war. The left wing was commanded by the noble Venetian, Barberigo,

whose vessels stretched along the Aetolian shore, which, to prevent his

being turned by the enemy, he approached as near as, in his ignorance

of the coast, he dared to venture. Finally, the reserve, consisting of

thirty-five galleys, was given to the brave Marquis of Santa Cruz,

with directions to act on any part where he thought his presence most

needed. The smaller craft, some of which had now arrived, seem to have

taken little part in the action, which was thus left to the galleys.

Each commander was to occupy so much space with his galley as to allow

room for manoeuvring it to advantage, and yet not enough to enable the

enemy to break the line. He was directed to single out his adversary,

to close at once with him, and board as soon as possible. The beaks

of the galleys were pronounced to be a hindrance rather than a help in

action. They were rarely strong enough to resist a shock from the

enemy; and they much interfered with the working and firing of the

guns. Don John had the beak of his vessel cut away; and the example

was speedily followed throughout the fleet, and, as it is said, with

eminently good effect. It may seem strange that this discovery should

have been reserved for the crisis of a battle.

When the officers had received their last instructions, they returned

to their respective vessels; and Don John, going on board of a light

frigate, passed rapidly through that part of the armada lying on his

right, while he commanded Requesens to do the same with the vessels on

his left. His object was to feel the temper of his men, and rouse

their mettle by a few words of encouragement. The Venetians he

reminded of their recent injuries. The hour for vengeance, he told

them, had arrived. To the Spaniards, and other confederates, he said,

"You have come to fight the battle of the Cross,--to conquer or

die. But whether you die or conquer, do your duty this day, and you

will secure a glorious immortality." His words were received with a

burst of enthusiasm which went to the heart of the commander, and

assured him that he could rely on his men in the hour of trial. On his

return to his vessel, he saw Veniero on his quarter-deck, and they

exchanged salutations in as friendly a manner as if no difference had

existed between them. At a time like this, both these brave men were

willing to forget all personal animosity, in a common feeling of

devotion to the great cause in which they were engaged.

The Ottoman fleet came on slowly and with difficulty. For, strange to

say, the wind, which had hitherto been adverse to the Christians,

after lulling for a time, suddenly shifted to the opposite quarter,

and blew in the face of the enemy. As the day advanced, moreover, the

sun, which had shone in the eyes of the confederates, gradually shot

its rays into those of the Moslems. Both circumstances were of good

omen to the Christians, and the first was regarded as nothing short of

a direct interposition of Heaven. Thus ploughing its way along, the

Turkish armament, as it came nearer into view, showed itself in

greater strength than had been anticipated by the allies. It consisted

of nearly two hundred and fifty royal galleys, most of them of the

largest class, besides a number of smaller vessels in the rear, which,

like those of the allies, appear scarcely to have come into

action. The men on board, including those of every description, were

computed at not less than a hundred and twenty thousand. The galleys

spread out, as usual with the Turks, in the form of a regular

half-moon, covering a wider extent of surface than the combined

fleets, which they somewhat exceeded in numbers. They presented,

indeed, as they drew nearer, a magnificent array, with their gilded

and gaudily painted prows, and their myriads of pennons and streamers

fluttering gayly in the breeze, while the rays of the morning sun

glanced on the polished scymitars of Damascus, and on the superb

aigrettes of jewels which sparkled in the turbans of the Ottoman

chiefs.

In the centre of the extended line, and directly opposite to the

station occupied by the captain-general of the League, was the huge

galley of Ali Pasha. The right of the armada was commanded by Mehemet

Siroco, viceroy of Egypt, a circumspect as well as courageous leader;

the left by Uluch Ali, dey of Algiers, the redoubtable corsair of the

Mediterranean. Ali Pasha had experienced a similar difficulty with Don

John, as several of his officers had strongly urged the inexpediency

of engaging so formidable an armament as that of the allies. But Ali,

like his rival, was young and ambitious. He had been sent by his

master to fight the enemy; and no remonstrances, not even those of

Mehemet Siroco, for whom he had great respect, could turn him from his

purpose.

He had, moreover, received intelligence that the allied fleet was much

inferior in strength to what it proved. In this error he was

fortified by the first appearance of the Christians; for the extremity

of their left wing, commanded by Barberigo, stretching behind the

Aetolian shore, was hidden from his view. As he drew nearer, and saw

the whole extent of the Christian lines, it is said his countenance

fell. If so, he still did not abate one jot of his resolution. He

spoke to those around him with the same confidence as before of the

result of the battle. He urged his rowers to strain every effort. Ali

was a man of more humanity than often belonged to his nation. His

galley-slaves were all, or nearly all, Christian captives; and he

addressed them in this neat and pithy manner: "If your countrymen win

this day, Allah give you the benefit of it! Yet if I win it, you

shall have your freedom. If you feel that I do well by you, do then

the like by me."

As the Turkish admiral drew nearer, he made a change in his order of

battle by separating his wings farther from his centre, thus

conforming to the dispositions of the allies. Before he had come

within cannon-shot, he fired a gun by way of challenge to his

enemy. It was answered by another from the galley of John of

Austria. A second gun discharged by Ali was as promptly replied to by

the Christian commander. The distance between the two fleets was now

rapidly diminishing. At this solemn hour a death-like silence reigned

throughout the armament of the confederates. Men seemed to hold their

breath, as if absorbed in the expectation of some great

catastrophe. The day was magnificent. A light breeze, still adverse

to the Turks, played on the waters, somewhat fretted by contrary

winds. It was nearly noon; and as the sun, mounting through a

cloudless sky, rose to the zenith, he seemed to pause, as if to look

down on the beautiful scene, where the multitude of galleys, moving

over the water, showed like a holiday spectacle rather than a

preparation for mortal combat.

The illusion was soon dispelled by the fierce yells which rose on the

air from the Turkish armada. It was the customary war-cry with which

the Moslems entered into battle. Very different was the scene on board

of the Christian galleys. Don John might be there seen, armed

cap-a-pie, standing on the prow of the _Real_, anxiously awaiting

the coming conflict. In this conspicuous position, kneeling down, he

raised his eyes to heaven, and humbly prayed that the Almighty would

be with his people on that day. His example was speedily followed by

the whole fleet. Officers and men, all falling on their knees, and

turning their eyes to the consecrated banner which floated from the

_Real_, put up a petition like that of their commander. They

then received absolution from the priests, of whom there were some in

each vessel; and each man, as he rose to his feet, gathered new

strength from the assurance that the Lord of Hosts would fight on his

side.

When the foremost vessels of the Turks had come within cannon-shot,

they opened a fire on the Christians. The firing soon ran along the

whole of the Turkish line, and was kept up without interruption as it

advanced. Don John gave orders for trumpet and atabal to sound the

signal for action; and a simultaneous discharge followed from such of

the guns in the combined fleet as could bear on the enemy. Don John

had caused the _galeazzas_ to be towed some half a mile ahead of

the fleet, where they might intercept the advance of the Turks. As the

latter came abreast of them, the huge galleys delivered their

broadsides right and left, and their heavy ordnance produced a

startling effect. Ali Pasha gave orders for his galleys to open on

either side, and pass without engaging these monsters of the deep, of

which he had had no experience. Even so their heavy guns did

considerable damage to the nearest vessels, and created some confusion

in the pasha's line of battle. They were, however, but unwieldy craft,

and, having accomplished their object, seem to have taken no further

part in the combat. The action began on the left wing of the allies,

which Mehemet Siroco was desirous of turning. This had been

anticipated by Barberigo, the Venetian admiral, who commanded in that

quarter. To prevent it, as we have seen, he lay with his vessels as

near the coast as he dared. Siroco, better acquainted with the

soundings, saw there was space enough for him to pass, and darting by

with all the speed that oars and wind could give him, he succeeded in

doubling on his enemy. Thus placed between two fires, the extreme of

the Christian left fought at terrible disadvantage. No less than eight

galleys went to the bottom. Several more were captured. The brave

Barberigo, throwing himself into the heat of the fight, without

availing himself of his defensive armor, was pierced in the eye by an

arrow, and though reluctant to leave the glory of the field to

another, was borne to his cabin. The combat still continued with

unabated fury on the part of the Venetians. They fought like men who

felt that the war was theirs, and who were animated not only by the

thirst for glory, but for revenge.

Far on the Christian right, a manoeuvre similar to that so

successfully executed by Siroco was attempted by Uluch Ali, the

viceroy of Algiers. Profiting by his superiority of numbers, he

endeavored to turn the right wing of the confederates. It was in this

quarter that Andrew Doria commanded. He also had foreseen this

movement of his enemy, and he succeeded in foiling it. It was a trial

of skill between the two most accomplished seamen in the

Mediterranean. Doria extended his line so far to the right, indeed,

to prevent being surrounded, that Don John was obliged to remind him

that he left the centre much too exposed. His dispositions were so far

unfortunate for himself that his own line was thus weakened and

afforded some vulnerable points to his assailant. These were soon

detected by the eagle eye of Uluch Ali; and like the king of birds

swooping on his prey, he fell on some galleys separated by a

considerable interval from their companions, and, sinking more than

one, carried off the great _Capitana_ of Malta in triumph as his

prize.

While the combat thus opened disastrously to the allies both on the

right and on the left, in the centre they may be said to have fought

with doubtful fortune. Don John had led his division gallantly

forward. But the object on which he was intent was an encounter with

Ali Pasha, the foe most worthy of his sword. The Turkish commander had

the same combat no less at heart. The galleys of both were easily

recognized, not only from their position, but from their superior size

and richer decoration. The one, moreover, displayed the holy banner

of the League; the other, the great Ottoman standard. This, like the

ancient standard of the caliphs, was held sacred in its character. It

was covered with texts from the Koran, emblazoned in letters of gold,

with the name of Allah inscribed upon it no less than twenty-eight

thousand nine hundred times. It was the banner of the Sultan, having

passed from father to son since the foundation of the imperial

dynasty, and was never seen in the field unless the Grand-Seignior or

his lieutenant was there in person.

Both the Christian and the Moslem chief urged on their rowers to the

top of their speed. Their galleys soon shot ahead of the rest of the

line, driven through the boiling surges as by the force of a tornado,

and closing with a shock that made every timber crack, and the two

vessels quiver to their very keels. So powerful, indeed, was the

impetus they received, that the pasha's galley, which was considerably

the larger and loftier of the two, was thrown so far upon its opponent

that the prow reached the fourth bench of rowers. As soon as the

vessels were disengaged from each other, and those on board had

recovered from the shock, the work of death began. Don John's chief

strength consisted in some three hundred Spanish arquebusiers, culled

from the flower of his infantry. Ali, on the other hand, was provided

with the like number of janissaries. He was also followed by a

smaller vessel, in which two hundred more were stationed as a _corps

de réserve_. He had, moreover, a hundred archers on board. The bow

was still much in use with the Turks, as with the other Moslems.

The pasha opened at once on his enemy a terrible fire of cannon and

musketry. It was returned with equal spirit, and much more effect; for

the Turkish marksmen were observed to shoot over the heads of their

adversaries. Their galley was unprovided with the defences which

protected the sides of the Spanish vessels; and the troops, huddled

together on their lofty prow, presented an easy mark to their enemies'

balls. But though numbers of them fell at every discharge, their

places were soon supplied by those in reserve. Their incessant fire,

moreover, wasted the strength of the Spaniards; and as both Christian

and Mussulman fought with indomitable spirit, it seemed doubtful to

which side the victory would incline.

The affair was made more complicated by the entrance of other parties

into the conflict. Both Ali and Don John were supported by some of the

most valiant captains in their fleets. Next to the Spanish commander,

as we have seen, were Colonna and the veteran Veniero, who, at the age

of seventy-six, performed feats of arms worthy of a paladin of

romance. Thus a little squadron of combatants gathered around the

principal leaders, who sometimes found themselves assailed by several

enemies at the same time. Still the chiefs did not lose sight of one

another, but beating off their inferior foes as well as they could,

each refusing to loosen his hold, clung with mortal grasp to his

antagonist.

Thus the fight raged along the whole extent of the entrance of the

Gulf of Lepanto. If the eye of the spectator could have penetrated the

cloud of smoke that enveloped the combatants, and have embraced the

whole scene at a glance, he would have beheld them broken up into

small detachments, engaged in conflict with one another, wholly

independently of the rest, and indeed ignorant of all that was doing

in other quarters. The volumes of vapor, rolling heavily over the

waters, effectually shut out from sight whatever was passing at any

considerable distance, unless when a fresher breeze dispelled the

smoke for a moment, or the flashes of the heavy guns threw a transient

gleam over the dark canopy of battle. The contest exhibited few of

those enlarged combinations and skilful manoeuvres to be expected in a

great naval encounter. It was rather an assemblage of petty actions,

resembling those on land. The galleys, grappling together, presented a

level arena, on which soldier and galley-slave fought hand to hand,

and the fate of the engagement was generally decided by boarding. As

in most hand-to-hand contests, there was an enormous waste of

life. The decks were loaded with corpses, Christian and Moslem lying

promiscuously together in the embrace of death. Instances are given

where every man on board was slain or wounded. It was a ghastly

spectacle, where blood flowed in rivulets down the sides of the

vessels, staining the waters of the Gulf for miles around.

It seemed as if some hurricane had swept over the sea, and covered it

with the wreck of the noble armaments which a moment before were so

proudly riding on its bosom. Little had they now to remind one of

their late magnificent array, with their hulls battered and defaced,

their masts and spars gone or fearfully splintered by the shot, their

canvas cut into shreds and floating wildly on the breeze, while

thousands of wounded and drowning men were clinging to the floating

fragments, and calling piteously for help. Such was the wild uproar

which had succeeded to the Sabbath-like stillness that two hours

before had reigned over these beautiful solitudes!

The left wing of the confederates, commanded by Barberigo, had been

sorely pressed by the Turks, as we have seen, at the beginning of the

fight. Barberigo himself had been mortally wounded. His line had been

turned. Several of his galleys had been sunk. But the Venetians

gathered courage from despair. By incredible efforts they succeeded in

beating off their enemies. They became the assailants in their

turn. Sword in hand, they carried one vessel after another. The

Capuchin, with uplifted crucifix, was seen to head the attack, and to

lead the boarders to the assault. The Christian galley-slaves, in some

instances, broke their fetters and joined their countrymen against

their masters. Fortunately, the vessel of Mehemet Siroco, the Moslem

admiral, was sunk; and though extricated from the water himself, it

was only to perish by the sword of his conqueror, Juan Contarini. The

Venetian could find no mercy for the Turk.

The fall of their commander gave the final blow to his

followers. Without further attempt to prolong the fight, they fled

before the avenging swords of the Venetians. Those nearest the land

endeavored to escape by running their vessels ashore, where they

abandoned them as prizes to the Christians. Yet many of the fugitives,

before gaining the shore, perished miserably in the waves. Barberigo,

the Venetian admiral, who was still lingering in agony, heard the

tidings of the enemy's defeat, and exclaiming, "I die contented," he

breathed his last.

Meanwhile the combat had been going forward in the centre between the

two commanders-in-chief, Don John and Ali Pasha, whose galleys blazed

with an incessant fire of artillery and musketry that enveloped them

like "a martyr's robe of flames." Both parties fought with equal

spirit, though not with equal fortune. Twice the Spaniards had boarded

their enemy, and both times they had been repulsed with loss. Still

their superiority in the use of their fire-arms would have given them

a decided advantage over their opponents, if the loss thus inflicted

had not been speedily repaired by fresh reinforcements. More than once

the contest between the two chieftains was interrupted by the arrival

of others to take part in the fray. They soon, however, returned to

one another, as if unwilling to waste their strength on a meaner

enemy. Through the whole engagement both commanders exposed themselves

to danger as freely as any common soldier. Even Philip must have

admitted that in such a contest it would have been difficult for his

brother to find with honor a place of safety. Don John received a

wound in the foot. It was a slight one, however, and he would not

allow it to be attended to till the action was over.

At length the men were mustered, and a third time the trumpets sounded

to the assault. It was more successful than those preceding. The

Spaniards threw themselves boldly into the Turkish galley. They were

met by the janissaries with the same spirit as before. Ali Pasha led

them on. Unfortunately, at this moment he was struck by a musket-ball

in the head, and stretched senseless on the gangway. His men fought

worthily of their ancient renown. But they missed the accustomed voice

of their commander. After a short, but ineffectual struggle against

the fiery impetuosity of the Spaniards, they were overpowered and

threw down their arms. The decks were loaded with the bodies of the

dead and the dying. Beneath these was discovered the Turkish

commander-in-chief, sorely wounded, but perhaps not mortally. He was

drawn forth by some Castilian soldiers, who, recognizing his person,

would at once have despatched him. But the wounded chief, having

rallied from the first effects of his blow, had presence of mind

enough to divert them from their purpose by pointing out the place

below where he had deposited his money and jewels, and they hastened

to profit by the disclosure before the treasure should fall into the

hands of their comrades.

Ali was not so successful with another soldier, who came up soon

after, brandishing his sword, and preparing to plunge it into the body

of the prostrate commander. It was in vain that the latter endeavored

to turn the ruffian from his purpose. He was a convict,--one of those

galley-slaves whom Don John had caused to be unchained from the oar,

and furnished with arms. He could not believe that any treasure would

be worth so much to him as the head of the pasha. Without further

hesitation he dealt him a blow which severed it from his shoulders.

Then returning to his galley, he laid the bloody trophy before Don

John. But he had miscalculated on his recompense. His commander gazed

on it with a look of pity mingled with horror. He may have thought of

the generous conduct of Ali to his Christian captives, and have felt

that he deserved a better fate. He coldly inquired "of what use such a

present could be to him," and then ordered it to be thrown into the

sea. Far from being obeyed, it is said the head was stuck on a pike

and raised aloft on board the captive galley. At the same time the

banner of the Crescent was pulled down, while that of the Cross run up

in its place proclaimed the downfall of the pasha.

The sight of the sacred ensign was welcomed by the Christians with a

shout of "Victory!" which rose high above the din of battle. The

tidings of the death of Ali soon passed from mouth to mouth, giving

fresh heart to the confederates, but falling like a knell on the ears

of the Moslems. Their confidence was gone. Their fire slackened. Their

efforts grew weaker and weaker. They were too far from shore to seek

an asylum there, like their comrades on the right. They had no

resource but to prolong the combat or to surrender. Most preferred the

latter. Many vessels were carried by boarding, others sunk by the

victorious Christians. Before four hours had elapsed, the centre, like

the right wing of the Moslems, might be said to be annihilated.

Still the fight was lingering on the right of the confederates, where,

it will be remembered, Uluch Ali, the Algerine chief, had profited by

Doria's error in extending his line so far as greatly to weaken

it. His adversary, attacking it on its most vulnerable quarter, had

succeeded, as we have seen, in capturing and destroying several

vessels, and would have inflicted still heavier losses on his enemy,

had it not been for the seasonable succor received from the Marquis of

Santa Cruz. This brave officer, who commanded the reserve, had already

been of much service to Don John, when the _Real_ was assailed by

several Turkish galleys at once, during his combat with Ali Pasha; the

Marquis having arrived at this juncture, and beating off the

assailants, one of whom he afterwards captured, the commander-in-chief

was enabled to resume his engagement with the pasha.

No sooner did Santa Cruz learn the critical situation of Doria, than,

supported by Cardona, general of the Sicilian squadron, he pushed

forward to his relief. Dashing into the midst of the _melée_,

they fell like a thunderbolt on the Algerine galleys. Few attempted to

withstand the shock. But in their haste to avoid it, they were

encountered by Doria and his Genoese. Thus beset on all sides, Uluch

Ali was compelled to abandon his prizes and provide for his own safety

by flight. He cut adrift the Maltese _Capitana_, which he had

lashed to his stern, and on which three hundred corpses attested the

desperate character of her defence. As tidings reached him of the

discomfiture of the centre and the death of his commander, he felt

that nothing remained but to make the best of his way from the fatal

scene of action, and save as many of his own ships as he could. And

there were no ships in the Turkish fleet superior to his, or manned by

men under more perfect discipline; for they were the famous corsairs

of the Mediterranean, who had been rocked from infancy on its waters.

Throwing out his signals for retreat, the Algerine was soon to be

seen, at the head of his squadron, standing towards the north, under

as much canvas as remained to him after the battle, and urged forward

through the deep by the whole strength of his oarsmen. Doria and Santa

Cruz followed quickly in his wake. But he was borne on the wings of

the wind, and soon distanced his pursuers. Don John, having disposed

of his own assailants, was coming to the support of Doria, and now

joined in the pursuit of the viceroy. A rocky headland, stretching far

into the sea, lay in the path of the fugitive, and his enemies hoped

to intercept him there. Some few of his vessels stranded on the

rocks. But the rest, near forty in number, standing more boldly out to

sea, safely doubled the promontory. Then quickening their flight,

they gradually faded from the horizon, their white sails, the last

thing visible, showing in the distance like a flock of Arctic sea-fowl

on their way to their native homes. The confederates explained the

inferior sailing of their own galleys by the circumstance of their

rowers, who had been allowed to bear arms in the fight, being crippled

by their wounds.

The battle had lasted more than four hours. The sky, which had been

almost without a cloud through the day, began now to be overcast, and

showed signs of a coming storm. Before seeking a place of shelter for

himself and his prizes, Don John reconnoitred the scene of action. He

met with several vessels in too damaged a state for further

service. These mostly belonging to the enemy, after saving what was of

any value on board, he ordered to be burnt. He selected the

neighboring port of Petala, as affording the most secure and

accessible harbor for the night. Before he had arrived there, the

tempest began to mutter and darkness was on the water. Yet the

darkness rendered the more visible the blazing wrecks, which, sending

up streams of fire mingled with showers of sparks, looked like

volcanoes on the deep.

Long and loud were the congratulations now paid to the young

commander-in-chief by his brave companions in arms, on the success of

the day. The hours passed blithely with officers and men, while they

recounted one to another their manifold achievements. But feelings of

gloom mingled with their gayety, as they gathered tidings of the loss

of friends who had bought this victory with their blood.

It was, indeed, a sanguinary battle, surpassing in this particular any

sea-fight of modern times. The loss fell much the most heavily on the

enemy. There is the usual discrepancy about numbers; but it may be

safe to estimate the Turkish loss at about twenty-four thousand slain,

and five thousand prisoners. But what gave most joy to the hearts of

the conquerors was the liberation of twelve thousand Christian

captives, who had been chained to the oar on board the Moslem galleys,

and who now came forth with tears streaming down their haggard cheeks,

to bless their deliverers.

The loss of the allies was comparatively small,--less than eight

thousand. That it was so much less than that of their enemies may be

referred in part to their superiority in the use of firearms; in part,

also, to their exclusive use of these, instead of employing bows and

arrows, weapons much less effective, but on which the Turks, like the

other Moslem nations, seem to have greatly relied. Lastly, the Turks

were the vanquished party, and in their heavier loss suffered the

almost invariable lot of the vanquished.

As to their armada, it may almost be said to have been

annihilated. Not more than forty galleys escaped, out of near two

hundred and fifty which had entered into the action. One hundred and

thirty were taken and divided among the conquerors. The remainder,

sunk or burned, were swallowed up by the waves. To counterbalance all

this, the confederates are said to have lost not more than fifteen

galleys, though a much larger number doubtless were rendered unfit for

service. This disparity affords good evidence of the inferiority of

the Turks in the construction of their vessels, as well as in the

nautical skill required to manage them. A large amount of booty, in

the form of gold, jewels, and brocade, was found on board several of

the prizes. The galley of the commander-in-chief alone is stated to

have contained one hundred and seventy thousand gold sequins,--a large

sum, but not large enough, it seems, to buy off his life.

The losses of the combatants cannot be fairly presented without taking

into the account the quality as well as the number of the slain. The

number of persons of consideration, both Christians and Moslems, who

embarked in the expedition, was very great. The roll of slaughter

showed that in the race of glory they gave little heed to their

personal safety. The officer second in command among the Venetians,

the commander-in-chief of the Turkish armament, and the commander of

its right wing, all fell in the battle. Many a high-born cavalier

closed at Lepanto a long career of honorable service. More than one,

on the other hand, dated the commencement of their career from this

day. Such was the case with Alexander Farnese, the young prince of

Parma. Though somewhat older than his uncle, John of Austria,

difference of birth had placed a wide distance in their conditions;

the one filling the post of commander-in-chief, the other only that of

a private adventurer. Yet even so he succeeded in winning great renown

by his achievements. The galley in which he sailed was lying, yard-arm

to yard-arm, alongside of a Turkish galley, with which it was hotly

engaged. In the midst of the action, the young Farnese sprang on board

of the enemy, and with his stout broadsword hewed down all who opposed

him, opening a path into which his comrades poured one after another;

and after a short, but murderous contest, he succeeded in carrying the

vessel. As Farnese's galley lay just astern of Don John's, the latter

could witness the achievement of his nephew, which filled him with an

admiration he did not affect to conceal. The intrepidity he displayed

on this occasion gave augury of his character in later life, when he

succeeded his uncle in command, and surpassed him in military renown.

Another youth was in that sea-fight, who, then humble and unknown, was

destined one day to win laurels of a purer and more enviable kind than

those which grow on the battle-field. This was Cervantes, who, at the

age of twenty-four, was serving on board the fleet as a common

soldier. He was confined to his bed by a fever; but, notwithstanding

the remonstrances of his captain, insisted, on the morning of the

action, not only on bearing arms, but on being stationed at the post

of danger. And well did he perform his duty there, as was shown by two

wounds on the breast, and another in the hand, by which he lost the

use of it. Fortunately, it was the left hand. The right yet remained,

to record those immortal productions which were to be familiar as

household words, not only in his own land, but in every quarter of the

civilized world.

A fierce storm of thunder and lightning raged for four-and-twenty

hours after the battle, during which the fleet rode safely at anchor

in the harbor of Petala. It remained there three days longer. Don John

profited by the time to visit the different galleys and ascertain

their condition. He informed himself of the conduct of the troops, and

was liberal of his praises to those who deserved them. With the sick

and the wounded he showed the greatest sympathy, endeavoring to

alleviate their sufferings, and furnishing them with whatever his

galley contained that could minister to their comfort. With so

generous and sympathetic a nature, it is not wonderful that he should

have established himself in the hearts of his soldiers.

But the proofs of this kindly temper were not confined to his own

followers. Among the prisoners were two sons of Ali, the Turkish

commander-in-chief. One was seventeen, the other only thirteen years

of age. Thus early had their father desired to initiate them in a

profession which, beyond all others, opened the way to eminence in

Turkey. They were not on board of his galley, and when they were

informed of his death, they were inconsolable. To this sorrow was now

to be added the doom of slavery.

As they were led into the presence of Don John, the youths prostrated

themselves on the deck of his vessel. But raising them up, he

affectionately embraced them. He said all he could to console them

under their troubles. He caused them to be treated with the

consideration due to their rank. His secretary, Juan de Soto,

surrendered his quarters to them. They were provided with the richest

apparel that could be found among the spoil. Their table was served

with the same delicacies as that of the commander-in-chief; and his

gentlemen of the chamber showed the same deference to them as to

himself. His kindness did not stop with these acts of chivalrous

courtesy. He received a letter from their sister Fatima, containing a

touching appeal to Don John's humanity, and soliciting the release of

her orphan brothers. He had sent a courier to give their friends in

Constantinople the assurance of their personal safety; "which," adds

the lady, "is held by all this court as an act of great

courtesy,--_gran gentilezza_; and there is no one here who does

not admire the goodness and magnanimity of your Highness." She

enforced her petition with a rich present, for which she gracefully

apologized, as intended to express her own feelings, though far below

his deserts.

The young princes, in the division of the spoil, were assigned to the

pope. But Don John succeeded in obtaining their liberation.

Unfortunately, the elder died--of a broken heart, it is said--at

Naples. The younger was sent home, with three of his attendants, for

whom he had an especial regard. Don John declined the present, which

he gave to Fatima's brother. In a letter to the Turkish princess, he

remarked, that "he had done this, not because he undervalued her

beautiful gift, but because it had ever been the habit of his royal

ancestors freely to grant favors to those who stood in need of their

protection, but not to receive aught by way of recompense."

THE WIND AND STREAM.

A brook came stealing from the ground;

You scarcely saw its silvery gleam

Among the herbs that hung around

The borders of that winding stream,--

A pretty stream, a placid stream,

A softly gliding, bashful stream.

A breeze came wandering from the sky,

Light as the whispers of a dream;

He put the o'erhanging grasses by,

And gayly stooped to kiss the stream,--

The pretty stream, the flattered stream,

The shy, yet unreluctant stream.

The water, as the wind passed o'er,

Shot upward many a glancing beam,

Dimpled and quivered more and more,

And tripped along a livelier stream,--

The flattered stream, the simpering stream,

The fond, delighted, silly stream.

Away the airy wanderer flew

To where the fields with blossoms teem,

To sparkling springs and rivers blue,

And left alone that little stream,--

The flattered stream, the cheated stream,

The sad, forsaken, lonely stream.

That careless wind no more came back;

He wanders yet the fields, I deem;

But on its melancholy track

Complaining went that little stream,--

The cheated stream, the hopeless stream,

The ever murmuring, moaning stream.

TURKEY TRACKS.

Don't open your eyes, Polder! You think I am going to tell you about

some of my Minnesota experiences; how I used to scamper over the

prairies on my Indian pony, and lie in wait for wild turkeys on the

edge of an oak opening. That is pretty sport, too, to creep under an

oak with low-hanging boughs, and in the silence of a glowing

autumn-day linger by the hour together in a trance of warm stillness,

watching the light tracery of shadow and sun on that smooth sward,

only now and then roused by the fleet rush of a deer through the wood,

or the brisk chatter of a plume-tailed squirrel, till one hears a

distant, sharp, clucking chuckle, and in an instant more pulls the

trigger, and upsets a grand old cock, every bronzed feather glittering

in the sunshine, and now splashed with scarlet blood, the delicate

underwing ground into down as he rolls and flutters; for the first

shot rarely kills at once with an amateur; there's too much

excitement. Splendid sport, that! but I'm not going into it

second-hand. I promised to tell you a story, now the skipper's fast,

and the night is too warm to think of sleep down in that wretched

bunk;--what another torture Dante might have lavished on his Inferno,

if he'd ever slept in a fishing-smack! No. The moonlight makes me

sentimental! Did I ever tell you about a month I spent up in

Centreville, the year I came home from Germany? That was

turkey-hunting with a vengeance!

You see, my pretty cousin Peggy married Peter Smith, who owns

paper-mills in Centreville, and has exiled herself into deep country

for life; a circumstance I disapprove, because I like Peggy, and

manufacturers always bore me, though Peter is a clever fellow enough;

but madam was an old flame of mine, and I have a lingering tenderness

for her yet. I wish she was nearer town. Just that year Peggy had

been very ill indeed, and Kate, her sister, had gone up to nurse

her. When I came home Peggy was getting better, and sent for me to

come up and make a visitation there in June. I hadn't seen Kate for

seven years,--not since she was thirteen; our education

intervened. She had gone through that grading process and come out. By

Jupiter! when she met me at the door of Smith's pretty,

English-looking cottage, I took my hat off, she was so like that

little Brazilian princess we used to see in the _cortége_ of the

court at Paris. What was her name? Never mind that! Kate had just

such large, expressive eyes, just such masses of shiny black hair,

just such a little nose,--turned up undeniably, but all the more

piquant. And her teeth! good gracious! she smiled like a flash of

lightning,--dark and sallow as she was. But she was cross, or stiff,

or something, to me for a long time. Peggy only appeared after dinner,

looking pale and lovely enough in her loose wrapper to make Peter act

excessively like----a young married man, and to make me wish myself at

an invisible distance, doing something beside picking up Kate's

things, that she always dropped on the floor whenever she sewed.

Peggy saw I was bored, so she requested me one day to walk down to the

poultry-yard and ask about her chickens; she pretended a great deal of

anxiety, and Peter had sprained his ankle.

"Kate will go with you," said she.

"No, she won't!" ejaculated that young woman.

"Thank you," said I, making a minuet bow, and off I went to the

farm-house. Such a pretty walk it was, too! through a thicket of

birches, down a little hill-side into a hollow full of hoary

chestnut-trees, across a bubbling, dancing brook, and you came out

upon the tiniest orchard in the world, a one-storied house with a red

porch, and a great sweet-brier bush thereby; while up the hill-side

behind stretched a high picket fence, enclosing huge trees, part of

the same brook I had crossed here dammed into a pond, and a

chicken-house of pretentious height and aspect,--one of those model

institutions that are the ruin of gentlemen-farmers and the delight of

women. I had to go into the farm-kitchen for the poultry-yard key.

The door stood open, and I stepped in cautiously, lest I should come

unaware upon some domestic scene not intended to be visible to the

naked eye. And a scene I did come upon, fit for Retzsch to

outline;--the cleanest kitchen, a dresser of white wood under one

window, and the farmer's daughter, Melinda Tucker, moulding bread

thereat in a ponderous tray; her deep red hair,--yes, it was red and

comely! of the deepest bay, full of gilded reflections, and

accompanied by the fair, rose-flushed skin, blue eyes, and scarlet

lips that belong to such hair,--which, as I began to say, was puckered

into a thousand curves trying to curl, and knotted strictly against a

pretty head, while her calico frock-sleeves were pinned-back to the

shoulders, baring such a dimpled pair of arms,--how they did fly up

and down in the tray! I stood still contemplating the picture, and

presently seeing her begin to strip the dough from her pink fingers

and mould it into a mass, I ventured to knock. If you had seen her

start and blush, Polder! But when she saw me, she grew as cool as you

please, and called her mother. Down came Mrs. Tucker, a talking

Yankee. You don't know what that is. Listen, then.

"Well, good day, sir! I'xpect it's Mister Greene, Miss Smith's

cousin. Well, you be! Don't favor her much though; she's kinder dark

complected. She ha'n't got round yet, hes she? Dew tell! She's

dre'ful delicate. I do'no' as ever I see a woman so sickly's she looks

ter be sence that 'ere fever. She's real spry when she's so's to be

crawlin',--I'xpect too spry to be 'hulsome. Well, he tells me you've

ben 'crost the water. 'Ta'n't jest like this over there, I

guess. Pretty sightly places they be though, a'n't they? I've seen

picturs in Melindy's jography, looks as ef 'twa'n't so woodsy over

there as 'tis in these parts, 'specially out West. He's got folks out

to Indianny, an' we sot out fur to go a-cousinin', five year back, an'

we got out there inter the dre'fullest woodsy region ever ye see,

where 'twa'n't trees, it was 'sketers; husband he couldn't see none

out of his eyes for a hull day, and I thought I should caterpillar

every time I heerd one of 'em toot; they sartainly was the beater-ee!"

"The key, if you please!" I meekly interposed. Mrs. Tucker was fast

stunning me!

"Law yis! Melindy, you go git that 'ere key; it's a-hangin' up'side o'

the lookin'glass in the back shed, under that bunch o' onions father

strung up yisterday. Got the bread sot to rise, hev ye? well, git

yer bunnet an' go out to the coop with Mr. Greene, 'n' show him the

turkeys an' the chickens, 'n' tell what dre'ful luck we hev hed. I

never did see sech luck! the crows they keep a-comin' an' snippin' up

the little creturs jest as soon's they're hatched; an' the old turkey

hen't sot under the grapevine she got two hen's eggs under her, 'n'

they come out fust, so she quit--"

Here I bolted out of the door, (a storm at sea did not deafen one like

that!) Melindy following, in silence such as our blessed New England

poet has immortalized,--silence that

"--Like a poultice comes,

To heal the blows of sound."

Indeed, I did not discover that Melindy could talk that day; she was

very silent, very incommunicative. I inspected the fowls, and tried to

look wise, but I perceived a strangled laugh twisting Melindy's face

when I innocently inquired if she found catnip of much benefit to the

little chickens; a natural question enough, for the yard was full of

it, and I had seen Hannah give it to the baby. (Hannah is my sister.)

I could only see two little turkeys,--both on the floor of the

second-story parlor in the chicken-house, both flat on their backs and

gasping. Melindy did not know what ailed them; so I picked them up,

slung them in my pocket-handkerchief, and took them home for Peggy to

manipulate. I heard Melindy chuckle as I walked off, swinging them;

and to be sure, when I brought the creatures in to Peggy, one of them

kicked and lay still, and the other gasped worse than ever.

"What can we do?" asked Peggy, in the most plaintive voice, as the

feeble "week! week!" of the little turkey was gasped out, more feebly

every time.

"Give it some whiskey-punch!" growled Peter, whose strict temperance

principles were shocked by the remedies prescribed for Peggy's ague.

"So I would," said Kate, demurely.

Now if Peggy had one trait more striking than another, it was her

perfect, simple faith in what people said; irony was a mystery to her;

lying, a myth,--something on a par with murder. She thought Kate meant

so; and reaching out for the pretty wicker-flask that contained her

daily ration of old Scotch whiskey, she dropped a little drop into a

spoon, diluted it with water, and was going to give it to the turkey

in all seriousness, when Kate exclaimed,--

"Peggy! when will you learn common sense? Who ever heard of giving

whiskey to a turkey?"

"Why, you told me to, Kate!"

"Oh, give it to the thing!" growled Peter; "it will die, of course."

"I shall give it!" said Peggy, resolutely; "it does _me_ good,

and I will try."

So I held the little creature up, while Peggy carefully tipped the

dose down its throat. How it choked, kicked, and began again with

"week! week!" when it meant "strong!" but it revived. Peggy held it in

the sun till it grew warm, gave it a drop more, fed it with

bread-crumbs from her own plate, and laid it on the south

window-sill. There it lay when we went to tea; when we came back, it

lay on the floor, dead; either it was tipsy, or it had tried its new

strength too soon, and, rolling off, had broken its neck! Poor Peggy!

There were six more hatched the next day, though, and I held many

consultations with Melindy about their welfare. Truth to tell, Kate

continued so cool to me, Peter's sprained ankle lasted so long, and

Peggy could so well spare me from the little matrimonial

_tête-à-têtes_ that I interrupted, (I believe they didn't mind

Kate!) that I took wonderfully to the chickens. Mrs. Tucker gave me

rye-bread and milk of the best; "father" instructed me in the

mysteries of cattle-driving; and Melindy, and Joe, and I, used to go

strawberrying, or after "posies," almost every day. Melindy was a very

pretty girl, and it was very good fun to see her blue eyes open and

her red lips laugh over my European experiences. Really, I began to be

of some importance at the farm-house, and to take airs upon myself, I

suppose; but I was not conscious of the fact at the time.

After a week or two, Melindy and I began to have bad luck with the

turkeys. I found two drenched and shivering, after a hail-and-thunder

storm, and setting them in a basket on the cooking-stove hearth, went

to help Melindy "dress her bow-pot," as she called arranging a vase of

flowers, and when I came back the little turkeys were singed; they

died a few hours after. Two more were trodden on by a great Shanghai

rooster, who was so tall he could not see where he set his feet down;

and of the remaining pair, one disappeared mysteriously,--supposed to

be rats; and one falling into the duck-pond, Melindy began to dry it

in her apron, and I went to help her; I thought, as I was rubbing the

thing down with the apron, while she held it, that I had found one of

her soft dimpled hands, and I gave the luckless turkey such a tender

pressure that it uttered a miserable squeak and departed this

life. Melindy all but cried. I laughed irresistibly. So there were no

more turkeys. Peggy began to wonder what they should do for the proper

Thanksgiving dinner, and Peter turned restlessly on his sofa, quite

convinced that everything was going to rack and ruin because he had a

sprained ankle.

"Can't we buy some young turkeys?" timidly suggested Peggy.

"Of course, if one knew who had them to sell," retorted Peter.

"I know," said I; "Mrs. Amzi Peters, up on the hill over Taunton, has

got some."

"Who told you about Mrs. Peters's turkeys, Cousin Sam?" said Peggy,

wondering.

"Melindy," said I, quite innocently.

Peter whistled, Peggy laughed, Kate darted a keen glance at me under

her long lashes.

"I know the way there," said mademoiselle, in a suspiciously bland

tone. "Can't you drive there with me, Cousin Sam, and get some more?"

"I shall be charmed," said I.

Peter rang the bell and ordered the horse to be ready in the

single-seated wagon, after dinner. I was going right down to the

farm-house to console Melindy, and take her a book she wanted to read,

for no fine lady of all my New York acquaintance enjoyed a good book

more than she did; but Cousin Kate asked me to wind some yarn for her,

and was so brilliant, so amiable, so altogether charming, I quite

forgot Melindy till dinner-time, and then, when that was over, there

was a basket to be found, and we were off,--turkey-hunting! Down

hill-sides overhung with tasselled chestnut-boughs; through pine-woods

where neither horse nor wagon intruded any noise of hoof or wheel upon

the odorous silence, as we rolled over the sand, past green meadows,

and sloping orchards; over little bright brooks that chattered

musically to the bobolinks on the fence-posts, and were echoed by

those sacerdotal gentlemen in such liquid, bubbling, rollicking,

uproarious bursts of singing as made one think of Anacreon's

grasshopper

"Drunk with morning's dewy wine."

All these we passed, and at length drew up before Mrs. Peters's

house. I had been here before, on a strawberrying stroll with

Melindy,--(across lots it was not far,)--and having been asked in

then, and entertained the lady with a recital of some foreign exploit,

garnished for the occasion, of course she recognized me with clamorous

hospitality.

"Why how do yew do, Mister Greene? I declare I ha'n't done a-thinkin'

of that 'ere story you told us the day you was here, 'long o'

Melindy." (Kate gave an ominous little cough.) "I was a-tellin'

husband yesterday 't I never see sech a master hand for stories as you

be. Well, yis, we hev _got_ turkeys, young 'uns; but my stars! I

don't know no more where they be than nothin'; they've strayed away

into the woods, I guess, and I do'no' as the boys can skeer 'em up;

besides, the boys is to school; h'm--yis! Where did you and Melindy

go that day arter berries?"

"Up in the pine-lot, ma'am. You think you can't let us have the

turkeys?"

"Dew tell ef you went up there! It's near about the sightliest place I

ever see. Well, no,--I don't see how's to ketch them turkeys. Miss

Bemont, she't lives over on Woodchuck Hill, she's got a lot o' little

turkeys in a coop; I guess you'd better go 'long over there, an' ef

you can't get none o' her'n, by that time our boys'll be to hum, an'

I'll set 'em arter our'n; they'll buckle right to; it's good sport

huntin' little turkeys; an' I guess you'll hev to stop, comin' home,

so's to let me know ef you'll hev 'em."

Off we drove. I stood in mortal fear of Mrs. Peters's tongue,--and

Kate's comments; but she did not make any; she was even more charming

than before. Presently we came to the pine-lot, where Melindy and I

had been, and I drew the reins. I wanted to see Kate's enjoyment of a

scene that Kensett or Church should have made immortal long ago:--a

wide stretch of hill and valley, quivering with cornfields, rolled

away in pasture lands, thick with sturdy woods, or dotted over with

old apple-trees, whose dense leaves caught the slant sunshine, glowing

on their tops, and deepening to a dark, velvety green below, and far,

far away, on the broad blue sky, the lurid splendors of a

thunder-cloud, capped with pearly summits, tower upon tower, sharply

defined against the pure ether, while in its purple base forked

lightnings sped to and fro, and revealed depths of waiting tempest

that could not yet descend. Kate looked on, and over the superb

picture.

"How magnificent!" was all she said, in a deep, low tone, her dark

cheek flushing with the words. Melindy and I had looked off there

together. "It's real good land to farm," had been the sweet little

rustic's comment. How charming are nature and simplicity!

Presently we came to Mrs. Bemont's, a brown house in a cluster of

maples; the door-yard full of chickens, turkeys, ducks, and

geese. Kate took the reins, and I knocked. Mrs. Bemont herself

appeared, wiping her red, puckered hands on a long brown towel.

"Can you let me have some of your young turkeys, ma'am?" said I,

insinuatingly.

"Well, I do'no';--want to eat 'em or raise 'em?"

"Both, I believe," was my meek answer.

"I do'no' 'bout lettin' on 'em go; 'ta'n't no gret good to sell 'em

after all the risks is over; they git their own livin' pretty much

now, an' they'll be wuth twice as much by'm'by."

"I suppose so; but Mrs. Smith's turkeys have all died, and she likes

to raise them."

"Dew tell, ef you han't come from Miss Peter Smith's! Well, she'd

oughter do gret things with that 'ere meetin'-'us o' her'n for the

chickens; it's kinder genteel-lookin', and I spose they've got means;

they've got ability. Gentility without ability I do despise; but where

't'a'n't so, 't'a'n't no matter; but I'xpect it don't ensure the

faowls none, doos it?"

"I rather think not," said I, laughing; "that is the reason we want

some of yours."

"Well, I should think you could hev some on 'em. What be you

calc'latin' to give?"

"Whatever you say. I do not know at all the market price."

"Good land! 't'a'n't never no use to try to dicker with city folks;

they a'n't use to't. I'xpect you can hev 'em for two York shillin'

apiece."

"But how will you catch them?"

"Oh, I'll ketch 'em, easy!"

She went into the house and reappeared presently with a pan of Indian

meal and water, called the chickens, and in a moment they were all

crowding in and over the unexpected supper.

"Now you jes' take a bit o' string an' tie that 'ere turkey's legs

together; 'twon't stir, I'll ensure it!"

Strange to say, the innocent creature stood still and eat, while I

tied it up; all unconscious till it tumbled neck and heels into the

pan, producing a start and scatter of brief duration. Kate had left

the wagon, and was shaking with laughter over this extraordinary

goodness on the turkeys' part, and before long our basket was full of

struggling, kicking, squeaking things, "werry promiscuous," in

Mr. Weller's phrase. Mrs. Bemont was paid, and while she was giving me

the change,--

"Oh!" said she, "you're goin' right to Miss Tucker's, a'n't ye?--got

to drop the turkeys;--won't you tell Miss Tucker 't George is comin'

home tomorrer, an' he's ben to Californy. She know'd us allers, and

Melindy 'n' George used ter be dre'ful thick 'fore he went off, a good

spell back, when they was nigh about childern; so I guess you'd better

tell 'em."

"Confound these turkeys!" muttered I, as I jumped over the basket.

"Why?" said Kate, "I suspect they are confounded enough already!"

"They make such a noise, Kate!"

So they did; "week! week! week!" all the way, like a colony from some

spring-waked pool.

"Their song might be compared

To the croaking of frogs in a pond!"

The drive was lovelier than before. The road crept and curled down

the hill, now covered from side to side with the interlacing boughs of

grand old chestnuts; now barriered on the edge of a ravine with broken

fragments and boulders of granite, garlanded by heavy vines; now

skirting orchards full of promise; and all the way companied by a tiny

brook, veiled deeply in alder and hazel thickets, and making in its

shadowy channel perpetual muffled music, like a child singing in the

twilight to reassure its half-fearful heart. Kate's face was softened

and full of rich expression; her pink ribbons threw a delicate tinge

of bloom upon the rounded cheek and pensive eyelid; the air was pure

balm, and a cool breath from the receding showers of the distant

thunderstorm just freshened the odors of wood and field. I began to

feel suspiciously that sentimental, but through it all came

persevering "week! week! week!" from the basket at my feet. Did I

make a fine remark on the beauties of nature, "Week!" echoed the

turkeys. Did Kate praise some tint or shape by the way, "Week! week!"

was the feeble response. Did we get deep in poetry, romance, or

metaphysics, through the most brilliant quotation, the sublimest

climax, the most acute distinction, came in "Week! week! week!" I

began to feel as if the old story of transmigration were true, and the

souls of half a dozen quaint and ancient satirists had got into the

turkeys. I could not endure it! Was I to be squeaked out of all my

wisdom, and knowledge, and device, after this fashion? Never! I

began, too, to discover a dawning smile upon Kate's face; she turned

her head away, and I placed the turkey-basket on my knees, hoping a

change of position might quiet its contents. Never was man more at

fault! they were no way stilled by my magnetism; on the contrary, they

threw their sarcastic utterances into my teeth, as it were, and shamed

me to my very face. I forgot entirely to go round by Mrs. Peters's. I

took a cross-road directly homeward; a pause--a lull--took place among

the turkeys.

"How sweet and mystical this hour is!" said I to Kate, in a

high-flown manner; "it is indeed

"'An hour when lips delay to speak,

Oppressed with silence deep and pure;

When passion pauses--'"

"Week! week! week!" chimed in those confounded turkeys. Kate burst

into a helpless fit of laughter. What could I do? I had to laugh

myself, since I must not choke the turkeys.

"Excuse me, Cousin Sam," said Kate, in a laughter-wearied tone, "I

could not help it; turkeys and sentimentality do not agree--always!"

adding the last word maliciously, as I sprang out to open the

farm-house gate, and disclosed Melindy, framed in the buttery window,

skimming milk; a picture worthy of Wilkie. I delivered over my

captives to Joe, and stalked into the kitchen to give Mrs. Bemont's

message. Melindy came out; but as soon as I began to tell her mother

where I got that message, Miss Melindy, with the _sang froid_ of

a duchess, turned back to her skimming,--or appeared to. I gained

nothing by that move.

Peggy and Peter received us benignly; so universal a solvent is

success, even in turkey-hunting! I meant to have gone down to the

farm-house after tea, and inquired about the safety of my prizes, but

Kate wanted to play chess. Peter couldn't, and Peggy wouldn't; I had

to, of course, and we played late. Kate had such pretty hands; long

taper fingers, rounded to the tiniest rosy points; no dimples, but

full muscles, firm and exquisitely moulded; and the dainty way in

which she handled her men was half the game to me;--I lost it; I

played wretchedly. The next day Kate went with me to see the turkeys;

so she did the day after. We were forgetting Melindy, I am afraid, for

it was a week before I remembered I had promised her a new magazine. I

recollected myself; then, with a sort of shame, rolled up the number,

and went off to the farm-house. It seems Kate was there, busy in the

garret, unpacking a bureau that had been stored there, with some of

Peggy's foreign purchases, for summer wear, in the drawers. I did not

know that. I found Melindy spreading yeast-cakes to dry on a table,

just by the north end of the house; a hop-vine in full blossom made a

sort of porch-roof over the window by which she stood.

"I've brought your book, Melindy," said I.

"Thank you, sir," returned she, crisply.

"How pretty you look to-day." condescendingly remarked I.

"I don't thank you for that, sir;--

"'Praise to the face

Is open disgrace!'"

was all the response.

"Why, Melindy! what makes you so cross?" inquired I, in a tone meant

to be tenderly reproachful,--in the mean time attempting to possess

myself of her hand; for, to be honest, Polder, I had been a little

sweet to the girl before Kate drove her out of my head. The hand was

snatched away. I tried indifference.

"How are the turkeys to-day. Melindy?"

Here Joe, an _enfant terrible,_ came upon the scene suddenly.

"Them turkeys eats a lot, Mister Greene. Melindy says there's one on

'em struts jes' like you, 'n' makes as much gabble."

"Gobble! gobble! gobble!" echoed an old turkey from somewhere; I

thought it was overhead, but I saw nothing. Melindy threw her apron

over her face and laughed till her arms grew red. I picked up my hat

and walked off. For three days I kept out of that part of the Smith

demesne, I assure you! Kate began to grow mocking and derisive; she

teased me from morning till night, and the more she teased me, the

more I adored her. I was getting desperate, when one Sunday night Kate

asked me to walk down to the farm-house with her after tea, as

Mrs. Tucker was sick, and she had something to take to her. We found

the old woman sitting up in the kitchen, and as full of talk as ever,

though an unlucky rheumatism kept her otherwise quiet.

"How do the turkeys come on, Mrs. Tucker?" said I, by way of

conversation.

"Well, I declare, you han't heerd about them turkeys, hev ye? You see

they was doin' fine, and father he went off to salt for a spell, so's

to see'f 'twouldn't stop a complaint he's got,--I do'no' but it's a

spine in the back,--makes him kinder' faint by spells, so's he loses

his conscientiousness all to once; so he left the chickens 'n' things

for Melindy to boss, 'n' she got somethin' else into her head, 'n' she

left the door open one night, and them ten turkeys they up and run

away, I'xpect they took to the woods, 'fore Melindy brought to mind

how't she hadn't shut the door. She's set out fur to hunt 'em. I

shouldn't wonder'f she was out now, seein' it's arter sundown."

"She a'n't nuther!" roared the terrible Joe, from behind the door,

where he had retreated at my coming. "She's settin' on a flour-barrel

down by the well, an' George Bemont's a-huggin' on her"

Good gracious! what a slap Mrs. Tucker fetched that unlucky child,

with a long brown towel that hung at hand! and how he howled! while

Kate exploded with laughter, in spite of her struggles to keep quiet.

"He _is_ the dre'fullest boy!" whined Mrs. Tucker. "Melindy tells

how he sassed you 'tother day, Mr. Greene. I shall hev to tewtor that

boy; he's got to hev the rod, I guess!"

I bade Mrs. Tucker good night, for Kate was already out of the door,

and, before I knew what she was about, had taken a by-path in sight of

the well; and there, to be sure, sat Melindy, on a prostrate

flour-barrel that was rolled to the foot of the big apple-tree,

twirling her fingers in pretty embarrassment, and held on her insecure

perch by the stout arm of George Bemont, a handsome brown fellow,

evidently very well content just now.

"Pretty,--isn't it?" said Kate.

"Very,--quite pastoral," sniffed I.

We were sitting round the open door an hour after, listening to a

whippoorwill, and watching the slow moon rise over a hilly range just

east of Centreville, when that elvish little "week! week!" piped out

of the wood that lay behind the house.

"That is hopeful," said Kate; "I think Melindy and George must have

tracked the turkeys to their haunt, and scared them homeward."

"George--who?" said Peggy.

"George Bemont; it seems he is--what is your Connecticut

phrase?--sparkin' Melindy."

"I'm very glad; he is a clever fellow," said Peter.

"And she is such a very pretty girl," continued Peggy,--"so

intelligent and graceful; don't you think so, Sam?"

"Aw, yes, well enough for a rustic," said I, languidly. "I never could

endure red hair, though!"

Kate stopped on the door-sill; she had risen to go up stairs.

"Gobble! gobble! gobble!" mocked she. I had heard that once before!

Peter and Peggy roared;--they knew it all;--I was sold!

"Cure me of Kate Stevens?" Of course it did. I never saw her again

without wanting to fight shy, I was so sure of an allusion to

turkeys. No, I took the first down train. There are more pretty girls

in New York, twice over, than there are in Centreville, I console

myself; but, by George! Polder, Kate Stevens was charming!--Look out

there! don't meddle with the skipper's coils of rope! can't you sleep

on deck without a pillow?

ROBIN HOOD.

There is no one of the royal heroes of England that enjoys a more

enviable reputation than the bold outlaw of Barnsdale and

Sherwood. His chance for a substantial immortality is at least as good

as that of stout Lion-Heart, wild Prince Hal, or merry Charles. His

fame began with the yeomanry full five hundred years ago, was

constantly increasing for two or three centuries, has extended to all

classes of society, and, with some changes of aspect, is as great as

ever. Bishops, sheriffs, and game-keepers, the only enemies he ever

had, have relinquished their ancient grudges, and Englishmen would be

almost as loath to surrender his exploits as any part of the national

glory. His free life in the woods, his unerring eye and strong arm,

his open hand and love of fair play, his never forgotten courtesy, his

respect for women and devotion to Mary, form a picture eminently

healthful and agreeable to the imagination, and commend him to the

hearty favor of all genial minds.

But securely established as Robin Hood is in popular esteem, his

historical position is by no means well ascertained, and his actual

existence has been a subject of shrewd doubt and discussion. "A tale

of Robin Hood" is an old proverb for the idlest of stories; yet all

the materials at our command for making up an opinion on these

questions are precisely of this description. They consist, that is to

say, of a few ballads of unknown antiquity. These ballads, or others

like them, are clearly the authority upon which the statements of the

earlier chroniclers who take notice of Robin Hood are founded. They

are also, to all appearance, the original source of the numerous and

wide-spread traditions concerning him; which, unless the contrary can

be shown, must be regarded, according to the almost universal rule in

such cases, as having been suggested by the very legends to which, in

the vulgar belief, they afford an irresistible confirmation.

Various periods, ranging from the time of Richard the First to near

the end of the reign of Edward the Second, have been selected by

different writers as the age of Robin Hood; but (excepting always the

most ancient ballads, which may possibly be placed within these

limits) no mention whatever is made of him in literature before the

latter half of the reign of Edward the Third. "Rhymes of Robin Hood"

are then spoken of by the author of "Piers Ploughman" (assigned to

about 1362) as better known to idle fellows than pious songs, and from

the manner of the allusion it is a just inference that such rhymes

were at that time no novelties. The next notice is in Wyntown's

Scottish Chronicle, written about 1420, where the following lines

occur--without any connection, and in the form of an entry--under the

year 1283:--

"Lytil Jhon and Robyne Hude

Wayth-men ware commendyd gude:

In Yngil-wode and Barnysdale

Thai oysyd all this tyme thare trawale."[1]

At last we encounter Robin Hood in what may be called history; first

of all in a passage of the "Scotichronicon," often quoted, and highly

curious as containing the earliest theory upon this subject. The

"Scotichronicon" was written partly by Fordun, canon of Aberdeen,

between 1377 and 1384, and partly by his pupil Bower, abbot of

St. Columba, about 1450. Fordun has the character of a man of judgment

and research, and any statement or opinion delivered by him would be

entitled to respect. Of Bower not so much can be said. He largely

interpolated the work of his master, and sometimes with the absurdest

fictions.[2] _Among his interpolations_, and forming, it is

important to observe, _no part of the original text_, is a

passage translated as follows. It is inserted immediately after

Fordun's account of the defeat of Simon de Montfort, and the

punishments inflicted on his adherents.

"At this time, [_sc_. 1266,] from the number of those who had

been deprived of their estates arose the celebrated bandit Robert

Hood, (with Little John and their accomplices,) whose achievements the

foolish vulgar delight to celebrate in comedies and tragedies, while

the ballads upon his adventures sung by the jesters and minstrels are

preferred to all others.

"Some things to his honor are also related, as appears from this. Once

on a time, when, having incurred the anger of the king and the prince,

he could hear mass nowhere but in Barnsdale, while he was devoutly

occupied with the service, (for this was his wont, nor would he ever

suffer it to be interrupted for the most pressing occasion,) he was

surprised by a certain sheriff and officers of the king, who had often

troubled him before, in the secret place in the woods where he was

engaged in worship as aforesaid. Some of his men, who had taken the

alarm, came to him and begged him to fly with all speed. This, out of

reverence for the host, which he was then most devoutly adoring, he

positively refused to do. But while the rest of his followers were

trembling for their lives, Robert, confiding in Him whom he

worshipped, fell on his enemies with a few who chanced to be with him,

and easily got the better of them; and having enriched himself with

their plunder and ransom, he was led from that time forth to hold

ministers of the church and masses in greater veneration than ever,

mindful of the common saying, that

"'God hears the man who often hears the mass.'"

In another place Bower writes to the same effect: "In this year [1266]

the dispossessed barons of England and the royalists were engaged in

fierce hostilities. Among the former, Roger Mortimer occupied the

Welsh marches, and John Daynil the Isle of Ely. Robert Hood was now

living in outlawry among the woodland copses and thickets."

Mair, a Scottish writer of the first quarter of the sixteenth century,

the next historian who takes cognizance of our hero, and the only

other that requires any attention, has a passage which may be

considered in connection with the foregoing. In his "Historia Majoris

Britanniae" he remarks, under the reign of Richard the First: "About

this time [1189-99], as I conjecture, the notorious robbers, Robert

Hood of England and Little John, lurked in the woods, spoiling the

goods only of rich men. They slew nobody but those who attacked them,

or offered resistance in defence of their property. Robert maintained

by his plunder a hundred archers, so skilful in fight that four

hundred brave men feared to attack them. He suffered no woman to be

maltreated, and never robbed the poor, but assisted them abundantly

with the wealth which he took from abbots."

It appears, then, that contemporaneous history is absolutely silent

concerning Robin Hood; that, excepting the casual allusion in "Piers

Ploughman," he is first mentioned by a rhyming chronicler who wrote

one hundred years after the latest date at which he can possibly be

supposed to have lived, and then by two prose chroniclers who wrote

about one hundred and twenty-five years and two hundred years

respectively after that date; and it is further manifest that all

three of these chroniclers had no other authority for their statements

than traditional tales similar to those which have come down to our

day. When, therefore, Thierry, relying upon these chronicles and

kindred popular legends, unhesitatingly adopts the conjecture of Mair,

and describes Robin Hood as the hero of the Saxon serfs, the chief of

a troop of Saxon banditti, that continued, even to the reign of Coeur

de Lion, a determined resistance against the Norman invaders,[3]--and

when another able and plausible writer accepts and maintains, with

equal confidence, the hypothesis of Bower, and exhibits the renowned

outlaw as an adherent of Simon de Montfort, who, after the fatal

battle of Evesham, kept up a vigorous guerilla warfare against the

officers of the tyrant Henry the Third, and of his successor,[4] we

must regard these representations, which were conjectural three or

four centuries ago, as conjectures still, and even as arbitrary

conjectures, unless one or the other can be proved from the only

_authorities_ we have, the ballads, to have a peculiar intrinsic

probability. That neither of them possesses this intrinsic probability

may easily be shown; but first it will be advisable to notice another

theory, which is more plausibly founded on internal evidence, and

claims to be confirmed by documents of unimpeachable validity.

This theory has been propounded by the Rev. John Hunter, in one of his

"Critical and Historical Tracts."[5] Mr. Hunter admits that Robin

Hood "lives only as a hero of song"; that he is not found in authentic

contemporary chronicles; and that, when we find him mentioned in

history, "the information was derived from the ballads, and is not

independent of them or correlative with them." While making these

admissions, he accords a considerable degree of credibility to the

ballads, and particularly to the "Lytell Geste," the last two

_fits_ of which he regards as giving a tolerably accurate account

of real occurrences.

In this part of the story King Edward is represented as coming to

Nottingham to take Robin Hood. He traverses Lancashire and a part of

Yorkshire, and finds his forests nearly stripped of their deer, but

can get no trace of the author of these extensive depredations. At

last, by the advice of one of his foresters, assuming with several of

his knights the dress of a monk, he proceeds from Nottingham to

Sherwood, and there soon encounters the object of his search. He

submits to plunder as a matter of course, and then announces himself

as a messenger sent to invite Robin Hood to the royal presence. The

outlaw receives this message with great respect. There is no man in

the world, he says, whom he loves so much as his king. The monk is

invited to remain and dine; and after the repast an exhibition of

archery is ordered, in which a bad shot is to be punished by a buffet

from the hand of the chieftain. Robin, having himself once failed of

the mark, requests the monk to administer the penalty. He receives a

staggering blow, which rouses his suspicions, recognizes the king on

an attentive consideration of his countenance, entreats grace for

himself and his followers, and is freely pardoned on condition that he

and they shall enter into the king's service. To this he agrees, and

for fifteen months resides at court. At the end of this time he has

lost all his followers but two, and spent all his money, and feels

that he shall pine to death with sorrow in such a life. He returns

accordingly to the greenwood, collects his old followers around him,

and for twenty-two years maintains his independence in defiance of the

power of Edward.

Without asserting the literal verity of all the particulars of this

narrative, Mr. Hunter attempts to show that it contains a substratum

of fact. Edward the First, he informs us, was never in Lancashire

after he became king; and if Edward the Third was ever there at all,

it was not in the early years of his reign. But Edward the Second did

make one single progress in Lancashire, and this in the year 1323.

During this progress the king spent some time at Nottingham, and took

particular note of the condition of his forests, and among these of

the forest of Sherwood. Supposing now that the incidents detailed in

the "Lytell Geste" really took place at this time, Robin Hood must

have entered into the royal service before the end of the year

1353. It is a singular, and in the opinion of Mr. Hunter a very

pregnant coincidence, that in certain Exchequer documents, containing

accounts of expenses in the king's household, the name of Robyn Hode

(or Robert Hood) is found several times, beginning with the 24th of

March, 1324, among the "porters of the chamber" of the king. He

received, with Simon Hood and others, the wages of three pence a

day. In August of the following year Robin Hood suffers deduction from

his pay for non-attendance, his absences grow frequent, and on the 22d

of November he is discharged with a present of five shillings,

"_poar cas qil ne poait pluis travailler_."[6]

It remains still for Mr. Hunter to account for the existence of a band

of seven score of outlaws in the reign of Edward the Second, in or

about Yorkshire. The stormy and troublous reigns of the Plantagenets

make this a matter of no difficulty. Running his finger down the long

list of rebellions and commotions, he finds that early in 1322 England

was convulsed by the insurrection of Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, the

king's near relation, supported by many powerful noblemen. The Earl's

chief seat was the castle of Pontefract, in the West Riding of

Yorkshire. He is said to have been popular, and it would be a fair

inference that many of his troops were raised in this part of England.

King Edward easily got the better of the rebels, and took exemplary

vengeance upon them. Many of the leaders were at once put to death,

and the lives of all their partisans were in danger. Is it impossible,

then, asks Mr. Hunter, that some who had been in the army of the Earl

secreted themselves in the woods, and turned their skill in archery

against the king's subjects or the king's deer? "that these were the

men who for so long a time haunted Barnsdale and Sherwood, and that

Robin Hood was one of them, a chief amongst them, being really of a

rank originally somewhat superior to the rest?"

We have, then, three different hypotheses concerning Robin Hood: one

placing him in the reign of Richard the First, another in that of

Henry the Third, and the last under Edward the Second, and all

describing him as a political foe to the established government. To

all of these hypotheses there are two very obvious and decisive

objections. The first is, that Robin Hood, as already remarked, is not

so much as named in contemporary history. Whether as the unsubdued

leader of the Saxon peasantry, or insurgent against the tyranny of

Henry or Edward, it is inconceivable that we should not hear something

of him from the chroniclers. If, as Thierry says, "he had chosen

Hereward for his model," it is unexplained and inexplicable why his

historical fate has been so different from that of Hereward. The hero

of the Camp of Refuge fills an ample place in the annals of his day;

his achievements are also handed down in a prose romance, which

presents many points of resemblance to the ballads of Robin Hood. It

would have been no wonder, if the vulgar legends about Hereward had

utterly perished; but it is altogether anomalous that a popular

champion[7] who attained so extraordinary a notoriety in song, a man

living from one hundred to two hundred and fifty years later than

Hereward, should be passed over without one word of notice from any

authoritative historian.[8] That this would not be so we are most

fortunately able to demonstrate by reference to a real case which

furnishes a singularly exact parallel to the present,--that of the

famous outlaw, Adam Gordon. In the year 1267, says the continuator of

Matthew Paris, a soldier by the name of Adam Gordon, who had lost his

estates with other adherents of Simon de Montfort, and refused to seek

the mercy of the king, established himself with others in like

circumstances near a woody and tortuous road between the village of

Wilton and the castle of Farnham, from which position he made forays

into the country round about, directing his attacks especially against

those who were of the king's party. Prince Edward had heard much of

the prowess and honorable character of this man, and desired to have

some personal knowledge of him. He succeeded in surprising Gordon

with a superior force, and engaged him in single combat, forbidding

any of his own followers to interfere. They fought a long time, and

the prince was so filled with admiration of the courage and spirit of

his antagonist, that he promised him life and fortune on condition of

his surrendering. To these terms Gordon acceded, his estates were

restored, and Edward found him ever after an attached and faithful

servant.[9] The story is romantic, and yet Adam Gordon was not made

the subject of ballads. _Caruit vate sacro_. The contemporary

historians, however, all have a paragraph for him. He is celebrated

by Wikes, the Chronicle of Dunstaple, the Waverley Annals, and we know

not where else besides.

But these theories are open to an objection stronger even than the

silence of history. They are contradicted by the spirit of the

ballads. No line of these songs breathes political animosity. There is

no suggestion or reminiscence of wrong, from invading Norman, or from

the established sovereign. On the contrary, Robin loved no man in the

world so well as his king. What the tone of these ballads would have

been, had Robin Hood been any sort of partisan, we may judge from the

mournful and indignant strains which were poured out on the fall of De

Montfort. We should have heard of the fatal field of Hastings, of the

perfidy of Henry, of the sanguinary revenge of Edward,--and not of

matches at archery and encounters at quarter-staff, the plundering of

rich abbots and squabbles with the sheriff. The Robin Hood of our

ballads is neither patriot under ban, nor proscribed rebel. An outlaw

indeed he is, but an "outlaw for venyson," like Adam Bell, and one who

superadds to deer-stealing the irregularity of a genteel

highway-robbery.

Thus much of these conjectures in general. To recur to the particular

evidence by which Mr. Hunter's theory is supported, this consists

principally in the name of Robin Hood being found among the king's

servants shortly after Edward the Second returned from his visit to

the north of his dominions. But the value of this coincidence depends

entirely upon the rarity of the name.[10] Now Hood, as Mr. Hunter

himself remarks, is a well-established hereditary name in the reigns

of the Edwards. We find it very frequently in the indexes to the

Record Publications, and this although it does not belong to the

higher class of people. That Robert was an ordinary Christian name

requires no proof; and if it was, the combination of Robert Hood must

have been frequent also. We have taken no extraordinary pains to hunt

up this combination, for really the matter is altogether too trivial

to justify the expense of time; but since to some minds much may

depend on the coincidence in question, we will cite several Robin

Hoods in the reigns of the Edwards.

28th Ed. I. Robert Hood, a citizen of London, says Mr. Hunter,

supplied the king's household with beer.

30th Ed. I. Robert Hood is sued for three acres of pasture land in

Throckley, Northumberland. (_Rot. Orig. Abbrev._)

7th Ed. II. Robert Hood is surety for a burgess returned for

Lostwithiel, Cornwall. (_Parliamentary Writs_.)

9th Ed. II. Robert Hood is a citizen of Wakefield, Yorkshire, whom Mr.

Hunter (p. 47) "may be justly charged with carrying supposition too

far" in striving to identify with Robin the porter.

10th Ed. III. A Robert Hood, of Howden, York, is mentioned in the

_Calendarium Rot. Patent_.

Adding the Robin Hood of the 17th Ed. II. we have six persons of that

name mentioned within a period of less than forty years, and this

circumstance does not dispose us to receive with great favor any

argument that may be founded upon one individual case of its

occurrence. But there is no end to the absurdities which flow from

this supposition. We are to believe that the weak and timid prince,

that had severely punished his kinsman and his nobles, freely pardoned

a yeoman, who, after serving with the rebels, had for twenty months

made free with the king's deer and robbed on the highway,--and not

only pardoned him, but received him into service _near his

person_. We are further to believe that the man who had led so

daring and jovial a life, and had so generously dispensed the pillage

of opulent monks, willingly entered into this service, doffed his

Lincoln green for the Plantagenet plush, and _consented_ to be

enrolled among royal flunkies for three pence a day. And again,

admitting all this, we are finally obliged by Mr. Hunter's document to

concede that the stalworth archer (who, according to the ballad,

maintained himself two-and-twenty years in the wood) was worn out by

his duties as "proud porter" in less than two years, and was

discharged a superannuated lackey, with five shillings in his pocket,

_"poar cas qil ne poait pluis travailler"!_

To those who are well acquainted with ancient popular poetry the

adventure of King Edward and Robin Hood will seem the least eligible

portion of this circle of story for the foundation of an historical

theory. The ballad of King Edward and Robin Hood is but one version of

an extremely multiform legend, of which the tales of "King Edward and

the Shepherd" and "King Edward and the Hermit" are other specimens;

and any one who will take the trouble to examine will be convinced

that all these stories are one and the same thing, the personages

being varied for the sake of novelty, and the name of a recent or of

the reigning monarch substituted in successive ages for that of a

predecessor.

Rejecting, then, as nugatory, every attempt to assign Robin Hood a

definite position in history, what view shall we adopt? Are all these

traditions absolute fictions, and is he himself a pure creation of the

imagination? Might not the ballads under consideration have a basis in

the exploits of a real person, living in the forests, _somewhere_ and

_at some time?_ Or, denying individual existence to Robin Hood, and

particular truth to the adventures ascribed to him, may we not regard

him as the ideal of the outlaw class, a class so numerous in all the

countries of Europe in the Middle Ages? We are perfectly contented to

form no opinion upon the subject; but if compelled to express one, we

should say that this last supposition (which is no novelty) possessed

decidedly more likelihood than any other. Its plausibility will be

confirmed by attending to the apparent signification of the name Robin

Hood. The natural refuge and stronghold of the outlaw was the

woods. Hence he is termed by Latin writers _silvatious,_ by the

Normans _forestier_. The Anglo-Saxon robber or highwayman is called a

woodrover _wealdgenga,_ and the Norse word for outlaw is exactly

equivalent.[11] It has often been suggested that Robin Hood is a

corruption, or dialectic form, of Robin of the Wood; and when we

remember that _wood_ is pronounced _hood_ in some parts of

England,[12] (as _whoop_ is pronounced _hoop_ everywhere,) and that

the outlaw bears in so many languages a name descriptive of his

habitation, this notion will not seem an idle fancy.

Various circumstances, however, have disposed writers of learning to

look farther for a solution of the question before us. Mr. Wright

propounds an hypothesis that Robin Hood "one among the personages of

the early mythology of the Teutonic peoples"; and a German

scholar,[13] in an exceedingly interesting article which throws much

light on the history of English sports, has endeavored to show

specifically that he is in name and substance one with the god

Woden. The arguments by which these views are supported, though in

their present shape very far from convincing, are entitled to a

respectful consideration.

The most important of these arguments are those which are based on the

peculiar connection between Robin Hood and the month of

May. Mr. Wright has justly remarked, that either an express mention of

this month, or a vivid description of the season, in the older

ballads, shows that the feats of the hero were generally performed

during this part of the year. Thus, the adventure of "Robin Hood and

the Monk" befell on "a morning of May." "Robin Hood and the Potter"

and "Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne" begin, like "Robin Hood and the

Monk," with a description of the season when leaves are long, blossoms

are shooting, and the small birds are singing; and this season, though

called summer, is at the same time spoken of as May in "Robin Hood and

the Monk," which, from the description there given, it needs must be.

The liberation of Cloudesly by Adam Bel and Clym of the Clough is also

achieved "on a merry morning of May."

Robin Hood is, moreover, intimately associated with the month of May

through the games which were celebrated at that time of the year. The

history of these games is unfortunately very defective, and hardly

extends farther back than the beginning of the sixteenth century. By

that time their primitive character seems to have been corrupted, or

at least their significance was so far forgotten, that distinct

pastimes and ceremonials were capriciously intermixed. At the

beginning of the sixteenth century the May sports in vogue were,

besides a contest of archery, four _pageants_,--the Kingham, or

election of a Lord and Lady of the May, otherwise called Summer King

and Queen, the Morris-Dance, the Hobby-Horse, and the "Robin Hood."

Though these pageants were diverse in their origin, they had, at the

epoch of which we write, begun to be confounded; and the Morris

exhibited a tendency to absorb and blend them all, as, from its

character, being a procession interspersed with dancing, it easily

might do. We shall hardly find the Morris pure and simple in the

English May-game; but from a comparison of the two earliest

representations which we have of this sport, the Flemish print given

by Douce in his "Illustrations of Shakspeare," and Tollett's

celebrated painted window, (described in Johnson and Steevens's

Shakspeare,) we may form an idea of what was essential and what

adventitious in the English spectacle. The Lady is evidently the

central personage in both. She is, we presume, the same as the Queen

of May, who is the oldest of all the characters in the May games, and

the apparent successor to the Goddess of Spring in the Roman

Floralia. In the English Morris she is called simply The Lady, or more

frequently Maid Marian, a name which, to our apprehension, means Lady

of the May, and nothing more.[14] A fool and a taborer seem also to

have been indispensable; but the other dancers had neither names nor

peculiar offices, and were unlimited in number. The Morris, then,

though it lost in allegorical significance, would gain considerably in

spirit and variety by combining with the other shows. Was it not

natural, therefore, and in fact inevitable, that the old favorites of

the populace, Robin Hood, Friar Tuck, and Little John, should in the

course of time displace three of the anonymous performers in the show?

This they had pretty effectually done at the beginning of the

sixteenth century; and the Lady, who had accepted the more precise

designation of Maid Marian, was after that generally regarded as the

consort of Robin Hood, though she sometimes appeared in the Morris

without him. In like manner, the Hobby-Horse was quite early adopted

into the Morris, of which it formed no original part, and at last even

a Dragon was annexed to the company. Under these circumstances we

cannot be surprised to find the principal performers in the May

pageants passing the one into the other,--to find the May King, whose

occupation was gone when the gallant outlaw had supplanted him in the

favor of the Lady, assuming the part of the Hobby-Horse,[15] Robin

Hood usurping the title of King of the May,[16] and the Hobby-Horse

entering into a contest with the Dragon, as St. George.

We feel obliged to regard this interchange of functions among the

characters in the English May-pageants as fortuitous, notwithstanding

the coincidence of the May King sometimes appearing on horseback in

Germany, and notwithstanding our conviction that Kuhn is right in

maintaining that the May King, the Hobby-Horse, and the Dragon-Slayer

are symbols of one mythical idea. This idea we are compelled by want

of space barely to state, with the certainty of doing injustice to the

learning and ingenuity with which the author has supported his

views. Kuhn has shown it to be extremely probable, first, that the

Christmas games, which both in Germany and England have a close

resemblance to those of Spring, are to be considered as a prelude to

the May sports, and that they both originally symbolized the victory

of Summer over Winter,[17] which, beginning at the winter solstice, is

completed in the second month of spring; secondly, that the conquering

Summer is represented by the May King, or by the Hobby-Horse (as also

by the Dragon-Slayer, whether St. George, Siegfried, Apollo, or the

Sanskrit Indras); and thirdly, that the Hobby-Horse in particular

represents the god Woden, who, as well as Mars [18] among the Romans,

is the god at once of Spring and of Victory.

The essential point, all this being admitted, is now to establish the

identity of Robin Hood and the Hobby-Horse. This we think we have

shown cannot be done by reasoning founded on the early history of the

games under consideration. Kuhn relies principally upon two modern

accounts of Christmas pageants. In one of these pageants there is

introduced a man on horseback, who carries in his hands a bow and

arrows. The other furnishes nothing peculiar except a name: the

ceremony is called a _hoodening,_ and the hobby-horse a

_hooden_. In the rider with bow and arrows Kuhn sees Robin Hood

and the Hobby-Horse, and in the name _hooden_ (which is explained

by the authority he quotes to mean wooden) he discovers a provincial

form of wooden, which connects the outlaw and the divinity.[19] It

will be generally agreed that these slender premises are totally

inadequate to support the weighty conclusion that is rested upon them.

Why the adventures of Robin Hood should be specially assigned, as they

are in the old ballads, to the month of May, remains unexplained. We

have no exquisite reason to offer, but we may perhaps find reason good

enough in the delicious stanzas with which some of these ballads

begin.

"In summer when the shawès be sheen,

And leavès be large and long,

It is full merry in fair forèst

To hear the fowlès song;

To see the deer draw to the dale,

And leave the hillès hee,

And shadow them in the leavès green

Under the green-wood tree."

The poetical character of the season affords all the explanation that

is required.

Nor need the occurrence of exhibitions of archery and of the Robin

Hood plays and pageants, at this time of the year, occasion any

difficulty. Repeated statutes, from the thirteenth to the sixteenth

century, enjoined practice with the bow, and ordered that the leisure

time of holidays should be employed for this purpose. Under Henry the

Eighth the custom was still kept up, and those who partook in this

exercise often gave it a spirit by assuming the style and character of

Robin Hood and his associates. In like manner the society of archers

in Elizabeth's time took the name of Arthur and his Knights; all which

was very natural then, and would be now. None of all the merrymakings

in merry England surpassed the May festival. The return of the sun

stimulated the populace to the accumulation of all sorts of

amusements. In addition to the traditional and appropriate sports of

the season, there were, as Stowe tells us, divers warlike shows, with

good archers, morris-dancers, and other devices for pastime all day

long, and towards evening stage-plays and bonfires in the streets. A

Play of Robin Hood was considered "very proper for a May-game"; but if

Robin Hood was peculiarly prominent in these entertainments, the

obvious reason would appear to be that he was the hero of that loved

green-wood to which all the world resorted, when the cold obstruction

of winter was broken up, "to do observance for a morn of May."

We do not, therefore, attribute much value to the theory of

Mr. Wright, that the May festival was, in its earliest form, "a

religious celebration, though, like such festivals in general, it

possessed a double character, that of a religious ceremony, and of an

opportunity for the performance of warlike games; that, at such

festivals, the songs would take the character of the amusements on the

occasion, and would most likely celebrate warlike deeds,--perhaps the

myths of the patron whom superstition supposed to preside over them;

that, as the character of the exercises changed, the attributes of the

patron would change also, and he who was once celebrated as working

wonders with his good axe or his elf-made sword might afterwards

assume the character of a skilful bowman; that the scene of his

actions would likewise change, and the person whose weapons were the

bane of dragons and giants, who sought them in the wildernesses they

infested, might become the enemy only of the sheriff and his officers,

under the 'grene-wode lefe.'" It is unnecessary to point out that the

language we have quoted contains, beyond the statement that warlike

exercises were anciently combined with religious rites, a very

slightly founded surmise, and nothing more.

Another circumstance, which weighs much with Mr. Wright, goes but a

very little way with us in demonstrating the mythological character of

Robin Hood. This is the frequency with which his name is attached to

mounds, wells, and stones, such as in the popular creed are connected

with fairies, dwarfs, or giants. There is scarcely a county in England

which does not possess some monument of this description. "Cairns on

Blackdown in Somersetshire, and barrows near to Whitby in Yorkshire

and Ludlow in Shropshire, are termed Robin Hood's pricks or butts;

lofty natural eminences in Gloucestershire and Derbyshire are Robin

Hood's hills; a huge rock near Matlock is Robin Hood's Tor; ancient

boundary-stones, as in Lincolnshire, are Robin Hood's crosses; a

presumed loggan, or rocking-stone, in Yorkshire, is Robin Hood's

penny-stone; a fountain near Nottingham, another between Doncaster and

Wakefield, and one in Lancashire, are Robin Hood's wells; a cave in

Nottinghamshire is his stable; a rude natural rock in Hope Dale is his

chair; a chasm at Chatsworth is his leap; Blackstone Edge, in

Lancashire, is his bed."[20] In fact, his name bids fair to overrun

every remarkable object of the sort which has not been already

appropriated to King Arthur or the Devil; with the latter of whom, at

least, it is presumed, that, however ancient, he will not dispute

precedence.

"The legends of the peasantry," quoth Mr. Wright, "are the shadows of

a very remote antiquity." This proposition, thus broadly stated, we

deny. Nothing is more deceptive than popular legends; and the

"legends" we speak of, if they are to bear that name, have no claim to

antiquity at all. They do not go beyond the ballads. They are palpably

of subsequent and comparatively recent origin. It was absolutely

impossible that they should arise while Robin Hood was a living

reality to the people. The archer of Sherwood who could barely stand

King Edward's buffet, and was felled by the Potter, was no man to be

playing with rocking-stones. This trick of naming must have begun in

the decline of his fame; for there was a time when his popularity

drooped, and his existence was just not doubted,--not elaborately

maintained by learned historians, and antiquarians deeply read in the

Public Records. And what do these names prove? The vulgar passion for

bestowing them is notorious and universal. We Americans are too young

to be well provided with heroes that might serve this purpose. We have

no imaginative peasantry to invent legends, no ignorant peasantry to

believe them. But we have the good fortune to possess the Devil in

common with the rest of the world; and we take it upon us to say, that

there is not a mountain district in the land, which has been opened to

summer travellers, where a "Devil's Bridge," a "Devil's Punch-bowl,"

or some object with the like designation, will not be pointed out.[21]

We have taken no notice of the later fortunes of Robin Hood in his

true and original character of a hero of romance. Towards the end of

the sixteenth century Anthony Munday attempted to revive the decaying

popularity of this king of good fellows, who had won all his honors as

a simple yeoman, by representing him in the play of "The Downfall of

Robert, Earl of Huntington" as a nobleman in disguise, outlawed by the

machinations of his steward. This pleasing and successful drama is

Robin's sole patent to that title of Earl of Huntington, in

confirmation of which Dr. Stukeley fabricated a pedigree that

transcends even the absurdities of heraldry, and some unknown forger

an epitaph beneath the skill of a Chatterton. Those who desire a full

acquaintance with the fabulous history of Robin Hood will seek it in

the well-known volumes of Ritson, or in those of his recent editor,

Gutch, who does not make up by superior discrimination for his

inferiority in other respects to that industrious antiquary.

[Footnote 1: A writer in the _Edinburgh Review_ (July, 1847,

p. 134) has cited an allusion to Robin Hood, of a date intermediate

between the passages from Wyntown and the one about to be cited from

Bower. In the year 1439, a petition was presented to Parliament

against one Piers Venables of Aston, in Derbyshire, "who having no

liflode, ne sufficeante of goodes, gadered and assembled unto him many

misdoers, beynge of his clothynge, and, in manere of insurrection,

wente into the wodes in that countrie, like as it hadde be _Robyn

Hude and his meyne_."--_Rot. Parl._ v. 16.]

[Footnote 2: "Legendis non raro incredilibibus aliisque plusquam

anilibus neniis."--Hearne, _Scotichronicon_, p. xxix.]

[Footnote 3: In his _Histoire de la Conquête de l'Angleterre par les

Normands_, livr. xi. Thierry was anticipated in his theory by

Barry, in a dissertation cited by Mr. Wright in his Essays: _Thèse

de Littérature sur les Vicissitudes et les Transformations du Cycle

populaire de Robin Hood_. Paris, 1832.]

[Footnote 4: _London, and Westminster Review_, vol. xxxiii. p. 424.]

[Footnote 5: No 4. _The Ballad Hero, Robin Hood_. June, 1852.]

[Footnote 6: Hunter, pp. 28, 35-38]

[Footnote 7: Mr. Hunter thinks it necessary to prove that it was

formerly a usage in England to celebrate real events in popular

song. We submit that it has been still more customary to celebrate

them in history, when they were of public importance. The case of

private and domestic stories is different.]

[Footnote 8: Most remarkable of all would this be, should we adopt the

views of Mr. Hunter, because we know, from the incidental testimony of

_Piers Ploughman_, that only forty years after the date fixed

upon for the outlaw's submission "rhymes of Robin Hood" were in the

mouth of every tavern lounger; and yet no chronicler can spare him a

word.]

[Footnote 9: Matthew Paris, London, 1640, p. 1002]

[Footnote 10: Mr. Hunter had previously instituted a similar argument

in the case of Adam Bell, and doubtless the reasoning might be

extended to Will Scathlock and Little John. With a little more

rummaging of old account-books we shall be enabled to "comprehend all

vagrom men." It is a pity that the Sheriff of Nottingham could not

have availed himself of the services of our "detective."]

[Footnote 11: See Wright's _Essays,_ ii. 207. "The name of

Witikind, the famous opponent of Charlemagne, who always fled before

his sight, concealed himself in the forests, and returned again in his

absence, is no more than _uitu chint,_ in Old High Dutch, and

signifies the _son of the wood,_ an appellation which he could

never have received at his birth, since it denotes an exile or

outlaw. Indeed, the name Witikind, though such a person seems to have

existed, appears to be the representative of all the defenders of his

country against the invaders."]

[Footnote 12: Thus, in Kent, the Hobby-Horse is called _hooden,_

i.e. wooden. It is curious that Orlando, in _As You Like It,_

(who represents the outlaw Gamelyn in the _Tale of Gamelyn,_ a

tale which clearly belongs to the cycle of Robin Hood,) should be the

son of Sir Rowland de Bois. Robin de Bois (says a writer in _Notes

and Queries,_ vi. 597) occurs in one of Sue's novels "as a

well-known mythical character, whose name is employed by French

mothers to frighten their children."]

[Footnote 13: Kuhn, in Haupt's _Zeitschrift für deutsches

Alterthum,_ v. 472. The idea of a northern myth will of course

excite the alarm of all sensible, patriotic Englishmen, (e.g. Mr.

Hunter, at page 3 of his tract,) and the bare suggestion of Woden will

be received, in the same quarters, with an explosion of scorn. And

yet we find the famous shot of Elgill, one of the mythical personages

of the Scandinavians, (and perhaps to be regarded as one of the forms

of Woden,) attributed in the ballad of _Adam Bel_ to William of

Cloudesly, who may be considered as Robin Hood under another name.]

[Footnote: 14. Unless importance is to be attached to

the consideration that May is the Virgin's

month.]

[Footnote 15: As in Tollett's window.]

[Footnote 16: In Lord Hailes's _Extracts from the Book of the

Universal Kirk._]

[Footnote 17: More openly exhibited in the mock battle between Summer

and Winter celebrated by the Scandinavians in honor of May, a custom

still retained in the Isle of Man, where the month is every year

ushered in with a contest between the Queen of Summer and the Queen of

Winter. (Brand's _Antiquities,_ by Ellis, i. 222, 257.) A similar

ceremony in Germany, occurring at Christmas, is noticed by Kuhn,

p. 478.]

[Footnote 18: Hence the spring begins with March. The connection with

Mars suggests a possible etymology for the Morris,--which is usually

explained, for want of something better, as a Morisco or Moorish

dance. There is some resemblance between the Morris and the Salic

dance. The Salic games are said to have been instituted by the Veian

king Morrius, a name pointing to Mars, the divinity of the

Salli.--Kuhn, 488-493.]

[Footnote 19: The name Robin also appears to Kuhn worthy of notice,

since the horseman in the May pageant is in some parts of Germany

called Ruprecht (Rupert, Robert).]

[Footnote 20: _Edinburgh Review,_ vol. 86, p. 123.]

[Footnote 21: See some sensible remarks in the _Gentleman's

Magazine_ for March, 1793, by D. H., that is, says the courteous

Ritson, by Gough, "the scurrilous and malignant editor of that

degraded publication."]

THE GHOST REDIVIVUS.

One of those violent, though shortlived storms, which occasionally

rage in southern climates, had blown all night in the neighborhood of

the little town of San Cipriano, situated in a wild valley of the

Apennines opening towards the sea. Under the olive-woods that cover

those steep hills lay the olive-berries strewed thick and wide; here

and there a branch heavy-laden with half-ripe fruit, torn by the blast

from its parent tree, stretched its prostrate length upon the

ground. An abundant premature harvest had fallen, but at present there

were no means of collecting it; for the deluging rains of the night

had soaked the ground, the grass, the dead leaves, the fruit itself,

and the rain was still falling heavily. If gathered in that state, the

olives are sure to rot.

_"Pazienza!"_ in such disasters exclaim the inhabitants of the

_Riviera_, with a melancholy shrug of the shoulders. And they

needs must have patience until the weather clears and the ground

dries, before they can secure such of the olives as may happily be

uninjured.

On the day we speak of, the 21st of December, 1852, the proprietors of

olive-grounds in San Cipriano wore very blank faces; they talked sadly

of the falling prices of the fruit and oil, and the olive-pickers

crossed their hands and looked vacantly at the gray sky.

In the spacious kitchen of Doctor Morani were assembled a body of

young rosy lasses in laced bodices, and short, bright-colored

petticoats, come down from the neighboring mountains for the

olive-gathering, much as Irish laborers cross over to England for the

hay-making season. These girls arrive in troops from their native

villages among the hills, carrying on their heads a sackful of the

flour of dried beans and a lesser quantity of dried chestnuts. They

offer their services to the inhabitants of the valley at the rate of

four pence English a day; about three pence less than the sum demanded

by the women of the place. But the pretty mountaineers ask, in

addition to their modest wages, a shelter for the night, a little

straw or hay for their beds, and a small daily portion of oil and salt

to season the bean-flour and chestnuts, which constitute their sole

food. They are then perfectly contented.

The old Doctor had hired several of these damsels to assist in getting

in his olive crop, with the customary additional compact to spin some

of the unwrought flax of the household when bad weather prevented

their out-of-door work, as well as regularly in the evening between

early dusk and bed-time. Happy those to whose lot it fell to be

employed by Dr. Morani! Besides not beating down their wages to the

utmost, it was the Doctor's wont, out of the exuberance of a

warm-hearted, joyous nature, unchilled even by his sixty winters, to

give to his serving men and maidens not only kind words and

encouraging looks, but also what made him perhaps still more popular,

humorous jokes and droll stories.

The Doctor, indeed, concealed something of the philosopher under the

garb of a wag. His quaint sayings and doings were frequently quoted

with great relish among this rural population. He had a way of his own

of shooting facts and truths into the uncultivated understandings of

these laborers,--facts and truths that never otherwise could have

penetrated so far; he feathered his philosophical or moral arrows with

a jest, and they stuck fast.

Signora Martina, his wife, was a good soul, and, though a strict

housewife, was yet not so thrifty but that she could allow a little of

her abundance to overflow on those in her service; and these crumbs

from her table added many delicious bits to the bean-flour

repasts. So, as we have said, happy the mountain girls taken into

Dr. Morani's service! But specially blest among the blest this year

were two sisters, to whom was allotted a bed, a real bed, to sleep

upon! How came they to be furnished with such a luxury? Why, this

season the Doctor had hired more than the usual number of pickers. The

outbuilding given them to sleep in was thus too small to accommodate

all, so two were taken into the house, and a diminutive closet,

generally used by the family as a bath-room, was turned into a

bed-room for the lucky couple. Now for a description of the bed. Over

the bath was placed an ironing-board, and upon this a mattress quite

as narrow, almost as hard, and far less smooth than the narrow plank

on which it lay. The width of the bed was just sufficient to admit the

two sisters, packed close, each lying on her side. As to turning, that

was simply out of the question; but "poor labor in sweet slumber

lock'd" lay from night till morning without once dreaming of change of

position.

Signora Martina, the first day or two, expressed some fear lest they

might not rest well; but both girls averred they never in their lives

had known so luxurious a bed,--and never should again, unless their

good fortune brought them back another year to enjoy this sybarite

couch at Dr. Morani's.

Though irrelevant to our story, this short digression may serve to

illustrate the Arcadian simplicity of habits prevailing in these

mountainous districts, and affords one more illustration of the axiom,

not more trite than true, that human enjoyment and luxury are all

comparative.

Well! the wet afternoon was wearing on, beguiled by the young girls as

best it might be, with the spindle and distaff, and incessant chatter

and laugh, save when they joined their voices in some popular

chant. Signora Martina was delivering fresh flax to the spinners;

Marietta, the maid, was busy about the fire, in provident forethought

for supper; and Beppo, a barefooted, weather-beaten individual, was

bringing in the wood he had been sawing this rainy day, which

interfered with his more usual business at that season. For Beppo was

one of the men whose task it was to climb the olive-trees and shake

down the olives for the women gathering below. He was distinguished

among many as a skilful and valiant climber; nor had his laurels been

earned without perils and wounds. Occasionally he fell, and

occasionally broke a bone or two,--episodes that had their

compensation. Beppo, then, on this particular rainy afternoon, came

in with a flat basket full of newly cut wood on his head, respectfully

saluted the _Padrona_, and, after throwing down his load in a

corner of the kitchen, leisurely turned his basket topsy-turvy, seated

himself upon it, and prepared to take his part in the general

conversation.

At this moment the Doctor himself entered, his cloak and hat dripping.

"Heugh! heugh!" he exclaimed, in a voice of disgust, as his wife

helped him out of his covering; "what weather!" He went towards the

fire, and spread out his hands to catch the heat of the glowing

embers, on which sat a saucepan. "Horrid weather! The wind played the

very mischief with us last night!"

"Many branches broken, Padrone?" asked Beppo, eagerly.

"Branches, eh? Aye, aye; saw away; burn away; don't be afraid of a

supply failing," said the Doctor, dryly.

"Oh, Santa Maria!" sighed Signora Martina, in sad presentiment.

"Plenty of firewood, my dear soul, for two years," went on the

Doctor. "The big tree near the pigeon-house is head down, root up,

torn, smashed, prostrate, while good-for-nothing saplings are

standing."

"Oh Lord! such a tree! that never failed, bad year or good year, to

give us a sack of olives, and often more!" cried Signora Martina,

piteously. "More than three generations old it was!" And she began

actually to weep. "Oil selling for nothing, and the tree, the best of

trees, to be blown down!"

"Take care," said the Doctor, "take care of repining! Little

misfortunes are like a rash, which carries off bad humors from a too

robust body. Suppose the storm had laid my head low, and turned up my

toes; what then, eh, little girls?" turning to the group of young

creatures standing with their eyes very wide open at the recital of

the misdeeds of the turbulent wind, and now as suddenly off into a

laugh at the image of the Doctor's decease so represented. "Ah! you

giggling set! Happy you that have no branches to be broken, and no

olive-pickers to pay! _Per Bacco!_ you are well off, if you only

knew it!"

He walked over to where his weeping wife sat, laid his hand on her

head, and stooping, kissed her brow. The girls laughed again.

"Be quiet, all of you! Do you think that only smooth brows and bright

cheeks ought to be kissed? Be good loving wives, and I promise you

your husbands will be blind to your wrinkles. I could not be happy

without the sight of this well-known face; it is the record of

happiness for me. I wish you all our luck, my dears!"

All simpered or laughed, and Martina's brow smoothed.

"Now I see that I can still make you smile at misfortune," continued

the Doctor, "I will tell you something comforting. As I came along, I

met Paolo, the olive-merchant, who offered me a franc more a sack than

he did to any one else, because he knows our olives are of a superior

quality."

Signora Martina smiled rather a grim smile at this compliment to her

olives.

"But I told him," went on Doctor Morani, with a certain look of pride,

"that we were not going to sell; we intended to make oil for

ourselves. And so we will, Martina, with the olives that have been

blown down, hoping the best for those still on the trees. Now let us

talk of something more pleasant. Pasqualina, suppose you tell us a

story; you are our best hand, I believe."

"I am sure, Signor Dottore, I have nothing worth your listening to,"

answered Pasqualina, blushing.

"Tell us about the ghost your uncle saw," suggested another of the

girls.

"A ghost!" cried the Doctor. "Any one here seen a ghost? I wish I

could have such a chance! What was it like?"

"I did not see it myself; I do but believe what my uncle told me,"

said Pasqualina, with a gravity that had a shade of resentment.

"If one is only to speak of what one has seen," urged the prompter of

the uncle's ghost-story, "tell the Padrone of the witch that bewitched

your sister."

"Ah! and so we have witches too?" groaned the Doctor.

"As to that," resumed Pasqualina, with a dignified look, "I can't help

believing my own eyes, and those of all the people of our village."

"Well," exclaimed Doctor Morani, "let us hear all about the witch."

"You know, all of you," said Pasqualina, "what bad fits my sister had,

and how she was cured by the miraculous Madonna del Laghetto. So my

sister had no more fits, till Madalena, a spiteful old woman, and whom

everybody in the village knows to be a witch, mumbled some of her

spells and----"

"Hallo!" cried the Doctor, "do you mean that witches have more power

than the Madonna?"

"Oh! Signor Dottore, you put things so strangely! just listen to the

truth. So this old woman came and mumbled some of her spells, and then

my poor sister fell down again, and has since had fits as bad as

ever. But my father and brother were not going to take it so easily,

and they beat the bad old witch till she couldn't move, and had to be

carried to the hospital. I hope she may die, with all my heart I do!"

"You had better hope she will get well," observed the Doctor, coolly;

"for if she should happen to die, my good Pasqualina, it would be very

possible that your father and brother might be sent to the galleys."

Here Pasqualina set up a howl.

"Do not afflict yourself just now," resumed Doctor Morani; "for, with

all their good-will, they have not quite killed the woman. I saw her

myself at the hospital; she is getting better, and when cured, I shall

take care that she does not return among such a set of savages as

flourish in your village, Signorina Pasqualina. Excuse my

boldness,"--and the Doctor took off his skull-cap, in playful

obeisance to the young girl,--"only advise your family another time to

be less ready with their hands and their belief in every species of

absurdity. Did not Father Tommaso tell you but yesterday, that it was

not right to believe in ghosts or witches, save and except the

peculiar one or two it is his business to know about, and who lived

some thousand years ago? There have been none since, believe me."

"Strange things do happen, however," observed Signora Martina,

thoughtfully,--"things that neither priest nor lawyer can

explain. What was that thing which appeared, twenty years ago, on the

tower of San Ciprano?" The Signora's voice sent a shudder through all

the women present.

"A trick, and a stupid trick," persisted her husband.

"Not at all a trick, Doctor," said Martina, shaking her head.

"Did you see it yourself, Martina?"

"No; but I saw those who did with their own two blessed eyes."

"The Padrona is quite right," said Beppo, without leaving his

basket. "I, for one, saw it."

This assertion produced such a hubbub as sent the Doctor growling from

the room, and left Signora Martina at liberty to comply with the

general petition for the story.

"It was twenty-five years last Easter since Hans Reuter came to San

Cipriano with Carlo Boschi, the son of old Pietro, of our town. Carlo

had gone away three years before to seek his fortune. He went to

Switzerland, it seems, a distant country beyond the mountains, where

the language is different from ours, and where it is said"--(here

Martina lowered her voice)--"the people do not follow our holy

religion, and are called, therefore, Protestants and heretics. They

are industrious, notwithstanding, and clever in certain arts and

manufactures, and it was from some of them that Carlo learned the

watchmaking trade. After staying away three years, one fine day he

came back, bringing with him one of these Swiss, Hans Reuter; and the

two, being great friends, set up a shop together, where they made and

sold watches and jewelry. There was not business enough in San

Cipriano to maintain them, but they made it out by selling at

wholesale in the neighboring towns.

"For years all went smoothly with the partners, and their good luck

began to be wondered at, when one morning their shop was not open at

the usual hour. What was the matter? what had happened? there was

Carlo Boschi knocking and shouting to Hans, and all in vain. I must

tell you that Carlo lived elsewhere, and Hans had the care of the

premises at night, sleeping in a little room at the back of the

shop. The neighbors went out and advised Carlo to force the door. Very

well. When they got in, they found Hans bound hand and foot, and so

closely gagged that he was almost stifled. As soon as he could speak,

he said that just after he had shut up the previous evening, there

was a knock at the door. He had scarcely opened it, when he was seized

by two ruffians with blackened faces, who threw him down, gagged and

tied him, and then coolly proceeded to ransack every place, packed up

every bit of jewelry, every watch, and every piece of money, and then

decamped with their booty, locking the door on the outside. The

robbery took place on the third and last day of the Easter Fair,

exactly when there was the greatest noise and bustle from the breaking

up of booths, such an uproar of singing, brawling, and rolling of

carts, and such a stream of people going in every direction, as made

it easy for the thieves to escape detection. The police took a great

many depositions, and made a great fuss; but there the matter ended.

"To say the truth, it was like looking for a bird in a forest,

considering the number of strangers who had attended the fair;

besides, the police, you know, at that time, were too busy dogging and

hunting down Liberals to care for tracking only thieves. That,

however, is no business of mine or yours; and perhaps it would have

done no good to poor Hans, even if the criminals had been discovered.

He had got a great shock; he could not recover his spirits. Every one

felt for him, because he was a kind, sociable man, as well as

industrious; the only fault he had was being a Protestant. What that

was no one exactly knew; but it was a great sin and a great pity, it

seems. Sure it is that Hans never went to confession, or to the

communion. However, as time passed and brought no tidings of the

robbers, the poor man grew more thin and careworn every day. He would

talk for hours about Switzerland, about his own village, his father's

house, his parents and relations. He had left them so thoughtlessly,

he said, he had scarcely felt a regret; yet now a yearning grew within

him to look once more upon those dear faces, and the verdant mountains

of his country,--upon its cool, rushing streams, wide, green pastures,

and the cows that grazed on them. He used to tell us, that, when he

was alone, he heard their bells in the distance, and they seemed to

call him home. My husband did not like all this, and said Hans ought

to go at once, or it would be too late. But Hans delayed and delayed,

in the hope of recovering some of his stolen property, till one day he

was taken very ill and had to be carried to the hospital. The Doctor

attended him two or three times every day, and on the third was

summoned in a great hurry. Morani went and had a long conversation

with the poor dying fellow, and then Padre Michele of the Capuchin

Convent was sent for. It was some time before the good monk could be

found, and then it took still longer, he being old and very infirm,

before he could get to the hospital. When he did, it was too late;

poor Hans was dead.

"This was a sad business; for, if the Padre had come in time, at all

events Hans's soul would have been safe, and his body buried in

consecrated ground. My husband went to the Rector and told his

Reverence that Hans had renounced his errors, and had made a full

profession of the Catholic faith to him; but his Reverence shook his

head, and said that was not the same thing as if Padre Michele had

received Hans into the true fold. Then my husband said it was a pity

Hans should suffer because the Padre had been out of the way; but his

Reverence always answered, 'No,' and so 'No' it was. The clergy were

not to attend, and the body was to be put into the ground just as you

might bury a dog. What could my husband do more? So he went his way

to his patients. It happened that he had to see several, far in the

country, and so did not come home till late at night.

"You all know the tower which stands upon the green knoll high above

the town. It is a relic of very old times, when San Cipriano had

fortifications. It has been a ruin for more than a century,--a mere

shell, open to the sky, encircling a wide space of ground. A few days

before Hans's death, the Doctor had taken it into his head he would

like to hire this tower of the municipality, to which it belongs, to

make a garden within its walls. He had been to examine the place a

week previous, and had brought home the key of the gate, being

determined to take it. Now this very day after Hans died, and while my

husband was away on his round of country visits, the Syndic sent to

ask for the key, and I, thinking no harm, gave it. And now what do you

think the Syndic wanted the key for? Just to dig a hole for poor

Hans. Yes, the body was carried up there, and buried out of sight as

quickly as possible.

"When the Doctor came home he was in a mighty passion with

everybody;--with the Rector, for refusing Hans a place in the

burial-ground; with the Syndic, for allowing the tower to be used for

such a purpose; and most of all with me, for giving the key without

asking why or wherefore.

"However, what was done could not be undone, and so no more was said

about the matter. It might have been a week after, when some girls who

had set out before daylight to go to the wood for leaves, came back

much terrified, declaring they had seen an apparition on the tower

wall. Not one had dared to go on to the wood, but all ran back to the

town and spread the alarm. A dozen persons, at least, came to our

house to tell us about it, and I promise you my husband did not call

it a stupid trick, as he did today. He looked very grave, and

exclaimed, 'I don't wonder at it. No doubt it is poor Hans, who does

not like to lie in unconsecrated ground. Don't come to me,--it's none

of my business,--I have only to do with the living,--the dead belong

to the clergy,--this is the Rector's affair. If ever a ghost had a

right to walk, it is in such a case as this, when a poor, honest

fellow is denied Christian burial because an old monk's legs refuse to

carry him fast enough. Had Padre Michele been a younger man, all

would have been right.'

"There was quite a general commotion in the town, and at last, after a

day or two, some of the young men determined they would go and watch

the next night, to see if the thing appeared, or if it was mere

women's nonsense, and they went accordingly."

"I was one of the party," interrupted Beppo, taking the narrative out

of his Padrona's mouth, stirred by the high-wrought excitement of his

recollections. "I went with ten others, and I had a good loaded gun

with me. We hid ourselves behind some bushes, and watched and

watched. Nothing appeared, until the girls, who had agreed to come at

their usual hour for going to the wood, passed by; then, just at that

moment, I swear I saw it. I felt all,--I can't tell how,--a sort of

hot cold, and as if my legs were water. I don't know how I managed to

raise my gun,--I did it quite dreaming like; it went off with the

biggest noise ever a gun made, and the bullet must have gone through

the very head of the ghost, for it waved its thin arms fearfully. All

the rest ran away, but I could not move a peg. Then a terrible voice

roared out, 'I shall not forget thee, my friend! I will visit thee

again before thy last hour! Now begone!'"

Beppo ceased speaking, and a shuddering silence fell on the

listeners. Martina alone ventured on the awe-struck whisper of "What

was it like, Beppo?"

"A tall, white figure; its arms spread out like a cross,--so," replied

Beppo, rising from his basket, the better to personate the

ghost. "_Jesu Maria!_" he shrieked, "there it is! O Lord, have

mercy on us!"

And sure enough, standing against the door was a tall, white figure,

its arms spread out like the limbs of a cross. Screams, both shrill

and discordant, filled the room,--Martini, Beppo, Marietta, and the

girls tumbling and rushing about distraught with terror. Such a

mad-like scene! There was a trembling and a shaking of the white

figure for a moment, then down it went in a heap to the floor, and out

came the substantial proportions of Doctor Morani, looming formidable

in the dusky light of the expiring embers. The sound of his

well-known vigorous laugh resounded through the kitchen, as he flung a

bunch of pine branches on the fire. The next moment a bright flame

shot up, and the light as by magic brought the scared group to their

senses. Each looked into the faces of the others with an expression

of rising merriment struggling with ghastly fear, and first a

long-drawn breath of relief, and then a burst of laughter broke from

all.

"What a fright you have given us, Padrone!" Beppo was the first to

say.

"I hope so," replied the Doctor,--"it has only paid you off for the

one you gave me twenty years ago."

"I!--you!--but how, caro Padrone?"

"Ah! you haven't yet, I assure you, recognized your old acquaintance,

the identical ghost which you favored with a bullet. Would you like to

see it once more?"

"_Pazienza!_" exclaimed Beppo, "for once,--twice;--but three

times,--no, that is more than enough. I am satisfied with what I have

seen."

"Do you know what you have seen?" resumed the Doctor. "Very well,

listen to me. When the Rector refused to let poor Hans lie in the same

ground with many of our townspeople who (God rest their souls!) had

lived scarcely so honest a life as he had done, I was far from

imagining that he was to be thrust into the tower, of all places in

the world, and just when it was well known I had bargained for

it. 'That's the way I am to be used, is it?' thought I. I'll play you

a trick, my friends, worth two of yours,--one that will make you glad

to give honest Hans hospitality in your churchyard.'

"I waited a few days, till the moon should rise late, so as to be

shining about one or two in the morning, the time when the girls set

off for the woods. I provided myself with a sheet, and took care to

be in the tower before midnight. I tied two long sticks together in

the shape of a cross, stuck my hat on the top, and threw the linen

over the whole; and a capital ghost it was. Then I got under the

drapery, pushing up the stick, so as to give the idea of a gigantic

human figure with extended arms. I had no fear of being discovered,

for the Syndic had the key still in his possession, and I had made

good my entrance through a gap in the wall sufficiently well concealed

by brambles. I suppose I need not tell you, young women, how brave

your mothers were. My ghostship heard of the young men's project, and

encouraged them, never thinking there was one among them so stupid as

to carry a gun to fight a ghost with; for how can you shoot a ghost,

when it has neither flesh nor blood? It was impossible to suspect any

one of being such a monstrous blockhead; so I was rather disagreeably

startled at hearing the crack of a gun, and feeling the tingling of a

bullet whizzing past my ear. You nearly made me into a real ghost,

friend Beppo; for I assure you, you are a capital shot. Ever since

that memorable aim, I have entertained the deepest respect for you as

a marksman; it was not your fault that I am here now to make this

confession. I ducked my head below the wall in case a volley was to

follow the signal gun. When I peeped again, there remained one

solitary figure before the tower, immovable as a stone pillar. O noble

Beppo, it was thou!

"'I must get rid of this fellow one way or other,' thought I, 'but not

by shaking my stick-covered sheet, or I shall have another bullet.' So

I raised myself breasthigh above the wall, made a trumpet of my hands,

and roared out the fearful promise I have kept this evening. As soon

as I saw my enemy's back, I left my station, and never played the

ghost again."

"A pretty folly for a man of forty!" cried Signora Martina, still

smarting under her late fright. "Why, a boy would be well whipped for

such a trick. There's no knowing what to believe in a man like you, no

saying when you are in earnest or in fun."

After a moment's silence, the lady asked in a softer tone, "Now do

tell me, Morani, is it true that poor Hans recanted before he died?"

"My dear, if Padre Michele had been in time, we should have been sure

of the fact. You see the Rector did not think I knew enough of

theology to decide. I am a submissive child of the Church," replied

the husband. "As for the ghost, I took care to provide against

forgetting my folly. On the top shelf of the laboratory I hung up the

bullet-pierced hat; and the bullet itself I ticketed with the date and

kept in my desk. Who wants to see the ghost's hat?"--and the Doctor

drew a hat from under the sheet still lying on the floor, and

exhibited it to the curious eyes of all present, making them admire

the neat hole in it. The bullet itself he took out of his waistcoat

pocket, and holding it towards Beppo, asked, "Hadn't it a mark?"

"Yes, sir, I cut a cross on it," replied the abashed climber of

olive-trees; "and by all the Saints, there it is still! Pasqualina,

my girl," turning to her, "your uncle's ghost will turn out to be

somebody."

"Bravo! Beppo," cried the Doctor.

"Knowing what you know by experience, suppose you hint to any one

inclined to spectre-shooting, that he runs the risk of killing a live

man, and having two ghosts on his hands,--the ghost of the poor devil

shot, and one of himself hanged for murder. As for you, young girls,

remember that when you go forth to meet the perils of dark mornings,

you are more likely to encounter dangers from flesh and blood than

from spirits."

THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE.

[The _Milliorium Aureum,_ or Golden Mile-Stone, was a gilt marble

pillar in the Forum at Rome, from which, as a central point, the great

roads of the empire diverged through the several gates of the city,

and the distances were measured.]

Leafless are the trees; their purple branches

Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of coral

Rising silent

In the Red Sea of the winter sunset.

From the hundred chimneys of the village,

Like the Afreet in the Arabian story,

Smoky columns

Tower aloft into the air of amber.

At the window winks the flickering fire-light;

Here and there the lamps of evening glimmer,

Social watch-fires,

Answering one another through the darkness.

On the hearth the lighted logs are glowing,

And, like Ariel in the cloven pine-tree,

For its freedom

Groans and sighs the air imprisoned in them.

By the fireside there are old men seated,

Seeing ruined cities in the ashes,

Asking sadly

Of the Past what it can ne'er restore them.

By the fireside there are youthful dreamers,

Building castles fair with stately stairways,

Asking blindly

Of the Future what it cannot give them.

By the fireside tragedies are acted

In whose scenes appear two actors only,

Wife and husband,

And above them God, the sole spectator.

By the fireside there are peace and comfort,

Wives and children, with fair, thoughtful faces,

Waiting, watching

For a well-known footstep in the passage.

Each man's chimney is his Golden Mile-Stone,--

Is the central point from which he measures

Every distance

Through the gateways of the world around him.

In his farthest wanderings still he sees it;

Hears the talking flame, the answering night-wind,

As he heard them

When he sat with those who were, but are not.

Happy he whom neither wealth nor fashion,

Nor the march of the encroaching city,

Drives an exile

From the hearth of his ancestral homestead!

We may build more splendid habitations,

Fill our rooms with paintings and with sculptures,

But we cannot

Buy with gold the old associations.

THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST-TABLE.

EVERY MAN HIS OWN BOSWELL.

I really believe some people save their bright thoughts, as being too

precious for conversation. What do you think an admiring friend said

the other day to one that was talking good things,--good enough to

print? "Why," said he, "you are wasting merchantable literature, a

cash article, at the rate, as nearly as I can tell, of fifty dollars

an hour." The talker took him to the window and asked him to look out

and tell what he saw.

"Nothing but a very dusty street," he said, "and a man driving a

sprinkling-machine through it."

"Why don't you tell the man he is wasting that water? What would be

the state of the highways of life, if we did not drive our

_thought-sprinklers_ through them with the valves open,

sometimes?

"Besides, there is another thing about this talking, which you

forget. It shapes our thoughts for us;--the waves of conversation roll

them as the surf rolls the pebbles on the shore. Let me modify the

image a little. I rough out my thoughts in talk as an artist models in

clay. Spoken language is so plastic,--you can pat and coax, and spread

and shave, and rub out, and fill up, and stick on so easily, when you

work that soft material, that there is nothing like it for

modelling. Out of it come the shapes which you turn into marble or

bronze in your immortal books, if you happen to write such. Or, to use

another illustration, writing or printing is like shooting with a

rifle; you may hit your reader's mind, or miss it;--but talking is

like playing at a mark with the pipe of an engine; if it is within

reach, and you have time enough, you can't help hitting it."

The company agreed that this last illustration was of superior

excellence, or, in the phrase used by them, "Fust-rate." I

acknowledged the compliment, but gently rebuked the expression.

"Fust-rate," "prime," "a prime article," "a superior piece

of goods," "a handsome garment," "a gent in a flowered vest,"--all

such expressions are final. They blast the lineage of him or her who

utters them, for generations up and down. There is one other phrase

which will soon come to be decisive of a man's social _status_, if it

is not already: "That tells the whole story." It is an expression

which vulgar and conceited people particularly affect, and which

well-meaning ones, who know better, catch from them. It is intended to

stop all debate, like the previous question in the General Court. Only

it don't; simply because "that" does not usually tell the whole, nor

one half of the whole story.

----It is an odd idea, that almost all our people have had a

professional education. To become a doctor a man must study some

three years and hear a thousand lectures, more or less. Just how much

study it takes to make a lawyer I cannot say, but probably not more

than this. Now most decent people hear one hundred lectures or sermons

(discourses) on theology every year,--and this, twenty, thirty, fifty

years together. They read a great many religious books besides. The

clergy, however, rarely hear any sermons except what they preach

themselves. A dull preacher might be conceived, therefore, to lapse

into a state of _quasi_ heathenism, simply for want of religious

instruction. And on the other hand, an attentive and intelligent

hearer, listening to a succession of wise teachers, might become

actually better educated in theology than any one of them. We are all

theological students, and more of us qualified as doctors of divinity

than have received degrees at any of the universities.

It is not strange, therefore, that very good people should often find

it difficult, if not impossible, to keep their attention fixed upon a

sermon treating feebly a subject which they have thought vigorously

about for years, and heard able men discuss scores of times. I have

often noticed, however, that a hopelessly dull discourse acts

_inductively_, as electricians would say, in developing strong

mental currents. I am ashamed to think with what accompaniments and

variations and _fioriture_ I have sometimes followed the droning

of a heavy speaker,--not willingly,--for my habit is reverential,--but

as a necessary result of a slight continuous impression on the senses

and the mind, which kept both in action without furnishing the food

they required to work upon. If you ever saw a crow with a king-bird

after him, you will get an image of a dull speaker and a lively

listener. The bird in sable plumage flaps heavily along his

straight-forward course, while the other sails round him, over him,

under him, leaves him, comes back again, tweaks out a black feather,

shoots away once more, never losing sight of him, and finally reaches

the crow's perch at the same time the crow does, having cut a perfect

labyrinth of loops and knots and spirals while the slow fowl was

painfully working from one end of his straight line to the other.

[I think these remarks were received rather coolly. A temporary

boarder from the country, consisting of a somewhat more than

middle-aged female, with a parchment forehead and a dry little

"frisette" shingling it, a sallow neck with a necklace of gold beads, a

black dress too rusty for recent grief, and contours in basso-rilievo,

left the table prematurely, and was reported to have been very

virulent about what I said. So I went to my good old minister, and

repeated the remarks, as nearly as I could remember them, to him. He

laughed good-naturedly, and said there was considerable truth in

them. He thought he could tell when people's minds were wandering, by

their looks. In the earlier years of his ministry he had sometimes

noticed this, when he was preaching;--very little of late

years. Sometimes, when his colleague was preaching, he observed this

kind of inattention; but after all, it was not so very unnatural. I

will say, by the way, that it is a rule I have long followed, to tell

my worst thoughts to my minister, and my best thoughts to the young

people I talk with.]

----I want to make a literary confession now, which I believe nobody

has made before me. You know very well that I write verses sometimes,

because I have read some of them at this table. (The company

assented,--two or three of them in a resigned sort of way, as I

thought, as if they supposed I had an epic in my pocket, and was going

to read half a dozen books or so for their benefit.)--I continued. Of

course I write some lines or passages which are better than others;

some which, compared with the others, might be called relatively

excellent. It is in the nature of things that I should consider these

relatively excellent lines or passages as absolutely good. So much

must be pardoned to humanity. Now I never wrote a "good" line in my

life, but the moment after it was written it seemed a hundred years

old. Very commonly I had a sudden conviction that I had seen it

somewhere. Possibly I may have sometimes unconsciously stolen it, but

I do not remember that I ever once detected any historical truth in

these sudden convictions of the antiquity of my new thought or

phrase. I have learned utterly to distrust them, and never allow them

to bully me out of a thought or line.

This is the philosophy of it. (Here the number of the company was

diminished by a small secession.) Any new formula which suddenly

emerges in our consciousness has its roots in long trains of thought;

it is virtually old when it first makes its appearance among the

recognized growths of our intellect. Any crystalline group of musical

words has had a long and still period to form in. Here is one theory.

But there is a larger law which perhaps comprehends these facts. It is

this. The rapidity with which ideas grow old in our memories is in a

direct ratio to the squares of their importance. Their apparent age

runs up miraculously, like the value of diamonds, as they increase in

magnitude. A great calamity, for instance, is as old as the trilobites

an hour after it has happened. It stains backward through all the

leaves we have turned over in the book of life, before its blot of

tears or of blood is dry on the page we are turning. For this we seem

to have lived; it was foreshadowed in dreams that we leaped out of in

the cold sweat of terror; in the "dissolving views" of dark

day-visions; all omens pointed to it; all paths led to it. After the

tossing half-forgetfulness of the first sleep that follows such an

event, it comes upon us afresh, as a surprise, at waking; in a few

moments it is old again,--old as eternity.

[I wish I had not said all this then and there. I might have known

better. The pale schoolmistress, in her mourning dress, was looking

at me, as I noticed, with a wild sort of expression. All at once the

blood dropped out of her cheeks as the mercury drops from a broken

barometer-tube, and she melted away from her seat like an image of

snow; a slung-shot could not have brought her down better. God forgive

me!

After this little episode, I continued, to some few that remained

balancing teaspoons on the edges of cups, twirling knives, or tilting

upon the hind legs of their chairs until their heads reached the wall,

where they left gratuitous advertisements of various popular

cosmetics.]

When a person is suddenly thrust into any strange, new position of

trial, he finds the place fits him as if he had been measured for

it. He has committed a great crime, for instance, and is sent to the

State Prison. The traditions, prescriptions, limitations, privileges,

all the sharp conditions of his new life, stamp themselves upon his

consciousness as the signet on soft wax;--a single pressure is

enough. Let me strengthen the image a little. Did you ever happen to

see that most soft-spoken and velvet-handed steam-engine at the Mint?

The smooth piston slides backward and forward as a lady might slip her

delicate finger in and out of a ring. The engine lays one of

_its_ fingers calmly, but firmly, upon a bit of metal; it is a

coin now, and will remember that touch, and tell a new race about it,

when the date upon it is crusted over with twenty centuries. So it is

that a great silent-moving misery puts a new stamp on us in an hour or

a moment,--as sharp an impression as if it had taken half a lifetime

to engrave it.

It is awful to be in the hands of the wholesale professional dealers

in misfortune; undertakers and jailers magnetize you in a moment, and

you pass out of the individual life you were living into the

rhythmical movements of their horrible machinery. Do the worst thing

you can, or suffer the worst that can be thought of, you find yourself

in a category of humanity that stretches back as far as Cain, and with

an expert at your elbow that has studied your case all out beforehand,

and is waiting for you with his implements of hemp or mahogany. I

believe, if a man were to be burned in any of our cities to-morrow for

heresy, there would be found a master of ceremonies that knew just how

many fagots were necessary, and the best way of arranging the whole

matter.

----So we have not won the Good-wood cup; _au contraire_, we were

a "bad fifth," if not worse than that; and trying it again, and the

third time, has not yet bettered the matter. Now I am as patriotic as

any of my fellow-citizens,--too patriotic in fact, for I have got into

hot water by loving too much of my country; in short, if any man,

whose fighting weight is not more than eight stone four pounds,

disputes it, I am ready to discuss the point with him. I should have

gloried to see the stars and stripes in front at the finish. I love my

country, and I love horses. Stubbs's old mezzotint of Eclipse hangs

over my desk, and Herring's portrait of Plenipotentiary,--whom I saw

run at Epsom,--over my fireplace. Did I not elope from school to see

Revenge, and Prospect, and Little John, and Peacemaker run over the

race-course where now yon suburban village flourishes, in the year

eighteen hundred and ever-so-few? Though I never owned a horse, have I

not been the proprietor of six equine females, of which one was the

prettiest little "Morgin" that ever stepped? Listen, then, to an

opinion I have often expressed long before this venture of ours in

England. Horse-_racing_ is not a republican institution;

horse-_trotting_ is. Only very rich persons can keep race-horses,

and everybody knows they are kept mainly as gambling implements. All

that matter about blood and speed we won't discuss; we understand all

that; useful, very,--_of_ course,--great obligations to the

Godolphin "Arabian," and the rest. I say racing horses are

essentially gambling implements, as much as roulette tables. Now I am

not preaching at this moment; I may read you one of my sermons some

other morning; but I maintain that gambling, on the great scale, is

not republican. It belongs to two phases of society,--a cankered

over-civilization, such as exists in rich aristocracies, and the

reckless life of borderers and adventurers, or the semi-barbarism of a

civilization resolved into its primitive elements. Real republicanism

is stern and severe; its essence is not in forms of government, but in

the omnipotence of public opinion which grows out of it. This public

opinion cannot prevent gambling with dice or stocks, but it can and

does compel it to keep comparatively quiet. But horse-racing is the

most public way of gambling; and with all its immense attractions to

the sense and the feelings,--to which I plead very susceptible,--the

disguise is too thin that covers it, and everybody knows what it

means. Its supporters are the Southern gentry,--fine fellows, no

doubt, but not republicans exactly, as we understand the term,--a few

Northern millionnaires more or less thoroughly millioned, who do not

represent the real people, and the mob of sporting men, the best of

whom are commonly idlers, and the worst very bad neighbors to have

near one in a crowd, or to meet in a dark alley. In England, on the

other hand, with its aristocratic institutions, racing is a natural

growth enough; the passion for it spreads downwards through all

classes, from the Queen to the costermonger. London is like a shelled

corn-cob on the Derby day, and there is not a clerk who could raise

the money to hire a saddle with an old hack under it that can sit down

on his office-stool the next day without wincing.

Now just compare the racer with the trotter for a moment. The racer is

incidentally useful, but essentially something to bet upon, as much as

the thimble-rigger's "little joker." The trotter is essentially and

daily useful, and only incidentally a tool for sporting men.

What better reason do you want for the fact that the racer is most

cultivated and reaches his greatest perfection in England, and that

the trotting horses of America beat the world? And why should we have

expected that the pick--if it was the pick--of our few and far-between

racing stables should beat the pick of England and France? Throw over

the fallacious time-test, and there was nothing to show for it but a

natural kind of patriotic feeling, which we all have, with a

thoroughly provincial conceit, which some of us must plead guilty to.

We may beat yet. As an American, I hope we shall. As a moralist and

occasional sermonizer, I am not so anxious about it. Wherever the

trotting horse goes, he carries in his train brisk omnibuses, lively

bakers' carts, and therefore hot rolls, the jolly butcher's wagon, the

cheerful gig, the wholesome afternoon drive with wife and child,--all

the forms of moral excellence, except truth, which does not agree with

any kind of horse-flesh. The racer brings with him gambling, cursing,

swearing, drinking, the eating of oysters, and a distaste for mob-caps

and the middle-aged virtues.

And by the way, let me beg you not to call a _trotting match_ a

_race_, and not to speak of a "thorough-bred" as a "_blooded_" horse,

unless he has been recently phlebotomized. I consent to your saying

"blood horse," if you like. Also, if, next year, we send out Posterior

and Posterioress, the winners of the great national four-mile race in

7 18-1/2, and they happen to get beaten, pay your bets, and behave

like men and gentlemen about it, if you know how.

[I felt a great deal better after blowing off the ill-temper condensed

in the above paragraph. To brag little,--to show--well,--to crow

gently, if in luck,--to pay up, to own up, and to shut up, if beaten,

are the virtues of a sporting man, and I can't say that I think we

have shown them in any great perfection of late.]

----Apropos of horses. Do you know how important good jockeying is to

authors? Judicious management; letting the public see your animal

just enough, and not too much; holding him up hard when the market is

too full of him; letting him out at just the right buying intervals;

always gently feeling his mouth; never slacking and never jerking the

rein;--this is what I mean by jockeying.

----When an author has a number of books out, a cunning hand will keep

them all spinning, as Signor Blitz does his dinner-plates; fetching

each one up, as it begins to "wabble," by an advertisement, a puff, or

a quotation.

----Whenever the extracts from a living writer begin to multiply fast in

the papers, without obvious reason, there is a new book or a new

edition coming. The extracts are _ground-bait_.

----Literary life is full of curious phenomena. I don't know that there

is anything more noticeable than what we may call _conventional

reputations_. There is a tacit understanding in every community of

men of letters that they will not disturb the popular fallacy

respecting this or that electro-gilded celebrity. There are various

reasons for this forbearance: one is old; one is rich; one is

good-natured; one is such a favorite with the pit that it would not be

safe to hiss him from the manager's box. The venerable augurs of the

literary or scientific temple may smile faintly when one of the tribe

is mentioned; but the farce is in general kept up as well as the

Chinese comic scene of entreating and imploring a man to stay with

you, with the implied compact between you that he shall by no means

think of doing it. A poor wretch he must be who would wantonly sit

down on one of these bandbox reputations. A Prince-Rupert's-drop,

which is a tear of unannealed glass, lasts indefinitely, if you keep

it from meddling hands; but break its tail off, and it explodes and

resolves itself into powder. These celebrities I speak of are the

Prince-Rupert's-drops of the learned and polite world. See how the

papers treat them! What an array of pleasant kaleidoscopic phrases,

that can be arranged in ever so many charming patterns, is at their

service! How kind the "Critical Notices"--where small authorship

comes to pick up chips of praise, fragrant, sugary, and sappy--always

are to them! Well, life would be nothing without paper-credit and

other fictions; so let them pass current. Don't steal their chips;

don't puncture their swimming-bladders; don't come down on their

pasteboard boxes; don't break the ends of their brittle and unstable

reputations, you fellows who all feel sure that your names will be

household words a thousand years from now.

"A thousand years is a good while," said the old gentleman who sits

opposite, thoughtfully.

----Where have I been for the last three or four days? Down at the

Island, deer-shooting.--How many did I bag? I brought home one buck

shot.--The Island is where? No matter. It is the most splendid domain

that any man looks upon in these latitudes. Blue sea around it, and

running up into its heart, so that the little boat slumbers like a

baby in lap, while the tall ships are stripping naked to fight the

hurricane outside, and storm-stay-sails banging and flying in ribbons.

Trees, in stretches of miles; beeches, oaks, most numerous;--many of

them hung with moss, looking like bearded Druids; some coiled in the

clasp of huge, dark-stemmed grape-vines. Open patches where the sun

gets in and goes to sleep, and the winds come so finely

sifted that they are as soft as swan's down. Rocks scattered

about,--Stonehenge-like monoliths. Fresh-water lakes; one of them,

Mary's lake, crystal-clear, full of flashing pickerel lying under the

lily-pads like tigers in the jungle. Six pounds of ditto one morning

for breakfast. EGO _fecit_.

The divinity-student looked as if he would like to question my

Latin. No, sir, I said,--you need not trouble yourself. There is a

higher law in grammar, not to be put down by Andrews and

Stoddard. Then I went on.

Such hospitality as that island has seen there has not been the like

of in these our New England sovereignties. There is nothing in the

shape of kindness and courtesy that can make life beautiful, which has

not found its home in that ocean-principality. It has welcomed all who

were worthy of welcome, from the pale clergyman who came to breathe

the sea-air with its medicinal salt and iodine, to the great statesman

who turned his back on the affairs of empire, and smoothed his

Olympian forehead, and flashed his white teeth in merriment over

the long table, where his wit was the keenest and his story the best.

[I don't believe any man ever talked like that in this world. I don't

believe _I_ talked just so; but the fact is, in reporting one's

conversation, one cannot help _Blair_-ing it up more or less,

ironing out crumpled paragraphs, starching limp ones, and crimping and

plaiting a little sometimes; it is as natural as prinking at the

looking-glass.]

----How can a man help writing poetry in such a place? Everybody does

write poetry that goes there. In the state archives, kept in the

library of the Lord of the Isle, are whole volumes of unpublished

verse,--some by well-known hands, and others, quite as good, by the

last people you would think of as versifiers,--men who could pension

off all the genuine poets in the country, and buy ten acres of Boston

common, if it was for sale, with what they had left. Of course I had

to write my little copy of verses with the rest; here it is, if you

will hear me read it. When the sun is in the west, vessels sailing in

an easterly direction look bright or dark to one who observes them

from the north or south, according to the tack they are sailing

upon. Watching them from one of the windows of the great mansion, I

saw these perpetual changes, and moralized thus:--

As I look from the isle, o'er its billows of green

To the billows of foam-crested blue,

Yon bark, that afar in the distance is seen,

Half dreaming, my eyes will pursue:

Now dark in the shadow, she scatters the spray

As the chaff in the stroke of the flail;

Now white as the sea-gull, she flies on her way,

The sun gleaming bright on her sail.

Yet her pilot is thinking of dangers to shun,--

Of breakers that whiten and roar;

How little he cares, if in shadow or sun

They see him that gaze from the shore!

He looks to the beacon that looms from the reef,

To the rock that is under his lee,

As he drifts on the blast, like a wind-wafted leaf,

O'er the gulfs of the desolate sea.

Thus drifting afar to the dim-vaulted caves

Where life and its ventures are laid,

The dreamers who gaze while we battle the waves

May see us in sunshine or shade;

Yet true to our course, though our shadow grow dark,

We'll trim our broad sail as before,

And stand by the rudder that governs the bark,

Nor ask how we look from the shore!

----Insanity is often the logic of an accurate mind overtasked. Good

mental machinery ought to break its own wheels and levers, if anything

is thrust among them suddenly which tends to stop them or reverse

their motion. A weak mind does not accumulate force enough to hurt

itself; stupidity often saves a man from going mad. We frequently see

persons in insane hospitals, sent there in consequence of what are

called _religious_ mental disturbances. I confess that I think

better of them than of many who hold the same notions, and keep their

wits and appear to enjoy life very well, outside of the asylums. Any

decent person ought to go mad, if he really holds such or such

opinions. It is very much to his discredit in every point of view, if

he does not. What is the use of my saying what some of these opinions

are? Perhaps more than one of you hold such as I should think ought to

send you straight over to Somerville, if you have any logic in your

heads or any human feeling in your hearts. Anything that is brutal,

cruel, heathenish, that makes life hopeless for the most of mankind

and perhaps for entire races,--anything that assumes the necessity of

the extermination of instincts which were given to be regulated,--no

matter by what name you call it,--no matter whether a fakir, or a

monk, or a deacon believes it,--if received, ought to produce insanity

in every well-regulated mind. That condition becomes a normal one,

under the circumstances. I am very much ashamed of some people for

retaining their reason, when they know perfectly well that if they

were not the most stupid or the most selfish of human beings, they

would become _non-compotes_ at once.

[Nobody understood this but the theological student and the

schoolmistress. They looked intelligently at each other; but whether

they were thinking about my paradox or not, I am not clear.--It would

be natural enough. Stranger things have happened. Love and Death enter

boarding-houses without asking the price of board, or whether there is

room for them. Alas, these young people are poor and pallid! Love

_should_ be both rich and rosy, but _must_ be either rich or

rosy. Talk about military duty! What is that to the warfare of a

married maid-of-all-work, with the title of mistress, and an American

female constitution, which collapses just in the middle third of life,

and comes out vulcanised India-rubber, if it happen to live through

the period when health and strength are most wanted?]

----Have I ever acted in private theatricals? Often. I have

played the part of the "Poor Gentleman," before a great many

audiences,--more, I trust, than I shall ever face again. I did not

wear a stage-costume, nor a wig, nor moustaches of burnt cork; but I

was placarded and announced as a public performer, and at the proper

hour I came forward with the ballet-dancer's smile upon my

countenance, and made my bow and acted my part. I have seen my name

stuck up in letters so big that I was ashamed to show myself in the

place by daylight. I have gone to a town with a sober literary essay

in my pocket, and seen myself everywhere announced as the most

desperate of _buffos_,--one who was obliged to restrain himself

in the full exercise of his powers, from prudential considerations. I

have been through as many hardships as Ulysses, in the pursuit of my

histrionic vocation. I have travelled in cars until the conductors all

knew me like a brother. I have run off the rails, and stuck all night

in snowdrifts, and sat behind females that would have the window open

when one could not wink without his eyelids freezing together. Perhaps

I shall give you some of my experiences one of these days;--I will not

now, for I have something else for you.

Private theatricals, as I have figured in them in country

lyceum-halls, are one thing,--and private theatricals, as they may be

seen in certain gilded and frescoed saloons of our metropolis, are

another. Yes, it is pleasant to see real gentlemen and ladies, who do

not think it necessary to mouth, and rant, and stride, like most of

our stage heroes and heroines, in the characters which show off their

graces and talents; most of all to see a fresh, unrouged, unspoiled,

highbred young maiden, with a lithe figure, and a pleasant voice,

acting in those love-dramas that make us young again to look upon,

when real youth and beauty will play them for us.

----Of course I wrote the prologue I was asked to write. I did not see

the play, though. I knew there was a young lady in it, and that

somebody was in love with her, and she was in love with him, and

somebody (an old tutor, I believe) wanted to interfere, and, very

naturally, the young lady was too sharp for him. The play of course

ends charmingly; there is a general reconciliation, and all concerned

form a line and take each others' hands, as people always do after

they have made up their quarrels,--and then the curtain falls,--if it

does not stick, as it commonly does at private theatrical exhibitions,

in which case a boy is detailed to pull it down, which he does,

blushing violently.

Now, then, for my prologue. I am not going to change my caesuras and

cadences for anybody; so if you do not like the heroic, or iambic

trimeter brachycatalectic, you had better not wait to hear it.

THIS IS IT.

A Prologue? Well, of course the ladies know;--

I have my doubts. No matter,--here we go!

What is a Prologue? Let our Tutor teach:

_Pro_ means beforehand; _logos_ stands for speech.

'Tis like the harper's prelude on the strings,

The prima donna's courtesy ere she sings;--

Prologues in metre are to other _pros_

As worsted stockings are to engine-hose.

"The world's a stage,"--as Shakspeare said, one day;

The stage a world--was what he meant to say.

The outside world's a blunder, that is clear;

The real world that Nature meant is here.

Here every foundling finds its lost mamma;

Each rogue, repentant, melts his stern papa;

Misers relent, the spendthrift's debts are paid,

The cheats are taken in the traps they laid;

One after one the troubles all are past

Till the fifth act comes right side up at last,

When the young couple, old folks, rogues, and all,

Join hands, so happy at the curtain's fall.

--Here suffering virtue ever finds relief,

And black-browed ruffians always come to grief.

--When the lorn damsel, with a frantic screech,

And cheeks as hueless as a brandy-peach,

Cries, "Help, kyind Heaven!" and drops upon her knees

On the green--baize,--beneath the (canvas) trees,--

See to her side avenging Valor fly:--

"Ha! Villain! Draw! Now, Terraitorr, yield or die!"

--When the poor hero flounders in despair,

Some dear lost uncle turns up millionnaire,--

Clasps the young scapegrace with paternal joy,

Sobs on his neck, "My boy! My Boy!! MY BOY!!!"

Ours, then, sweet friends, the real world to-night

Of love that conquers in disaster's spite.

Ladies, attend! While woful cares and doubt

Wrong the soft passion in the world without,

Though fortune scowl, though prudence interfere,

One thing is certain: Love will triumph here!

Lords of creation, whom your ladies rule,--

The world's great masters, when you're out of school,--

Learn the brief moral of our evening's play:

Man has his will,--but woman has her way!

While man's dull spirit toils in smoke and fire,

Woman's swift instinct threads the electric wire,--

The magic bracelet stretched beneath the waves

Beats the black giant with his score of slaves.

All earthly powers confess your sovereign art

But that one rebel,--woman's wilful heart.

All foes you master; but a woman's wit

Lets daylight through you ere you know you're hit.

So, just to picture what her art can do,

Hear an old story made as good as new.

Rudolph, professor of the headsman's trade,

Alike was famous for his arm and blade.

One day a prisoner Justice had to kill

Knelt at the block to test the artist's skill.

Bare-armed, swart-visaged, gaunt, and shaggy-browed,

Rudolph the headsman rose above the crowd.

His falchion lightened with a sudden gleam,

As the pike's armor flashes in the stream.

He sheathed his blade; he turned as if to go;

The victim knelt, still waiting for the blow.

"Why strikest not? Perform thy murderous act,"

The prisoner said. (His voice was slightly cracked.)

"Friend, I _have_ struck," the artist straight replied;

"Wait but one moment, and yourself decide."

He held his snuff-box,--"Now then, if you please!"

The prisoner sniffed, and, with a crashing sneeze,

Off his head tumbled,--bowled along the floor,--

Bounced down the steps;--the prisoner said no more!

Woman! thy falchion is a glittering eye;

If death lurks in it, oh, how sweet to die!

Thou takest hearts as Rudolph took the head;

We die with love, and never dream we're dead!

The prologue went off very well, as I hear. No alterations were

suggested by the lady to whom it was sent, for as far as I

know. Sometimes people criticize the poems one sends them, and

suggest all sorts of improvements. Who was that silly body that

wanted Burns to alter "Scots wha hae," so as to lengthen the last

line, thus?--

"_Edward!_". Chains and slavery!

Here is a little poem I sent a short time since to a committee for a

certain celebration. I understood that it was to be a festive and

convivial occasion, and ordered myself accordingly. It seems the

president of the day was what is called a "teetotaller." I received a

note from him in the following words, containing the copy subjoined,

with the emendations annexed to it:

"Dear Sir,--Your poem gives good satisfaction to the committee. The

sentiments expressed with reference to liquor are not, however, those

generally entertained by this community. I have therefore consulted

the clergyman of this place, who has made some slight changes, which

he thinks will remove all objections, and keep the valuable portions

of the poem. Please to inform me of your charge for said poem. Our

means are limited, etc., etc., etc.

"Yours with respect."

HERE IT IS,--WITH THE _SLIGHT ALTERATIONS!_

Come! fill a fresh bumper,--for why should we go

logwood

While the <nectar> still reddens our cups as they flow?

decoction

Pour out the <rich juices> still bright with the sun,

dye-stuff

Till o'er the brimmed crystal the <rubies> shall run.

half-ripened apples

The <purple-globed-clusters> their life-dews have bled;

taste sugar of lead

How sweet is the <breath> of the <fragrance they shed>!

rank poisons _wines!!!_

For summer's <last roses> lie hid in the <wines>

stable-boys smoking long-nines.

That were garnered by <maidens who laughed through the vines.>

scowl howl scoff sneer

Then a <smile>, and a <glass>, and a <toast>, and a <cheer>,

strychnine and whiskey, and ratsbane and beer!

For <all the good-wine, and we've some of it here>

In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall,

Down, down, with the tyrant that masters us all!

<Long live the gay servant that laughs for us all!>

The company said I had been shabbily treated, and advised me to charge

the committee double,--which I did. But as I never got my pay, I don't

know that it made much difference. I am a very particular person about

having all I write printed as I write it, I require to see a proof, a

revise, a re-revise, and a double re-revise, or fourth-proof rectified

impression of all my productions, especially verse. Manuscripts are

such puzzles! Why, I was reading some lines near the end of the last

number of this journal, when I came across one beginning

"The _stream_ flashes by,"--

Now as no stream had been mentioned, I was perplexed to know what it

meant. It proved, on inquiry, to be only a misprint for "dream."

Think of it! No wonder so many poets die young.

I have nothing more to report at this time, except two pieces of

advice I gave to the young women at table. One relates to a vulgarism

of language, which I grieve to say is sometimes heard even from female

lips. The other is of more serious purport, and applies to such as

contemplate a change of condition,--matrimony, in fact.

--The woman who "calc'lates" is lost.

--Put not your trust in money, but put your money in trust.

THOMAS CARLYLE.

THOMAS CARLYLE is a name which no man of this generation should

pronounce without respect; for it belongs to one of the high-priests

of modern literature, to whom all contemporary minds are indebted, and

by whose intellect and influence a new spiritual cultus has been

established in the realm of letters. It is yet impossible to estimate

either the present value or the remote issues of the work which he has

accomplished. We see that a revolution in all the departments of

thought, feeling, and literary enterprise has been silently achieved

amongst us, but we are yet ignorant of its full bearing, and of the

final goal to which it is hurrying us. One thing, however, is clear

respecting it: that it was not forced in the hot-bed of any possible

fanaticism, but that it grew fairly out of the soil, a genuine product

of the time and its circumstances. It was, indeed, a new manifestation

of the hidden forces and vitalities of what we call Protestantism,--an

assertion by the living soul of its right to be heard once more in a

world which seemed to ignore its existence, and had set up a ghastly

skeleton of dry bones for its oracle and God. It was that necessary

return to health, earnestness, and virtuous endeavor which Kreeshna

speaks of in the Hindoo Geeta: "Whenever vice and corruption have

sapped the foundations of the world, and men have lost their sense of

good and evil, I, Kreeshna, make myself manifest for the restoration

of order, and the establishment of justice, virtue, and piety." And so

this literary revolution, of which we are speaking, brought us from

frivolity to earnestness, from unbelief and all the dire negations

which it engenders, to a sublime faith in human duty and the

providence of God.

We have no room here to trace either the foreign or the native

influences which, operating as antagonism or as inspiration upon the

minds of Coleridge, Carlyle, and others, produced finally these great

and memorable results. It is but justice, however, to recognize

Coleridge as the pioneer of the new era. His fine metaphysical

intellect and grand imagination, nurtured and matured in the German

schools of philosophy and theology, reproduced the speculations of

their great thinkers in a form and coloring which could not fail to be

attractive to all seeking and sincere minds in England. The French

Revolution and the Encyclopedists had already prepared the ground for

the reception of new thought and revelation. Hence Coleridge, as

writer and speaker, drew towards his centre all the young and ardent

men of his time,--and among others, the subject of the present

article. Carlyle, however, does not seem to have profited much by the

spoken discourses of the master; and in his "Life of Sterling" he

gives an exceedingly graphic, cynical, and amusing account of the

oracular meetings at Highgate, where the philosopher sat in his great

easy-chair, surrounded by his disciples and devotees, uttering, amid

floods of unintelligible, mystic eloquence, those radiant thoughts and

startling truths which warrant his claim to genius, if not to

greatness. It is curious to observe how at this early period of

Carlyle's life, when all the talent and learning of England bowed at

these levees before the gigantic speculator and dreamer, he, perhaps

alone, stood aloof from the motley throng of worshippers,--_with_

them, but not _of_ them,--coolly analyzing every sentence

delivered by the oracle, and sufficiently learned in the divine lore

to separate the gold from the dross. What was good and productive he

was ready to recognize and assimilate; leaving the opium pomps and

splendors of the discourse, and all the Oriental imagery with which

the speaker decorated his bathos, to those who could find profit

therein. It is still more curious and sorrowful to see this great

Coleridge, endowed with such high gifts, of so various learning, and

possessing so marvellous and plastic a power over all the forms of

language, forsaking the true for the false inspiration, and relying

upon a vile drug to stimulate his large and lazy intellect into

action. Carlyle seems to have regarded him at this period as a sort of

fallen demigod; and although he sneers, with an almost Mephistophelean

distortion of visage, at the philosopher's half inarticulate drawling

of speech, at his snuffy, nasal utterance of the ever-recurring

"_omnject_" and "_sumnject_" yet gleams of sympathy and

affection, not unmixed with sorrow, appear here and there in what he

says concerning him. And indeed, although the immense fame of

Coleridge is scarcely warranted by his printed performances, he was,

nevertheless, worthy both of affection and homage. For whilst we pity

the weakness and disease of his moral nature, under the influence of

that dark and terribly enchanting weed, we cannot forget either his

personal amiabilities or the great service which he rendered to

letters and to society. Carlyle himself would be the last man to deny

this laurel to the brows of "the poet, the philosopher, and the

divine," as Charles Lamb calls him; and it is certain that the

thinking of Coleridge helped to fashion Carlyle's mind, and not

unlikely that it directed him to a profounder study of German writers

than he had hitherto given to them.

Coleridge had already formed a school both of divinity and

philosophy. He had his disciples, as well as those far-off gazers who

looked upon him with amazement and trembling, not knowing what to make

of the phenomenon, or whether to regard him as friend or foe to the

old dispensation and the established order of things. He had written

books and poems, preached Unitarian sermons, recanted, and preached

philosophy and Church-of-Englandism. To the dazzled eyes of all

ordinary mortals, content to chew the cud of parish sermons, and

swallow, Sunday after Sunday, the articles of common belief, he seemed

an eccentric comet. But a better astronomy recognized him as a fixed

star, for he was unmistakable by that fitting Few whose verdict is

both history and immortality.

But a greater than Coleridge, destined to assume a more commanding

position, and exercise a still wider power over the minds of his age,

arose in Thomas Carlyle. The son of a Scotch farmer, he had in his

youth a hard student's life of it, and many severe struggles to win

the education which is the groundwork of his greatness. His father was

a man of keen penetration, who saw into the heart of things, and

possessed such strong intellect and sterling common sense that the

country people said "he always hit the nail on the head and clinched

it." His mother was a good, pious woman, who loved the Bible, and

Luther's "Table Talk," and Luther,--walking humbly and sincerely

before God, her Heavenly Father. Carlyle was brought up in the

religion of his fathers and his country; and it is easy to see in his

writings how deep a root this solemn and earnest belief had struck

down into his mind and character. He readily confesses how much he

owes to his mother's early teaching, to her beautiful and beneficent

example of goodness and holiness; and he ever speaks of her with

affection and reverence. We once saw him at a friend's house take up a

folio edition of the "Table Talk" alluded to, and turn over the pages

with a gentle and loving hand, reading here and there his mother's

favorite passages,--now speaking of the great historic value of the

book, and again of its more private value, as his mother's constant

companion and solace. It was touching to see this pitiless intellect,

which had bruised and broken the idols of so many faiths, to which

Luther himself was recommended only by his bravery and self-reliance

and the grandeur of his aims,--it was touching, we say, and suggestive

also of many things, to behold the strong, stern man paying homage to

language whose spirit was dead to him, out of pure love for his dear

mother, and veneration also for the great heart in which that spirit

was once alive that fought so grand and terrible a battle. Carlyle

likes to talk of Luther, and, as his "Hero-Worship" shows, loves his

character. A great, fiery, angry gladiator, with something of the

bully in him,--as what controversialist has not, from Luther to

Erasmus, to Milton, to Carlyle himself?--a dread image-breaker,

implacable as Cromwell, but higher and nobler than he, with the

tenderness of a woman in his inmost heart, full of music, and glory,

and spirituality, and power; his speech genuine and idiomatic, not

battles only, but conquests; and all his highest, best, and gentlest

thoughts robed in the divine garments of religion and poetry;--such

was Luther, and as such Carlyle delights to behold him. Are they not

akin? We assuredly think so. For the blood of this aristocracy

refuses to mix with that of churls and bastards, and flows pure and

uncontaminated from century to century, descending in all its richness

and vigor from Piromis to Piromis. The ancient philosopher knew this

secret well enough when he said a Parthian and a Libyan might be

related, although they had no common parental blood; and that a man is

not necessarily my brother because he is born of the same womb.

We find that Carlyle in his student-life manifested many of those

strong moral characteristics which are the attributes of all his

heroes. An indomitable courage and persistency meet us everywhere in

his pages,--persistency, and also careful painstaking, and patience in

sifting facts and gathering results. He disciplined himself to this

end in early youth, and never allowed any study or work to conquer

him. Speaking to us once in private upon the necessity of persevering

effort in order to any kind of success in life, he said, "When I was a

student, I resolved to make myself master of Newton's 'Principia,' and

although I had not at that time knowledge enough of mathematics to

make the task other than a Hercules-labor to me, yet I read and

wrought unceasingly, through all obstructions and difficulties, until

I had accomplished it; and no Tamerlane conqueror ever felt half so

happy as I did when the terrible book lay subdued and vanquished

before me." This trifling anecdote is a key to Carlyle's character. To

achieve his object, he exhausts all the means within his command;

never shuffles through his work, but does it faithfully and sincerely,

with a man's heart and hand. This outward sincerity in the conduct of

his executive faculty has its counterpart in the inmost recesses of

his nature. We feel that this man and falsehood are impossible

companions, and our faith in his integrity is perfect and absolute.

Herein lies his power; and here also lies the power of all men who

have ever moved the world. For it is in the nature of truth to

conserve itself, whilst falsehood is centrifugal, and flies off into

inanity and nothingness. It is by the cardinal virtue of sincerity

alone--the truthfulness of deed to thought, of effect to cause--that

man and nature are sustained. God is truth; and he who is most

faithful to truth is not only likest to God, but is made a

participator in the divine nature. For without truth there is neither

power, vitality, nor permanence.

Carlyle was fortunate that he was comparatively poor, and never

tempted, therefore, as a student, to dissipate his fine talents in the

gay pursuits of university life. Not that there would have been any

likelihood of his running into the excesses of ordinary students, but

we are pleased and thankful to reflect that he suffered no kind of

loss or harm in those days of his novitiate. It is one of the many

consolations of poverty that it protects young men from snares and

vices to which the rich are exposed; and our poor student in his

garret was preserved faithful to his vocation, and laid up day by day

those stores of knowledge, experience, and heavenly wisdom which he

has since turned to so good account. It would be deeply interesting,

if we could learn the exact position of Carlyle's mind at this time,

with respect to those profound problems of human nature and destiny

which have occupied the greatest men in all ages, ceaselessly and

pertinaciously urging their dark and solemn questions, and refusing to

depart until their riddles were in some sort solved. That Carlyle was

haunted by these questions, and by the pitiless Sphinx herself who

guards the portals of life and death,--that he had to meet her face to

face, staring at him with her stony, passionless eyes,--that he had to

grapple and struggle with her for victory,--there are proofs abundant

in his writings. The details of the struggle, however, are not given

us; it is the result only that we know. But it is evident that the

progress of his mind from the bog-region of orthodoxy to the high

realms of thought and faith was a slow proceeding,--not rolled onward

as with the chariot-wheels of a fierce and sudden revolution, but

gradually developed in a long series of births, growths, and deaths.

The theological phraseology sticks to him, indeed, even to the present

time, although he puts it to new uses; and it acquires in his hands a

power and significance which it possessed only when, of old, it was

representative of the divine.

Carlyle was matured in solitude. Emerson found him, in the year 1833,

on the occasion of his first visit to England, living at

Craigenputtock, a farm in Nithsdale, far away from all civilization,

and "no one to talk to but the minister of the parish." He, good man,

could make but little of his solitary friend, and must many a time

have been startled out of his canonicals by the strange, alien

speeches which he heard. It is a pity that this minister had not had

some of the Boswell faculty in him, that he might have reported what

we should all be so glad to hear. Over that period of his life,

however, the curtain falls at present, to be lifted only, if ever, by

Carlyle himself. Through the want of companionship, he fell back

naturally upon books and his own thoughts. Here he wrote some of his

finest critical essays for the reviews, and that "rag of a book," as

he calls it, the "Life of Schiller." The essays show a catholic, but

conservative spirit, and are full of deep thought. They exhibit also

a profoundly philosophical mind, and a power of analysis which is

almost unique in letters. They are pervaded likewise by an earnestness

and solemnity which are perfectly Hebraic; and each performance is

presented in a style decorated with all the costly jewels of

imagination and fancy,--a style of far purer and more genuine English

than any of his subsequent writings, which are often marred, indeed,

by gross exaggerations, and still grosser violations of good taste and

the chastities of language. What made these writings, however, so

notable at the time, and so memorable since, was that sincerity and

deep religious feeling of the writer which we have already alluded

to. Here were new elements introduced into the current literature,

destined to revivify it, and to propagate themselves, as by seminal

vitality, in myriad minds and forms. These utterances were both

prophetic and creative, and took all sincere minds captive. Dry and

arid in comparison as Egyptian deserts, lay all around him the

writings of his contemporaries. No living waters flowed through them;

all was sand, and parch, and darkness. The contrast was immense: a

living soul and a dead corpse! Since the era of the Commonwealth,--the

holy, learned, intellectual, and earnest age of Taylor, Barrow,

Milton, Fuller,--no such pen of fire had wrought its miracles amongst

us. Writers spoke from the intellect, believed in the intellect, and

divorced it from the soul and the moral nature. Science, history,

ethics, religion, whenever treated of in literary form, were

mechanized, and shone not with any spiritual illumination. There was

abundance of lawyer-like ability,--but of genius, and its accompanying

divine afflatus, little. Carlyle is full of genius; and this is

evidenced not only by the fine aroma of his language, but by the

depths of his insight, his wondrous historical pictures,--living

cartoons of persons, events, and epochs, which he paints often in

single sentences,--and the rich mosaic of truths with which every page

of his writings is inlaid.

That German literature, with which at this time Carlyle had been more

or less acquainted for ten years, had done much to foster and develop

his genius there can be no doubt; although the book which first

created a storm in his mind, and awoke him to the consciousness of his

own abundant faculty, was the "Confessions" of Rousseau,--a fact which

is well worthy of record and remembrance. He speaks subsequently of

poor Jean Jacques with much sympathy and sorrow; not as the greatest

man of his time and country, but as the sincerest,--a smitten,

struggling spirit,--

"An infant crying in the night,

An infant crying for the light,

And with no language but a cry."

From Rousseau, and his strange thoughts, and wild, ardent eloquence,

the transition to German literature was easy. Some one had told

Carlyle that he would find in this literature what he had so long

sought after,--truth and rest,--and he gladly learned the language,

and addressed himself to the study of its masters; with what success

all the world knows, for he has grafted their thoughts upon his own,

and whoever now speaks is more or less consciously impregnated by his

influence. Who the man was that sent Carlyle to them does not appear,

and so far as he is concerned it is of little moment to inquire; but

the fact constitutes the grand epoch in Carlyle's life, and his true

history dates from that period.

It was natural that he should be deeply moved on his introduction to

German literature. He went to it with an open and receptive nature,

and with an earnestness of purpose which could not fail to be

productive. Jean Paul, the beautiful!--the good man, and the wise

teacher, with poetic stuff in him sufficient to have floated an argosy

of modern writers,--this great, imaginative Jean Paul was for a long

time Carlyle's idol, whom he reverently and affectionately studied. He

has written a fine paper about him in his "Miscellanies," and we trace

his influence not only in Carlyle's thought and sentiment, but in the

very form of their utterance. He was, indeed, warped by him, at one

period, clear out of his orbit, and wrote as he inspired. The

dazzling sunbursts of Richter's imagination, however,--its gigantic

procession of imagery, moving along in sublime and magnificent marches

from earth to heaven, from heaven to earth,--the array, symbolism, and

embodiment of his manifold ideas, ceased in the end to enslave, though

they still captivated Carlyle's mind; and he turns from him to the

thinkers who deal with God's geometry, and penetrate into the abysses

of being,--to primordial Kant, and his behemoth brother, Fichte. Nor

does Hegel, or Schelling, or Schlegel, or Novalis escape his pursuit,

but he hunts them all down, and takes what is needful to him, out of

them, as his trophy. Schiller is his king of singers, although he does

not much admire his "Philosophical Letters," or his "Aesthetic

Letters." But his grandest modern man is the calm and plastic Goethe,

and the homage he renders him is worthy of a better and a holier

idol. Goethe's "Autobiography," in so far as it relates to his early

days, is a bad book; and Wordsworth might well say of the "Wilhelm

Meister," that "it was full of all manner of fornication, like the

crossing of flies in the air." Goethe, however, is not to be judged by

any fragmentary estimate of him, but as an intellectual whole; for he

represented the intellect, and grasped with his selfish and cosmical

mind all the provinces of thought, learning, art, science, and

government, for purely intellectual purposes. This entrance into, and

breaking up of, the minds of these distinguished persons was, however,

a fine discipline for Carlyle, who is fully aware of its value; and

whilst holding communion with these great men, who by their genius and

insight seemed to apprehend the essential truth of things at a glance,

it is not wonderful that he should have been so merciless in his

denunciations of the mere logic-ability of English writers, as he

shows himself in the essays of that period. Logic, useful as it is, as

a help to reasoning, is but the dead body of thought, as Novalis

designates it, and has no place in the inspired regions where the

prophets and the bards reside.

Carlyle's fame, however, had not reached its culminating point when

Emerson visited him. The English are a slow, unimpressionable people,

not given to hasty judgments, nor too much nor too sudden praise;

requiring first to take the true altitude of a man, to measure him by

severe tests; often grudging him his proper and natural advantages and

talents, buffeting and abusing him in a merciless and sometimes an

unreasoning and unreasonable manner, allowing him now and then,

however, a sunbeam for his consolation, until at last they come to a

settled understanding of him, and he is generously praised and abused

into the sanctuary of their worthies. This was not the case, however,

at present, with Carlyle; for although he had the highest recognitions

from some of those who constitute the flower and chivalry of England,

he was far better known and more widely read in America than in his

own country. Emerson, then a young man, with a great destiny before

him, was attracted by his writings, and carried a letter of

introduction to him at Craigenputtock. "He was tall and gaunt, with a

cliff-like brow; self-possessed, and holding his extraordinary powers

of conversation in easy command; clinging to his northern accent with

evident relish; full of lively anecdote, and with a streaming humor

which floated everything he looked upon." He is the same man, in his

best moods, in the year 1857, as he was in 1833. His person, except

that he stoops slightly, is tall, and very little changed. He is

thinner, and the once ruddy hues of his cheek are dying away like

faint streaks of light in the twilight sky of a summer evening. But he

is strong and hearty on the whole; although the excitement of

continuous writing keeps him in a perpetual fever, deranges his liver,

and makes him at times acrid and savage as a sick giant. Hence his

increased pugnacity of late,--his fierceness, and angry hammering of

all things sacred and profane. It is but physical and temporary,

however, all this, and does not affect his healthy and serene

moments. For no man lives who possesses greater kindness and

affection, or more good, noble, and humane qualities. All who know him

love him, although they may have much to pardon in him; not in a

social or moral sense, however, but in an intellectual one. His talk

is as rich as ever,--perhaps richer; for his mind has increased its

stores, and the old fire of geniality still burns in his great and

loving heart. Perhaps his conversation is better than his printed

discourse. We have never heard anything like it. It is all alive, as

if each word had a soul in it.

How characteristic is all that Emerson tells us of him in his "English

Traits"!--a book, by the way, concerning which no adequate word has

yet been spoken; the best book ever written upon England, and which no

brave young Englishman can read, and ever after commit either a mean

or a bad action. We are therefore doubly thankful to Emerson, both for

what he says of England, and for what he relates of Carlyle, whose

independent speech upon all subjects is one of his chief charms. He

reads "Blackwood," for example, and has enjoyed many a racy, vigorous

article in its pages; but it does not satisfy him, and he calls it

"Sand Magazine." "Fraser's" is a little better, but not good enough to

be worthy of a higher nomenclature than "Mud Magazine." Excessive

praise of any one's talents drives him into admiration of the parts of

his own learned pig, now wallowing in the stye. The best thing he knew

about America was that there a man could have meat for his labor. He

did not read Plato, and he disparaged Socrates. Mirabeau was a hero;

Gibbon the splendid bridge from the old world to the new. It is

interesting also to hear that "Tristram Shandy" was one of the first

books he read after "Robinson Crusoe," and that Robertson's "America"

was an early favorite. Rousseau's "Confessions" had discovered to him

that he was not a dunce. Speaking of English pauperism, he said that

government should direct poor men what to do. "Poor Irish folks come

wandering over these moors. My dame makes it a rule to give to every

son of Adam bread to eat, and supplies his wants to the next

house. But here are thousands of acres which might give them all meat,

and nobody to bid those poor Irish go to the moor and till it. They

burned the stacks, and so found a way to force the rich people to

attend to them." Here is the germ of his book on "Chartism." Emerson

and he talk of the immortality of the soul, seated on the hill-tops

near Old Criffel, and looking down "into Wordsworth's country."

Carlyle had the natural disinclination of every nimble spirit to

bruise itself against walls, and did not like to place himself where

no step can be taken; but he was honest and true, and cognizant of the

subtile links that bind ages together, and saw how every event affects

all the future. "Christ died on the tree; that built Dunscore Kirk

yonder; that brought you and me together. Time has only a relative

existence."

Such is Emerson's account of his first visit to our author, whose eyes

were already turned towards London as the heart of the world, whither

he subsequently went, and where he now abides.

From Craigenputtock, with its savage rocks and moorlands, its

sheepwalk solitudes, its isolation and distance from all the

advantages of civil and intellectual life, to London and the living

solitude of its unnumberable inhabitants, its activities, polity, and

world-wide ramifications of commerce, learning, science, literature,

and art, was a change of great magnitude, whose true proportions it

took time to estimate. Carlyle, however, was not afraid of the huge

mechanism of London life, but took to it bravely and kindly, and was

soon at home amidst the everlasting whirl and clamor, the roar and

thunder of its revolutions. For although a scholar, and bred in

seclusion, he was also a genuine man of the world, and well acquainted

with its rough ways and Plutonic wisdom. This knowledge, combined with

his strong "common sense,"--as poor Dr. Beattie calls it, fighting for

its supremacy with canine ferocity,--gave Carlyle high vantage-ground

in his writings. He could meet the world with its own weapons, and

was cunning enough at that fence, as the world was very shortly

sensible. He was saved, therefore, from the contumely which vulgar

minds are always ready to bestow upon saints and mystics who sit aloof

from them, high enthroned amidst the truths and solemnities of

God. The secluded and ascetic life of most scholars, highly favorable

as it undoubtedly is to contemplation and internal development, has

likewise its disadvantages, and puts them, as being undisciplined in

the ways of life, at great odds, when they come to the actual and

practical battle. A man should be armed at all points, and not subject

himself, like good George Fox, Jacob Behmen, and other holy men, to

the taunts of the mob, on account of any awkward gait, mannerism, or

ignorance of men and affairs. Paul had none of these absurdities about

him; but was an accomplished person, as well as a divine speaker. His

doctrine of being all things to all men, that he might win souls to

Christ, is, like good manners and politeness, a part of that mundane

philosophy which obtains in every society, both as theory and

performance; not, however, in its literal meaning, which would involve

all sorts of hypocrisy and lies as its accessories, but in the sense

of ability to meet all kinds of men on their own grounds and with

their own enginery of warfare.

Strength, whether of mind or body, is sure to command respect, even

though it be used against ourselves; for we Anglo-Saxons are all

pugilists. A man, therefore, who accredits his metal by the work he

accomplishes, will be readily enough heard when he comes to speak and

labor upon higher platforms. This was the case with Carlyle; and when

he published that new Book of Job, that weird and marvellous Pilgrim's

Progress of a modern cultivated soul, the "Sartor Resartus," in

"Fraser's Magazine," strange, wild, and incomprehensible as it was to

most men, they did not put it contemptuously aside, but pondered it,

laughed at it, trembled over it and its dread apocalyptical visions

and revelations, respecting its earnestness and eloquence, although

not comprehending what manner of writing it essentially was. Carlyle

enjoyed the perplexity of his readers and reviewers, neither of whom,

with the exception of men like Sterling, and a writer in one of the

Quarterlies, seemed to know what they were talking about when they

spoke of it. The criticisms upon it were exceedingly comical in many

instances, and the author put the most notable of these together, and

always alluded to them with roars of laughter. The book has never yet

received justice at the hands of any literary tribunal. It requires,

indeed, a large amount of culture to appreciate it, either as a work

of art, or as a living flame-painting of spiritual struggle and

revelation. In his previous writings he had insisted upon the

sacredness and infinite value of the human soul,--upon the wonder and

mystery of life, and its dread surroundings,--upon the divine

significance of the universe, with its star pomp, and overhanging

immensities,--and upon the primal necessity for each man to stand with

awe and reverence in this august and solemn presence, if he would hope

to receive any glimpses of its meaning, or live a true and divine life

in the world; and in the "Sartor" he has embodied and illustrated this

in the person and actions of his hero. He saw that religion had become

secular; that it was reduced to a mere Sunday holiday and Vanity Fair,

taking no vital hold of the lives of men, and radiating, therefore,

none of its blessed and beautiful influences about their feet and

ways; that human life itself, with all its adornments of beauty and

poetry, was in danger of paralysis and death; that love and faith,

truth, duty, and holiness, were fast losing their divine attributes in

the common estimation, and were hurrying downwards with tears and a

sad threnody into gloom and darkness. Carlyle saw all this, and knew

that it was the reaction of that intellectual idolatry which brought

the eighteenth century to a close; knew also that there was only one

remedy which could restore men to life and health,--namely, the

quickening once again of their spiritual nature. He felt, also, that

it was his mission to attempt this miracle; and hence the prophetic

fire and vehemence of his words. No man, and especially no earnest

man, can read him without feeling himself arrested as by the grip of a

giant,--without trembling before his stern questions, inculcations,

and admonitions. There is a God, O Man! and not a blind chance, as

governor of this world. Thy soul has infinite relations with this

God, which thou canst never realize in thy being, or manifest in thy

practical life, save by a devout reverence for him, and his

miraculous, awful universe. This reverence, this deep, abiding

religious feeling, is the only link which binds us to the

Infinite. That severed, broken, or destroyed, and man is an alien and

an orphan; lost to him forever is the key to all spiritual mystery, to

the hieroglyph of the soul, to the symbolism of nature, of time, and

of eternity. Such, as we understand it, is Carlyle's teaching. But

this is not all. Man is to be man in that high sense we have spoken

his robes of immortality around him, as if God had done with him for

all practical purposes, and he with God,--but for action,--action in a

world which is to prove his power, his beneficence, his usefulness.

That spiritual fashioning by the Great Fashioner of all things is so

ordained that we ourselves may become fashioners, workers, makers. For

it is given to no man to be an idle cumberer of the ground, but to

dig, and sow, and plant, and reap the fruits of his labor for the

garner. This is man's first duty, and the diviner he is the more

divinely will he execute it.

That such a gospel as this could find utterance in the pages of the

"Edinburgh Review" is curious enough; and it is scarcely less

surprising that the "Sartor Resartus" should make its first appearance

in the somewhat narrow and conservative pages of Fraser. Carlyle has

clearly written his own struggles in this book,--his struggles and his

conquests. From the "Everlasting No,"--that dreadful realm of

enchantment, where all the forms of nature are frozen forever in dumb

imprisonment and despair,--the great vaulted firmament no longer

serene and holy and loving as God's curtain for his children's

slumbers, but flaming in starry portents, and dropping down over the

earth like a funeral pall; through this region of life-semblance and

death-reality the lonely and aching pilgrim wanders,--questioning

without reply,--wailing, broken, self-consuming,--looking with eager

eyes for the waters of immortality, and finding nothing but pools of

salt and Marahs of bitterness. Herein is no Calvary, no

Cross-symbolism, by whose miraculous power he is relieved of his

infinite burden of sorrow, starting onward with hope and joy in his

heart; nor does he ever find his Calvary until the deeps of his

spiritual nature are broken up and flooded with celestial light, as he

knocks reverently at the portals of heaven for communion with his

Father who is in heaven. Then bursts upon him a new significance from

all things; he sees that the great world is but a fable of divine

truth, hiding its secrets from all but the initiated and the worthy,

and that faith, and trust, and worship are the cipher, which unlocks

them all. He thus arrives at the plains of heaven in the region of the

"Everlasting Yes." His own soul lies naked and resolved before

him,--its unspeakable greatness, its meaning, faculty, and

destiny. Work, and dutiful obedience to the laws of work, are the

outlets of his power; and herein he finds peace and rest to his soul.

That Carlyle is not only an earnest, but a profoundly religious man,

these attempted elucidations of his teachings will abundantly

show. His religion, however, is very far remote from what is called

religion in this day. He has no patience with second-hand

beliefs,--with articles of faith ready-made for the having.

Whatsoever is accepted by men because it is the tradition of their

fathers, and not a deep conviction arrived at by legitimate search, is

to him of no avail; and all merely historical and intellectual faith,

standing outside the man, and not absorbed in the life as a vital,

moving, and spiritual power, he places also amongst the chaff for

burning. This world is a serious world, and human life and business

are also serious matters,--not to be trifled with, nor cheated by

shams and hypocrisies, but to be dealt with in all truth, soberness,

and sincerity. No one can thus deal with it who is not himself

possessed of these qualities, and the result of a life is the test of

what virtue there is in it. False men leave no mark. It is truth

alone which does the masonry of the world,--which founds empires, and

builds cities, and establishes laws, commerce, and civilization. And

in private life the same law abides, indestructible as God. Carlyle's

teaching tends altogether in this direction; and whilst he belongs to

no church and no creed, he is tolerant of all, and of everything that

is heartily and unfeignedly believed in by his fellows. He is no

Catholic; and yet for years he read little else than the forty volumes

of the "Acta Sanctorum," and found, he says, all Christian history

there, and much of profane history. Neither is he a Mahometan; but he

nevertheless makes a hero of Mahomet, whom he loves for his Ishmaelite

fierceness, bravery, and religious sincerity,--and because he taught

deism, or the belief in one God, instead of the old polytheism, or the

belief in many gods,--and gave half the East his very good book,

called the Koran, for his followers to live and die by.

Whether this large catholicism, this worship of heroes, is the best of

what now remains of religion on earth is certainly questionable

enough; and if we regard it in no other light than merely as an

idolatry of persons, there is an easy answer ready for it. But

considering that religion is now so far dead that it consists in

little else than formalities, and that its divine truth is no longer

such to half the great world, which lies, indeed, in dire atrophy and

wickedness,--and if we further consider and agree that the awakened

human soul is the divinest thing on earth, and partakes of the divine

nature itself, and that its manifestations are also divine in

whomsoever it is embodied, we can see some apology for its adoption;

inasmuch as it is the divine likeness to which reverence and homage

are rendered, and not the person merely, but only so far as he is the

medium of its showing. Christianity, however, will assuredly survive,

although doubtless in a new form, preserving all the integrity of its

message,--and be once more faith and life to men, when the present

old, established, decaying cultus shall be venerated only as history.

Carlyle clings to the Christian formulary and the old Christian life

in spite of himself. He is almost fanatical in his attachment to the

mediaeval times,--to the ancient worship, its ceremonial, music, and

architecture, its monastic government, its saints and martyrs. And the

reason, as he shows in the "Past and Present," is, that all this array

of devotion, this pomp and ceremony, this music and painting, this

gorgeous and sublime architecture, this fasting and praying, were

_real_,--faithful manifestations of a religion which to that

people was truly genuine and holy. They who built the cathedrals of

Europe, adorned them with carvings, pictures, and those stately

windows with their storied illuminations which at this day are often

miracles of beauty and of art, were not frivolous modern

conventicle-builders, but poets as grand as Milton, and sculptors

whose genius might front that of Michel Angelo. It was no dead belief

in a dead religion which designed and executed these matchless

temples. Man and Religion were both alive in those days; and the

worship of God was so profound a prostration of the inmost spirit

before his majesty and glory, that the souls of the artists seem to

have been inspired, and to have received their archetypes in heavenly

visions. Such temples it is neither in the devotion nor the faculty of

the modern Western world to conceive or construct. Carlyle knows all

this, and he falls back in loving admiration upon those old times and

their worthies, despising the filigree materials of which the men of

to-day are for the most part composed. He revels in that picture of

monastic life, also, which is preserved in the record of Jocelyn de

Brakelonde. He sees all men at work there, each at his proper

vocation;--and he praises them, because they fear God and do their

duty. He finds them the same men, although with better and devouter

hearts, as we are at this day. Time makes no difference in this

verdant human nature, which shows ever the same in Catholic

monasteries as in Puritan meeting-houses. We have a wise preachment,

however, from that Past, to the Present, in Carlyle's book, which is

one of his best efforts, and contains isolated passages which for

wisdom and beauty, and chastity of utterance, he has never exceeded.

We have no space to speak here of all his books with anything like

critical integrity. The greatest amongst them, however, is, perhaps,

his "French Revolution, a History,"--which is no history, but a vivid

painting of characters and events as they moved along in tumultuous

procession. No one can appreciate this book who is not acquainted

with the history in its details beforehand. Emerson once related to us

a striking anecdote connected with this work, which gives us another

glimpse of Carlyle's character. He had just completed, after infinite

labor, one of the three volumes of his History, which he left exposed

on his study table when he went to bed. Next morning he sought in vain

for the manuscript, and had wellnigh concluded with Robert Hall, who

was once in a similar dilemma, that the Devil had run away with it,

when the servant-girl, on being questioned, confessed that she had

burnt it to kindle the fire. Carlyle neither stamped nor raved, but

sat down without a word and rewrote it.

In summing up the present results of Carlyle's labor, foolish men of

the world and small critics have not failed to ask what it all amounts

to,--what the great Demiurgus is aiming at in his weary battle of

life; and the question is significant enough,--one more proof of that

Egyptian darkness of vision which he is here to dispel. "He pulls down

the old," say they; "but what does he give us in place of it? Why does

he not strike out a system of his own? And after all, there is nothing

new in him." Such is the idle talk of the day, and such are the men

who either guide the people, or seek to guide them. Poor ignorant

souls! who do not know the beginning of the knowledge which Carlyle

teaches, nor its infinite importance to life and all its

concerns:--this, namely, as we have said before, that the soul should

first of all be wakened to the consciousness of its own miraculous

being, that it may be penetrated by the miracles of the universe, and

rise by aspiration and faith to the knowledge and worship of God, in

whom are all things; that this attitude of the soul, and its

accompanying wisdom, will beget the strength, purity, virtue, and

truth which can alone restore order and beauty upon the earth; that

all "systems," and mechanical, outward means and appliances to the

end, will but increase the Babel of confusion, as things unfitted to

it, and altogether extraneous and hopeless. "Systems!" It is living,

truthful men we want; these will make their own systems; and let those

who doubt the truth humbly watch and wait until it is manifest to

them, or go on their own arid and sorrowful ways in what peace they

can find there.

The catholic spirit of Carlyle's works cannot be better illustrated

than by the fact that he has received letters from all sorts and

conditions of men, Methodists and Shakers, Churchmen and Romanists,

Deists and Infidels, all claiming his fellowship, and thinking they

find their peculiarities of thought in him. This is owing partly,

perhaps, to the fact that in his earlier writings he masked his

sentiments both in Hebraic and Christian phraseology; and partly to

the lack of vision in his admirers, who could not distinguish a new

thought in an old garment. His "Cromwell" deceived not a few in this

respect; and we were once asked in earnest, by a man who should have

been better informed, if Carlyle was a Puritan. Whatever he may be

called, or believed to be, one thing is certain concerning him: that

he is a true and valiant man,--all out a man!--and that literature and

the world are deeply indebted to him. His mission, like that of Jeremy

Collier in a still baser age, was to purge our literature of its

falsehood, to recreate it, and to make men once more believe in the

divine, and live in it. So earnest a man has not appeared since the

days of Luther, nor any one whose thoughts are so suggestive,

germinal, and propagative. All our later writers are tinged with his

thought, and he has to answer for such men as Kingsley, Newman,

Froude, and others who will not answer for him, nor acknowledge him.

In private life Carlyle is amiable, and often high and beautiful in

his demeanor. He talks much, and, as we have said, well; impatient,

at times, of interruption, and at other times readily listening to

those who have anything to say. But he hates babblers, and cant, and

sham, and has no mercy for them, but sweeps them away in the whirlwind

and terror of his wrath. He receives distinguished men, in the

evening, at his house in Chelsea; but he rarely visits. He used

occasionally to grace the saloons of Lady Blessington, in the palmy

days of her life, when she attracted around her all noble and

beautiful persons, who were distinguished by their attainments in

literature, science, or art; but he rarely leaves his home now for

such a purpose. He is at present engaged in his "Life of Frederick the

Great," whom he will hardly make a hero of, and with whom, we learn,

he is already very heartily disgusted. The first volume will shortly

appear.

And now we must close this imperfect paper,--reserving for a future

occasion some personal reminiscences of him, which may prove both

interesting and illustrative.

THE BUTTON-ROSE.

CHAPTER I.

I fear I have not what is called "a taste for flowers." To be sure, my

cottage home is half buried in tall shrubs, some of which are

flowering, and some are not. A giant woodbine has wrapped the whole

front in its rich green mantle; and the porch is roofed and the

windows curtained with luxuriant honeysuckles and climbing

wild-roses. But, though I have tried for it many times, I never yet

had a successful bed of flowers. My next neighbor, Mrs. Smith, is "a

lady of great taste"; and when she leads me proudly through her trim

alleys edged with box, and displays her hyacinths and tulips, her

heliotropes, cactuses, and gladioluses, her choice roses, "so

extremely double," and all the rare plants which adorn her parterre, I

conclude it must be that I have no taste at all. I beg her to save me

seeds and bulbs, get fresh directions for laying down, and

inoculating, grafting, and potting, and go home with my head full of

improvements. But the next summer comes round with no change, except

that the old denizens of the soil (like my maids and my children) have

grown more wild and audacious than ever, and I find no place for beds

of flowers. I must e'en give it up; I have no taste for flowers, in

the common sense of the words. In fact, they awaken in me no

sentiment, no associations, as they stand, marshalled for show, "in

beds and curious knots"; and I do not like the care of them.

Yet let me find these daughters of the early year in their native

haunts, scattered about on hillside and in woody dingle, half hidden

by green leaves, starting up like fairies in secluded nooks, nestling

at the root of some old tree, or leaning over to peep into some glassy

bit of water, and no heart thrills quicker than mine at the

sight. There they seem to me to enjoy a sweet wild life of their own;

nodding and smiling in the sunshine or verdant gloom, caring not to

see or to be seen. Some of the loveliest of my early recollections are

of rambles after flowers. There was a certain "little pink and yellow

flower" (so described to me by one of my young cousins) after which I

searched a whole summer with unabated eagerness. I was fairly haunted

by its ideal image. Henry von Ofterdingen never sought with intenser

desire for his wondrous blue flower, nor more vainly; for I never

found it. One day, this same cousin and myself, while wandering in

the woods, found ourselves on the summit of a little rocky precipice,

and at its foot, lo! in full bloom, a splendid variety of the orchis,

(a flower I had never seen before,) looking to my astonished eyes like

an enchanted princess in a fairy tale. With a scream of joy we both

sprang for the prize. Harriet seized it first, but after gazing at it

a moment with a quiet smile, presented it to me. "Kings may be blest,

but I was glorious!" I never felt so rich before or since.

But there was one flower,--and I must confess that I made acquaintance

with it in a garden, but at an age when I thought all things grew out

of the blessed earth of their own sweet will,--which, as it is the

first I remember to have loved, has maintained the right of priority

in my affections to this day. Nay, many an object of deep, absorbing

interest, more than one glowing friendship, has meantime passed away,

leaving no memorial but sad and bitter thoughts; while this wee flower

still lives and makes glad a little green nook in my heart. It was a

Button-Rose of the smallest species, the outspread blossom scarce

exceeding in size a shilling-piece. It stood in my grandfather's

garden,--that garden which, at my first sight of it, (I was then about

five years old,) seemed to me boundless in extent, and beautiful

beyond aught that I had seen or thought before. It was a large,

old-fashioned kitchen-garden, adorned and enriched, however, as then

the custom was, with flowers and fruit-trees. Several fine old

pear-trees and a few of the choicest varieties of plum and cherry were

scattered over it; currants and gooseberries lined the fences; the

main alley, running through its whole extent, was thickly bordered by

lilacs, syringas, and roses, with many showy flowers intermixed, and

terminated in a very pleasant grape-arbor. Behind this rose a steep

green hill covered with an apple-orchard, through which a little

thread of a footpath wound up to another arbor which stood on the

summit relieved against the sky. It was but little after sunrise, the

first morning of my visit, when I timidly opened the garden gate and

stood in full view of these glories. All was dewy, glittering,

fragrant, musical as a morn in Eden. For a while I stood still, in a

kind of enchantment. Venturing, at length, a few steps forward,

gazing eagerly from side to side, I was suddenly arrested by the most

marvellously beautiful object my eyes had ever seen,--no other than

the little Button-Rose of our story! So small, so perfect! It filled

my infant sense with its loveliness. It grew in a very pretty china

vase, as if more precious than the other flowers. Several blossoms

were fully expanded, and many tiny buds were showing their crimson

tips. As I stood lost in rapture over this little miracle of beauty, a

humming-bird, the smallest of its fairy tribe, darted into sight, and

hung for an instant, its ruby crest and green and golden plumage

flashing in the sun, over my new-found treasure. Were it not that the

emotions of a few such moments are stamped indelibly on the memory, we

should have no conception in maturer life of the intenseness of

childish enjoyment. Oh for one drop of that fresh morning dew, that

pure nectar of life, in which I then bathed with an unconscious bliss!

Methinks I would give many days of sober, thoughtful, _rational_

enjoyment for one hour of the eager rapture which thrilled my being as

I stood in that enchanted garden, gazing upon my little rose, and that

gay creature of the elements, that winged blossom, that living

fragment of a rainbow, that glanced and quivered and murmured over it.

But, dear as the Button-Rose is to my memory, I should hardly think of

obtruding it on the notice of others, were it not for a little tale of

human interest connected with it. While I yet stood motionless in the

ecstasy of my first wonder, a young man and woman entered the garden,

chatting and laughing in a very lively manner. The lady was my Aunt

Caroline, then in the fresh bloom of seventeen; the young man I had

never seen before. Seeing me standing alone in the walk, my aunt

called me; but as I shrunk away shy and blushing at sight of the

stranger, she came forward and took hold of my hand.

"This is our little Katy, Cousin Harry," said she, leading me towards

him.

"Our little Katy's most obedient!" replied he, taking off his

broad-brimmed straw hat, and making a flourishing bow nearly to the

ground.

"Don't be afraid of him, Katy dear; he's nobody," said my aunt,

laughing.

At these encouraging words I glanced up at the merry pair, and thought

them almost as pretty as the rose and hummingbird. My Aunt Caroline's

beauty was of a somewhat peculiar character,--if beauty that can be

called which was rather spirit, brilliancy, geniality of expression,

than symmetrical mould of features. The large, full eye was of the

deepest violet hue; the finely arched forehead, a little too boldly

cast for feminine beauty, was shaded by masses of rich chestnut hair;

the mouth,--but who could describe that mouth? Even in repose, some

arch thought seemed ever at play among its changeful curves; and when

she spoke or laughed, its wonderful mobility and sweetness of

expression threw a perfect witchery over her face. She was quite

short, and, if the truth must be told, a little too stout in figure;

but this was in a great measure redeemed by a beautifully moulded

neck, on which her head turned with the quickness and grace of a wild

pigeon. Every motion was rapid and decided, and her whole aspect

beamed with genius, gayety, and a cordial friendliness, which took the

heart at first sight. And then, her voice, her laugh!--not so low as

Shakspeare commends in woman, but clear, musical, true-hearted, making

one glad like the song of the lark at sunrise.

Cousin Harry was a very tall, very pale, very black-haired and

black-eyed young gentleman, with a high, open brow, and a very

fascinating smile.

The remainder of the garden scene was to me but little more than dumb

show. Perhaps it was more vividly remembered for that very reason. I

recollect being busy filling a little basket with strawberries, while

I watched with a pleased, childish curiosity the two young people, as

they passed many times up and down the gravelled walk between the rows

of flowers. I was not far from the Button-Rose, and I had nearly

filled my basket, when my aunt came to the spot and stooped over the

little plant. Her face was towards me, and I saw several large tears

fall from her eyes upon the leaves. She broke off the most beautiful

blossom, and tying it up with some sprigs of mignonette, presented it

to Cousin Harry. They then left the garden.

The next day I heard it said that Cousin Harry was gone away. The

little rose was brought into the house and installed in the bow-window

of my aunt's room, where it was watched and tended by us both with the

greatest care.

Some time after this, the news came that Cousin Harry was married. The

next morning I missed my little favorite from the window. My aunt was

reading when I waked.

"Oh, Aunty!" I cried, "where is our little rose?"

"It was too much trouble, Katy," said she, quietly; "I have put it

into the garden."

"But isn't it going to stand in our window any more?"

"No, dear, I am tired of it."

"Oh, do bring it back! I will take the whole care of it," said I,

beginning to cry.

"Katy," said my aunt, taking me into her lap, and looking steadily,

but kindly, into my face, "listen to me. I do not wish to have that

rose in my room any more; and if you love me, you will never mention

it again."

Something in her manner prevented my uttering a word more in behalf of

the poor little exile. As soon as I was dressed, I ran down into the

garden to visit it. It looked very lonely, I thought; I could hardly

bear to leave it. The day following, it disappeared from the garden,

and old Nanny, the housemaid, told me that my aunt had given it

away. I never saw it again.

Thus ended my personal acquaintance with the little Button-Rose. But

that first strong impression on my fancy was indelible. The flower

still lived in my memory, surrounded by associations which gave it a

mystic charm. By degrees I ceased to miss it from the window; but that

strange garden scene grew more and more vivid, and became a cabinet

picture in one of the little inner chambers of memory, where I often

pondered it with a delicious sense of mystery. The rose and

humming-bird seemed to me the chief actors in the magic pantomime, and

they were some way connected with my dear Aunt Linny and the

black-eyed young man; but what it all meant was the great puzzle of my

busy little brain. It has sometimes been a matter of curious

speculation to me, what share that diminutive flower had in the

development of my mind and character. With it, so it seems to me,

began the first dawn of a conscious inner life. I can still recollect

with wonderful distinctness what I have thought and felt since that

date, while all the preceding years are vague and shadowy as an

ill-remembered dream. From them I can only conjure up, as it were, my

outward form,--a happy animal existence, with which scarce a feeling

of self is connected; but from the time when I bore a part in this

little fragment of a romance the current of identity flows on

unbroken. From that light waking touch, perchance, the whole

subsequent development took form and tone.--But, gentle reader, your

pardon! This is nothing to my story.