CHAPTER XVIII.

Produced by Joshua Hutchinson, Sandra Brown, and the Project

Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team

THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY.

A MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS.

VOL. IV.--AUGUST, 1859.--NO. XXII.

THE DRAMATIC ELEMENT IN THE BIBLE.

We say dramatic element _in_ the Bible, not dramatic element _of_ the

Bible, since that of which we speak is not essential, but incidental; it

is an aspect of the form of the book, not an attribute of its

inspiration.

By the use of the term _dramatic_ in this connection, let us, in the

outset, be understood to have no reference whatever to the theatre and

stage-effect, or to the sundry devices whereby the playhouse is made at

once popular and intolerable. Nor shall we anticipate any charge of

irreverence; since we claim the opportunity and indulge only the license

of the painter, who, in the treatment of Scriptural themes, seeks both

to embellish the sacred page and to honor his art,--and of the sculptor,

and the poet, likewise, each of whom, ranging divine ground, remarks

upon the objects there presented according to the law of his profession.

As the picturesque, the statuesque, the poetical in the Bible are

legitimate studies, so also the dramatic.

But in the premises, is not the term _dramatic_ interdicted,--since it

is that which is not the Bible, but which is foreign to the Bible, and

even directly contradistinguished therefrom? The drama is

representation,--the Bible is fact; the drama is imitation,--the Bible

narrative; the one is an embodiment,--the other a substance; the one

transcribes the actual by the personal,--the other is a return to the

simplest originality; the one exalts its subjects by poetic

freedom,--the other adheres to prosaic plainness.

Yet are there not points in which they meet, or in which, for the

purposes of this essay, they may be considered as coming together,--that

is, admitting of an artistical juxtaposition?

In the first place, to take Shakspeare for a type of the drama, what, we

ask, is the distinguishing merit of this great writer? It is his

fidelity to Nature. Is not the Bible also equally true to Nature? "It is

the praise of Shakspeare," says Dr. Johnson, "that his plays are the

mirror of life." Was there ever a more consummate mirror of life than

the Bible affords? "Shakspeare copied the manners of the world then

passing before him, and has more allusions than other poets to the

traditions and superstitions of the vulgar." The Bible, perhaps, excels

all other books in this sort of description. "Shakspeare was an exact

surveyor of the inanimate world." The Bible is full of similar sketches.

An excellence of Shakspeare is the individuality of his characters.

"They are real beings of flesh and blood," the critics tell us; "they

speak like men, not like authors." How truly this applies to the persons

mentioned in sacred writ! Goethe has compared the characters of

Shakspeare to "watches with crystalline cases and plates, which, while

they point out with perfect accuracy the course of the hours and

minutes, at the same time disclose the whole combination of springs and

wheels whereby they are moved." A similar transparency of motive and

purpose, of individual traits and spontaneous action, belongs to the

Bible. From the hand of Shakspeare, "the lord and the tinker, the hero

and the valet, come forth equally distinct and clear." In the Bible the

various sorts of men are never confounded, but have the advantage of

being exhibited by Nature herself, and are not a contrivance of the

imagination. "Shylock," observes a recent critic, "seems so much a man

of Nature's making, that we can scarce accord to Shakspeare the merit of

creating him." What will you say of Balak, Nabal, Jeroboam? "Macbeth is

rather guilty of tempting the Weird Sisters than of being tempted by

them, and is surprised and horrified at his own hell-begotten

conception." Saul is guilty of tampering with the Witch of Endor, and is

alarmed at the Ghost of Samuel, whose words distinctly embody and

vibrate the fears of his own heart, and he "falls straightway all along

on the earth." "The exquisite refinement of Viola triumphs over her

masculine attire." The exquisite refinement of Ruth triumphs in the

midst of men.

We see there are points in which dramatic representation and Scriptural

delineation mutually touch.

A distinguished divine of Connecticut said he wanted but two books in

his library, the Bible and Shakspeare,--the one for religion, the other

to be his instructor in human nature. In the same spirit, St. Chrysostom

kept a copy of Aristophanes under his pillow, that he might read it at

night before he slept and in the morning when he waked. The strong and

sprightly eloquence of this father, if we may trust tradition, drew its

support from the vigorous and masculine Atticism of the old comedian.

But human nature, in every stage of its development and every variety of

its operation, is as distinctly pronounced on the pages of Scripture as

in the scenes of the dramatist. Of Shakespeare it is said, "He turned

the globe round for his amusement, and surveyed the generations of men,

and the individuals as they passed, with their different concerns,

passions, follies, vices, virtues, actions, and motives." He has been

called the "thousand-minded," the "oceanic soul." The Bible creates the

world and peoples it, and gives us a profound and universal insight into

all its concerns.

Another peculiarity of Shakspeare is his self-forgetfulness. In reading

what is written, you do not think of him, but of his productions. "The

perfect absence of himself from his own pages makes it difficult for us

to conceive of a human being having written them." This remark applies

with obvious force to the Bible. The authors of the several books do not

thrust themselves upon your notice, or interfere with your meditations

on what they have written; indeed, to such an extent is this

self-abeyance maintained, that it is impossible, at this period of time,

to determine who are the authors of some of the books. The narrative of

events proceeds, for the most part, as if the author had never existed.

How _naïvely_ and perspicuously everything is told, without the

colouring of prejudice, or an infusion of egotism on the part of the

writer!

Coleridge says, Shakspeare gives us no moral highwaymen, no sentimental

thieves and rat-catchers, no interesting villains, no amiable

adulteresses. The Bible even goes farther than this, and is faithful to

the foibles and imperfections of its favorite characters, and describes

a rebellious Moses, a perjured David, a treacherous Peter.

"In nothing does Shakspeare so deeply and divinely touch the heart of

humanity as in the representation of woman." We have the grandeur of

Portia, the sprightliness of Rosalind, the passion of Juliet, the

delicacy of Ophelia, the mournful dignity of Hermione, the filial

affection of Cordelia. How shall we describe the Pythian greatness of

Miriam, the cheerful hospitality of Sarah, the heroism of Rahab, the

industry of Dorcas, the devotion of Mary? And we might set off Lady

Macbeth with Jezebel, and Cleopatra with Delilah.

But the Bible, it may be said, so far as the subject before us is

concerned, is chiefly historical, while Shakspeare is purely dramatic.

The one is description,--the other action; the one relates to

events,--the other to feelings; the department of the one is the general

course of human affairs,--that of the other, the narrower circle of

individual experience; the field of the one is that which the eye of

philosophy may embrace,--while that of the other is what the human frame

may portray.

However this may apply to the average of history, it will be found that

the Bible, in its historical parts, is not so strictly historical as to

preclude associations of another sort. The Bible is remarkable for a

visual and embodied relief, a bold and vivid detail. We know of no book,

if we may except the compositions of professed dramatists, that contains

so much of personal feeling and incident. In simplicity and directness,

in freedom from exaggeration, and in the general unreserve of its

expression, it even exceeds the most of these. In it we may discover a

succession of little dramas of Nature that will affect us quite as

profoundly as those larger ones of Art.

If the structure of the drama be dialogistic, we find the Bible formed

on the same model. If the writers of the former disappear under the

personages of their fancy, the writers of the latter disappear under the

personages of fact. As in the one, so in the other, strangers are

introduced to tell their own story, each in his own way.

In the commencement of the Bible, after a brief prologue, the curtain

rises, and we, as spectators, look in upon a process of interlocution.

The scene is the green, sunny garden of Eden, that to which the memory

of humanity reverts as to its dim golden age, and which ever expresses

the bright dream of our youth, ere the rigor of misfortune or the

dulness of experience has spoilt it. The _dramatis personae_ are three

individuals, Adam, Eve, and the Serpent. There are the mysterious tree,

with its wonderful fruit,--the beautiful, but inquisitive woman,--the

thoughtful, but too compliant man,--and the insinuating reptile. One

speaks, the other rejoins, and the third fills up the chasm of interest.

The plot thickens, the passions are displayed, and the tragedy hastens

to its end. Then is heard the voice of the Lord God walking in the cool

(the wind) of the garden, the impersonal presence of Jehovah is, as it

were, felt in the passing breeze, and a shadow falls upon the

earth,--but such a shadow as their own patient toil may dissipate, and

beyond the confines of which their hope, which has now taken the place

of enjoyment, is permitted ever to look.

Without delaying on the moral of this passage, what we would remark upon

is the clearness and freedom of the dialogue,--a feature which we find

pervading the whole of the sacred writings.

In the account of Cain, which immediately succeeds, the narrative is

inelaborate, casual, secondary; the dialogue is simple and touching. The

agony of the fratricide and his remorse are better expressed by his own

lips than could be done by any skill of the historian.

In the deception which Abraham put upon the Egyptians, touching his

wife,--which it is no part of our present object to justify or to

condemn,--what a stroke of pathos, what a depth of conjugal sentiment,

is exhibited! "Thou art a fair woman to look upon, and the Egyptians,

when they see thee, will kill me and save thee alive. _Say, I pray thee,

thou art my sister; that it may be well with me for thy sake, and my

soul shall live because of thee_."

Viola appears very interesting and very innocent, when, in boy's

clothes, she wanders about in pursuit of a lover. Is not Sarah equally

interesting and equally innocent, when, under cover of an assumed name,

and that a sister's, she would preserve the love of one who has worthily

won it?

Will it be said that the dialogue of the Bible lacks the charm of

poetry?--that its action and sentiment, its love and its sorrow, are not

heightened by those efforts of the fancy which delight us in dramatic

authors?--that its simplicity is bald, and its naturalness rough?--that

its excessive familiarity repels taste and disturbs culture? If we may

trust Wordsworth, simplicity is not inconsistent with the pleasures of

the imagination. The style of the Bible is not redundant,--there is

little extravagance in it, and it has no trickery of words. Yet this

does not prevent its being deep in sentiment, brilliant with intrinsic

thought or powerful effect.

In the "Two Gentlemen of Verona," Valentine thus utters himself touching

his betrothed:--

"What light is light, if Sylvia be not seen?

What joy is joy, if Sylvia be not by?

Except I see my Sylvia in the night,

There is no music in the nightingale.

Unless I look on Sylvia in the day,

There is no day for me to look upon.

She is my essence; and I cease to be,

If I be not by her fair influence

Fostered, illumined, cherished, kept alive."

Compare with this the language of Abraham. "Thou art fair, my wife. Say,

I pray thee, thou art my sister; that it may be well with me for thy

sake, and my soul shall live because of thee." The first is an instance

of poetic amplification and _abandon_; we should contend, for the last,

that it expresses poetic tenderness and delicacy. In the one case,

passion is diffuse,--in the other, concentrated. Which is the more

natural, others must judge.

"Euthanasy," "Theron and Aspasio," the "Phaedon" of Plato are dialogues,

but they are not dramatic. It may be, that, for a composition to claim

this distinction, it must embody great character or deep feeling,--that

it must express not only the individuality, but the strength of the

passions.

Observing this criticism, we think we may find any quantity of dramatic

dialogue in Scripture. The story of Joseph, the march in the wilderness,

the history of David, are full of it.

There are not only dramatic dialogue and movement, but dramatic

monologue and episode. For illustration, we might refer to Hagar in the

wilderness. Her tragic loneliness and shuddering despair alight upon the

page of Scripture with the interest that attends the introduction of the

veiled Niobe with her children into the Grecian theatre.

There are those who say, that the truth of particular events, so far as

we are conscious of it, is a drawback on the pleasure as well as the

dignity of the drama,--in other words, that the Bible is too true to

afford what is called dramatic delight, while the semblance of truth in

Shakspeare is exactly graduated to this particular affection. Between

the advocates of this theory, and those who say that Shakspeare is true

as truth itself, we can safely leave the point.

The subject has another aspect, which appears in the inquiry, What is

the true object of the drama? If, as has been asserted, the object of

the drama be the exhibition of the human character,--if, agreeably to

Aristotle, tragedy purifies the affections by terror and pity,--or if,

according to a recent writer, it interests us through the moral and

religious principles of our nature,--or even if, according to Dr.

Johnson, it be the province of comedy to bring into view the customs,

manners, vices, and the whole character of a people,--it is obvious that

the Bible and the drama have some correspondence. If, in the somewhat

heated language of Mrs. Jameson, "whatever in religion is holy and

sublime, in virtue amiable and grave, whatever hath passion or

admiration in the changes of fortune or the refluxes of feeling,

whatever is pitiful in the weakness, grand in the strength, or terrible

in the perversion of the human intellect," be the domain of tragedy,

this correspondence increases upon us.

If, however, it be the object of the drama to divert, then it occupies a

wholly different ground from the Bible. If it merely gratifies curiosity

or enlivens pastime, if it awakens emotion without directing it to

useful ends, if it rallies the infirmities of human nature with no other

design than to provoke our derision or increase our conceit, it shoots

very, very wide of the object which the sacred writers propose.

It is worthy to be remarked, that the Jews had no drama, or nothing that

answers to our idea of that term at the present time; they had no

theatres, no writers of tragedy or comedy. Neither are there any traces

of the dramatic art among the Egyptians, among whom the Jews sojourned

four hundred years, nor among the Arabs or the Persians, who are of

kindred stock with this people. On the other hand, by the Hindoos and

Chinese, the Greeks and Romans, histrionic representation was cultivated

with assiduity.

How shall we explain this national peculiarity? Was it because the

religion of the Jews forbade creative imitation? Is it to be found in

the letter or the spirit of the second commandment, which interdicts the

making of graven images of any pattern in earth or heaven? We should

hardly think so, since the object of this prohibition is rather to

prevent idolatry than to discourage the gratification of taste. "Thou

shalt not bow down to them nor serve them." The Jews did have emblematic

observances, costume, and works of art. Yet, on the other hand, the Jews

possessed something resembling the drama, and that out of which the

dramatic institutions of all nations have sprung. The question, then,

why the Jews had no drama proper, and still preserved the semblance and

germ thereof, will be partially elucidated by a reference to the early

history of dramatic art.

In its inception, the drama, among all nations, was a religious

observance. It came in with the chorus and the ode. The chorus, or, as

we now say, choir, was a company of persons who on stated occasions sang

sacred songs, accompanying their music with significant gesture, and an

harmonious pulsation of the feet, or the more deliberate march. The ode

or song they sang was of an elevated structure and impassioned tone, and

was commonly addressed to the Divinity. Instances of the ode are the

lyrics of Pindar and David. The chorus was also divided into parts, to

each of which was assigned a separate portion of the song, and which

answered one another in alternate measures. A good instance of the

chorus and its movement appears after the deliverance of the Jews from

the dangers of the Red Sea. "Then sang Moses and the children of Israel

this song unto the Lord: 'I will sing unto the Lord, for he hath

triumphed gloriously,'" etc. "And Miriam the prophetess took a timbrel

in her hand, and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with

dances; and Miriam answered them, 'Sing ye to the Lord, for he hath

triumphed gloriously.'" At a later period, in Jewish as in Greek

history, choral exercises became a profession, and the choir constituted

a detached portion of men and women.

"Those who have studied the history of Grecian antiquities," says

Archbishop Potter, "and collected the fragments which remain of the most

ancient authors, have all concurred in the opinion, that poetry was

first employed in celebrating the praises of the gods. The fragments of

the Orphic hymns, and those of Linus and Musaeus, show these poets

entertained sounder notions of the Supreme Being than many philosophers

of a later date. There are lyric fragments yet remaining that bear

striking resemblance to Scripture."

So, says Bishop Horne, "The poetry of the Jews is clearly traceable to

the service of religion. To celebrate the praises of God, to decorate

his worship, and give force to devout sentiments, was the employment of

the Hebrew Muse."

The choral song, that is, a sacred ode united with appropriate action,

distinguished the Jews and Greeks alike. At a later period of Jewish

history, the chorus became perfected, yet without receiving any organic

change. Among the Greeks, however, the chorus passed by degrees into the

drama. To simple singing and dancing they added a variety of imitative

action; from celebrating the praises of the Divinity, they proceeded to

represent the deeds of men, and their orchestras were enlarged to

theatres. They retained the chorus, but subordinated it to the action.

The Jews, on the other hand, did no more than dramatize the chorus. So,

Bishop Horsley says, the greater part of the Psalms are a sort of

dramatic ode, consisting of dialogues between certain persons sustaining

certain characters. In these psalms, the persons are the writer himself

and a band of Levites,--or sometimes the Supreme Being, or a personation

of the Messiah.

We find, then, the Jews and the Greeks running parallel in respect of

the drama, or that out of which the drama sprung, the chorus, for a long

series of years. The practice of the two nations in this respect

exhibits a striking coincidence, indeed, Lowth conceives that the Song

of Solomon bears a strong resemblance to the Greek drama. "The chorus of

virgins," he says, "seems in every respect congenial to the tragic

chorus of the Greeks. They are constantly present, and prepared to

fulfil all the duties of advice and consolation; they converse

frequently with the different characters; they take part in the whole

business of the poem." They fulfilled, in a word, all the purpose of the

Greek chorus on the Greek stage.

On certain occasions, the Greek chorus celebrated divine worship in the

vicinity of the great altar of their god. Clad in magnificent vestments,

they move to solemn measures about it; they ascend and descend the steps

that lead to it; they offer sacrifices upon it; they carry in their

hands lighted torches; they pour out lustral water; they burn incense;

they divide into antiphonal bands, and sing alternate stanzas of their

sacred songs.

So, in their religious festivals, the Jewish chorus surrounded the high

altar of their worship, gorgeously dressed, and with an harmonious

tread; they mounted and remounted the steps; they offered sacrifices;

they bore branches of trees in their hands; they scattered the lustral

water; they burnt incense; they pealed the responsive anthem.

But while we follow down the stream of resemblance to a certain point,

it divides at last: on the Greek side, it is diverted into the lighter

practice of the theatre; on the Jewish side, it seems to deepen itself

in the religious feeling of the nation.

Aeschylus, the father of tragedy, seizing upon the chorus, elaborated it

into the drama. The religious idea, indeed, seems never to have deserted

the gentile drama; for, at a later period, we find the Romans appointing

theatrical performances with the special design of averting the anger of

the gods. A religious spirit, also, pervades all the writings of the

ancient dramatists; they bring the gods to view, and the terrors of the

next world, on their stage, are seen crowding upon the sins of this.

On the other hand, David, who may be denominated the Alfred of the Jews,

seems to have contented himself with the chorus; he allotted its

members, disciplined its ranks, heightened its effect, and supplied new

lyrics for its use.

Another exemplification of singular coincidence and diversity between

the two nations appears in this, that the goat was common in the

religious observances of both; a similar ritual required the sacrifice

of this animal: but with the Jews the creature was an emblem of

solemnity, while with the Greeks he was significant of joy; the Jews

sacrificed him on their fasts,--the Greeks in their feasts. And here we

may observe, that tragedy, the most dignified and the primitive form of

the drama, deduces its origin from the goat,--being, literally, the song

of the goat, that is, the song accompanying the sacrifice of the goat.

Let us now endeavor to answer the question, Why, since the drama was

generally introduced among surrounding nations, and Jewish customs and

life comprised so many initial dramatic materials, this art was not

known among that people?

It was owing to the earnestness and solemnity of their religious faith.

We find the cause in the simple, exalted, and comparatively spiritual

ideas they had of the Supreme Being; in a word, we shall state the whole

ground to be this,--that the Greeks were polytheists, and the Jews

monotheists.

Let us bear in mind that the chorus, and the drama that was built upon

it, had a religious association, and were employed in religious

devotion. We may add, moreover, that the Greeks introduced their gods

upon the stage; this the Jews could not do. The Greeks, of course, had a

great deal of religious feeling, but they could not cherish that

profound reverence for the object of their worship which the Jews

entertained towards theirs. The Jews accompanied the Greeks in the use

of the chorus, but they could not go with them any farther. They both

united in employing music and the dance, and all the pomp of procession

and charm of ceremony, in divine worship; but when it came to displaying

the object of their adoration in personal form to the popular eye, and

making him an actor on the stage, however dignified that stage might be,

the Jews could not consent.

This, we think, will explain, in part, why others of the ancient

nations, the Arabs and Persians, rich as they were in every species of

literature, had no theatre; they were monotheists.

But there is the department of comedy, of a lighter sort, which does not

converse with serious subjects, or necessarily include reference to

Deity; why do we find no trace of this among the Jews? We may remember,

that all festivals, in very ancient time, of every description, the

grave and the gay, the penitential and the jubilant, had a religious

design, and were suggested by a religious feeling. We think the peculiar

cast of the Judaic faith would hardly embody itself in such a mode of

expression. Moreover, tragedy was the parent of comedy,--and since the

Jews had not the first, we should hardly expect them to produce the

last. It is not difficult to perceive how the Greeks could convert their

goat to dramatic, or even to comic purposes; but the Jews could not deal

so with theirs.

We approach another observation, that there is no comedy in the Bible.

There is tragedy there,--not in the sense in which we have just denied

that the Jews had tragedy, but in the obvious sense of tragic elements,

tragic scenes, tragic feelings. In the same sense, we say, there are no

comic elements, or scenes, or feelings. There is that in the Bible to

make you weep, but nothing to move you to laughter. Why is this? Are

there not smiles as well as tears in life? Have we not a deep, joyous

nature, as well as aspiration, reverence, awe? Is there not a

free-and-easy side of existence, as well as vexation and sorrow? We

assent that these things are so.

But comedy implies ridicule, sharp, corroding ridicule. The comedy of

the Greeks ridiculed everything,--persons, characters, opinions,

customs, and sometimes philosophy and religion. Comedy became,

therefore, a sort of consecrated slander, lyric spite, aesthetical

buffoonery. Comedy makes you laugh at somebody's expense; it brings

multitudes together to see it inflict death on some reputation; it

assails private feeling with all the publicity and powers of the stage.

Now we doubt if the Jewish faith or taste would tolerate this. The Jews

were commanded to love their neighbor. We grant, their idea of neighbor

was excessively narrow and partial; but still it was their neighbor.

They were commanded not to bear false witness against their neighbor,

and he was pronounced accursed who should smite his neighbor secretly.

It might appear that comedy would violate each of these statutes. But

the Jews had their delights, their indulgences, their transports,

notwithstanding the imperfection of their benevolence, the meagreness of

their truth, and the cumbersomeness of their ceremonials. The Feast of

Tabernacles, for instance, was liberal and happy, bright and smiling; it

was the enthusiasm of pastime, the psalm of delectableness. They did not

laugh at the exposure of another's foibles, but out of their own merry

hearts.

Will it be said, the Bible is not true to Nature, if it does not

represent the comical side of life, as well as Shakspeare does? We think

the comical parts of Shakspeare, his extreme comical parts, are rather

an exaggeration of individual qualities than a fair portraiture of the

whole species. There is no Falstaff in the Bible, yet the qualities of

Falstaff exist in the Bible and in Nature, but in combination, and this

combination modifies their aspect and effect.

There is laughter in the Bible, but it is not uttered to make you laugh.

There are also events recorded, which, at the time, may have produced

effects analogous to comedy. The approach of the Gibeonites to the camp

of Israel in their mock-beggarly costume might be mentioned. Shimei's

cursing David has always seemed to us to border on the ludicrous.

But to leave these matters and return to the general thread of thought.

Dramas have been formed on the Bible. We hardly need name "Paradise

Lost," or "Samson Agonistes," or the "Cain" of Byron, the "Hadad" of

Hillhouse, or Mrs. More's "David and Goliah." "Pilgrim's Progress" has a

Scriptural basis.

Moreover, if we may trust the best critics, certain portions of the

sacred volume are conceived in a dramatic spirit, and are propounded to

a dramatic interpretation. These are the Book of Job, the Song of

Solomon, and, possibly, the Apocalypse of St. John. If we were disposed

to contend for this view, we need but mention such authorities as

Calmet, Carpzov, Bishops Warburton, Percy, Lowth, Bossuet.

The Book of Job has a prose prologue and epilogue, the intermediate

portions being poetic dialogue. The characters are discriminated and

well supported. It does not preserve the unities of Aristotle, which,

indeed, are found neither in the Bible nor in Nature,--which Shakspeare

neglects, and which are to be met with only in the crystalline

artificialness of the French stage. "It has no plot, not even of the

simplest kind," says Dr. Lowth. It has a plot,--not an external and

visible one, but an internal and spiritual one; its incidents are its

feelings, its progress is the successive conditions of mind, and it

terminates with the triumph of virtue. If it be not a record of actual

conversation, it is an embodiment of a most wonderful ideality. The

eternity of God, the grandeur of Nature, the profundity of the soul,

move in silent panorama before you. The great and agitating problems of

human existence are depicted with astonishing energy and precision, and

marvellous is the conduct of the piece to us who behold it as a painting

away back on the dark canvas of antiquity.

We said the Jews had no drama, no theatre, because they would not

introduce the Divinity upon the stage. Yet God appears speaking in the

Book of Job, not bodily, but ideally, and herein is all difference. This

drama addresses the imagination, not the eye. The Greeks brought their

divinities into sight, stood them on the stage,--or clothed a man with

an enormous mask, and raised him on a pedestal, giving him also

corresponding apparel, to represent their god. The Hebrew stage, if we

may share the ordinary indulgence of language in using that term, with

an awe and delicacy suitable to the dignity of the subject, permits the

Divinity to speak, but does not presume to employ his person; the

majesty of Infinitude utters itself, but no robe-maker undertakes to

dress it for the occasion. In the present instance, how exalted, how

inspiring, is the appearance of God! how free from offensive diminution

and costumal familiarity! "Then the Lord answered Job out of the

whirlwind, and said." Dim indeed is the representation, but very

distinct is the impression. The phenomenon conforms to the purity of

feeling, not to the grossness of sense. Devotion is kindled by the

sublime impalpableness; no applause is enforced by appropriate acting.

The Greeks, would have played the Book of Job,--the Jews were contented

to read it.

And here we might remark a distinction between dramatic reading and

dramatic seeing; and in support of our theory we can call to aid so good

an authority as Charles Lamb. "I cannot help being of opinion," says

this essayist, "that the plays of Shakspeare are less calculated for

performance on a stage than those of almost any other dramatist

whatever."

How are the love dialogues of Romeo and Juliet, by the inherent fault of

stage representation, sullied and turned from their very nature by being

exposed to a large assembly! How can the profound sorrows of Hamlet be

depicted by a gesticulating actor? So, to see Lear acted, to see an old

man tottering about the stage with a walking-stick, turned out of doors

by his daughters in a rainy night, has nothing in it but what is painful

and disgusting. The contemptible machinery by which they mimic the storm

in which he goes out is not more inadequate to represent the horrors of

the real elements than any actor can be to represent Lear. In the acted

Othello, the black visage of the Moor is obtruded upon you; in the

written Othello, his color disappears in his mind. When Hamlet compares

the two pictures of Gertrude's first and second husband, who wants to

see the pictures? But in the acting, a miniature must be lugged out. "The

truth is," he adds, "the characters of Shakspeare are more the objects

of meditation than of interest or curiosity as to their actions."

All this applies with force to what we have been saying. The Jews, in

respect of their dramatic culture, seem more like one who enjoys

Shakspeare in the closet; the Greeks, like those who are tolled off to

the theatre to see him acted. The Greeks would have contrived a pair of

bellows to represent the whirlwind; mystic, vast, inaudible, it passes

before the imagination of the Jew, and its office is done. The Jew would

be shocked to see his God in a human form; such a thing pleased the

Greek. The source of the difference is to be sought in the theology of

the two nations. The theological development of the Jews was very

complete,--that of the Greeks unfinished.

Yet the Jews were very deficient in art, and the Greeks perfect; both

failed in humanity. The Greeks had more ideality than the Jews; but

their ideality was very intense; it was continually, so to speak,

running aground; it must see its conceptions embodied; and more,--when

they were embodied, Pygmalion-like, it must seek to imbue them with

motion and sensibility. The conception of the Jews was more vague,

perhaps, but equally affecting; they were satisfied with carrying in

their minds the faint outline of the sublime, without seeking to chisel

it into dimension and tangibility. They cherished in their bosoms their

sacred ideal, and worshipped from far the greatness of the majesty that

shaded their imaginations. Hence we look to Athens for art, to Palestine

for ethics; the one produces rhetoricians,--the other, prophets.

So, we see, the theologico-dramatic forms of the two nations--and there

were no other--are different. The one pleases the prurient eye,--the

other gratifies the longing soul; the one amuses,--the other inspires;

the one is a hollow pageant of divine things,--the other is a glad,

solemn intimation from the unutterable heart of the universe.

The Song of Solomon, that stumbling-block of criticism and pill of

faith, a recent writer regards as a parable in the form of a drama, in

which the bride is considered as representing true religion, the royal

lover as the Jewish people, and the younger sister as the Gospel

dispensation. But it is evidently conceived in a very different spirit

from the Book of Job or the Psalms of David, and its theological

character is so obscured by other associations as to lead many to

inquire whether an enlightened religious sensibility dictated it.

We cannot dismiss this part of our subject without allusion to a species

of drama that prevailed in the Middle Ages, called Mysteries, or

Moralities. These were a sort of scenical illustration of the Sacred

Scripture, and the subjects were events taken sometimes from the New

Testament and sometimes from the Old. It is said they were designed to

supply the place of the Greek and Roman theatre, which had been banished

from the Church. The plays were written and performed by the clergy.

They seem to have first been employed to wile away the dulness of the

cloister, but were very soon introduced to the public. Adam and Eve in

Paradise, the Crucifixion, the Resurrection were theatrized. The effect

could hardly be salutary. The different persons of the Trinity appeared

on the stage; on one side of the scene stretched the yawning throat of

an immense wooden dragon; masked devils ran howling in and out.

"In the year 1437,"--we follow the literal history, as we find it quoted

in D'Israeli,--"when the Bishop of Metz caused the Mystery of the

Passion to be represented near that city, God was an old gentleman, a

curate of the place, and who was very near expiring on the cross, had he

not been timely assisted. He was so enfeebled that another priest

finished his part. At the same time this curate undertook to perform the

Resurrection, which being a less difficult task, he did it admirably

well. Another priest, personating Judas, had like to have been stifled

while he hung on the tree, for his neck slipped. This being at length

luckily perceived, he was cut down, and recovered." In another instance,

a man who assumed the Supreme Being becoming nearly suffocated by the

paint applied to his face, it was wisely announced that for the future

the Deity should be covered by a cloud. These plays, carried about the

country, taken up by the baser sort of people, descended through all

degrees of farce to obscenity, and, in England, becoming entangled in

politics, at length disappeared. It is said they linger in Italy, and

are annually reproduced in Spain.

The Bible is incapable of representation. For a man to act the Supreme

Being would be as revolting in idea as profane in practice. One may in

words portray the divine character, give utterance to the divine will.

This every preacher does. But to what is the effect owing? Not to

proprieties of attitude or arrangement of muscle, but to the spirit of

the man magnified and flooding with the great theme, and to the thought

of God that surrounds and subdues all; in other words, the imagination

is addressed, not the sight,--the sentiments and affections are engaged,

not the senses. As Lamb says of the Lear of Shakspeare, it cannot be

acted; so, with greater force, we may say of the Bible, it cannot be

acted. When we read or hear of the Passion of the Saviour, it is the

thought, the emotion, burning and seething within it, at which by

invisible contact our own thought and emotion catch fire; and the

capabilities of impersonation and manufacture are mocked by such a

subject.

But the Bible abounds in dramatic situation, action, and feeling. This

has already been intimated; it only remains that we indicate some

examples. The history of David fulfils all the demands of dramatic

composition. It has the severe grandeur of Aeschylus, the moving

tenderness of Euripides, and the individual fidelity of Shakspeare.

Could this last-named writer, who, while he counterfeited Nature with

such success, was equally commended for his historical integrity,--could

Shakspeare have performed that service on this history, which Milton,

More, and others have undertaken on other portions of the sacred

volume,--could he have digested it into a regular dramatic form,--he

would have accomplished a work of rare interest. It would include the

characters of Samuel and Saul; it would describe the magnanimous

Jonathan and the rebellious Absalom; Nathan, Nabal, Goliah, Shimei,

would impart their respective features; it would be enriched with all

that is beautiful in woman's love or enduring in parental affection. It

is full of incident, and full of pathos. It verges towards the terrible,

it is shaken with the passionate, it rises into the heroic. Pursued in

the true spirit of Jewish theology, the awful presence of God would

overhang and pervade it, while the agency of his providence should

attend on the evolutions of events.

There is one effect which, in the present arrangement of the canon, is

entirely lost to view, and which could be revived only by the

synchronizing of the Psalms with their proper epochs. For instance, the

eighth Psalm is referable to the youth of David, when he was yet leading

a shepherd life. The dramatic form of his history would detach this from

its present place, and insert it amid the occasions and in the years to

which it belongs. What a scene we should then have! The youthful David,

ruddy he was, and, withal, of a beautiful countenance, (marginal

reading, fair of eyes,) and goodly to look to; and he was a cunning

player on the harp. There is the glow of poetic enthusiasm in his eyes,

and the fervor of religious feeling in all his moods; as he tends his

flock amid the quietness and beauty of his native hills, he joins to the

aspirations of his soul the melodies of music. So the night overtakes

him, the labors of the day are past, his meditations withdraw him from

the society of men, he is alone with Nature and with God;--at such a

moment the spirit of composition and utterance is upon him, and he hymns

himself in those lofty and touching stanzas,--

"O Jehovah, our Lord,

How excellent is thy name in all the earth!

When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers,

The moon and the stars which thou hast ordained,

What is man that thou art mindful of him,

And the son of man that thou carest for him?

Yet thou hast made him a little lower than the angels,

Thou hast crowned him with glory and honor;

Thou hast given him dominion over the works of thy hand,

Thou hast put all things under his feet,--

All sheep and oxen,

Yea, and the beasts of the forest,

The birds of the air, and the fishes of the sea,

And whatsoever passes through the deep.

O Jehovah, our Lord,

How excellent is thy name in all the earth!"

Again, the fifty-seventh Psalm is assigned, in respect of place, to the

cave of En-gedi, into which David fled from the vengeance of Saul. Here,

surrounded by lofty rocks, whose promontories screen a wide extent of

vale, he breaks forth,--

"Have pity upon me, O God, have pity upon me,

For in thee doth my soul seek refuge!

Yea, in the shadow of thy wings do I take shelter,

Until these calamities be overpast!"

Dramatically touched, and disposed according to the natural unities of

the subject, these sublime and affecting songs would appear on their

motive occasions, and be surrounded by their actual accompaniments.

The present effect may be compared to that which would be felt, if we

should detach the songs of the artificial drama from their original

impulse and feeling, (for instance, the willow dirge of Desdemona, and

the fantastic moans of Ophelia,) and produce them in a parlor. Not but

that these lyrics have a universal fitness, and a value which no time

can change or circumstance diminish; but as we are looking at them

simply in a dramatic view, we claim the right to suggest their dramatic

force and pertinency. This effect, we might remark, is particularly and

most truthfully regarded in the Lament of David over Saul and Jonathan.

That monody would be shorn of its interest, if it were inserted anywhere

else. The Psalms are more impersonal and more strictly religious than

that, and hence their universal application; only we say, we can easily

conceive that the revival of them in the order of their history, and in

all the purity of their native pathos, would render them more

attractive.

In connection with what we would further observe of the Psalms of David,

let us again call attention to the ancient chorus,--how it was a species

of melodrama, how it sang its parts, and comprised distinct vocalists

and musicians, who pursued the piece in alternate rejoinder. What we

would observe is, that many of the Psalms were written for the chorus,

and, so to speak, were performed by it. There are some of them which it

is impossible to understand without attention to this dramatic method of

rehearsal. Psalm cxviii., for instance, includes several speakers. Psalm

xxiv. was composed on the occasion of the transfer of the ark to the

tabernacle on Mount Zion. And David, we read, and all the house of

Israel, brought up the ark with shouting and with the sound of the

trumpet. In the midst of the congregated nation, supported by a varied

instrumental accompaniment, with the smoke of the well-fed altar surging

into the skies, the chorus took up the song which had been prepared to

their hand,--one group calling out, "Who shall ascend into the hill of

the Lord?"--the other pealing their answer, "He that hath clean hands

and a pure heart." Meanwhile, they dance before the Lord,--that is, we

suppose, preserving with their feet the unities of the music.

It was during a melodrama like this, in the midst of its exciting

grandeur and all-pervading transport, executed at the Feast of

Tabernacles, in the open area of the Temple, when the Jews were wont to

pour upon the altar water taken from the pool of Siloam, chanting at the

same time the twelfth chapter of Isaiah, and one division of the chorus

had just sung the words,--

"With joy we draw water from the wells of salvation,"

and before the other had replied,--it was at this moment, that Christ,

as Dr. Furness very reasonably conjectures, took up the response in his

own person, and overwhelmed attention by that memorable declaration, "If

any man thirst, let him come to me and drink; and from within him shall

flow rivers of living water."

It is what we may term the dramatic proprieties that give to many of the

Psalms, in the language of a recent commentator, "a greater degree of

fitness, spirit, and grandeur"; and they impart to the history of David

a certain decorousness of illustration and perspicuity of feature which

it would not otherwise possess. They would produce upon it the same

result as is achieved by the sister arts on this and other portions of

the sacred volume, without marring the text or doing violence to truth.

Not, let us repeat, that the Bible can be theatrized. Neither church nor

playhouse can revive the forms of Judaism, without recalling its lost

spirit. And that must be a bold hand, indeed, that shall undertake to

mend again the shivered vail of the Temple, or collect from its ruins a

ritual which He that was greater than Solomon typically denounced in

foretelling the overthrow of that gorgeous pile. The Bible, as to its

important verities and solemn doctrine, is transparent to the

imagination and affections, and does not require the mediation of dumb

show or scenic travesty.

It is not difficult to trace many familiar dramatic resemblances in the

Old Testament. Shakspeare, who was certainly well read in the Bible and

frequently quotes it, in the composition of Lear may have had David and

Absalom in mind; the feigned madness of Hamlet has its prototype in that

of David; Macbeth and the Weird Sisters have many traits in common with

Saul and the Witch of Endor. Jezebel is certainly a suggestive study for

Lady Macbeth. The whole story has its key in that verse where we read,

"There was none like unto Ahab, which did sell himself to work

wickedness in the sight of the Lord, _whom Jezebel, his wife, stirred

up_." As in the play, so in this Scripture, we have the unrestrained and

ferocious ambition of the wife conspiring with the equally cruel, but

less hardy ambition of the husband. When Macbeth had murdered sleep,

when he could not screw his courage to the sticking-point, when his

purpose looked green and pale, his wife stings him with taunts, scathes

him with sarcasm, and by her own energy of intellect and storm of will

arouses him to action. So Ahab came in heavy and displeased, and laid

him down on his bed, and turned away his face, and so his wife inflames

him with the sharpness of her rebuke. "Why art thou sad?" she asks.

"Dost thou now govern the kingdom of Israel? Arise, eat bread, and be

merry!" The lust of regal and conjugal pride, intermixed, works in both.

Jezebel, whose husband was a king, would crown him with kingly deeds.

Lady Macbeth, whose husband was a prince, would see him crowned a king.

Jezebel would aggrandize empire, which her unlawful marriage thereto had

jeoparded. Lady Macbeth will run the risk of an unlawful marriage with

empire, if she may thereby aggrandize it. Jezebel is insensible to

patriotic feelings,--Lady Macbeth to civil and hospitable duties. The

Zidonian woman braves the vengeance of Jehovah,--the Scotch woman dares

the Powers of Darkness; the one is incited by the oracles of Baal,--the

other by the predictions of witches. Lady Macbeth has more intellectual

force,--Jezebel more moral decision; Lady Macbeth exhibits great

imagination,--Jezebel a stronger will. As the character of Lady Macbeth

is said to be relieved by the affection she shows for her husband, so is

that of Jezebel by her tenderness for Ahab. The grandness of the

audacity with which Jezebel sends after the prophet Elisha, saying, "So

let the gods do to me, and more also, if I make not thy life as the life

of one of them by to-morrow about this time," has its counterpart in the

lofty terror of the invocation which Lady Macbeth makes to the "spirits

that wait on mortal thoughts,"--

"Fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full

Of direst cruelty! Make thick my blood,

Stop up the access and the passage of remorse!

. . . . Come to my woman's breasts,

And take my milk for gall, ye murdering ministers!"

But the last moments of these excessive characters are singularly

contrasted. Jezebel scoffs at approaching retribution, and, shining with

paint and dripping with jewels, is pitched to the dogs; Lady Macbeth

goes like a coward to her grave, and, curdled with remorse, receives the

stroke of doom.

If Shakspeare and the Old Testament are a just manifestation of human

nature, the New is so different, its representation would seem to be

almost fanciful or fallacious; or if the latter be accepted, the former

would seem to be discarded. But both are faithful to the different ages

and phases of man. The one is a dispensation of force,--the other of

love; the one could make nothing perfect,--but the bringing in of a

better covenant makes all things perfect. Through the tempest and storm,

the brutality and lust of the Greek tragedians, and even of the

barbarous times on which Shakspeare builds many of his plays, through

the night of Judaical back-slidings, idolatry, and carnal commandments,

we patiently wait, and gladly hail the morning of the Sun of

Righteousness. The New Testament is a green, calm, island, in this

heaving, fearful ocean of dramatic interest. How delightful is

everything there, and how elevated! how glad, and how solemn! how

energetic, and how tranquil! What characters, what incident, what

feeling! Yet how different! So different, indeed, from what elsewhere

appears, that we are compelled to ask, Can this be that same old

humanity whose passions, they tell us, are alike in all ages, and the

emphatic turbulence of which constitutes so large a portion of history?

But how shall we describe what is before us? The events open, if we may

draw a term from our subject, with a prologue spoken by angels,--

"Peace on earth, and good-will towards men."

There had been Jezebels and Lady Macbeths enough; the memory of David

still smelt of blood; the Roman eagles were gorging their beaks on human

flesh; and the Samaritan everywhere felt the gnawing, shuddering sense

of hatred and scorn. No chorus appears answering to chorus, praising the

god of battles, or exulting in the achievements of arms; but the

sympathies of Him who was touched with the feeling of our infirmities

answer to the wants and woes of the race, and every thoughtful mind

ecstatically encores. The inexorable Fate of the Greeks does not appear,

but a good Providence interferes, and Heaven smiles graciously upon the

scene. There is passion, indeed, grief and sorrow, sin and

suffering,--but the tempest-stiller is here, who breathes tranquillity

upon the waters, and pours serenity into the turbid deep. The Niobe of

humanity, stiff and speechless, with her enmarbled children, that used

sometimes to be introduced on the Athenian stage for purposes of terror

or pity, is here restored to life, and she renders thanks for her

deliverance and participates in the general joy to which the piece gives

birth. No murderers of the prophets are hewn in pieces before the Lord;

but from the agonies of the cross and the depths of a preternatural

darkness, the tender cry is heard, on behalf of the murderers of the Son

of God, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do!" No

Alcestis is exhibited, doomed to destruction to save the life of her

husband,--but One appears, moving cheerfully, voluntarily, forwards, to

what may be termed the funeral pile of the world, from which,

phoenix-like, he rises, and gloriously ascends, drawing after him the

hearts, the love, the worship of millions of spectators. The key of the

whole piece is Redemption, the spirit that actuates is Love. The chief

actors, indeed, are Christ and Man; but innumerable subsidiary

personages are the Charities. The elements of a spiritualized existence

act their part. Humanity is not changed in its substance, but in its

tendencies; the sensibilities exist, but under a divine culture. Stephen

is as heroic as Agamemnon, Mary as energetic as Medea. Little children

are no longer dashed in pieces,--they are embraced and blessed.

But let us select for attention, and for a conclusion to these remarks,

a particular scene. It shall be from Luke. This evangelist has been

fabled a painter, and in the apotheosis of the old Church he was made

the tutelar patron of that class of artists. If the individuality of his

conceptions, the skill of his groupings, and the graphicness gave rise

to such an idea, it would seem to have its foundation as well in Nature

as in superstition. Matthew has more detail, more thought; Luke is more

picturesque, more descriptive. John has more deep feeling; Luke more

action, more life. The Annunciation, the Widow of Nain, the Prodigal Son,

the Good Samaritan, the Rich Man and Lazarus, and the incident to which

we shall presently advert, are found in Luke alone.

The incident in question is the dining of Christ at the house of Simon

the Pharisee, and, while they were reclining at meat, the entrance of a

woman which was a sinner, who bathes the feet of Jesus with tears, and

wipes them with the hair of her head. The place is the city of Nain; the

hour noon. The _dramatis personae_ are three,--Jesus, Simon, and the

Woman,--and, if we choose to add them, the other guests, who are silent

spectators of what transpires.

Let, us consider, first, the Woman. She "was a sinner." This is all, in

fact, that we know of her; but this is enough. The term "sinner," in

this instance, as in many others, does not refer to the general apostasy

in Adam; it is distinctive of race and habit. She was probably of

heathen extraction, as she was certainly of a dissolute life. The poetry

of sin and shame calls her the Magdalen, and there may be a convenience

in permitting this name to stand. The depth of her depravity Christ

clearly intimates in his allusion to the debtor who owed five hundred

pence, and the language of Simon teaches that the infamy of her life was

well understood among the inhabitants of the city. If a foreigner, she

had probably been brought into the country by the Roman soldiers and

deserted. If a native, she had fallen beneath the ban of respectability,

and was an outcast alike from hope and from good society. She was

condemned to wear a dress different from that of other people; she was

liable at any moment to be stoned for her conduct; she was one whom it

was a ritual impurity to touch. She was wretched beyond measure; but

while so corrupt, she was not utterly hardened. Incapable of virtue, she

was not incapable of gratitude. Weltering in grossness, she could still

be touched by the sight of purity. Plunged into extremest vice, she

retained the damning horror of her situation. If she had ever striven to

recover her lost position, there were none to assist her; the bigotry of

patriotism rejected her for her birth,--the scrupulousness of modesty,

for her history. The night, that consecrated so many homes and gathered

together so many families in innocence and repose, was to her blacker

than its own blackness in misery and turpitude; the morning, that

radiated gladness over the face of the world, revealed the extent and

exaggerated the sense of her own degradation. But the vision of Jesus

had alighted upon her; she had seen him speeding on his errands of

mercy; she hung about the crowd that followed his steps; his tender look

of pity may have sometimes gleamed into her soul. Stricken, smitten,

confounded, her yearnings for peace gush forth afresh. It was as if

Hell, moved by contrition, had given up its prey,--as if Remorse, tired

of its gnawing, felt within itself the stimulus of hope. But how shall

she see Jesus? Wherewithal shall she approach him? She has "nothing to

pay." She has tears enough, and sorrows enough,--but these are derided

by the vain, and suspected by the wise. She has an alabaster box of

ointment, which, shut out as she is from honorable gain, must be the

product and the concomitant of her guilt. But with these she must go. We

see her threading her lonely way through the streets, learning by hints,

since she would not dare to learn by questions, where Jesus is, and

stops before the vestibule of the elegant mansion of Simon the Pharisee.

Who is Simon the Pharisee? Not necessarily a bad man. We associate

whatever is odious in hypocrisy or base in craft with the name Pharisee,

while really it was the most distinguished title among the Jews. Many of

the Pharisees were hypocrites; not all of them. The name is significant

of profession, not of character. He could not have been an unprincipled,

villanous man, or he would never have tendered to Jesus the

hospitalities of his house. Indeed, Christ allows him, in the sense of

moral indebtedness, to owe but fifty pence. He was probably a rich man,

which might appear from the generous entertainment he made. He was a

respectable man. The sect to which he belonged was the most celebrated

and influential among the Jews; and when not debased by positive crime,

a Pharisee was always esteemed for his learning and his piety. He had

some interest in Christ, either in his mission or his character,--an

interest beyond mere curiosity, or he would not have invited him to dine

with him. He betrays a sincere friendliness, also, in his apprehension

lest Christ should suffer any religious contamination.

The third person in the scene is Christ, who, to speak of him not as

theology has interpreted him to us, but as he appeared to the eyes of

his contemporaries, was the reputed son of Joseph and Mary, the

Bethlehemites; who by his words and deeds had attracted much attention

and made some converts; now accused of breaking the Jewish Sabbath, now

of plotting against the Roman sovereignty; one who in his own person had

felt the full power of temptation, and who had been raised to the

grandeur of a transfiguration; so tender he would not bruise the broken

reed, so gentle his yoke was rest; raying out with compassion and love

wherever he went; healing alike the pangs of grief and the languor of

disease; whom some believed to be the Messiah, and others thought a

prophet; whom the masses followed, and the priests feared;--this is the

third member of the company.

The two last, with the other guests, are engaged at their meal, and in

conversation. The door is darkened by a strange figure; all eyes are

riveted on the apparition; the Magdalen enters, faded, distressed, with

long dishevelled hair. She has no introduction; she says nothing;

indeed, in all this remarkable scene she never speaks; her silence is as

significant as it is profound. She goes behind the couch where Jesus,

according to Oriental custom, is reclined. She drops at his feet; there

her tears stream; there the speechless agony of her soul bursts. Observe

the workings of the moment. See how those people are affected. Surprise

on the part of Simon and his friends turns to scorn, and this shades

into indignation. Jesus is calm, collected, and intently thoughtful. The

woman is overwhelmed by her situation. The lip of Simon curls, his eye

flashes with fire of outraged virtue. Jesus meets his gaze with equal

fire, but it is all of pure heavenly feeling. Simon moves to have the

vagabond expelled; Christ interrupts the attempt. But the honor of the

house is insulted. Yes, but the undying interests of the soul are at

stake. But the breath of the woman is ritual poison, and her touch will

bring down the curses of the law. But the look of Christ indicates that

depth of spirituality before which the institutions of Moses flee away

as chaff before the wind. Simon has some esteem for Jesus, and in this

juncture his sensations take a turn of pity, spiced, perhaps, with a

little contempt, and he says with himself,--"Surely, this man cannot be

a prophet, as is pretended, or he would know who and what sort of woman

it is that touches him; for she is a sinner; she is unclean and

reprobate."

"Simon!" says Jesus, with a tone that pierced to the worthy host's

heart, and arrested the force of his pious alarm,--"Simon!"

"Sir, say on," is the reply of the Pharisee, who is awed by this appeal

into an humble listener.

Whereupon Jesus relates the story of the two debtors, and, with

irresistible strength of illustration and delicacy of application,

breaks the prejudice and wins the composure of the Jew. "If, then," he

continues, "he loves much to whom much is forgiven, what shall we say of

one who loves so much?"

"See," he goes on, pointing to the woman, "See this woman,--this wretch.

I entered thy house; thou gavest me no water for my feet; but she has

washed my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. She kisses

my feet; she anoints them with ointment. Wherefore I say unto thee, her

sins, which are many, are forgiven; for she loved much."

This scene, however inadequately it may be set forth, contains all that

is sublime in tragedy, terrible in guilt, or intense in pathos. The

woman represents humanity, or the soul of human nature; Simon, the

world, or worldly wisdom; Christ, divinity, or the divine purposes of

good to us ward. Simon is an incarnation of what St. Paul calls the

beggarly elements; Christ, of spirituality; the woman, of sin. It is not

the woman alone,--but in her there cluster upon the stage all want and

woe, all calamity and disappointment, all shame and guilt. In Christ

there come forward to meet her, love, hope, truth, light, salvation. In

Simon are acted out doting conservatism, mean expediency, purblind

calculation, carnal insensibility. Generosity in this scene is

confronted with meanness, in the attempt to shelter misfortune. The

woman is a tragedy herself, such as Aeschylus never dreamed of. The

scourging Furies, dread Fate, and burning Hell unite in her, and, borne

on by the new impulse of the new dispensation, they come towards the

light, they ask for peace, they throng to the heaven that opens in

Jesus. Simon embodies that vast array of influences that stand between

humanity and its redemption. He is a very excellent, a very estimable

man,--but he is not shocked at intemperance, he would not have slavery

disturbed, he sees a necessity for war. Does Christ know who and what

sort of a woman it is that touches him? Will he defile himself by such a

contact? Can he expect to accomplish anything by familiarity with such

matters? Why is he not satisfied with a good dinner? "Simon!" "Simon!"

The silence of the woman is wonderful, it is awful. What is most

profound, most agitating, most intense cannot speak; words are too

little for the greatness of feeling. So Job sat himself upon the ground

seven days and seven nights, speechless. Not in this case, as is said of

Schiller's Robbers, did the pent volcano find vent in power-words; not

in strong and terrible accents was uttered the hoarded wrath of long

centuries of misrule and oppression. The volcano, raging, aching, threw

itself in silence into the arms of one who could soothe and allay it.

The thunder is noisy and harmless. The lightning is silent,--and the

lightning splits, kills, consumes. Humanity had muttered its thunder for

ages. Its lightning, the condensed, fiery, fatal force of things, leaped

from the blackness of sin, threaded with terrific glare the vision of

man, and, in the person of the woman, fell hot and blasting at the feet

of Jesus, who quenched its fire, and of that destructive bolt made a

trophy of grace and a fair image of hope. She could not speak, and so

she wept,--like the raw, chilling, hard atmosphere, which is relieved

only by a shower of snow. How could she speak, guilty, remorseful

wretch, without excuse, without extenuation? In the presence of divine

virtue, at the tribunal of judgment, she could only weep, she could only

love. But, blessed be Jesus, he could forgive her, he can forgive all.

The woman departs in peace; Simon is satisfied; Jesus triumphs; we

almost hear the applauses with which the ages and generations of earth

greet the closing scene. From the serene celestial immensity that opens

above the spot we can distinguish a voice, saying, "This is my beloved

Son; hear ye him!"

We speak of these things dramatically, but, after all, they are the only

great realities. Everything else is mimetic, phantasmal, tinkling.

Deeply do the masters of the drama move us; but the Gospel cleaves,

inworks, regenerates. In the theatre, the leading characters go off in

death and despair, or with empty conceits and a forced frivolity; in the

Gospel, tranquilly, grandly, they are dismissed to a serener life and a

nobler probation. Who has not pitied the ravings of Lear and the agonies

of Othello? The Gospel pities, but, by a magnificence of plot altogether

its own, by preserving, if we may so say, the unities of heaven and

earth, it also saves.

Of all common tragedy, we may exclaim, in the words of the old play,--

"How like a silent stream shaded with night,

And gliding softly, with our windy sighs,

Moves the whole frame of this solemnity!"

The Gospel moves by, as a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal,

from the throne of God and the Lamb; on its surface play the sunbeams of

hope; in its valleys rise the trees of life, beneath the shadows of

which the weary years of human passion repose, and from the leaves of

the branches of which is exhaled to the passing breeze healing for the

nations.

THE RING FETTER.

A NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDY.

There are long stretches in the course of the Connecticut River, where

its tranquil current assumes the aspect of a lake, its sudden bends cut

off the lovely reach of water, and its heavily wooded banks lie silent

and green, undisturbed, except by the shriek of the passing steamer,

casting golden-green reflections into the stream at twilight, and

shadows of deepest blackness, star-pierced, at remoter depths of night.

Here, now and then, a stray gull from the sea sends a flying throb of

white light across the mirror below, or the sweeping wings of a hawk

paint their moth-like image on the blue surface, or a little flaw of

wind shudders across the water in a black ripple; but except for these

casual stirs of Nature, all is still, oppressive, and beautiful, as

earth seems to the trance-sleeper on the brink of his grave.

In one of these reaches, though on either side the heavy woods sweep

down to the shore and hang over it as if deliberating whether to plunge

in, on the eastern bank there is a tiny meadow just behind the

tree-fringe of the river, completely hedged in by the deep woods, and

altogether hidden from any inland road; nor would the traveller on the

river discover it, except for the chimney of a house that peers above

the yellow willows and seems in that desolate seclusion as startling as

a daylight ghost. But this dwelling was built and deserted and

weather-beaten long before the date of our story. It had been erected

and inhabited during the Revolution, by an old Tory, who, foreseeing the

result of the war better than some of his contemporaries, and being

unwilling to expose his person to the chances of battle or his effects

to confiscation, maintained a strict neutrality, and a secret trade with

both parties; thereby welcoming peace and independence, fully stocked

with the dislike and suspicion of his neighbors, and a large quantity of

Continental "fairy-money." So, when Abner Dimock died, all he had to

leave to his only son was the red house on "Dimock's Meadow," and a

ten-acre lot of woodland behind and around the green plateau where the

house stood. These possessions he strictly entailed on his heirs

forever, and nobody being sufficiently interested in its alienation to

inquire into the State laws concerning the validity of such an entail,

the house remained in the possession of the direct line, and in the year

18-- belonged to another Abner Dimock, who kept tavern in Greenfield, a

town of Western Massachusetts, and, like his father and grandfather

before him, had one only son. In the mean time, the old house in Haddam

township had fallen into a ruinous condition, and, as the farm was very

small, and unprofitable chestnut-woodland at that, the whole was leased

to an old negro and his wife, who lived there in the most utter

solitude, scratching the soil for a few beans and potatoes, and in the

autumn gathering nuts, or in the spring roots for beer, with which Old

Jake paddled up to Middletown, to bring home a return freight of salt

pork and rum.

The town of Greenfield, small though it was, and at the very top of a

high hill, was yet the county town, subject to annual incursions of

lawyers, and such "thrilling incidents" as arise from the location of a

jail and a court-room within the limits of any village. The scenery had

a certain summer charm of utter quiet that did it good service with some

healthy people of well-regulated and insensitive tastes. From Greenfield

Hill one looked away over a wide stretch of rolling country; low hills,

in long, desolate waves of pasturage and grain, relieved here and there

by a mass of black woodland, or a red farm-house and barns clustered

against a hill-side, just over a wooden spire in the shallow valley,

about which were gathered a few white houses, giving signs of life

thrice a day in tiny threads of smoke rising from their prim chimneys;

and over all, the pallid skies of New England, where the sun wheeled his

shorn beams from east to west as coldly as if no tropic seas mirrored

his more fervid glow thousands of miles away, and the chilly moon beamed

with irreproachable whiteness across the round gray hills and the

straggling pond, beloved of frogs and mud-turtles, that Greenfield held

in honor under the name of Squam Lake.

Perhaps it was the scenery, perhaps the air, possibly the cheapness of

the place as far as all the necessaries of life went, that tempted Judge

Hyde to pitch his tent there, in the house his fathers had built long

ago, instead of wearing his judicial honors publicly, in the city where

he attained them; but, whatever the motive might be, certain it is that

at the age of forty he married a delicate beauty from Baltimore, and

came to live on Greenfield Hill, in the great white house with a gambrel

roof and dormer windows, standing behind certain huge maples, where

Major Hyde and Parson Hyde and Deacon Hyde had all lived before him.

A brief Northern summer bloomed gayly enough for Adelaide Howard Hyde

when she made her bridal tour to her new home; and cold as she found the

aspect of that house, with its formal mahogany chairs, high-backed, and

carved in grim festoons and ovals of incessant repetition,--its

penitential couch of a sofa, where only the iron spine of a

Revolutionary heroine could have found rest,--its pinched, starved, and

double-starched portraits of defunct Hydes, Puritanic to the very ends

of toupet and periwig,--little Mrs. Hyde was deep enough in love with

her tall and handsome husband to overlook the upholstery of a home he

glorified, and to care little for comfort elsewhere, so long as she

could nestle on his knee and rest her curly head against his shoulder.

Besides, flowers grew, even in Greenfield; there were damask roses and

old-fashioned lilies enough in the square garden to have furnished a

whole century of poets with similes; and in the posy-bed under the front

windows were tulips of Chinese awkwardness and splendor, beds of pinks

spicy as all Arabia, blue hyacinths heavy with sweetness as well as

bells, "pi'nies" rubicund and rank, hearts-ease clustered against the

house, and sticky rose-acacias, pretty and impracticable, not to mention

the grenadier files of hollyhocks that contended with fennel-bushes and

scarlet-flowered beans for the precedence, and the hosts of wild flowers

that bloomed by wood-edges and pond-shores wherever corn or potatoes

spared a foot of soil for the lovely weeds. So in Judge Hyde's frequent

absences, at court or conclave, hither and yon, (for the Judge was a

political man,) it was his pretty wife's chief amusement, when her

delicate fingers ached with embroidery, or her head spun with efforts to

learn housekeeping from old Keery, the time-out-of-mind authority in the

Hyde family, a bad-humored, good-tempered old maid,--it was, indeed, the

little Southerner's only amusement,--to make the polish and mustiness of

those dreary front-parlors gay and fragrant with flowers; and though

Judge Hyde's sense of the ridiculous was not remarkably keen, it was too

much to expect of him that he should do otherwise than laugh long and

loud, when, suddenly returning from Taunton one summer day, he tracked

his wife by snatches of song into the "company rooms," and found her on

the floor, her hair about her ears, tying a thick garland of red

peonies, intended to decorate the picture of the original Hyde, a dreary

old fellow, in bands, and grasping a Bible in one wooden hand, while a

distant view of Plymouth Bay and the Mayflower tried to convince the

spectator that he was transported, among other antediluvians, by that

Noah's ark, to the New World. On either hand hung the little Flora's

great-grandmother-in-law, and her great-grandfather accordingly, Mrs.

Mehitable and Parson Job Hyde, peering out, one from a bushy ornament of

pink laurel-blossoms, and the other from an airy and delicate garland of

the wanton sweet-pea, each stony pair of eyes seeming to glare with

Medusan intent at this profaning of their state and dignity. "Isn't it

charming, dear?" said the innocent little beauty, with a satisfaction

half doubtful, as her husband's laugh went on.

But for every butterfly there comes an end to summer. The flowers

dropped from the frames and died in the garden; a pitiless winter set

in; and day after day the mittened and mufflered schoolboy, dragging his

sled through drifts of heavy snow to school, eyed curiously the wan,

wistful face of Judge Hyde's wife pressed up to the pane of the south

window, its great restless eyes and shadowy hair bringing to mind some

captive bird that pines and beats against the cage. Her husband absent

from home long and often, full of affairs of "court and state,"--her

delicate organization, that lost its flickering vitality by every

exposure to cold,--her lonely days and nights,--the interminable sewing,

that now, for her own reasons, she would trust to no hands but her

own,--conscious incapacity to be what all the women about her were,

stirring, active, hardy housekeepers,--a vague sense of shame, and a

great dread of the future,--her comfortless and motherless

condition,--slowly, but surely, like frost, and wind, and rain, and

snow, beat on this frail blossom, and it went with the rest. June roses

were laid against her dark hair and in her fair hands, when she was

carried to the lonely graveyard of Greenfield, where mulleins and

asters, golden-rod, blackberry-vines, and stunted yellow-pines adorned

the last sleep of the weary wife and mother; for she left behind her a

week-old baby,--a girl,--wailing prophetically in the square bedroom

where its mother died.

Judge Hyde did not marry again, and he named his baby Mehitable. She

grew up as a half-orphaned child with an elderly and undemonstrative

father would naturally grow,--shy, sensitive, timid, and extremely

grave. Her dress, thanks to Aunt Keery and the minister's wife, (who

looked after her for her mother's sake,) was always well provided and

neat, but no way calculated to cultivate her taste or to gratify the

beholder. A district school provided her with such education as it could

give; and the library, that was her resort at all hours of the day,

furthered her knowledge in a singular and varied way, since its lightest

contents were histories of all kinds and sorts, unless one may call the

English Classics lighter reading than Hume or Gibbon.

But at length the district-schoolma'am could teach Mehitable Hyde no

more, and the Judge suddenly discovered that he had a pretty daughter of

fourteen, ignorant enough to shock his sense of propriety, and delicate

enough to make it useless to think of sending her away from home to be

buffeted in a boarding-school. Nothing was left for him but to undertake

her education himself; and having a theory that a thorough course of

classics, both Greek and Latin, was the foundation of all knowledge,

half a score of dusty grammars were brought from the garret, and for two

hours every morning and afternoon little Miss Hitty worried her innocent

soul over conjugations and declensions and particles, as perseveringly

as any professor could have desired. But the dreadful part of the

lessons to Hitty was the recitation after tea; no matter how well she

knew every inflection of a verb, every termination of a noun, her

father's cold, gray eye, fixed on her for an answer, dispelled all kinds

of knowledge, and, for at least a week, every lesson ended in tears.

However, there are alleviations to everything in life; and when the

child was sent to the garret after her school-books, she discovered

another set, more effectual teachers to her than Sallust or the "Graeca

Minora," even the twelve volumes of "Sir Charles Grandison," and the

fewer but no less absorbing tomes of "Clarissa Harlowe"; and every hour

she could contrive not to be missed by Keery or her father was spent in

that old garret, fragrant as it was with sheaves of all the herbs that

grow in field or forest, poring over those old novels, that were her

society, her friends, her world.

So two years passed by. Mehitable grew tall and learned, but knew little

more of the outside world than ever; her father had learned to love her,

and taught her to adore him; still shy and timid, the village offered no

temptation to her, so far as society went; and Judge Hyde was beginning

to feel that for his child's mental health some freer atmosphere was

fast becoming necessary, when a relentless writ was served upon the

Judge himself, and one that no man could evade; paralysis smote him, and

the strong man lay prostrate,--became bedridden.

Now the question of life seemed settled for Hitty; her father admitted

no nursing but hers. Month after month rolled away, and the numb grasp

gradually loosed its hold on flesh and sense, but still Judge Hyde was

bedridden. Year after year passed by, and no change for better or worse

ensued. Hitty's life was spent between the two parlors and the kitchen;

for the room her dead mother had so decorated was now furnished as a

bedroom for her father's use; and her own possessions had been removed

into the sitting-room next it, that, sleeping or waking, she might be

within call. All the family portraits held a conclave in the other

front-parlor, and its north and east windows were shut all the year,

save on some sultry summer day when Keery flung them open to dispel damp

and must, and the school-children stared in reverentially, and wondered

why old Madam Hyde's eyes followed them as far as they could see.

Visitors came now and then to the kitchen-door, and usurped Keery's

flag-bottomed chair, while they gossiped with her about village affairs;

now and then a friendly spinster with a budget of good advice called

Hitty away from her post, and, after an hour's vain effort to get any

news worth retailing about the Judge from those pale lips, retired full

of disappointed curiosity to tell how stiff that Mehitable Hyde was, and

how hard it was to make her speak a word to one! Friends were what Hitty

read of in the "Spectator," and longed to have; but she knew none of the

Greenfield girls since she left school, and the only companion she had

was Keery, rough as the east wind, but genuine and kind-hearted,--better

at counsel than consolation, and no way adapted to fill the vacant place

in Hitty's heart.

So the years wore away, and Miss Hyde's early beauty went with them. She

had been a blooming, delicate girl,--the slight grace of a daisy in her

figure, wild-rose tints on her fair cheek, and golden reflections in her

light brown hair, that shone in its waves and curls like lost sunshine;

but ten years of such service told their story plainly. When Hitty Hyde

was twenty-six, her blue eyes were full of sorrow and patience, when the

shy lids let their legend be read; the little mouth had become pale, and

the corners drooped; her cheek, too, was tintless, though yet round;

nothing but the beautiful hair lasted; even grace was gone, so long had

she stooped over her father. Sometimes the unwakened heart within her

dreamed, as a girl's heart will. Stately visions of Sir Charles

Grandison bowing before her,--shuddering fascinations over the image of

that dreadful Lovelace,--nothing more real haunted Hitty's imagination.

She knew what she had to do in life,--that it was not to be a happy wife

or mother, but to waste by a bedridden old man, the only creature on

earth she loved as she could love. Light and air were denied the plant,

but it grew in darkness,--blanched and unblooming, it is true, but still

a growth upward, toward light.

Ten years more of monotonous patience, and Miss Hyde was thirty-six. Her

hair had thinned, and was full of silver threads; a wrinkle invaded

either cheek, and she was angular and bony; but something painfully

sweet lingered in her face, and a certain childlike innocence of

expression gave her the air of a nun; the world had never touched nor

taught her.

But now Judge Hyde was dead; nineteen years of petulant, helpless,

hopeless wretchedness were at last over, and all that his daughter cared

to live for was gone; she was an orphan, without near relatives, without

friends, old, and tired out. Do not despise me that I say "old," you

plump and rosy ladies whose life is in its prime of joy and use at

thirty-six. Age is not counted by years, nor calculated from one's

birth; it is a fact of wear and work, altogether unconnected with the

calendar. I have seen a girl of sixteen older than you are at forty. I

have known others disgrace themselves at sixty-five by liking to play

with children and eat sugar-plums!

One kind of youth still remained to Hitty Hyde,--the freshness of

inexperience. Her soul was as guileless and as ignorant as a child's;

and she was stranded on life, with a large fortune, like a helmless

ship, heavily loaded, that breaks from its anchor, and drives headlong

upon a reef.

Now it happened, that, within a year after Judge Hyde's death, Abner

Dimock, the tavern-keeper's son, returned to Greenfield, after years of

absence, a bold-faced, handsome man, well-dressed and "free-handed," as

the Greenfield vernacular hath it. Nobody knew where Abner Dimock had

spent the last fifteen years; neither did anybody know anything against

him; yet he had no good reputation in Greenfield. Everybody looked wise

and grave when his name was spoken, and no Greenfield girl cared to own

him for an acquaintance. His father welcomed him home with more surprise

than pleasure; and the whole household of the Greenfield Hotel, as

Dimock's Inn was new-named, learned to get out of Abner Dimock's way,

and obey his eye, as if he were more their master than his father.

Left quite alone, without occupation or amusement, Miss Hyde naturally

grasped at anything that came in her way to do or to see to; the lawyer

who had been executor of her father's will had settled the estate and

gone back to his home, and Miss Hyde went with him, the first journey of

her life, that she might select a monument for her father's grave. It

was now near a year since Judge Hyde's death, and the monument was on

its way from Boston; the elder Dimock monopolized the cartage of freight

as well as passengers to the next town, and to him Miss Hyde intrusted

the care of the great granite pillar she had purchased; and it was for

his father that Abner Dimock called on the young lady for directions as

to the disposal of the tombstone just arrived. Hitty was in the garden;

her white morning-dress shone among the roses, and the morning air had

flushed her pale cheek; she looked fair and delicate and gracious; but

her helpless ignorance of the world's ways and usages attracted the

world-hardened man more than her face. He had not spent a _roué_ life in

a great city for nothing; he had lived enough with gentlemen,

broken-down and lost, it is true, but well-bred, to be able to ape their

manners; and the devil's instinct that such people possess warned him of

Hitty Hyde's weakest points. So, too, he contrived to make that first

errand lead to another, and still another,--to make the solitary woman

depend on his help, and expect his coming; fifty thousand dollars, with

no more incumbrance than such a woman, was worth scheming for, and the

prey was easily snared.

It is not to be expected that any country village of two streets, much

less Greenfield, could long remain ignorant of such a new and amazing

phase as the devotion of any man to any woman therein; but, as nobody

liked to interfere too soon in what might only be, after all, a mere

business arrangement, Greenfield contented itself with using its eyes,

its ears, and its tongues, with one exception to the latter organ's

clatter, in favor of Hitty Hyde; _to_ her no one dared as yet approach

with gossip or advice.

In the mean time Hitty went on her way, all regardless of the seraphs at

the gate. Abner Dimock was handsome, agreeable, gentlemanly to a certain

lackered extent;--who had cared for Hitty, in all her life, enough to

aid and counsel her as he had already done? At first she was half afraid

of him; then she liked him; then he was "so good to me!" and then--she

pitied him! for he told her, sitting on that hard old sofa, in the June

twilight, how he had no mother, how he had been cast upon the charities

of a cruel and evil world from his infancy; reminded her of the old red

school-house where they had been to school together, and the tyranny of

the big boys over him,--a little curly, motherless boy. So he enlarged

upon his life; talked a mildly bitter misanthropy; informed Miss Hyde by

gradual insinuations that she was an angel sent on earth to console and

reform a poor sinner like him; and before the last September rose had

droped, so far had Abner Dimock succeeded in his engineering, that his

angel was astounded one night by the undeniably terrestrial visitation

of an embrace and a respectfully fervid kiss.

Perhaps it would have been funny, perhaps pathetic, to analyze the mixed

consternation and delight of Mehitable Hyde at such _bonâ-fide_ evidence

of a lover. Poor woman's heart!--altogether solitary and

desolate,--starved of its youth and its joy,--given over to the chilly

reign of patience and resignation,--afraid of life,--without strength,

or hope, or pleasure,--and all at once Paradise dawns!--her cold,

innocent life bursts into fiery and odorous bloom; she has found her

fate, and its face is keen with splendor, like a young angel's. Poor,

deluded, blessed, rapture-smitten woman!

Blame her as you will, indignant maidens of Greenfield, Miss Flint, and

Miss Sharp, and Miss Skinner! You may have had ten lovers and twenty

flirtations apiece, and refused half-a-dozen good matches for the best

of reasons; you, no doubt, would have known better than to marry a man

who was a villain from his very physiognomy; but my heart must needs

grow tender toward Miss Hyde; a great joy is as pathetic as a sorrow.

Did you never cry over a doting old man?

But when Mrs. Smith's son John, a youth of ten, saw, by the light of an

incautious lamp that illuminated a part of the south parlor, a

good-night kiss bestowed upon the departing Abner by Miss Hitty Hyde and

absolutely returned by said Abner, and when John told his mother, and

his mother revealed it to Miss Flint, Miss Flint to Miss Skinner, and so

forth, and so on, till it reached the minister's wife, great was the

uproar in Greenfield; and the Reverend Mrs. Perkins put on her gray

bonnet and went over to remonstrate with Hitty on the spot.

Whether people will ever learn the uselessness of such efforts is yet a

matter for prophecy. Miss Hyde heard all that was said, and replied very

quietly, "I don't believe it." And as Mrs. Perkins had no tangible

proofs of Abner Dimock's unfitness to marry Judge Hyde's daughter, the

lady in question got the better of her adviser, so far as any argument

was concerned, and effectually put an end to remonstrance by declaring

with extreme quiet and unblushing front,--

"I am going to marry him next week. Will you be so good as to notify Mr.

Perkins?"

Mrs. Perkins held up both hands and cried. Words might have hardened

Hitty; but what woman that was not half tigress ever withstood another

woman's tears?

Hitty's heart melted directly; she sat down by Mrs. Perkins, and cried,

too.

"Please, don't be vexed with me," sobbed she. "I love him, Mrs. Perkins,

and I haven't got anybody else to love,--and--and--I never shall have.

He's very good to love me,--I am so old and homely."

"Very good!" exclaimed Mrs. Perkins, in great wrath, "_good_! to marry

Judge Hyde's daughter, and--fifty thousand dollars," Mrs. Perkins bit

off. She would not put such thoughts into Hitty's head, since her

marriage was inevitable.

"At any rate," sighed Hitty, on the breath of a long-drawn sob, "nobody

else ever loved me, if I am Judge Hyde's daughter."

So Mrs. Perkins went away, and declared that things had gone too far to

be prevented; and Abner Dimock came on her retreating steps, and Hitty

forgot everything but that he loved her; and the next week they were

married.

Here, by every law of custom, ought my weary pen to fall flat and refuse

its office; for it is here that the fate of every heroine culminates.

For what are women born but to be married? Old maids are excrescences in

the social system,--disagreeable utilities,--persons who have failed to

fulfil their destiny,--and of whom it should have been said, rather than

of ghosts, that they are always in the wrong. But life, with

pertinacious facts, is too apt to transcend custom and the usage of

novel-writers; and though the one brings a woman's legal existence to an

end when she merges her independence in that of a man, and the other

curtails her historic existence at the same point, because the

novelist's catechism hath for its preface this creed,--"The chief end of

woman is to get married"; still, neither law nor novelists altogether

displace this same persistent fact, and a woman lives, in all capacities

of suffering and happiness, not only her wonted, but a double life, when

legally and religiously she binds herself with bond and vow to another

soul.

Happy would it have been for Hitty Hyde, if with the legal fiction had

chimed the actual existent fact!--happy indeed for Abner Dimock's wife

to have laid her new joy down at the altar, and been carried to sleep by

her mother under the mulleins and golden-rods on Greenfield Hill! Scarce

was the allotted period of rapture past half its term, scarce had she

learned to phrase the tender words aloud that her heart beat and choked

with, before Abner Dimock began to tire of his incumbrance, and to

invent plans and excuses for absence; for he dared not openly declare as

yet that he left his patient, innocent wife for such scenes of vice and

reckless dissipation as she had not even dreamed could exist.

Yet for week after week he lingered away from Greenfield; even months

rolled by, and, except for rare and brief visits home, Hitty saw no more

of her husband than if he were not hers. She lapsed into her old

solitude, varied only by the mutterings and grumblings of old Keery, who

had lifted up her voice against Hitty's marriage with more noise and

less effect than Mrs. Perkins, and, though she still staid by her old

home and haunts, revenged herself on fate in general and her mistress in

particular by a continual course of sulking, all the time hiding under

this general quarrel with life a heart that ached with the purest

tenderness and pity. So some people are made, like chestnuts; one gets

so scratched and wounded in the mere attempt to get at the kernel

within, that it becomes matter of question whether one does not suffer

less from wanting their affection than from trying to obtain it. Yet

Hitty Dimock had too little love given her to throw away even Keery's

habit of kindness to her, and bore with her snaps and snarls as meekly

as a saint,--sustained, it is true, by a hope that now began to solace

and to occupy her, and to raise in her oppressed soul some glimmer of a

bright possibility, a faint expectation that she might yet regain her

husband's love, a passion which she began in her secret heart to fear

had found its limit and died out. Still, Hitty, out of her meek,

self-distrusting spirit, never blamed Abner Dimock for his absence or

his coldness; rather, with the divine unselfishness that such women

manifest, did she blame herself for having linked his handsome and

athletic prime with her faded age, and struggle daily with the morbid

conscience that accused her of having forgotten his best good in the

indulgence of her own selfish ends of happiness. She still thought, "He

is so good to me!" still idealized the villain to a hero, and, like her

kind, predestined to be the prey and the accusing angel of such men,

prayed for and adored her husband as if he had been the best and

tenderest of gentlemen. Providence has its mysteries; but if there be

one that taxes faith and staggers patience more than another, it is the

long misery that makes a good woman cringe and writhe and agonize in

silence under the utter rule and life-long sovereignty of a bad man.

Perhaps such women do not suffer as we fancy; for after much trial every

woman learns that it is possible to love where neither respect nor

admiration can find foothold,--that it even becomes necessary to love

some men, as the angels love us all, from an untroubled height of pity

and tenderness, that, while it sees and condemns the sin and folly and

uncleanness of its object, yet broods over it with an all-shielding

devotion, laboring and beseeching and waiting for its regeneration,

upheld above the depths of suffering and regret by the immortal power of

a love so fervent, so pure, so self-forgetting, that it will be a

millstone about the necks that disregard its tender clasping now, to

sink them into a bottomless abyss in the day of the Lord.

Now had one long and not unhappy autumn, a lingering winter, a desolate

spring, a weary summer, passed away, and from an all-unconscious and

protracted wrestling with death Hitty Dimock awoke to find her hope

fulfilled,--a fair baby nestled on her arm, and her husband, not

all-insensible, smiling beside her.

It is true, that, had she died then, Abner Dimock would have regretted

her death; for, by certain provisions of her father's will, in case of

her death, the real estate, otherwise at her own disposal, became a

trust for her child or children, and such a contingency ill suited Mr.

Dimock's plans. So long as Hitty held a rood of land or a coin of silver

at her own disposal, it was also at his; but trustees are not women,

happily for the world at large, and the contemplation of that fact

brought Hitty Hyde's husband into a state of mind well fitted to give

him real joy at her recovery.

So, for a little while, the sun shone on this bare New England

hill-side, into this grim old house. Care and kindness were lavished on

the delicate woman, who would scarce have needed either in her present

delight; every luxury that could add to her slowly increasing strength,

every attention that could quiet her fluttering and unstrung nerves, was

showered on her, and for a time her brightest hopes seemed all to have

found fruition.

As she recovered and was restored to strength, of course these cares

ceased. But now the new instincts of motherhood absorbed her, and,

brooding over the rosy child that was her own, caressing its waking, or

hanging above its sleep, she scarce noted that her husband's absences

from home grew more and more frequent, that strange visitors asked for

him, that he came home at midnight oftener than at dusk. Nor was it till

her child was near a year old that Hitty discovered her husband's old

and rewakened propensity,--that Abner Dimock came home drunk,--not drunk

as many men are, foolish and helpless, mere beasts of the field, who

know nothing and care for nothing but the filling of their insatiable

appetite;--this man's nature was too hard, too iron in its moulding, to

give way to temporary imbecility; liquor made him savage, fierce,

brutal, excited his fiendish temper to its height, nerved his muscular

system, inflamed his brain, and gave him the aspect of a devil; and in

such guise he entered his wife's peaceful Eden, where she brooded and

cooed over her child's slumbers, with one gripe of his hard hand lifted

her from her chair, kicked the cradle before him, and, with an awful

though muttered oath, thrust mother and child into the entry, locked the

door upon them, and fell upon the bed to sleep away his carouse.

Here was an undeniable fact before Hitty Dimock, one she could no way

evade or gloss over; no gradual lesson, no shadow of foreboding,

preluded the revelation; her husband was unmistakably, savagely drunk.

She did not sit down and cry;--drearily she gathered her baby in her

arms, hushed it to sleep with kisses, passed down into the kitchen, woke

up the brands of the ash-hidden fire to a flame, laid on more wood, and,

dragging old Keery's rush-bottomed chair in front of the blaze, held her

baby in her arms till morning broke, careless of anything without or

within but her child's sleep and her husband's drunkenness. Long and

sadly in that desolate night did she revolve this new misery in her

mind; the fact was face to face, and must be provided for,--but how to

do it? What could she do, poor weak woman, even to conceal this

disgrace, much more to check it? Long since she had discovered that

between her and her husband there was no community of tastes or

interests; he never talked to her, he never read to her, she did not

know that he read at all; the garden he disliked as a useless trouble;

he would not drive, except such a gay horse that Hitty dared not risk

her neck behind it, and felt a shudder of fear assail her whenever his

gig left the door; neither did he care for his child. Nothing at home

could keep him from his pursuits; that she well knew; and, hopeful as

she tried to be, the future spread out far away in misty horror and

dread. What might not, become of her boy, with such a father's

influence? was her first thought;--nay, who could tell but in some fury

of drink he might kill or maim him? A chill of horror crept over Hitty

at the thought,--and then, what had not she to dread? Oh, for some

loophole of escape, some way to fly, some refuge for her baby's innocent

life! No,--no,--no! She was his wife; she had married him; she had vowed

to love and honor and obey,--vow of fearful import now, though uttered

in all pureness and truth, as to a man who owned her whole heart! Love

him!--that was not the dread; love was as much her life as her breath

was; she knew no interval of loving for the brute fiend who mocked her

with the name of husband; no change or chance could alienate her divine

tenderness,--even as the pitiful blue sky above hangs stainless over

reeking battle-fields and pest-smitten cities, piercing with its sad and

holy star-eyes down into the hellish orgies of men, untouched and

unchanged by just or unjust, forever shining and forever pure. But honor

him! could that be done? What respect or trust was it possible to keep

for a self-degraded man like that? And where honor goes down, obedience

is sucked into the vortex, and the wreck flies far over the lonely sea,

historic and prophetic to ship and shore.

No! there was nothing to do! her vow was taken, past the power of man to

break; nothing now remained but endurance. Perhaps another woman, with a

strong will and vivid intellect, might have set herself to work, backed

by that very vow that defied poor Hitty, and, by sheer resolution, have

dragged her husband up from the gulf and saved him, though as by fire;

or a more buoyant and younger wife might have passed it by as a first

offence, hopeful of its being also the only one. But an instinctive

knowledge of the man bereft Hitty of any such hope; she knew it was not

the first time; from his own revelations and penitent confessions while

she was yet free, she knew he had sinned as well as suffered, and the

past augured the future. Nothing was left her, she could not escape, she

must shut her eyes and her mouth, and only keep out of his way as far as

she could. So she clasped her child more tightly, and, closing her heavy

eyes, rocked back and forth till the half-waked boy slept again; and

there old Keery found her mistress, in the morning, white as the cold

drifts without, and a depth of settled agony in her quiet eyes that

dimmed the old woman's only to look at.

Neither spoke; nor when her husband strode into the breakfast-room and

took his usual place, sober enough, but scarcely regretful of the

over-night development, did any word of reproach or allusion pass the

wife's white lips. A stranger would have thought her careless and cold.

Abner Dimock knew that she was heartbroken; but what was that to him?

Women live for years without that organ; and while she lived, so long as

a cent remained of the Hyde estate, what was it to him if she pined

away? She could not leave him; she was utterly in his power; she was

his,--like his boots, his gun, his dog; and till he should tire of her

and fling her into some lonely chamber to waste and die, she was bound

to serve him; he was safe.

And she offered no sort of barrier to his full indulgence of his will to

drink. Had she lifted one of her slender fingers in warning, or given

him a look of reproachful meaning, or uttered one cry of entreaty, at

least the conscience within him might have visited him with a temporary

shame, and restrained the raging propensity for a longer interval; but

seeing her apparent apathy, knowing how timid and unresisting was her

nature,--that nothing on earth will lie still and be trodden on but a

woman,--Abner Dimock rioted and revelled to his full pleasure, while all

his pale and speechless wife could do was to watch with fearful eyes and

straining ears for his coming, and slink out of the way with her child,

lest both should be beaten as well as cursed; for faithful old Keery,

once daring to face him with a volley of reproaches from her shrill

tongue, was levelled to the floor by a blow from his rapid hand, and

bore bruises for weeks that warned her from interference. Not long,

however, was there danger of her meddling. When the baby was a year and

a half old. Keery, in her out-door labors,--now grown burdensome enough,

since Mr. Dimock neither worked himself nor allowed a man on the

premises,--Keery took a heavy cold, and, worn out with a life of hard

work, sank into rest quickly, her last act of life being to draw Hitty's

face down to her own, wrinkled and wan as it was, scarce so old in

expression as her mistress's, and with one long kiss and sob speak the

foreboding and anxious farewell she could not utter.

"Only you now!" whispered Hitty to her child, as Keery's peaceful,

shrouded face was hidden under the coffin-lid and carried away to

Greenfield Hill. Pitiful whisper! happily all-unmeaning to the child,

but full of desolation to the mother, floating with but one tiny plank

amid the wild wrecks of a midnight ocean, and clinging as only the

desperate can cling to this vague chance of life.

A rough, half-crazed girl, brought from the alms-house, now did the

drudgery of the family. Abner Dimock had grown penurious, and not one

cent of money was given for comfort in that house, scarce for need. The

girl was stupid and rude, but she worked for her board,--recommendation

enough in Mr. Dimock's eyes; and so hard work was added to the other

burdens loaded upon his silent wife. And soon came another,

all-mysterious, but from its very mystery a deeper fear. Abner Dimock

began to stay at home, to be visited at late hours by one or two men

whose faces were full of evil and daring; and when, in the dead of the

long nights, Hitty woke from her broken and feverish sleep, it was to

hear muffled sounds from the cellar below, never heard there before; and

once, wrapping a shawl about her, she stole down the stairways with bare

feet, and saw streams of red light through the chinks of the

cellar-door, and heard the ring of metal, and muttered oaths, all

carefully dulled by such devices as kept the sounds from chance passers

in the street, though vain as far as the inhabitants of the house itself

were concerned. Trembling and cold, she stole back to her bed, full of

doubts and fears, neither of which she dared whisper to any one, or

would have dared, had she possessed a single friend to whom she could

speak. Troubles thickened fast over Hitty; her husband was always at

home now, and rarely sober; the relief his absences had been was denied

her entirely; and in some sunny corner of the uninhabited rooms

up-stairs she spent her days, toiling at such sewing as was needful, and

silent as the dead, save as her life appealed to God from the ground,

and called down the curse of Cain upon a head she would have shielded

from evil with her own life.

Keen human legislation! sightless justice of men!--one drunken wretch

smites another in a midnight brawl, and sends a soul to its account with

one sharp shudder of passion and despair, and the maddened creature that

remains on earth suffers the penalty of the law. Every sense sobered

from its reeling fury, weeks of terribly expectation heaped upon the

cringing soul, and, in full consciousness, that murderer is strangled

before men and angels, because he was drunk!--necessary enough, one

perceives, to the good of society, which thereby loses two worse than

useless members; but what, in the name of God's justice, should His

vicegerent, law, visit upon the man who wrings another life away by slow

tortures, and torments heart and soul and flesh for lingering years,

where the victim is passive and tenacious, and dies only after

long-drawn anguish that might fill the cup of a hundred sudden deaths?

Yet what escapes the vicegerent shall the King himself visit and judge.

"For He cometh! He cometh to judge the earth; with righteousness shall

he judge the world, and the people with equity."

Six months passed after Keery's death, and now from the heights of

Greenfield and her sunny window Hitty Dimock's white face looked out

upon a landscape of sudden glory; for October, the gold-bringer, had

come, pouring splendor over the earth, and far and wide the forests

blazed; scarlet and green maples, with erect heads, sentinelled the

street, gay lifeguards of autumn; through dark green cedars the crimson

creeper threaded its sprays of blood-red; birches, gilded to their tops,

swayed to every wind, and drooped their graceful boughs earthward to

shower the mossy sward with glittering leaves; heavy oaks turned

purple-crimson through their wide-spread boughs; and the stately

chestnuts, with foliage of tawny yellow, opened wide their stinging

husks to let the nuts fall for squirrel and blue-jay. Splendid sadness

clothed all the world, opal-hued mists wandered up and down the valleys

or lingered about the undefined horizon, and the leaf-scented south wind

sighed in the still noon with foreboding gentleness.

One day, Abner Dimock was gone, and Hitty stole down to the garden-door

with her little child, now just trying to walk, that he might have a

little play on the green turf, and she cool her hot eyes and lips in the

air. As she sat there watching the pretty clumsiness of her boy, and

springing forward to intercept his falls, the influence of sun and air,

the playful joy of the child, the soothing stillness of all Nature,

stole into her heart till it dreamed a dream of hope. Perhaps the

budding blossom of promise might become floral and fruitful; perhaps her

child might yet atone for the agony of the past;--a time might come when

she should sit in that door, white-haired and trembling with age, but as

peaceful as the autumn day, watching the sports of his children, while

his strong arm sustained her into the valley of shadow, and his tender

eyes lit the way.

As she sat dreaming, suddenly a figure intercepted the sunshine, and,

looking up, she saw Abner Dimock's father, the elder Abner, entering the

little wicket-gate of the garden. A strange, tottering old figure, his

nose and chin grimacing at each other, his bleared eyes telling

unmistakable truths of cider-brandy and New England rum, his scant locks

of white lying in confusion over his wrinkled forehead and cheeks, his

whole air squalid, hopeless, and degraded,--not so much by the poverty

of vice as by its demoralizing stamp penetrating from the inner to the

outer man, and levelling it even below the plane of brutes that perish.

"Good-day! good-day!" said he to his son's wife, in a squeaking,

tremulous tone, that drove the child to his mother's arms,--"Abner to

home?"

"No, Sir," said Hitty, with an involuntary shudder, that did not escape

the bleared blue eye that fixed its watery gaze upon her.

"Cold, a'n't ye? Better go in, better go in! Come, come along! How d'e

do, little feller? don't know yer grandper, hey?"

The child met his advances with an ominous scream, and Hitty hurried

into the house to give him to the servant's charge, while she returned

to the sitting-room, where the old man had seated himself in the

rocking-chair, and was taking a mental inventory of the goods and

chattels with a momentary keenness in his look that no way reassured

Hitty's apprehensive heart.

"So, Abner a'n't to home?"

"No, Sir."

"Don't know where he's gone, do ye?"

"No, Sir."

"Don't never know where he goes, I expect?"

"No, Sir."

"Well, when he comes home,--know when he's a-comin' home?"

"No, Sir."

"Well, when he doos, you tell him 't some folks come to the tavern last

night, 'n' talked pretty loud, 'n' I heerd--Guess 'ta'n't best, though,

to tell what I heerd. Only you tell Abner 't I come here, and I said

he'd better be a-joggin'. He'll know, he'll know,--h'm, yes," said the

old man, passing his hand across his thin blue lips, as if to drive away

other words better left unsaid,--and then rising from his seat, by the

aid of either arm, gained his balance, and went on, while he fumbled for

his stick:--

"I'd ha' writ, but black and white's a hangin' matter sometimes, 'n'

words a'n't; 'n' I hadn't nobody to send, so I crawled along. Don't ye

forget now! don't ye! It's a pretty consider'ble piece o' business; 'n'

you'll be dreffully on't, ef you do forget. Now _don't_ ye forget!"

"No, I won't," said Hitty, trembling as she spoke; for the old man's

words had showed her a depth of dreadful possibility, and an old

acquaintance with crime and its manoeuvres, that chilled the blood in

her veins. She watched him out of the gate with a sickening sense of

terror at her heart, and turned slowly into the house, revolving all

kinds of plans in her head for her husband's escape, should her fears

prove true. Of herself she did not think; no law could harm her child;

but, even after years of brutality and neglect, her faithful affection

turned with all its provident thoughtfulness and care at once to her

husband; all her wrongs were forgotten, all her sorrows obliterated by

this one fear. Well did St. Augustine say, "God is patient because He is

eternal": but better and truer would the saying have been, had it run,

"God is patient because He is love": a gospel that He publishes in the

lives of saints on earth, in their daily and hourly "anguish of

patience," preaching to the fearful souls that dare not trust His

long-suffering by the tenacious love of those who bear His image,

saying, in resistless human tones, "Shall one creature endure and love

and continually forgive another, and shall I, who am not loving, but

Love, be weary of thy transgressions, O sinner?" And so does the silent

and despairing life of many a woman weave unconsciously its golden

garland of reward in the heavens above, and do the Lord's work in a

strange land where it cannot sing His songs.

The day crept toward sunset, and Hitty sat with her wan face pressed to

the window-pane, hushing her child in his cradle with one of those low,

monotoned murmurs that mothers know; but still her husband did not come.

The level sun-rays pierced the woods into more vivid splendor, burnished

gold fringed the heavy purple clouds in the west, and warm crimson

lights turned the purple into more triumphant glory; the sun set,

unstained with mist or tempest, behind those blue and lonely hills that

guard old Berkshire with their rolling summits, and night came fast,

steel-blue and thick with stars; but yet he did not come, the untouched

meal on the table was untouched still. Hour after hour of starry

darkness crept by, and she sat watching at the window-pane; overhead,

constellations marched across the heavens in relentless splendor,

careless of man or sorrow; Orion glittered in the east, and climbed

toward the zenith; the Pleiades clustered and sparkled as if they missed

their lost sister no more; the Hyades marked the celestial pastures of

Taurus, and Lyra strung her chords with fire. Hitty rested her weary

head against the window-frame and sent her wearier thoughts upward to

the stars; there were the points of light that the Chaldeans watched

upon their plains by night, and named with mystic syllables of their

weird Oriental tongue,--names that in her girlhood she had delighted to

learn, charmed by that nameless spell that language holds, wherewith it

plants itself ineradicably in the human mind, and binds it with fetters

of vague association that time and chance are all-powerless to

break,--Zubeneschamali and Zubenelgunebi, Bellatrix and Betelguese,

sonorous of Rome and Asia both, full of old echoes and the dry resonant

air of Eastern plains,--names wherein sounded the clash of Bellona's

armor, and the harsh stir of palm-boughs rustled by a hot wind of the

desert, and vibrant with the dying clangor of gongs, and shouts of

worshipping crowds reverberating through horrid temples of grinning and

ghastly idols, wet with children's blood.

Far, far away, the heavenly procession and their well-remembered names

had led poor Hitty's thoughts; worn out with anxiety, and faint for want

of the food she had forgotten to take, sleep crept upon her, and her

first consciousness of its presence was the awakening grasp of a rough

hand and the hoarse whisper of her husband.

"Get up!" said he. "Pick up your brat, get your shawl, and come!"

Hitty rose quickly to her feet. One faculty wretchedness gives, the

power of sudden self-possession,--and Hitty was broad awake in the very

instant she was called. Her husband stood beside her, holding a lantern;

her boy slept in the cradle at her feet.

"Have you seen your father?" said she, with quick instinct.

"Yes, d--n you, be quick! do you want to hang me?"

Quick as a spirit Hitty snatched her child, and wrapped him in the

blanket where he lay; her shawl was on the chair she had slept in, her

hood upon a nail by the door, and flinging both on, with the child in

her arms, she followed her husband down-stairs, across the back-yard,

hitting her feet against stones and logs in the darkness, stumbling

often, but never falling, till the shadow of the trees was past, and the

starlight showed her that they were traversing the open fields, now

crisp with frost, but even to the tread,--over two or three of these,

through a pine-wood that was a landmark to Hitty, for she well knew that

it lay between the turnpike-road and another, less frequented, that by

various windings went toward the Connecticut Hue,--then over a tiny

brook on its unsteady bridge of logs, and out into a lane, where a

rough-spoken man was waiting for them, at the head of a strong horse

harnessed to one of those wagons without springs that New-Englanders

like to make themselves uncomfortable in. Her husband turned to her

abruptly.

"Get in," said he; "get in behind; there's hay enough; and don't breathe

loud, or I'll murder you!"

She clambered into the wagon and seated herself on the hay, hushing her

child, who nestled and moaned in her arms, though she had carried him

with all possible care. A sharp cut of the whip sent the powerful horse

off at full speed, and soon this ill-matched party were fast traversing

the narrow road that wound about the country for the use of every farm

within a mile of its necessary course, a course tending toward the

Connecticut.

Hour after hour crept by. Worn out with fatigue, poor Hitty dozed and

fell back on the soft hay; her child slept, too, and all her troubles

faded away in heavy unconsciousness, till she was again awakened by her

husband's grasp, to find that dawn was gathering its light roseate

fleeces in the east, and that their flight was for the present stayed at

the door of a tavern, lonely and rude enough, but welcome to Hitty as a

place of rest, if only for a moment. The sullen mistress of the house

asked no questions and offered no courtesy, but, after her guests had

eaten their breakfast, rapidly prepared, she led the way to a bedroom in

the loft, where Abner Dimock flung himself down upon the straw bed and

fell sound asleep, leaving Hitty to the undisturbed care of her child.

And occupation enough that proved; for the little fellow was fretful and

excited, so that no hour for thought was left to his anxious and timid

mother till the dinner-bell awoke her husband and took him downstairs.

She could not eat, but, begging some milk for her boy, tended, and fed,

and sung to him, till he slept; and then all the horrors of the present

and future thronged upon her, till her heart seemed to die in her

breast, and her limbs failed to support her when she would have dragged

herself out of doors for one breath of fresh air, one refreshing look at

a world untroubled and serene.

So the afternoon crept away, and as soon as night drew on the journey

was resumed. But this night was chill with the breath of a sobbing east

wind, and the dim stars foreboded rain. Hitty shivered with bitter cold,

and the boy began to cry. With a fierce curse Abner bade her stop his

disturbance, and again the poor mother had hands and heart full to

silence the still recurring sobs of the child. At last, after the

midnight cocks had ceased to send their challenges from farm to farm,

after some remote church-clocks had clanged one stroke on the damp wind,

they began to pass through a large village; no lights burned in the

windows, but white fences gleamed through the darkness, and sharp gable

ends loomed up against the dull sky, one after another, and the horse's

hoofs flashed sparks from the paved street before the church, that

showed its white spire, spectre-like, directly in their path. Here, by

some evil chance, the child awoke, and, between cold and hunger and

fear, began one of those long and loud shrieks that no power can stop

this side of strangulation. In vain Hitty kissed, and coaxed, and

half-choked her boy, in hope to stop the uproar; still he screamed more

and more loudly. Abner turned round on his seat with an oath, snatched

the child from its mother's arms, and rolled it closely in the blanket.

"Hold on a minute, Ben!" said he to his companion; "this yelp must be

stopped"; and stepping over to the back of the wagon, he grasped his

wife tightly with one arm, and with the other dropped his child into the

street. "Now drive, Ben," said he, in the same hoarse whisper,--"drive

like the Devil!"--for, as her child fell, Hitty shrieked with such a cry

as only the heart of a mother could send out over a newly-murdered

infant. Shriek on shriek, fast and loud and long, broke the slumbers of

the village; nothing Abner could do, neither threat nor force, short of

absolute murder, would avail,--and there was too much real estate

remaining of the Hyde property for Abner Dimock to spare his wife yet.

Ben drove fiend-fashion; but before they passed the last house in the

village, lights were glancing and windows grating as they were opened.

Years after, I heard the story of such a midnight cry borne past

sleeping houses with the quick rattle of wheels; but no one who heard it

could give the right clue to its explanation, and it dried into a

legend.

Now Hitty Dimock became careless of good or evil, except one absorbing

desire to get away from her husband,--to search for her child, to know

if it had lived or died. For four nights more that journey was pursued

at the height of their horse's speed; every day they stopped to rest,

and every day Hitty's half-delirious brain laid plans of escape, only to

be balked by Abner Dimock's vigilance; for if he slept, it was with both

arms round her, and the slightest stir awoke him,--and while he woke,

not one propitious moment freed her from his watch. Her brain began to

reel with disappointment and anguish; she began to hate her husband; a

band of iron seemed strained about her forehead, and a ringing sound

filled her ears; her lips grew parched, and her eye glittered; the last

night of their journey Abner Dimock lifted her into the wagon, and she

fainted on the hay.

"What in hell did you bring her for, Dimock?" growled his companion;

"women are d----d plagues always."

"She'll get up in a minute," coolly returned the husband; "can't afford

to leave a goose that lays golden eggs behind; hold on till I lift her

up. Here, Hitty! drink, I tell you! drink!"

A swallow of raw spirit certainly drove away the faintness, but it

brought fresh fire to the fever that burned in her veins, and she was

muttering in delirium before the end of that night's journey brought

them to a small village just above the old house on the river that

figured in the beginning of this history, and which we trust the patient

reader has not forgotten. Abner Dimock left his wife in charge of the

old woman who kept the hovel of a tavern where they stopped, and, giving

Ben the horse to dispose of to some safe purchaser, after he had driven

him down to the old house, returned at night in the boat that belonged

to his negro tenant, and, taking his unconscious wife from her bed,

rowed down the river and landed her safely, to be carried from the skiff

into an upper chamber of the old house, where Jake's wife, Aunt Judy, as

Mr. Dimock styled her, nursed the wretched woman through three weeks of

fever, and "doctored" her with herbs and roots.

The tenacious Hyde constitution, that was a proverb in Greenfield,

conquered at last, and Hitty became conscious, to find herself in a

chamber whose plastered walls were crumbling away with dampness and

festooned with cobwebs, while the uncarpeted floor was checkered with

green stains of mildew, and the very old four-post bedstead on which she

lay was fringed around the rickety tester with rags of green moreen,

mould-rotted.

Hitty sank back on her pillow with a sigh; she did not even question the

old negress who sat crooning over the fire, as to where she was, or what

had befallen her; but accepted this new place as only another misty

delirium, and in her secret heart prayed, for the hundredth time, to

die.

Slowly she recovered; for prayers to die are the last prayers ever

answered; we live against our will, and tempt living deaths year after

year, when soul and body cry out for the grave's repose, and beat

themselves against the inscrutable will of God only to fall down before

it in bruised and bleeding acquiescence. So she lived to find herself

immured in this damp and crumbling house, with no society but a drinking

and crime-haunted husband, and the ignorant negroes who served

him,--society varied now and then by one or two men revolting enough in

speech and aspect to drive Hitty to her own room, where, in a creaking

chair, she rocked monotonously back and forth, watching the snapping

fire, and dreaming dreams of a past that seemed now but a visionary

paradise.

For now it was winter, and the heavy drifts of snow that lay on Dimock's

meadow forbade any explorations which the one idea of finding her child

might have driven her to make; and the frozen surface of the river no

white-sailed ship could traverse now, nor the hissing paddle-wheels of a

steamer break the silence with intimations of life, active and salient,

far beyond the lonely precinct of Abner Dimock's home.

So the winter passed by. The noises and lights that had awoke Hitty at

midnight in the house at Greenfield had become so far an institution in

this lonely dwelling that now they disturbed her sleep no more; for it

was a received custom, that, whenever Abner Dimock's two visitors should

appear, the cellar should resound all night with heavy blows and

clinking of metal, and red light as from a forge streamed up through the

doorway; but it disturbed Hitty no more; apathy settled down in black

mist on her soul, and she seemed to think, to care, for nothing.

But spring awoke the dead earth, and sleeping roots aroused with fresh

forces from their torpor, and sent up green signals to the birds above.

A spark of light awoke in Hitty's eye; she planned to get away, to steal

the boat from its hidden cove in the bushes and push off down the

friendly current of the river,--anywhere away from him! anywhere! though

it should be to wreck on the great ocean, but still away from him! Night

after night she rose from her bed to hazard the attempt, but her heart

failed, and her trembling limbs refused their aid. At length moonlight

came to her aid, and when all the house slept she stole downstairs with

bare, noiseless feet, and sped like a ghost across the meadow to the

river-bank. Poor weak hands! vainly they fumbled with the knotted rope

that bound the skiff to a crooked elm over-hanging the water,--all in

vain for many lingering minutes; but presently the obdurate knot gave

way, and, turning to gather up her shawl, there, close behind her, so

close that his hot breath seemed to sear her cheek, stood her husband,

clear in the moonlight, with a sneer on his face, and the lurid glow of

drunkenness, that made a savage brute of a bad man, gleaming in his

deep-set eyes. Hitty neither shrieked nor ran; despair nerved

her,--despair turned her rigid before his face.

"Well," said he, "where are you going?"

"I am going away,--away from you,--anywhere in the world away from you!"

answered she, with the boldness of desperation.

"Ha, ha! going away from me!--that's a d--d good joke, a'n't it? Away

from your husband! You fool! you can't get away from me! you're mine,

soul and body,--this world and the next! Don't you know that? Where's

your promise, eh?--'for better, for worse!'--and a'n't I worse, you

cursed fool, you? You didn't put on the handcuffs for nothing; heaven

and hell can't get you away from me as long as you've got on that little

shiny fetter on your finger,--don't you know that?"

The maddened woman made a quick wrench to pull away from him her left

hand, which he held in his, taunting her with the ring that symbolized

their eternal bonds; but he was too quick for her.

"Hollo!" laughed he; "want to get rid of it, don't you? No, no! that

won't do,--that won't do! I'll make it safe!"

And lifting her like a child in his arms, he carried her across the

meadow, back to the house, and down a flight of crazy steps into the

cellar, where a little forge was all ablaze with white-hot coal, and the

two ill-visaged men she well knew by sight were busy with sets of odd

tools and fragments of metal, while on a bench near by, and in the seat

of an old chair, lay piles of fresh coin. They were a gang of

counterfeiters.

Abner Dimock thrust his wife into the chair, sweeping the gilt eagles to

the floor as one of the men angrily started up, demanding, with an oath,

what he brought that woman there for to hang them all.

"Be quiet, Bill, can't you?" interposed the other man. "Don't you see

he's drunk? you'll have the Devil to pay, if you cross a drunk Dimock!"

But Abner had not heard the first speaker; he was too much occupied with

tying his wife's arms to the chair,--a proceeding she could nowise

interfere with, since his heavy foot was set upon her dress so as to

hold her own feet in helpless fixedness. He proceeded to take the ring

from her finger, and, searching through a box of various contents that

stood in one corner, extracted from it a delicate steel chain, finely

wrought, but strong as steel can be; then, at the forge, with sundry

tools, carefully chosen and skilfully used, he soldered one end of the

chain to the ring, and, returning to his wife, placed it again upon her

finger.

"Here, Bill," growled he, "where's that padlock off the tool-chest, eh?

give it here! This woman's a fool,--ha, ha, ha!--she wanted to get away

from me, and she's my wife!"

Another peal of dissonant laughter interrupted the words.

"What a d----d good joke! I swear I haven't laughed before, this dog's

age! And then she was goin' to rid herself of the ring! as if that would

help it! Why, there's the promise in black and white,--'love, honor, and

obey,'--'I take thee, Abner,'--ha, ha! that's good! But fast bind, fast

find; she a'n't going to get rid of the ring. I'll make it as tight as

the promise; both of 'em 'll last to doomsday. Give me the padlock, you

scoundrel!"

Bill, the man he addressed, knew too much to hesitate after the savage

look that sent home the last words,--and, drawing from a bag of tools

and dies a tiny padlock and key, he handed them to Dimock, who passed

the chain about Hitty's thin white wrist, and, fastening it with the

padlock, turned the key, and, withdrawing it from the lock, dropped it

into the silvery heat of the forge, and burst into a fit of laughter, so

savage and so inhuman that the bearded lips of his two comrades grew

white with horror to hear the devil within so exult in his possession of

a man.

Hitty sat, statue-like, in her chair; stooping, the man unbound her, and

she rose slowly and steadily to her feet, looking him in the face.

"Look!" said she, raising her shackled arm high in air,--"I shall carry

it to God!"--and so fled, up the broken stairway, out into the

moonlight, across the meadow,--the three men following fast,--over the

fallen boughs that winter had strewn along the shore, out under the

crooked elm, swift as light, poising on the stern of the boat, that had

swung out toward the channel,--and once more lifting her hand high into

the white light, with one spring she dropped into the river, and its

black waters rolled down to the sea.

THE END OF ALL.

Wandering along a waste

Where once a city stood,

I saw a ruined tomb,

And in that tomb an urn,--

A sacred funeral-urn,

Without a name or date,

And in its hollow depths

A little human dust!

Whose dust is this, I asked,

In this forgotten urn?

And where this waste now lies

What city rose of old?

None knows; its name is lost;

It was, and is no more:

Gone like a wind that blew

A thousand years ago!

Its melancholy end

Will be the end of all;

For, as it passed away,

The universe will pass!

Its sole memorial

Some ruined world, like ours;

A solitary urn,

Full of the dust of men!

BIRDS OF THE NIGHT.

There are numerous swarms of insects and many small quadrupeds,

requiring partial darkness for their security, that come abroad only

during the night or twilight. These would multiply almost without check,

but that certain birds are formed with the power of seeing in the dark,

and, on account of their partial blindness in the daytime, are forced by

necessity to seek their food by night. Many species of insects are most

active after dewfall,--such, especially, as spend a great portion of

their lifetime in the air. Hence the very late hour at which Swallows

retire to rest, the hour succeeding sunset providing them with a fuller

repast than any other part of the day. No sooner has the Swallow

disappeared, than the Whippoorwill and the Night-Jar come forth, to prey

upon the larger kinds of aerial insects. The Bat, an animal of an

antediluvian type, comes out at the same time, and assists in lessening

these multitudinous swarms. The little Owls, though they pursue the

larger beetles and moths, direct their efforts chiefly at the small

quadrupeds that steal out in the early evening to nibble the tender

herbs and grasses. Thus the night, except the hours of total darkness,

is with many species of animals, though they pursue their objects with

comparative stillness and silence, a period of general activity.

In this sketch, I shall treat of the Birds of the Night under two heads,

including, beside the true nocturnal birds that go abroad in the night

to seek their subsistence, those diurnal birds that continue their songs

during a considerable portion of the night. Some species of birds are

partly nocturnal in their habits. Such is the Chimney Swallow. This bird

is seldom out at noonday, which it employs in sleep, after excessive

activity from the earliest morning dawn. It is seen afterwards circling

about in the decline of day, and is sometimes abroad in fine weather the

greater part of the night, when the young broods require almost

unremitted exertions, on the part of the old birds, to procure their

subsistence.

The true nocturnal birds, of which the Owl and the Whippoorwill are

conspicuous examples, are distinguished by a peculiar sensibility of the

eye, that enables them to see clearly by twilight and in cloudy weather,

while they are dazzled by the broad light of day. Their organs of

hearing are proportionally delicate and acute. Their wing-feathers also

have a peculiar downy softness, so that they fly without the usual

fluttering sounds that attend the flight of other birds, and are able to

steal unawares upon their prey, and make their predal excursions without

disturbing the general silence of the hour. This noiseless flight is

very remarkable in the Owl, as may be observed, if a tame one be allowed

to fly about a room, when we can perceive his motions only by our sight.

It is a fact worthy of our attention, that this peculiar structure of

the wing-feathers does not exist in the Woodcock. Nature makes no

useless provisions for her creatures; and hence this nocturnal bird,

which obtains his food by digging into the soil, and gets no part of it

while on the wing, has no need of this contrivance. Neither stillness

nor stealth would assist him in securing his helpless prey.

Among the nocturnal birds, the most notorious is the Owl, of which there

are many species, varying from the size of an Eagle down to the little

Acadian, which is no larger than a Robin. The resemblance of the Owl to

the feline quadrupeds has been a frequent subject of remark. Like the

cat, he sees most clearly by twilight or the light of the moon, seeks

his prey in the night, and spends the principal part of the day in

sleep. The likeness is made stronger by his tufts of feathers, that

correspond to the ears of the quadruped,--by his large head,--his round,

full, and glaring eyes, set widely apart,--by the extreme contractility

of the pupil,--and in his manners, by his lurking and stealthy habit of

surprising his victims. His eyes are partially encircled by a disk of

feathers that yields a peculiarly significant expression to his face.

His hooked bill turned downwards, so as to resemble the nose in a human

countenance, the general flatness of his features, and his upright

position, give him a grave and intelligent look; and it was this

expression that caused him to be selected by the ancients as the emblem

of wisdom, and consecrated to Minerva.

The Owl is remarkable also for the acuteness of his hearing, having a

large ear-drum, and being provided with an apparatus by which he can

exalt this faculty, when under the necessity of listening with greater

attention. Hence, while he is silent in his own motions, he is able to

perceive the least sound from the motion of any other object, and

overtakes his prey by coming upon it in silence and darkness. The

stillness of his flight is one of the circumstances that add mystery to

his character, and which have assisted in rendering him an object of

superstitious dread.

Aware of his defenceless condition in the bright daylight, when his

purblindness would prevent him from evading the attacks of his enemies,

he seeks some obscure retreat where he may pass the day without exposing

himself to observation. It is this necessity which has caused him to

make his abode in desolate and ruined buildings, in old towers and

belfries, and in the crevices of dilapidated walls. In these places he

hides himself from the sight of other birds, who regard him as their

common enemy, and who show him no mercy when he is discovered. Here also

he rears his offspring, and with these solitary haunts his image is

closely associated. In thinly settled and wooded countries, he selects

the hollows of old trees and the clefts of rocks for his retreats. All

the smaller Owls, however, seem to multiply with the increase of human

population, subsisting upon the minute animals that accumulate in

outhouses, orchards, and fallows.

When the Owl is discovered in his hiding-place, the alarm is given, and

there is a general excitement among the small birds. They assemble in

great numbers, and with loud chattering commence assailing and annoying

him in various ways, and soon drive him out of his retreat. The Jay,

usually his first assailant, like a thief employed as a thief-taker,

attacks him with great zeal and animation; the Chickadee, the Nuthatch,

and the small Thrushes peck at his head and eyes; while other birds,

less bold, fly round him, and by their vociferation encourage his

assailants and help to terrify their victim.

It is while sitting on the branch of a tree or on a fence, after his

misfortune and his escape, that he is most frequently seen in the

daytime; and here he has formed a subject for painters, who have

commonly introduced him into their pictures as he appears in one of

these open situations. He is likewise represented ensconced in his own

select retreats, apparently peeping out of his hiding-place while

half-concealed; and the fact of his being seen in these lonely places

has caused many superstitions to be attached to his image. His voice is

supposed to bode misfortune, and his spectral visits are regarded as the

forewarnings of death. His connection with deserted houses and ruins has

invested him with a peculiarly romantic character; while the poets, by

introducing him to deepen the force of their gloomy and pathetic

descriptions, have enlivened these associations; and he deserves,

therefore, in a special degree, to be named among those animals which we

call picturesque.

The gravity of the Owl's general appearance, combined with a sort of

human expression in his countenance, undoubtedly caused him to be

selected by the ancients as the emblem of wisdom. The moderns have

practically renounced this idea, which had no foundation in the real

character of the bird, who possesses only the sly and sinister traits

that mark the feline race. A very different train of associations and a

new series of picturesque images are now suggested by the figure of the

Owl, who has been portrayed more correctly by modern poetry than by

ancient mythology. He is now universally regarded as the emblem of ruin

and desolation, true to his character and habits, which are intimately

allied to this description of scenery.

I will not enter into a speculation concerning the nature and origin of

those agreeable emotions which are so generally produced by the sight of

objects that suggest the ideas of decay and desolation. It is happy for

us, that, by the alchemy of poetry, we are able to turn some of our

misfortunes into sources of melancholy pleasure, after the poignancy of

grief has been assuaged by time. Nature has beneficently provided, also,

that many an object, which is capable of communicating no direct

pleasure to our senses, shall affect us agreeably through the medium of

sentiment. The image of the Owl is calculated to awaken the sentiment of

ruin, and to this feeling of the human soul we may trace the pleasure we

derive from the sight of this bird in his appropriate scenery. Two Doves

upon the mossy branch of a tree in a wild and beautiful sylvan retreat

are the pleasing emblems of innocent love and constancy; but they are

not more suggestive of poetic fancies than an Owl sitting upon an old

gate-post near a deserted house.

I have alluded, in another page, to the faint sounds we hear when the

Night Birds, on a still summer evening, are flying over short distances

in a neighboring wood. There is a feeling of mystery excited by these

sounds, that exalts the pleasure we derive from the delightful influence

of the hour and the season. But the emotions thus produced are of a

cheerful kind, and not equal in intensity to the effects of the scarcely

perceptible sound occasioned by the flight of the Owl, as he glides by

in the dusk of the evening or in the dim light of the moon. Similar in

its influence is the dismal voice of this bird, which is harmonized with

darkness, and, though in some cases not unmusical, is tuned, as it were,

to the terrors of that hour when he makes secret warfare upon the

sleeping inhabitants of the wood.

One of the most interesting of this tribe of birds is the little Acadian

Owl, (_Strix Acadica_,) whose note has formerly excited a great deal of

curiosity. In "The Canadian Naturalist," an account is given of a rural

excursion in April, in the course of which the attention of one of the

party is called by his companion, just after sunset, to a peculiar sound

proceeding from a cedar swamp. It was compared to the measured tinkling

of a cow-bell, or regular strokes upon a piece of iron, quickly

repeated. The one appealed to is able to give no satisfactory

information about it, but remarks, that, "during the months of April and

May, and in the former part of June, we frequently hear, after

nightfall, the sound just described. From its regularity, it is thought

to resemble the whetting of a saw, and hence the bird from which it

proceeds is called the Saw-Whetter." The author could not identify the

bird that uttered this note, but conjectured that it might be a Heron or

a Bittern. It has since been ascertained that this singular note

proceeds from the Acadian Owl. It is like the sound produced by the

filing of a mill-saw, and is said to be the amatory note of the male,

being heard only during the season of incubation.

Mr. S.P. Fowler, of Danvers, informs me that "the Acadian Owl has

another note, which we frequently hear in the autumn, after the breeding

season is over. The parent birds, then accompanied by their young, while

hunting their prey during a bright moonlight night, utter a peculiar

note, resembling a suppressed moan or a low whistle. The little Acadian,

to avoid the annoyance of the birds he would meet by day, and the

blinding light of the sun, retires in the morning, his feathers wet with

dew and rumpled by the hard struggles he has encountered in seizing his

prey, to the gloom of the forest or the thick swamp, where, perched on a

bough, near the trunk of the tree, he sleeps through a summer's day, the

perfect picture of a _used-up_ little fellow, suffering from the sad

effects of a night's carouse. But he is an honest bird, notwithstanding

his late hours and his idle sleeping days; he is also domestic in his

habits, and the father of an interesting family, close at hand, in a

hollow white-birch, and he is ever ready to give them his support and

protection."

The Mottled Owl, (_Strix Asio_) or Screech Owl, is somewhat larger than

the Acadian or Whetsaw, and not so familiar as the Barn Owl of Europe,

though resembling it in general habits. He commonly builds in the hollow

of an old tree, also in deserted buildings, whither he resorts in the

daytime to find repose and to escape annoyance. His voice is heard most

frequently in the latter part of summer, when the young Owlets are

abroad, and use their cries for purposes of mutual salutation and

recognition. This wailing note is singularly wild, and not unmusical. It

is not properly a screech or a scream, like that of the Hawk or the

Peacock, but rather a sort of moaning melody, half music and half

bewailment. This wailing song is far from disagreeable, though it has a

cadence which is expressive of dreariness and melancholy. It might be

performed on a small flute, by commencing with D octave and running down

by semitones to a fifth below, and frequently repeating the notes, for

the space of a minute, with occasional pauses and slight variations,

sometimes ascending as well as descending the scale. The bird does not

slur the passages, but utters them with a sort of trembling _staccato_.

The separate notes may be distinctly perceived, with intervals of about

a semitone.

The Owl is not properly regarded as a useful bird. The generality of the

tribe deserve to be considered only as mischievous birds of prey, and no

more entitled to mercy and protection than the Falcons, to which they

are allied. All the little Owls, however, though guilty of destroying

small birds, are very serviceable in ridding our fields and premises of

mischievous animals. They likewise destroy multitudes of large nocturnal

insects, flying above the summits of the trees in pursuit of them, while

at other times their flight is low, when watching for the small animals

that run upon the ground. It is probably on account of its low flight

that the Owl is seldom seen on the wing. Bats, which are employed by

Nature for the same kind of services, fall victims in large numbers to

the Owls of different species, who are the principal means of preventing

their multiplication.

I should wander from my present purpose, were I to attempt a sketch of

the large Owls, as I design only to treat of those birds which

contribute, either as poetic or picturesque objects, to improve the

charms of Nature. I shall say but a passing word, therefore, of the

Great Snowy Owl, almost exclusively an inhabitant of the Arctic regions,

where he frightens both man and beast with his dismal hootings,--or of

the Cat Owl, the prince of these monsters, who should be consecrated to

Pluto,--or of his brother monster, the Gray Owl, that will carry off a

full-grown rabbit. There are several other species, more or less

interesting, ridiculous, or frightful. I will leave them, to speak of

birds of more pleasing habits and a more innocent character.

The next remarkable family of nocturnal birds comprises the

_Moth-Hunters_, including, in New England, only two species,--the

Whippoorwill and the Night-Hawk, or Piramidig. These birds resemble the

Owls in some of their habits; but in their structure, in their mode of

subsistence, and in their general traits of character, they are like

Swallows. They are shy and solitary, take their food while on the wing,

abide chiefly in deep woods, and come abroad only at twilight or in

cloudy weather. They remain, like the Dove, permanently paired, lay

their eggs on the bare ground, and, when perched upon the branch of a

tree, sit upon it lengthwise, unlike other birds. They are remarkable

for their singular voices, of which that of only one species, the

Whippoorwill, can be considered musical. They are known in all parts of

the world, but are particularly numerous in the warmer parts of America.

The Whippoorwill (_Caprimulgus vociferus_) is well known to the

inhabitants of this part of the world, on account of his nocturnal song.

This is heard only in densely wooded and retired situations, and is

associated with the solitude of the forest, as well as the silence of

night. The Whippoorwill is, therefore, emblematic of the rudeness of

primitive Nature, and his voice always reminds us of seclusion and

retirement. Sometimes he wanders away from the wood into the precincts

of the town, and sings near some dwelling-house. Such an incident was

formerly the occasion of superstitious alarm, being regarded as an omen

of some evil to the inmates of the dwelling. The true cause of these

irregular visits is probably the accidental abundance of a particular

kind of insects, which the bird has followed from his retirement.

I believe the Whippoorwill, in this part of the country, is first heard

in May, and continues vocal until the middle of July. He begins to sing

at dusk, and we usually hear his note soon after the Veery, the Philomel

of our summer evenings, has become silent. His song consists of three

notes, in a sort of triple or waltz time, with a slight pause after the

first note in the bar, as given below:--

[Illustration: SONG OF THE WHIPPOORWILL. Whip-poor-Will Whip-p'r-Will

Whip-p'r-Will Whip-]

I should remark, that the bird usually commences his song with the

second syllable of his name, or the second note in the bar. Some birds

fall short of these intervals; but there seems to be an endeavor, on the

part of each individual, to reach the notes as they are written on the

scale. A few sliding notes are occasionally introduced, and an

occasional preluding cluck is heard when we are near the singer.

The note of the Quail so closely resembles that of the Whippoorwill,

that I have thought it might be interesting to compare the two.

[Illustration: NOTE OF THE QUAIL. Bob White. More Wet.]

So great is the general similarity of the notes of these two birds, that

those of the Quail need only to be repeated several times in succession,

without pause, to be mistaken for those of the Whippoorwill. They are

uttered with similar intonations; but the voice of the nocturnal bird is

more harsh, and his song consists of three notes instead of two.

The song of the Whippoorwill, though wanting in mellowness of tone, as

may be perceived when he is only a short distance from us, is to most

people very agreeable, notwithstanding the superstitions associated with

it. Some persons are not disposed to rank the Whippoorwill among

singing-birds, regarding him as more vociferous than musical. But it

would be difficult to determine in what respect his notes differ from

the songs of other birds, except that they approach more nearly to the

precision of artificial music. Yet it will be admitted that considerable

distance is required to "lend enchantment" to the sound of his voice. In

some retired and solitary districts, the Whippoorwills are often so

numerous as to be annoying by their vociferations; but in those places

where only two or three individuals are heard during the season, their

music is the source of a great deal of pleasure, and is a kind of

recommendation to the place.

I was witness of this, some time since, in one of my botanical rambles

in the town of Beverly, which is, for the most part, too densely

populated to suit the habits of these solitary birds. On one of these

excursions, after walking several hours over a rather unattractive

region, I arrived at a very romantic spot, known by the unpoetical name

of Black Swamp. Nature uses her most ordinary materials to form her most

delightful landscapes, and often keeps in reserve prospects of

enchanting beauty, and causes them to rise up, as it were, by magic,

where we should least expect them. Here I suddenly found myself

encompassed by a charming amphitheatre of hills and woods, and in a

valley so beautiful that I could not have imagined anything equal to it.

A neat cottage stood alone in this spot, without a single architectural

decoration, which I am confident would have dissolved the spell that

made the whole scene so attractive. It was occupied by a shoemaker, whom

I recognized as an old acquaintance and a worthy man, who resided here

with his wife and children. I asked them if they could live contented so

far from other families. The wife of the cottager replied, that they

suffered in the winter from their solitude, but in the spring and summer

they preferred it to the town,--"for in this place we hear all the

singing-birds, early and late, and the Whippoorwill sings here every

night during May and June." It was the usual practice of these birds,

they told me, to sing both in the morning and the evening twilight; but

if the moon rose late in the evening, after they had become silent, they

would begin to sing anew, as if to welcome her rising. May the birds

continue to sing to this happy family, and may the voice of the

Whippoorwill never bode them any misfortune!

The Night-Hawk, or Piramidig, (_Caprimulgus Americanus_,) is similar in

many points to the Whippoorwill, and the two species were formerly

considered identical. The former, however, is a smaller bird; he has no

song, and exhibits more of the ways of the Swallow. He is marked by a

white spot on his wings, which is very apparent during his flight. He

takes his prey in a higher part of the atmosphere,--being frequently

seen, at twilight and in cloudy weather, soaring above the house-tops in

quest of insects. The Whippoorwill finds his subsistence chiefly in the

woods, and takes a part of it from the branches of trees, while poising

himself on the wing, like a Humming-Bird. I believe he is never seen

circling aloft like the Night-Hawk.

The movements of the Night-Hawk, during this flight, are performed, for

the most part, in circles, and are very picturesque. The birds are

usually seen in pairs, at such times, but occasionally there are numbers

assembled together; and one might suppose they were engaged in a sort of

aërial dance, or that they were emulating each other in their attempts

at soaring to a great height. It is evident that these evolutions

proceed in part from the pleasure of motion; but they are also connected

with their courtship. While they are soaring and circling in the air,

they occasionally utter the shrill and broken note which has been

supposed to resemble the word Piramidig, whence the name is

derived,--and now and then they dart suddenly aside, to seize a passing

insect.

While performing these circumvolutions, the male frequently dives almost

perpendicularly downwards, a distance of forty feet or more, uttering,

when he turns at the bottom of his descent, a singular note, resembling

the twang of a viol-string. This sound has been supposed to proceed from

the action of the air, as the bird dives swiftly through it with open

mouth; but this supposition is rendered improbable by the fact that the

European species makes a similar sound while sitting on its perch. It

has also been alleged that the diving motion of this bird is an act

designed to intimidate those who seem to be approaching his nest; but

this cannot be true, because the bird performs the manoeuvre when he has

no nest to defend. This habit is peculiar to the male, and it is

probably one of those fantastic motions which are noticeable among the

males of the gallinaceous birds, and are evidently their artifices to

attract the attention of the female; very many of these motions may be

observed in the manners of tame Pigeons.

The twanging note produced during the precipitate descent of the

Night-Hawk is one of the picturesque sounds of Nature, and is heard most

frequently in the morning twilight, when the birds are busy collecting

their repast of insects. During an early morning walk, while they are

circling about, we may hear their cry frequently repeated, and

occasionally the booming sound, which, if one is not accustomed to it,

and is not acquainted with this habit of the bird, affects him with a

sensation of mystery, and excites his curiosity in an extraordinary

degree.

The sound produced by the European species is a sort of drumming or

whizzing note, like the hum of a spinning-wheel. The male commences this

performance about dusk, and continues it at intervals during a great

part of the night. It is effected while the breast is inflated with air,

like that of a cooing Dove. The Piramidig has the power of inflating

himself in the same manner, and he utters this whizzing note when one

approaches his nest.

The American Woodcock (_Scolopax minor_) is a more interesting bird than

we should infer from his general appearance and physiognomy. He is

mainly nocturnal in his habits, and his ways are worthy of study and

observation. He obtains his food by scratching up the leaves and rubbish

that lie upon the surface of the ground in damp and wooded places, and

by boring into the earth for worms. He remains concealed in the wood

during the day, and comes out to feed at twilight, choosing the open

ploughed lands where worms are abundant; though it is probable that in

the shade of the wood he is more or less busy in scratching among the

leaves in the daytime.

The Woodcock does not commonly venture abroad in the open day, unless he

be disturbed and driven from his retreats. He makes his first appearance

here in the latter part of April, and at this season we may observe that

soaring habit which renders him one of the picturesque objects of

Nature. This soaring takes place soon after sunset, continues during

twilight, and is repeated at the corresponding hour in the morning. If

you listen at this time near the places of his resort, he will soon

reveal himself by a lively peep, frequently uttered, from the ground.

While repeating this note, he may be seen strutting about, like a

turkey-cock, with fantastic jerkings of the tail and a frequent bowing

of the head; and his mate, I believe, is at this time not far off.

Suddenly he springs upward, and with a wide circular sweep, uttering at

the same time a rapid whistling note, he rises in a spiral course to a

great height in the air. At the summit of his ascent, he hovers about

with irregular motions, chirping a medley of broken notes, like

imperfect warbling. This continues about ten or fifteen seconds, when it

ceases, and he descends rapidly to the ground. We seldom hear him while

in his descent, but receive the first intimation of it by hearing a

repetition of his peep, resembling the sound produced by those minute

wooden trumpets sold at the German toy-shops.

No person could watch this playful flight of the Woodcock without

interest; and it is remarkable that a bird with short wings and

difficult flight should be capable of mounting to so great an altitude.

It affords me a vivid conception of the pleasure with which I should

witness the soaring and singing of the Skylark, known to me only by

description. I have but to imagine the chirruping of the Woodcock to be

a melodious series of notes, to feel that I am listening to that bird,

which is so familiarized to our imaginations by English poetry that in

our early days we always expect his greetings with a summer sunrise. It

is with sadness that we first learn in our youth that the Skylark is not

an inhabitant of the New World; and our mornings seem divested of a

great portion of their charms, for the want of this poetical

accompaniment.

There is another circumstance connected with the habits of the Woodcock

which increases his importance as an actor in the melodrame of Nature.

When we stroll away from the noise and din of the town, where the

stillness permits us to hear distinctly all those faint sounds which are

turned by the silence of night into music, we may hear at frequent

intervals the hum produced by the irregular flights of the Woodcock, as

he passes over short distances in the wood, where he is collecting his

repast. It resembles the sound of the wings of Doves, rendered distinct

by the stillness of all other things, and melodious by the distance.

There is a feeling of mystery attached to these musical nights that

yields a savor of romance to the quiet voluptuousness of a summer

evening.

It is on such occasions, if we are in a moralizing mood, that we may be

keenly impressed with the truth of the saying, that the secret of

happiness consists in keeping alive our susceptibilities by frugal

indulgences, rather than by seeking a multitude of pleasures, that pall

in exact proportion to their abundance. The stillness and darkness of a

quiet night produce this enlivening effect upon our minds. Our

susceptibility is then awakened to such a degree, that slight sounds and

feeble sparks of light convey to our souls an amount of pleasure which

we seldom experience in the daytime from sights and sounds of the most

pleasing description. Thus the player in an orchestra can enjoy such

music only as would deafen common ears by its crash of sounds, in which

they perceive no connection or harmony; while the simple rustic listens

to the rude notes of a flageolet in the hands of a clown with feelings

of ineffable delight. Nature, if the seekers after luxurious and

exciting pleasures could but understand her language, would say to them,

"Except ye become as this simple rustic, ye cannot enter into my

paradise."

The American Snipe has some of the nocturnal habits of the Woodcock, and

the same habit of soaring at twilight, when he performs a sort of

musical medley, which Audubon has very graphically described in the

following passage:--"The birds are met with in meadows and low grounds,

and, by being on the spot before sunrise, you may see both (male and

female) mount high, in a spiral manner, now with continuous beats of the

wings, now in short sailings, until more than a hundred yards high, when

they whirl round each other with extreme velocity, and dance, as it

were, to their own music; for, at this juncture, and during the space of

five or six minutes, you hear rolling notes mingled together, each more

or less distinct, perhaps, according to the state of the atmosphere. The

sounds produced are extremely pleasing, though they fall faintly on the

ear. I know not how to describe them; but I am well assured that they

are not produced simply by the beatings of their wings, as at this time

the wings are not flapped, but are used in sailing swiftly in a circle,

not many feet in diameter. A person might cause a sound somewhat similar

by blowing rapidly and alternately, from one end to another, across a

set of small pipes, consisting of two or three modulations. This

performance is kept up till incubation terminates; but I have never

observed it at any other period."

Among the Heron family we discover a few nocturnal birds, which, though

not very well known, have some ways that are singular and interesting.

Goldsmith considered one of these birds worthy of introduction into his

"Deserted Village," as contributing to the poetic conception of

desolation. Thus, in his description of the grounds which were the

ancient site of the village, we read,--

"Along its glades, a solitary guest,

The hollow-sounding Bittern guards its nest."

"The Bittern is a shy and solitary bird; it is never seen on the wing in

the daytime, but sits, generally with the head erect, hid among the

reeds and rushes of extensive marshes, from whence it will not stir,

unless disturbed by the sportsman. When it changes its haunts, it

removes in the dusk of the evening, and then, rising in a spiral

direction, soars to a vast height. It flies in the same heavy manner as

the Heron, and might be mistaken for that bird, were it not for the

singularly resounding cry which it utters, from time to time, while on

the wing: but this cry is feeble when compared with the hollow booming

noise which it makes during the night, in the breeding season, from its

swampy retreats. From the loudness and solemnity of its note, an

erroneous notion prevails with the vulgar, that it either thrusts its

head into a reed, which serves as a pipe for swelling its note beyond

its natural pitch, or that it immerges its head in water, and then

produces its boomings by blowing with all its might."

The American Bittern is a smaller bird, but is probably a variety of the

European species. It exhibits the same nocturnal habits, and has

received at the South the name of _Dunkadoo_, from the resemblance of

its common note to these syllables. This is a hollow-sounding noise, but

not so loud as the voice of the Bittern to which Goldsmith alludes. I

have heard it by day proceeding from the wooded swamps, and am at a loss

to explain how so small a bird can produce so low and hollow a note.

Among this family of birds are one or two other nocturnal species,

including the Qua-Bird, which is common to both continents; but there is

little to be said of it that would be interesting in this connection.

The Herons, however, and their allied species, are birds of remarkable

habits, the enumeration and account of which would occupy a considerable

space. In an essay on the flight of birds in particular, the Herons

would furnish a multitude of very interesting facts.

Let us now turn our attention to those diurnal birds that sing in the

night as well as in the day, and which might be comprehended under the

general appellation of Nightingales. These birds do not confine their

singing to the night, like the true nocturnal birds, and are most vocal

when inspired by the light of the moon. Europe has several of these

minstrels of the night. Beside the true Philomel of poetry and romance,

the Reed-Thrush and the Woodcock are of this character. In the United

States, the Mocking-Bird enjoys the greatest reputation; the

Rose-breasted Grosbeak and the New York Thrush are also nocturnal

songsters.

The Mocking-Bird (_Turdus polyglottus_) is well known in the Middle and

Southern States, but seldom passes a season in New England, except in

the southern part of Rhode Island and Connecticut, which seem to be the

northern limit of its migrations. Probably, like the Rose-breasted

Grosbeak, which is constantly extending its limits in an eastern

direction, the Mocking-Bird may be gradually making progress

northwardly, so that fifty years hence both of these birds may be common

in Massachusetts. The Mocking-Bird is familiar in his habits,

frequenting gardens and orchards, and perching on the roofs of houses

when singing, like the common Robin. Like the Robin, too, who sings at

all hours excepting those of darkness, he is a persevering songster, and

seems to be inspired by living in the vicinity of man. In his manners,

however, he bears more resemblance to the Red Thrush, being

distinguished by his vivacity, and the courage with which he repels the

attacks of his enemies.

The Mocking-Bird is celebrated throughout the world for his musical

powers; but it is difficult to ascertain precisely the character and

quality of his original notes. Hence some naturalists have contended

that he has no song of his own, but confines himself to imitations. That

this is an error, all persons who have listened to him in his native

wild-wood can testify. I should say, from my own observations, not only

that he has a distinct song, peculiarly his own, but that his imitations

are far from being equal to his original notes. Yet it is seldom we hear

him except when he is engaged in mimicry. In his native woods, and

especially at an early hour in the morning, when he is not provoked to

imitation by the voices of other birds and animals, he sometimes pours

forth his own wild notes with full fervor. Yet I have often listened

vainly for hours to hear him utter anything but a few idle repetitions

of monotonous sounds, interspersed with some ludicrous varieties. Why he

should neglect his own pleasing notes, to tease the listener with his

imitations of all imaginable discords, is not easily explained.

Though his imitations are the cause of his notoriety, they are not the

utterances upon which his true merit is based. He would be infinitely

more valuable as a songster, if he were incapable of imitating a single

sound. I would add, that as an imitator of the songs of other birds he

is very imperfect, and in this respect has been greatly overrated by our

ornithologists, who seem to vie with one another in their exaggerations

of his powers. He cannot utter the notes of the rapid singers; he is

successful only in his imitations of those birds whose notes are simple

and moderately delivered. He is, indeed, more remarkable for his

indefatigable propensity than for his powers. Single sounds, from

whatever source they may come, from birds, quadrupeds, reptiles, or

machines, he gives very accurately; but I have heard numbers of

Mocking-Birds in confinement attempt to imitate the Canary, and always

without success. There is a common saying, that the Mocking-Bird will

die of chagrin, if placed in a cage by the side of a caged Bobolink,

mortified because he cannot give utterance to his rapid notes. If this

were the cause of his death, he would also die when caged in a room with

a Canary, a Goldfinch, or any of the rapidly singing Finches. It is also

an error to say of his imitations, as the generality of writers assert,

that they are improvements upon the originals. When he utters the notes

of the Red-Bird, the Golden Robin, or the Common Robin, he does not

improve them; and when he gives us the screaming of the Jay or the

mewing of the Cat, he does not change them into music.

As an original songster, judging him by what he is capable of

performing, however unfrequently he may exercise his powers to the best

advantage, the Mocking-Bird is probably equalled only by two or three of

our singing-birds. His notes are loud, varied, melodious, and of great

compass. They may be compared to those of the Red Thrush, more rapidly

delivered, and having more flute notes and fewer guttural notes and

sudden transitions. He also sings on the wing and with fervor, like the

Linnet, while the other Thrushes sing only from their perch. But his

song has less variety than that of the Red Thrush, and falls short of it

in as many respects as it surpasses it. For the greater part of the

time, the only notes of the Mocking-Bird, when he is not engaged in

mimicry, are a sort of melodious whistle, consisting of two notes about

a fourth apart, uttered in quick, but not rapid, succession, and hardly

to be distinguished from those of the Red-Bird of Virginia.

I heard the notes of the Mocking-Bird the first time in his native

wilds, during a railroad journey by night, through the Pine Barrens of

North Carolina, in the month of June. The journey was very tiresome and

unpleasant, nothing being seen, when looking out upon the landscape, but

a gloomy stretch of level forest, consisting of tall pines, thinly

scattered, without any branches, except at their tops. The dusky forms

of these trees, pictured against the half-luminous sky, seemed like so

many giant spectres watching the progress of our journey, and increased

the loneliness of the hour. Before daylight, when the sky was faintly

crimsoned around the place where the sun was to come forth, the train

made a pause of half an hour, at one of the stations, and the passengers

alighted. While I was looking at the dreary prospect of desert, tired of

my journey and longing for day, suddenly the notes of the Mocking-Bird

came to my ear, and changed all my gloomy feelings into delight.

It is seldom I have felt so vividly the power of one little incident to

change the tone of one's feelings and the humor of the occasion. As a

few drops of oil, cast upon the surface of the waters, will quiet the

troubled waves, so did the glad voice of this merry bird suddenly dispel

all those sombre feelings which had been fostered by dismal scenes and a

lonely journey. Nature never seemed so lovely as when the rising dawn,

with its tearful beams and purple radiance, was greeted by this warbling

salutation, as from some messenger of light, who came to announce that

Morning was soon to step forth from her throne, and extend over all

things her smiles and her beneficence.

Of the other American birds that sing in the night I can say nothing

from my own observation. The most important of these is the New York

Thrush, (_Turdus aquaticus_,) which is said to resemble the River

Nightingale of Europe. This bird, which is common in the Western States,

is said to sing melodiously night and day. Wilson remarks of this

species, "They are eminently distinguished by the loudness, sweetness,

and expressive vivacity of their notes, which begin very high and clear,

falling with an almost imperceptible gradation, till they are scarcely

articulated. At these times the musician is perched on the middle

branches of a tree, over a brook or river-bank, pouring out his charming

melody, that may be distinctly heard for nearly half a mile. The voice

of this little bird appeared to me so exquisitely sweet and expressive,

that I was never tired listening to it." This description is exactly

applicable to the song of the Veery, supposed to be silent by Wilson,

who could not have fallen into such an error, except by having confined

his researches chiefly to the Middle and Southern States.

The Rose-breasted Grosbeak (_Loxia rosea_) is said to be an excellent

songster, passing the greater part of the night in singing, and

continuing vocal in confinement. This bird is common in the Western

States, but until lately has seldom been seen in New England. I learn,

however, from Mr. Fowler, that "the Rose-breasted Grosbeak is found in

Essex County, and, though formerly seldom seen, is becoming every year

more common. Like the Wood Thrush and Scarlet Tanager, it is retiring in

its habits, and is usually found in the most sheltered part of the wood,

where, perched about midway on a tree, in fancied concealment, it

warbles its soft, clear, and melodious notes." He thinks this bird is

not heard so frequently by night as by day, though it often sings in the

light of the moon.

In connection with this theme, we cannot help feeling a sense of regret,

almost like melancholy, when we reflect that the true Nightingale and

the Skylark, the classical birds of European literature, are strangers

to our fields and woods. In May and June there is no want of sylvan

minstrels to wake the morn and to sing the vespers of a sweet summer

evening. A flood of song wakes us at the earliest daylight; and the shy

and solitary Veery, after the Vesper-Bird has concluded his evening

hymn, pours his few pensive notes into the very bosom of twilight, and

makes the hour sacred by his melody. But after twilight is sped, and the

moon rises to shed her meek radiance over the sleeping earth, the

Nightingale is not here to greet her rising, and to turn her melancholy

beams into the cheerfulness of daylight. And when the Queen Moon is on

her throne,

"Clustered around by all her starry Fays,"

the Whippoorwill alone brings her the tribute of his monotonous song,

and soothes the dull ear of Night with sounds which, however delightful,

are not of heaven. We have become so familiar with the Lark and the

Nightingale, by the perusal of the romance of rural life, that "neither

breath of Morn, when she ascends" without the charm of this her earliest

harbinger, "nor silent Night" without her "solemn bird," seems holy, as

when we contemplate them in the works of pastoral song. Poetry has

hallowed to our minds the pleasing objects of the Old World; those of

the New have to be cherished in song yet many more years, before they

will be equally sacred to our imaginations.

By some of our writers the Mocking-Bird is put forward as equal in song

to the Nightingale. This assumption might be worthy of consideration, if

the American bird were not a mimic. But his mocking habits almost

annihilate his value as a songster,--as the effect of a good concert

would be spoiled, if the players were constantly introducing, in the

midst of their serious performances, snatches of ridiculous tunes and

uncouth sounds. I have never heard the Nightingale; but if I may judge

from descriptions of its song, and from the notes of those Canaries

which are said to give us perfect imitations of it, we have no bird in

America that equals this classical songster. The following description,

by Pliny, which is said to be superior to any other, may afford us some

idea of the extent of its powers:--"The Nightingale, that for fifteen

days and nights, hid in the thickest shades, continues her note without

intermission, deserves our attention and wonder. How surprising that so

great a voice can reside in so small a body! Such perseverance in so

minute an animal! With what musical propriety are the sounds it produces

modulated! The note at one time drawn out with a long breath, now

stealing off into a different cadence, now interrupted by a break, then

changing into a new note by an unexpected transition, now seeming to

renew the same strain, then deceiving expectation. She sometimes seems

to murmur within herself; full, deep, sharp, swift, drawling, trembling;

now at the top, the middle, and the bottom of the scale. In short, in

that little bill seems to reside all the melody which man has vainly

labored to bring from a variety of musical instruments. Some even seem

to be possessed of a different note from the rest, and contend with each

other with great ardor. The bird, overcome, is then seen to discontinue

its song only with its life."

The cause of the nocturnal singing of birds that do not go abroad during

the night and are strictly diurnal in all their other habits has never

been satisfactorily explained. It is natural that the Whippoorwill,

which is a nocturnal bird, should sing during his hours of wakefulness

and activity. There is also no difficulty in explaining why Ducks and

Geese, and some other social birds, should utter their loud alarm-notes,

when they meet with any midnight disturbance. These birds usually have a

sentinel who keeps awake; and if he give an alarm, the others reply to

it. The crowing of the Cock bears more analogy to the song of a bird,

for it does not seem to be an alarm-note. This domestic bird may be

considered, therefore, a nocturnal songster, if his crowing can be

called a song; though it is remarkable that we seldom hear it during

evening twilight. The Cock sings his matins, but not his vespers; he

crows at the earliest dawn of day, and at midnight upon the rising of

the moon, and whenever he is awakened by artificial light. Many

singing-birds are accustomed to prolong their notes after sunset to a

late hour, and become silent only to commence again at the earliest

daybreak. But the habit of singing in the night is peculiar to a small

number of birds, and the cause of it forms a curious subject of inquiry.

By what means are they enabled to sustain such constant watchfulness,

singing and providing subsistence for their offspring during the day,

and still continuing wakeful and musical while it is night? Why do they

take pleasure in singing, when no one will come in answer to their call?

Have they their worship, like religious beings, and are their midnight

lays but the outpouring of the fervency of their spirits? Do they

rejoice, like the clouds, in the presence of the moon, hailing her beams

as a pleasant relief from the darkness that has surrounded them? Or in

the silence of night, are their songs but responses to the sounds of the

trees, when they bow their heads and shake their rustling leaves in the

wind? When they listen to the streamlet, that makes audible melody only

in the hush of night, do they not answer to it from their leafy perch?

And when the moth flies hummingly through the recesses of the wood, and

the beetle sounds his horn, what are their notes but cheerful responses

to these sounds, that break sweetly upon the quiet of their slumbers?

Wilson remarks, that the hunters in the Southern States, when setting

out on an excursion by night, as soon as they hear the Mocking-Bird

sing, know that the moon is rising. He quotes a writer who supposes that

it may be fear that operates upon the birds when they perceive the Owls

flitting among the trees, and that they sing, as a timid person whistles

in a lonely place, to quiet their fears. But the musical notes of birds

are never used by them to express their fears; they are the language of

love, sometimes animated by jealousy. It must be admitted that the

moonlight awakes these birds, and may be the most frequent exciting

cause of their nocturnal singing; but it is not true that they always

wait for the rising of the moon; and if this were the fact, the question

may still be asked, why these few species alone should be thus affected.

Since Philosophy can give no explanation of this instinct, let Fancy

come to her aid, and assist us in our dilemma,--as when we have vainly

sought from Reason an explanation of the mysteries of Religion, we

humbly submit to the guidance of Faith. With Fancy for our interpreter,

we may suppose that Nature has adapted the works of creation to our

moral as well as our physical wants; and while she has instituted the

night as a time for general rest, she has provided means that shall

soften the gloomy effects of darkness. The birds, which are the

harbingers of all rural delights, are hence made to sing during

twilight; and when they cease, the nocturnal songsters become vocal,

bearing pleasant sensations to the sleepless, and by their lulling

melodies preparing us to be keenly susceptible of all agreeable

emotions.

TO THE MOCKING-BIRD.

Carolling bird, that merrily, night and day,

Tellest thy raptures from the rustling spray,

And wakest the morning with thy varied lay,

Singing thy matins,--

When we have come to hear thy sweet oblation

Of love and joyance from thy sylvan station,

Why, in the place of musical cantation,

Balk us with pratings?

We stroll by moonlight in the dusky forest,

Where the tall cypress shields thee, fervent chorist!

And sit in haunts of Echoes, when thou pourest

Thy woodland solo.

Hark! from the next green tree thy song commences:

Music and discord join to mock the senses,

Repeated from the tree-tops and the fences,

From hill and hollow.

A hundred voices mingle with thy clamor;

Bird, beast, and reptile take part in thy drama;

Out-speak they all in turn without a stammer,--

Brisk Polyglot!

Voices of Killdeer, Plover, Duck, and Dotterel;

Notes bubbling, hissing, mellow, sharp, and guttural;

Of Cat-Bird, Cat, or Cart-Wheel, thou canst utter all,

And all-untaught.

The Raven's croak, the chirping of the Sparrow,

The scream of Jays, the creaking of Wheelbarrow,

And hoot of Owls,--all join the soul to harrow,

And grate the ear.

We listen to thy quaint soliloquizing,

As if all creatures thou wert catechizing,

Tuning their voices, and their notes revising,

From far and near.

Sweet bird! that surely lovest the noise of folly;

Most musical, but never melancholy;

Disturber of the hour that should be holy,

With sound prodigious!

Fie on thee, O thou feathered Paganini!

To use thy little pipes to squawk and whinny,

And emulate the hinge and spinning-jenny,

Making night hideous!

Provoking melodist! why canst thou breathe us

No thrilling harmony, no charming pathos,

No cheerful song of love without its bathos?

The Furies take thee,--

Blast thy obstreperous mirth, thy foolish chatter,--

Gag thee, exhaust thy breath, and stop thy clatter,

And change thee to a beast, thou senseless prater!--

Nought else can check thee!

A lengthened pause ensues:--but hark again!

From the new woodland, stealing o'er the plain,

Comes forth a sweeter and a holier strain!--

Listening delighted,

The gales breathe softly, as they bear along

The warbled treasure,--the delicious throng

Of notes that swell accordant in the song,

As love is plighted.

The Echoes, joyful from their vocal cell,

Leap with the wingèd sounds o'er hill and dell,

With kindling fervor, as the chimes they tell

To wakeful Even:--

They melt upon the ear; they float away;

They rise, they sink, they hasten, they delay,

And hold the listener with bewitching sway,

Like sounds from heaven!

A TRIP TO CUBA.

HAVANA--THE JESUIT COLLEGE.

The gentlemen of our party go one day to visit the Jesuit College in

Havana, yclept "Universidad de Belen." The ladies, weary of dry goods,

manifest some disposition to accompany them. This is at once frowned

down by the unfairer sex, and Can Grande, appealed to by the other side,

shakes his shoulders, and replies, "No, you are only miserable women,

and cannot be admitted into any Jesuit establishment whatever." And so

the male deputation departs with elation, and returns with airs of

superior opportunity, and is more insufferable than ever at dinner, and

thereafter.

They of the feminine faction, on the other hand, consult with more

direct authorities, and discover that the doors of Belen are in no wise

closed to them, and that everything within those doors is quite at their

disposition, saving and excepting the sleeping-apartments of the Jesuit

fathers,--to which, even in thought, they would on no account draw near.

And so they went and saw Belen, whereof one of them relates as follows.

The building is spacious, inclosing a hollow square, and with numerous

galleries, like European cloisters, where the youth walk, study, and

play. We were shown up-stairs, into a pleasant reception-room, where two

priests soon waited on us. One of these, Padre Doyaguez, seemed to be

the decoy-duck of the establishment, and soon fastened upon one of our

party, whose Protestant tone of countenance had probably caught his

attention. Was she a Protestant? Oh, no!--not with that intelligent,

physiognomy!--not with that talent! What was her name? Julia (pronounced

_H_ulia). Hulia was a Roman name, a Catholic name; he had never heard of

a Hulia who was a Protestant;--very strange, it seemed to him, that a

Hulia could hold to such unreasonable ideas. The other priest, Padre

Lluc, meanwhile followed with sweet, quiet eyes, whose silent looks had

more persuasion in them than all the innocent cajoleries of the elder

man. Padre Doyaguez was a man eminently qualified to deal with the sex

in general,--a coaxing voice, a pair of vivacious eyes, whose cunning

was not unpleasing, tireless good-humor and perseverance, and a savor of

sincerity. Padre Lluc was the sort of man that one recalls in quiet

moments with a throb of sympathy,--the earnest eyes, the clear brow, the

sonorous voice. One thinks of him, and hopes that he is satisfied,--that

cruel longing and more cruel doubt shall never spring up in that

capacious heart, divorcing his affections and convictions from the

system to which his life is irrevocably wedded. No, keep still, Padre

Lluc I think ever as you think now, lest the faith that seems a fortress

should prove a prison, the mother a step-dame,--lest the high,

chivalrous spirit, incapable of a safe desertion, should immolate truth

or itself on the altar of consistency.

Between those two advocates of Catholicity, Hulia Protestante walks

slowly through the halls of the University. She sees first a Cabinet of

Natural History, including minerals, shells, fossils, and insects, all

well-arranged, and constituting a very respectable beginning. Padre Lluc

says some good words on the importance of scientific education. Padre

Doyaguez laughs at the ladies' hoops, which he calls Malakoffs, as they

crowd through the doorways and among the glass cases; he repeats

occasionally, "_Hulia Protestante_?" in a tone of mock astonishment, and

receives for answer, "_Sí, Hulia Protestante_." Then comes a very

creditable array of scientific apparatus,--not of the order employed by

the judges of Galileo,--electric and galvanic batteries, an orrery, and

many things beside. The library interests us more, with some luxurious

classics, a superb Dante, and a prison-cage of forbidden works, of which

Padre Lluc certainly has the key. Among these were fine editions of

Rousseau and Voltaire, which appeared to be intended for use; and we

could imagine a solitary student, dark-eyed and pale, exploring their

depths at midnight with a stolen candle, and endeavoring, with

self-torment, to reconcile the intolerance of his doctrine with the

charities of his heart. We imagine such a one lost in the philosophy and

sentiment of the "Nouvelle Héloise," and suddenly summoned by the

convent-bell to the droning of the Mass, the mockery of Holy Water, the

fable of the Real Presence. Such contrasts might be strange and

dangerous. No, no, Padre Lluc! keep these unknown spells from your

heart,--let the forbidden books alone. Instead of the Confessions of

Jean Jacques, read the Confessions of St. Augustine,--read the new book,

in three volumes, on the Immaculate Conception, which you show me with

such ardor, telling me that Can Grande, which, in the vernacular, is

Parker, has spoken of it with respect. Beyond the Fathers you must not

get, for you have vowed to be a child all your life. Those clear eyes of

yours are never to look up into the face of the Eternal Father; the

show-box of the Church must content them, with Mary and the saints seen

through its dusty glass,--the august figure of the Son, who sometimes

reproved his mother, crowded quite out of sight behind the woman, whom

it is so much easier to dress up and exhibit. What is this other book

which Parker has read? Padre Doyaguez says, "Hulia, if you read this,

you must become a Catholic." Padre Lluc says, "If Parker has read this

book, I cannot conceive that he is not a Catholic." The quick Doyaguez

then remarks, "Parker is going to Rome to join the Romish Church." Padre

Lluc rejoins, "They say so." Hulia Protestante is inclined to cry out,

"The day that Parker becomes a Catholic, I, too, will become one"; but,

remembering the rashness of vows and the fallibility of men, she does

not adopt that form of expressing _Never_. Parker might, if it pleased

God, become a Catholic, and then the world would have two Popes instead

of one.

We leave at last the disputed ground of the library and ascend to the

observatory, which commands a fine view of the city, and a good sweep of

the heavens for the telescope, in which Padre Lluc seemed especially to

delight. The observatory is commodious, and is chiefly directed by an

attenuated young priest, with a keen eye and hectic cheek; another was

occupied in working out mathematical tables;--for these Fathers observe

the stars, and are in scientific correspondence with astronomers in

Europe. This circumstance gave us real pleasure on their account,--for

science, in all its degrees, is a positive good, and a mental tonic of

the first importance. Earnestly did we, in thought, commend it to those

wearied minds which have undergone the dialectic dislocations, the

denaturalizations of truth and of thought, which enable rational men to

become first Catholics and then Jesuits. For let there be no illusions

about strength of mind, and so on,--this is effected by means of a vast

machinery. As, in the old story, the calves were put in at one end of

the cylinder and taken out leather breeches at the other, or as glass is

cut and wood carved, so does the raw human material, put into the

machine of the Catholic Church, become fashioned according to the will

of those who guide it. Hulia Protestante! you have a free step and a

clear head; but once go into the machine, and you will come out carved

and embossed according to the old traditional pattern,--you as well as

another. Where the material is hard, they put on more power,--where it

is soft, more care; wherefore I caution you here, as I would in a mill

at Lowell or Lawrence,--Don't meddle with the shafts,--don't go too near

the wheel,--in short, keep clear of the machinery. And Hulia does so;

for, at the last attack of Padre Doyaguez, she suddenly turns upon him

and says, "Sir, you are a Doctrinary and a Propagandist." And the good

Father suffers her to depart in peace. But first there is the chapel to

be seen, with its tawdry and poor ornamentation,--and the dormitories of

the scholars, with long double rows of beds and mosquito-nettings. There

are two of these, and each of them has at one end a raised platform,

with curtains and a bed, where rests and watches the shepherd of the

little sheep. Lastly, we have a view of the whole flock, assembled in

their play-ground, and one of them, looking up, sees his mother, who has

kindly accompanied our visit to the institution. Across the distance

that separates us, we see his blue eyes brighten, and, as soon as

permission is given, he bounds like a young roe to her arms, shy and

tender, his English blood showing through his Spanish skin,--for he is a

child of mixed race. We are all pleased and touched, and Padre Lluc

presently brings us a daguerreotype, and says, "It is my mother." To us

it is an indifferent portrait of an elderly Spanish woman,--but to him,

how much! With kindest mutual regard we take leave,--a little surprised,

perhaps, to see that Jesuit priests have mothers, and remember them.

SAN ANTONIO DE LOS BAÑOS.

"Far from my thoughts, vain world, begone!"

However enchanting Havana may prove, when seen through the moonlight of

memory, it seems as good a place to go away from as any other, after a

stifling night in a net, the wooden shutters left open in the remote

hope of air, and admitting the music of a whole opera-troupe of dogs,

including bass, tenor, soprano, and chorus. Instead of bouquets, you

throw stones, if you are so fortunate as to have them,--if not,

boot-jacks, oranges, your only umbrella. You are last seen thrusting

frantic hands and feet through the iron bars, your wife holding you back

by the flannel night-gown which you will persist in wearing in this

doubtful climate. At last it is over,--the fifth act ends with a howl

which makes you hope that some one of the performers has come to grief.

But, alas! it is only a stage _dénouement_, whose hero will die again

every night while the season lasts. You fall asleep, but the welcome

cordial has scarcely been tasted when you are aroused by a knock at the

door. It is the night-porter, who wakes you at five by appointment, that

you may enjoy your early coffee, tumble into a hired _volante_, and

reach, half dead with sleep, the station in time for the train that goes

to San Antonio.

Now, whether you are a partisan of early rising or not, you must allow

that sunrise and the hour after is the golden time of the day in Cuba.

So this hour of starting,--six o'clock,--so distasteful in our

latitudes, is a matter of course in tropical climates. Arriving at the

station, you encounter new tribulations in the registering and payment

of luggage, the transportation of which is not included in the charge

for your ticket. Your trunks are recorded in a book, and, having paid a

_real_ apiece for them, you receive a paper which entitles you to demand

them again at your journey's end. The Cuban railways are good, but

dear,--the charge being ten cents a mile; whereas in our more favored

land one goes for three cents, and has the chance of a collision and

surgeon's services without any extra payment. The cars have windows

which are always open, and blinds which are always closed, or nearly so.

The seats and backs of seats are of cane, for coolness,--hardness being

secured at the same time. One reaches San Antonio in an hour and a half,

and finds a pleasant village, with a river running through it, several

streets of good houses, several more of bad ones, a cathedral, a

cockpit, a _volante_, four soldiers on horseback, two on foot, a market,

dogs, a bad smell, and, lastly, the American Hotel,--a house built in a

hollow square, as usual,--kept by a strong-minded woman from the States,

whose Yankee thrift is unmistakable, though she has been long absent

from the great centres of domestic economy.

Mrs. L----, always on the watch for arrivals, comes out to receive us.

We are very welcome, she hints, as far as we go; but why are there not

more of us? The smallest favors should be thankfully received, but she

hears that Havana is full of strangers, and she wonders, for her part,

why people will stay in that hot place, and roast, and stew, and have

the yellow fever, when she could make them so comfortable in San

Antonio. This want of custom she continues, during our whole visit, to

complain of. Would it be uncharitable for us to aver that we found other

wants in her establishment which caused us more astonishment, and which

went some way towards accounting for the deficiency complained of? wants

of breakfast, wants of dinner, wants of something good for tea, wants of

towels, wants of candles, wants of ice, or, at least, of the cooling

jars used in the country. Charges exorbitant,--the same as in Havana,

where rents are an ounce a week, and upwards; _volantes_

difficult,--Mrs. L. having made an agreement with the one livery-stable

that they shall always be furnished at most unreasonable prices, of

which she, supposably, pockets half. On the other hand, the village is

really cool, healthy, and pretty; there are pleasant drives over

dreadful roads, if one makes up one's mind to the _volante_, and

delightful river-baths, shaded by roofs of palm-tree thatch. One of the

best of these is at the foot of Mrs. L.'s inclosure, and its use is

included in the privileges of the house. The water is nearly tepid,

clear, and green, and the little fish float hither and thither in

it,--though men of active minds are sometimes reduced to angle for them,

with crooked pins, for amusement. At the hour of one, daily, the ladies

of the house betake themselves to this refreshment; and there is

laughing, and splashing, and holding of hands, and simulation of all the

Venuses that ever were, from the crouching one of the bath, to the

triumphant Cytherea, springing for the first time from the wave.

Such are the resources of the house. Those of the neighborhood are

various. Foremost among them is the _cafetal_, or coffee-plantation, of

Don Juan Torres, distant a league from the village, over which league of

stone, sand, and rut you rumble in a _volante_ dragged by three horses.

You know that the _volante_ cannot upset; nevertheless you experience

some anxious moments when it leans at an obtuse angle, one wheel in air,

one sticking in a hole, the horses balking and kicking, and the

postilion swearing his best. But it is written, the _volante_ shall not

upset,--and so it does not. Long before you see the entrance to the

plantation, you watch the tall palms, planted in a line, that shield,

its borders. An avenue of like growth leads you to the house, where

barking dogs announce you, and Don Juan, an elderly gentleman in

slippers and a Panama hat, his hair, face, and eyes all faded to one hue

of grayness, comes out to accost us. Here, again, Hulia Protestante

becomes the subject of a series of attacks, in a new kind. Don Juan

first exhausts his flower-garden upon her, and explains all that is new

to her. Then she must see his blind Chino, a sightless Samson of a

Cooly, who is working resolutely in a mill. "_Canta!_" says the master,

and the poor slave gives tongue like a hound on the scent. "_Baila!_"

and, a stick being handed him, he performs the gymnastics of his

country, a sort of war-dance without accompaniment. "_El can!_" and,

giving him a broom, they loose the dog upon him. A curious tussle then

ensues,--the dog attacking furiously, and the blind man, guided by his

barking, defending himself lustily. The Chino laughs, the master laughs,

but the visitor feels more inclined to cry, having been bred in those

Northern habits which respect infirmity. A _real_ dismisses the poor

soul with a smile, and then begins the journey round the _cafetal_. The

coffee-blossom is just in its perfection, and whole acres in sight are

white with its flower, which nearly resembles that of the small white

jasmine. Its fragrance is said to be delicious after a rain; but, the

season being dry, it is scarcely discernible. As shade is a great

object in growing coffee, the grounds are laid out in lines of fruit-

trees, and these are the ministers of Hulia's tribulation; for Don

Juan, whether in kindness or in mischief, insists that she shall taste

every unknown fruit,--and as he cuts them and hands them to her, she

is forced to obey. First, a little negro shins up a cocoa-nut-tree,

and flings down the nut, whose water she must drink. One cocoa-nut she

endures,--two,--but three? no, she must rebel, and cry out,--"_No mi

gusta!_" Then she must try a bitter orange, then a sour bitter one, then

a sweet lemon, then a huge fruit of triple verjuice flavor. "What is it

good for?" she asks, after a shuddering plunge into its acrid depths.

"Oh," says the Don, "they eat it in the castors instead of vinegar."

Then come _sapotas, mamey_, Otaheite gooseberries. "Does she like

bananas?" he cuts a tree down with his own hand, and sends the bunch of

fruit to her _volante_;--"Sugar-cane?" he bestows a huge bundle of

sticks for her leisurely rodentation;--he fills her pocket with coral

beans for her children. Having, at last, exhausted every polite

attention, and vainly offered gin, rum, and coffee, as a parting

demonstration, Hulia and her partner escape, bearing with them many

strange flavors, and an agonizing headache, the combined result of sun

and acids. Really, if there exist anywhere on earth a society for the

promotion and encouragement of good manners, it should send a diploma to

Don Juan, admonishing him only to omit the vinegar-fruit in his further

walks of hospitality.

We take the Sunday to visit the nearest sugar-plantation, belonging to

Don Jacinto Gonzales. Sun, not shade, being the desideratum in

sugar-planting, there are few trees or shrubs bordering the

sugar-fields, which resemble at a distance our own fields of Indian

corn, the green of the leaves being lighter, and a pale blue blossom

appearing here and there. The points of interest here are the machinery,

the negroes, and the work. Entering the sugar-house, we find the

_maquinista_ (engineer) superintending some repairs in the machinery,

aided by another white man, a Cooly, and an imp of a black boy, who

begged of all the party, and revenged himself with clever impertinence

on those who refused him. The _maquinista_ was a fine-looking man, from

the Pyrenees, very kind and obliging. He told us that Don Jacinto was

very old, and came rarely to the plantation. We asked him how the

extreme heat of his occupation suited him, and for an answer he opened

the bosom of his shirt, and showed us the marks of innumerable leeches.

The machinery is not very complicated. It consists of a wheel and band,

to throw the canes under the powerful rollers which crush them, and

these rollers, three in number, all moved by the steam-engine. The juice

flows into large copper caldrons, where it is boiled and skimmed. As

they were not at work, we did not see the actual process. Leaving the

sugar-house, we went in pursuit of the _mayoral_, or overseer, who

seemed to inhabit comfortable quarters, in a long, low house, shielded

from the sun by a thick screen of matting. We found him a powerful,

thick-set man, of surly and uncivil manners, girded with a sword, and

further armed with a pistol, a dagger, and a stout whip. He was much too

important a person to waste his words upon us, but signified that the

major-domo would wait on us, which he presently did. We now entered the

negro quarter, a solid range of low buildings, formed around a hollow

square, whose strong entrance is closed at nightfall, and its inmates

kept in strict confinement till the morning hour of work comes round.

Just within the doorway we encountered the trader, who visits the

plantations every Sunday, to tempt the stray cash of the negroes by

various commodities, of which the chief seemed to be white bread,

calicoes, muslins, and bright cotton handkerchiefs. He told us that

their usual weekly expenditure amounted to about twenty-five dollars.

Bargaining with him stood the negro-driver, a tattooed African, armed

with a whip. All within the court swarmed the black bees of the

hive,--the men with little clothing, the small children naked, the women

decent. All had their little charcoal fires, with pots boiling over

them; the rooms within looked dismally dark, close, and dirty; there are

no windows, no air and light save through the ever-open door. The beds

are sometimes partitioned off by a screen of dried palm-leaf, but I saw

no better sleeping-privilege than a board with a blanket or coverlet.

From this we turned to the nursery, where all the children incapable of

work are kept; the babies are quite naked, and sometimes very handsome

in their way, black and shining, with bright eyes and well-formed limbs.

No great provision is made for their amusement, but the little girls

nurse them tenderly enough, and now and then the elders fling them a bit

of orange or _chaimito_, for which they scramble like so many monkeys.

Appeals are constantly made to the pockets of visitors, by open hands

stretched out in all directions. To these "_Nada_"--"Nothing"--is the

safe reply; for, if you give to one, the others close about you with

frantic gesticulation, and you have to break your way through them with

some violence, which hurts your own feelings more than it does theirs.

On _strict_ plantations this is not allowed; but Don Jacinto, like Lord

Ashburton at the time of the Maine treaty, is an old man,--a very old

man; and where discipline cannot be maintained, peace must be secured on

any terms. We visit next the sugar-house, where we find the desired

condiment in various stages of color and refinement. It is whitened with

clay, in large funnel-shaped vessels, open at the bottom, to allow the

molasses to run off. Above are hogsheads of coarse, dark sugar; below is

a huge pit of fermenting molasses, in which rats and small negroes

occasionally commit involuntary suicide, and from which rum is made.--N.

B. Rum is not a wicked word in Cuba; in Boston everybody is shocked when

it is named, and in Cuba nobody is shocked when it is drunk.

And here endeth the description of our visit to the sugar-plantation of

Don Jacinto, and in good time, too,--for by this it had grown so hot,

that we made a feeble rush for the _volante_, and lay back in it,

panting for breath. Encountering a negress with a load of oranges on her

head, we bought and ate the fruit with eagerness, though the oranges

were bitter. The jolting over three miles of stone and rut did not

improve the condition of our aching heads. Arriving at San Antonio, we

thankfully went to bed for the rest of the morning, and dreamed, only

dreamed, that the saucy black boy in the boiling-house had run after us,

had lifted the curtain of the _volante_, screeched a last impertinence

after us, and kissed his hand for a good-bye, which, luckily for him, is

likely to prove eternal.

THE MORRO FORTRESS--THE UNIVERSITY OF HAVANA--THE BENEFICENZA.

The Spanish government experiences an unwillingness to admit foreigners

into the Morro, their great stronghold, the causes of which may not be

altogether mysterious. Americans have been of late especially excluded

from it, and it was only by a fortunate chance that we were allowed to

visit it. A friend of a friend of ours happened to have a friend in the

garrison, and, after some delays and negotiations, an early morning hour

was fixed upon for the expedition.

The fort is finely placed at the entrance of the harbor, and is in

itself a picturesque object. It is built of a light, yellowish stone,

which is seen, as you draw near, in strong contrast with the vivid green

of the tropical waters. We approached it by water, taking a rowboat from

the Alameda. As we passed, we had a good view of a daily Havana

spectacle, the washing of the horses. This being by far the easiest and

most expeditious way of cleaning the animals, they are driven daily to

the sea in great numbers, those of one party being tied together; they

disport themselves in the surge and their wet backs glisten in the sun.

Their drivers, nearly naked, plunge in with them, and bring them safely

back to the shore.

But for the Morro. We entered without difficulty, and began at once a

somewhat steep ascent, which the heat, even at that early hour, made

laborious. After some climbing, we reached the top of the parapet, and

looked out from the back of the fortress. On this side, if ever on any,

it will be taken,--for, standing with one's back to the harbor, one

sees, nearly on the right hand, a point where trenches could be opened

with advantage. The fort is heavily gunned and garrisoned, and seems to

be in fighting order. The outer wall is separated from the inner by a

paved space some forty feet in width. The height of both walls makes

this point a formidable one; but scaling-ladders could be thrown across,

if one had possession of the outer wall. The material is the coralline

rock common in this part of the island. It is a soft stone, and would

prove, it is feared, something like the cotton-bag defence of New

Orleans memory,--as the balls thrown from without would sink in, and not

splinter the stone, which for the murderous work were to be wished. A

little perseverance, with much perspiration, brought us to a high point,

called the Lantern, which is merely a small room, where the telescope,

signal-books, and signals are kept. Here we were received by an official

in blue spectacles and with a hole in his boot, but still with that air

of being the chiefest thing on God's earth common to all Spaniards. The

best of all was that we brought a sack of oranges with us, and that the

time was now come for their employment. With no other artillery than

these did we take the very heart of the Morro citadel,--for, on offering

them to the official with the hole, he surrendered at once, smiled, gave

us seats, and sitting down with us, indeed, was soon in the midst of his

half-dozenth orange. Having refreshed ourselves, examined the flags of

all nations, and made all the remarks which our limited Spanish allowed,

we took leave, redescended, and reëmbarked. One of our party, an old

soldier, had meanwhile been busily scanning the points and angles of the

fortress, pacing off distances, etc., etc. The result of his

observations would, no doubt, be valuable to men of military minds. But

the writer of this, to be candid, was especially engaged with the heat,

the prospect, the oranges, and the soldiers' wives and children, who

peeped out from windows here and there. Such trifling creatures do come

into such massive surroundings, and trifle still!

Our ladies, being still in a furious mood of sight-seeing, desired to

visit the University of Havana, and, having made appointment with an

accomplished Cuban, betook themselves to the College buildings with all

proper escort. Their arrival in the peristyle occasioned some

excitement. One of the students came up, and said, in good English,

"What do you want?" Others, not so polite, stared and whispered in

corners. A message to one of the professors was attended with some

delay, and our Cuban friend, having gone to consult with him, returned

to say, with some embarrassment, that the professor would be happy to

show the establishment to the ladies on Sunday, at two, P.M., when every

male creature but himself would be out of it; but as for their going

through the rooms while the undergraduates were about, that was not to

be thought of. "Why not?" asked the ladies. "For your own sake," said

the messenger, and proceeded to explain that the appearance of the

_skirted_ in these halls of learning would be followed by such

ill-conduct and indignity of impertinence on the part of the _shirted_

as might be intolerable to the one and disadvantageous to the other. Now

there be women, we know, whose horrid fronts could have awed these saucy

little Cubans into decency and good behavior, and some that we know,

whether possessing that power or not, would have delighted in the

fancied exercise of it. What strong-minded company, under these

circumstances, would have turned back? What bolting, tramping, and

rushing would they not have made through the ranks of the astonished

professors and students? The Anniversary set, for example, who sweep the

pews of men, or, coming upon one forlorn, crush him as a boa does a

sheep. Our silly little flock only laughed, colored, and retreated to

the _volantes_, where they held a council of war, and decided to go

visit some establishment where possibly better manners might prevail.

Returning on the Sunday, at the hour appointed, they walked through the

deserted building, and found spacious rooms, the pulpits of the

professors, the benches of the students, the Queen's portrait, a very

limited library, and, for all consolation, some pleasant Latin sentences

over the doors of the various departments, celebrating the solace and

delights of learning. This was seeing the College, literally; but it was

a good deal like seeing the lion's den, the lion himself being absent on

leave,--or like visiting the hippopotamus in Regent's Park on those days

in which he remains steadfastly buried in his tank, and will show only

the tip of a nostril for your entrance-fee. Still, it was a pleasure to

know that learning was so handsomely housed; and as for the little

rabble who could not be trusted in the presence of the sex, we forgave

them heartily, knowing that soberer manners would one day come upon

them, as inevitably as baldness and paternity.

Let me here say, that a few days in Havana make clear to one the

seclusion of women in the East, and its causes. Wherever the animal

vigor of men is so large in proportion to their moral power, as in those

countries, women must be glad to forego their liberties for the

protection of the strong arm. One master is better for them than many.

Whatever tyranny may grow out of such barbarous manners, the institution

springs from a veritable necessity and an original good intention. The

Christian religion should change this, which is justifiable only in a

Mohammedan country. But where that religion is so loosely administered

as in Cuba, where its teachers themselves frequent the cock-pit and the

gaming-table, one must not look for too much of its power in the manners

and morals of men.

The Beneficenza was our next station. It is, as its name signifies, an

institution with a benevolent purpose, an orphan asylum and foundling

hospital in one. The State here charitably considers that infants who

are abandoned by their parents are as much orphaned as they can become

by the interposition of death,--nay, more. The death of parents oftenest

leaves a child with some friend or relative; but the foundling is cut

off from all human relationship,--he belongs only to the hand that takes

him up, when he has been left to die. Despite the kind cruelty of modern

theories, which will not allow of suitable provision for the sufferer,

for fear of increasing the frequency of the crime by which he suffers,

our hearts revolt at the miserable condition of those little creatures

in our great cities, confounded with hopeless pauperism in its desolate

asylums, or farmed out to starve and die. They belong to the State, and

the State should nobly retrieve the world's offence against them. Their

broken galaxy shows many a bright star here and there. Such a little

wailing creature has been found who has commanded great actions and done

good service among men. Let us, then, cherish the race of foundlings, of

whom Moses was the first and the greatest. The princess who reared him

saw not the glorious destiny which lay hid, as a birth-jewel, in his

little basket of reeds. She saw only, as some of us have seen, a

helpless, friendless babe. When he dedicated to her his first edition of

the Pentateuch--But, nay, he did not; for neither gratitude nor

dedications were in fashion among the Jews.

We found the Beneficenza spacious, well-ventilated, and administered

with great order. It stands near the sea, with a fine prospect in view,

and must command a cool breeze, if there be any. The children enjoy

sea-bathing in summer. The superintendent received us most kindly, and

presented us to the sisters who have charge of the children, who were

good specimens of their class. We walked with them through the neat

dormitories, and observed that they were much more airy than those of

the Jesuit College, lately described. They all slept on the sackings of

the cots, beds being provided only in the infirmary. In the latter place

we found but two inmates,--one suffering from ordinary Cuban fever, the

other with ophthalmia.--N.B. Disease of the eyes does not seem to be

common in Cuba, in spite of the tropical glare of the sun; nor do people

nurse and complain of their eyes there, as with us. We found a separate

small kitchen for the sick, which was neat and convenient. The larger

kitchen, too, was handsomely endowed with apparatus, and the

superintendent told us, with a twinkle in his eye, that the children

lived well. Coffee at six, a good breakfast at nine, dinner at the usual

hour, bread and coffee before bed-time;--this seemed very suitable as to

quantity, though differing from our ideas of children's food; but it

must be remembered that the nervous stimulus of coffee is not found to

be excessive in hot climates; it seems to be only what Nature

demands,--no more. The kind nun who accompanied us now showed us, with

some pride, various large presses, set in the wall, and piled to the top

with clean and comfortable children's clothing. We came presently to

where the boys were reciting their catechism. An ecclesiastic was

hearing them;--they seemed ready enough with their answers, but were

allowed to gabble off the holy words in a manner almost unintelligible,

and quite indecorous. They were bright, healthy-looking little fellows,

ranging apparently from eight to twelve in age. They had good

play-ground set off for them, and shady galleries to walk up and down

in. Coming from their quarter, the girls' department seemed quiet

enough. Here was going on the eternal task of needlework, to which the

sex has been condemned ever since Adam's discovery of his want of

wardrobe. Oh, ye wretched, foolish women! why will ye forever sew? "We

must not only sew, but be thankful to sew; that little needle being, as

the sentimental Curtis has said, the only thing between us and the worst

that may befall."

These incipient women were engaged in various forms of sewing,--the most

skilful in a sort of embroidery, like that which forms the border of

_piña_ handkerchiefs. A few were reading and spelling. One poor blind

girl sat amongst them, with melancholy arms folded, and learned

nothing,--they told us, nothing; for the instruction of the blind is not

thought of in these parts. This seemed piteous to us, and made us

reflect how happy are _our_ blinds, to say nothing of our deafs and

dumbs. Idiocy is not uncommon here, and is the result of continual

intermarriage between near relations; but it will be long before they

will provide it with a separate asylum and suitable instruction.

But now came the saddest part of the whole exhibition,--a sight common

enough in Europe, but, by some accident, hitherto unseen by us. Here is

a sort of receptacle, with three or four compartments, which turns on a

pivot. One side of it is open to the street, and in it the wretched

parent lays the more wretched baby,--ringing a small bell, at the same

time, for the new admittance; the parent vanishes, the receptacle turns

on its pivot,--the baby is within, and, we are willing to believe, in

merciful hands.

The sight of this made, for the first time, the crime real to me. I saw,

at a flash, the whole tragedy of desertion,--the cautious approach, the

frightened countenance, the furtive act, and the great avenging pang of

Nature after its consummation. What was Hester Prynne's pillory,

compared to the heart of any of those mothers? I thought, too, of

Rousseau, bringing to such a place as this children who had the right to

inherit divine genius, and deserting them for the sordid reason that he

did not choose to earn their bread,--the helpless mother weeping at

home, and begging, through long years, to be allowed to seek and reclaim

them.

Well, here were the little creatures kindly cared for; yet what a

piteous place was their nursery! Some of the recent arrivals looked as

if ill-usage had been exhausted upon them before they were brought

hither. Blows and drugs and starvation had been tried upon them, but,

with the tenacity of infancy, they clung to life. They would not

die;--well, then, they should live to regret it. Some of them lay on the

floor, deformed and helpless; the older ones formed a little class, and

were going through some elementary exercise when we passed. The babies

had a large room allotted to them, and I found the wet-nurses

apportioned one to each child. This appeared a very generous provision,

as, in such establishments elsewhere, three and even four children are

given to one nurse. They had comfortable cribs, on each of which was

pinned the name of its little inmate, and the date of its

entrance;--generally, the name and age of the child are found written on

a slip of paper attached to its clothing, when it is left in the

receptacle. I saw on one, "Cecilio, three weeks old." He had been but a

few days in the establishment.

Of course, I lingered longest in the babies' room, and longest of all

near the crib of the little Cecilio. He was a pretty baby, and seemed to

me the most ill-used of all, because the youngest. "Could they not bear

with you three weeks, little fellow?" I said. "I know those at whose

firesides such as you would have been welcome guests. That New York

woman whom I met lately, young, rich, and childless,--I could commend

you to her in place of the snarling little spaniel fiend who was her

constant care and companion."

But here the superintendent made a polite bow, saying,--"And now your

Worships have seen all; for the chapel is undergoing repairs, and cannot

be visited." And so we thanked, and departed.

DANIEL GRAY.

If I shall ever win the home in heaven

For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray,

In the great company of the forgiven

I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray.

I knew him well; in fact, few knew him better;

For my young eyes oft read for him the Word,

And saw how meekly from the crystal letter

He drank the life of his beloved Lord.

Old Daniel Gray was not a man who lifted

On ready words his freight of gratitude,

And was not called upon among the gifted,

In the prayer-meetings of his neighborhood.

He had a few old-fashioned words and phrases,

Linked in with sacred texts and Sunday rhymes;

And I suppose, that, in his prayers and graces,

I've heard them all at least a thousand times.

I see him now,--his form, and face, and motions,

His homespun habit, and his silver hair,--

And hear the language of his trite devotions

Rising behind the straight-backed kitchen-chair.

I can remember how the sentence sounded,--

"Help us, O Lord, to pray, and not to faint!"

And how the "conquering-and-to-conquer" rounded

The loftier aspirations of the saint.

He had some notions that did not improve him:

He never kissed his children,--so they say;

And finest scenes and fairest flowers would move him

Less than a horseshoe picked up in the way.

He could see nought but vanity in beauty,

And nought but weakness in a fond caress,

And pitied men whose views of Christian duty

Allowed indulgence in such foolishness.

Yet there were love and tenderness within him;

And I am told, that, when his Charley died,

Nor Nature's need nor gentle words could win him

From his fond vigils at the sleeper's side.

And when they came to bury little Charley,

They found fresh dew-drops sprinkled in his hair,

And on his breast a rose-bud, gathered early,--

And guessed, but did not know, who placed it there.

My good old friend was very hard on fashion,

And held its votaries in lofty scorn,

And often burst into a holy passion

While the gay crowds went by, on Sunday morn.

Yet he was vain, old Gray, and did not know it!

He wore his hair unparted, long, and plain,

To hide the handsome brow that slept below it,

For fear the world would think that he was vain!

He had a hearty hatred of oppression,

And righteous words for sin of every kind;

Alas, that the transgressor and transgression

Were linked so closely in his honest mind!

Yet that sweet tale of gift without repentance,

Told of the Master, touched him to the core,

And tearless he could never read the sentence:

"Neither do I condemn thee: sin no more."

Honest and faithful, constant in his calling,

Strictly attendant on the means of grace,

Instant in prayer, and fearful most of falling,

Old Daniel Gray was always in his place.

A practical old man, and yet a dreamer,

He thought that in some strange, unlooked-for way,

His mighty Friend in heaven, the great Redeemer,

Would honor him with wealth some golden day.

This dream he carried in a hopeful spirit

Until in death his patient eye grew dim,

And his Redeemer called him to inherit

The heaven of wealth long garnered up for him.

So, if I ever win the home in heaven

For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray

In the great company of the forgiven

I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray.

THE MINISTER'S WOOING.

[Continued.]

CHAPTER XVIII.

The Doctor sat at his study-table. It was evening, and the slant beams

of the setting sun shot their golden arrows through the healthy purple

clusters of lilacs that veiled the windows. There had been a shower that

filled them with drops of rain, which every now and then tattooed, with

a slender rat-tat, on the window-sill, as a breeze would shake the

leaves and bear in perfume on its wings. Sweet, fragrance-laden airs

tripped stirringly to and fro about the study-table, making gentle

confusions, fluttering papers on moral ability, agitating treatises on

the great end of creation, mixing up subtile distinctions between

amiable instincts and true holiness, and, in short, conducting

themselves like very unappreciative and unphilosophical little breezes.

The Doctor patiently smoothed back and rearranged, while opposite to him

sat Mary, bending over some copying she was doing for him. One stray

sunbeam fell on her light brown hair, tinging it to gold; her long,

drooping lashes lay over the wax-like pink of her cheeks, as she wrote

on.

"Mary," said the Doctor, pushing the papers from him.

"Sir," she answered, looking up, the blood just perceptibly rising in

her cheeks.

"Do you ever have any periods in which your evidences seem not

altogether clear?"

Nothing could show more forcibly the grave, earnest character of thought

in New England at this time than the fact that this use of the term

"evidences" had become universally significant and understood as

relating to one's right of citizenship in a celestial, invisible

commonwealth.

So Mary understood it, and it was with a deepening flush she answered

gently, "No, Sir."

"What! never any doubts?" said the Doctor.

"I am sorry," said Mary, apologetically; "but I do not see how I _can_

have; I never could."

"Ah!" said the Doctor, musingly, "would I could say so! There are times,

indeed, when I hope I have an interest in the precious Redeemer, and

behold an infinite loveliness and beauty in Him, apart from anything I

expect or hope. But even then how deceitful is the human heart! how

insensibly might a mere selfish love take the place of that

disinterested complacency which regards Him for what He is in Himself,

apart from what He is to us! Say, my dear friend, does not this thought

sometimes make you tremble?"

Poor Mary was truth itself, and this question distressed her; she must

answer the truth. The fact was, that it had never come into her blessed

little heart to tremble, for she was one of those children of the

bride-chamber who cannot mourn, because the bridegroom is ever with

them; but then, when she saw the man for whom her reverence was almost

like that for her God thus distrustful, thus lowly, she could not but

feel that her too calm repose might, after all, be the shallow,

treacherous calm of an ignorant, ill-grounded spirit, and therefore,

with a deep blush and a faltering voice, she said,--

"Indeed, I am afraid something must be wrong with me. I _cannot_ have

any fears,--I never could; I try sometimes, but the thought of God's

goodness comes all around me, and I am so happy before I think of it!"

"Such exercises, my dear friend, I have also had," said the Doctor; "but

before I rest on them as evidences, I feel constrained to make the

following inquiries:--Is this gratitude that swells my bosom the result

of a mere natural sensibility? Does it arise in a particular manner

because God has done me good? or do I love God for what He is, as well

as for what He has done? and for what He has done for others, as well as

for what He has done for me? Love to God which is built on nothing but

good received is not incompatible with a disposition so horrid as even

to curse God to His face. If God is not to be loved except when He does

good, then in affliction we are free. If doing _us_ good is all that

renders God lovely to us, then not doing us good divests Him of His

glory, and dispenses us from obligation to love Him. But there must be,

undoubtedly, some permanent reason why God is to be loved by all; and if

not doing us good divests Him of His glory so as to free _us_ from our

obligation to love, it equally frees the universe; so that, in fact, the

universe of happiness, if ours be not included, reflects no glory on its

Author."

The Doctor had practised his subtile mental analysis till his

instruments were so fine-pointed and keen-edged that he scarce ever

allowed a flower of sacred emotion to spring in his soul without picking

it to pieces to see if its genera and species were correct. Love,

gratitude, reverence, benevolence,--which all moved in mighty tides in

his soul,--were all compelled to pause midway while he rubbed up his

optical instruments to see whether they were rising in right order.

Mary, on the contrary, had the blessed gift of womanhood,--that vivid

life in the soul and sentiment which resists the chills of analysis, as

a healthful human heart resists cold; yet still, all humbly, she thought

this perhaps was a defect in herself, and therefore, having confessed,

in a depreciating tone, her habits of unanalyzed faith and love, she

added,--

"But, my dear Sir, you are my best friend. I trust you will be faithful

to me. If I am deceiving myself, undeceive me; you cannot be too severe

with me."

"Alas!" said the Doctor, "I fear that I may be only a blind leader of

the blind. What, after all, if I be only a miserable self-deceiver? What

if some thought of self has come in to poison all my prayers and

strivings? It is true, I think,--yes, I _think_," said the Doctor,

speaking very slowly and with intense earnestness,--"I think, that, if I

knew at this moment that my name never would be written among those of

the elect, I could still see God to be infinitely amiable and glorious,

and could feel sure that He _could_ not do me wrong, and that it was

infinitely becoming and right that He should dispose of me according to

His sovereign pleasure. I _think_ so;--but still my deceitful

heart!--after all, I might find it rising in rebellion. Say, my dear

friend, are you sure, that, should you discover yourself to be forever

condemned by His justice, you would not find your heart rising up

against Him?"

"Against _Him_?" said Mary, with a tremulous, sorrowful expression on

her face,--"against my Heavenly Father?"

Her face flushed, and faded; her eyes kindled eagerly, as if she had

something to say, and then grew misty with tears. At last she said,--

"Thank you, my dear, faithful friend! I will think about this; _perhaps_

I may have been deceived. How very difficult it must be to know one's

self perfectly!"

Mary went into her own little room, and sat leaning for a long time with

her elbow on the window-seat, watching the pale shells of the

apple-blossoms as they sailed and fluttered downward into the grass, and

listened to a chippering conversation in which the birds in the nest

above were settling up their small housekeeping accounts for the day.

After a while, she took her pen and wrote the following, which the

Doctor found the next morning lying on his study-table:--

"MY DEAR, HONORED FRIEND,--How can I sufficiently thank you for your

faithfulness with me? All you say to me seems true and excellent; and

yet, my dear Sir, permit me to try to express to you some of the many

thoughts to which our conversation this evening has given rise. To love

God because He is good to me you seem to think is not a right kind of

love; and yet every moment of my life I have experienced His goodness.

When recollection brings back the past, where can I look that I see not

His goodness? What moment of my life presents not instances of merciful

kindness to me, as well as to every creature, more and greater than I

can express, than my mind is able to take in? How, then, can I help

loving God because He is good to me? Were I not an object of God's mercy

and goodness, I cannot have any conception what would be my feeling.

Imagination never yet placed me in a situation not to experience the

goodness of God in some way or other; and if I do love Him, how can it

be but because He is good, and to me good? Do not God's children love

Him because He first loved them?

"If I called nothing goodness which did not happen to suit my

inclination, and could not believe the Deity to be gracious and merciful

except when the course of events was so ordered as to agree with my

humor, so far from imagining that I had any love to God, I must conclude

myself wholly destitute of anything good. A love founded on nothing but

good received is not, you say, incompatible with a disposition so horrid

as even to curse God. I am not sensible that I ever in my life imagined

anything _but_ good could come from the hand of God. From a Being

infinite in goodness everything _must_ be good, though we do not always

comprehend how it is so. Are not afflictions good? Does He not even in

judgment remember mercy? Sensible that 'afflictions are but blessings in

disguise,' I would bless the hand that, with infinite kindness, wounds

only to heal, and love and adore the goodness of God equally in

suffering as in rejoicing.

"The disinterested love to God, which you think is alone the genuine

love, I see not how we can be certain we possess, when our love of

happiness and our love of God are so inseparably connected. The joys

arising from a consciousness that God is a benefactor to me and my

friends, (and when I think of God, every creature is my friend,) if

arising from a selfish motive, it does not seem to me possible could be

changed into hate, even supposing God my enemy, whilst I regarded Him as

a Being infinitely just as well as good. If God is my enemy, it must be

because I deserve He should be such; and it does not seem to me

_possible_ that I should hate Him, even if I knew He would always be so.

"In what you say of willingness to suffer eternal punishment, I don't

know that I understand what the feeling is. Is it wickedness in me that

I do not feel a willingness to be left to eternal sin? Can any one

joyfully acquiesce in being thus left? When I pray for a new heart and a

right spirit, must I be willing to be denied, and rejoice that my prayer

is not heard? Could any real Christian rejoice in this? But he fears it

not,--he knows it will never be,--he therefore can cheerfully leave it

with God; and so can I.

"Such, my dear friend, are my thoughts, poor and unworthy; yet they seem

to me as certain as my life, or as anything I see. Am I unduly

confident? I ask your prayers that I may be guided aright.

"Your affectionate friend,

"MARY."

There are in this world two kinds of natures,--those that have wings,

and those that have feet,--the winged and the walking spirits. The

walking are the logicians: the winged are the instinctive and poetic.

Natures that must always walk find many a bog, many a thicket, many a

tangled brake, which God's happy little winged birds flit over by one

noiseless flight. Nay, when a man has toiled till his feet weigh too

heavily with the mud of earth to enable him to walk another step, these

little birds will often cleave the air in a right line towards the bosom

of God, and show the way where he could never have found it.

The Doctor paused in his ponderous and heavy reasonings to read this

real woman's letter; and being a loving man, he felt as if he could have

kissed the hem of her garment who wrote it. He recorded it in his

journal, and after it this significant passage from Canticles:--

"I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes, and by the

hinds of the field, that ye stir not up nor awake this lovely one till

she please."

Mrs. Scudder's motherly eye noticed, with satisfaction, these quiet

communings. "Let it alone," she said to herself; "before she knows it,

she will find herself wholly under his influence." Mrs. Scudder was a

wise woman.