PART II.

THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY.

A MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS.

* * * * *

VOL. IX. FEBRUARY, 1862.--NO. LII

* * * * *

BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC.

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:

He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;

He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword:

His truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;

They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;

I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps:

His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel:

"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;

Let this Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,

Since God is marching on."

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;

He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat:

Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!

Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,

With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me:

As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,

While God is marching on.

AGNES OF SORRENTO

CHAPTER XX

FLORENCE AND HER PROPHET

It was drawing towards evening, as two travellers, approaching Florence

from the south, checked their course on the summit of one of the circle

of hills which command a view of the city, and seemed to look down upon

it with admiration. One of these was our old friend Father Antonio, and

the other the Cavalier. The former was mounted on an ambling mule, whose

easy pace suited well with his meditative habits; while the other reined

in a high-mettled steed, who, though now somewhat jaded under the

fatigue of a long journey, showed by a series of little lively motions

of his ears and tail, and by pawing the ground impatiently, that he had

the inexhaustible stock of spirits which goes with good blood.

"There she lies, my Florence," said the monk, stretching his hands out

with enthusiasm. "Is she not indeed a sheltered lily growing fair among

the hollows of the mountains? Little she may be, Sir, compared to old

Rome; but every inch of her is a gem,--every inch!"

And, in truth, the scene was worthy of the artist's enthusiasm. All

the overhanging hills that encircle the city with their silvery

olive-gardens and their pearl-white villas were now lighted up with

evening glory. The old gray walls of the convents of San Miniato and the

Monte Oliveto were touched with yellow; and even the black obelisks of

the cypresses in their cemeteries had here and there streaks and dots

of gold, fluttering like bright birds among their gloomy branches. The

distant snow-peaks of the Apennines, which even in spring long wear

their icy mantles, were shimmering and changing like an opal ring

with tints of violet, green, blue, and rose, blended in inexpressible

softness by that dreamy haze which forms the peculiar feature of Italian

skies.

In this loving embrace of mountains lay the city, divided by the Arno as

by a line of rosy crystal barred by the graceful arches of its bridges.

Amid the crowd of palaces and spires and towers rose central and

conspicuous the great Duomo, just crowned with that magnificent dome

which was then considered a novelty and a marvel in architecture, and

which Michel Angelo looked longingly back upon when he was going to Rome

to build that more wondrous orb of Saint Peter's. White and stately by

its side shot up the airy shaft of the Campanile; and the violet vapor

swathing the whole city in a tender indistinctness, these two striking

objects, rising by their magnitude far above it, seemed to stand alone

in a sort of airy grandeur.

And now the bells of the churches were sounding the Ave Maria, filling

the air with sweet and solemn vibrations, as if angels were passing to

and fro overhead, harping as they went; and ever and anon the great bell

of the Campanile came pulsing in with a throb of sound of a quality so

different that one hushed one's breath to hear. It might be fancied to

be the voice of one of those kingly archangels that one sees drawn by

the old Florentine religious artists,--a voice grave and unearthly, and

with a plaintive undertone of divine mystery.

The monk and the cavalier bent low in their saddles, and seemed to join

devoutly in the worship of the hour.

One need not wonder at the enthusiasm of the returning pilgrim of those

days for the city of his love, who feels the charm that lingers around

that beautiful place even in modern times. Never was there a spot

to which the heart could insensibly grow with a more home-like

affection,--never one more thoroughly consecrated in every stone by the

sacred touch of genius.

A republic, in the midst of contending elements, the history of

Florence, in the Middle Ages, was a history of what shoots and blossoms

the Italian nature might send forth, when rooted in the rich soil

of liberty. It was a city of poets and artists. Its statesmen, its

merchants, its common artisans, and the very monks in its convents, were

all pervaded by one spirit. The men of Florence in its best days were

men of a large, grave, earnest mould. What the Puritans of New England

wrought out with severest earnestness in their reasonings and their

lives these early Puritans of Italy embodied in poetry, sculpture, and

painting. They built their Cathedral and their Campanile, as the Jews

of old built their Temple, with awe and religious fear, that they might

thus express by costly and imperishable monuments their sense of God's

majesty and beauty. The modern traveller who visits the churches and

convents of Florence, or the museums where are preserved the fading

remains of its early religious Art, if he be a person of any

sensibility, cannot fail to be affected with the intense gravity and

earnestness which pervade them. They seem less to be paintings for the

embellishment of life than eloquent picture-writing by which burning

religious souls sought to preach the truths of the invisible world to

the eye of the multitude. Through all the deficiencies of perspective,

coloring, and outline incident to the childhood and early youth of Art,

one feels the passionate purpose of some lofty soul to express ideas of

patience, self-sacrifice, adoration, and aspiration far transcending the

limits of mortal capability.

The angels and celestial beings of these grave old painters are as

different from the fat little pink Cupids or lovely laughing children of

Titian and Correggio as are the sermons of President Edwards from the

love-songs of Tom Moore. These old seers of the pencil give you grave,

radiant beings, strong as man, fine as woman, sweeping downward in lines

of floating undulation, and seeming by the ease with which they remain

poised in the air to feel none of that earthly attraction which draws

material bodies earthward. Whether they wear the morning star on their

forehead or bear the lily or the sword in their hand, there is still

that suggestion of mystery and power about them, that air of dignity and

repose, that speak the children of a nobler race than ours. One could

well believe such a being might pass in his serene poised majesty of

motion through the walls of a gross material dwelling without deranging

one graceful fold of his swaying robe or unclasping the hands folded

quietly on his bosom. Well has a modern master of art and style said of

these old artists, "Many pictures are ostentatious exhibitions of the

artist's power of speech, the clear and vigorous elocution of useless

and senseless words; while the earlier efforts of Giotto and Ciniabue

are the burning messages of prophecy delivered by the stammering lips of

infants."

But at the time we write, Florence had passed through her ages of

primitive religions and republican simplicity, and was fast hastening to

her downfall. The genius, energy, and prophetic enthusiasm of Savonarola

had made, it is true, a desperate rally on the verge of the precipice;

but no one man has ever power to turn back the downward slide of a whole

generation.

When Father Antonio left Sorrento in company with the cavalier, it

was the intention of the latter to go with him only so far as their

respective routes should lie together. The band under the command of

Agostino was posted in a ruined fortress in one of those airily perched

old mountain-towns which form so picturesque and characteristic a

feature of the Italian landscape. But before they reached this spot, the

simple, poetic, guileless monk, with his fresh artistic nature, had so

won upon his travelling companion that a most enthusiastic friendship

had sprung up between them, and Agostino could not find it in his heart

at once to separate from him. Tempest-tossed and homeless, burning with

a sense of wrong, alienated from the faith of his fathers through his

intellect and moral sense, yet clinging to it with his memory and

imagination, he found in the tender devotional fervor of the artist monk

a reconciling and healing power. He shared, too, in no small degree, the

feelings which now possessed the breast of his companion for the

great reformer whose purpose seemed to meditate nothing less than

the restoration of the Church of Italy to the primitive apostolic

simplicity. He longed to see him,--to listen to the eloquence of which

he had heard so much. Then, too, he had thoughts that but vaguely shaped

themselves in his mind. This noble man, so brave and courageous, menaced

by the forces of a cruel tyranny, might he not need the protection of a

good sword? He recollected, too, that he had an uncle high in the favor

of the King of France, to whom he had written a full account of his own

situation. Might he not be of use in urging this uncle to induce the

French King to throw before Savonarola the shield of his protection? At

all events, he entered Florence this evening with the burning zeal of a

young neophyte who hopes to effect something himself for a glorious and

sacred cause embodied in a leader who commands his deepest veneration.

"My son," said Father Antonio, as they raised their heads after the

evening prayer, "I am at this time like a man who, having long been,

away from his home, fears, on returning, that he shall hear some evil

tidings of those he hath left. I long, yet dread, to go to my dear

Father Girolamo and the beloved brothers in our house. There is a

presage that lies heavy on my heart, so that I cannot shake it off. Look

at our glorious old Duomo;--doth she not sit there among the houses and

palaces as a queen-mother among nations,--worthy, in her greatness and

beauty, to represent the Church of the New Jerusalem, the Bride of the

Lord? Ah, I have seen it thronged and pressed with the multitude who

came to crave the bread of life from our master!"

"Courage, my friend!" said Agostino; "it cannot be that Florence will

suffer her pride and glory to be trodden down. Let us hasten on, for the

shades of evening are coming fast, and there is a keen wind sweeping

down from your snowy mountains."

And the two soon found themselves plunging into the shadows of the

streets, threading their devious way to the convent.

At length they drew up before a dark wall, where the Father Antonio rang

a bell.

A door was immediately opened, a cowled head appeared, and a cautious

voice asked,--

"Who is there?"

"Ah, is that you, good Brother Angelo?" said Father Antonio, cheerily.

"And is it you, dear Brother Antonio? Come in! come in!" was the cordial

response, as the two passed into the court; "truly, it will make all our

hearts leap to see you."

"And, Brother Angelo, how is our dear father? I have been so anxious

about him!"

"Oh, fear not!--he sustains himself in God, and is full of sweetness to

us all."

"But do the people stand by him, Angelo, and the Signoria?"

"He has strong friends as yet, but his enemies are like ravening wolves.

The Pope hath set on the Franciscans, and they hunt him as dogs do a

good stag.--But whom have you here with you?" added the monk, raising

his torch and regarding the knight.

"Fear him not; he is a brave knight and good Christian, who comes to

offer his sword to our father and seek his counsels."

"He shall be welcome," said the porter, cheerfully. "We will have you

into the refectory forthwith, for you must be hungry."

The young cavalier, following the flickering torch of his conductor, had

only a dim notion of long cloistered corridors, out of which now and

then, as the light flared by, came a golden gleam from some quaint old

painting, where the pure angel forms of Angelico stood in the gravity

of an immortal youth, or the Madonna, like a bending lily, awaited the

message of Heaven; but when they entered the refectory, a cheerful voice

addressed them, and Father Antonio was clasped in the embrace of the

father so much beloved.

"Welcome, welcome, my dear son!" said that rich voice which had thrilled

so many thousand Italian hearts with its music. "So you are come back to

the fold again. How goes the good work of the Lord?"

"Well, everywhere," said Father Antonio; and then, recollecting his

young friend, he suddenly turned and said,--

"Let me present to you one son who comes to seek your instructions,--the

young Signor Agostino, of the noble house of Sarelli."

The Superior turned to Agostino with a movement full of a generous

frankness, and warmly extended his hand, at the same time fixing upon

him the mesmeric glance of a pair of large, deep blue eyes, which might,

on slight observation, have been mistaken for black, so great was their

depth and brilliancy.

Agostino surveyed his new acquaintance with that mingling of ingenuous

respect and curiosity with which an ardent young man would regard the

most distinguished leader of his age, and felt drawn to him by a

certain atmosphere of vital cordiality such as one can feel better than

describe.

"You have ridden far to-day, my son,--you must be weary," said the

Superior, affably,--"but here you must feel yourself at home; command

us in anything we can do for you. The brothers will attend to those

refreshments which are needed after so long a journey; and when you have

rested and supped, we shall hope to see you a little more quietly."

So saying, he signed to one or two brothers who stood by, and,

commending the travellers to their care, left the apartment.

In a few moments a table was spread with a plain and wholesome repast,

to which the two travellers sat down with appetites sharpened by their

long journey.

During the supper, the brothers of the convent, among whom Father

Antonio had always been a favorite, crowded around him in a state of

eager excitement.

"You should have been here the last week," said one; "such a turmoil as

we have been in!"

"Yes," said another,--"the Pope hath set on the Franciscans, who, you

know, are always ready enough to take up with anything against our

order, and they have been pursuing our father like so many hounds."

"There hath been a whirlwind of preaching here and there," said a

third,--"in the Duomo, and Santa Croce, and San Lorenzo; and they have

battled to and fro, and all the city is full of it."

"Tell him about yesterday, about the ordeal," shouted an eager voice.

Two or three voices took up the story at once, and began to tell

it,--all the others correcting, contradicting, or adding incidents. From

the confused fragments here and there Agostino gathered that there had

been on the day before a popular spectacle in the grand piazza, in

which, according to an old superstition of the Middle Ages, Frà Girolamo

Savonarola and his opponents were expected to prove the truth of their

words by passing unhurt through the fire; that two immense piles of

combustibles had been constructed with a narrow passage between, and the

whole magistracy of the city convened, with a throng of the populace,

eager for the excitement of the spectacle; that the day had been spent

in discussions, and scruples, and preliminaries; and that, finally,

in the afternoon, a violent storm of rain arising had dispersed the

multitude and put a stop to the whole exhibition.

"But the people are not satisfied," said Father Angelo; "and there are

enough mischief-makers among them to throw all the blame on our father."

"Yes," said one, "they say he wanted to burn the Holy Sacrament, because

he was going to take it with him into the fire."

"As if it could burn!" said another voice.

"It would to all human appearance, I suppose," said a third.

"Any way," said a fourth, "there is some mischief brewing; for here is

our friend Prospero Rondinelli just come in, who says, when he came past

the Duomo, he saw people gathering, and heard them threatening us: there

were as many as two hundred, he thought."

"We ought to tell Father Girolamo," exclaimed several voices.

"Oh, he will not be disturbed!" said Father Angelo. "Since these

affairs, he hath been in prayer in the chapter-room before the blessed

Angelico's picture of the Cross. When we would talk with him of these

things, he waves us away, and says only, 'I am weary; go and tell

Jesus.'"

"He bade me come to him after supper," said Father Antonio. "I will talk

with him."

"Do so,--that is right," said two or three eager voices, as the monk and

Agostino, having finished their repast, arose to be conducted to the

presence of the father.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE ATTACK ON SAN MARCO.

They found him in a large and dimly lighted apartment, sitting absorbed

in pensive contemplation before a picture of the Crucifixion by Frà

Angelico, which, whatever might be its _naïve_ faults of drawing and

perspective, had an intense earnestness of feeling, and, though faded

and dimmed by the lapse of centuries, still stirs in some faint wise

even the practised _dilettanti_ of our day.

The face upon the cross, with its majestic patience, seemed to shed a

blessing down on the company of saints of all ages who were grouped by

their representative men at the foot. Saint Dominic, Saint Ambrose,

Saint Augustin, Saint Jerome, Saint Francis, and Saint Benedict were

depicted as standing before the Great Sacrifice in company with the

Twelve Apostles, the two Maries, and the fainting mother of Jesus,--thus

expressing the unity of the Church Universal in that great victory of

sorrow and glory. The painting was inclosed above by a semicircular

bordering composed of medallion heads of the Prophets, and below was a

similar medallion border of the principal saints and worthies of the

Dominican order. In our day such pictures are visited by tourists with

red guide-books in their hands, who survey them in the intervals of

careless conversation; but they were painted by the simple artist on

his knees, weeping and praying as he worked, and the sight of them was

accepted by like simple-hearted Christians as a perpetual sacrament of

the eye, by which they received Christ into their souls.

So absorbed was the father in the contemplation of this picture, that he

did not hear the approaching footsteps of the knight and monk. When at

last they came so near as almost to touch him, he suddenly looked up,

and it became apparent that his eyes were full of tears.

He rose, and, pointing with a mute gesture toward the painting, said,--

"There is more in that than in all Michel Angelo Buonarotti hath done

yet, though he be a God-fearing youth,--more than in all the heathen

marbles in Lorenzo's gardens. But sit down with me here. I have to come

here often, where I can refresh my courage."

The monk and knight seated themselves, the latter with his attention

riveted on the remarkable man before him. The head and face of

Savonarola are familiar to us by many paintings and medallions, which,

however, fail to impart what must have been that effect of his personal

presence which so drew all hearts to him in his day. The knight saw a

man of middle age, of elastic, well-knit figure, and a flexibility

and grace of motion which seemed to make every nerve, even to his

finger-ends, vital with the expression of his soul. The close-shaven

crown and the plain white Dominican robe gave a severe and statuesque

simplicity to the lines of his figure. His head and face, like those

of most of the men of genius whom modern Italy has produced, were so

strongly cast in the antique mould as to leave no doubt of the identity

of modern Italian blood with that of the great men of ancient Italy. His

low, broad forehead, prominent Roman nose, well-cut, yet fully outlined

lips, and strong, finely moulded jaw and chin, all spoke the old Roman

vigor and energy, while the flexible delicacy of all the muscles of his

face and figure gave an inexpressible fascination to his appearance.

Every emotion and changing thought seemed to flutter and tremble over

his countenance as the shadow of leaves over sunny water. His eye had

a wonderful dilating power, and when he was excited seemed to shower

sparks; and his voice possessed a surprising scale of delicate and

melodious inflections, which could take him in a moment through the

whole range of human feeling, whether playful and tender or denunciatory

and terrible. Yet, when in repose among his friends, there was an almost

childlike simplicity and artlessness of manner, which drew the heart by

an irresistible attraction. At this moment it was easy to see by his

pale cheek and the furrowed lines of his face that he had been passing

through severe struggles; but his mind seemed stayed on some invisible

centre, in a solemn and mournful calm.

"Come, tell me something of the good works of the Lord in our Italy,

brother," he said, with a smile which was almost playful in its

brightness. "You have been through all the lowly places of the land,

carrying our Lord's bread to the poor, and repairing and beautifying

shrines and altars by the noble gift that is in you."

"Yes, father," said the monk; "and I have found that there are many

sheep of the Lord that feed quietly among the mountains of Italy, and

love nothing so much as to hear of the dear Shepherd who laid down His

life for them."

"Even so, even so," said the Superior, with animation; "and it is the

thought of these sweet hearts that comforts me when my soul is among

lions. The foundation standeth sure,--the Lord knoweth them that are

His."

"And it is good and encouraging," said Father Antonio, "to see the zeal

of the poor, who will give their last penny for the altar of the Lord,

and who flock so to hear the word and take the sacraments. I have

had precious seasons of preaching and confessing, and have worked in

blessedness many days restoring and beautifying the holy pictures and

statues whereby these little ones have been comforted. What with the

wranglings of princes and the factions and disturbances in our poor

Italy, there be many who suffer in want and loss of all things, so that

no refuge remains to them but the altars of our Jesus, and none cares

for them but He."

"Brother," said the Superior, "there be thousands of flowers fairer than

man ever saw that grow up in waste places and in deep dells and shades

of mountains; but God bears each one in His heart, and delighteth

Himself in silence with them: and so doth He with these poor, simple,

unknown souls. The True Church is not a flaunting queen who goes boldly

forth among men displaying her beauties, but a veiled bride, a dove that

is in the cleft of the rocks, whose voice is known only to the Beloved.

Ah! when shall the great marriage-feast come, when all shall behold her

glorified? I had hoped to see the day here in Italy: but now"----

The father stopped, and seemed to lapse into unconscious musing,--his

large eye growing fixed and mysterious in its expression.

"The brothers have been telling me somewhat of the tribulations you have

been through," said Father Antonio, who thought he saw a good opening to

introduce the subject nearest his heart.

"No more of that!--no more!" said the Superior, turning away his head

with an expression of pain and weariness; "rather let us look up. What

think you, brother, are all _these_ doing now?" he said, pointing to the

saints in the picture. "They are all alive and well, and see clearly

through our darkness." Then, rising up, he added, solemnly, "Whatever

man may say or do, it is enough for me to feel that my dearest Lord and

His blessed Mother and all the holy archangels, the martyrs and prophets

and apostles, are with me. The end is coming."

"But, dearest father," said Antonio, "think you the Lord will suffer the

wicked to prevail?"

"It may be for a time," said Savonarola. "As for me, I am in His hands

only as an instrument. He is master of the forge and handles the hammer,

and when He has done using it He casts it from Him. Thus He did with

Jeremiah, whom He permitted to be stoned to death when his preaching

mission was accomplished; and thus He may do with _this_ hammer when He

has done using it."

At this moment a monk rushed into the room with a face expressive of the

utmost terror, and called out,--

"Father, what shall we do? The mob are surrounding the convent! Hark!

hear them at the doors!"

In truth, a wild, confused roar of mingled shrieks, cries, and blows

came in through the open door of the apartment; and the pattering sound

of approaching footsteps was heard like showering raindrops along the

cloisters.

"Here come Messer Nicolo de' Lapi, and Francesco Valori!" called out a

voice.

The room was soon filled with a confused crowd, consisting of

distinguished Florentine citizens, who had gained admittance through a

secret passage, and the excited novices and monks.

"The streets outside the convent are packed close with men," cried one

of the citizens; "they have stationed guards everywhere to cut off our

friends who might come to help us."

"I saw them seize a young man who was quietly walking, singing psalms,

and slay him on the steps of the Church of the Innocents," said another;

"they cried and hooted, 'No more psalm-singing!'"

"And there's Arnolfo Battista," said a third;--"he went out to try

to speak to them, and they have killed him,--cut him down with their

sabres."

"Hurry! hurry! barricade the door! arm yourselves!" was the cry from

other voices.

"Shall we fight, father? shall we defend ourselves?" cried others, as

the monks pressed around their Superior.

When the crowd first burst into the room, the face of the Superior

flushed, and there was a slight movement of surprise; then he seemed to

recollect himself, and murmuring, "I expected this, but not so soon,"

appeared lost in mental prayer. To the agitated inquiries of his flock,

he answered,--"No, brothers; the weapons of monks must be spiritual, not

carnal." Then lifting on high a crucifix, he said,--"Come with me, and

let us walk in solemn procession to the altar, singing the praises of

our God."

The monks, with the instinctive habit of obedience, fell into procession

behind their leader, whose voice, clear and strong, was heard raising

the Psalm, _"Quare fremunt gentes"_:--

"Why do the heathen rage, and the people imagine a vain thing?

"The kings of the earth set themselves, and the rulers take counsel

together, against the Lord, and against his Anointed, saying,

"'Let us break their bands asunder, and cast away their cords from us.'

"He that sitteth in the heavens shall laugh.: the Lord shall have them

in derision."

As one voice after another took up the chant, the solemn enthusiasm rose

and deepened, and all present, whether ecclesiastics or laymen, fell

into the procession and joined in the anthem. Amid the wild uproar, the

din and clatter of axes, the thunders of heavy battering-implements on

the stone walls and portals, came this long-drawn solemn wave of sound,

rising and falling,--now drowned in the savage clamors of the mob, and

now bursting out clear and full like the voices of God's chosen amid the

confusion and struggles of all the generations of this mortal life.

White-robed and grand the procession moved on, while the pictured saints

and angels on the walls seemed to smile calmly down upon them from a

golden twilight. They passed thus into the sacristy, where with all

solemnity and composure they arrayed their Father and Superior for the

last time in his sacramental robes, and then, still chanting, followed

him to the high altar,--where all bowed in prayer. And still, whenever

there was a pause in the stormy uproar and fiendish clamor, might be

heard the clear, plaintive uprising of that strange singing,--"O Lord,

save thy people, and bless thine heritage!"

It needs not to tell in detail what history has told of that tragic

night: how the doors at last were forced, and the mob rushed in; how

citizens and friends, and many of the monks themselves, their instinct

of combativeness overcoming their spiritual beliefs, fought valiantly,

and used torches and crucifixes for purposes little contemplated when

they were made.

Fiercest among the combatants was Agostino, who three times drove back

the crowd as they were approaching the choir, where Savonarola and his

immediate friends were still praying. Father Antonio, too, seized

a sword from the hand of a fallen man and laid about him with an

impetuosity which would be inexplicable to any who do not know what

force there is in gentle natures when the objects of their affections

are assailed. The artist monk fought for his master with the blind

desperation with which a woman fights over the cradle of her child.

All in vain! Past midnight, and the news comes that artillery is planted

to blow down the walls of the convent, and the magistracy, who up to

this time have lifted not a finger to repress the tumult, send word to

Savonarola to surrender himself to them, together with the two most

active of his companions, Frà Domenico da Pescia and Frà Silvestro

Maruffi, as the only means of averting the destruction of the whole

order. They offer him assurances of protection and safe return, which he

does not in the least believe: nevertheless, he feels that his hour is

come, and gives himself up.

His preparations were all made with a solemn method which showed that

he felt he was approaching the last act in the drama of life. He called

together his flock, scattered and forlorn, and gave them his last

words of fatherly advice, encouragement, and comfort,--ending with the

remarkable declaration, "A Christian's life consists in doing good and

suffering evil." "I go with joy to this marriage-supper," he said, as he

left the church for the last sad preparations. He and his doomed friends

then confessed and received the sacrament, and after that he surrendered

himself into the hands of the men who he felt in his prophetic soul had

come to take him to torture and to death.

As he gave himself into their hands, he said, "I commend to your care

this flock of mine, and these good citizens of Florence who have been

with us"; and then once more turning to his brethren, said,--"Doubt not,

my brethren. God will not fail to perfect His work. Whether I live or

die, He will aid and console you."

At this moment there was a struggle with the attendants in the outer

circle of the crowd, and the voice of Father Antonio was heard crying

out earnestly,--"Do not hold me! I will go with him! I must go with

him!"--"Son," said Savonarola, "I charge you on your obedience not to

come. It is I and Frà Domenico who are to die for the love of Christ."

And thus, at the ninth hour of the night, he passed the threshold of San

Marco.

As he was leaving, a plaintive voice of distress was heard from a young

novice who had been peculiarly dear to him, who stretched his hands

after him, crying,--"Father! father! why do you leave us desolate?"

Whereupon he turned back a moment, and said,--"God will be your help.

If we do not see each other again in this world, we surely shall in

heaven."

When the party had gone forth, the monks and citizens stood looking into

each other's faces, listening with dismay to the howl of wild ferocity

that was rising around the departing prisoner.

"What shall we do?" was the outcry from many voices.

"I know what I shall do," said Agostino. "If any man here will find me a

fleet horse, I will start for Milan this very hour; for my uncle is now

there on a visit, and he is a counsellor of weight with the King of

France: we must get the King to interfere."

"Good! good! good!" rose from a hundred voices.

"I will go with you," said Father Antonio. "I shall have no rest till I

do something."

"And I," quoth Jacopo Niccolini, "will saddle for you, without delay,

two horses of part Arabian blood, swift of foot, and easy, and which

will travel day and night without sinking."

CHAPTER XXII.

THE CATHEDRAL.

The rays of the setting sun were imparting even more than their wonted

cheerfulness to the airy and bustling streets of Milan. There was the

usual rush and roar of busy life which mark the great city, and the

display of gay costumes and brilliant trappings proper to a ducal

capital which at that time gave the law to Europe in all matters of

taste and elegance, even as Paris does now. It was, in fact, from the

reputation of this city in matters of external show that our English

term Milliner was probably derived; and one might well have believed

this, who saw the sweep of the ducal cortege at this moment returning

in pomp from the afternoon airing. Such glittering of gold-embroidered

mantles, such bewildering confusion of colors, such flashing of jewelry

from cap and dagger-hilt and finger-ring, and even from bridle and

stirrup, testified that the male sex at this period in Italy were no

whit behind the daughters of Eve in that passion for personal adornment

which our age is wont to consider exclusively feminine. Indeed, all that

was visible to the vulgar eye of this pageant was wholly masculine;

though no one doubted that behind the gold-embroidered curtains of the

litters which contained the female notabilities of the court still more

dazzling wonders might be concealed. Occasionally a white jewelled hand

would draw aside one of these screens, and a pair of eyes brighter than

any gems would peer forth; and then there would be tokens of a visible

commotion among the plumed and gemmed cavaliers around, and one young

head would nod to another with jests and quips, and there would be

bowing and curveting and all the antics and caracolings supposable among

gay young people on whom the sun shone brightly, and who felt the world

going well around them, and deemed themselves the observed of all

observers.

Meanwhile, the mute, subservient common people looked on all this as

a part of their daily amusement. Meek dwellers in those dank, noisome

caverns, without any opening but a street-door, which are called

dwelling-places in Italy, they lived in uninquiring good-nature,

contentedly bringing up children on coarse bread, dirty cabbage-stumps,

and other garbage, while all that they could earn was sucked upward by

capillary attraction to nourish the extravagance of those upper classes

on which they stared with such blind and ignorant admiration.

This was the lot they believed themselves born for, and which every

exhortation of their priests taught them to regard as the appointed

ordinance of God. The women, to be sure, as women always will be, were

true to the instinct of their sex, and crawled out of the damp and

vile-smelling recesses of their homes with solid gold ear-rings shaking

in their ears, and their blue-black lustrous hair ornamented with a

glittering circle of steel pins or other quaint coiffure. There was

sense in all this: for had not even Dukes of Milan been found so

condescending and affable as to admire the charms of the fair in the

lower orders, whence had come sons and daughters who took rank among

princes and princesses? What father, or what husband, could be

insensible to prospects of such honor? What priest would not readily

absolve such sin? Therefore one might have observed more than one comely

dark-eyed woman, brilliant as some tropical bird in the colors of her

peasant dress, who cast coquettish glances toward high places, not

unacknowledged by patronizing nods in return, while mothers and fathers

looked on in triumph. These were the days for the upper classes: the

Church bore them all in her bosom as a tender nursing-mother, and

provided for all their little peccadilloes with even grandmotherly

indulgence, and in return the world was immensely deferential towards

the Church; and it was only now and then some rugged John Baptist,

in raiment of camel's hair, like Savonarola, who dared to speak an

indecorous word of God's truth in the ear of power, and Herod and

Herodias had ever at hand the good old recipe for quieting such

disturbances. John Baptist was beheaded in prison, and then all the

world and all the Scribes and Pharisees applauded; and only a few poor

disciples were found to take up the body and go and tell Jesus.

The whole piazza around the great Cathedral is at this moment full of

the dashing cavalcade of the ducal court, looking as brilliant in the

evening light as a field of poppy, corn-flower, and scarlet clover

at Sorrento; and there, amid the flutter and rush, the amours and

intrigues, the court scandal, the laughing, the gibing, the glitter,

and dazzle, stands that wonderful Cathedral, that silent witness, that

strange, pure, immaculate mountain of airy, unearthly loveliness,--the

most striking emblem of God's mingled vastness and sweetness that ever

it was given to human heart to devise or hands to execute. If there be

among the many mansions of our Father above, among the houses not made

with hands, aught purer and fairer, it must be the work of those grand

spirits who inspired and presided over the erection of this celestial

miracle of beauty. In the great, vain, wicked city, all alive with the

lust of the flesh, the lust of the eye, and the pride of life, it seemed

to stand as much apart and alone as if it were in the solemn desolation

of the Campagna, or in one of the wide deserts of Africa,--so little

part or lot did it appear to have in anything earthly, so little to

belong to the struggling, bustling crowd who beneath its white dazzling

pinnacles seemed dwarfed into crawling insects. They who could look up

from the dizzy, frivolous life below saw far, far above them, in the

blue Italian air, thousands of glorified saints standing on a thousand

airy points of brilliant whiteness, ever solemnly adoring. The marble

which below was somewhat touched and soiled with the dust of the street

seemed gradually to refine and brighten as it rose into the pure regions

of the air, till at last in those thousand distant pinnacles it had the

ethereal translucence of wintry frost-work, and now began to glow with

the violet and rose hues of evening, in solemn splendor.

The ducal cortege sweeps by; but we have mounted the dizzy, dark

staircase that leads to the roof, where, amid the bustling life of the

city, there is a promenade of still and wondrous solitude. One seems to

have ascended in those few moments far beyond the tumult and dust of

earthly things, to the silence, the clearness, the tranquillity of

ethereal regions. The noise of the rushing tides of life below rises

only in a soft and distant murmur; while around, in the wide, clear

distance, is spread a prospect which has not on earth its like or its

equal. The beautiful plains of Lombardy lie beneath like a map, and the

northern horizon-line is glittering with the entire sweep of the Alps,

like a solemn senate of archangels with diamond mail and glittering

crowns. Mont Blanc, Monte Rosa with his countenance of light, the

Jungfrau and all the weird brothers of the Oberland, rise one after

another to the delighted gaze, and the range of the Tyrol melts far off

into the blue of the sky. On another side, the Apennines, with their

picturesque outlines and cloud-spotted sides, complete the inclosure.

All around, wherever the eye turns, is the unbroken phalanx of

mountains; and this temple, with its thousand saintly statues standing

in attitudes of ecstasy and prayer, seems like a worthy altar and shrine

for the beautiful plain which the mountains inclose: it seems to give

all Northern Italy to God.

The effect of the statues in this high, pure air, in this solemn,

glorious scenery, is peculiar. They seem a meet companionship for these

exalted regions. They seem to stand exultant on their spires, poised

lightly as ethereal creatures, the fit inhabitants of the pure blue sky.

One feels that they have done with earth; one can fancy them a band of

white-robed kings and priests forever ministering in that great temple

of which the Alps and the Apennines are the walls and the Cathedral the

heart and centre. Never were Art and Nature so majestically married by

Religion in so worthy a temple.

One form could be discerned standing in rapt attention, gazing from a

platform on the roof upon the far-distant scene. He was enveloped in

the white coarse woollen gown of the Dominican monks, and seemed wholly

absorbed in meditating on the scene before him, which appeared to move

him deeply; for, raising his hands, he repeated aloud from the Latin

Vulgate the words of an Apostle:--

"Accessistis ad Sion montem et civitatem Dei viventis, Ierusalem

caelestem, et multorum millinm angelorum frequentiam, ecclesiam

primitivorum, qui inscripti sunt in caelis."[A]

[Footnote A: "Ye are come unto Mount Sion, and unto the city of the

living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and to an innumerable company of

angels, to the general assembly and church of the first-born, which are

written in heaven."]

At this moment the evening worship commenced within the Cathedral, and

the whole building seemed to vibrate with the rising swell of the great

organ, while the grave, long-drawn tones of the Ambrosian Liturgy rose

surging in waves and dying away in distant murmurs, like the rolling

of the tide on some ocean-shore. The monk turned and drew near to the

central part of the roof to listen, and as he turned he disclosed the

well-known features of Father Antonio.

Haggard, weary, and travel-worn, his first impulse, on entering the

city, was to fly to this holy solitude, as the wandering sparrow of

sacred song sought her nest amid the altars of God's temple. Artist no

less than monk, he found in this wondrous shrine of beauty a repose

both for his artistic and his religious nature; and while waiting for

Agostino Sarelli to find his uncle's residence, he had determined to

pass the interval in this holy solitude. Many hours had he paced alone

up and down the long promenades of white marble which run everywhere

between forests of dazzling pinnacles and flying-buttresses of airy

lightness. Now he rested in fixed attention against the wall above the

choir, which he could feel pulsating with throbs of sacred sound, as if

a great warm heart were beating within the fair marble miracle, warming

it into mysterious life and sympathy.

"I would now that boy were here to worship with me," he said. "No wonder

the child's faith fainteth: it takes such monuments as these of the

Church's former days to strengthen one's hopes. Ah, woe unto those by

whom such offence cometh!"

At this moment the form of Agostino was seen ascending the marble

staircase.

The eye of the monk brightened as he came towards him. He put out

one hand eagerly to take his, and raised the other with a gesture of

silence.

"Look," he said, "and listen! Is it not the sound of many waters and

mighty thunderings?"

Agostino stood subdued for the moment by the magnificent sights and

sounds; for, as the sun went down, the distant mountains grew every

moment more unearthly in their brilliancy,--and as they lay in a long

line, jewelled brightness mingling with the cloud-wreaths of the far

horizon, one might have imagined that he in truth beheld the foundations

of that celestial city of jasper, pearl, and translucent gold which the

Apostle saw, and that the risings and fallings of choral sound which

seemed to thrill and pulsate through the marble battlements were indeed

that song like many waters sung by the Church Triumphant above.

For a few moments the monk and the young man stood in silence, till at

length the monk spoke.

"You have told me, my son, that your heart often troubles you in being

more Roman than Christian; that you sometimes doubt whether the Church

on earth be other than a fiction or a fable. But look around us. Who

are these, this great multitude who praise and pray continually in this

temple of the upper air? These are they who have come out of great

tribulation, having washed their robes and made them white in the blood

of the Lamb. These are not the men that have sacked cities, and made

deserts, and written their triumphs in blood and carnage. These be men

that have sheltered the poor, and built houses for orphans, and sold

themselves into slavery to redeem their brothers in Christ. These be

pure women who have lodged saints, brought up children, lived holy and

prayerful lives. These be martyrs who have laid down their lives for the

testimony of Jesus. There were no such churches in old Rome,--no such

saints."

"Well," said Agostino, "one thing is certain. If such be the True

Church, the Pope and the Cardinals of our day have no part in it; for

they are the men who sack cities and make desolations, who devour

widows' houses and for a pretence make long prayers. Let us see one of

_them_ selling himself into slavery for the love of anybody, while they

seek to keep all the world in slavery to themselves!"

"That is the grievous declension our master weeps over," said the monk.

"Ah, if the Bishops of the Church now were like brave old Saint

Ambrose, strong alone by faith and prayer, showing no more favor to an

unrepentant Emperor than to the meanest slave, then would the Church be

a reality and a glory! Such is my master. Never is he afraid of the face

of king or lord, when he has God's truth to speak. You should have heard

how plainly he dealt with our Lorenzo de' Medici on his death-bed,--how

he refused him absolution, unless he would make restitution to the poor

and restore the liberties of Florence."

"I should have thought," said the young man, sarcastically, "that

Lorenzo the Magnificent might have got absolution cheaper than that.

Where were all the bishops in his dominion, that he must needs send for

Jerome Savonarola?"

"Son, it is ever so," replied the monk. "If there be a man that cares

neither for Duke nor Emperor, but for God alone, then Dukes and Emperors

would give more for his good word than for a whole dozen of common

priests."

"I suppose it is something like a rare manuscript or a singular gem:

these _virtuosi_ have no rest till they have clutched it. The thing they

cannot get is always the thing they want."

"Lorenzo was always seeking our master," said the monk. "Often would he

come walking in our gardens, expecting surely he would hasten down to

meet him; and the brothers would run all out of breath to his cell to

say, 'Father, Lorenzo is in the garden.' 'He is welcome,' would he

answer, with his pleasant smile. 'But, father, will you not descend

to meet him?' 'Hath he asked for me?' 'No.' 'Well, then, let us not

interrupt his meditations,' he would answer, and remain still at his

reading, so jealous was he lest he should seek the favor of princes and

forget God, as does all the world in our day."

"And because he does not seek the favor of the men of this world he will

be trampled down and slain. Will the God in whom he trusts defend him?"

The monk pointed expressively upward to the statues that stood glorified

above them, still wearing a rosy radiance, though the shadows of

twilight had fallen on all the city below.

"My son," he said, "the victories of the True Church are not in time,

but in eternity. How many around us were conquered on earth that they

might triumph in heaven! What saith the Apostle? 'They were

tortured, not accepting deliverance, that they might obtain a better

resurrection.'"

"But, alas!" said Agostino, "are we never to see the right triumph here?

I fear that this noble name is written in blood, like so many of whom

the world is not worthy. Can one do nothing to help it?"

"How is that? What have you heard?" said the monk, eagerly. "Have you

seen your uncle?"

"Not yet; he is gone into the country for a day,--so say his servants. I

saw, when the Duke's court passed, my cousin, who is in his train, and

got a moment's speech with him; and he promised, that, if I would wait

for him here, he would come to me as soon as he could be let off from

his attendance. When he comes, it were best that we confer alone."

"I will retire to the southern side," said the monk, "and await the end

of your conference": and with that he crossed the platform on which they

were standing, and, going down a flight of white marble steps, was soon

lost to view amid the wilderness of frost-like carved work.

He had scarcely vanished, before footsteps were heard ascending the

marble staircase on the other side, and the sound of a voice humming a

popular air of the court.

The stranger was a young man of about five-and-twenty, habited with all

that richness and brilliancy of coloring which the fashion of the day

permitted to a young exquisite. His mantle of purple velvet falling

jauntily off from one shoulder disclosed a doublet of amber satin richly

embroidered with gold and seed-pearl. The long white plume which drooped

from his cap was held in its place by a large diamond which sparkled

like a star in the evening twilight. His finely moulded hands were

loaded with rings, and ruffles of the richest Venetian lace encircled

his wrists. He had worn over all a dark cloak with a peaked hood, the

usual evening disguise in Italy; but as he gained the top-stair of the

platform, he threw it carelessly down and gayly offered his hand.

"Good even to you, cousin mine! So you see I am as true to my

appointment as if your name were Leonora or Camilla instead of Agostino.

How goes it with you? I wanted to talk with you below, but I saw we must

have a place without listeners. Our friends the saints are too high in

heavenly things to make mischief by eavesdropping."

"Thank you, Cousin Carlos, for your promptness. And now to the point.

Did your father, my uncle, get the letter I wrote him about a month

since?"

"He did; and he bade me treat with you about it. It's an abominable

snarl this they have got you into. My father says, your best way is to

come straight to him in France, and abide till things take a better

turn: he is high in favor with the King and can find you a very pretty

place at court, and he takes it upon him in time to reconcile the Pope.

Between you and me, the old Pope has no special spite in the world

against _you_: he merely wants your lands for his son, and as long

as you prowl round and lay claim to them, why, you must stay

excommunicated; but just clear the coast and leave them peaceably and

he will put you back into the True Church, and my father will charge

himself with your success. Popes don't last forever, or there may come

another falling out with the King of France, and either way there will

be a chance of your being one day put back into your rights; meanwhile,

a young fellow might do worse than have a good place in our court."

During this long monologue, which the young speaker uttered with all the

flippant self-sufficiency of worldly people with whom the world is going

well, the face of the young nobleman who listened presented a picture of

many strong contending emotions.

"You speak," he said, "as if man had nothing to do in this world but

seek his own ease and pleasure. What lies nearest my heart is not that

I am plundered of my estates, and my house uprooted, but it is that my

beautiful Rome, the city of my fathers, is a prisoner under the heel of

the tyrant. It is that the glorious religion of Christ, the holy faith

in which my mother died, the faith made venerable by all these saints

around us, is made the tool and instrument of such vileness and cruelty

that one is tempted to doubt whether it were not better to have been

born of heathen in the good old times of the Roman Republic,--God

forgive me for saying so! Does the Most Christian King of France know

that the man who pretends to rule in the name of Christ is not a

believer in the Christian religion,--that he does not believe even in a

God,--that he obtained the holy seat by simony,--that he uses all its

power to enrich a brood of children whose lives are so indecent that it

is a shame to modest lips even to _say_ what they do?"

"Why, of course," said the other, "the King of France is pretty well

informed about all these things. You know old King Charles, when he

marched through Italy, had more than half a mind, they say, to pull the

old Pope out of his place; and he might have done it easily. My father

was in his train at that time, and he says the Pope was frightened

enough. Somehow they made it all up among them, and settled about their

territories, which is the main thing, after all; and now our new King, I

fancy, does not like to meddle with him: between you and me, he has his

eye in another direction here. This gay city would suit him admirably,

and he fancies he can govern it as well as it is governed now. My father

does not visit here with his eyes shut, _I_ can tell you. But as to the

Pope----Well, you see such things are delicate to handle. After all,

my dear Agostino, we are not priests,--our business is with this world;

and, no matter how they came by them, these fellows have the keys of the

kingdom of heaven, and one cannot afford to quarrel with them,--we must

have the ordinances, you know, or what becomes of our souls? Do you

suppose, now, that I should live as gay and easy a life as I do, if I

thought there were any doubt of my salvation? It's a mercy to us sinners

that the ordinances are not vitiated by the sins of the priests; it

would go hard with us, if they were: as it is, if they will live

scandalous lives, it is their affair, not ours."

"And is it nothing," replied the other, "to a true man who has taken the

holy vows of knighthood on him, whether his Lord's religion be defamed

and dishonored and made a scandal and a scoffing? Did not all Europe go

out to save Christ's holy sepulchre from being dishonored by the feet of

the Infidel? and shall we let infidels have the very house of the Lord,

and reign supreme in His holy dwelling-place? There has risen a holy

prophet in Italy, the greatest since the time of Saint Francis, and his

preaching hath stirred all hearts to live more conformably with our

holy faith; and now for his pure life and good works he is under

excommunication of the Pope, and they have seized and imprisoned him,

and threaten his life."

"Oh, you mean Savonarola," said the other. "Yes, we have heard of

him,--a most imprudent, impracticable fellow, who will not take advice

nor be guided. My father, I believe, thought well of him once, and

deemed that in the distracted state of Italy he might prove serviceable

in forwarding some of his plans: but he is wholly wrapt up in his own

notions; he heeds no will but his own."

"Have you heard anything," said Agostino, "of a letter which he wrote to

the King of France lately, stirring him up to call a General Council of

the Christian Church to consider what is to be done about the scandals

at Rome?"

"Then he has written one, has he?" replied the young man; "then the

story that I have heard whispered about here must be true. A man who

certainly is in a condition to know told me day before yesterday that

the Duke had arrested a courier with some such letter, and sent it on to

the Pope: it is likely, for the Duke hates Savonarola. If that be true,

it will go hard with him yet; for the Pope has a long arm for an enemy."

"And so," said Agostino, with an expression of deep concern, "that

letter, from which the good man hoped so much, and which was so

powerful, will only go to increase his danger!"

"The more fool he!--he might have known that it was of no use. Who was

going to take his part against the Pope?"

"The city of Florence has stood by him until lately," said

Agostino,--"and would again, with a little help."

"Oh, no! never think it, my dear Agostino! Depend upon it, it will end

as such things always do, and the man is only a madman that undertakes

it. Hark ye, cousin, what have _you_ to do with this man? Why do you

attach yourself to the side that is _sure_ to lose? I cannot conceive

what you would be at. This is no way to mend your fortunes. Come

to-night to my father's palace: the Duke has appointed us princely

lodgings, and treats us with great hospitality, and my father has plans

for your advantage. Between us, there is a fair young ward of his, of

large estates and noble blood, whom he designs for you. So you see, if

you turn your attention in this channel, there may come a reinforcement

of the family property, which will enable you to hold out until the Pope

dies, or some prince or other gets into a quarrel with him, which is

always happening, and then a move may be made for you. My father, I'll

promise you, is shrewd enough, and always keeps his eye open to see

where there is a joint in the harness, and have a trusty dagger-blade

all whetted to stick under. Of course, he means to see you righted; he

has the family interest at heart, and feels as indignant as you could at

the rascality which has been perpetrated; but I am quite sure he will

tell you that the way is not to come out openly against the Pope and

join this fanatical party."

Agostino stood silent, with the melancholy air of a man who has much to

say, and is deeply moved by considerations which he perceives it would

be utterly idle and useless to attempt to explain. If the easy theology

of his friend were indeed true,--if the treasures of the heavenly

kingdom, glory, honor, and immortality, could indeed be placed in unholy

hands to be bought and sold and traded in,--if holiness of heart

and life, and all those nobler modes of living and being which were

witnessed in the histories of the thousand saints around him, were

indeed but a secondary thing in the strife for worldly place and

territory,--what, then, remained for the man of ideas, of aspirations?

In such a state of society, his track must be like that of the dove in

sacred history who found no rest for the sole of her foot.

Agostino folded his arms and sighed deeply, and then made answer

mechanically, as one whose thoughts are afar off.

"Present my duty," he said, "to my uncle, your father, and say to him

that I will wait on him to-night."

"Even so," said the young man, picking up his cloak and folding it about

him. "And now, you know, I must go. Don't be discouraged; keep up a good

heart; you shall see what it is to have powerful friends to stand by

you; all will be right yet. Come, will you go with me now?"

"Thank you," said Agostino, "I think I would be alone a little while. My

head is confused, and I would fain think over matters a little quietly."

"Well, _au revoir_, then. I must leave you to the company of the saints.

But be sure and come early."

So saying, he threw his cloak over his shoulder and sauntered carelessly

down the marble steps, humming again the gay air with which he had

ascended.

Left alone, Agostino once more cast a glance on the strangely solemn

and impressive scene around him. He was standing on a platform of the

central tower which overlooked the whole building. The round, full moon

had now risen in the horizon, displacing by her solemn brightness

the glow of twilight; and her beams were reflected by the delicate

frost-work of the myriad pinnacles which rose in a bewildering maze

at his feet. It might seem to be some strange enchanted garden of

fairy-land, where a luxuriant and freakish growth of Nature had been

suddenly arrested and frozen into eternal stillness. Around in the

shadows at the foot of the Cathedral the lights of the great gay city

twinkled and danced and veered and fluttered like fire-flies in the

damp, dewy shadows of some moist meadow in summer. The sound of

clattering hoofs and rumbling wheels, of tinkling guitars and gay

roundelays, rose out of that obscure distance, seeming far off and

plaintive like the dream of a life that is past. The great church seemed

a vast world; the long aisles of statued pinnacles with their pure

floorings of white marble appeared as if they might be the corridors of

heaven; and it seemed as if the crowned and sceptred saints in their

white marriage-garments might come down and walk there, without ever a

spot of earth on their unsullied whiteness.

In a few moments Father Antonio had glided back to the side of the young

man, whom he found so lost in reverie that not till he laid his hand

upon his arm did he awaken from his meditations.

"Ah!" he said, with a start, "my father, is it you?"

"Yes, my son. What of your conference? Have you learned anything?"

"Father, I have learned far more than I wished to know."

"What is it, my son? Speak it at once."

"Well, then, I fear that the letter of our holy father to the King of

France has been intercepted here in Milan, and sent to the Pope."

"What makes you think so?" said the monk, with an eagerness that showed

how much he felt the intelligence.

"My cousin tells me that a person of consideration in the Duke's

household, who is supposed to be in a position to know, told him that it

was so."

Agostino felt the light grasp which the monk had laid upon his arm

gradually closing with a convulsive pressure, and that he was trembling

with intense feeling.

"Even so, Father, for so it seemed good in thy sight!" he said, after a

few moments of silence.

"It is discouraging," said Agostino, "to see how little these princes

care for the true interests of religion and the service of God,--how

little real fealty there is to our Lord Jesus."

"Yes," said the monk, "all seek their own, and not the things that are

Christ's. It is well written, 'Put not your trust in princes.'"

"And what prospect, what hope do you see for him?" said Agostino. "Will

Florence stand firm?"

"I could have thought so once," said the monk,--"in those days when I

have seen counsellors and nobles and women of the highest degree all

humbly craving to hear the word of God from his lips, and seeming to

seek nothing so much as to purify their houses, their hands, and their

hearts, that they might be worthy citizens of that commonwealth which

has chosen the Lord Jesus for its gonfalonier. I have seen the very

children thronging to kiss the hem of his robe, as he walked through the

streets; but, oh, my friend, did not Jerusalem bring palms and spread

its garments in the way of Christ only four days before he was

crucified?"

The monk's voice here faltered. He turned away and seemed to wrestle

with a tempest of suppressed sobbing. A moment more, he looked

heavenward and pointed up with a smile.

"Son," he said, "you ask _what hope there is_. I answer, There is hope

of such crowns as these wear who came out of great tribulation and now

reign with Christ in glory."

OUR ARTISTS IN ITALY.

LANDSCAPE ART.

A representation of Nature, in order to be a true landscape, must be

organic. It must not present itself as an aggregation, but as a growth.

It must manifest obedience to laws which are peculiarly its own, and

through the operation of which it has developed from the moment of

inception to that of maturity. And, moreover, that inception must have

been near a human heart, that development must have been nourished by

vitality derived from human life, and that maturity must be that of the

divine unity to which tend all the mysterious operations of organizing

energies.

We hold this to be the first essential condition of Landscape Art, the

condition without which no rendering of Nature can be Art. Other

points of excellence may be unattained. Let this be evident, that the

production is an offspring of humanity, and it shall be perceived also

that it partakes of whatever immortality the human heart inherits.

Herein is concealed the whole secret of the value of pre-Raphaelite Art,

and not, as we have been assured, in the faithfulness of its followers

to the exact representation of the individual details of Nature. Each

wrought from the love of Nature, consciously giving what truth he

possessed, unconsciously giving of his own interior life. Each picture

was the child of the painter. Yet, however much the ancient artist may

have failed in rendering the specific truths of the external world,

we can never attribute his failure to any disregard for the true.

His picture never gives the impression of falsehood; and in the most

erroneous record of the external there is ever the promise of more

truth, and this promise is not that of the man, but of the principle

governing the character of his picture.

We think that all works of Art may be divided into two distinct classes:

those which are the result of a man's whole nature, involving the

affectional, religious, and intellectual, and those which are the

productions of the intellect, and from the will. The first class

comprises those results of Art which are vital,--which come to

us through processes of growth, and impress us with a sense

of organization. The second includes those works which are

constructed,--which present an accumulation of objects mechanically

combined, parts skilfully joined through scientific means.

Earnestness and the definite purpose which is its sign, love which drew

the soul into sweetest communion with our mother Nature, giving to him

who thus came revelations of the harmonies possible between her and her

children, and devotion to his art mightier than ever inspired the Hindoo

devotee in self-sacrifice, characterized those who have given all that

pure Art which has been alluded to as the true: and such were the

majority of those artists who preceded Raphael.

True, all of those who were devoted to Landscape Art, or who made it a

part of their practice to introduce this element into their pictures,

often failed in attaining truth; but, by some strange power with

which they have invested their landscapes, an impulse is given to the

perception, and the essential truth, feebly hinted at, perhaps, is

recognized. But as the record comes down through the years, each

new picture approximates more nearly to the character of the scene

attempted, with, occasionally, (as in the works of Masaccio,) touches of

truth absolutely perfect, until at last appeared that man altogether at

one with Nature, who reproduced Nature in all its glory, pomp, freedom,

and life, as might an archangel. Titian brought to perfection the first

great class of Landscape Art, and, of course, in doing so, perfected

that department which was the only one as yet developed, and which

remains a distinct branch, subject to its own peculiar laws. We refer to

the rendering of natural scenery, beginning in the merely and completely

subordinate accessory, and ending, with Titian, in the perfectly

dignified and noble companionship of the visible universe with man.

We speak of this Art perfected far back, because we feel assured that

landscape, as accessory to the historical, has an ideal altogether

distinct from that of pure landscape.

It would not be just, perhaps, to regard the law which necessitates this

ideal as a law of subordination, although that condition prevails up to

the time of Titian. Nature, to the true man, never presents itself as

subordinate, but as correspondently ever equal with man, ever ready with

possibilities to match his own. So true is this, that a man's universe,

that of which his vision takes possession, is a part of himself, subject

to his sorrows and joys, his hope and his despair: to him, the violets,

the mountains, and the far-away worlds, throbbing in unison with his own

heart-beat, are in some wise the signs or the manifestations of his own

soul's possibilities. And he is right. That of the flower which is its

beauty, that of the mountains which is their magnificent grandeur, that

of the stars which is their ineffable glory and sublimity, is his, is

within him, is a part of his soul's life, waxing or waning so in unison

with its richness or poverty that wise men mark the soul's stature by

the part of it which is akin to the violets, the hills, or the infinite

sky.

"The world is as large as a man's head." In that there is a fine hint

of a great truth, but beyond that is _the_ truth. It is not the mere

knowledge of Alcyone that necessitates the sublime. After that comes the

wonder. The world is as large as is a man, and its relation to him

is marked by a sympathy which acts and reacts with the certainty and

precision of law.

The ideal of Landscape Art, used in alliance with representations of

the human figure, must, then, be founded upon this immutable sympathy

between the landscape world and the human. Thus, in the painting alluded

to in the article on Mr. Page, "The Entombment" of the Louvre, the

landscape is charged with the solemnity of the hour. No blade of grass

or shadow of leaf but seems conscious of the great event, and the sky

reveals, by its heavenly tenderness, that there all is known.

How different in expression, yet how similar in strength, is the

landscape of that seeming miracle, "The Presentation in the Temple"!

It is clear, confident day,--so pure and perfect a day abroad over the

happy earth, that all things lure forth into an atmosphere so unsullied

that to breathe it is life and joy,--over an earth youthful with spring,

fresh with morning; and hither have come the people to see confirmed the

future mother of Christ, now the child Mary. As the maiden ascends the

steps of the Temple, a halo surrounds her,--not her head alone, but all

the form,--and far away a fainter halo rests upon the hills. Her youth,

its purity and half-recognized promise, seem sweetly imaged in the

morning freshness and spring-life of the landscape.

We can remember no landscape by Titian which is not in full sympathy

with the motives which actuate his groups. It is the unison of scene and

act that gives his pictures a unity and completeness never or rarely

found elsewhere.

After Titian came painters--among them, mighty ones--who, like

Tintoretto, wrought from the external. The elements of the landscape

were treated with knowledge and power, but not often with feeling, and

very seldom with a recognition of its central significance. One example

is so marvellous, however, that we cannot forbear referring to it. Its

truthfulness is the more remarkable from the fact that the painter's

conceptions rarely were such that any true landscape could be found

capable of harmony with their character. In this picture, "The

Temptation of Saint Anthony," one of the Pitti Palace Gallery, Salvator

has wrought marvellously like a demon. The horizon and the sky near it

are charged with a sense of demoniacal conflict for human souls, and

forebodings of defeat and woe.

Yet within this, mantling the remotest depths, there is a sheen of

light, a gleam of hope and faith.

In our own times there is little to refer to illustrative of excellence

in this branch of Art. Overbeck makes frequent use of natural scenery,

and his delicate yet firm outlines repeat, hill and valley and clouds,

the sentiment of peace and purity which pervades his noble productions.

Not that there are not produced frequently, and especially in France,

works remarkable for truth and power. But, too often, the truths are

redundant, and the power vanquishes the sentiments of the group.

One artist in France, Rosa Bonheur, has, however, embodied conceptions

so noble, so in unison with the finest Nature, that its most glorious

and most significant scenery, rendered with a handling akin to the old

mastership, is alone adequate to sympathize with and sustain them. I

need but refer to the wonderful view of the Pyrenees in the picture of

"The Muleteers," the tender morning spirit of that heathery scene in the

Highlands, and that miracle of representation, the near ground, crisp

and frosty, of Mr. Belmont's "Hunters in Early Morning."

American Art, as represented in Italy, has few examples of excellence in

this branch of painting. Its followers have wrought more persistently

in other directions, toward the expression of a class of ideals rarely

involving the one which we have attempted to analyze. Yet, occasionally,

an artist has appeared, making Rome or Florence his home long enough to

win a place, which, when he has departed, is not quickly filled, who has

ideas of history and events calling for the record of the palette;

or there has been wrought in the studio of some resident painter a

composition in which landscape has been employed as accessory.

In many instances there have been produced works which reflect the

highest honor upon our country. As it is foreign to the purpose of

the present paper to deal with other than the different phases of

landscape-painting, we forbear to speak as their merits suggest of the

figure portions of the works of Mr. Rothermel, the result of his brief

sojourn in Italy. In any passage of scenery, and particularly in sky

forms and tones, the expression and character are always such as

support vigorously the action of his group. We say vigorously; for Mr.

Rothermel, in his Italian pictures, revealed an artistic nature related

to humanity in its most agitated moods, as in the "Lear," and in the

"Saint Agnese,"--this beautiful picture being, however, a higher

conception, inasmuch as in it the spirit might find some rest in the

stillness of the maiden Agnese, already saint and about to be martyr,

and in the deep blue sky, on whose field linger white clouds, like lambs

"shepherded by the slow unwilling winds."

Brief mention was made, in our allusion to Mr. Page's picture of the

"Flight into Egypt," to its landscape. This work was executed in Rome,

and its peculiar tone excited much interest among the friends of Mr.

Field, its fortunate possessor. A beautiful, yet not altogether original

idea, finds expression in the foreground group, where Mary, poised upon

the back of the ass, folds the child in her arms, the animal snatches at

a wayside weed, Joseph, drawing tightly the long rope by which he

leads, bends away into the desert with weird energy. In all other

representations of this subject the accessory landscape has usually been

living with full-foliaged trees, abundant herbage, and copious streams.

To indicate the Egyptian phase of its character, palms have been

introduced, as in the beautiful picture by Claude in the Doria Gallery,

and almost invariably the scene has been one of luxury and peace.

But with the event itself all this conflicts. In it were sorrow and

apprehension and death. The fugitives saw not then the safety, nor

anticipated the victory. In this picture, beyond and before the hurrying

group, stretches the immeasurable, hungry sand. A sad golden-brown

haze--such as sometimes comes in our Indian summer, when the hectic

autumn rests silent, mournful and hopeless, in the arms of Nature--

pervades the plain; while on the horizon far away,--an infinite distance

it seems, so strangely spectral are they,--rise the Pyramids, just those

awful ghosts against the ominous sky!

As different as are the subjects he chooses are the bits of scenery

Hamilton Wild introduces in his pictures of life as it now is. His are

more truly historical paintings, although aspiring to no record of the

greatly bad and sorrowful transactions of our age. They represent the

joy and hope of youth, the cheerfulness and vivacity of the lowly, their

pleasantest pursuits, their most primitive customs, their characteristic

and often superb costumes; and wherever a passage of scenery occurs, it

is always that which has aided in developing the human life with which

it is associated.

There is never a discrepancy, nor is unison of sentiment ever achieved

by any bending of the truth. His keen sense of harmony never fails to

perceive, in the infinite range of tones and expressions of Nature, just

that which better than all others supports the character and action of

his group. With motives so healthful, it may be less difficult to find

that sympathy which Nature cheerfully gives; yet there is a tendency

with artists to be enticed away from Nature's joyousness, and especially

from her simplicity.

To this temptation Mr. Wild can never have been subjected. The freedom

which he manifests is not that which has been won, but into which he

must have been born, and with that grew the ability which transfigures

labor into play. Unto such a Nature the out-world presents unasked her

phases of joy and brightness, her light and life.

Does he seek Nature? No. Nature goes with him; and whether he tarry

among the Lagoons, where all seems Art or Death, or in the shadow and

desolation of the Campagna, in the unclean villages of the Alban Hills,

or where the shadows of deserted palaces fall black, broken, and jagged

on the red earth of Granada, there she companions him. She shows him,

that, after all, Venice is hers, and gives him the white marble enriched

with subtilest films of gold, alabaster which the processes of her

incessant years have changed to Oriental amber, a city made opalescent

by the magic of her sunsets. At Rome she opens vistas away from the

sepulchral, out into the wine-colored light of the Campagna, into

the peace gladdened by larks and the bleating of lambs; above are

pines,--Italian pines,--and across the path falls the still shadow of

blooming oleanders. She leads away from squalid towns, and gathers a

group of her children,--peasants, costumed in scarlet and gold, under

the grape-laden festoons of vines, while the now distant village glows

like cliffs of Carrara. How lavish she must have been of her old ideal

Spain, the while he dwelt in Granada!--the dance of the gypsies;

pomegranates heavy with ripeness hanging among the quivering glossy

leaves; olives gleaming with soft ashy whiteness, as the south-wind

wanders across their grove up to where the towers of the Alhambra lift

golden and pale lilac against the clear sky.

We have dwelt thus lengthily upon this primitive and apparently less

important branch of Landscape Art for several reasons: from a conviction

that its importance is, and is only apparently less; from the fact that

from it have been derived all other classes of landscape; and because a

comprehension of its scope and purpose aids more than any other agency

in understanding those of the pure and simple Landscape Art.

We have seen Nature ever ready with moods so related to the soul that

no ideal worthy of Art might be conceived beyond the range of her

sympathies. Even to that event involving all the intensity of human

thought and feeling, the last refinement of all spiritual emotion, and

a sense of mysteries more sublime than the creation of worlds,--even to

the Crucifixion,--Nature gathered herself, as the only possible

sign, the only expression for men, then and forever, of the awful

significance. The joyfulness of festivals, the pomp of processions,

the sublimity of great martyrdoms, the sorrow of defeats, the peace of

holiness, the innocence and sweetness of childhood, the hope of manhood,

and the retrospection of old age, when represented upon the canvas, find

in her forms and colors endless refrain of response.

This truth, that Nature is capable of such cooperation with the human,

that she confines herself to no country or continent, and that her

expressions are not relative, depending upon the suggestiveness of the

human action to which they correspond, but are positive and under the

rule of the immutable, enables the artist to evolve the first great

class of simple landscape-painting.

Had Art always been real and artists ever true, this consideration must

have called forth this class. It being true that natural scenery readily

allies itself with representations of the human figure in order to

express more perfectly than otherwise possible the ideal, it must be

through affinity with that which evolves the ideal, and only by indirect

relation to its sign or visible manifestation in form-language. Then why

not found a school of landscape by discarding the human figure as an

element of expression? A man comes who is born to the easel, yet who

feels no impulse to represent the practical effect upon human faces and

limbs of the various emotions, passions, and sentiments which demand

utterance. His thought is to hold himself to his kindred by more subtile

and far more delicate bonds. He knows that any one can look upon the

"Huguenot Lovers," by Millais, and feel responsive; for it occupies a

great plane, a part of which may be mistaken for passion. But he feels

that the love of Thekla and Max Piccolomini will permit no effigy but

that sacred bank beyond the cliffs of Libussa's Castle, whither come no

footsteps nor jarring of wheels, but only the sound of the deep Moldau

and of remote bells. It is the essence of the ideal which compels his

imagination, not the limited and restless circumstance which chanced

to occur as its revelator. Then the day uprises as if conscious of his

inner life and purpose. Then she gives him breadth after breadth of

color, within which is traced her no longer mystic alphabet. How

significant are the forms she gives him for the foreground, sweet

monosyllables! There are pansies, and rue, and violets, and rosemary.

Among these and their companions children walk and learn, and to the

child-man, the artist to be, she proffers these emblems. Should he

accept her gifts, then all this wonderful world of Art-Nature is open to

him. He inherits, possesses beyond all deeds, above all statutes,--as

does Mr. Gay, who painted that great, though unassuming, picture of "The

Marshes of Cohasset."

Because Art was not held to the highest, few men have known the

elevation of this department of landscape-painting. Too deep or too

devoted a life seems to have been required, too constant communion with

Nature, or too broad a study of her phenomena. Unfortunately, we have

few representatives of this class, in Italy,--Mr. Wild producing

only rarely works which to the principles hinted at are precious

illustrations. After the remarks we have made, we fear that allusion to

the existing facts of painting may be deemed disparaging. Not so; we

deprecate such a conclusion. One great and living picture marks the man.

To be true to himself and Nature is the first duty, even should he be

compelled to stand lifelong with his face towards the west, in order to

possess his soul in Art.

One of the pleasantest styles of landscape painting is that where the

artist, in a mood of deep peace, sits down in the midst of scenes

endeared by long and sweet association, and records in all tenderness

their spirit and beauty. Such scenery Italy affords, and the Alban

Hills seem to be the centre whence radiate all phases of the lovely and

beautiful in Nature. There her forms have conspired with all the highest

and rarest phenomena of light to render her state unapproachably

glorious.

There has also been given such an artist,--a woman altogether truthful,

strong, and nobly delicate; and although several years have passed since

she left Italy, her representations of scenery peculiarly Italian are

too remarkable to be passed unnoticed. Indeed, this lady, Miss Sarah

Jane Clark, is the only artist whose works are illustrative of a

style of simple Landscape Art which unites in itself the love and

conscientiousness of early Art and the precision and science of the

modern. Her picture of Albano is wonderful,--not from the rendering of

unusual or brilliant effects, but from a sense of genuineness. We feel

that it grew. The flower and leaf forms which enrich the near ground are

such as spring up on days like the one she has chosen. Another month,

and new combinations would have given another key to her work and

rendered the present impossible. In that real landscape had wrought

the secret vitality clothing the earth in leafage and bloom. In its

representation we see that a still more refined, a diviner vitality, has

evolved leaf, flower, and golden grain. Another fact associated with

this painting, as well as with some of its companions, is its character

of restraint.

Temperance in Landscape Art is very difficult in the vicinity of

Rome. In this picture the scene sweeps downward, with most gentle

and undulating inclination, over vast groves of olive and luxuriant

vineyards, to the Campagna with its convex waves of green and gold, on

which float the wrecks of cities, out to the sea itself, not so far away

as to conceal the flashing of waves upon the beach. Daily, over this

groundwork, so deftly wrought for their reception, are cast fields and

mighty bands of violet and rose, of amber and pale topaz, of blue,

orange, and garnet, upon the sea. It is as if an aurora had fallen from

Arctic skies, living, changeful, evanescent, athwart sea, plain, and

mountain. Here is sore temptation for the colorist; more, perhaps,

than by the wealth and combination of tints, he is affected by their

celestial quality. All is prismatic, or like those hues produced by the

interference of rays of light as seen in the colors of stars. Gorgeous

as are these phenomena, they are also as transitory; and although the

scene is repeated, it is with such subtile and such great changes as to

remove it from the grasp of the painter who wishes to study his work

wholly from Nature. The eye must be quick and the brush obedient, to

catch the fleeting glories of those Alban sunsets. Even the imperial

hand of Turner could give us only reminiscences.

The allurements to adopt a style of coloring involving these effects

must have been great to one whose love of color amounted to a passion.

Only a still greater love could have drawn her of whom we speak to the

more subdued, but higher plane upon which she stands,--and that must

have been a love of truth, and of that which has appealed to her nature

through repetition's sweet influences. This is the scene lying in deep

repose in open, permanent day. Trees, hills, plain, and sea forget the

flying hours. Yesterday they did not remember, serene and changeless as

ivy on the wall. So gradual has been the transition, so slowly has the

surface of the grain lifted from the rippling blade to the billowy

stalk, so continually have the scarlet poppies bloomed since May came,

that, to her, this is ever the same beneficent and dear spot, sacred to

her soul, as well as fitting type and sign of her pure Art.

The class of landscape-painting which deals with morning and evening

phenomena, and is based upon the fleeting and transitory, is the only

one that finds representation at present in Italy. Mr. Brown has

developed new and peculiar strength since his return to America, and

must require place from his new stand-point. Abel Nichols, whose copies

of Claude were so truthful, and whose original pictures ever strove to

be so, who through surpassing sacrifice became great, who lived, if ever

man has, the wonderful Christ-life, now sleeps the sleep of peace, the

last peace, under the sod of the landscape of his nativity.

There remains to be considered a series of undeniably remarkable

pictures, executed in Rome by John Rollin Tilton.

This artist's landscapes are remarkable for the conflicting effects

which they have produced on the public. They have excited, as they have

been exhibited in his studio in Rome, great enthusiasm, and admiration

which would listen to no criticism. Until perhaps the present year,

which is one of prostration in Rome, his works could not be purchased,

each one being the fulfilment of a commission given long before. These

commissions were given not by men merely wealthy, but by men widely

known for cultivation, discrimination, and for refinement of that taste

which requires the influences of Art. On the other hand, men equally as

remarkable for their accomplishments in matters of taste have expressed

their condemnation of all the paintings of Mr. Tilton, or rather for

those executed prior to 1859, and there were those who heaped them with

ridicule. In admiration and condemnation we have often shared;--in the

sentiment of ridicule never; for in all attempts there have been the

hintings of worthy purpose and a desire to excel.

Those who most despise Mr. Tilton's style and productions are men whose

tendencies are to the theories of English pre-Raphaelism. Viewed in

relation to those principles, his pictures have little value. The

purchasers of them are the men who regard with enthusiastic admiration

the evanescent splendors of Nature.

Mr. Tilton's early ambition was to be the painter to fulfil the demands

of this latter class. He not only sympathized with it in its greater

admiration for "effects" in Nature, but he found associated therewith an

enthusiasm which inspired him with unbounded hope and energy.

When he came to Rome, the Campagnian sunsets were found to be

representative of the peculiar class of effects which he regarded as the

manifestation of his feeling; and so he forthwith took possession of

that part of the day which was passing while the sun performed the last

twelve degrees of his daily journey. Other portions of the twenty-four

hours did not appear to excite even ordinary interest; and whenever

conversation involved consideration of scenery under other than the

favorite character, he was prone to silence, or to attempts to change

the subject. Yet he has been known to speak in terms of commendation

of certain sunrises, and once was actually caught by a friend making a

sketch of Pilatus at sunrise across the Lake of Lucerne.

The objects in the immediate foreground shared in the neglect which

attached to certain seasons. They were ignored as organized members of

what should be a living foreground, and their places were concealed by

unintelligible pigment. As to life there, he wanted none: light,--light

that gleams, and color to reflect it, were his aim. As an inevitable

attending result of these principles, or practices, the structure of the

whole landscape was ambiguous. The essential line and point were evaded,

and one perceived that the artist had _watched_ far more attentively

than he had studied Nature.

At the same time the pictures produced in this studio were marked by

qualities of great beauty. The peculiarly ethereal character of the vast

bands of thin vapors made visible by the slant rays of the sun, and

illuminated with tints which are exquisitely pure and prismatic, was

rendered with surprising success. On examination, the tints which were

used to represent the prismatic character of those of Nature were found

to present surfaces of such excessive delicacy, that the evanescence of

the natural phenomena was suggested, and apprehensions were indulged as

to the permanency of the effects. That noble north light of a cloudless

Roman sky did not extend far, hardly to Civita Vecchia, certainly not

to England, Old or New; and with a less friendly hand than his own to

expose his work, under sight still less kind, there might be presented a

picture bereft of all but its faults. Such has been the case.

We here dismiss willingly further recollection of the works to which we

have called attention. They are marked by error in theory, inasmuch as

they show neglect of the specific and essential, and by feebleness of

system, inasmuch as under no other light than that in which they were

painted could their finer qualities be perceived. Yet it is but just

to add that these were produced during a state of transition from one

method of applying pigments to another of totally different character.

This period of the painter's experience was brought to a close by the

better one of a summer residence at Pieve di Cadore, a village among the

Friulian Alps. Thither he might have gone merely to make a pilgrimage

to the birthplace of Titian; for other reason than _that_ he stayed in

Cadore. He stayed for life, truth, and correction, and he found all. No

other place on the continent could have afforded Mr. Tilton the benefit

that this mountain village did. Here was no ambiguity, no optical

illusion, but frank; ingenuous Nature. The peaks which guarded the

valley were clear and immutable. They suffered no conflicting opinions;

accident had done little to disguise, their true character, but Nature

held them as specimens of the essential in mountain structure. That the

lesson of these peaks might not be forgotten, the student finds them

copied accurately in nearly every landscape painted by Titian. The

magnificent one in "The Presentation in the Temple" was his favorite.

The sketches of this period show that the artist's attention was divided

between the study of these hill forms and of the luxuriant vegetation

of the sloping fields and pastures so characteristic of Swiss scenery.

Cadore is most richly endowed in this respect. The hill-sides are

burdened with flowers, many of which are large and of tropical splendor.

The green of the broad fields is modified by the burden of blossoms. We

have seen against the background of one of these steepest fields what

seemed to be a column of delicate blue smoke wreathing up the hill-side.

In reality it was a bed of wild forget-me-nots, which marked the course

of a minute rill. Under such influences as these, a man born to be a

painter, to whom Art is all, whose hand never fails to execute, and

whose mind has risen above any erroneous combination of principles which

may have checked his progress toward the greatly excellent, must

find himself with new strength, a chastened imagination, and broader

conceptions of his art.

The results of Mr. Tilton's labors since the summer in the Alps prove

that such was the effect upon him. His pictures have of late occupied

nearly every class of Landscape Art. The works now wrought in his Roman

studio are indicative of great changes in feeling, and are marked by

surprising improvements in execution. Yet the individuality of the

artist is impressed upon every canvas. The changes to which we refer are

these,--foregrounds suggested by or painted from living forms. In one

view of Nemi we saw a superb black, gold, and crimson butterfly resting

on a flower. Yet these foregrounds require more strength, more "body,"

more of that which artists achieve who achieve nothing else. We notice

far more individualism in tree forms. The ideal tree, that is, the tree

as it should be, and the conventional one coming against the sky on one

side of the composition, the one bequeathed by Claude, have given place

to Nature's homelier types. The question as to the meaning of passages

no longer arises. The lines are drawn with a decision, with a sense of

certainty, raising them above all doubt. In the rendering of distant

mountains, Mr. Dillon evinces new knowledge of what such forms

necessarily imply,--their tendency to monotone and to flatness, yet

preserving all their essential surface markings, and their inevitable

cutting outline against the sky,--which sharpness Mr. Tilton as yet has

only hinted at, not represented. Positive edges are the true.--But we

have no further space to devote to these particulars of landscape form.

In these Mr. Tilton has many rivals and not a few superiors.

There is left us the pleasant privilege of alluding to an ability which

we believe he shares with none, and which enables him to give his

present pictures their great value. This is the power to discriminate

accurately between the several classes of color,--the local, the

reflected, and the prismatic. It will be found on reference to most

landscapes, especially those of the English schools, that it is the

understanding, already informed on the subject, which accepts as

reflected the continual attempts to render this kind of color: they are

regarded as indicative. But the eye, which should have been satisfied

first, recognizes nothing more than local coloring. Near objects, under

broad, open daylight, yield us their local coloring,--as the surfaces

of stones, the trunks of trees, and the many tints of soil and

vegetation,--yet even here all is modified by reflections. We remember

a cliff at L'Ariccia, which, gray in morning light, became, as evening

approached, a marvellous beryl green, upon which some large poppies cast

wafts of purest scarlet. Farther away, both local and reflected color

lose their power. The rays no longer convey information of surfaces as

separate existences. Nature gathers up into masses, and these masses

tide back to the foreground colors far removed in character from the

near. Vast combinations of rays and atmospheric influences have wrought

this change. As we have said, noon gives us the earth clean and itself;

but, as the sun declines, flushes of color pass along the ground. Their

character we have already described. The particles which fill the

atmosphere just above the surface of the earth become illuminated and

visible in radiant masses. Farther away there is floated over the

mountains a miraculous bloom, a bloom like that upon virgin fruit; and

still more remote, upon the far sea, there is a dream of amber mantling

the sleeping blue. To render these effects, to give us the illuminated

air, the soft green which the mossy sod casts upon the shaded cliff, the

precious bloom upon the hills, and the tints diffused along the sea,--to

achieve this so completely that there never shall be any doubt, to give

us upon the canvas what shall be all this to the beholder, is great, and

this Mr. Tilton has performed.

THE EXPERIENCES OF THE A. C.

"Bridgeport! Change cars for the Naugatuck Railroad!" shouted the

conductor of the New York and Boston Express Train, on the evening of

May 27th, 1858. Indeed, he does it every night, (Sundays excepted,)

for that matter; but as this story refers especially to Mr. J. Edward

Johnson, who was a passenger on that train, on the aforesaid evening,

I make special mention of the fact. Mr. Johnson, carpet-bag in hand,

jumped upon the platform, entered the office, purchased a ticket for

Waterbury, and was soon whirling in the Naugatuck train towards his

destination.

On reaching Waterbury, in the soft spring twilight, Mr. Johnson walked

up and down in front of the station, curiously scanning the faces of the

assembled crowd. Presently he noticed a gentleman who was performing

the same operation upon the faces of the alighting passengers. Throwing

himself directly in the way of the latter, the two exchanged a steady

gaze.

"Is your name Billings?" "Is your name Johnson?" were simultaneous

questions, followed by the simultaneous exclamations,--"Ned!" "Enos!"

Then there was a crushing grasp of hands, repeated after a pause,

in testimony of ancient friendship, and Mr. Billings, returning to

practical life, asked,--

"Is that all your baggage? Come, I have a buggy here: Eunice has heard

the whistle, and she'll be impatient to welcome you."

The impatience of Eunice (Mrs. Billings, of course) was not of long

duration; for in five minutes thereafter she stood at the door of her

husband's chocolate-colored villa, receiving his friend.

While these three persons are comfortably seated at the tea-table,

enjoying their waffles, cold tongue, and canned peaches, and asking

and answering questions helter-skelter in the delightful confusion of

reunion after long separation, let us briefly inform the reader who and

what they are.

Mr. Enos Billings, then, was part owner of a manufactory of metal

buttons, forty years old, of middling height, ordinarily quiet and

rather shy, but with a large share of latent warmth and enthusiasm in

his nature. His hair was brown, slightly streaked with gray, his eyes a

soft, dark hazel, forehead square, eye-brows straight, nose of no very

marked character, and mouth moderately full, with a tendency to twitch

a little at the corners. His voice was undertoned, but mellow and

agreeable.

Mrs. Eunice Billings, of nearly equal age, was a good specimen of the

wide-awake New-England woman. Her face had a piquant smartness of

expression, which might have been refined into a sharp edge, but for her

natural hearty good-humor. Her head was smoothly formed, her face a full

oval, her hair and eyes blond and blue in a strong light, but brown and

steel-gray at other times, and her complexion of that ripe fairness into

which a ruddier color will sometimes fade. Her form, neither plump nor

spare, had yet a firm, elastic compactness, and her slightest movement

conveyed a certain impression of decision and self-reliance.

As for J. Edward Johnson, it is enough to say that he was a tall,

thin gentleman of forty-five, with an aquiline nose, narrow face, and

military whiskers, which swooped upwards and met under his nose in a

glossy black moustache. His complexion was dark, from the bronzing of

fifteen summers in New Orleans. He was a member of a wholesale hardware

firm in that city, and had now revisited his native North for the first

time since his departure. A year before, some letters relating to

invoices of metal buttons, signed "Foster, Kirkup, & Co., per Enos

Billings," had accidentally revealed to him the whereabouts of the old

friend of his youth, with whom we now find him domiciled. The first

thing he did, after attending to some necessary business matters in New

York, was to take the train for Waterbury.

"Enos," said he, as he stretched out his hand for the third cup of tea,

(which he had taken only for the purpose of prolonging the pleasant

table-chat,) "I wonder which of us is most changed."

"You, of course," said Mr. Billings, "with your brown face and big

moustache. Your own brother wouldn't have known you, if he had seen you

last, as I did, with smooth cheeks and hair of unmerciful length. Why,

not even your voice is the same!"

"That is easily accounted for," replied Mr. Johnson. "But in your case,

Enos, I am puzzled to find where the difference lies. Your features seem

to be but little changed, now that I can examine them at leisure; yet it

is not the same face. But, really, I never looked at you for so long

a time, in those days. I beg pardon: you used to be so--so remarkably

shy."

Mr. Billings blushed slightly, and seemed at a loss what to answer. His

wife, however, burst into a merry laugh, exclaiming,--

"Oh, that was before the days of the A.C.!"

He, catching the infection, laughed also: in fact, Mr. Johnson laughed,

but without knowing why.

"The 'A.C.'!" said Mr. Billings. "Bless me, Eunice! how long it is since

we have talked of that summer! I had almost forgotten that there ever

was an A.C."

"Enos, _could_ you ever forget Abel Mallory and the beer?--or that scene

between Hollins and Shelldrake?--or" (here _she_ blushed the least bit)

"your own fit of candor?" And she laughed again, more heartily than

ever.

"What a precious lot of fools, to be sure!" exclaimed her husband.

Mr. Johnson, meanwhile, though enjoying the cheerful humor of his hosts,

was not a little puzzled with regard to its cause.

"What is the A.C.?" he ventured to ask.

Mr. and Mrs. Billings looked at each other, and smiled, without

replying.

"Really, Ned," said the former, finally, "the answer to your question

involves the whole story."

"Then why not tell him the whole story, Enos?" remarked his wife.

"You know I've never told it yet, and it's rather a hard thing to do,

seeing that I'm one of the heroes of the farce,--for it wasn't even

genteel comedy, Ned," said Mr. Billings. "However," he continued,

"absurd as the story may seem, it's the only key to the change in my

life, and I must run the risk of being laughed at."

"I'll help you through, Enos," said his wife, encouragingly; "and

besides, my _rôle_ in the farce was no better than yours. Let us

resuscitate, for to-night only, the constitution of the A.C."

"Upon my word, a capital idea! But we shall have to initiate Ned."

Mr. Johnson merrily agreeing, he was blindfolded and conducted into

another room. A heavy arm-chair, rolling on casters, struck his legs in

the rear, and he sank into it with lamb-like resignation.

"Open your mouth!" was the command, given with mock solemnity.

He obeyed.

"Now shut it!"

And his lips closed upon a cigar, while at the same time the

handkerchief was whisked away from his eyes. He found himself in Mr.

Billings's library.

"Your nose betrays your taste, Mr. Johnson," said the lady, "and I am

not hard-hearted enough to deprive you of the indulgence. Here are

matches."

"Well," said he, acting upon the hint, "if the remainder of the

ceremonies are equally agreeable, I should like to be a permanent member

of your order."

By this time Mr. and Mrs. Billings, having between them lighted the

lamp, stirred up the coal in the grate, closed the doors, and taken

possession of comfortable chairs, the latter proclaimed,--

"The Chapter (isn't that what you call it?) will now be held!"

"Was it in '43 when you left home, Ned?" asked Mr. B.

"Yes."

"Well, the A.C. culminated in '45. You remember something of the society

of Norridgeport, the last winter you were there? Abel Mallory, for

instance?"

"Let me think a moment," said Mr. Johnson, reflectively. "Really, it

seems like looking back a hundred years. Mallory,--wasn't that the

sentimental young man, with wispy hair, a tallowy skin, and big, sweaty

hands, who used to be spouting Carlyle on the 'reading evenings' at

Shelldrake's? Yes, to be sure; and there was Hollins, with his clerical

face and infidel talk,--and Pauline Ringtop, who used to say, 'The

Beautiful is the Good.' I can still hear her shrill voice singing,

'Would that _I_ were beautiful, would that _I_ were fair!'"

There was a hearty chorus of laughter at poor Miss Ringtop's expense.

It harmed no one, however; for the tar-weed was already thick over her

Californian grave.

"Oh, I see," said Mr. Billings, "you still remember the absurdities of

those days. In fact, I think you partially saw through them then. But I

was younger, and far from being so clear-headed, and I looked upon those

evenings at Shelldrake's as being equal, at least, to the _symposia_ of

Plato. Something in Mallory always repelled me. I detested the sight of

his thick nose, with the flaring nostrils, and his coarse, half-formed

lips, of the bluish color of raw corned-beef. But I looked upon these

feelings as unreasonable prejudices, and strove to conquer them, seeing

the admiration which he received from others. He was an oracle on the

subject of 'Nature.' Having eaten nothing for two years, except

Graham bread, vegetables without salt, and fruits, fresh or dried,

he considered himself to have attained an antediluvian purity of

health,--or that he would attain it, so soon as two pimples on his left

temple should have healed. These pimples he looked upon as the last

feeble stand made by the pernicious juices left from the meat he had

formerly eaten and the coffee he had drunk. His theory was, that through

a body so purged and purified none but true and natural impulses could

find access to the soul. Such, indeed, was the theory we all held. A

Return to Nature was the near Millennium, the dawn of which we already

beheld in the sky. To be sure, there was a difference in our individual

views as to how this should be achieved, but we were all agreed as to

what the result should be.

"I can laugh over those days now, Ned; but they were really happy while

they lasted. We were the salt of the earth; we were lifted above those

grovelling instincts which we saw manifested in the lives of others.

Each contributed his share of gas to inflate the painted balloon to

which we all clung, in the expectation that it would presently soar

with us to the stars. But it only went up over the out-houses, dodged

backwards and forwards two or three times, and finally flopped down with

us into a swamp."

"And that balloon was the A. C.?" suggested Mr. Johnson.

"As President of this Chapter, I prohibit questions," said Eunice. "And,

Enos, don't send up your balloon until the proper time. Don't anticipate

the programme, or the performance will be spoiled."

"I had almost forgotten that Ned is so much in the dark," her obedient

husband answered. "You can have but a slight notion," he continued,

turning to his friend, "of the extent to which this sentimental, or

transcendental, element in the little circle at Shelldrake's increased

after you left Norridgeport. We read the 'Dial,' and Emerson; we

believed in Alcott as the 'purple Plato' of modern times; we took

psychological works out of the library, and would listen for hours to

Hollins while he read Schelling or Fichte, and then go home with a

misty impression of having imbibed infinite wisdom. It was, perhaps,

a natural, though very eccentric rebound from the hard, practical,

unimaginative New-England mind which surrounded us; yet I look back upon

it with a kind of wonder. I was then, as you know, unformed mentally,

and might have been so still, but for the experiences of the A. C."

Mr. Johnson shifted his position, a little impatiently. Eunice looked at

him with laughing eyes, and shook her finger with a mock threat.

"Shelldrake," continued Mr. Billings, without noticing this by-play,

"was a man of more pretence than real cultivation, as I afterwards

discovered. He was in good circumstances, and always glad to receive us

at his house, as this made him, virtually, the chief of our tribe,

and the outlay for refreshments involved only the apples from his

own orchard and water from his well. There was an entire absence of

conventionality at our meetings, and this, compared with the somewhat

stiff society of the village, was really an attraction. There was a

mystic bond of union in our ideas: we discussed life, love, religion,

and the future state, not only with the utmost candor, but with a warmth

of feeling which, in many of us, was genuine. Even I (and you know how

painfully shy and bashful I was) felt myself more at home there than in

my father's house; and if I didn't talk much, I had a pleasant feeling

of being in harmony with those who did.

"Well, 'twas in the early part of '45,--I think in April,--when we were

all gathered together, discussing, as usual, the possibility of leading

a life in accordance with Nature. Abel Mallory was there, and Hollins,

and Miss Ringtop, and Faith Levis, with her knitting,--and also Eunice

Hazleton, a lady whom you have never seen, but you may take my wife as

her representative"----

"Stick to the programme, Enos," interrupted Mrs. Billings.

"Eunice Hazleton, then. I wish I could recollect some of the speeches

made on that occasion. Abel had but one pimple on his temple, (there was

a purple spot where the other had been,) and was estimating that in two

or three months more he would be a true, unspoiled man. His complexion,

nevertheless, was more clammy and whey-like than ever.

"'Yes,' said he, 'I also am an Arcadian! This false dual existence which

I have been leading will soon be merged in the unity of Nature. Our

lives must conform to her sacred law. Why can't we strip off these

hollow Shams,' (he made great use of that word,) 'and be our true

selves, pure, perfect, and divine?'

"Miss Ringtop heaved a sigh, and repeated a stanza from her favorite

poet:--

"'Ah, when wrecked are my desires

On the everlasting Never,

And my heart with all its fires

Out forever,

In the cradle of Creation

Finds the soul resuscitation!'

"Shelldrake, however, turning to his wife, said,--

"'Elviry, how many up-stairs rooms is there in that house down on the

Sound?'

"'Four,--besides three small ones under the roof. Why, what made you

think of that, Jesse?' said she.

"'I've got an idea, while Abel's been talking,' he answered. 'We've

taken a house for the summer, down the other side of Bridgeport, right

on the water, where there's good fishing and a fine view of the Sound.

Now, there's room enough for all of us,--at least, all that can make it

suit to go. Abel, you and Enos, and Pauline and Eunice might fix matters

so that we could all take the place in partnership, and pass the summer

together, living a true and beautiful life in the bosom of Nature. There

we shall be perfectly free and untrammelled by the chains which still

hang around us in Norridgeport. You know how often we have wanted to be

set on some island in the Pacific Ocean, where we could build up a

true society, right from the start. Now, here's a chance to try the

experiment for a few months, anyhow.'

"Eunice clapped her hands (yes, you did!) and cried out,--

"'Splendid! Arcadian! I'll give up my school for the summer.'

"Miss Ringtop gave her opinion in another quotation:--

"'The rainbow hues of the Ideal

Condense to gems, and form the Real!'

"Abel Mallory, of course, did not need to have the proposal repeated. He

was ready for anything which promised indolence, and the indulgence of

his sentimental tastes. I will do the fellow the justice to say that

he was not a hypocrite. He firmly believed both in himself and his

ideas,--especially the former. He pushed both hands through the long

wisps of his drab-colored hair, and threw his head back until his wide

nostrils resembled a double door to his brain.

"'O Nature!' he said, 'you have found your lost children! We shall obey

your neglected laws! we shall hearken to your divine whispers! we shall

bring you back from your ignominious exile, and place you on your

ancestral throne!'

"'Let us do it!' was the general cry.

"A sudden enthusiasm fired us, and we grasped each other's hands in the

hearty impulse of the moment. My own private intention to make a summer

trip to the White Mountains had been relinquished the moment I heard

Eunice give in her adhesion. I may as well confess, at once, that I was

desperately in love, and afraid to speak to her.

"By the time Mrs. Shelldrake brought in the apples and water we were

discussing the plan as a settled thing. Hollins had an engagement to

deliver Temperance lectures in Ohio during the summer, but decided to

postpone his departure until August, so that he might, at least, spend

two months with us. Faith Levis couldn't go,--at which, I think, we were

all secretly glad. Some three or four others were in the same case, and

the company was finally arranged to consist of the Shelldrakes, Hollins,

Mallory, Eunice, Miss Ringtop, and myself. We did not give much thought,

either to the preparations in advance, or to our mode of life when

settled there. We were to live near to Nature: that was the main thing.

"'What shall we call the place?' asked Eunice.

"'Arcadia!' said Abel Mallory, rolling up his large green eyes.

"'Then,' said Hollins, 'let us constitute ourselves the Arcadian Club!'"

----"Aha!" interrupted Mr. Johnson, "I see! The A.C.!"

"Yes, you see the A.C. now," said Mrs. Billings; "but to understand it

fully, you should have had a share in those Arcadian experiences."

"I am all the more interested in hearing them described. Go on, Enos."

"The proposition was adopted. We called ourselves The Arcadian Club; but

in order to avoid gossip, and the usual ridicule, to which we were all

more or less sensitive, in case our plan should become generally known,

it was agreed that the initials only should be used. Besides, there was

an agreeable air of mystery about it: we thought of Delphi, and Eleusis,

and Samothrace: we should discover that Truth which the dim eyes of

worldly men and women were unable to see, and the day of disclosure

would be the day of Triumph. In one sense we were truly Arcadians: no

suspicion of impropriety, I verily believe, entered any of our minds. In

our aspirations after what we called a truer life there was no material

taint. We were fools, if you choose, but as far as possible from being

sinners. Besides, the characters of Mr. and Mrs. Shelldrake, who

naturally became the heads of our proposed community, were sufficient

to preserve us from slander or suspicion, if even our designs had been

publicly announced.

"I won't bore you with an account of our preparations. In fact, there

was very little to be done. Mr. Shelldrake succeeded in hiring the

house, with most of its furniture, so that but a few articles had to be

supplied. My trunk contained more books than boots, more blank paper

than linen.

"'Two shirts will be enough,' said Abel: 'you can wash one of them any

day, and dry it in the sun.'

"The supplies consisted mostly of flour, potatoes, and sugar. There was

a vegetable-garden in good condition, Mr. Shelldrake said, which would

be our principal dependence.

"'Besides, the clams!' I exclaimed, unthinkingly.

"'Oh, yes!' said Eunice, 'we can have chowder-parties: that will be

delightful!'

"'Clams! chowder! oh, worse than flesh!' groaned Abel. 'Will you

reverence Nature by outraging her first laws?'

"I had made a great mistake, and felt very foolish. Eunice and I looked

at each other, for the first time."

"Speak for yourself only, Enos," gently interpolated his wife.

"It was a lovely afternoon in the beginning of June when we first

approached Arcadia. We had taken two double teams at Bridgeport, and

drove slowly forward to our destination, followed by a cart containing

our trunks and a few household articles. It was a sweet, bright, balmy

day: the wheat-fields were rich and green, the clover showed faint

streaks of ruby mist along slopes leaning southward, and the meadows

were yellow with buttercups. Now and then we caught glimpses of the

Sound, and, far beyond it, the dim Long-Island shore. Every old

white farm-house, with its gray-walled garden, its clumps of lilacs,

viburnums, and early roses, offered us a picture of pastoral simplicity

and repose. We passed them, one by one, in the happiest mood, enjoying

the earth around us, the sky above, and ourselves most of all.

"The scenery, however, gradually became more rough and broken. Knobs

of gray gneiss, crowned by mournful cedars, intrenched upon the arable

land, and the dark-blue gleam of water appeared through the trees. Our

road, which had been approaching the Sound, now skirted the head of a

deep, irregular inlet, beyond which extended a beautiful promontory,

thickly studded with cedars, and with scattering groups of elm, oak, and

maple trees. Towards the end of the promontory stood a house, with white

walls shining against the blue line of the Sound.

"'There is Arcadia, at last!' exclaimed Mr. Shelldrake.

"A general outcry of delight greeted the announcement. And, indeed, the

loveliness of the picture surpassed our most poetic anticipations. The

low sun was throwing exquisite lights across the point, painting the

slopes of grass a golden green, and giving a pearly softness to the gray

rocks. In the background was drawn the far-off water-line, over which a

few specks of sail glimmered against the sky. Miss Ringtop, who, with

Eunice, Mallory, and myself, occupied one carriage, expressed her

'gushing' feelings in the usual manner:--

"'Where the turf is softest, greenest,

Doth an angel thrust me on,--

Where the landscape lies serenest,

In the journey of the sun!'

"'Don't, Pauline!' said Eunice; 'I never like to hear poetry flourished

in the face of Nature. This landscape surpasses any poem in the world.

Let us enjoy the best thing we have, rather than the next best.'

"'Ah, yes!' sighed Miss Ringtop, 'tis true!

"They sing to the ear; this sings to the eye."'

"Thenceforward, to the house, all was childish joy and jubilee. All

minor personal repugnances were smoothed over in the general exultation.

Even Abel Mallory became agreeable; and Hollins, sitting beside Mrs.

Shelldrake on the back seat of the foremost carriage, shouted to us, in

boyish lightness of heart.

"Passing the head of the inlet, we left the country-road, and entered,

through a gate in the tottering stone wall, on our summer domain. A

track, open to the field on one side, led us past a clump of deciduous

trees, between pastures broken by cedared knolls of rock, down

the centre of the peninsula, to the house. It was quite an old

frame-building, two stories high, with a gambrel roof and tall chimneys.

Two slim Lombardy poplars and a broad-leaved catalpa shaded the southern

side, and a kitchen-garden, divided in the centre by a double row of

untrimmed currant-bushes, flanked it on the east. For flowers, there

were masses of blue flags and coarse tawny-red lilies, besides a huge

trumpet-vine which swung its pendent arms from one of the gables. In

front of the house a natural lawn of mingled turf and rock sloped

steeply down to the water, which was not more than two hundred yards

distant. To the west was another and broader inlet of the Sound, out of

which our Arcadian promontory rose bluff and bold, crowned with a thick

fringe of pines. It was really a lovely spot which Shelldrake had

chosen,--so secluded, while almost surrounded, by the winged and moving

life of the Sound, so simple, so pastoral and home-like. No one doubted

the success of our experiment, for that evening, at least.

"Perkins Brown, Shelldrake's boy-of-all-work, awaited us at the door.

He had been sent on two or three days in advance, to take charge of the

house, and seemed to have had enough of hermit-life, for he hailed

us with a wild whoop, throwing his straw hat half-way up one of the

poplars. Perkins was a boy of fifteen, the child of poor parents,

who were satisfied to get him off their hands, regardless as to what

humanitarian theories might be tested upon him. As the Arcadian Club

recognized no such thing as caste, he was always admitted to our

meetings, and understood just enough of our conversation to excite a

silly ambition in his slow mind. His animal nature was predominant, and

this led him to be deceitful. At that time, however, we all looked upon

him as a proper young Arcadian, and hoped that he would develop into a

second Abel Mallory.

"After our effects had been deposited on the stoop, and the carriages

had driven away, we proceeded to apportion the rooms, and take

possession. On the first floor there were three rooms, two of which

would serve us as dining-and drawing-rooms, leaving the third for the

Shelldrakes. As neither Eunice and Miss Ringtop, nor Hollins and Abel

showed any disposition to room together, I quietly gave up to them the

four rooms in the second story, and installed myself in one of the attic

chambers. Here I could hear the music of the rain close above my head,

and through the little gable window, as I lay in bed, watch the colors

of the morning gradually steal over the distant shores. The end was, we

were all satisfied.

"'Now for our first meal in Arcadia!' was the next cry. Mrs. Shelldrake,

like a prudent housekeeper, marched off to the kitchen, where Perkins

had already kindled a fire. We looked in at the door, but thought it

best to allow her undisputed sway in such a narrow realm. Eunice was

unpacking some loaves of bread and paper bags of crackers; and Miss

Ringtop, smiling through her ropy curls, as much as to say, 'You see,

_I_ also can perform the coarser tasks of life!' occupied herself with

plates and cups. We men, therefore, walked out to the garden, which we

found in a promising condition. The usual vegetables had been planted

and were growing finely, for the season was yet scarcely warm enough

for the weeds to make much headway. Radishes, young onions, and lettuce

formed our contribution to the table. The Shelldrakes, I should explain,

had not yet advanced to the antediluvian point, in diet: nor, indeed,

had either Eunice or myself. We acknowledged the fascination of tea, we

saw a very mitigated evil in milk and butter, and we were conscious of

stifled longings after the abomination of meat. Only Mallory, Rollins,

and Miss Ringtop had reached that loftiest round on the ladder of

progress where the material nature loosens the last fetter of the

spiritual. They looked down upon us, and we meekly admitted their right

to do so.

"Our board, that evening, was really tempting. The absence of meat was

compensated to us by the crisp and racy onions, and I craved only a

little salt, which had been interdicted, as a most pernicious substance.

I sat at one corner of the table, beside Perkins Brown, who took an

opportunity, while the others were engaged in conversation, to jog my

elbow gently. As I turned towards him, he said nothing, but dropped his

eyes significantly. The little rascal had the lid of a blacking-box,

filled with salt, upon his knee, and was privately seasoning his onions

and radishes. I blushed at the thought of my hypocrisy, but the onions

were so much better that I couldn't help dipping into the lid with him.

"'Oh,' said Eunice, 'we must send for some oil and vinegar! This lettuce

is very nice."

"'Oil and vinegar?' exclaimed Abel.

"'Why, yes,' said she, innocently: 'they are both vegetable substances.'

"Abel at first looked rather foolish, but quickly recovering himself,

said,--

"'All vegetable substances are not proper for food: you would not taste

the poison-oak, or sit under the upas-tree of Java.'

"'Well, Abel,' Eunice rejoined, 'how are we to distinguish what is best

for us? How are we to know _what_ vegetables to choose, or what animal

and mineral substances to avoid?'

"'I will tell you,' he answered, with a lofty air. 'See here!' pointing

to his temple, where the second pimple--either from the change of air,

or because, in the excitement of the last few days, he had forgotten

it--was actually healed. 'My blood is at last pure. The struggle between

the natural and the unnatural is over, and I am beyond the depraved,

influences of my former taste. My instincts are now, therefore, entirely

pure also. What is good for man to eat, that I shall have a natural

desire to eat: what is bad will be naturally repelled. How does the cow

distinguish between the wholesome and the poisonous herbs of the meadow?

And is man less than a cow, that he cannot cultivate his instincts to

an equal point? Let me walk through, the woods and I can tell you every

berry and root which God designed for food, though I know not its name,

and have never seen it before. I shall make use of my time, during our

sojourn here, to test, by my purified instinct, every substance, animal,

mineral, and vegetable, upon which the human race subsists, and to

create a catalogue of the True Food of Man!'

"Abel was eloquent on this theme, and he silenced not only Eunice, but

the rest of us. Indeed, as we were all half-infected with the same

delusions, it was not easy to answer his sophistries.

"After supper was over, the prospect of cleaning the dishes and putting

things in order was not so agreeable; but Mrs. Shelldrake and Perkins

undertook the work, and we did not think it necessary to interfere with

them. Half an hour afterwards, when the full moon had risen, we took

our chairs upon the stoop, to enjoy the calm, silver night, the soft

sea-air, and our summer's residence in anticipatory talk.

"'My friends,' said Hollins, (and _his_ hobby, as you may remember, Ned,

was the organization of Society, rather than those reforms which apply

directly to the Individual,)--'my friends, I think we are sufficiently

advanced in progressive ideas to establish our little Arcadian community

upon what I consider the true basis: not Law, nor Custom, but the

uncorrupted impulses of our nature. What Abel said in regard to dietetic

reform is true; but that alone will not regenerate the race. We must

rise superior to those conventional ideas of Duty whereby Life is warped

and crippled. Life must not be a prison, where each one must come and

go, work, eat, and sleep, as the jailer commands. Labor must not be

a necessity, but a spontaneous joy. 'T is true, but little labor is

required of us here: let us, therefore, have no set tasks, no fixed

rules, but each one work, rest, eat, sleep, talk or be silent, as his

own nature prompts.'

"Perkins, sitting on the steps, gave a suppressed chuckle, which I think

no one heard but myself. I was vexed with his levity, but, nevertheless,

gave him a warning nudge with my toe, in payment for the surreptitious

salt.

"'That's just the notion I had, when I first talked of our coming here,'

said Shelldrake. 'Here we're alone and unhindered; and if the plan

shouldn't happen to work well, (I don't see why it shouldn't, though,)

no harm will be done. I've had a deal of hard work in my life, and I've

been badgered and bullied so much by your strait-laced professors,

that I'm glad to get away from the world for a spell, and talk and do

rationally, without being laughed at.'

"'Yes,' answered Hollins, 'and if we succeed, as I feel we shall, for I

think I know the hearts of all of us here, this may be the commencement

of a new _ee_poch for the world. We may become the turning-point between

two dispensations: behind us everything false and unnatural,--before us

everything true, beautiful, and good.'

"'Ah,' sighed Miss Ringtop, 'it reminds me of Gamaliel J. Gawthrop's

beautiful lines:--

"Unrobed man is lying hoary

In the distance, gray and dead;

There no wreaths of godless glory

To his mist-like tresses wed,

And the foot-fall of the Ages

Reigns supreme, with noiseless tread."'

"'I am willing to try the experiment,' said I, on being appealed to by

Hollins; 'but don't you think we had better observe some kind of order,

even in yielding everything to impulse? Shouldn't there be, at least, a

platform, as the politicians call it,--an agreement by which we shall

all be bound, and which we can afterwards exhibit as the basis of our

success?'

"He meditated a few moments, and then answered,--

"'I think not. It resembles too much the thing we are trying to

overthrow. Can you bind a man's belief by making him sign certain

articles of Faith? No: his thought will be free, in spite of it; and I

would have Action--Life--as free as Thought. Our platform--to adopt your

image--has but one plank: Truth. Let each only be true to himself: _be_

himself, _act_ himself, or herself, with the uttermost candor. We can

all agree upon that.'

"The agreement was accordingly made. And certainly no happier or more

hopeful human beings went to bed in all New England that night.

"I arose with the sun, went into the garden, and commenced weeding,

intending to do my quota of work before breakfast, and then devote the

day to reading and conversation. I was presently joined by Shelldrake

and Mallory, and between us we finished the onions and radishes, stuck

the peas, and cleaned the alleys. Perkins, after milking the cow and

turning her out to pasture, assisted Mrs. Shelldrake in the kitchen. At

breakfast we were joined by Hollins, who made no excuse for his easy

morning habits; nor was one expected. I may as well tell you now,

though, that his natural instincts never led him to work. After a week,

when a second crop of weeds was coming on, Mallory fell off also, and

thenceforth Shelldrake and myself had the entire charge of the garden.

Perkins did the rougher work, and was always on hand when he was wanted.

Very soon, however, I noticed that he was in the habit of disappearing

for two or three hours in the afternoon.

"Our meals preserved the same Spartan simplicity. Eunice, however,

carried her point in regard to the salad; for Abel, after tasting and

finding it very palatable, decided that oil and vinegar might be classed

in the catalogue of True Food. Indeed, his long abstinence from piquant

flavors gave him such an appetite for it, that our supply of lettuce was

soon exhausted. An embarrassing accident also favored us with the use of

salt. Perkins happening to move his knee at the moment I was dipping an

onion into the blacking-box lid, our supply was knocked upon the floor.

He picked it up, and we both hoped the accident might pass unnoticed.

But Abel, stretching his long neck across the corner of the table,

caught a glimpse of what was going on.

"'What's that?' he asked.

"'Oh, it's--it's only,' said I, seeking for a synonyme, 'only _chloride

of sodium_!'

"'Chloride of sodium! what do you do with it?'

"'Eat it with onions,' said I, boldly: 'it's a chemical substance, but I

believe it is found in some plants.'

"Eunice, who knew something of chemistry, (she taught a class, though

you wouldn't think it,) grew red with suppressed fun, but the others

were as ignorant as Abel Mallory himself.

"'Let me taste it,' said he, stretching out an onion.

"I handed him the box-lid, which still contained a portion of its

contents. He dipped the onion, bit off a piece, and chewed it gravely.

"'Why,' said he, turning to me, 'it's very much like salt.'

"Perkins burst into a spluttering yell, which discharged an onion-top he

had just put between his teeth across the table; Eunice and I gave way

at the same moment; and the others, catching the joke, joined us. But

while we were laughing, Abel was finishing his onion, and the result was

that Salt was added to the True Food, and thereafter appeared regularly

on the table.

"The forenoons we usually spent in reading and writing, each in his or

her chamber. (Oh, the journals, Ned!--but you shall not see mine.)

After a mid-day meal,--I cannot call it dinner,--we sat upon the stoop,

listening while one of us read aloud, or strolled down the shores on

either side, or, when the sun was not too warm, got into a boat, and

rowed or floated lazily around the promontory.

"One afternoon, as I was sauntering off, past the garden, towards the

eastern inlet, I noticed Perkins slipping along behind the cedar knobs,

towards the little woodland at the end of our domain. Curious to find

out the cause of his mysterious disappearances, I followed cautiously.

From the edge of the wood I saw him enter a little gap between the

rocks, which led down to the water. Presently a thread of blue smoke

stole up. Quietly creeping along, I got upon the nearer bluff and looked

down. There was a sort of hearth built up at the base of the rock, with

a brisk little lire burning upon it, but Perkins had disappeared. I

stretched myself out upon the moss, in the shade, and waited. In about

half an hour up came Perkins, with a large fish in one hand and a

lump of clay in the other. I now understood the mystery. He carefully

imbedded the fish in a thin layer of clay, placed it on the coals, and

then went down to the shore to wash his hands. On his return he found me

watching the fire.

"'Ho, ho, Mr. Enos!' said he, 'you've found me out! But _you_ won't say

nothin'. Gosh! _you_ like it as well I do. Look 'ee there!'--breaking

open the clay, from which arose 'a steam of rich-distilled

perfumes,'--'and, I say, I've got the box-lid with that 'ere stuff in

it,--ho! ho!' and the scamp roared again.

"Out of a hole in the rock he brought salt and the end of a loaf, and

between us we finished the fish. Before long, I got into a habit of

disappearing in the afternoon.

"Now and then, we took walks, alone or collectively, to the nearest

village, or even to Bridgeport, for the papers or a late book. The few

purchases we required were made at such times, and sent down in a cart,

or, if not too heavy, carried by Perkins in a basket. I noticed that

Abel, whenever we had occasion to visit a grocery, would go sniffing

around, alternately attracted or repelled by the various articles: now

turning away with a shudder from a ham,--now inhaling, with a fearful

delight and uncertainty, the odor of smoked herrings. 'I think herrings

must feed on sea-weed,' said he, 'there is such a vegetable attraction

about them.' After his violent vegetarian harangues, however, he

hesitated about adding them to his catalogue.

"But, one day, as we were passing through the village, he was reminded

by the sign of 'WARTER CRACKERS' in the window of an obscure grocery,

that he required a supply of those articles, and we therefore entered.

There was a splendid Rhode-Island cheese on the counter, from which the

shop-mistress was just cutting a slice for a customer. Abel leaned over

it, inhaling the rich, pungent fragrance.

"'Enos,' said he to me, between his sniffs, 'this impresses me like

flowers,--like marigolds. It must be,--really,--yes, the vegetable

element is predominant. My instinct towards it is so strong that I

cannot be mistaken. May I taste it, Ma'am?'

"The woman sliced off a thin corner, and presented it to him on the

knife.

"'Delicious!' he exclaimed; 'I am right,--this is the True Food. Give me

two pounds,--and the crackers, Ma'am.'

"I turned away, quite as much disgusted as amused with

this charlatanism. And yet I verily believe the fellow was

sincere,--self-deluded only. I had by this time lost my faith in him,

though not in the great Arcadian principles. On reaching home, after

an hour's walk, I found our household in unusual commotion. Abel was

writhing in intense pain: he had eaten the whole two pounds of cheese,

on his way home! His stomach, so weakened by years of unhealthy

abstinence from true nourishment, was now terribly tortured by this

sudden stimulus. Mrs. Shelldrake, fortunately, had some mustard among

her stores, and could therefore administer a timely emetic. His life was

saved, but he was very ill for two or three days. Hollins did not fail

to take advantage of this circumstance to overthrow the authority which

Abel had gradually acquired on the subject of food. He was so arrogant

in his nature that he could not tolerate the same quality in another,

even where their views coincided.

"By this time several weeks had passed away. It was the beginning of

July, and the long summer heats had come. I was driven out of my attic

during the middle hours of the day, and the others found it pleasanter

on the doubly shaded stoop than in their chambers. We were thus thrown

more together than usual,--a circumstance which made our life more

monotonous to the others, as I could see; but to myself, who could at

last talk to Eunice, and who was happy at the very sight of her, this

'heated term' seemed borrowed from Elysium. I read aloud, and the sound

of my own voice gave me confidence; many passages suggested discussions,

in which I took a part; and you may judge, Ned, how fast I got on, from

the fact that I ventured to tell Eunice of my fish-bakes with Perkins,

and invite her to join them. After that, she, also, often disappeared

from sight for an hour or two in the afternoon."

----"Oh, Mr. Johnson," interrupted Mrs. Billings, "it wasn't for the

fish!"

"Of course not," said her husband; "it was for my sake."

"No, you need not think it was for you. Enos," she added, perceiving the

feminine dilemma into which she had been led, "all this is not necessary

to the story."

"Stop!" he answered. "The A.C. has been revived for this night only.

Do you remember our platform, or rather no-platform? I must follow my

impulses, and say whatever comes uppermost."

"Right, Enos," said Mr. Johnson; "I, as temporary Arcadian, take the

same ground. My instinct tells me that you, Mrs. Billings, must permit

the confession."

She submitted with a good grace, and her husband continued.

"I said that our lazy life during the hot weather had become a little

monotonous. The Arcadian plan had worked tolerably well, on the whole,

for there was very little for any one to do,--Mrs. Shelldrake and

Perkins Brown excepted. Our conversation, however, lacked spirit and

variety. We were, perhaps unconsciously, a little tired of hearing and

assenting to the same sentiments. But, one evening, about this time,

Hollins struck upon a variation, the consequences of which he little

foresaw. We had been reading one of Bulwer's works, (the weather was too

hot for Psychology,) and came upon this paragraph, or something like

it:--

"'Ah, Behind the Veil! We see the summer smile of the Earth,--enamelled

meadow and limpid stream,--but what hides she in her sunless heart?

Caverns of serpents, or grottoes of priceless gems? Youth, whose soul

sits on thy countenance, thyself wearing no mask, strive not to lift the

masks of others! Be content with what thou seest; and wait until Time

and Experience shall teach thee to find jealousy behind the sweet smile,

and hatred under the honeyed word!'

"This seemed to us a dark and bitter reflection; but one or another of

us recalled some illustration of human hypocrisy, and the evidences,

by the simple fact of repetition, gradually led to a division of

opinion,--Hollins, Shelldrake, and Miss Ringtop on the dark side, and

the rest of us on the bright. The last, however, contented herself with

quoting from her favorite poet, Gamaliel J. Gawthrop:--

"'I look beyond thy brow's concealment!

I see thy spirit's dark revealment!

Thy inner self betrayed I see:

Thy coward, craven, shivering ME!'

"'We think we know one another,' exclaimed Hollins; 'but do we? We see

the faults of others, their weaknesses, their disagreeable qualities,

and we keep silent. How much we should gain, were candor as universal

as concealment! Then each one, seeing himself as others see him, would

truly know himself. How much misunderstanding might be avoided, how

much hidden shame be removed, hopeless because unspoken love made

glad, honest admiration cheer its object, uttered sympathy mitigate

misfortune,--in short, how much brighter and happier the world would

become, if each one expressed, everywhere and at all times, his true and

entire feeling! Why, even Evil would lose half its power!'

"There seemed to be so much practical wisdom in these views that we were

all dazzled and half-convinced at the start. So, when Hollins, turning

towards me, as he continued, exclaimed,--'Come, why should not this

candor be adopted in our Arcadia? Will any one--will you, Enos--commence

at once by telling me now--to my face--my principal faults?' I answered,

after a moment's reflection,--'You have a great deal of intellectual

arrogance, and you are, physically, very indolent.'

"He did not flinch from the self-invited test, though he looked a little

surprised.

"'Well put,' said he, 'though I do not say that you are entirely

correct. Now, what are my merits?'

"'You are clear-sighted,' I answered, 'an earnest seeker after truth,

and courageous in the avowal of your thoughts.'

"This restored the balance, and we soon began to confess our own private

faults and weaknesses. Though the confessions did not go very deep,--no

one betraying anything we did not all know already,--yet they were

sufficient to strengthen Hollins in his new idea, and it was unanimously

resolved that Candor should thenceforth be the main charm of our

Arcadian life. It was the very thing _I_ wanted, in order to make a

certain communication to Eunice; but I should probably never have

reached the point, had not the same candor been exercised towards me,

from a quarter where I least expected it.

"The next day, Abel, who had resumed his researches after the True Food,

came home to supper with a healthier color than I had before seen on his

face.

"'Do you know,' said he, looking shyly at Hollins, 'that I begin to

think Beer must be a natural beverage? There was an auction in the

village to-day, as I passed through, and I stopped at a cake-stand to

get a glass of water, as it was very hot. There was no water,--only

beer: so I thought I would try a glass, simply as an experiment. Really,

the flavor was very agreeable. And it occurred to me, on the way

home, that all the elements contained in beer are vegetable. Besides,

fermentation is a natural process. I think the question has never been

properly tested before.'

"'But the alcohol!' exclaimed Hollins.

"'I could not distinguish any, either by taste or smell. I know that

chemical analysis is said to show it; but may not the alcohol be

created, somehow, during the analysis?'

"'Abel,' said Hollins, in a fresh burst of candor, 'you will never be

a Reformer, until you possess some of the commonest elements of

knowledge.'

"The rest of us were much diverted: it was a pleasant relief to our

monotonous amiability.

"Abel, however, had a stubborn streak in his character. The next day he

sent Perkins Brown to Bridgeport for a dozen bottles of 'Beer.' Perkins,

either intentionally or by mistake, (I always suspected the former,)

brought pint-bottles of Scotch ale, which he placed in the coolest part

of the cellar. The evening happened to be exceedingly hot and sultry,

and, as we were all fanning ourselves and talking languidly, Abel

bethought him of his beer. In his thirst, he drank the contents of the

first bottle, almost at a single draught.

"'The effect of beer,' said he, 'depends, I think, on the commixture of

the nourishing principle of the grain with the cooling properties of the

water. Perhaps, hereafter, a liquid food of the same character may be

invented, which shall save us from mastication and all the diseases of

the teeth.'

"Hollins and Shelldrake, at his invitation, divided a bottle between

them, and he took a second. The potent beverage was not long in acting

on a brain so unaccustomed to its influence. He grew unusually talkative

and sentimental, in a few minutes.

"'Oh, sing, somebody!' he sighed in hoarse rapture: 'the night was made

for Song.'

"Miss Ringtop, nothing loath, immediately commenced, 'When stars are in

the quiet skies'; but scarcely had she finished the first verse before

Abel interrupted her.

"'Candor's the order of the day, isn't it?' he asked.

"'Yes!' 'Yes!' two or three answered.

"'Well, then,' said he, 'candidly, Pauline, you've got the darn'dest

squeaky voice'----

"Miss Ringtop gave a faint little scream of horror.

"'Oh, never mind!' he continued. 'We act according to impulse, don't we?

And I've the impulse to swear; and it's right. Let Nature have her

way. Listen! Damn, damn, damn, damn! I never knew it was so easy. Why,

there's a pleasure in it! Try it, Pauline! try it on me!'

"'Oh-ooh!' was all Miss Ringtop could utter.

"'Abel! Abel!' exclaimed Hollins, 'the beer has got into your head.'

"'No, it isn't Beer,--it's Candor!' said Abel. 'It's your own proposal,

Hollins. Suppose it's evil to swear: isn't it better I should express

it, and be done with it, than keep it bottled up, to ferment in my mind?

Oh, you're a precious, consistent old humbug, _you_ are!'

"And therewith he jumped off the stoop, and went dancing awkwardly down

towards the water, singing in a most unmelodious voice, ''T is home

where'er the heart is.'

"'Oh, he may fall into the water!' exclaimed Eunice, in alarm.

"'He's not fool enough to do that,' said Shelldrake. 'His head is a

little light, that's all. The air will cool him down presently.'

"But she arose and followed him, not satisfied with this assurance. Miss

Ringtop sat rigidly still. She would have received with composure the

news of his drowning.

"As Eunice's white dress disappeared among the cedars crowning the

shore, I sprang up and ran after her. I knew that Abel was not

intoxicated, but simply excited, and I had no fear on his account: I

obeyed an involuntary impulse. On approaching the water, I heard their

voices,--hers in friendly persuasion, his in sentimental entreaty,--then

the sound of oars in the rowlocks. Looking out from the last clump of

cedars, I saw them seated in the boat, Eunice at the stern, while Abel,

facing her, just dipped an oar now and then to keep from drifting with

the tide. She had found him already in the boat, which was loosely

chained to a stone. Stepping on one of the forward thwarts, in her

eagerness to persuade him to return, he sprang past her, jerked away the

chain, and pushed off before she could escape. She would have fallen,

but he caught her and placed her in, the stern, and then seated himself

at the oars. She must have been somewhat alarmed, but there was only

indignation in her voice. All this had transpired before my arrival, and

the first words I heard bound me to the spot and kept me silent.

"'Abel, what does this mean?' she asked.

"'It means Fate,--Destiny!' he exclaimed, rather wildly. 'Ah, Eunice,

ask the night, and the moon,--ask the impulse which told you to follow

me! Let us be candid, like the old Arcadians we imitate. Eunice, we know

that we love each other: why should we conceal it any longer? The Angel

of Love comes down from the stars on his azure wings, and whispers to

our hearts. Let us confess to each other! The female heart should not be

timid, in this pure and beautiful atmosphere of Love which we breathe.

Come, Eunice! we are alone: let your heart speak to me!'

"Ned, if you've ever been in love, (we'll talk of that, after a while,)

you will easily understand what tortures I endured, in thus hearing him

speak. That _he_ should love Eunice! It was a profanation to her, an

outrage to me. Yet the assurance with which he spoke! _Could_ she love

this conceited, ridiculous, repulsive fellow, after all? I almost gasped

for breath, as I clinched the prickly boughs of the cedars in my hands,

and set my teeth, waiting to hear her answer.

"'I will not hear such language! Take me back to the shore!' she said,

in very short, decided tones.

"'Oh, Eunice,' he groaned, (and now, I think, he was perfectly sober,)

'don't you love me, indeed? _I_ love _you_,--from my heart I do: yes, I

love you. Tell me how you feel towards me.'

"'Abel,' said she, earnestly, 'I feel towards you only as a friend; and

if you wish me to retain a friendly interest in you, you must never

again talk in this manner. I do not love you, and I never shall. Let me

go back to the house.

"His head dropped upon his breast, but he rowed back to the shore, drew

the bow upon the rocks, and assisted her to land. Then, sitting down, he

groaned forth,--

"'Oh, Eunice, you have broken my heart!' and putting his big hands to

his face, began to cry.

"She turned, placed one hand on his shoulder, and said, in a calm, but

kind tone,--

"'I am very sorry, Abel, but I cannot help it.'

"I slipped aside, that she might not see me, and we returned by separate

paths.

"I slept very little that night. The conviction, which I had chased away

from my mind as often as it returned, that our Arcadian experiment was

taking a ridiculous and at the same time impracticable development,

became clearer and stronger. I felt sure that our little community could

not hold together much longer without an explosion. I had a presentiment

that Eunice shared my impressions. My feelings towards her had reached

that crisis where a declaration was imperative: but how to make it? It

was a terrible struggle between my shyness and my affection. There was

another circumstance, in connection with this subject, which troubled me

not a little. Miss Ringtop evidently sought my company, and made me, as

much as possible, the recipient of her sentimental outpourings. I was

not bold enough to repel her,--indeed, I had none of that tact which

is so useful in such emergencies,--and she seemed to misinterpret my

submission. Not only was her conversation pointedly directed to me, but

she looked at me, when singing, (especially, 'Thou, thou, reign'st in

this bosom!') in a way that made me feel very uncomfortable. What if

Eunice should suspect an attachment towards her, on my part? What

if--oh, horror!--I had unconsciously said or done something to impress

Miss Ringtop herself with the same conviction? I shuddered as the

thought crossed my mind. One thing was very certain: this suspense was

not to be endured much longer.

"We had an unusually silent breakfast the next morning. Abel scarcely

spoke, which the others attributed to a natural feeling of shame, after

his display of the previous evening. Hollins and Shelldrake discussed

Temperance, with a special view to his edification, and Miss Ringtop

favored us with several quotations about 'the maddening bowl,'--but he

paid no attention to them. Eunice was pale and thoughtful. I had no

doubt, in my mind, that she was already contemplating a removal from

Arcadia. Perkins, whose perceptive faculties were by no means dull,

whispered to me, 'Sha'n't I bring up some porgies for supper?' but I

shook my head. I was busy with other thoughts, and did not join him in

the wood, that day.

"The forenoon was overcast, with frequent showers. Each one occupied his

or her room until dinner-time, when we met again with something of the

old geniality. There was an evident effort to restore our former flow of

good feeling. Abel's experience with the beer was freely discussed. He

insisted strongly that he had not been laboring under its effects, and

proposed a mutual test. He, Shelldrake, and Hollins were to drink it

in equal measures, and compare observations as to their physical

sensations. The others agreed,--quite willingly, I thought,--but I

refused. I had determined to make a desperate attempt at candor, and

Abel's fate was fresh before my eyes.

"My nervous agitation increased during the day, and, after sunset,

fearing lest I should betray my excitement in some way, I walked down

to the end of the promontory, and took a seat on the rocks. The sky

had cleared, and the air was deliciously cool and sweet. The Sound was

spread out before me like a sea, for the Long-Island shore was veiled in

a silvery mist. My mind was soothed and calmed by the influences of the

scene, until the moon arose. Moonlight, you know, disturbs,--at least,

when one is in love. (Ah, Ned, I see you understand it!) I felt

blissfully miserable, ready to cry with joy at the knowledge that I

loved, and with fear and vexation at my cowardice, at the same time.

"Suddenly I heard a rustling beside me. Every nerve in my body tingled,

and I turned my head, with a beating and expectant heart. Pshaw! It was

Miss Ringtop, who spread her blue dress on the rock beside me, and shook

back her long curls, and sighed, as she gazed at the silver path of the

moon on the water.

"'Oh, how delicious!' she cried. 'How it seems to set the spirit free,

and we wander off on the wings of Fancy to other spheres!'

"'Yes,' said I, 'it is very beautiful, but sad, when one is alone.'

"I was thinking of Eunice.

"'How inadequate,' she continued, 'is language to express the emotions

which Such a scene calls up in the bosom! Poetry alone is the voice of

the spiritual world, and we, who are not poets, must borrow the language

of the gifted sons of Song. Oh, Enos, I _wish_ you were a poet! But you

_feel_ poetry, I know you do. I have seen it in your eyes, when I quoted

the burning lines of Adeliza Kelley, or the soul-breathings of Gamaliel

J. Gawthrop. In _him_, particularly, I find the voice of my own nature.

Do you know his "Night-Whispers"? How it embodies the feelings of such a

scene as this!

"Star-drooping bowers bending down the

spaces,

And moonlit glories sweep star-footed on;

And pale, sweet rivers, in their shining

races,

Are ever gliding through the moonlit places,

With silver ripples on their trancèd faces,

And forests clasp their dusky hands, with low

and sullen moan!"

"'Ah!' she continued, as I made no reply, 'this is an hour for the soul

to unveil its most secret chambers! Do you not think, Enos, that love

rises superior to all conventionalities? that those whose souls are in

unison should be allowed to reveal themselves to each other, regardless

of the world's opinions?'

"'Yes!' said I, earnestly.

"'Enos, do you understand me?' she asked, in a tender voice,--almost a

whisper.

"'Yes,' said I, with a blushing confidence of my own passion.

"'Then,' she whispered, 'our hearts are wholly in unison. I know you are

true, Enos. I know your noble nature, and I will never doubt you. This

is indeed happiness!'

"And therewith she laid her head on my shoulder, and sighed,--

"'Life remits his tortures cruel,

Love illumes his fairest fuel,

When the hearts that once were dual

Meet as one, in sweet renewal!'

"'Miss Ringtop!' I cried, starting away from her, in alarm, 'you don't

mean that--that'----

"I could not finish the sentence.

"'Yes, Enos, _dear_ Enos! henceforth we belong to each other.'

"The painful embarrassment I felt, as her true meaning shot through my

mind, surpassed anything I had imagined, or experienced in anticipation,

when planning how I should declare myself to Eunice. Miss Ringtop was at

least ten years older than I, far from handsome, (but you remember her

face,) and so affectedly sentimental, that I, sentimental as I was then,

was sick of hearing her talk. Her hallucination was so monstrous, and

gave me such a shock of desperate alarm, that I spoke, on the impulse of

the moment, with great energy, without regarding how her feelings might

be wounded.

"'You mistake!' I exclaimed. 'I didn't mean that,--I didn't understand

you. Don't talk to me that way,--don't look at me in that way, Miss

Ringtop! We were never meant for each other,--I wasn't----You're so

much older,--I mean different. It can't be,--no, it can never be! Let

us go back to the house: the night is cold.'

"I rose hastily to my feet. She murmured something,--what, I did not

stay to hear,--but, plunging through the cedars, was hurrying with all

speed to the house, when, half-way up the lawn, beside one of the rocky

knobs, I met Eunice, who was apparently on her way to join us. In

my excited mood, after the ordeal through which I had just passed,

everything seemed easy. My usual timidity was blown to the four winds. I

went directly to her, took her hand, and said,--

"'Eunice, the others are driving me mad with their candor; will you let

me be candid, too?'

"'I think you are always candid, Enos,' she answered.

"Even then, if I had hesitated, I should have been lost. But I went on,

without pausing,--

"'Eunice, I love you,--I have loved you since we first met. I came here

that I might be near you; but I must leave you forever, and to-night,

unless you can trust your life in my keeping. God help me, since we have

been together I have lost my faith in almost everything but you. Pardon

me, if I am impetuous,--different from what I have seemed. I have

struggled so hard to speak! I have been a coward, Eunice, because of my

love. But now I have spoken, from my heart of hearts. Look at me: I can

bear it now. Read the truth in my eyes, before you answer.'

"I felt her hand tremble while I spoke. As she turned towards me her

face, which had been averted, the moon shone full upon it, and I saw

that tears were upon her cheeks. What was said--whether anything was

said--I cannot tell. I felt the blessed fact, and that was enough. That

was the dawning of the true Arcadia."

----Mrs. Billings, who had been silent during this recital, took her

husband's hand and smiled. Mr. Johnson felt a dull pang about the region

of his heart. If he had a secret, however, I do not feel justified in

betraying it.

"It was late," Mr. Billings continued, "before we returned to the house.

I had a special dread of again encountering Miss Ringtop, but she was

wandering up and down the bluff, under the pines, singing, 'The dream

is past.' There was a sound of loud voices, as we approached the stoop.

Hollins, Shelldrake and his wife, and Abel Mallory were sitting together

near the door. Perkins Brown, as usual, was crouched on the lowest step,

with one leg over the other, and rubbing the top of his boot with a

vigor which betrayed to me some secret mirth. He looked up at me from

under his straw hat with the grin of a malicious Puck, glanced towards

the group, and made a curious gesture with his thumb. There were several

empty pint-bottles on the stoop.

"'Now, are you sure you can bear the test?' we heard Hollins ask, as we

approached.

"'Bear it? Why, to be sure!' replied Shelldrake; 'if I couldn't bear it,

or if _you_ couldn't, your theory's done for. Try! I can stand it as

long as you can.'

"'Well, then,' said Hollins, 'I think you are a very ordinary man. I

derive no intellectual benefit from my intercourse with you, but

your house is convenient to me. I'm under no obligations for your

hospitality, however, because my company is an advantage to you. Indeed,

if I were treated according to my deserts, you couldn't do enough for

me.'

"Mrs. Shelldrake was up in arms.

"'Indeed,' she exclaimed, 'I think you get as good as you deserve, and

more too.'

"'Elvira,' said he, with a benevolent condescension, 'I have no doubt

you think so, for your mind belongs to the lowest and most material

sphere. You have your place in Nature, and you fill it; but it is not

for you to judge of intelligences which move only on the upper planes.'

"'Hollins,' said Shelldrake, 'Elviry's a good wife and a sensible woman,

and I won't allow you to turn up your nose at her.'

"'I am not surprised,' he answered, 'that you should fail to stand the

test. I didn't expect it.'

"'Let me try it on _you_!' cried Shelldrake. 'You, now, have some

intellect,--I don't deny that,--but not so much, by a long shot, as you

think you have. Besides that, you're awfully selfish, in your opinions.

You won't admit that anybody can be right who differs from you. You've

sponged on me for a long time; but I suppose I've learned something from

you, so we'll call it even. I think, however, that what you call acting

according to impulse is simply an excuse to cover your own laziness.'

"'Gosh! that's it!' interrupted Perkins, jumping up; then, recollecting

himself, he sank down on the steps again, and shook with a suppressed

'Ho! ho! ho!'

"Hollins, however, drew himself up with an exasperated air.

"'Shelldrake,' said he, 'I pity you. I always knew your ignorance, but

I thought you honest in your human character. I never suspected you

of envy and malice. However, the true Reformer must expect to be

misunderstood and misrepresented by meaner minds. That love which I bear

to all creatures teaches me to forgive you. Without such love, all plans

of progress must fail. Is it not so, Abel?'

"Shelldrake could only ejaculate the words, 'Pity!' 'Forgive!' in his

most contemptuous tone; while Mrs. Shelldrake, rocking violently in her

chair, gave utterance to that peculiar clucking '_ts, ts, ts, ts_,'

whereby certain women express emotions too deep for words.

"Abel, roused by Hollins's question, answered, with a sudden energy,--

"'Love! there is no love in the world. Where will you find it? Tell me,

and I'll go there. Love! I'd like to see it! If all human hearts were

like mine, we might have an Arcadia; but most men have no hearts. The

world is a miserable, hollow, deceitful shell of vanity and hypocrisy.

No: let us give up. We were born before our time: this age is not worthy

of us.'

"Hollins stared at the speaker in utter amazement. Shelldrake gave a

long whistle, and finally gasped out,--

"'Well, what next?'

"None of us were prepared for such a sudden and complete wreck of our

Arcadian scheme. The foundations had been sapped before, it is true; but

we had not perceived it; and now, in two short days, the whole edifice

tumbled about our ears. Though it was inevitable, we felt a shock of

sorrow, and a silence fell upon us. Only that scamp of a Perkins Brown,

chuckling and rubbing his boot, really rejoiced. I could have kicked

him.

"We all went to bed, feeling that the charm of our Arcadian life was

over. I was so full of the new happiness of love that I was scarcely

conscious of regret. I seemed to have leaped at once into responsible

manhood, and a glad rush of courage filled me at the knowledge that my

own heart was a better oracle than those--now so shamefully overthrown--

on whom I had so long implicitly relied. In the first revulsion of

feeling, I was perhaps unjust to my associates. I see now, more clearly,

the causes of those vagaries, which originated in a genuine aspiration,

and failed from an ignorance of the true nature of Man, quite as much

as from the egotism of the individuals. Other attempts at reorganizing

Society were made about the same time by men of culture and experience,

but in the A.C. we had neither. Our leaders had caught a few

half-truths, which, in their minds, were speedily warped into errors.

I can laugh over the absurdities I helped to perpetrate, but I must

confess that the experiences of those few weeks went far towards making

a man of me."

"Did the A.C. break up at once?" asked Mr. Johnson.

"Not precisely; though Eunice and I left the house within two days, as

we had agreed. We were not married immediately, however. Three long

years--years of hope and mutual encouragement--passed away before that

happy consummation. Before our departure, Hollins had fallen into his

old manner, convinced, apparently, that Candor must be postponed to a

better age of the world. But the quarrel rankled in Shelldrake's mind,

and especially in that of his wife. I could see by her looks and little

fidgety ways that his further stay would be very uncomfortable. Abel

Mallory, finding himself gaining in weight and improving in color, had

no thought of returning. The day previous, as I afterwards learned, he

had discovered Perkins Brown's secret kitchen in the woods.

"'Golly!' said that youth, in describing the circumstance to me, 'I had

to ketch _two_ porgies that day.'

"Miss Ringtop, who must have suspected the new relation between Eunice

and myself, was for the most part rigidly silent. If she quoted, it was

from the darkest and dreariest utterances of her favorite Gamaliel.

"What happened after our departure I learned from Perkins, on the return

of the Shelldrakes to Norridgeport, in September. Mrs. Shelldrake

stoutly persisted in refusing to make Hollins's bed, or to wash his

shirts. Her brain was dull, to be sure; but she was therefore all the

more stubborn in her resentment. He bore this state of things for about

a week, when his engagements to lecture in Ohio suddenly called him

away. Abel and Miss Ringtop were left to wander about the promontory in

company, and to exchange lamentations on the hollowness of human hopes

or the pleasures of despair. Whether it was owing to that attraction of

sex which would make any man and any woman, thrown together on a desert

island, finally become mates, or whether she skilfully ministered to

Abel's sentimental vanity, I will not undertake to decide: but the fact

is, they were actually betrothed, on leaving Arcadia. I think he would

willingly have retreated, after his return to the world; but that was

not so easy. Miss Ringtop held him with an inexorable clutch. They were

not married, however, until just before his departure for California,

whither she afterwards followed him. She died in less than a year, and

left him free."

"And what became of the other Arcadians?" asked Mr. Johnson.

"The Shelldrakes are still living in Norridgeport. They have become

Spiritualists, I understand, and cultivate Mediums. Hollins, when I

last heard of him, was a Deputy Surveyor in the New York Custom-House.

Perkins Brown is our butcher, here in Waterbury, and he often asks

me,--'Do you take chloride of soda on your beefsteaks? 'He is as fat as

a prize ox, and the father of five children."

"Enos!" exclaimed Mrs. Billings, looking at the clock, "it's nearly

midnight! Mr. Johnson must be very tired, after such a long story. The

Chapter of the A.C. is hereby closed!"

* * * * *

SNOW.

All through the long hours of yesterday the low clouds hung close above

our heads, to pour with more unswerving aim their constant storm of

sleet and snow,--sometimes working in soft silence, sometimes with

impatient gusty breaths, but always busily at work. Darkness brought no

rest to these laborious warriors of the air, but only fiercer strife:

the wild winds rose; noisy recruits, they howled beneath the eaves,

or swept around the walls, like hungry wolves, now here, now there,

howling; at opposite doors. Thus, through the anxious and wakeful night,

the storm went on. The household lay vexed by broken dreams, with

changing fancies of lost children on solitary moors, of sleighs

hopelessly overturned in drifted and pathless gorges, or of icy cordage

upon disabled vessels in Arctic seas; until a softer warmth, as of

sheltering snow-wreaths, lulled all into deeper rest till morning.

And what a morning! The sun, a young conqueror, sends in his glorious

rays, like heralds, to rouse us for the inspection of his trophies. The

baffled foe, retiring, has left far and near the high-heaped spoils

behind. The glittering plains own the new victor. Over all these level

and wide-swept meadows, over all these drifted, spotless slopes, he is

proclaimed undisputed monarch. On the wooded hill-sides the startled

shadows are in motion; they flee like young fawns, bounding upward and

downward over rock and dell, as through the long gleaming arches the

king comes marching to his throne. But shade yet lingers undisturbed in

the valleys, mingled with timid smoke from household chimneys; blue as

the smoke, a gauzy haze is twined around the brow of every distant hill;

and the same soft azure confuses the outlines of the nearer trees, to

whose branches snowy wreaths are clinging, far up among the boughs, like

strange new flowers. Everywhere the unstained surface glistens in the

sunbeams. In the curves and wreaths and turrets of the drifts a blue

tinge nestles. The fresh pure sky answers to it; every cloud has

vanished, save one or two which linger near the horizon, pardoned

offenders, seeming far too innocent for mischief, although their dark

and sullen brothers, banished ignominiously below the horizon's verge,

may be plotting nameless treachery there. The brook still flows visibly

through the valley, and the myriad rocks that check its course are all

rounded with fleecy surfaces, till they seem like flocks of tranquil

sheep that drink the shallow flood.

The day is one of moderate cold, but clear and bracing; the air sparkles

like the snow; everything seems dry and resonant, like the wood of a

violin. All sounds are musical,--the voices of children, the cooing

of doves, the crowing of cocks, the chopping of wood, the creaking of

country sleds, the sweet jangle of sleighbells. The snow has fallen

under a cold temperature, and the flakes are perfectly crystallized;

every shrub we pass bears wreaths which glitter as gorgeously as the

nebula in the constellation Perseus; but in another hour of sunshine

every one of those fragile outlines will disappear, and the white

surface glitter no longer with stars, but with star-dust. On such a

day, the universe seems to held but three pure tints,--blue, white,

and green. The loveliness of the universe seems simplified to its last

extreme of refined delicacy. That sensation we poor mortals often

have, of being just on the edge of infinite beauty, yet with always a

lingering film between, never presses down more closely than on days

like this. Everything seems perfectly prepared to satiate the soul with

inexpressible felicity if we could only, by one infinitesimal step

farther, reach the mood to dwell in it.

Leaving behind us the sleighs and snow-shovels of the street, we turn

noiselessly toward the radiant margin of the sunlit woods. The yellow

willows on the causeway burn like flame against the darker background,

and will burn on until they burst into April. Yonder pines and hemlocks

stand motionless and dark against the sky. The statelier trees have

already shaken all the snow from their summits, but it still clothes the

lower ones with a white covering that looks solid as marble. Yet see how

lightly it escapes!--a slight gust shakes a single tree, there is a

_Staub-bach_ for a moment, and the branches stand free as in summer, a

pyramid of green amid the whiteness of the yet imprisoned forest. Each

branch raises itself when emancipated, thus changing the whole outline

of the growth; and the snow beneath is punctured with a thousand little

depressions, where the petty avalanches have just buried themselves and

disappeared.

In crossing this white level, we have been tracking our way across an

invisible pond, which was alive last week with five hundred skaters.

Now there is a foot of snow upon it, through which there is a boyish

excitement in making the first path. Looking back upon our track, it

proves to be like all other human paths, straight in intention, but

slightly devious in deed. We have gay companions on our way; for a

breeze overtakes us, and a hundred little simooms of drift whirl along

beside us, and whelm in miniature burial whole caravans of dry leaves.

Here, too, our track intersects with that of some previous passer; he

has but just gone on, judging by the freshness of the trail, and we can

study his character and purposes. The large boots betoken a wood-man or

ice-man: yet such a one would hardly have stepped so irresolutely where

a little film of water has spread between the ice and snow and given a

look of insecurity; and here again he has stopped to observe the wreaths

on this pendent bough, and this snow-filled bird's-nest. And there the

footsteps of the lover of beauty turn abruptly to the road again, and he

vanishes from us forever.

As we wander on through the wood, all the labyrinths of summer are

buried beneath one white inviting pathway, and the pledge of perfect

loneliness is given by the unbroken surface of the all-revealing snow.

There appears nothing living except a downy woodpecker, whirling round

and round upon a young beech-stem, and a few sparrows, plump with

grass-seed and hurrying with jerking flight down the sunny glade. But

the trees furnish society enough. What a congress of ermined kings is

this circle of hemlocks, which stand, white in their soft raiment,

around the daïs of this woodland pond! Are they held here, like the

sovereigns in the palace of the Sleeping Beauty, till some mortal breaks

their spell? What sage counsels must be theirs, as they nod their weary

heads and whisper ghostly memories and old men's tales to each other,

while the red leaves dance on the snowy sward below, or a fox or

squirrel steals hurriedly through the wild and wintry night! Here and

there is some discrowned Lear, who has thrown off his regal mantle, and

stands in faded russet, misplaced among the monarchs.

What a simple and stately hospitality is that of Nature in winter! The

season which the residents of cities think an obstruction is in the

country an extension of intercourse: it opens every forest from here

to Labrador, free of entrance; the most tangled thicket, the most

treacherous marsh becomes passable; and the lumberer or moose-hunter,

mounted on his snow-shoes, has the world before him. He says "good

snow-shoeing," as we say "good sleighing"; and it gives a sensation like

a first visit to the sea-side and the shipping, when one first sees

exhibited, in the streets of Bangor or Montreal, these delicate Indian

conveyances. It seems as if a new element were suddenly opened for

travel, and all due facilities provided. One expects to go a little

farther, and see in the shop-windows, "Wings for sale,--gentlemen's and

ladies' sizes." The snow-shoe and the birch-canoe,--what other dying

race ever left behind it two memorials so perfect and so graceful?

The shadows thrown by the trees upon the snow are blue and soft, sharply

defined, and so contrasted with the gleaming white as to appear narrower

than the boughs which cast them. There is something subtle and fantastic

about these shadows. Here is a leafless larch-sapling, eight feet high.

The image of the lower boughs is traced upon the snow, distinct and firm

as cordage, while the higher ones grow dimmer by fine gradations, until

the slender topmost twig is blurred and almost effaced. But the denser

upper spire of the young spruce by its side throws almost as distinct a

shadow as its base, and the whole figure looks of a more solid texture,

as if you could feel it with your hand. More beautiful than either is

the fine image of this baby hemlock: each delicate leaf droops above as

delicate a copy, and here and there the shadow and the substance kiss

and frolic with each other in the downy snow.

The larger larches have a different plaything: on the bare branches,

thickly studded with buds, cling airily the small, light cones of last

year's growth, each crowned, with a little ball of soft snow, four times

taller than itself,--save where some have drooped sideways, so that

each carries, poor weary Atlas, a sphere upon its back. Thus the coy

creatures play cup and ball, and one has lost its plaything yonder, as

the branch slightly stirs, and the whole vanishes in a whirl of snow.

Meanwhile a fragment of low arbor-vitae hedge, poor outpost of a

neighboring plantation, is so covered and packed with solid drift,

inside and out, that it seems as if no power of sunshine could ever

steal in among its twigs and disentangle it.

In winter each separate object interests us; in summer, the mass.

Natural beauty in winter is a poor man's luxury, infinitely enhanced in

quality by the diminution in quantity. Winter, with fewer and simpler

methods, yet seems to give all her works a finish even more delicate

than that of summer, working, as Emerson says of English agriculture,

with a pencil, instead of a plough. Or rather, the ploughshare is but

concealed; since a pithy old English preacher has said that, "the frost

is God's plough, which He drives through every inch of ground in the

world, opening each clod, and pulverizing the whole."

Coming out upon a high hill-side, more exposed to the direct fury of the

sleet, we find Nature wearing a wilder look. Every white-birch clump

around us is bent divergingly to the ground, each white form prostrated

in mute despair upon the whiter bank. The bare, writhing branches of

yonder sombre oak-grove are steeped in snow, and in the misty air they

look so remote and foreign that there is not a wild creature of the

Norse mythology who might not stalk from beneath their haunted branches.

Buried races, Teutons and Cimbri, might tramp solemnly forth from those

weird arcades. The soft pines on this nearer knoll seem separated from

them by ages and generations. On the farther hills spread woods of

smaller growth, like forests of spun glass, jewelry by the acre provided

for this coronation of winter.

We descend a steep bank, little pellets of snow rolling hastily beside

us, and leaving enamelled furrows behind. Entering the sheltered and

sunny glade, we are assailed by a sudden warmth whose languor is almost

oppressive. Wherever the sun strikes upon the pines and hemlocks,

there is a household gleam which gives a more vivid sensation than

the diffused brilliancy of summer. The sunbeams maintain a thousand

secondary fires in the reflection of light from every tree and stalk,

for the preservation of animal life and the ultimate melting of these

accumulated drifts. Around each trunk or stone the snow has melted and

fallen back. It is a singular fact, established beyond doubt by science,

that the snow is absolutely less influenced by the direct rays of the

sun than by these reflections. "If a blackened card is placed upon the

snow or ice in the sunshine, the frozen mass underneath it will be

gradually thawed, while that by which it is surrounded, though exposed

to the full power of solar heat, is but little disturbed. If, however,

we reflect the sun's rays from a metal surface, an exactly contrary

result takes place: the uncovered parts are the first to melt, and the

blackened card stands high above the surrounding portion." Look round

upon this buried meadow, and you will see emerging through the white

surface a thousand stalks of grass, sedge, osmunda, golden-rod, mullein,

Saint-John's-wort, plaintain, and eupatorium,--an allied army of the

sun, keeping up a perpetual volley of innumerable rays upon the yielding

snow.

It is their last dying service. We misplace our tenderness in winter,

and look with pity upon the leafless trees. But there is no tragedy

in the trees: each is not dead, but sleepeth; and each bears a future

summer of buds safe nestled on its bosom, as a mother reposes with her

baby at her breast. The same security of life pervades every woody

shrub: the alder and the birch have their catkins all ready for the

first day of spring, and the sweet-fern has even now filled with

fragrance its folded blossom. Winter is no such solid bar between season

and season as we fancy, but only a slight check and interruption: one

may at any time produce these March blossoms by bringing the buds into

the warm house; and the petals of the May-flower sometimes show their

pink and white edges in autumn. But every grass-blade and flower-stalk

is a mausoleum of vanished summer, itself crumbling to dust, never to

rise again. Each child of June, scarce distinguishable in November

against the background of moss and rocks and bushes, is brought into

final prominence in December by the white snow which imbeds it. The

delicate flakes collapse and fall back around it, but they retain their

inexorable hold. Thus delicate is the action of Nature,--a finger of

air, and a grasp of iron.

We pass the old red foundry, banked in with snow and its low eaves

draped with icicles, and come to the brook which turns its resounding

wheel. The musical motion of the water seems almost unnatural amidst

the general stillness: brooks, like men, must keep themselves warm by

exercise. The overhanging rushes and alder-sprays, weary of winter's

sameness, have made for themselves playthings,--each dangling a crystal

knob of ice, which sways gently in the water and gleams ruddy in the

sunlight. As we approach the foaming cascade, the toys become larger and

more glittering, movable stalactites, which the water tosses merrily

upon their flexible stems. The torrent pours down beneath an enamelled

mask of ice, wreathed and convoluted like a brain, and sparkling

with gorgeous glow. Tremulous motions and glimmerings go through the

translucent veil, as if it throbbed with the throbbing wave beneath.

It holds in its mazes stray bits of color,--scarlet berries, evergreen

sprigs, blue raspberry-stems, and sprays of yellow willow; glittering

necklaces and wreaths and tiaras of brilliant ice-work cling and trail

around its edges, and no regal palace shines with such carcanets of

jewels as this winter ball-room of the dancing drops.

Above, the brook becomes a smooth black canal between two steep white

banks; and the glassy water seems momentarily stiffening into the

solider blackness of ice. Here and there thin films are already formed

over it, and are being constantly broken apart by the treacherous

current; a flake a foot square is jerked away and goes sliding beneath

the slight transparent surface till it reappears below. The same thing,

on a larger scale, helps to form the mighty ice-pack of the Northern

seas. Nothing except ice is capable of combining, on the largest scale,

bulk with mobility, and this imparts a dignity to its motions even on

the smallest scale. I do not believe that anything in Behring's Straits

could impress me with a grander sense of desolation or of power than

when in boyhood I watched the ice break up in the winding channel of

Charles River.

Amidst so much that seems like death, let us turn and study the life.

There is much more to be seen in winter than most of us have ever

noticed. Far in the North the "moose-yards" are crowded and trampled, at

this season, and the wolf and the deer run noiselessly a deadly race,

as I have heard the hunters describe, upon the white surface of the

gleaming lake. But the pond beneath our feet keeps its stores of life

chiefly below its level platform, as the bright fishes in the basket of

yon heavy-booted fisherman can tell. Yet the scattered tracks of mink

and musk-rat beside the banks, of meadow-mice around the hay-stacks, of

squirrels under the trees, of rabbits and partridges in the wood, show

the warm life that is beating unseen, beneath fur or feathers, close

beside us. The chicadees are chattering merrily in the upland grove, the

blue-jays scream in the hemlock glade, the snow-bird mates the snow with

its whiteness, and the robin contrasts with it his still ruddy breast.

The weird and impenetrable crows, most talkative of birds and most

uncommunicative, their very food at this season a mystery, are almost as

numerous now as in summer. They always seem like some race of banished

goblins, doing penance for some primeval and inscrutable transgression,

and if any bird have a history, it is they. In the Spanish version of

the tradition of King Arthur it is said that he fled from the weeping

queens and the island valley of Avilion in the form of a crow; and hence

it is said in "Don Quixote" that no Englishman will ever kill one.

The traces of the insects in the winter are prophetic,--from the

delicate cocoon of some infinitesimal feathery thing which hangs upon

the dry, starry calyx of the aster, to the large brown-paper parcel

which hides in peasant garb the costly beauty of some gorgeous moth. But

the hints of birds are retrospective. In each tree of this pasture, the

very pasture where last spring we looked for nests and found them not

among the deceitful foliage, the fragile domiciles now stand revealed.

But where are the birds that filled them? Could the airy creatures

nurtured in those nests have left permanently traced upon the air behind

them their own bright summer flight, the whole atmosphere would be

filled with interlacing lines and curves of gorgeous coloring, the

centre of all being this forsaken bird's-nest filled with snow.

Among the many birds which winter here, and the many insects which are

called forth by a few days of thaw, not a few must die of cold or of

fatigue amid the storms. Yet how few traces one sees of this mortality!

Provision is made for it. Yonder a dead wasp has fallen on the snow, and

the warmth of its body, or its power of reflecting a few small rays

of light, is melting its little grave beneath it. With what a cleanly

purity does Nature strive to withdraw all unsightly objects into her

cemetery! Their own weight and lingering warmth take them through air

or water, snow or ice, to the level of the earth, and there with spring

comes an army of burying-insects, _Necrophagi_, in a livery of red and

black, to dig a grave beneath every one, and not a sparrow falleth to

the ground without knowledge. The tiny remains thus disappear from the

surface, and the dry leaves are soon spread above these Children in the

Wood.

Thus varied and benignant are the aspects of winter on these sunny days.

But it is impossible to claim this weather as the only type of our

winter climate. There occasionally come days which, though perfectly

still and serene, suggest more terror than any tempest,--terrible,

clear, glaring days of pitiless cold,--when the sun seems powerless

or only a brighter moon, when the windows remain ground-glass at high

noontide, and when, on going out of doors, one is dazzled by the

brightness and fancies for a moment that it cannot be so cold as has

been reported, but presently discovers that the severity is only more

deadly for being so still. Exercise on such days seems to produce no

warmth; one's limbs appear ready to break on any sudden motion, like

icy boughs. Stage-drivers and dray-men are transformed to mere human

buffaloes by their fur coats; the patient oxen are frost-covered; the

horse that goes racing by waves a wreath of steam from his tossing head.

On such days life becomes a battle to all householders, the ordinary

apparatus for defence is insufficient, and the price of caloric is

continual vigilance. In innumerable armies the frost besieges the

portal, creeps in beneath it and above it, and on every latch and

key-handle lodges an advanced guard of white rime. Leave the door ajar

never so slightly and a chill creeps in cat-like; we are conscious by

the warmest fireside of the near vicinity of cold, its fingers are

feeling after us, and even if they do not clutch us, we know that they

are there. The sensations of such days almost make us associate their

clearness and whiteness with something malignant and evil. Charles Lamb

asserts of snow, "It glares too much for an innocent color, methinks."

Why does popular mythology associate the infernal regions with a high

temperature instead of a low one? El Aishi, the Arab writer, says of the

bleak wind of the Desert, (so writes Richardson, the African traveller,)

"The north wind blows with an intensity equalling _the cold of hell_;

language fails me to describe its rigorous temperature." Some have

thought that there is a similar allusion in the phrase, "weeping and

gnashing of teeth,"--the teeth chattering from frost. Milton also

enumerates cold as one of the torments of the lost:--

"O'er many a frozen, many a fiery Alp";

and one may sup full of horrors on the exceedingly cold collation

provided for the next world by the Norse Edda.

But, after all, there are few such terrific periods in our Massachusetts

winters, and the appointed exit from their frigidity is usually through

a snow-storm. After a day of this severe sunshine there comes commonly

a darker day of cloud, still hard and forbidding, though milder in

promise, with a sky of lead, deepening near the horizon into darker

films of iron. Then, while all the nerves of the universe seem rigid and

tense, the first reluctant flake steals slowly down, like a tear. In a

few hours the whole atmosphere begins to relax once more, and in

our astonishing climate very possibly the snow changes to rain in

twenty-four hours, and a thaw sets in. It is not strange, therefore,

that snow, which to Southern races is typical of cold and terror, brings

associations of warmth and shelter to the children of the North.

Snow, indeed, actually nourishes animal life. It holds in its bosom

numerous animalcules: you may have a glass of water, perfectly free from

_infusoria_, which yet, after your dissolving in it a handful of snow,

will show itself full of microscopic creatures, shrimp-like and swift;

and the famous red snow of the Arctic regions is only an exhibition of

the same property. It has sometimes been fancied that persons buried

under the snow have received sustenance through the pores of the skin,

like reptiles imbedded in rock. Elizabeth Woodcock lived eight days

beneath a snow-drift, in 1799, without eating a morsel; and a Swiss

family were buried beneath an avalanche, in a manger, for five months,

in 1755, with no food but a trifling store of chestnuts and a small

daily supply of milk from a goat which was buried with them. In neither

case was there extreme suffering from cold, and it is unquestionable

that the interior of a drift is far warmer than the surface. On the 23d

of December, 1860, at 9 P.M., I was surprised to observe drops falling

from the under side of a heavy bank of snow at the eaves, at a distance

from any chimney, while the mercury on the same side was only fifteen

degrees above zero, not having indeed risen above the point of freezing

during the whole day.

Dr. Kane pays ample tribute to these kindly properties. "Few of us at

home can recognize the protecting value of this warm coverlet of snow.

No eider-down in the cradle of an infant is tucked in more kindly than

the sleeping-dress of winter about this feeble flower-life. The first

warm snows of August and September, falling on a thickly pleached carpet

of grasses, heaths, and willows, enshrine the flowery growths which

nestle round them in a non-conducting air-chamber; and as each

successive snow increases the thickness of the cover, we have, before

the intense cold of winter sets in, a light cellular bed covered by

drift, six, eight, or ten feet deep, in which the plant retains its

vitality. ... I have found in midwinter, in this high latitude of 78°

50', the surface so nearly moist as to be friable to the touch; and upon

the ice-floes, commencing with a surface-temperature of-30°, I found

at two feet deep a temperature of-8°, at four feet + 2°, and at eight

feet + 26°. ... The glacier which we became so familiar with afterwards

at Etah yields an uninterrupted stream throughout the year." And he

afterwards shows that even the varying texture and quality of the snow

deposited during the earlier and later portions of the Arctic winter

have their special adaptations to the welfare of the vegetation they

protect.

The process of crystallization seems a microcosm of the universe.

Radiata, mollusca, feathers, flowers, ferns, mosses, palms, pines,

grain-fields, leaves of cedar, chestnut, elm, acanthus: these and

multitudes of other objects are figured on your frosty window; on

sixteen different panes I have counted sixteen patterns strikingly

distinct, and it appeared like a show-case for the globe. What can seem

remoter relatives than the star, the starfish, the star-flower, and the

starry snow-flake which clings this moment to your sleeve?--yet some

philosophers hold that one day their law of existence will be found

precisely the same. The connection with the primeval star, especially,

seems far and fanciful enough, but there are yet unexplored affinities

between light and crystallization: some crystals have a tendency to grow

toward the light, and others develop electricity and give out flashes of

light during their formation. Slight foundations for scientific fancies,

indeed, but slight is all our knowledge.

More than a hundred different figures of snow-flakes, all regular and

kaleidoscopic, have been drawn by Scoresby, Lowe, and Glaisher, and may

be found pictured in the encyclopaedias and elsewhere, ranging from the

simplest stellar shapes to the most complicated ramifications. Professor

Tyndall, in his delightful book on "The Glaciers of the Alps," gives

drawings of a few of these snow-blossoms, which he watched falling for

hours, the whole air being filled with them, and drifts of several

inches being accumulated while he watched. "Let us imagine the eye

gifted with microscopic power sufficient to enable it to see the

molecules which composed these starry crystals; to observe the solid

nucleus formed and floating in the air; to see it drawing towards it its

allied atoms, and these arranging themselves as if they moved to music,

and ended with rendering that music concrete." Thus do the Alpine winds,

like Orpheus, build their walls by harmony.

In some of these frost-flowers the rare and delicate blossom of our wild

_Mitella diphylla_ is beautifully figured. Snow-flakes have been also

found in the form of regular hexagons and other plane figures, as well

as in cylinders and spheres. As a general rule, the intenser the cold

the more perfect the formation, and the most perfect specimens are

Arctic or Alpine in their locality. In this climate the snow seldom

falls when the mercury is much below zero; but the slightest atmospheric

changes may alter the whole condition of the deposit, and decide whether

it shall sparkle like Italian marble, or be dead-white like the statuary

marble of Vermont,--whether it shall be a fine powder which can sift

through wherever dust can, or descend in large woolly masses, tossed

like mouthfuls to the hungry South.

The most remarkable display of crystallization which I have ever seen

was on the 13th of January, 1859. There had been three days of unusual

cold, but during the night the weather had moderated, and the mercury in

the morning stood at + 14°. About two inches of snow had fallen, and the

trees appeared densely coated with it. It proved, on examination, that

every twig had on the leeward side a dense row of miniature fronds or

fern-leaves executed in snow, with a sharply defined central nerve, or

midrib, and perfect ramification, tapering to a point, and varying in

length from half an inch to three inches. On every post, every rail, and

the corners of every building, the same spectacle was seen; and where

the snow had accumulated in deep drifts, it was still made up of the

ruins of these fairy structures. The white, enamelled landscape was

beautiful, but a close view of the details was far more so. The

crystallizations were somewhat uniform in structure, yet suggested a

variety of natural objects, as feather-mosses, birds' feathers, and the

most delicate lace-corals, but the predominant analogy was with ferns.

Yet they seemed to assume a sort of fantastic kindred with the objects

to which they adhered: thus, on the leaves of spruce-trees and on

delicate lichens they seemed like reduplications of the original growth,

and they made the broad, fiat leaves of the arbor-vitae fully twice as

wide as before. But this fringe was always on one side only, except

when gathered upon dangling fragments of spider's web, or bits of stray

thread: these they entirely encircled, probably because these objects

had twirled in the light wind while the crystals were forming. Singular

disguises were produced: a bit of ragged rope appeared a piece of

twisted lace-work; a knot-hole in a board was adorned with a deep

antechamber of snowy wreaths; and the frozen body of a hairy caterpillar

became its own well-plumed hearse. The most peculiar circumstance was

the fact that single flakes never showed any regular crystallization:

the magic was in the combination; the under sides of rails and boards

exhibited it as unequivocally as the upper sides, indicating that the

phenomenon was created in the lower atmosphere, and was more akin to

frost than snow; and yet the largest snow-banks were composed of nothing

else, and seemed like heaps of blanched iron-filings.

Interesting observations have been made on the relations between ice and

snow. The difference seems to lie only in the more or less compacted

arrangement of the frozen particles. Water and air, each being

transparent when separate, become opaque when intimately mingled; the

reason being that the inequalities of refraction break up and scatter

every ray of light. Thus, clouds cast a shadow; so does steam; so does

foam: and the same elements take a still denser texture when combined

as snow. Every snow-flake is permeated with minute airy chambers, among

which the light is bewildered and lost; while from perfectly hard and

transparent ice every trace of air disappears, and the transmission

of light is unbroken. Yet that same ice becomes white and opaque when

pulverized, its fragments being then intermingled with air again,--just

as colorless glass may be crushed into white powder. On the other

hand, Professor Tyndall has converted slabs of snow to ice by regular

pressure, and has shown that every Alpine glacier begins as a snow-drift

at its summit, and ends in a transparent ice-cavern below. "The blue

blocks which span the sources of the Arveiron were once powdery snow

upon the slopes of the Col du Géant."

The varied and wonderful shapes assumed by snow and ice have been best

portrayed, perhaps, by Dr. Kane in his two works; but their resources of

color have been so explored by no one as by this same favored Professor

Tyndall, among his Alps. It appears that the tints which in temperate

regions are seen feebly and occasionally, in hollows or angles of fresh

drifts, become brilliant and constant above the line of perpetual snow,

and the higher the altitude the more lustrous the display. When a staff

was struck into the new-fallen drift, the hollow seemed instantly to

fill with a soft blue liquid, while the snow adhering to the staff took

a complementary color of pinkish yellow, and on moving it up and down

it was hard to resist the impression that a pink flame was rising and

sinking in the hole. The little natural furrows in the drifts appeared

faintly blue, the ridges were gray, while the parts most exposed to

view seemed least illuminated, and as if a light brown dust had been

sprinkled over them. The fresher the snow, the more marked the colors,

and it made no difference whether the sky were cloudless or foggy. Thus

was every white peak decked upon its brow with this tiara of ineffable

beauty.

The impression is very general that the average quantity of snow has

greatly diminished in America; but it must be remembered that very

severe storms occur only at considerable intervals, and the Puritans did

not always, as boys fancy, step out of the upper windows upon the snow.

In 1717, the ground was covered from ten to twenty feet, indeed; but

during January, 1861, the snow was six feet on a level in many parts of

Maine and New Hampshire, and was probably drifted three times that depth

in particular spots. The greatest storm recorded in England, I believe,

is that of 1814, in which for forty-eight hours the snow fell so

furiously that drifts of sixteen, twenty, and even twenty-four feet were

recorded in various places. An inch an hour is thought to be the average

rate of deposit, though four inches are said to have fallen during the

severe storm of January 3d, 1859. When thus intensified, the "beautiful

meteor of the snow" begins to give a sensation of something formidable;

and when the mercury suddenly falls meanwhile, and the wind rises, there

are sometimes suggestions of such terror in a snowstorm as no summer

thunders can rival. The brief and singular tempest of February 7th,

1861, was a thing to be forever remembered by those who saw it, as I

did, over a wide plain. The sky suddenly appeared to open and let down

whole solid snow-banks at once, which were caught and torn to pieces by

the ravenous winds, and the traveller was instantaneously enveloped in

a whirling mass far denser than any fog; it was a tornado with snow

stirred into it. Standing in the middle of the road, with houses close

on every side, one could see absolutely nothing in any direction, one

could hear no sound but the storm. Every landmark vanished, and it was

no more possible to guess the points of the compass than in mid-ocean.

It was easy to conceive of being bewildered and overwhelmed within a rod

of one's own door. The tempest lasted only an hour; but if it had lasted

a week, we should have had such a storm as occurred on the steppes of

Kirgheez in Siberia, in 1827, destroying two hundred and eighty thousand

five hundred horses, thirty thousand four hundred cattle, a million

sheep, and ten thousand camels,--or as "the thirteen drifty days,"

in 1620, which killed nine-tenths of all the sheep in the South of

Scotland. On Eskdale Moor, out of twenty thousand only forty-five were

left alive, and the shepherds everywhere built up huge semicircular

walls of the dead creatures, to afford shelter to the living, till the

gale should end. But the most remarkable narrative of a snowstorm which

I have ever seen was that written by James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd,

in record of one which took place January 24th, 1790.

James Hogg at this time belonged to a sort of literary society of young

shepherds, and had set out, the day previous, to walk twenty miles over

the hills to the place of meeting; but so formidable was the look of the

sky that he felt anxious for his sheep, and finally turned back again.

There was at that time only a slight fall of snow, in thin flakes which

seemed uncertain whether to go up or down; the hills were covered with

deep folds of frost-fog, and in the valleys the same fog seemed dark,

dense, and as it were crushed together. An old shepherd, predicting a

storm, bade him watch for a sudden opening through this fog, and expect

a wind from that quarter; yet when he saw such an opening suddenly form

at midnight, (having then reached his own home,) he thought it all a

delusion, as the weather had grown milder and a thaw seemed setting in.

He therefore went to bed, and felt no more anxiety for his sheep; yet

he lay awake in spite of himself, and at two o'clock he heard the

storm begin. It smote the house suddenly, like a great peal of

thunder,--something utterly unlike any storm he had ever before heard.

On his rising and thrusting his bare arm through a hole in the roof, it

seemed precisely as if he had thrust it into a snow-bank, so densely was

the air filled with falling and driving particles. He lay still for an

hour, while the house rocked with the tempest, hoping it might prove

only a hurricane; but as there was no abatement, he wakened his

companion-shepherd, telling him "it was come on such a night or morning

as never blew from the heavens." The other at once arose, and, opening

the door of the shed where they slept, found a drift as high as the

farm-house already heaped between them and its walls, a distance of only

fourteen yards. He floundered through, Hogg soon following, and, finding

all the family up, they agreed that they must reach the sheep as soon as

possible, especially eight hundred ewes that were in one lot together,

at the farthest end of the farm. So, after family-prayers and breakfast,

four of them stuffed their pockets with bread and cheese, sewed their

plaids about them, tied down their hats, and, taking each his staff, set

out on their tremendous undertaking, two hours before day.

Day dawned before they got three hundred yards from the house.

They could not see each other, and kept together with the greatest

difficulty. They had to make paths with their staves, rolled themselves

over drifts otherwise impassable, and every three or four minutes had to

hold their heads down between their knees to recover breath. They went

in single file, taking the lead by turns. The master soon gave out and

was speechless and semi-conscious for more than an hour, though he

afterwards recovered and held out with the rest. Two of them lost their

head-gear, and Hogg himself fell over a high precipice, but they reached

the flock at half-past ten. They found the ewes huddled together in a

dense body, under ten feet of snow,--packed so closely, that, to the

amazement of the shepherds, when they had extricated the first, the

whole flock walked out one after another, in a body, through the hole.

How they got them home it is almost impossible, to tell. It was now

noon, and they sometimes could see through the storm for twenty yards,

but they had only one momentary glimpse of the hills through all that

terrible day. Yet Hogg persisted in going by himself afterwards to

rescue some flocks of his own, barely escaping with life from the

expedition; his eyes were sealed up with the storm, and he crossed a

formidable torrent, without knowing it, on a wreath of snow. Two of the

others lost themselves in a deep valley, and would have perished but

for being accidentally heard by a neighboring shepherd, who guided them

home, where the female portion of the family had abandoned all hope of

ever seeing them again.

The next day was clear, with a cold wind, and they set forth again at

daybreak to seek the remainder of the flock. The face of the country

was perfectly transformed: not a hill was the same, not a brook or lake

could be recognized. Deep glens were filled in with snow, covering the

very tops of the trees; and over a hundred acres of ground, under an

average depth of six or eight feet, they were to look for four or five

hundred sheep. The attempt would have been hopeless but for a dog that

accompanied them: seeing their perplexity, he began snuffing about, and

presently scratching in the snow at a certain point, and then looking

round at his master: digging at this spot, they found a sheep beneath.

And so the dog led them all day, bounding eagerly from one place to

another, much faster than they could dig the creatures out, so that he

sometimes had twenty or thirty holes marked beforehand. In this way,

within a week, they got out every sheep on the farm except four, these

last being buried under a mountain of snow fifty feet deep, on the top

of which the dog had marked their places again and again. In every case

the sheep proved to be alive and warm, though half-suffocated; on being

taken out, they usually bounded away swiftly, and then fell helplessly

in a few moments, overcome by the change of atmosphere; some then died

almost instantly, and others were carried home and with difficulty

preserved, only about sixty being lost in all. Marvellous to tell, the

country-people unanimously agreed afterwards to refer the whole terrific

storm to some secret incantations of poor Hogg's literary society

aforesaid; it was generally maintained that a club of young dare-devils

had raised the Fiend himself among them in the likeness of a black dog,

the night preceding the storm, and the young students actually did not

dare to show themselves at fairs or at markets for a year afterwards.

Snow-scenes less exciting, but more wild and dreary, may be found in

Alexander Henry's Travels with the Indians, in the last century. In the

winter of 1776, for instance, they wandered for many hundred miles over

the farthest northwestern prairies, where scarcely a white man had

before trodden. The snow lay from four to six feet deep. They went on

snow-shoes, drawing their stores on sleds. The mercury was sometimes

-32°; no fire could keep them warm at night, and often they had no fire,

being scarcely able to find wood enough to melt the snow for drink. They

lay beneath buffalo-skins and the stripped bark of trees: a foot of snow

sometimes fell on them before morning. The sun rose at half past nine

and set at half past two. "The country was one uninterrupted plain, in

many parts of which no wood nor even the smallest shrub was to be seen:

a frozen, sea, of which the little coppices were the islands. That

behind which we had encamped the night before soon sank in the horizon,

and the eye had nothing left save only the sky and snow." Fancy them

encamped by night, seeking shelter in a scanty grove from a wild tempest

of snow; then suddenly charged upon by a herd of buffaloes, thronging in

from all sides of the wood to take shelter likewise,--the dogs barking,

the Indians firing, and still the bewildered beasts rushing madly

in, blinded by the storm, fearing the guns within less than the fury

without, crashing through the trees, trampling over the tents, and

falling about in the deep and dreary snow! No other writer has ever

given us the full desolation of Indian winter-life. Whole families,

Henry said, frequently perished together in such storms. No wonder that

the Aboriginal legends are full of "mighty Peboan, the Winter," and of

Kabibonokka a his lodge of snow-drifts.

The interest inspired by these simple narratives suggests the

reflection, that literature, which has thus far portrayed so few aspects

of external Nature, has described almost nothing of winter beauty.

In English books, especially, this season is simply forlorn and

disagreeable, dark and dismal.

"And foul and fierce

All winter drives along the darkened air."

"When dark December shrouds the transient

day,

And stormy winds are howling in their

ire,

Why com'st not thou?. ... Oh, haste to pay

The cordial visit sullen hours require!"

"Winter will oft at eve resume the breeze,

Chill the pale morn, and bid his driving

blasts

Deform the day delightless."

"Now that the fields are dank and ways are

mire,

With whom you might converse, and by the

fire

Help waste the sullen day."

But our prevalent association with winter, in the Northern United

States, is with something white and dazzling and brilliant; and it is

time to paint our own pictures, and cease to borrow these gloomy alien

tints. One must turn eagerly every season to the few glimpses of

American winter aspects: to Emerson's "Snow-Storm," every word a

sculpture,--to the admirable storm in "Margaret,"--to Thoreau's "Winter

Walk," in the "Dial,"--and to Lowell's "First Snow-Flake." These are

fresh and real pictures, which carry us back to the Greek Anthology,

where the herds come wandering down from the wooded mountains, covered

with snow, and to Homer's aged Ulysses, his wise words falling like the

snows of winter.

Let me add to this scanty gallery of snow-pictures the quaint lore

contained in one of the multitudinous sermons of Increase Mather,

printed in 1704, entitled "A Brief Discourse concerning the Prayse

due to God for His Mercy in giving Snow like Wool." One can fancy

the delight of the oppressed Puritan boys, in the days of the

nineteenthlies, driven to the place of worship by the tithing-men,

and cooped up on the pulpit-and gallery-stairs under charge of

the constables, at hearing for once a discourse which they could

understand,--snow-balling spiritualized. This was not one of Emerson's

terrible examples,--"the storm real, and the preacher only phenomenal";

but this setting of snow-drifts, which in our winters lends such grace

to every stern rock and rugged tree, throws a charm even around the grim

theology of the Mathers. Three main propositions, seven subdivisions,

four applications, and four uses, but the wreaths and the gracefulness

are cast about them all,--while the wonderful commonplace-books of those

days, which held everything, had accumulated scraps of winter learning

which cannot be spared from these less abstruse pages.

Beginning first at the foundation, the preacher must prove, "Prop. I.

_That the Snow is fitly resembled to Wool_. Snow like Wool, sayes the

Psalmist. And not only the Sacred Writers, but others make use of this

Comparison. The Grecians of old were wont to call the Snow, ERIODES

HUDOR _Wooly Water_, or wet Wool. The Latin word _Floccus_ signifies

both a Lock of Wool and a Flake of Snow, in that they resemble one

another. The aptness of the similitude appears in three things." "1. In

respect of the Whiteness thereof." "2. In respect of Softness." "3. In

respect of that Warming Vertue that does attend the Snow." [Here the

reasoning must not be omitted.] "Wool is warm. We say, _As warm as

Wool_. Woolen-cloth has a greater warmth than other Cloathing has. The

wool on Sheep keeps them warm in the Winter season. So when the back of

the Ground is covered with Snow, it keeps it warm. Some mention it as

one of the wonders of the Snow, that tho' it is itself cold, yet it

makes the Earth warm. But Naturalists observe that there is a saline

spirit in it, which is hot, by means whereof Plants under the Snow are

kept from freezing. Ice under the Snow is sooner melted and broken than

other Ice. In some Northern Climates, the wild barbarous People use to

cover themselves over with it to keep them warm. When the sharp Air has

begun to freeze a man's Limbs, Snow will bring heat into them again. If

persons Eat much Snow, or drink immoderately of Snow-water, it will burn

their Bowels and make them black. So that it has a warming vertue in it,

and is therefore fitly compared to Wool."

Snow has many merits. "In _Lapland_, where there is little or no light

of the sun in the depth of Winter, there are great Snows continually on

the ground, and by the Light of that they are able to Travel from one

place to another... At this day in some hot Countreys, they have their

Snow-cellars, where it is kept in Summer, and if moderately used, is

known to be both refreshing and healthful. There are also Medicinal

Vertues in the snow. A late Learned Physician has found that a Salt

extracted out of snow is a sovereign Remedy against both putrid and

pestilential Feavors. Therefore Men should Praise God, who giveth Snow

like Wool." But there is an account against the snow, also. "Not only

the disease called _Bulimia_, but others more fatal have come out of the

Snow. _Geographers_ give us to understand that in some Countries Vapours

from the Snow have killed multitudes in less than a Quarter of an Hour.

Sometimes both Men and Beasts have been destroyed thereby. Writers speak

of no less than Forty Thousand men killed by a great Snow in one Day."

It gives a touching sense of human sympathy, to find that we may look at

Orion and the Pleiades through the grave eyes of a Puritan divine. "The

_Seven Stars_ are the Summer Constellation: they bring on the spring

and summer; and _Orion_ is a Winter Constellation, which is attended

with snow and cold, as at this Day.... Moreover, Late _Philosophers_ by

the help of the _Microscope_ have observed the wonderful Wisdom of God

in the Figure of the Snow; each flake is usually of a _Stellate_ Form,

and of six Angles of exact equal length from the Center. It is _like a

little Star_. A great man speaks of it with admiration, that in a Body

so familiar as the Snow is, no Philosopher should for many Ages take

notice of a thing so obvious as the Figure of it. The learned _Kepler_,

who lived in this last Age, is acknowledged to be the first that

acquainted the world with the Sexangular Figure of the Snow."

Then come the devout applications. "There is not a Flake of Snow that

falls on the Ground without the hand of God, Mat. 10. 29. 30. Not a

Sparrow falls to the Ground, without the Will of your Heavenly Father,

all the Hairs of your head are numbred. So the Great God has numbred all

the Flakes of Snow that covers the Earth. Altho' no man can number them,

that God that tells the number of the Stars has numbred them all.... We

often see it, when the Ground is bare, if God speaks the word, the Earth

is covered with snow in a few Minutes' time. Here is the power of the

Great God. If all the Princes and Great Ones of the Earth should send

their Commands to the Clouds, not a Flake of snow would come from

thence."

Then follow the "uses," at last,--the little boys in the congregation

having grown uneasy long since, at hearing so much theorizing about

snow-drifts, with so little opportunity of personal practice. "Use I. If

we should Praise God for His giving Snow, surely then we ought to Praise

Him for Spiritual Blessings much more." "Use II. We should Humble our

selves under the Hand of God, when Snow in the season of it is

witheld from us." "Use III. Hence all Atheists will be left Eternally

Inexcusable." "Use IV. We should hence Learn to make a Spiritual

Improvement of the Snow." And then with a closing volley of every text

winch figures under the head of "Snow" in the Concordance, the discourse

comes to an end; and every liberated urchin goes home with his head full

of devout fancies of building a snow-fort, after sunset, from which to

propel consecrated missiles against imaginary or traditional Pequots.

And the patient reader, too long snow-bound, must be liberated also.

After the winters of deepest drifts the spring often comes most

suddenly; there is little frost in the ground, and the liberated waters,

free without the expected freshet, are filtered into the earth, or climb

on ladders of sunbeams to the sky. The beautiful crystals all melt away,

and the places where they lay are silently made ready to be submerged

in new drifts of summer verdure. These also will be transmuted in their

turn, and so the eternal cycle of the seasons glides along.

Near my house there is a garden, beneath whose stately sycamores a

fountain plays. Three sculptured girls lift forever upward a chalice

which distils unceasingly a fine and plashing rain; in summer the spray

holds the maidens in a glittering veil, but winter takes the radiant

drops and slowly builds them up into a shroud of ice which creeps

gradually about the three slight figures: the feet vanish, the waist is

encircled, the head is covered, the piteous uplifted arms disappear, as

if each were a Vestal Virgin entombed alive for her transgression. They

vanishing entirely, the fountain yet plays on unseen; all winter the

pile of ice grows larger, glittering organ-pipes of congelation add

themselves outside, and by February a great glacier is formed, at whose

buried centre stand immovably the patient girls. Spring comes at

last, the fated prince, to free with glittering spear these enchanted

beauties; the waning glacier, slowly receding, lies conquered before

their liberated feet; and still the fountain plays. Who can despair

before the iciest human life, when its unconscious symbols are so

beautiful?

A STORY OF TO-DAY.

PART V.

There was a dull smell of camphor; a further sense of coolness and

prickling wet on Holmes's hot, cracking face and hands; then silence and

sleep again. Sometime--when, he never knew--a gray light stinging his

eyes like pain, and again a slow sinking into warm, unsounded darkness

and unconsciousness. It might be years, it might be ages. Even in

after-life, looking back, he never broke that time into weeks or days:

people might so divide it for him, but he was uncertain, always: it was

a vague vacuum in his memory: he had drifted out of coarse, measured

life into some out-coast of eternity, and slept in its calm. When, by

long degrees, the shock of outer life jarred and woke him, it was feebly

done: he came back reluctant, weak: the quiet clinging to him, as if he

had been drowned in Lethe, and had brought its calming mist with him,

out of the shades.

The low chatter of voices, the occasional lifting of his head on the

pillow, the very soothing draught, came to him, unreal at first: parts

only of the dull, lifeless pleasure. There was a sharper memory pierced

it sometimes, making him moan and try to sleep,--a remembrance of great,

cleaving pain, of falling giddily, of owing life to some one, and being

angry that he owed it, in the pain. Was it he that had borne it? He did

not know,--nor care: it made him tired to think. Even when he heard the

name Stephen Holmes, it had but a far-off meaning: he never woke enough

to know if it were his or not. He learned, long after, to watch the red

light curling among the shavings in the grate when they made a fire in

the evenings, to listen to the voices of the women by the bed, to know

that the pleasantest belonged to the one with the low, shapeless figure,

and to call her Lois when he wanted a drink, long before he knew

himself.

They were very long, pleasant days in early December. The sunshine

was pale, but it suited his hurt eyes better: it crept slowly in the

mornings over the snuff-colored carpet on the floor, up the brown

foot-board of the bed, and, when the wind shook the window-curtains,

made little crimson pools of mottled light over the ceiling,--curdling

pools, that he liked to watch: going off, from the clean gray walls and

rustling curtain and transparent crimson, into sleeps that lasted all

day.

He was not conscious how he knew he was in a hospital: but he did know

it, vaguely; thought sometimes of the long halls outside of the door

with ranges of rooms opening into them, like this, and of very barns of

rooms on the other side of the building with rows of white cots where

the poor patients lay: a stretch of travel from which his brain came

back to his snug fireplace, quite tired, and to Lois sitting knitting by

it. He called the little Welsh-woman, "Sister," too, who used to come in

a stuff dress, and white bands about her face, to give his medicine and

gossip with Lois in the evening: she had a comical voice, like a cricket

chirping. There was another with a real Scotch brogue, who came and

listened sometimes, bringing a basket of undarned stockings: the doctor

told him one day how fearless and skilful she was, every summer going to

New Orleans when the yellow fever came. She died there the next June:

but Holmes never, somehow, could realize a martyr in the cheery,

freckled-faced woman whom he always remembered darning stockings in the

quiet fire-light. It was very quiet; the voices about him were pleasant

and low. If he had drifted from any shock of pain into a sleep like

death, some of the stillness hung about him yet; but the outer life was

homely and fresh and natural.

The doctor used to talk to him a little; and sometimes one or two of

the patients from the eye-ward would grow tired of sitting about in the

garden-alleys, and would loiter in, if Lois would give them leave; but

their talk wearied him, jarred him as strangely as if one had begun on

politics and price-currents to the silent souls in Hades. It was enough

thought for him to listen to the whispered stories of the sisters in the

long evenings, and, half-heard, try and make an end to them; to look

drowsily down into the garden, where the afternoon sunshine was still so

summer-like that a few hollyhocks persisted in showing their honest red

faces along the walls, and the very leaves that filled the paths would

not wither, but kept up a wholesome ruddy brown. One of the sisters had

a poultry-yard in it, which he could see: the wall around it was of

stone covered with a brown feathery lichen, which every rooster in that

yard was determined to stand on, or perish in the attempt; and Holmes

would watch, through the quiet, bright mornings, the frantic ambition

and the uproarious exultation of the successful aspirant with an amused

smile.

"One'd thenk," said Lois, sagely, "a chicken never stood on a wall

before, to hear 'em, or a hen laid an egg."

Nor did Holmes smile once because the chicken burlesqued man: his

thought was too single for that yet. It was long before he thought of

the people who came in quietly to see him as anything but shadows, or

wished for them to come again. Lois, perhaps, was the most real thing in

life then to him: growing conscious, day by day, as he watched her, of

his old life over the gulf. Very slowly conscious: with a weak groping

to comprehend the sudden, awful change that had come on him, and then

forgetting his old life, and the change, and the pity he felt for

himself, in the vague content of the fire-lit room, and his nurse with

her interminable knitting through the long afternoons, while the sky

without would thicken and gray and a few still flakes of snow would come

drifting down to whiten the brown fields,--with no chilly thought of

winter, but only to make the quiet autumn more quiet. Whatever honest,

commonplace affection was in the man came out in a simple way to this

Lois, who ruled his sick whims and crotchets in such a quiet, sturdy

way. Not because she had risked her life to save his; even when he

understood that, he recalled it with an uneasy, heavy gratitude; but the

drinks she made him, and the plot they laid to smuggle in some oysters

in defiance of all rules, and the cheerful pock-marked face he never

forgot.

Doctor Knowles came sometimes, but seldom: never talked, when he did

come: late in the evening generally: and then would punch his skin, and

look at his tongue, and shake the bottles on the mantel-shelf with a

grunt that terrified Lois into the belief that the other doctor was a

quack, and her patient was totally undone. He would sit, grim enough,

with his feet higher than his head, chewing an unlighted cigar, and

leave them both thankful when he saw proper to go.

The truth is, Knowles was thoroughly out of place in these little

mending-shops called sick-chambers, where bodies are taken to pieces,

and souls set right. He had no faith in your slow, impalpable cures:

all reforms were to be accomplished by a wrench, from the abolition of

slavery to the pulling of a tooth.

He had no especial sympathy with Holmes, either: the men were started

in life from opposite poles: and with all the real tenderness under

his surly, rugged habit, it would have been hard to touch him with the

sudden doom fallen on this man, thrown crippled and penniless upon the

world, helpless, it might be, for life. He would have been apt to tell

you, savagely, that "he wrought for it."

Besides, it made him out of temper to meet the sisters. Knowles could

have sketched for you with a fine decision of touch the _rôle_ played

by the Papal power in the progress of humanity,--how jar it served as a

stepping-stone, and the exact period when it became a wearisome clog.

The world was done with it now, utterly. Its breath was only poisoned,

with coming death. So the homely live charity of these women, their

work, which, no other hands were ready to take, jarred against his

abstract theory, and irritated him, as an obstinate fact always does run

into the hand of a man who is determined to clutch the very heart of a

matter. Truth will not underlie all facts, in this muddle of a world, in

spite of the positive philosophers, you know.

Don't sneer at Knowles. Your own clear, tolerant brain, that reflects

all men and creeds alike, like colorless water, drawing the truth from

all, is very different, doubtless, from this narrow, solitary soul, who

thought the world waited for him to fight down his one evil before it

went on its slow way. An intolerant fanatic, of course. But the truth he

did know was so terribly real to him, he had suffered from the evil, and

there was such sick, throbbing pity in his heart for men who suffered as

he had done! And then, fanatics must make history for conservative men

to learn from, I suppose.

If Knowles shunned the hospital, there was another place he shunned

more,--the place where his communist buildings were to have stood. He

went out there once, as one might go alone to bury his dead out of his

sight, the day after the mill was burnt,--looking first at the smoking

mass of hot bricks and charred shingles, so as clearly to understand how

utterly dead his life-long scheme was. He stalked gravely around it,

his hands in his pockets; the hodmen who were raking out their winter's

firewood from the ashes remarking, that "old Knowles didn't seem a bit

cut up about it." Then he went out to the farm he had meant to buy, as I

told you, and looked at it in the same stolid way. It was a dull day in

October. The Wabash crawled moodily past his feet, the dingy prairie

stretched drearily away on the other side, while the heavy-browed

Indiana hills stood solemnly looking down the plateau where the

buildings were to have risen.

Well, most men have some plan for life, into which all the strength and

the keen, fine feeling of their nature enter; but generally they try to

make it real in early youth, and, balked then, laugh ever afterwards at

their own folly. This poor old Knowles had begun to block out his dream

when he was a gaunt, gray-haired man of sixty. I have known men so build

their heart's blood and brains into their work, that, when it tumbled

down, their lives went with it. His fell that dull day in October; but

if it hurt him, no man knew it. He sat there, looking at the broad

plateau, whistling softly to himself, a long time. He had meant that

a great many hearts should be made better and happier there; he had

dreamed----God knows what he had dreamed, of which this reality was the

foundation,--of how much freedom, or beauty, or kindly life this was the

heart or seed. It was all over now. All the afternoon the muddy sky hung

low over the hills and dull prairie, while he sat there looking at the

dingy gloom: just as you and I have done, perhaps, some time, thwarted

in some true hope,--sore and bitter against God, because He did not see

how much His universe needed our pet reform.

He got up at last, and without a sigh went slowly away, leaving the

courage and self-reliance of his life behind him, buried with that one

beautiful, fair dream of life. He never came back again. People said

Knowles was quieter since his loss; but I think only God saw the depth

of the difference. When he was leaving the plateau, that day, he looked

back at it, as if to say good-bye,--not to the dingy fields and river,

but to the Something he had nursed so long in his rugged heart, and

given up now forever. As he looked, the warm, red sun came out, lighting

up with a heartsome warmth the whole gray day. Some blessing power

seemed to look at him from the gloomy hills, the prairie, and the river,

which he was to see again. His hope accomplished could not have looked

at him with surer content and fulfilment. He turned away, ungrateful and

moody. Long afterwards he remembered the calm and brightness which his

hand had not been raised to make, and understood the meaning of its

promise.

He went to work now in earnest: he had to work for his bread-and-butter,

you understand? Restless, impatient at first; but we will forgive him

that: you yourself were not altogether submissive, perhaps, when the

slow-built hope of life was destroyed by some chance, as you called it,

no more controllable than this paltry burning of a mill. Yet, now that

the great hope was gone on which his brain had worked with rigid, fierce

intentness, now that his hands were powerless to redeem a perishing

class, he had time to fall into careless, kindly habit: he thought it

wasted time, remorsefully, of course. He was seized with a curiosity to

know what plan in living these people had who crossed his way on the

streets; if they were disappointed, like him. He went sometimes to read

the papers to old Tim Poole, who was bed-ridden, and did not pish or

pshaw once at his maundering about secession or the misery in his back.

Went to church sometimes: the sermons were bigotry, always, to his

notion, sitting on a back seat, squirting tobacco-juice about him; but

the simple, old-fashioned hymns brought the tears to his eyes:--"They

sounded to him like his mother's voice, singing in paradise: he hoped

she could not see how things had gone on here,--how all that was honest

and strong in his life had fallen in that infernal mill." Once or twice

he went down Crane Alley, and lumbered up three pair of stairs to the

garret where Kitts had his studio,--got him orders, in fact, for two

portraits; and when that pale-eyed young man, in a fit of confidence,

one night, with a very red face drew back the curtain from his grand

"Fall of Chapultepec," and watched him with a lean and hungry look,

Knowles, who knew no more about painting than a gorilla, walked about,

looking through his fist at it, saying, "how fine the _chiaroscuro_ was,

and that it was a devilish good thing altogether." "Well, well," he

soothed his conscience, going down-stairs, "maybe that bit of canvas is

as much to that poor chap as the phalanstery was once to another fool."

And so went on through the gas-lit streets into his parishes in cellars

and alleys, with a sorer heart, but cheerfuller words, now that he had

nothing but words to give.

The only place where he hardened his heart was in the hospital with

Holmes. After he had wakened to full consciousness, Knowles thought the

man a beast to sit there uncomplaining day after day, cold and grave,

as if the lifeful warmth of the late autumn were enough for him. Did

he understand the iron fate laid on him? Where was the strength of the

self-existent soul now? Did he know that it was a balked, defeated

life, that waited for him, vacant of the triumphs he had planned? "The

self-existent soul! stopped in its growth by chance, this omnipotent

deity,--the chance burning of a mill!" Knowles muttered to himself,

looking at Holmes. With a dim flash of doubt, as he said it, whether

there might not, after all, be a Something,--some deep of calm, of

eternal order, where these coarse chances, these wrestling souls, these

creeds, Catholic or Humanitarian, even that namby-pamby Kitts and his

picture, might be unconsciously working out their part. Looking out

of the hospital-window, he saw the deep of the stainless blue,

impenetrable, with the stars unconscious in their silence of the maddest

raging of the petty world. There was such calm! such infinite love and

justice! it was around, above him; it held him, it held the world,--all

Wrong, all Right! For an instant the turbid heart of the man cowered,

awe-struck, as yours or mine has done when some swift touch of music or

human love gave us a cleaving glimpse of the great I AM. The next, he

opened the newspaper in his hand. What part in the eternal order could

_that_ hold? or slavery, or secession, or civil war? No harmony could

be infinite enough to hold such discords, he thought, pushing the whole

matter from him in despair. Why, the experiment of self-government, the

problem of the ages, was crumbling in ruin! So he despaired just as Tige

did the night the mill fell about his ears, in full confidence that the

world had come to an end now, without hope of salvation,--crawling out

of his cellar in dumb amazement, when the sun rose as usual the next

morning.

Knowles sat, peering at Holmes over his paper, watching the languid

breath that showed how deep the hurt had been, the maimed body, the face

outwardly cool, watchful, reticent as before. He fancied the slough of

disappointment into which God had crushed the soul of this man: would

he struggle out? Would he take Miss Herne as the first step in his

stairway, or be content to be flung down in vigorous manhood to the

depth of impotent poverty? He could not tell if the quiet on Holmes's

face were stolid defiance or submission: the dumb kings might have

looked thus beneath the feet of Pharaoh. When he walked over the floor,

too, weak as he was, it was with the old iron tread. He asked Knowles

presently what business he had gone into.

"My old hobby in an humble way,--the House of Refuge."

They both laughed.

"Yes, it is true. The janitor points me out to visitors as

'under-superintendent, a philanthropist in decayed circumstances.'

Perhaps it is my life-work,"--growing sad and earnest.

"If you can inoculate these infant beggars and thieves with your theory,

it will be practice when you are dead."

"I think that," said Knowles, gravely, his eye kindling,--"I think

that."

"As thankless a task as that of Moses," said the other, watching him

curiously. "For _you_ will not see the pleasant land,--_you_ will not go

over."

The old man's flabby face darkened.

"I know," he said.

He glanced involuntarily out at the blue, and the clear-shining, eternal

stars. If he could but believe in the To-Morrow!

"I suppose," he said, after a while, cheerfully, "I must content myself

with Lois's creed, here,--'It'll come right some time.'"

Lois looked up from the saucepan she was stirring, her face growing

quite red, nodding emphatically some half-dozen times.

"Do you find your fallow field easily worked?"

Knowles fidgeted uneasily.

"No. Fact is, I'm beginning to think there's a good deal of an obstacle

in blood. I find difficulty, much difficulty, Sir, in giving the

youngest child true ideas of absolute freedom and unselfish heroism."

"You teach them by reason alone?" said Holmes, gravely.

"Well,--of course,--that is the true theory; but I--I find it necessary

to have them whipped, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes stooped suddenly to pat Tiger, hiding a furtive smile. The old

man went on, anxiously,--

"Old Mr. Howth says that is the end of all self-governments: from

anarchy to despotism, he says. Old people are apt to be set in their

ways, you know. Honestly, we do not find unlimited freedom answer in the

House. I hope much from a woman's assistance: I have destined her for

this work always: she has great latent power of sympathy and endurance,

such as can bring the Christian teaching home to these wretches."

"The Christian?" said Holmes.

"Well, yes. I am not a believer myself, you know; but I find that it

takes hold of these people more vitally than more abstract faiths: I

suppose because of the humanity of Jesus. In Utopia, of course, we shall

live from scientific principles; but they do not answer in the House."

"Who is the woman?" asked Holmes, carelessly.

The other watched him keenly.

"She is coming for five years. Margaret Howth."

He patted the dog with the same hard, unmoved touch.

"It is a religious duty with her. Besides, she must do something. They

have been almost starving since the mill was burnt."

Holmes's face was bent; he could not see it. When he looked up, Knowles

thought it more rigid, immovable than before.

When Knowles was going away, Holmes said to him,--

"When does Margaret Howth go into that devils' den?"

"The House? On New-Year's." The scorn in him was too savage to be

silent. "You will have fulfilled your design by that time,--of

marriage?"

Holmes was leaning on the mantel-shelf; his very lips were pale.

"Yes, I shall, I shall,"--in his low, hard tone.

Some sudden dream of warmth and beauty flashed before his gray eyes,

lighting them as Knowles never had seen before.

"Miss Herne is beautiful,--let me congratulate you in Western fashion."

The old man did not hide his sneer.

Holmes bowed.

"I thank you, for her."

Lois held the candle to light the Doctor out of the long passages.

"Yoh hevn't seen Barney out 't Mr. Howth's, Doctor? He's ther' now."

"No. When shall you have done waiting on this--man, Lois? God help you,

child!"

Lois's quick instinct answered,--

"He's very kind. He's like a woman fur kindness to such as me. When I

come to die, I'd like eyes such as his to look at, tender, pitiful."

"Women are fools alike," grumbled the Doctor. "Never mind. 'When you

come to die?' What put that into your head? Look up."

The child sheltered the flaring candle with her hand.

"I've no tho't o' dyin'," she said, laughing.

There was a gray shadow about her eyes, a peaked look to the face, he

never saw before, looking at her now with a physician's eyes.

"Does anything hurt you here?" touching her chest.

"It's better now. It was that night o' th' fire. Th' breath o' th' mill,

I thenk,--but it's nothin'."

"Burning copperas? Of course it's better. Oh, that's nothing!" he said,

cheerfully.

When they reached the door, he held out his hand, the first time he ever

had done it to her, and then waited, patting her on the head.

"I think it'll come right, Lois," he said, dreamily, looking out into

the night. "You're a good girl. I think it'll all come right. For you

and me. Some time. Good night, child."

After he was a long way down the street, he turned to nod good-night

again to the comical little figure in the doorway.

If Knowles hated anybody that night, he hated the man he had left

standing there with pale, heavy jaws, and heart of iron; he could have

cursed him, standing there. He did not see how, after he was left alone,

the man lay with his face to the wall, holding his bony hand to his

forehead, with a look in his eyes that if you had seen, you would have

thought his soul had entered on that path whose steps take hold on hell.

There was no struggle in his face; whatever was the resolve he had

reached in the solitary hours when he had stood so close upon the

borders of death, it was unshaken now; but the heart, crushed and

stifled before, was taking its dire revenge. If ever it had hungered,

through the cold, selfish days, for God's help, or a woman's love, it

hungered now with a craving like death. If ever he had thought how bare

and vacant the years would be, going down to the grave with lips that

never had known a true kiss of real affection, he remembered it now,

when it was too late, with bitterness such as wrings a man's heart but

once in a lifetime. If ever he had denied to his own soul this Margaret,

called her alien or foreign, he called her now, when it was too late, to

her rightful place; there was not a thought nor a hope in the darkest

depths of his nature that did not cry out for her help that night,--for

her, a part of himself,--now, when it was too late. He went over all the

years gone, and pictured the years to come; he remembered the money

that was to help his divine soul upward; he thought of it with a curse,

pacing the floor of the narrow room, slowly and quietly. Looking out

into the still starlight and the quaint garden, he tried to fancy this

woman as he knew her, after the restless power of her soul should have

been chilled and starved into a narrow, lifeless duty. He fancied her

old, and stern, and sick of life, she that might have been----what

might they not have been, together? And he had driven her to this for

money,--money!

It was of no use to repent of it now. He had frozen the love out of her

heart, long ago. He remembered (all that he did remember of the blank

night after he was hurt) that he had seen her white, worn-out face

looking down at him; that she did not touch him; and that, when, one of

the sisters told her she might take her place, and sponge his forehead,

she said, bitterly, she had no right to do it, that he was no friend

of hers. He saw and heard that, unconscious to all else; he would have

known it, if he had been dead, lying there. It was too late now: why

need he think of what might have been? Yet he did think of it through

the long winter's night,--each moment his thought of the life to come,

or of her, growing more tender and more bitter. Do you wonder at the

remorse of this man? Wait, then, until you lie alone, as he had done,

through days as slow, revealing as ages, face to face with God and

death. Wait until you go down so close to eternity that the life you

have lived stands out before you in the dreadful bareness in which God

sees it,--as you shall see it some day from heaven or hell: money, and

hate, and love will stand in their true light then. Yet, coming back to

life again, he held whatever resolve he had reached down there with his

old iron will: all the pain he bore in looking back to the false life

before, or the ceaseless remembrance that it was too late now to atone

for that false life, made him the stronger to abide by that resolve, to

go on the path self-chosen, let the end be what it might. Whatever the

resolve was, it did not still the gnawing hunger in his heart that

night, which every trifle made more fresh and strong.

There was a wicker-basket that Lois had left by the fire, piled up with

bits of cloth and leather out of which she was manufacturing Christmas

gifts; a pair of great woollen socks, which one of the sisters had told

him privately Lois meant for him, lying on top. As with all of her

people, Christmas was the great day of the year to her. Holmes could not

but smile, looking at them. Poor Lois!--Christmas would be here soon,

then? And sitting by the covered fire, he went back to Christmases gone,

the thought of all others that brought her nearest and warmest to him:

since he was a boy they had been together on that day. With his hand

over his eyes he sat quiet by the fire until morning. He heard some boy

going by in the gray dawn call to another that they would have holiday

on Christmas. It was coming, he thought, rousing himself,--but never

as it had been: that could never be again. Yet it was strange how this

thought of Christmas took hold of him,--famished his heart. As it

approached in the slow-coming winter, the days growing shorter, and

the nights longer and more solitary, so Margaret became more real to

him,--not rejected and lost, but as the wife she might have been,

with the simple passionate love she gave him once. The thought grew

intolerable to him; yet there was not a homely pleasure of those years

gone, when the old school-master kept high holiday on Christmas, that he

did not recall and linger over with a boyish yearning, now that these

things were over forever. He chafed under his weakness. If the day would

but come when he could go out and conquer his fate, as a man ought to

do! On Christmas eve he would put an end to these torturing taunts, his

soul should not be balked longer of its rightful food. For I fear that

even now Stephen Holmes thought of his own need and his own hunger.

He watched Lois knitting and patching her poor little gifts, with a

vague feeling that every stitch made the time a moment shorter until he

should be free, with his life in his hand again. She left him at last,

sorrowfully enough, but he made her go: he fancied the close air of the

hospital was hurting her, seeing at night the strange shadow growing on

her face. I do not think he ever said to her that he knew all she had

done for him; but no dog or woman that Stephen Holmes loved could look

into his eyes and doubt that love. Sad, masterful eyes, such as are seen

but once or twice in a lifetime: no woman but would wish, like Lois, for

such eyes to be near her when she came to die, for her to remember the

world's love in. She came hobbling back every day to see him after she

had gone, and would stay to make his soup, telling him, child-like, how

many days it was until Christmas. He knew that, as well as she, waiting

through the cold, slow hours, in his solitary room. He thought sometimes

she had some eager petition to offer him, when she stood watching him

wistfully, twisting her hands together; but she always smothered it

with a sigh, and, tying her little woollen cap, went away, walking more

slowly, he thought, every day.

Do you remember how Christmas came last year? how there was a waiting

pause, when the great States stood still, and from the peoples came the

first awful murmurs of the storm that was to shake the earth? how men's

hearts failed them for fear, how women turned pale and held their

children closer to their breasts, while they heard a far cry of

lamentation for their country that had fallen? Do you remember how,

through the fury of men's anger, the storehouses of God were opened for

that land? how the very sunshine gathered new splendors, the rains more

fruitful moisture, until the earth poured forth an unknown fulness

of life and beauty? Was there no promise there, no prophecy? Do you

remember, while the very life of the people hung in doubt before them,

while the angel of death came again to pass over the land, and there was

no blood on any door-post to keep him from that house, how slowly

the old earth folded in her harvest, dead, till it should waken to a

stronger life? how quietly, as the time came near for the birth of

Christ, this old earth made ready for his coming, heedless of the clamor

of men? how the air grew fresher, day by day, and the gray deep silently

opened for the snow to go down and screen and whiten and make holy that

fouled earth? I think the slow-falling snow did not fail in its quiet

warning; for I remember that men, too, in a feeble way tried to make

ready for the birth of Christ. There was a healthier glow than terror

stirred in their hearts; because of the vague, great dread without, it

may be, they drew closer together round household fires, were kindlier

in the good old-fashioned way; old friendships were wakened, old times

talked over, fathers and mothers and children planned homely ways to

show the love in their hearts and to welcome in Christmas. Who knew but

it might be the last? Let us be thankful for that happy Christmas-day.

What if it were the last? What if, when another comes, and another,

some voice, the kindest and cheerfullest then, shall never say

"Happy Christmas" to us again? Let us be thankful for that day the

more,--accept it the more as a sign of that which will surely come.

Holmes, even, in his dreary room and drearier thought, felt the warmth

and expectant stir creeping through the land as the day drew near. Even

in the hospital, the sisters were in a busy flutter, decking their

little chapel with flowers, and preparing a Christmas _fête_ for their

patients. The doctor, as he bandaged his broken arm, hinted at faint

rumors in the city of masquerades and concerts. Even Knowles, who had

not visited the hospital for weeks, relented and came back, moody and

grim. He brought Kitts with him, and started him on talking of how

they kept Christmas in Ohio on his mother's farm; and the poor soul,

encouraged by the silence of two of his auditors, and the intense

interest of Lois in the background, mazed on about Santa-Claus trees

and Virginia reels until the clock struck twelve and Knowles began to

snore.

Christmas was coming. As he stood, day after day, looking out of

the gray window, he could see the signs of its coming even in the

shop-windows glittering with miraculous toys, in the market-carts

with their red-faced drivers and heaps of ducks and turkeys, in every

stage-coach or omnibus that went by crowded with boys home for the

holidays, hallooing for Bell or Lincoln, forgetful that the election was

over and Carolina out.

Pike came to see him one day, his arms full of a bundle, which turned

out to be an accordion for Sophy.

"Christmas, you know," he said, taking off the brown paper, while he was

cursing the Cotton States the hardest, and gravely kneading at the keys,

and stretching it until he made as much discord as five Congressmen. "I

think Sophy will like that," he said, tying it up carefully.

"I am sure she will," said Holmes,--and did not think the man a fool for

one moment.

Always going back, this Holmes, when he was alone, to the certainty that

homecomings or children's kisses or Christmas feasts were not for such

as he,--never could be, though he sought for the old time in bitterness

of heart; and so, dully remembering his resolve, and waiting for

Christmas eve, when, he might end it all. Not one of the myriads of

happy children listened more intently to the clock clanging off hour

after hour than the silent, stern man who had no hope in that day that

was coming.

He learned to watch even for poor Lois coming up the corridor every

day,--being the only tie that bound the solitary man to the inner world

of love and warmth. The deformed little body was quite alive with

Christmas now, and brought its glow with her, in her weak way. Different

from the others, he saw with a curious interest. The day was more real

to her than to them. Not because, only, the care she had of everybody

and everybody had of her seemed to reach its culmination of kindly

thought for the Christmas time; not because, as she sat talking slowly,

stopping for breath, her great fear seemed to be that she would not have

gifts enough to go round; but deeper than that,--the day was real to

her. As if it were actually true that the Master in whom she believed

was freshly born into the world once a year, to waken all that was

genial and noble and pure in the turbid, worn-out hearts; as if new

honor and pride and love did come with the breaking of Christmas morn.

It was a beautiful faith; he almost wished it were his. (Perhaps in that

day when the under-currents of life shall be bared, this man with his

self-reliant soul will know the subtile instincts that drew him to true

manhood and feeling by the homely practice of poor Lois. He did not see

them now.) A beautiful faith! it gave a meaning to the old custom of

gifts and kind words. _Love_ coming into the world!--the idea pleased

his artistic taste, being simple and sublime. Lois used to tell him,

while she feebly tried to set his room in order, of all her plans,--of

how Sam Polston was to be married on New-Year's,--but most of all of the

Christmas coming out at the old schoolmaster's: how the old house had

been scrubbed from top to bottom, was fairly glowing with shining paint

and hot fires,--how Margaret and her mother worked, in terror lest the

old man should find out how poor and bare it was,--how he and Joel had

some secret enterprise on foot at the far end of the plantation out in

the swamp, and were gone nearly all day.

She ceased coming at last. One of the sisters went out to see her, and

told him she was too weak to walk, but meant to be better soon,--quite

well by the holidays. He wished the poor thing had told him what she

wanted of him,--wished it anxiously, with a dull presentiment of evil.

The days went by, cold and slow. He watched grimly the preparations

the hospital physician was silently making in his case, for fever,

inflammation.

"I must be strong enough to go out cured on Christmas eve," he said to

him one day, coolly.

The old doctor glanced up shrewdly. He was an old Alsatian, very

plain-spoken.

"You say so?" he mumbled. "Chut! Then you will go. There are

some--bull-dog men. They do what they please,--they never die unless

they choose, begar! We know them in our practice, Herr Holmes!"

Holmes laughed. Some acumen there, he thought, in medicine or mind: as

for himself, it was true enough; whatever success he had gained in life

had been by no flush of enthusiasm or hope; a dogged persistence of

"holding on," rather.

Christmas eve came at last; bright, still, frosty. "Whatever he had to

do, let it be done quickly "; but not till the set hour came. So he laid

his watch on the table beside him, waiting until it should mark the time

he had chosen: the ruling passion of self-control as strong in this turn

of life's tide as it would be in its ebb, at the last. The old doctor

found him alone in the dreary room, coming in with the frosty breath of

the eager street about him. A grim, chilling sight enough, as solitary

and impenetrable as the Sphinx. He did not like such faces in this

genial and gracious time, so hurried over his examination. The eye was

cool, the pulse steady, the man's body, battered though it was, strong

in its steely composure. "_Ja wohl!--ja wohl_!" he went on chuffily,

summing up: latent fever,--the very lips were blue, dry as husks; "he

would go,--_oui_?--then go!"--with a chuckle. "All right, _glück zu_!"

And so shuffled out latent fever? Doubtless, yet hardly from broken

bones, the doctor thought,--with no suspicion of the subtile,

intolerable passion smouldering in every drop of this man's phlegmatic

blood.

Evening came at last. He stopped until the cracked bell of the chapel

had done striking the Angelus, and then put on his overcoat, and went

out. The air was cold and pungent. The crowded city seemed wakening to

some keen enjoyment; even his own weak, deliberate step rang on the

icy pavement as if it wished to rejoice with the rest. I said it was a

trading city: so it was, but the very trade to-day had a jolly Christmas

face on; the surly old banks and pawnbrokers' shops had grown ashamed

of their doings, and shut their doors, and covered their windows with

frosty trees, and cathedrals, and castles; the shops opened their

hearts; some child's angel had touched them, and they flushed out into

a magic splendor of Christmas trees, and lights, and toys; Santa Claus

might have made his head-quarters in any one of them. As for children,

you stumbled over them at every step, quite weighed down with the

heaviness of their joy, and the money burning their pockets; the acrid

old brokers and pettifoggers, that you met with a chill on other days,

had turned into jolly fathers of families, and lounged laughing along

with half a dozen little hands pulling them into candy-stores or

toy-shops: all the churches whose rules permitted them to show their

deep rejoicing in a simple way had covered their cold stone walls with

evergreens and wreaths of glowing fire-berries: the child's angel had

touched them too, perhaps,--not unwisely.

He passed crowds of thin-clad women looking in through open doors, with

red cheeks and hungry eyes, at red-hot stoves within, and a placard,

"Christmas dinners for the poor, gratis"; out of every window on the

streets came a ruddy light, and a spicy smell; the very sunset sky had

caught the reflection of the countless Christmas fires, and flamed up to

the zenith, blood-red as cinnabar.

Holmes turned down one of the back streets: he was going to see Lois,

first of all. I hardly know why: the child's angel may have touched him,

too; or his heart, full of a yearning pity for the poor cripple, who,

he believed now, had given her own life for his, may have plead for

indulgence, as men remember their childish prayers, before going into

battle. He came at last, in the quiet lane where she lived, to her

little brown frame-shanty, to which you mounted by a flight of wooden

steps: there were two narrow windows at the top, hung with red curtains;

he could hear her feeble voice singing within. As he turned to go up

the steps, he caught sight of something crouched underneath them in the

dark, hiding from him: whether a man--or a dog he could not see. He

touched it.

"What d' ye want, Mas'r?" said a stifled voice.

He touched it again with his stick.

The man stood upright, back in the shadow: it was old Yare.

"Had ye any word wi' me, Mas'r?"

He saw the negro's face grow gray with fear.

"Come out, Yare," he said, quietly. "Any word? What word is arson, eh?"

The man did not move. Holmes touched him with the stick.

"Come out," he said.

He came out, looking gaunt, as with famine.

"I'll not flurr myself," he said, crunching his ragged hat in his

hands,--"I'll not."

He drove the hat down upon his head, and looked up with a sullen

fierceness.

"Yoh've got me, an' I'm glad of 't. I'm tired, fearin'. I was born for

hangin', they say," with a laugh. "But I'll see my girl. I've waited

hyur, runnin' the resk,--not darin' to see her, on 'count o' yoh. I

thort I was safe on Christmas-day,--but what's Christmas to yoh or me?"

Holmes's quiet motion drove him up the steps before him. He stopped at

the top, his cowardly nature getting the better of him, and sat down

whining on the upper step.

"Be marciful, Mas'r! I wanted to see my girl,--that's all. She's all I

hev."

Holmes passed him and went in. Was Christmas nothing to him? How did

this foul wretch know that they stood alone, apart from the world?

It was a low, cheerful little room that he came into, stooping his tall

head: a tea-kettle humming and singing on the wood-fire, that lighted up

the coarse carpet and the gray walls, but spent its warmest heat on

the low settee where Lois lay sewing, and singing to herself. She was

wrapped up in a shawl, but the hands, he saw, were worn to skin and

bone; the gray shadow was heavier on her face, and the brooding brown

eyes were like a tired child's. She tried to jump up when she saw him,

and not being able, leaned on one elbow, half-crying as she laughed.

"It's the best Christmas gift of all I I can hardly b'lieve

it!"--touching the strong hand humbly that was held out to her.

Holmes had a gentle touch, I told you, for dogs and children and women:

so, sitting quietly by her, he listened with untiring patience to her

long story; looked at the heap of worthless trifles she had patched up

for gifts, wondering secretly at the delicate sense of color and grace

betrayed in the bits of flannel and leather; and took, with a grave look

of wonder, his own package, out of which a bit of woollen thread peeped

forth.

"Don't look till to-morrow mornin'," she said, anxiously, as she lay

back trembling and exhausted.

The breath of the mill! The fires of want and crime had finished their

work on her life,--so! She caught the meaning of his face quickly.

"It's nothin'," she said, eagerly. "I'll be strong by New-Year's; it's

only a day or two rest I need. I've no tho't o' givin' up."

And to show how strong she was, she got up and hobbled about to make the

tea. He had not the heart to stop her; she did not want to die,--why

should she? the world was a great, warm, beautiful nest for the little

cripple,--why need he show her the cold without? He saw her at last go

near the door where old Yare sat outside, then heard her breathless cry,

and a sob. A moment after the old man came into the room, carrying her,

and, laying her down on the settee, chafed her hands and misshapen head.

"What ails her?" he said, looking up, bewildered, to Holmes. "We've

killed her among us."

She laughed, though the great eyes were growing dim, and drew his coarse

gray hair into her hand.

"Yoh wur long comin'," she said, weakly. "I hunted fur yoh every

day,--every day."

The old man had pushed her hair back, and was reading the sunken face

with a wild fear.

"What ails her?" he cried. "Ther' 's somethin' gone wi' my girl. Was it

my fault? Lo, was it my fault?"

"Be quiet!" said Holmes, sternly.

"Is it _that_?" he gasped, shrilly. "My God! not that! I can't bear it!"

Lois soothed him, patting his face childishly.

"Am I dyin'?" she asked, with a frightened look at Holmes.

He told her no, cheerfully.

"I've no tho't o' dyin'. I dunnot thenk o' dyin'. Don't mind, dear!

Yoh'll stay with me, fur good?"

The man's paroxysm of fear for her over, his spite and cowardice came

uppermost.

"It's him," he yelped, looking fiercely at Holmes. "He's got my life in

his hands. He kin take it. What does he keer fur me or my girl? I'll not

stay wi' yoh no longer, Lo. Mornin' he'll send me t' th' lock-up, an'

after"----

"I care for _you_, child," said Holmes, stooping suddenly close to the

girl's livid face.

"To-morrow?" she muttered. "My Christmas-day?"

He wet her face while he looked over at the wretch whose life he held

in his hands. It was the iron rule of Holmes's nature to be just; but

to-night dim perceptions of a deeper justice than law opened before

him,--problems he had no time to solve: the sternest fortress is liable

to be taken by assault,--and the dew of the coming morn was on his

heart.

"So as I've hunted fur him!" she whispered, weakly. "I didn't think it

wud come to this. So as I loved him! Oh, Mr. Holmes, he's hed a pore

chance in livin',--forgive him this! Him that'll come to-morrow'd say to

forgive him this."

She caught the old man's head in her arms with an agony of tears, and

held it tight.

"I hev hed a pore chance," he said, looking up,--"that's God's truth,

Lo! I dunnot keer fur that: it's too late goin' back.--Mas'r," he

mumbled, servilely, "it's on'y a little time t' th' end: let me stay

with Lo. She loves me,--Lo does."

A look of disgust crept over Holmes's face.

"Stay, then," he muttered,--"I wash my hands of you, you old scoundrel!"

He bent over Lois with his rare, pitiful smile.

"Have I his life in my hands? I put it into yours,--so, child! Now put

it all out of your head, and look up here to wish me good-bye."

She looked up cheerfully, hardly conscious how deep the danger had been;

but the flush had gone from her face, leaving it sad and still.

"I must go to keep Christmas, Lois," he said, playfully.

"Yoh're keepin' it here, Sir." She held her weak gripe on his hand

still, with the vague outlook in her eyes that came there sometimes.

"Was it fur me yoh done it?"

"Yes, for you."

She turned her eyes slowly around, bewildered. The clear evening light

fell on Holmes, as he stood there looking down at the dying little

lamiter: a powerful figure, with a face supreme, masterful, but tender:

you will find no higher type of manhood. Did God make him of the same

blood as the vicious, cringing wretch crouching to hide his black face

at the other side of the bed? Some such thought came into Lois's brain,

and vexed her, bringing the tears to her eyes: he was her father, you

know.

"It's all wrong," she muttered,--"oh, it's far wrong! Ther' 's One could

make them 'like. Not me."

She stroked her father's head once, and then let it go. Holmes glanced

out, and saw the sun was down.

"Lois," he said, "I want you to wish me a happy Christmas, as people

do."

Holmes had a curious vein of superstition: he knew no lips so pure as

this girl's, and he wanted them to wish him good-luck that night. She

did it, laughing and growing red: riddles of life did not trouble her

childish fancy long. And so he left her, with a dull feeling, as I said

before, that it was good to say a prayer before the battle came on. For

men who believed in prayers: for him, it was the same thing to make one

day for Lois happier.

METHODS OF STUDY IN NATURAL HISTORY.

IV.

In presenting Classification as the subject of a series of papers in

the "Atlantic Monthly," I am aware that I am drawing largely upon the

patience of its readers; since the technical nature of the topic renders

many details necessary which cannot be otherwise than dry to any but

professional naturalists. Yet believing, as I do, that classification,

rightly understood, means simply the creative plan of God as expressed

in organic forms, I feel the importance of attempting at least to

present it in a popular guise, divested, as far as possible, of

technicalities, while I would ask the indulgence of my readers for such

scientific terms and details as cannot well be dispensed with, begging

them to remember that a long and tedious road may bring us suddenly upon

a glorious prospect, and that a clearer mental atmosphere and a new

intellectual sensation may well reward us for a little weariness in the

outset. Besides, the time has come when scientific truth must cease to

be the property of the few, when it must be woven into the common life

of the world; for we have reached the point where the results of science

touch the very problem of existence, and all men listen for the solving

of that mystery. When it will come, and how, none can say; but this much

at least is certain, that all our researches are leading up to that

question, and mankind will never rest till it is answered. If, then, the

results of science are of such general interest for the human race, if

they are gradually interpreting the purposes of the Deity in creation,

and the relation of man to all the past, then it is well that all

should share in its teachings, and that it should not be kept, like the

learning of the Egyptians, for an exclusive priesthood who may expound

the oracle according to their own theories, but should make a part of

all our intellectual culture and of our common educational systems. With

this view, I will endeavor to simplify as far as may be my illustrations

of the different groups of the Animal Kingdom, beginning with a more

careful analysis of those structural features on which classes are

founded.

I have said that the Radiates are the lowest type among animals,

embodying, under an infinite variety of forms, that plan in which all

parts bear definite relations to a vertical central axis. The three

classes of Radiates are distinguished from each other by three distinct

ways of executing that plan. I dwell upon this point; for we shall never

arrive at a clear understanding of the different significance and value

of the various divisions of the Animal Kingdom, till we appreciate the

distinction between the structural conception and the material means by

which it is expressed. A comparison will, perhaps, better explain my

meaning. There are certain architectonic types, including edifices of

different materials, with an infinite variety of architectural details

and external ornaments; but the flat roof and the colonnade are typical

of all Grecian temples, whether built of marble or granite or wood,

whether Doric or Ionic or Corinthian, whether simple and massive or

light and ornamented; and, in like manner, the steep roof and pointed

arch are the typical characters of all Gothic cathedrals, whatever be

the material or the details. The architectural conception remains

the same in all its essential elements, however the more superficial

features vary. Such relations as these edifices bear to the

architectural idea that includes them all, do classes bear to the

primary divisions or branches of the Animal Kingdom.

The three classes of Radiates, beginning with the lowest, and naming

them in their relative order, are Polyps, Acalephs or Jelly-Fishes, and

Echinoderms or Star-Fishes and Sea-Urchins. In the Polyps the plan is

executed in the simplest manner by a sac, the sides of which are folded

inward, at regular intervals from top to bottom, so as to divide it by

vertical radiating partitions, converging from the periphery toward the

centre. These folds or partitions do not meet in the centre, but leave

an open space, which is the main cavity of the body. This open space,

however, occupies only the lower part of the body; for in the upper

there is a second sac hanging to a certain distance within the first.

This inner sac has an aperture in the bottom, through which whatever

enters it passes into the main cavity of the body. A central opening

in the top forms a kind of mouth, around which are radiating tentacles

connecting with the open chambers formed by the partitions within.

Cutting such an animal across in a transverse section, we shall see

the radiation of the partitions from the centre to the circumference,

showing still more distinctly the typical structure of the division to

which it belongs.

[Illustration: Vertical section of a Sea-Anemone of Actinia: _o_, mouth;

_t_, tentacles; _s_, inner sac or stomach; _b_, main cavity; _ff_,

reproductive organs; _g_, radiating partition; _eee_, radiating

chambers; _cc_, circular openings in the partitions; _aa_, lower floor.]

[Illustration: Transverse section of a Sea-Anemone or Actinia.]

[Illustration: Staurophera seen in profile.]

[Illustration: Hippocrene seen in profile.]

[Illustration: Melicertum seen from above, with the tentacles spreading:

_oo_, radiating tubes with ovaries; _m_, mouth; _tttt_, tentacles.]

The second class is that of Jelly-Fishes or Acalephs; and here the same

plan is carried out in the form of a hemispherical gelatinous disk, the

digestive cavity being hollowed, or, as it were, scooped, out of the

substance of the body, which is traversed by tubes that radiate from

the centre to the periphery. Cutting it across transversely, or looking

through its transparent mass, the same radiation of the internal

structure is seen again; only that in this instance the radiating lines

are not produced by vertical partition-walls, with open spaces between,

as in the Polyps, but by radiating tubes passing through the gelatinous

mass of the body. At the periphery is a circular tube connecting them

all, and the tentacles, which hang down when the animal is in its

natural position, connect at their base with the radiating tubes, while

numerous smaller tentacles may form a kind of fringe all round the

margin.

The third and highest class includes the Star-Fishes, Sea-Urchins, and

Holothurians or Beches-de-Mer. The radiation is equally distinct in each

of these; but here again the mode of execution differs from that of the

two other classes. The internal cavity and the radiating tubes, instead

of being connected with the outer wall of the body as in Polyps, or

hollowed out of the substance of the body as in Jelly-Fishes, are here

inclosed within independent walls of their own, quite distinct from the

wall of the body. But notwithstanding this difference, a transverse

section shows in these animals, as distinctly as in all the rest, the

radiating structure typical of the whole branch. In these three classes

we have no difference of plan, nor even any modification of the same

plan,--for either one of them expresses it as clearly as any other,--but

simply three different ways of executing one structural idea.

[Illustration: Common Sea-Urchin, Echinus, seen from above]

[Illustration: Echinarachnius, opened by a transverse or horizontal

section, and showing the internal arrangement: c, mouth; eeeee,

ambulacra, with their ramifications cmcmcm; wwww, interambulacra.]

I have mentioned only three classes of Radiates. Cuvier had five in his

classification; for he placed among them the Intestinal Worms and the

Infusoria or Animalcules. The Intestinal Worms are much better known

now than they were in his day. Their anatomy and embryology have been

traced, and it has been shown that the essential features of these

parasites are the same as those of all Articulates, their whole body

being divided into successive, movable joints or rings. Cuvier was

misled by the circular arrangement of certain parts around the mouth,

and by the presence of a wreath of feelers around the head of some

of these Worms, resembling the tentacles of many Radiates. This is,

however, no indication of radiate structure, but a superficial feature

in no way related to the internal organization.

We must carefully distinguish between affinity and analogy among

animals. The former is founded on identity of plan; the latter only upon

external resemblance, produced by similar features, which, when they are

intimately connected with the whole internal organization, as in some

groups, may be considered as typical characters, but when only grafted,

as it were, in a superficial manner on animals of another type, have

no relation to the essential elements of structure, and become at

once subordinate and unimportant. Such is the difference between the

tentacles in a Radiate and the wreath of feelers in a Worm;--the

external effect may be much the same; but in the former every tentacle

opens into one of the chambers as in a Polyp, or connects with one of

the radiating tubes as in Acalephs, or with the locomotive suckers as

in Star-Fishes, and is therefore closely linked with the whole internal

organization; whereas the feelers in the latter are only external

appendages, in no way connected with the essential structural elements.

We have a striking illustration of this superficial resemblance in the

wings of Birds and Insects. In Birds, wings are a typical feature,

corresponding to the front limbs in all Vertebrates, which are

constructed in the same way, whether they are arms as in Man, or

forelegs as in Quadrupeds, or pectoral fins as in Fishes, or wings as in

Birds. The wing in an Insect, on the contrary, is a flattened, dried-up

gill, having no structural relation whatever to the wing of a Bird. They

are analogous only because they resemble each other in function, being

in the same way subservient to flight; but as organs they are entirely

different.

In adding Infusoria to the Radiates, Cuvier was false to his own

principle of founding all classification on plan. He was influenced by

their seeming simplicity of structure, and placed them in the lowest

division of the Animal Kingdom on that account. But even this simplicity

was only apparent in many of them. At certain seasons of the year

myriads of these little Animalcules may be seen in every brook and

road-side pool. They are like transparent little globules, without any

special organization, apparently; and were it not that they are in

constant rotation, exhibiting thus a motion of their own, one would

hardly suspect that they were endowed with life. To the superficial

observer they all look alike, and it is not strange, that, before they

had been more carefully investigated, they should have been associated

together as the lowest division of the Animal Kingdom, representing, as

it were, a border-land between animal and vegetable life. But since the

modern improvements in the microscope, Ehrenberg, the great master in

microscopic investigation, has shown that many of these little

globules have an extraordinary complication of structure. Subsequent

investigations have proved that they include a great variety of beings:

some of them belonging to the type of Mollusks; others to the type of

Articulates, being in fact little Shrimps; while many others are

the locomotive germs of plants, and so far from forming a class by

themselves, as a distinct group in the Animal Kingdom, they seem to

comprise representatives of all types except Vertebrates, and to belong

in part to the Vegetable Kingdom, Siebold, Leuckart, and other modern

zoölogists, have considered them as a primary type, and called them

Protozoa; but this is as great a mistake as the other. The rotatory

motion in them all is produced by an apparatus that exists not only

in all animals, but in plants also, and is a most important agent in

sustaining the freshness and vitality of their circulating fluids and of

the surrounding medium in which they live. It consists of soft fringes,

called Vibratile Cilia. Such fringes cover the whole surface of these

little living beings, and by their unceasing play they maintain the

rotating motion that carries them along in the water.

The Mollusks, the next great division of the Animal Kingdom, also

include three classes. With them is introduced that character

of bilateral symmetry, or division of parts on either side of a

longitudinal axis, that prevails throughout the Animal Kingdom, with the

exception of the Radiates. The lowest class of Mollusks has been named

Acephala, to signify the absence of any distinct head; for though their

whole organization is based upon the principle of bilateral symmetry, it

is nevertheless very difficult to determine which is the right side and

which the left in these animals, because there is so little prominence

in the two ends of the body that the anterior and posterior extremities

are hardly to be distinguished. Take the Oyster as an example. It has,

like most Acephala, a shell with two valves united by a hinge on the

back, one of these valves being thick and swollen, while the other is

nearly flat. If we lift the shell, we find beneath a soft lining-skin

covering the whole animal and called by naturalists the mantle, from the

inner surface of which arise a double row of gills, forming two pendent

folds on the sides of the body; but at one end of the body these folds

do not meet, but leave an open space, where is the aperture we call the

mouth. This is the only indication of an anterior extremity; but it is

enough to establish a difference between the front and hind ends of

the body, and to serve as a guide in distinguishing the right and

left sides. If now we lift the mantle and gills, we find beneath the

principal organs: the stomach, with a winding alimentary canal; the

heart and liver; the blood-vessels, branching from either side of the

heart to join the gills; and a fleshy muscle passing from one valve

of the shell to the other, enabling the animal by its dilatation or

contraction to open and close its shell at will. A cut across an animal

of this class will show us better the bilateral arrangement of the

parts. In such a section we see the edge of the two shells on either

side; within these the edge of the mantle; then the double rows of

gills; and in the middle the alimentary canal, the heart, and the

blood-vessels branching right and left. Some of these animals have

eye-specks on the edge of the mantle; but this is not a constant

feature. This class of Acephala includes all the Oysters, Clams,

Mussels, and the like. When named with reference to their double shells,

they are called Bivalves; and with them are associated a host of less

conspicuous animals, known as Ascidians, Brachiopods, and Bryozoa.

[Illustration: Common Mussel, Unio, cut transversely: _a_, foot; _bb_,

gills; _c_, mantle; _d_, shell; _e_, heart; _f_, main cavity, with

intestines.]

The second class in this type is that of Gasteropoda, so named from the

fleshy muscular expansion on which they move, and which is therefore

called a foot: a very inappropriate name; since it has no relation or

resemblance to a foot, though it is used as a locomotive organ. This

class includes all the Snails, Slugs, Cockles, Conchs, Periwinkles,

Whelks, Limpets, and the like. Some of them have no solid covering; but

the greater part are protected by a single shell, and on this account

they are called Univalves, in contradistinction to the Acephala or

Bivalves. These shells, though always single, differ from each other by

an endless variety of form and color,--from the flat simple shell of

the Limpet to the elaborate spiral and brilliant hues of the Cones and

Cowries. Different as is their external covering, however, if we examine

the internal structure of a Gasteropod, we find the same general

arrangement of parts that prevails in the Acephala, showing that both

belong to the same great division of the Animal Kingdom. The mantle

envelops the animal, and lines its single shell as it lined the double

shell of the Oyster; the gills are placed on either side of it; the

stomach, with the winding alimentary canal, is in the centre of the

body; the heart and liver are placed in the same relation to it as in

the Acephala; and though the so-called foot would seem to be a new

feature, it is but a muscular expansion of the ventral side of the body.

There is an evident superiority in this class over the preceding one, in

the greater prominence of the anterior extremity, where there are two or

more feelers, with which eyes more or less developed are connected; and

though there is nothing that can be properly called a head, yet there

can be no hesitation as to the distinction between the front and hind

ends of the body.

[Illustration: Limpet, Patella, cut transversely: _a_, foot; _b_, gills;

_c_, mantle; _d_, shell; _e_, heart; _f_, main cavity, with intestines.]

The third and highest class of Mollusks has been called Cephalopoda, in

reference again to a special feature of their structure. They have long

arms or feelers around the head, serving as organs of locomotion, by

which they propel themselves through the water with a velocity that is

quite extraordinary, when compared with the sluggishness of the other

Mollusks. In these animals the head is distinctly marked,--being

separated, by a contraction or depression behind it, from the rest of

the body. The feelers, so prominent on the anterior extremity of

the Gasteropoda, are suppressed in Cephalopoda, and the eyes are

consequently brought immediately on the side of the head, and are very

large in proportion to the size of the animal. A skin corresponding

to the mantle envelops the body, and the gills are on either side of

it;--the stomach with its winding canal, the liver, and heart occupy the

centre of the body, as in the two other classes. This class includes all

the Cuttle-Fishes, Squids, and Nautili, and has a vast number of fossil

representatives. Many of these animals are destitute of any shell; and

where they have a shell, it is not coiled from right to left or from

left to right as in the spiral of the Gasteropoda, but from behind

forwards as in the Nautilus. These shells are usually divided into a

number of chambers,--the animal, as it grows, building a wall behind

it at regular intervals, and always occupying the external chamber,

retaining, however, a connection with his past home by a siphon that

runs through the whole succession of chambers. The readers of the

"Atlantic Monthly" cannot fail to remember the exquisite poem suggested

to the Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table by this singular feature in the

structure of the so-called Chambered Shells.

[Illustration: Common Squid, Loligo, cut transversely: _a_, foot or

siphon; _b_, gills; _c_, mantle; _d_, shell; _e_, heart; _f_, main

cavity, with intestines.]

Cuvier divided the Mollusks also into a larger number of classes than

are now admitted. He placed the Barnacles with them on account of their

shells; and it is only since an investigation of the germs born from

these animals has shown them to be Articulates that their true position

is understood. They give birth to little Shrimps that afterwards become

attached to the rocks and assume the shelly covering that has misled

naturalists about them. Brachiopods formed another of his classes;

but these differ from the other Bivalves only in having a net-work of

blood-vessels in the place of the free gills, and this is merely a

complication of structure, not a difference in the general mode

of execution, for their position and relation to the rest of the

organization are exactly the same in both. Pteropods constituted another

class in his division of the type of Mollusks; but these animals, again,

form only an order in the class of Gasteropoda, as Brachiopods form an

order in the class of Acephala.

In the third division of the Animal Kingdom, the Articulates, we have

again three classes: Worms, Crustacea, and Insects. The lowest of these

three classes, the Worms, presents the typical structure of that branch

in the most uniform manner, with little individualization of parts. The

body is a long cylinder divided through its whole length by movable

joints, while the head is indicated only by a difference in the

front-joint. There is here no concentration of vitality in special parts

of the structure, as in the higher animals, but the nervous force is

scattered through the whole body,--every ring having, on its lower side,

either two nervous swellings, one on the right, the other on the left

side, connected by nervous threads with those that precede and those

that follow them, or these swellings being united in the median line.

It is this equal distribution of nervous force through the whole system

that gives to these animals such an extraordinary power of repairing

any injured part, so that, if cut in two, the front part may even

reconstruct a tail for itself, while the hind part produces a new

head, and both continue to live as distinct animals. This facility of

self-repair, after a separation of the parts, which is even a normal

mode of multiplication in some of them, does not indicate, as may at

first appear, a greater intensity of vital energy, but, on the contrary,

arises from an absence of any one nervous centre such as exists in

all the higher animals, and is the key to their whole organization. A

serious injury to the brain of a Vertebrate destroys vitality at once,

for it holds the very essence of its life; whereas in many of the lower

animals any part of the body may be destroyed without injury to the

rest. The digestive cavity in the Worms runs the whole length of the

body; and the respiratory organs, wherever they are specialized, appear

as little vesicles or gill-like appendages either along the back or

below the sides, connected with the locomotive appendages.

This class includes animals of various degrees of complication of

structure, from those with highly developed organizations to the lowest

Worms that float like long threads in the water and hardly seem to be

animals. Yet even these creatures, so low in the scale of life, are

not devoid of some instincts, however dim, of feeling and affection. I

remember a case in point that excited my own wonder at the time, and may

not be uninteresting to my readers. A gentleman from Detroit had had

the kindness to send me one of those long thread-like Worms (_Gordius_)

found often in brooks and called Horse-Hairs by the common people. When

I first received it, it was coiled up in a close roll at the bottom of

the bottle, filled with fresh water, that contained it, and looked more

like a little tangle of black sewing-silk than anything else. Wishing

to unwind it, that I might examine its entire length, I placed it in

a large china basin filled with water, and proceeded very gently to

disentangle its coils, when I perceived that the animal had twisted

itself around a bundle of its eggs, holding them fast in a close

embrace. In the process of unwinding, the eggs dropped away and floated

to a little distance. Having finally stretched it out to its full

length, perhaps half a yard, I sat watching to see if this singular

being that looked like a long black thread in the water would give any

signs of life. Almost immediately it moved towards the bundle of eggs,

and, having reached it, began to sew itself through and through the

little white mass, passing one end of its body through it, and then

returning to make another stitch, as it were, till the eggs were at last

completely entangled again in an intricate net-work of coils. It seemed

to me almost impossible that this care of copying could be the result of

any instinct of affection in a creature of so low an organization, and I

again separated it from the eggs, and placed them at a greater distance,

when the same action was repeated. On trying the experiment a third

time, the bundle of eggs had become loosened, and a few of them dropped

off singly into the water. The efforts which the animal then made to

recover the missing ones, winding itself round and round them, but

failing to bring them into the fold with the rest, because they were too

small, and evaded all efforts to secure them, when once parted from

the first little compact mass, convinced me that there was a definite

purpose in its attempts, and that even a being so low in the scale

of animal existence has some dim consciousness of a relation to its

offspring. I afterwards unwound also the mass of eggs, which, when

coiled up as I first saw it, made a roll of white substance about the

size of a coffee-bean, and found that it consisted of a string of eggs,

measuring more than twelve feet in length, the eggs being held together

by some gelatinous substance that cemented them and prevented them from

falling apart. Cutting this string across, and placing a small section

under the microscope, I counted on one surface of such a cut from

seventy to seventy-five eggs; and estimating the entire number of eggs

according to the number contained on such a surface, I found that there

were not less than eight millions of eggs in the whole string. The

fertility of these lower animals is truly amazing, and is no doubt a

provision of Nature against the many chances of destruction to which

these germs, so delicate and often microscopically small, must be

exposed. The higher we rise in the Animal Kingdom, the more limited do

we find the number of progeny, and the care bestowed upon them by the

parents is in proportion to this diminution.

The next class in the type of Articulates is that of Crustacea,

including Lobsters, Crabs, and Shrimps. It may seem at first that

nothing can be more unlike a Worm than a Lobster; but a comparison of

the class-characters shows that the same general plan controls the

organization in both. The body of the Lobster is divided into a

succession of joints or rings, like that of the Worm; and the fact that

the front rings in the Lobster are soldered together, so as to make a

stiff front region of the body, inclosing the head and chest, while only

the hind rings remain movable, thus forming a flexible tail, does not

alter in the least the general structure, which consists in both of

a body built of articulated rings. The nervous swellings, which were

evenly distributed through the whole body in the Worm, are more

concentrated here, in accordance with the prevalent combination of the

rings in two distinct regions of the body, the larger ones corresponding

to the more important organs; but their relation to the rest of the

organization, and their connection by nervous threads with each other,

remain the same. The respiratory organs, which in most of the Worms were

mere vesicles on the lower part of the sides of the body, are here more

highly organized gills; but their general character and relation to

other parts of the structure are unchanged, and in this respect

the connection of the gills of Crustacea with their legs is quite

significant. The alimentary canal consists of a single digestive cavity

passing through the whole body, as in Worms, the anterior part of which

is surrounded by a large liver. What is true of the Lobsters is true

also, so far as class-characters are concerned, of all the Crustacea.

Highest in this type are the Insects, and among these I include Spiders

and Centipedes as well as Winged Insects. It is true that the Centipedes

have a long uniform body like Worms, and the Spiders have the body

divided into two regions like the Crustacea, while the body in true

Insects has three distinct regions, head, chest, and hind body; but

notwithstanding this difference, both the former share in the peculiar

class-character that places them with the Winged Insects in a separate

group, distinct from all the other Articulates. We have seen that in the

Worms the respiratory organs are mere vesicles, while in the Crustacea

they are more highly organized gills; but in Centipedes, Spiders,

and Winged Insects, the breathing-apparatus is aerial, consisting of

air-holes on the sides of the body, connected with a system of tubes and

vessels extending into the body and admitting air to all parts of it. In

the Winged Insects this system is very elaborate, filling the body with

air to such a degree as to render it exceedingly light and adapted to

easy and rapid flight. The general arrangement of parts is the same in

this class as in the two others, the typical character being alike in

all.

We come now to the highest branch of the Animal Kingdom, that to which

we ourselves belong,--the Vertebrates. This type is usually divided into

four classes, Fishes, Reptiles, Birds, and Mammalia; and though many

naturalists believe that it includes more, and I am myself of that

opinion, I shall allude here only to the four generally admitted

classes, as they are sufficient for my present purpose, and will serve

to show the characters upon which classes are based. In a former paper I

have explained in general terms the plan of structure of this type,--a

backbone, with a bony arch above and a bony arch below, forming two

cavities that contain all the systems of organs, the whole being

surrounded by the flesh and skin. Now whether a body so constructed lie

prone in the water, like a Fish,--or be lifted on imperfect legs, like

a Reptile,--or be balanced on two legs, while the front limbs become

wings, as in Birds,--or be raised upon four strong limbs terminating in

paws or feet, as in Quadrupeds,--or stand upright with head erect, while

the limbs consist of a pair of arms and a pair of legs, as in Man,--does

not in the least affect that structural conception under which they are

all included. Every Vertebrate has a backbone; every Vertebrate has a

bony arch above that backbone and a bony arch below it, forming two

cavities,--no matter whether these arches be of hard bone, or of

cartilage, or even of a softer substance; every Vertebrate has the

brain, the spinal marrow or spinal cord, and the organs of the senses in

the upper cavity, and the organs of digestion, respiration, circulation,

and reproduction in the lower one; every Vertebrate has four locomotive

appendages built of the same bones and bearing the same relation to the

rest of the organization, whether they be called pectoral and ventral

fins, or legs, or wings and legs, or arms and legs. Notwithstanding

the rudimentary condition of these limbs in some Vertebrates and their

difference of external appearance in the different groups, they are all

built of the same structural elements. These are the typical characters

of the whole branch, and exist in all its representatives.

What now are the different modes of expressing this structural plan that

lead us to associate certain Vertebrates together in distinct classes?

Beginning with the lowest class,--the Fishes are cold-blooded, they

breathe through gills, and they are egg-laying; in other words, though

they have the same general structure as the other Vertebrates, they

have a special mode of circulation, respiration, and reproduction. The

Reptiles are also cold-blooded, though their system of circulation is

somewhat more complicated than that of the Fishes; they breathe through

lungs, though part of them retain their gills through life; and they lay

eggs, but larger and fewer ones than the Fishes, diminishing in number

in proportion to their own higher or lower position in their class. They

also bestow greater care upon their offspring than most of the

Fishes. The Birds are warm-blooded and air-breathing, having a double

circulation; they are egg-laying like the two other classes, but their

eggs are comparatively few in number, and the young are hatched by the

mother and fed by the parent birds till they can provide for themselves.

The Mammalia are also warm-blooded and breathe through lungs; but

they differ from all other Vertebrates in their mode of reproduction,

bringing forth living young which they nurse with milk. Even in the

lowest members of this highest group of the Vertebrates, at the head

of which stands Man himself, looking heavenward it is true, but

nevertheless rooted deeply in the Animal Kingdom, we have the dawning

of those family relations, those intimate ties between parents and

children, on which the whole social organization of the human race is

based. Man is the crowning work of God on earth; but though so nobly

endowed, we must not forget that we are the lofty children of a race

whose lowest forms lie prostrate within the water, having no higher

aspiration than the desire for food; and we cannot understand the

possible degradation and moral wretchedness of Man, without knowing that

his physical nature is rooted in all the material characteristics that

belong to his type and link him even with the Fish. The moral and

intellectual gifts that distinguish him from them are his to use or to

abuse; he may, if he will, abjure his better nature and be _Vertebrate_

more than Man. He may sink as low as the lowest of his type, or he may

rise to a spiritual height that will make that which distinguishes him

from the rest far more the controlling element of his being than that

which unites him with them.

LOVE AND SKATES.

IN TWO PARTS.

PART II.