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Cfnrnell Uniosraitg ffiihcarg 
 
 3t];ara. Nem fork 
 
 FROM THE 
 
 BENNO LOEWY LIBRARY 
 
 COLLECTED BY 
 
 BENNO LOEWY 
 
 1854-1919 
 BEQUEATHED TO CORNELL UNIVERSITY 
 
 The (^HqI dotfl were used to 
 crsBte tdnieJtV re^tscwn^^ 
 volume en poper thai meets 
 ANSI Standard Z39.48-199I 
 
COUNTRY MARGINS 
 
 llmHes 0f E |0iindi^t,^ 
 
 Sr"!!. HAMMOND, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "HILLS, LASSS, AND FOREST STREAMS. 
 AM) 
 
 L. W. MANSFIELD, 
 
 AlTnOR OF " IT-COITNTRY LPnTRRR. 
 
 NEW YOEK: 
 J.C.DERBY, 119 NASSAU STREET. 
 
 BOSTON : PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO. 
 CINCINNATI: F. W. DEE-BY. 
 
 1855. 
 
Entered, according to Act of Confess, in ttie year 1855, by 
 
 J. C. DERBY, 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern 
 District of New York. 
 
 15. ©. 3cnftins, printer. 
 
 No. 26 Frankfort Stbbet. 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 TO THE HOK. THOMAS A. JOHNSON, 
 
 A JUSTICE OP THE atJPREME COUKT OP TfiE STATE OP NEW TORK. 
 
 My drar Sir :— 
 
 You are to some extent responsible for the publication of this 
 book. It was your own suggestion that " Coumtrt MARGiKa " should be print- 
 ed and bound in a volume. Whether that advice was prompted by the kindly 
 prejudices of ancient friendship, or a just appreciation of the merits of the 
 work, you see it has been accepted. I therefore take the liberty of dedicating 
 this book to you. If other excuse is necessary, I trust it will be found in tho 
 recollections of bygone years. 
 
 I am, very respectfully, 
 
 Your obedient servant^ 
 
 THE AUTHOB OF " TTTT.T.q AND LAKE3." 
 
PREFATORY. 
 
 The Editor of the Albany State Eeoistbb received one 
 day from an anonymous correspondent, a conmimiication which 
 occupies the first chapter of this book. He published it, with 
 a playful commentary, supposing, at the time, that there the 
 matter would end. A few days afterwards, he received 
 " Margins No. Two," which he published with a commentary 
 in like manner. From such beginning the correspondence 
 grew on, until it acquired the dimensions presented in the book 
 which is now given to the public. The writers were entire 
 strangers to each other until the " Maeqins " were more than 
 half written, and it was an accident which made them ac- 
 quainted at last. 
 
 At the suggestion and upon the solicitation of many friends, 
 who professed to be pleased with the correspondence, most of 
 which was published in the Eeqisteb, it goes before the public 
 in its present shape. It makes no claim to any peculiar 
 literary merit. It was simply the result of a digression in 
 the routine of the labors of a daily journalist, intended to 
 lift his paper out of the dull monotony of politics, rather than 
 for publication in a book form. It does not, therefore, chal- 
 lenge criticism, nor affect to compete with the finished pro- 
 ductions of popular authors of the day for public favor. The 
 
Tl PEEFATORT. 
 
 end of its publication will have been accomplished if it shall 
 afford amusement for the leisure hours of those who desire 
 relaxation from labor or severe study. 
 
 But little more than one year has gone by since the last 
 " Margin " was sent down to the printer, and now the " Up- 
 Oountry" home, where the writers first met, is lonely and 
 desolate. Of the happy group there gathered on that pleasant 
 summer night, three have departed to another home. 
 
 The light, the joy, of the house is gone. 
 
 Time itself is but a " margin," dear reader ; it is but a step 
 over its borders. 
 
 S. H. H. 
 
 AiEiNT, June, 1855. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 COUNTEY MAEGINS. 
 I. 
 
 INVITATION TO DINNER. 
 
 F1.0E 
 
 " Soft-Boiled Graver— The Bear Performance— Speckled Trout 9 
 
 n. 
 
 THE HALL CLOSET. 
 
 "Lie Still, My DarUngs"— The Smile of a Wife— Don't Toach the Wln^— 
 Spring Gbickens 17 
 
 m. 
 
 COUNTRY LTTXURIES. 
 
 What a Beaatifol Shower I— Tell Him to Come— Tonng Onions— Kev- 
 Movn Hay— A Kls3 Between the 'Eyes — Climbing a Mountain — " Small 
 Bob" 2T 
 
 IV. 
 EDITOR'S LATITDDB AND LONGITTTDE. 
 
 Fourteen Stone Weight— A Beantifhl Morning— The Standard of Beanty 
 —The Milk In the Cocoannt— Soorcea of Great ElTers— A Senstble Con- 
 clusion— Don't Come on Friday 42 
 
viii CONTEKTS. 
 
 V. 
 A FEIEND FROM THE OLD DOMINION. 
 
 FAQK 
 
 The Eeverend Friend— L. P. of the T. F. V.— Elslng San— Taking a Beat 
 — ^Turkey Shooting— First Song of the Lark— A Good Trout Stream — 
 Betnming Home to Die 66 
 
 VI. 
 
 A CHAPTER FOR THE SABBATH. 
 A Oood-Bye to the L. P.— Bishop Heber's Poetry — Orest and Glorious 
 Traths— Old Memories— The last Farewell T2 
 
 vn. 
 
 ROARING RIVER. 
 
 Stop Every Thing— Where are we Going?— Mountains and EiverB— All 
 Aboard 1— The Watera of Health— Mile Posts by the 'Wayside 82 
 
 vm. 
 
 HOW POEMS LOOK EST PRINT. 
 A Little Poem— Briefc not Plenty— The Gentleman in Black 94 
 
 IX. 
 
 ISOLATION. 
 
 Pleasant Snmmer Pictures— The Young Indian- No Man his own Master 
 — Sleep, Beautiftal Sleep I— Brook-Trout and Dreams— A Forest Dream 
 — Caprices of a Dream— The Dream Oyer 110 
 
 X. 
 
 D, WITH A DASH TO IT. 
 
 Troubles of an Editor— Blowing off Steam— Spelling Figs with a P— An 
 Excited Bridegroom— Mists of Early Morning- A Marvellous Good 
 World 120 
 
Contents. ix 
 
 XI. 
 
 SEPTEMBER. 
 
 fAas 
 A Bainy September— Beautiful Bummer Bays — Gold upon the Landscape 
 — ^What did Katydid do7— ^ong of the Cricket— Days of Sunshine and 
 Storm — ^The Tillage Schoolmaster — ^Matronly Composure 133 
 
 XII. 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 Glory and Pomp of October— Modem BUmnlants — One of God's I.aws — 
 The Betrayed Girl— A Solitary No— The Pippins in the Orchard— The 
 Favorite Apple-Tree— The Thief in the Apple-Tree— She Served Him 
 Bight— The Midnight Cnlprlt— Jnst Measure of BetribaUon 150 
 
 xin. 
 
 NELLY. 
 
 Little Nelly Fast Asleep — ^Precocious Children — ^Love of Little Chlidren — 
 The Garden of £den — ^Nothing Free From Danger — ^Adam and Kve no 
 Childhood. IW 
 
 XIY. 
 
 BREAMS. 
 
 Trifles Light as Air— Christianizing the World— The Phantasies of Dreams 
 — Nothing New Under the Sun — Pure Spring "Water — A Dream of 
 Childhood— An Extraordinary Prayer 18« 
 
 XV. 
 
 THE BRIGHT MORNING— AND JULY. 
 
 The Death of Suzie— An Obliging Host— A Father's EecoUecUons— 
 " Independence"— Northern Lakes— They are Gone, All Gone — Dragon 
 Oysters 201 
 
 XVI. 
 
 THE DINNER, AND GOOD-BYE— DECEMBER. 
 
 How did the Editor Best?- A Struggle with Boots— Shake Hands and 
 Part— Teat of Spring Chicken*— Never Floored but Once— A Brick in 
 the Hat— Farewell 21T 
 
CONTEN T3. 
 
 COUNTEY EAMBLES. 
 
 CANANDAIGUA— PBKN TAN— CROOKED LAKB-BATH 
 — HORNELLSVILB. 
 
 PAOB 
 
 A Beantlful Landscape— Declining Tears of Life— Penn Tan Then and 
 Now— A BeanHfnl Sliest of 'Water- A Beantlful Talley— Crooked Lake 
 Beminiscenees— Ellling My Flist Deer— One of the First Settlers— A 
 Frightened Negro — Good Old Times — ^ABear Instead of a Deer — ^Pass* 
 Ing Down the Lake — ^The Sweet- Voiced Birds — ^Foaming Cascade — 
 Thriving Tillage of Bath— Daylight Among the HlUs— Excitement of 
 the Chase — " Gentlemen of the Jnryl"— Brook Tront— A Hnnting 
 Anecdote— Who Killed the Deer f 233 
 
 n. 
 
 NIAGARA - PORTAGE— WELLSVILLB-COUDERSPORT. 
 The Mighty Cataract- A Niagara in Minlature-^A Great Lumber Begion 
 —Shrewd Tax Gatherers 27S 
 
 ni. 
 
 LAKE CHAMPLAIN— BTJRLINGTON- KEESEVILLE— AU 
 SABLE PORKS— FRANKLIN FALLS- SARANAC LAKE 
 —ROUND LAKE— TUPPER LAKE-BOG RIVER— ON 
 THE BANKS— THE BLACK FLY. 
 
 An Imaginary Picture— Islands in the Lake — When I Get Eich— A 'Won- 
 derful Gorge — ^Brave Men are Sleeping — On an Elevated Plain — ^A Fire 
 In the "Woods — ^A Country Tavern — Music of the Frogs — ^An Involun- 
 tary Plunge— Bich Mines of Iron—The Two Settlers — "Seminary of 
 Leaming^^Deep Fishing— The Bapids— An Eccentric Habit— The As- 
 tonished Buck — ^The Slumbers of Night — ^A Fellow Sportsman — ^Beaver 
 Canals— The Saranao "Woods 28T 
 
 A. 
 SUNRISE IN THE COUNTRY 333 
 
 B. 
 
 "THE SAINTS' REST" 339 
 
COTJISTTIIY ]>^A.IIGINS 
 
 AND 
 
 §lamilts 0f a |0uruaUst. 
 
OOTJN^THY Mi^RQIlSrS. 
 
 INVITATION TO DINNEK, 
 
 Theke are river margins,, and brook margins, 
 the margins of lakes and seas, and of those Httle 
 beauties in high places (hid away, often, in moun- 
 tain tops), which we call ponds. There are also, of 
 late, book margins. I live, sir, in the country, and 
 am in the habit of filling in my book margins with 
 such notes and exclamations as come uppermost in 
 the course of reading, some of which are possibly 
 highly original, {quien sabe f) but quite lost to the 
 great world. 
 
 Shall I send them down to you, Mr. Editor ? For 
 I think, if handsomely printed, my friends might 
 some day read them, by mistake supposing them to 
 be by some " valued correspondent" other than I. 
 "What say you ? How do you make it, yea or nay? 
 
 Very good. Now I can't go to town to read 
 
 books, or fill margins for you. In fact, I can't read 
 
 a book in town. I can let my eyes run up and 
 
 down its pages, but I do not take the book, unless 
 
 1 
 
10 Country Makgins. 
 
 indeed it is hard and abstract. Did you ever read 
 Isaac Taylor's " Physical Theory of Another 
 Life" ? I carried that book all about 'New York 
 city, some years since, pocketing it at every sally 
 out of doors, and reading it in omnibi, and all un- 
 heard-of places for meditation and study, being 
 utterly crazed with its enchanting speculations. In 
 the same way, I could sit down on a drygoods box 
 and work out a conic section ; but for a hooh — say 
 of travel or sentiment — ^you need repose ; and it is 
 so much the better if you have all proper accompa- 
 niments and circumstances, harmonies of place, 
 mood, &c., and for this and these there is but one 
 place under the heavens — to wit : the country. 
 
 Besides, i1; is necessary to dine before taking up a 
 book, and you can't dine in town. To dine, you 
 must have peas; and this, as Ross Brown's Dr. 
 Mendoza says, is imposs. Nor can you have salad. 
 Imposs, also. You may have shot, and you may 
 have pale round things, which, with infinite butter- 
 ing, cannot, however, express peas. 
 
 We had peas, sir, the other day, for the first time 
 this season. They were, perhaps, the best that ever 
 came on the table since the creation of the world. 
 What peas were before the deluge, cannot now be 
 pronounced. Adam and Eve may have had a few 
 messes equal to ours, but never, probably, after be- 
 ing driven out of that beautiful garden. Your 
 early peas, sir, are abominations. 
 I have undertai;en peas in town, before now, and 
 
"Soft-boiled Gravel. 11 
 
 tlie memory of those undertakings, even to this 
 day, is fnU of wrath and indigestion. After repeat- 
 ed faUvtres — Waterloo defeats so to speak — ^I have 
 been again cajoled by the sight (optical delusion en- 
 tirely) of peas. Drawing the dish carefully up, 
 I have said, "Ah, here we have them at last — at 
 last, thank the sweet heavens. My dear wife, hold 
 your plate ; these, my excellent wife, are the thiug, 
 eh? (a little nearer, my dear) so tender as they 
 look, so delicate." " Yes," says my wife, " and so 
 little, so young." " Of course, my darling, so little, 
 so young, so — " and here I raise to my mouth 
 a spoonful, and wait for the sensation. It comes, 
 the sensation ; and as it comes, my wife and I com- 
 pare notes with a look ; but oh, my countrymen I 
 Don't ask me to enlarge. Think of a mouthful of 
 piUs, or of soft-boiled gravel I and this, in the hope 
 — the joyful anticipation of peas. 
 
 Why, sirs and madams, the pea is the most gentle 
 and delicate thing in aU the garden. It is not to be 
 forced, but must have time, as all things must, to be 
 good. Don't force it, therefore ; don't undertake to 
 improve it ; don't water its life out, but give it a 
 fair chance, soil, and sun, and showers ; and let it 
 grow, as God designed it, into a properly perfected 
 pea. The frost should approach, but not touch it ; 
 and then, as it matures into podhood, I incline to 
 think that lightning (round about) is good for it — 
 a cutting up of the aix giving that freshness to the 
 atmosphere which the pea takes into its heart, and 
 
12 CouNTEY Margins. 
 
 makes a part of its life. Whence it gets its melting- 
 ness (as of strawberries), its pure apple ricliness, and 
 its creamy fulness of satisfaction to. the palate, is 
 known only to the little round body itself, which 
 has a way of its own, and is taught, doubtless, by 
 heayen itself. 
 
 But I was talking of books. I have been reading, 
 of late, in the afternoons of two days, before and 
 after Sunday, " The Old House ly the River," a book 
 which I like at once, for its fair margin and hand- 
 some look. It is a book, also, to the temper of 
 which Sunday is no interruption. It will prepare 
 you for the day, and the day prepare you again for 
 the book. But on that holy day there are few books 
 that I care to read, save the one Book of all. For 
 in that I find better sermons, better sentiment, better 
 philosophy, better news, better poetry, and better 
 and more glorious facts (good fbr all eternity), than 
 in all the utterances and exclamations of men since 
 the world began. 
 
 But " The Old House" is written with extreme 
 purity of style, almost matchless in this respect, and 
 with the clearness of sunlight, and I thank God that 
 a man can be found to step out of the whirl of city 
 life, and write a pure book like this. 
 
 Dr. Tyng, I have been told, can write only in the 
 tumult of the city. But his nature is a fiery one. 
 Whereas the secret of this author's success is, that 
 his true life is not in Wall street (eminently suc- 
 cessful aa he is there), but in the forest, and on the 
 
The Bear Peefoemance. 13 
 
 sea, and in that ■world of beautiful sentiment which 
 surrounds, as with a glory, the heart of woman. 
 Touches of humor appear occasionally, but the au- 
 thor's range is mostly too high for humor. He does 
 not care to come down to it. There is one charm- 
 ing exception in the Bear Himt, which is the most 
 exquisite piece of comicality I have seen for many 
 a day. Hot as the weather is, I would be willing 
 to ride twenty miles, without stirrups, to see that 
 bear performance. But the author has touched the 
 picture so perfectly, that one can sit at home, quite 
 at ease, and see the whole thing to the life. There 
 are, elsewhere, passages of great power, as in "Ben's 
 Death" in Delirium Tremens, " The last leap of the 
 Panther," "Mr. Stewart's Story," etc., but I like 
 best, for my especial humor, " The old Chuch and its 
 Pastor," " Old Friends," and chapters of a kindred 
 nature. But any one who enters " The Old House 
 by the Eiver," will find none but pleasant company; 
 and if any one can read the book without finding 
 that, he is a better man for his intercourse with 
 that company ; he ought to retire, at once, to private 
 life, — ^his being abroad is dangerous to the common- 
 wealth. 
 
 And now, Mr. Editor (stopping a moment to 
 bracket my thanks to the author for having written 
 this book, which I should like to have written my- 
 . self), I will say — as to peas — ^that we shall have 
 another mess in a few days, and very soon every 
 day, or as often as the weather will permit. After 
 
14 Country Margins. 
 
 a -week, you can scarcely come amiss. I have never 
 seen your face, but if we liave peas that day for 
 dinner, I'm sure I shall see a glad one. Will you 
 come ? Yours, . 
 
 Our correspondent has placed us in a dilemma. 
 "We like the country, and we like peas — and we like 
 an invitation to dinner. But it is always conve- 
 nient to understand two or three preliminary matters 
 before accepting such, an invitation. In the first 
 place, it is a great advantage to know where you are 
 invited to dine. It will not do to indulge in con- 
 jecture on that subject; you might go to tlie wrong 
 house, and get down by, and possibly under the 
 wrong table. You might tax the tospitality of 
 John Smitb under an invitation from James Brown. 
 Then, again, it is well to know vnth whom one is 
 invited to dine. Not that we are aristocratic, or 
 insist upon associating (especially about dinner 
 time) with "the first families." "We can eat a good 
 dinner at almost anybody's expense. "We're liberal 
 ia such matters, we are. But we are of the national 
 school, silver gray, and no mistake. Suppose, on 
 sitting down to table, we should find ourself cheek 
 by jowl with a rank woolly, oran out and out aboli- 
 tionist. He wouldn't let politics alone, of course, he 
 
Speckled Troxjt. 15 
 
 wouldn't ; he'd take his stand on his platform, he'd 
 denounce the Union as " an unholy league" and the 
 Constitution as " an atrocious bargain," and draw- 
 ing the esculents on his side of the table, demand of 
 us concessions in favor of his opinions, or leave us 
 to go away empty. That would be subjecting our 
 principles to a test unnecessarily severe. 
 
 An anonymous invitation "to eat peas," is all 
 very well in its way, but it isn't according to our 
 taste. There is too much of the ideal about it. It 
 lacks the solid.ingredient of sober fact. If our cor- 
 respondent will certify us of the place where we are 
 to "eat the aforesaid peas," and the person with 
 whom, and upon whose invitation we are to eat 
 them, he will have to lay the venue a good way off, 
 and have a pretty hard customer for a host, if he 
 finds we decline, provided — ^the trimmings are all 
 right. "We take it for granted we shall have some- 
 thing besides "peas," something solid, something 
 savory and pleasant to the taste, such as spring 
 chickens, nicely broiled, or speckled trout fresh from 
 the brook, or maybe, a brace or two of woodcock, 
 or snipe, or a pair of fat wild ducks, and we shouldn't 
 be at all offended to see them come on the table in 
 succession, one after another like, together with 
 salads and such vegetables as relish with them. 
 And then a bottle or two of old port, or sherry, or 
 Madeira, or even Champagne, wouldn't "rile" us in 
 the least. The whole affair might conclude with 
 delicate pastry and fruits, ices, and such cooling 
 
16 Country Margins. 
 
 tilings a3 add to the comforts of the inner man in 
 the warm summer days. "We never take offence 
 at such trifles. But we can't really think of accept- 
 ing an anonymous invitation to eat peas — ^we can't, 
 indeed. 
 
II. 
 
 THE HALL OLOSET. 
 
 YoTJ have confused me a little, Mr. Editor. The 
 blood has been mounting up and about my temples 
 all the long day, at the thought of your unparalleled 
 
 impu I mean your remarkable effront , or 
 
 at least, your peculiar comment — ^upon my invita- 
 tion to peas. 
 
 But I am cooler now, and touching the great 
 topic of dinner, I will say briefly, that wine with me 
 is a memory — a reminiscence — or, if you please, an 
 abstraction. To many it is a cZwtraction ; I make 
 it an a&straction, by putting it in the hall closet, 
 and turning the key. My wife, I will not deny, 
 was a little elated at the idea of having a city Ed- 
 itor to dinner ; but when I repeated, one by one, 
 your extraordinary expectations, she became very 
 thoughtful and sUent. 
 
 Why you see, sir, the " spring chickens" we could 
 count upon, by-and-bye ; but the "trout," the " wood- 
 cock," the "snipe," the "wild ducks," and, coolest 
 of propositions, that all these should be brought on 
 consecutively, keeping half a dozen cooks busy, and 
 quite confounding my father and my dear old aunt 
 
 with such unheard-of proceedings — all these, and 
 1* 
 
18 Country Makgins. 
 
 ices, and wines, in our quiet country home I Oh, 
 sir, I blush at the thought of it. Moreover, I with- 
 draw the invitation. Don't come to dinner. I for- 
 bid it. 
 
 The other day, reading an account of three sun- 
 rises* — one on a high Northern river, one on Lake 
 Champlain, and one from the Berkshire Bowl — I 
 said to myself, " Here is a true poet ; and, moreover, 
 a philosopher. Oenial, I warrant you. In short, a 
 man to throw both arms around 1" "Doubtless," I 
 continued, "this man, like Milton, drinks water 
 only, and feeds upon peas and pond-hlies, and the 
 like wholesome things. How calmly and gloriously 
 he writes of the morning! How handsomely he 
 poises himself above the world ! Like a great white 
 cloud, close up to the sky, with a sunny radiance 
 about him, and earth, and all shadows and under- 
 currents far away below, quite out of his beat." 
 
 Now, who would have thought, Mr. Editor — I 
 put it to you, yes, sir, to you — ^who would have 
 thought that this man of brilliant sunrises was hold- 
 ing forth, even then, through the strength of yes- 
 terday's dinner ? Yesterday's snipe and woodcock, 
 or (more shocking) yesterday's wine ? 
 
 I have wine, sir. It is in a dark closet under the 
 hall-stairs ; and there it will remain. I have turned 
 the key and hid it away ; and no man wiU find it. 
 Sauterne and Claret, and Old Port and Heidsick, 
 and with them also, " Old Q." and Otard 1 
 
 • See Appendix, A. 
 
"Lie Still, my Darlings." 19 
 
 There they are, and sometimes I talk to them a 
 little through the key-hole. "Lie still, my dar- 
 lings," I say to them, " no one shall touch you. 
 You are all locked in, and the key lost forever. 
 No Editor shall come nigh you. Keep cool, and 
 above all, keep your tempers. You, my pleasant 
 Sauterne, my charming Sauterne, my ambrosial 
 Sauteme ; you, who quite flattered me last summer 
 that a half-bottle every day -was building me up 
 into a strong tower, only to break me down in the 
 fall, like the confusion of Babel : you, Old Ports, 
 costly old chaps, but doubtful, I am sorry to say, as 
 to your integrity : you, my only two Heidsicks ; 
 two only of the many silver tops we had, what time 
 my wife -and I " came home forever," — ^Ue quiet, 
 all of you, and take your ease. Let us have no 
 souring from neglect ; no poppings of summer 
 wrath, my excellent quondams, but be patient, all, 
 and bide your time." 
 
 In this manner, sir, I keep them under, and in a 
 healthy way. As to "OldQ.," the oily old fellow, 
 there is no danger of his exploding. He is as strong 
 and as firm as the stars, and as high. He has great 
 conmaand of himself, "Old Q.," he never effer- 
 vesces or runs into sour humors. Stand him belly- 
 down, or on his feet, it is all one to him. Besides, 
 as I have said, the key is lost, and they all 
 know it. 
 
 Wherefore, Mr. Editor, until I may suddenly find 
 that*key, or until you can dine in a plain way, with 
 
20 CouNTBY Margins. 
 
 say for wine, a glass of eau de sucre, or tlie like, I 
 see no way to meet your wants. 
 
 Lastly, as to wlio and where I am, tlie motion is 
 not now in order. Perhaps I am a country clergy- 
 man recreating in a country paper. (I shall preach 
 to you ; aye, sir, I shall lay on and spare not.) Per- 
 haps I am a country farmer, trying to get his wife 
 to read the news. Perhaps a retired valetudinarian, 
 amusing himself with a city Editor. Perhaps, and 
 perhaps, and perhaps. 
 
 In any case, for the present, my special invitation 
 is (and my wife joins me heartily). Don't come to 
 DINNER. Yours, . 
 
 There it is again, just our luck to a dot. We 
 knew 'twould be so. We'd have made our affida- 
 vit to the fact beforehand. Just because we in- 
 dulged in an imaginary dinner, (a poetical license,) 
 on an anonymous invitation, we're to lose a mat- 
 ter-of-fact meal. Surely this never could by pos- 
 sibility have happened to any body but ourself. See 
 the hardships of the matter. When a man fancies 
 his legs under a gentleman's table, he may as well 
 fancy any variety and amount of good things upon 
 it. Where it is all fancy, why not swing loose, give 
 rein to the imagination, and let it chQose its gait ? It 
 costs no more to eat an imaginary good dinner, than 
 an imaginary poor one. And yet we're to be struck 
 
The Smile of a Wife. 21 
 
 off tlie list of invited guests, and denied even tlie 
 consolation of " peas." Well, we're used to such 
 misfortunes. 
 
 " "We never loved a plant or flower," &c. 
 
 " My wife, I will not deny, was a little elated at having a city 
 editor to dinner ; but when I repeated, one by one, your extraor- 
 dinary expectations, she became very thoughtful and silent." 
 
 We give up tlie "woodcock" and tlie "snipe." 
 We surrender tlie "brook trout" and the "wild 
 ducks," let them all go-^they're no great things at 
 best ; good enough in their way, but by no means a 
 sine qua non for a good dinner. We give up our 
 ' ' extraordin ary expectations," and settle down on the 
 " spring cMckens." We would not bring a shade 
 of thought or sadness to the face of a good wife for 
 worlds. We'd have her smUe. There's heaven in 
 the smUe of a true woman. We would not have 
 her silent for a gold mine. There's music in her 
 voice sweeter than the song of harps. We would 
 have her always happy, always cheerful. No cloud 
 should ever darken the sunshine of her pure heart, 
 if we could rule her destiny. 
 
 " Now who would have thought, Mr. Editor, I put it to you, 
 yes, sir, to you, who would have thought that this man. of bril- 
 liant sunrises was holding forth even then, through the strength 
 of yesterday's dinner, yesterday's ' snipe,' ' woodcock' or (more 
 shocking) yesterday's 'wine?'" 
 
 All Ulusory, all a mistake, but we can bear it. 
 
22 CoTJKTEY Margins. 
 
 We're used to sucli things. It isn't the first time 
 Ave've been made the victim of man's imperfectibil- 
 ity of judgment, or his positive injustice. The 
 " Yesterday" was a dark day with us, 'twas wash- 
 ing-day with our wife at home, a day of cold meats, 
 of half-picked bones and attenuated coffee, a day 
 (and who is not thankful that it should be so ?) that 
 comes but once a week, a day of all days that brings 
 no inspiration to the poet's fancy, no buoyancy to 
 its wing. " Yesterday's snipe or woodcock," quotha ! 
 Our very dear friend, these things are not even 
 " memories" with us. It maybe we're getting old, 
 that the mists which hang around the memory when 
 we pass into the sear and yellow leaf, obscure our 
 vision of the past; but try as we will, we can recall 
 no such incident within the circle of half a dozen 
 years as " snipe and woodcock." Good things we've 
 eaten at home and abroad, things savory and pleas- 
 ant to the taste, but of " snipe and woodcock" we're 
 innocent, indeed we are. And "yesterday's wine," 
 too, is a fancy, pure ethereality; we derived no 
 strength from wine — we made no terms with the 
 "deceiver." "Wine never had a place on our table, 
 nor in " our closet under the stairs." We never 
 took it into our dwelling, never associated with it 
 on any terms. We look upon wine as our enemy, 
 we do indeed. Wine floored us once, and only once, 
 and then 'twas by treachery. Under the influence 
 of " repentance and soda water" we cut its acquaint- 
 ance forever. Aye ! laugh as you will, 'tis gospel 
 
Don't touch the Wine. 23 
 
 trutli ; point to the imaginary dinner we sat down to 
 at your table, still we affirm its truth. 
 
 " I have wine, sir, it is in a dark closet under the hall stairs, 
 and there it ■will remain. I have turned the key and hid it 
 away, and no man will find it. Sauterne and Claret, and Old 
 Port and Heidsick, and with them also, " Old Q." and Otard. 
 There they are, and sometimes I talk to them a little through 
 the key-hole." 
 
 Don't do tliat — ^it's dangerous. Hold no commu- 
 nion witli them. Eve talked with the serpent, 
 maybe at first " through a key-hole." She talked 
 too often; she ate the forbidden fruit after talking, 
 and the woes that darken human destiny followed. 
 Have no word to say to them. Eather go boldly 
 among them with a club and slay them, smash them 
 into ten thousand pieces, throw them away to perish 
 as they deserve upon the dunghill. It is this talk- 
 ing to the bottle " through the key-hole" that has 
 ruined thousands, aye, millions of men ; that has 
 snatched an army of souls from Heaven, and peopled 
 the dungeons of perdition with fallen spirits. It has 
 broken the hearts of thousands upon thousands of 
 mothers and fathers, and sent thousands upon thou- 
 sands of wives in sorrow and desolation of spirit to 
 the grave. It has given thousands upon thousands 
 of sons to the prisons, and daijghters to shame. It 
 is not enough that you "have locked them in a dark 
 closet under the stairs, and hid away the key." 
 Doors grow rusty upon their hinges, locks fail in 
 
24 Country Maegins. 
 
 their office, wine grows in strength and power of 
 seduction, with age. Yon are not safe, your chil- 
 dren are not safe, your servants are not safe, while 
 thewiae bottles are in that closet. Turn them out, 
 break them in pieces. "Tis your only sure protec- 
 tion. Talk not of your strength, your power of re- 
 sistance. Look around you, see how many strong 
 men, strong in intellect, strong in moral power, who 
 mocked at the warning of danger, and derided the 
 prophecy of their fall, who, in the face of all these 
 things, became victims at last. Aye, victims ! and 
 in spite of the admonitions, the prayers of mother, 
 father, wife, children, all that could strengthen re- 
 solve, went down through the drunkard's infamy to 
 the drunkard's grave. Don't talk to those bottles 
 "through the key-hole." 
 
 " Wherefore, Mr. Editor, nntU I may suddenly find that key, 
 or until you can dine, in a plain way, with — say for wine, a glass 
 of eau de sucre, or the like, I see no way to meet your wants.'' 
 
 That's what we call sensible talk. Don't waste 
 time, our dear sir, ia looking for the key. Let it 
 go. Get your " plain dinner" ready. Never mind 
 the " sweet water." The pure element that bubbles 
 up from beneath the rock, at the foot of the old 
 birch, or the ancient maple, will answer our turn. 
 Certify us of the time and place, and we'U be there. 
 Prepare your "spring chickens." Let them be 
 broiled to a demonstration, over hard wood coals — 
 crisped and browned, but not burned. Baste them 
 
Spring Chickens. 25 
 
 witli fresh sweet butter, and sprinkle them with 
 parsley. "We'll come. Serve them up hot, smok- 
 ing from the gridiron. Accompany them with peas, 
 young potatoes and beets. We'll come. Don't for- 
 get the white wheat bread, baked the afternoon be- 
 fore, as the Patlander would say, and the pure yel- 
 low butter, and the sliced cucumbers. Yes, we'll 
 come. We'll be there to a minute. We'll " dine 
 in a plain way." "Better is a dinner of herbs 
 where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred there- 
 with." 
 
 " Lastly, as to who and where I am, the motion ia not now in 
 order. Perhaps I am a country clergyman, recreating in a 
 country paper. (I shall preach to you : aye, sir, I shall lay on 
 and spare not.) Perhaps I am a country farmer, trying to get 
 his wife to read the news. Perhaps a retired valetudinarian, 
 amusing himself with a city Editor." 
 
 No matter, our dear sir, your " spring chickens" 
 shall be your warrant of respectability, and your 
 peas the endorsement of your character. K you are 
 a clergyman, you may preach to us. You may 
 "lay on and spare not." We're remarkably pa- 
 tient. We'll listen with commendable meekness, 
 taking our revenge on the spring chickens. We 
 respect the clergy. If you're a farmer, it's just as 
 well. Our father was a farmer, our kindred are all 
 farmers. It's a respectable calling ; those who be- 
 long to it are coming to be the aristocracy of the 
 land ; besides, they raise such fine spring chickens. 
 
26 Country Margins. 
 
 We don't, by any manner of means, object to fariii- 
 ers. K you're a retired valetudinarian, it's all the 
 better. Your lack of digestion will augment our 
 sbare of tbe cMckens. Amuse yourself with us to 
 your heart's content. "We're to be amused with, if 
 the chickens are properly broiled and the trimmings 
 all right. Yes, yes! amuse yourself with us. 
 We'U take care of tourself and the chickens. 
 
 " In any case, for the present, my special invitation is, (and 
 my wife joins me heartily,) Don't come to dinner 1" 
 
 We decline the ^^ special invitation," promptly 
 and at once. Our convenience wUl not suffer us to 
 accept. We regret, on account of our correspond- 
 ent and his excellent wife, that we cannot, but cir- 
 cumstances must control our action in the matter. 
 We are, of course, grateful for this " special invita- 
 tion," and we hope they AviU pardon us for declin- 
 ing it. 
 
III. 
 
 COUNTRY LUXURIES. 
 
 We extend to you, sir, the right hand of invita- 
 tion. But as only two can shake hands at once, 
 my wife, who is all in white this morning, makes 
 you a courtesy, and sends you her regards. If you 
 could see her, sir, as she stands making you this 
 modest obeisance, you would come, as with wings. 
 You would be charmed through the air, as was Lo- 
 retto's chapel. " Tell him also," she says, " not to 
 wait for the spring chickens, but to come now ;" and 
 so say I, her excellent husband, as she calls me; 
 and I will add, that were we two indi\dduals, or 
 even two very diverse individuals, instead of that 
 consolidated unit which we are (though called from 
 the paucity of language, Mr. and Mrs. Margin), I 
 should still say come. I should mount the platform, 
 and exclaim as the speech-maker did, in those three 
 immortal words, at the laying of a corner-stone, " It 
 will do !" Come. 
 
 We have, sir, lamb chops, new potatoes, the 
 round squash, peas if possible, and that delicate 
 vegetable, powerful in its way, but still delicate, the 
 young onion. How other people's onions may rel- 
 
28 Country Maegins. 
 
 ish tliis year I know not, but ours have arrived 
 just now at a youthful pungency that is very touch- 
 ing. Boiled to a creamy tenderness, or cut up thin 
 with vinegar, from the pure white globule (about 
 the size, when cut asunder, of an English sovereign), 
 they are alike admirable and perfect in their way. 
 I use the word ■perfect, thoughtfully, for you can add 
 nothing to the young onion ; or if you do, as in the 
 more advanced onion, you have too much — an ex- 
 cess; a wild and giddy nostril- dilating power; 
 which, as I have just said, is loo much. Thanks, 
 therefore, that things must grow, and not spring up 
 into rankness in a single night. Why, sir, a young 
 lady and her sister in the great city have just writ- 
 ten to us that they are coming up this summer (a j our- 
 ney of some hundreds of miles), expressly to have a 
 good time with that delicate plant. I immediately 
 repUed with my very best married man's regards, 
 and conceiving it proper to make a few remarks, 
 added the following : " I thank heaven that there 
 are some people left in these latter days, who are 
 willing and ready to eat onions. It is a good sign. 
 It augurs well for the country. It will give 
 strength and tone to the people — ^the onion — when 
 aU other things may fail." 
 
 When will you come ? It's a good time now, 
 our hay being well housed, and nothing remaining 
 of an urgent character. 
 
 My 'father remarked the other day, that with one 
 exception he had not succeeded in getting in his 
 
What A Beautiful Shower! 29 
 
 grass mthout rain, in fifteen years. He usually be- 
 gins on Monday, so as not to liave the eye-sore of hay 
 in the meadow on Sunday. Accordingly, on Monday 
 last, my father sent the men into the meadow, 
 although the clouds were ready, at the very mo- 
 ment, to drop with fatness. He merely remarked 
 that it would have to be rained on, and the sooner 
 the better. Before noon the grass was down, and 
 so was the rain. A fine shower began about that 
 time, and continued at intervals all day. My aunt, 
 who had not been watchful of the grass-cutting, 
 walked into my father's room, and taking a pinch 
 of snuff, remarked in her pleasant and thankful 
 way, " What a beautiful shower ! how good it will 
 be for the garden!" "Yes," said my father, very 
 briefly, " and for my grass, too." 
 
 The little excitement being over, and the grass 
 made into hay and under cover, we are now at lei- 
 sure again. It remains, therefore, only to point you 
 the way. But I hope, sir, you will not look for a 
 vulgar and exact chart of the route; as, say, 
 "Bungtown train 10 :20, stop at Bung, inquire for 
 Bing, and find the same just round the comer." 
 Horrid ! How excessively annoying to be booked 
 in that way I Think, sir, of the nervous anxiety as 
 to reaching station at the precise 10 : 20 ; then of the 
 great trepidation as to where Bung is, the intense 
 scrutiny of your watch and time-table, or, i^ your 
 final despair, the hurried exclamations to the flying 
 
30 Country Margins. 
 
 conductor, " Is this Bung ? Have we got to Bung, 
 
 yet." 
 
 I never do so. Wlien I travel (and the mood may- 
 spring upon me at any moment), I kiss my wife 
 good-lye between the eyes, and walk directly to the 
 station ; . she, perhaps, trotting by my side, as I go 
 off with easy strides, hoping, possibly, for more 
 good-byes at convenient comers. "Well, sir, at the 
 station I take the cars. That's all. I never ask the 
 conductor where he is going, or when he expects to 
 get there. I take it he understands his business. 
 "We are going, — that is the great point: we are 
 travelling. "When it comes night, or whenever I 
 get tired, I motion to the conductor, in an easy way, 
 to let me out ; and if there is no coach handy in 
 that part of the country, perhaps I may walk ; but 
 then I never programme to do so and so. I pro- 
 gramme to do as I please, and as events shall deter- 
 mine. 
 
 I would say, therefore, Mr. Editor, in a general 
 way, as to coming to dinner, take the cars. Or, to 
 be entirely expHcit, take the cars for the country. 
 After riding as far as you think proper, I should say 
 stop, by all means ; and after taking bearings a little, 
 look about for Small Bob. Kyou find Small Bob, you 
 are in our neighborhood. Don't overlook that indi- 
 vidual, or mark too harshly the width of his hat-brim. 
 Small Bob, seeing a man of your comprehensive ap- 
 pearance, will address you as follows : — " Is this" — 
 
Tell HIM TO Come. 31 
 
 removing his hat-brim — " Is this the great city Edi- 
 tor, come to dine with Mr. and Mrs. Margin ?" 
 
 Of course, I need not indicate further. Only don't 
 be alarmed at the dogs, as you come up the 
 yard. If Bob is with you, you are safe. 
 
 P. S. — Don't come to-day. We are in a revolu- 
 tion — ^temporary, it is to be hoped. In fact, I sus- 
 pect it's all to be for your benefit. But the fact is 
 all the same, — we are housebreaking. Half a dozen 
 strong women are about upsetting things, and busy 
 in various burglarious operations. We are to dine 
 on the piazza, and sleep as the strong women may 
 provide. Perceiving that all things would soon be, 
 as you may say, in a state of probation, I saved my 
 portfolio early from the ruins, and have stolen 
 away to a spare comer up stairs, to stop the press 
 with this postscript. 
 
 You would snule, sir, to see my young wife order 
 her forces : now with a low tone of suggestion, or a 
 hurried word of caution, and again with a cut-short 
 oh I or an unstoppable scream, as some fabric 
 is threatened with destruction : and the next mo- 
 ment turning to me with a woman's composure, all 
 calmness and greatness, saying — " Tell him to come. 
 We will be ready." 
 
 My father regards the event from a different 
 point of view, rolling his thumbs, as he sits in his 
 great chair, and looking sharply down the long vis- 
 tas of piled-up confusion, or chaos, as he calls it. 
 
 P. S. 1^0.2. — ^We have dined as arranged, on the 
 
32 CouNTBY Margins. 
 
 piazza^ under the roof shade and the shade of the 
 pines, and it was, as the little girls say, le-u-tiful. I 
 alniost wished that we had sent our dispatch for to- 
 day. We had the chops, the new potatoes, the 
 young onions, and (forgotten before, but always 
 immortal; I eat it three times a day) the black 
 raspberry; and you, my aunt. Souchong. "We ^. 
 GMS&edijunhett oho, called in the vulgar, "shp and 
 go down;" and after dinner, I mounted the door-sill 
 and made a speech, quite surprising myself with 
 the youthful vigor of my remarks. 
 
 During the speech, I put the question, sir, as to 
 whether the great Editor shall now be iavited to 
 come to dinner to-morrow, at say 1^ o'clock, and 
 the result was a unanimous aye. 
 
 This matter is, therefore, as the French say, jini. 
 
 Yours, . 
 
 " We shall have Iamb-chops, new potatoes, the round squash, 
 peas, if possible, and that delicate vegetable, powerful in its 
 way, but still delicate, the young onion." 
 
 Say no more, our dear sir, we accept the invita- 
 tion. "We won't wait for the spring chickens, or, if 
 it's all the same to you, we'll reserve them for a fd- 
 ture occasion. Lamb chops, young potatoes, the 
 roimd squash and young onions, will do for the 
 present. Mark, we say, for the present. "We post- 
 pone, only postpone the era of spring chickens. 
 
Young Onions. 33 
 
 Talking of onions reminds us of tlie times of old, 
 wlien youtli sharpened tlie appetite, and exercise 
 gave a zest to plain fare. How often have we taken 
 a piece of bread spread with butter in one hand, 
 and a spoonful of salt in the other, and gone out 
 into the garden to eat bread and butter, with onions 
 fresh from the ground. We have done this many 
 a time when we were young, and the memory of it 
 comes back like the shadow of a pleasant dream. 
 Onions, young onions in particular, is our weak- 
 ness. They are healthy, as well as delicious and 
 savory vegetables. "We like lamb-chops ; we like 
 young potatoes, we adore the round squash, but 
 young onions is our weakness. True, they add no 
 sweetness to the breath, but then let others eat them 
 too, and there will be no trouble on that score. 
 
 " Why, sir, a young lady and her sister in the great city have 
 just written to us that they are coming up this summer (a jour- 
 ney of some hundreds of miles) expressly to have a good time 
 with that delicate plant." 
 
 Strong-minded women, those who are not to be 
 tyrannized out of their " young onions" by the poten- 
 tates of fashion. Sensible girls, that go into the 
 country to get free for a time of the bad atmosphere 
 and worse conventional proprieties of a city life. 
 Wni they come during the season of young onions, 
 or will they wait for the spring chickens? Let 
 us hear when they come, and we shall not take 
 the least possible offence at being invited about the 
 2 
 
34 Country Margiks. 
 
 same time. "We'll encourage by our example the 
 young lady and her sister in liaviag a good time 
 with the onions. 
 
 " My wife, who is all in white this morning, makes you a 
 courtesy, and sends you her regards." 
 
 We like white. It is the true color for a pure- 
 hearted woman. It is the color of the robes that 
 angels wear. It belongs to the spotless beings 
 above, to the cherubims that circle around the great 
 white throne. Let her always wear white of a 
 morning. We accept her regards — we shall cherish 
 them as sacred things — we would not forfeit them 
 for worlds. 
 
 " If you could see her as she stands, making you this modest 
 obeisance, you would come as with wings. Tou would be 
 charmed through the air as was Loretto's Chapel." 
 
 We do see her in our mind's eye, not as "mak- 
 ing" us "a modest obeisance," but as a calm and 
 dignified woman, conscious of her own worth, her 
 value, her purity. Her heart has not been chilled 
 by contact with the cold world, nor her aspirations 
 blighted by disappointment. On her cheek is the 
 rose of life's summer, the flush of health and high 
 hopes. May the rose bloom there for many a year 
 — ^may the flush continue tDl life's close, and may 
 that be far off in the fdture ; may children and 
 grand-children be around her then, and may the 
 tear of affection, as it falls upon her cold cheek, be 
 
New -Mown Hay. 35 
 
 the last sensation tliat shall remind her of earth's 
 cares. 
 
 But we can't come " as with wings" — ^we are too 
 substantial, too earthly, if you please, for that. We 
 will come in the cars, and speak to the engineer to 
 let on the steam ; but fourteen stone weight can't do 
 much with wings. Nor can we go through the air 
 like Loretto's Chapel. We have a natural tendency to 
 sink, a downward proclivity as it were, when we step 
 off from some high place upon nothing. Loretto's 
 Chapel was transferred through a miraculous agency, 
 but the age of miracles is past, and unless we can 
 harness the power that moves tables, and makes 
 chairs, and stools, and stands dance a jig together, 
 into the service, we must perforce be content to go 
 on land, and under the impulse of steam. 
 
 " When will you come ? It's a good time now, our hay be- 
 ing well housed, and nothing remaining of an urgent character. 
 My father remarked the other day, that with one exception, he 
 had not succeeded in getting in his grass without rain in fifteen 
 years." 
 
 You are quite right, our very dear sir. The best 
 time to accept an invitation to a good dinner is 
 always now. We are sorry the grass has been 
 mowed. We want to swing a scythe again. We 
 have done so once this summer. We want to rake 
 and pitch; we have done that too. It was away 
 out in old Steuben. We were passing a meadow 
 where six men were mowing, marcMng forward like 
 
36 CouNTEY Margins. 
 
 a platoon of grenadiers keeping step and stroke 
 together, eacli swing of tlie scythe cutting down 
 grass enough to fodder an ox. We climbed over 
 the fence, and throwing our coat upon a swath, took 
 down a scythe that hung on the limb of a thorn 
 bush ; we felt the edge, and finding it keen, struck 
 in boldly with the mowers. "We understood this 
 busiuess once, and so long as our wind held out, 
 kept up. But editing a newspaper is not calculated 
 to make one enduring in the hot sun of July, ' and 
 after mowing a bout, we surrendered. Baking was 
 easier work, and we took an hour's turn at that. 
 Then we pitched on a load and pitched it off, into 
 the great bay in the barn. By this time we had 
 taken a sweat that a steam doctor might envy, and 
 we passed on our way. Do you remember when a 
 boy at work in the hay field, how you watched the 
 heavens, when the signs of rain were in the air? 
 Do you remember how merrily the tree-frog piped 
 along the fences ; how gently the wind stirred 
 among the trees ; how fan-like it lifted the leaves 
 upon the basswoods along the fences, turning the 
 under side to the sun, and making the tree-top shine 
 all over like silver ? Do you remember how, when 
 the haze gathered in the air, a great circle surround- 
 ed the sun, and how he became less and less bright, 
 until he disappeared in the sky ? 
 
 And then, do you remember when the small drops 
 of a settled rain came falling gently around you, 
 how you shouldered your rake, and marched to the 
 
A Kiss Between the Eyes. 37 
 
 barn, and then, how you clambered on to the hay- 
 mow, and hstening to the soothing sound of the rain 
 upon the roof, you sunk away into the sweetest 
 possible sleep ? 
 
 Do you remember how you watched the clouds 
 when a shower was coming up from the south-west? 
 Did you note how the great black clouds came lift- 
 ing their monster-shaped heads above the horizon, 
 followed by others still more ogre-looking, until the 
 van of the storm stretched in a long dark line 
 across the sky? Did you note the flashing of the 
 lightning, and did you catch the first deep growl 
 of the thunder in the distance ? Did you hear the 
 sound of the wind and the pouring rain, while the 
 storm was yet at a distance, and did you look calmly 
 from your bed of loose hay on the barn floor, upon 
 the rushing waters, while the clouds were emptying 
 their floods around you? "We remember these 
 things, and we have never lost our respect for a 
 settled rain, or a thunder shower in haying time. 
 
 " I kiss my wife good-bye, between the eyes, and walk directly 
 to the station." 
 
 Without intending to be personal, you must per- 
 mit us to say you are wrong, and the more we 
 reflect upon the subject, the more convinced are we 
 that you are wrong. Not in kissing your wife. 
 One may kiss one's wife without blame. We like 
 the practice — we do so ourself, occasionally. It 
 serves to keep the affections warm and the heart 
 
38 Country Margins. 
 
 soft. Nor do we object to yoiir walking directly 
 to tlie cars, after kissing your wife good-bye. That 
 may be done with propriety and safety. But what 
 we protest against, is the kissing your wife good- 
 bye " between the eyes." The practice is a bad one. 
 Lips were made to be kissed after their owner has 
 become a wife. The cheek of a maiden may be 
 touched by the lips of a lover, but the lips of the 
 wife should be the recipients of a husband's kiss. 
 This is the true principle and philosophy of the 
 matter, and we protest against any departure from 
 the ancient and orthodox usage. 
 
 " I would say, therefore, Mr. Editor, in a general way, as to 
 coming to dinner, take the cars, or, to be entirely explicit, take 
 the cars for the country. After riding as far as you think 
 proper, I should say stop, by all means, and after taking bear- 
 ings a little, look about for Small Bob." 
 
 "We begia really to despair of this dinner. "We 
 have made numberless concessions. "We have sur- 
 rendered woodcock and snipe, wild-duck and veni- 
 son, and settled down on spring chickens. "We 
 subsequently conceded the chickens and took to 
 lamb-chops, young potatoes, round squashes and 
 young onions, and now we are in danger of losing 
 even them. It's all very well to talk about taking 
 the " cars for the country." The country is a large 
 place. It lays all around Albany, and stretches a 
 great way back. If we go north, we traverse 
 Vermont. The cars go thundering through the 
 
Climbing a Mountain. 39 
 
 gorges of the Green Mountains, "We went tliat way 
 last summer. We stopped at a pleasant village 
 squatted down in a beautiful valley, thxougli whicli 
 flowed a cold pure stream, to fisL. for tlie speckled 
 trout. But hundreds had preceded us, and the 
 trout were all destroyed. We were told of a little 
 lake that few had had the courage to visit, laying 
 just over the ridge of mountains, where the trout 
 were abundant. We started for that lake. Our 
 course lay over Mount Tabor, one of the highest 
 ridges of the Green Mountains. Blazed trees along 
 a blind foot-path pointed out the way. We went 
 clambering up precipices that seemed to have no 
 summits, sweating and sweltering in a July sun. 
 When we stopped to rest, the gigantic hemlocks 
 that grew out from the rugged side of the mountain 
 away down below us, going straight up towards 
 the sky, presented their tall tops almost within our 
 reach, so steep was the acclivity. We toiled on for 
 hours and hours with slow and painful progress, 
 till we entered a region of mist. The bushes were 
 dripping with moisture, and so were we, still we 
 toiled on till at last the summit was gained, and we 
 sat down to rest amid the clouds on the bare top of 
 Mount Tabor. It was cool enough away up there, 
 and we waited for the mist to pass away. It did 
 pass at length, and the prospect that opened upon 
 our vision repaid a hundred-fold the toil of the 
 ascent. There we sat thousands of feet above the 
 level of the sea. Away off to the west lay Lake 
 
40 Country Margins. 
 
 Champlain, stretcliing north and south for a hun- 
 dred miles. "We saw two steamboats ploughing their 
 way through the waters, while away beyond were 
 the mountains of Essex, their bald heads piercing 
 the sky, shining ia the sunlight like the glistening 
 helmet of some giant warrior of old. Beneath us 
 were beautiful valleys, winding away towards the 
 leyel country to the south, with broad farms and 
 green fields spread out, dotted with farm-houses 
 and barns, and here and there a quiet village with 
 church steeples going up from among the clustered 
 houses. "We saw the long line of a railroad stretch- 
 ing away towards Rutland, and a train of cars 
 drawn by the iron horse dashing along on its jour- 
 ney towards Rouse's Point. Towards the east was 
 a dense forest standing in all its primeval grandeur, 
 clothed in everlasting green, stretching away far as 
 the eye could reach, with here and there a mountain 
 peak toweriQg towards the sky. We sat there for 
 an hour enjoying the cool breeze, and drinking in 
 the grandeur of the landscape beneath us, and then 
 passed on to the pond where the trout were said to 
 abound. "We reached it in half an hour, and were 
 repaid for our labor by two trout and a mud turtle. 
 "We returned at night weary enough, but in the 
 morning we remembered the vision from Mount 
 Tabor, and were satisfied. 
 
 If we go east, " the country" reaches all the way 
 to Boston, the metropolis of the Bay State. If we 
 go west, it reaches to Lake Brie, and beyond that, 
 
"Small Bob." 41 
 
 thousands of miles, across vast prairies, and over 
 the Eocky Mountains, to the great Pacific. If we 
 go south, it reaches to the Empire City. Here "we 
 are, then, afloat without a compass, wandering in 
 a boundless wilderness, with no landmark save 
 "Small Bob." And who, in the name of all the 
 saints, is " Small Bob" ? Answer us that. Where 
 are we to find him? What are his distinctive 
 marks ? What is his complexion ; is it ebony or 
 topaz ? Are we to wander all over the land, like 
 Japhet in search of his father, inquiring after 
 "Small Bob," and a dinner of lamb -chops, new 
 potatoes, round squashes and young onions ? 
 
 We can't do it; and we see the vision of gastron- 
 omy fading from our view, as many a bright one 
 has done before. We give it up in despair. Ah 
 me! 
 
 2* 
 
IV. 
 
 KDITOR'S LATITUDE & LONQITUDE. 
 
 I THOUGHT of you this morning, my kind editor, 
 almost witli tears in my eyes. Crossing the high 
 bridge over Roaring River, I came upon three boys 
 lying flat on their bellies, their heads just over the 
 edge of the bridge, shouting to a boy below, -who, 
 with rolled-up trowsers, was seeking wildly for a 
 mud turtle. The excitement both below and above 
 was extreme. The turtle, in looking down, was in 
 plain sight, floating about in quite shoal water, and 
 evidently having a good time, now with his tail up, 
 going down among the crevices of the rocky bottom, 
 and then with raised paws, coming slowly up and 
 skimming the surface. But to the boy below all 
 was glimmer and confusion ; the dazzle of the sun 
 and the ripple on the surface suggesting to him un- 
 known depths, and his own eagerness to accomplish 
 the feat making him almost frantic, set on, as he 
 was, by the cries of the boys above, " There he is 
 — oh, my gracious I Don't you see him ? he is com- 
 ing right towards you — oh crackee! Catch him, 
 Jim, catch him !" All this, I say to my experienced 
 eye, knowing how perfectly safe that turtle was, 
 
FouETEEN Stone Weight. 43 
 
 made up a scene of distress ia which I couldn't help 
 exclaiming, " Oh that the editor was here I" For I 
 remembered your experience in turtling, and that 
 large men are always magnanimous and generous 
 to boys. I counted, also, on your length (not 
 breadth) of beam, for I take it, sir, you are a man 
 of symmetry. Your "fourteen stone" weight, I 
 do hope and trust, is not all laid out horizontally. 
 Your downward tendency has not settled you into 
 a rhomboid. You have height as well as depth ; 
 longitude as well as latitude. You shoidd be, sir, 
 at least six feet, in your stockings : for the sym- 
 metries are as important to men as the graces to 
 woman. Mental, moral, and physical — these are the 
 symmetries ; and such is the effort of nature to make 
 them always harmonize, that having one, we in- 
 variably look for the others. If a man lack in alti- 
 tude (the proportionate height, I mean), he will be 
 short in something else. Inevitable, sir, inevitable. 
 He will not be gifted in sunrises and large views ; 
 though he may be good in trouting, and better stiU. 
 at c^wS-bing. Some of the most patient anglers I 
 know are those who, having seated themselves com- 
 fortably on a river bank, find it exceedingly difficult 
 to get up again. You, sir, should be six feet high, 
 and well proportioned 
 
 But why is it, I was going to ask — why is it, Mr. 
 E(Mtor, that boys crave mud-turtle ? "Why hanker 
 after the ugly ? For an eel or a bull-head — (I do 
 not deny a certain beauty and philosophical bar- 
 
14 OouNTKY Margins. 
 
 mony in tlie turtle — ^its life in its shell), but an eel or 
 a Tbull-liead is a greater satisfaction to most boys than 
 the handsomest trout you ever saw. There are 
 people, also, who go about collecting strange bugs, 
 beetles, snakes, spiders, and many-legged monstros- 
 ities, which they carefully bottle and keep near them, 
 as a kind of refreshment 1 U — g — ^h I 
 
 And now, sir, I ask you, is there a sort of Young 
 Harry in this, leading on to the Old Harry ? For 
 there are older boys just as intent, just as eager, just 
 as morbidly hungry for moral monstrosities, bot- 
 tling all manner of vice and ugliness, and deformity, 
 and cherishing them as something very delectable, 
 something really new under the sun; and the only 
 true facts and realities, as though hell itself 
 were not already full of just that kind of mate- 
 rial I 
 
 As there is a love of the beautiful, so also there 
 is a love of the ugly. I have fought hard and long 
 against this conviction, but I believe it is true as 
 Holy Writ, and the great mischief of our day is the 
 practical unbelief in regard to this matter. 
 
 A love of the ugly for its own sake — a love of 
 vice with its sequents, and because of them, almost 
 as though it were a pleasure to be damned. There 
 are men in the world who seem to be haimted with 
 the fear that they will see or hear of something 
 pleasant, something beautiful, or good, and so be 
 charmed by some hocus pocus, into a belief in the 
 existence of such things. " Oh my vipers," they 
 
A Beautiful Morning. 45 
 
 cry : " Oli my bugs, my snakes, my excellent big 
 black spiders !" 
 
 Nothing is more painful to such men than sym- 
 metry, beauty, proportion. They seek always for 
 the ugly, and they find it. No fear as to that. They 
 are sure to arrive at the most hellish capacities, and 
 it is rare that such men die without proving to the 
 world the height and depth of their abilities in that 
 line. 
 
 The morning that we have to-day, under these 
 heavens, is exceedingly beautiful. It would seem 
 that on such a morning, everything that hath breath 
 would be saying — Hallelujah, hallelujah, amen, hal- 
 lelujah ! But it is safe to say that the Prince of 
 Darkness, and his legions, whether here or else- 
 where, have had no voice in these utterances. 
 Their partialities are aU. "the other way, the other 
 way ;" they love the ugly. I have no liking for 
 the freedom with which some people talk of that 
 Great Creature, that " archangel ruined," who is 
 now making such terrible havoc in the world, 
 showing his hand of late with so much boldness 
 and success, and claiming allegiance upon the very- 
 score of his supreme hideousness. I am not dis- 
 posed to make light of him, but I trust there is no 
 harm in offering it as my long-settled conviction, 
 that if this " murderer from the beginning" had 
 ever, by any mistake, made a pleasant morning like 
 this, he would have hung himself before breakfast. 
 Yes, sir, he.would have hanged himself high, un- 
 
46 Country Margins. 
 
 less, indeed, he might have gone mad in the first 
 glance at its beauty and glory. 
 
 But Grod made the morning — ^thanks to His Great 
 and Holy name. God made the morning, and in 
 this is the hope of the world. 
 
 I did not expect to be so grave, Mr. Editor, for 
 there is a time and place for such topics, and I fear 
 you may think I am out of both. Permit me one 
 last word about our dinner. I have been thinking, 
 sir, that if you start out alone, you may be charmed 
 away by some inviting vista, and never find us. 
 Your passion for mountains might be too much for 
 you. We should hear of you, perhaps, clambering, 
 coat off, and hat in hand, up some neighboring 
 height, making speeches to the clouds and the coun- 
 try at large; or possibly — and quite possibly, too — 
 stopping somewhere for a sunrise. I am coming 
 after you, therefore, myself. 
 
 Yours, . 
 
 " I take it, sir, you are a man of symmetry. Tour ' fourteen 
 stone ' weight, I do hope and trust, is not all laid out horizon- 
 tally. Tour ' downward tendency ' has not settled you into a 
 rhomboid." 
 
 Men's notions of symmetrical beauty differ. 
 Tastes, on that subject, take a wide range. Some 
 admire long men, reaching away up like a liberty 
 pole, a thing to hang flags on, on the Fourth of July. 
 Length has its conveniences, we admit. It's a good 
 
Thk Standard of Beauty. 47 
 
 thing in clierry time. One can pick the fruit handi- 
 ly from the remote branches. Others prefer hori- 
 zontal dimension, a spreading out sideways. It 
 gives an appearance of substantiality, of solidity. 
 We never quarrel with people's tastes. De gustibus 
 Tion disputandwm, is our motto. We insist that it 
 is a wise one. If the standard of beauty were fixed 
 at six feet and upwards, what would become of the 
 short men and women? For ourself, we are not a 
 " rhomboid." We have more than four sides. We 
 have been accused of having had at least twice that 
 number in politics alone — with what justice "history 
 must determine." All we say on the subject is, we 
 never had but one political side — at a time. We 
 admit that politics has " made us acquainted with 
 strange bed-fellows." We entered upon political 
 life with certain fixed principles, and as we affirm, 
 have stood fast by them. Parties fluctuate, or 
 rather circulate, revolve, go round and round. 
 We being fixed, it is not singular that we should 
 have come in conjunction with all parties, in their 
 revolutions. True, the world differs with us on 
 this subject, and says that we have been circulating 
 — visiting different party orbits in our course. That 
 we deny, and surely we ought to know the real 
 truth of the matter. 
 
 " You should be, sir, at least six feet in your stockings." 
 
 True, we should be, but we are not by a long 
 shot. Doubtless it was originally intended other- 
 
48 COUNTBY MAEGINS. 
 
 wise. We -were meant for a six-footer, but we got 
 spoiled in some way in the maldng up. It was a 
 great misfortune, we admit, but by no system of 
 ethics can it be charged against us as a fault. What 
 a man does, he should be held accountable for. He 
 should be held answerable for what he is, if he 
 made himself such by his follies or his vices. The 
 Deity made men right. He gaye them the power 
 of choice in their course of life. He placed good 
 and evil before them, and left them free to choose. 
 The consequences of their choice were not hidden 
 from them. All around the good were scattered 
 peace and happiness, joy and gladness in this world, 
 and the promise of happiness in the world to come. 
 The evil was beset with sorrow. Yice carried its 
 chains, to be fastened upon its votaries. A troubled 
 life, a barren and hopeless hereafter, were the re- 
 wards it promised. Between these utter divergents 
 lay the destiny of men ; and, strange infatuation, 
 transcendent folly, the evil has an army of followers, 
 in comparison with which the good can reckon only 
 a corporal's guard. 
 
 " The symmetries are as important to men as the graces to 
 women. Mental, moral, and physical — ^these are the symmetries ; 
 and suchia theefifort of nature to make them always harmonize, 
 that having the one, we invariably look for the others." 
 
 Doubtless this is all true in theory, but not so 
 clearly sustained by facts. Let us look around us 
 and see what are the demonstrations. Ohalmees 
 
The Milk in the Cocoanut. 49 
 
 was a man of small stature, and lean proportions, 
 but wliat divine equalled him in mental power, or 
 excelled him in moral qualities? Who has not read 
 with rapture his matchless sermons, replete with 
 thrilling eloquence and grandeur of rhetoric, his 
 "thoughts that burn," his profound and original 
 conceptions? One can almost imagine himself soar- 
 ing amid the stars, far' away in the blue vault of 
 heaven, traversing the milky way, and diving be- 
 tween the rings of Saturn, while reading his astro- 
 nomical discourses. Newton was a man of medium 
 stature, and yet in intellect almost a god. Instances 
 may be multiplied of great men with bodies by no 
 means proportionate to the giant dimensions of their 
 intellectual stature. The true theory probably is, 
 that there is a secret balance between the intel- 
 lectual and physical, which depends not so much 
 upon length of bones and size of muscle, as upon 
 a proper connection and* development of organ- 
 ization. 
 
 " If a man lack in altitude (the proportionate height, I mean), 
 he will be short in something else. Inevitable, sir, inevitable." 
 
 Excellent. This accounts for the milk in the 
 cocoanut. "We are a living demonstration of the 
 truth of the theory. Lacking in the requisite alti- 
 tude, we, of necessity, must be short somewhere. 
 "We have been so all our life. "We have been short 
 in the pocket, short in bank deposits, short in 
 abihty to meet promptly incoming bills. In short, 
 
60 Country Margins. 
 
 we have been troubled all out life with the shorts, 
 and here is the reason of the thing — ^we lack in 
 length of body. Well, it's a pleasant thing when 
 one enters upon a fight, to understand the casus 
 belli, to understand the origin, the why and the 
 wherefore of a thing. We have a friend who is 
 " six feet in his stockings," and well proportioned, 
 and he never had a bill protested in his life. We 
 didn't understand how it could be, till we measured 
 his height, got him to stand up by the ceiling, stuck 
 a knife just even with his crown, and then got on to 
 a stool and measured. It was six feet and an inch to 
 the floor. Our friend always has his "pockets full 
 of rocks," and it is all owing to his altitude. 
 
 " Some of the most patient anglers I know, are those who hav- 
 ing seated themselves comfortably on a river bank, find it ex- 
 ceedingly difficult to get up again." 
 
 This squares with our own observation. We have 
 in our mind's eye a notable example, what the 
 lawyers would call a case in point We returned 
 last week from an angling expedition to the moun- 
 tains of Pennsylvania, away up among the sources of 
 rivers. We saw the spring from which the Genesee 
 takes its rise. It comes out of the ground in a 
 stream large enough to propel a mill wheel, and 
 starts at once on its returnless voyage to the majes- 
 tic St. Lawrence and the ocean. Beyond was a 
 high ridge over which we passed, and then stepped 
 across the remotest branch of the Alleghany that 
 
Sources of G-eeatEivers. 51 
 
 travels west to the OMo, and then to the great Fa- 
 ther of Waters, and so along down by New Orleans 
 to the Mexican Gulf. Beyond again was a ridge 
 higher still over which our road lay, and there we 
 came to the head waters of the Sinnemahoning, 
 that travels through great forests towards the Sus- 
 quehanna, and finds its final passage to the ocean 
 through the Chesapeake Bay. By the way, wOl any 
 body tell us how these great springs, that go to 
 make up these rivers, get up here on these high 
 mountains? We have read about capillary attrac- 
 tion, and ths pressure from above that forces them 
 through, and finally out of the ground, to flow away 
 to the ocean obedient to the laws of gravity. We 
 don't want to hear or read any more of that, for we 
 don't believe it. There is not rain enough falling 
 on these mountain ranges to supply evaporation! 
 and these springs that gush in such volume from 
 the ground, that come welling up in a flood day and 
 night, week days and Sundays, always. But we 
 got to the Sinnemahoning, in the woods, in the 
 middle of a vast forest with only little clearings at 
 long intervals along the valley through which it 
 flows. Here we stopped for a week to fish for the 
 speckled trout, and have a pleasant season of com- 
 munion with nature in her old-fashioned dress. We 
 do not intend to enter upon description of the 
 scenery here, we reserve it for another occasion. 
 We had with us two friends — the one a clergyman, 
 to whom we refer as an example of patience in 
 
52 Country Margins. 
 
 angling. He is one of a thousand, a Christian man, 
 one fit to be trusted with the care of souls ; but he 
 is neither a zealot nor a bigot ; of a cheerful, but 
 contemplative spirit, with a mind profoundly stored 
 with varied reading, he can appreciate as well as 
 tell a merry anecdote, and perpetrate as well as 
 enjoy a jest. He was a most patient angler. He 
 would sit for hours under the shadow of some great 
 tree on the bank of the little river, by the side of a 
 deep hole, watching with patient assiduity his hook, 
 as it floated in the water. If the fish were minded 
 to bite, it was well ; if not, it was just as well. There 
 was the bait and the hook, the line and pole, and 
 he was ready to draw them out. If they chose to 
 remain under the logs and drift-wood, regardless of 
 his tempting offers of a grasshopper or a worm, it 
 was not his fault. Where you left the dominie, 
 there you woidd him find, until the sun came round 
 and drove him to another deep, stiU place, where 
 was a bank and a shade, with the pleasant song of 
 birds about him. He was not a very successful 
 angler, but his cheerful countenance spoke of the 
 pleasant memories, the bright day-dreams, the cheer- 
 ful thoughts that were clustering aroimd his heart, 
 as he sat there in the cool shade, angling in a trout- 
 less eddy. 
 
 But he is not a "short" man ; he is " six feet in 
 his stockings," and had«to stoop as he entered the 
 door of the pleasant little dwelling where we stopped. 
 That dwelling is in a little clearing of some twenty 
 
A Sensible Conclusion. 53 
 
 acres surrounded by forest, and liigli mountains, 
 with, tall peaks running up towards the sky, behind 
 which the sun hides himself for hours before he 
 finally goes down to his lodging-place for the night. 
 "We fishermen had our -wives along, and they were 
 so merry and contented, while we stayed, that we 
 acquiesced in the name given it a year or two ago, 
 and called it the "Saint's Eest." 
 
 " And now, sir, I ask you, is there not a Young Harry in this, 
 leading on to the Old Harry ?" 
 
 Very possibly, although the generally-received 
 opinion, we think, is that the elderly gentleman 
 spoken of, has most to do with such matters. He 
 is said to be exceedingly busy in his vocation, and 
 takes quite as much interest in the young as in the 
 elders of tbe h\mian family. Indeed, many think 
 that his policy is to induct mankind into evil ways 
 at an early age, so that as they advance ia life, they 
 give him less trouble by their ability to sin without 
 calling upon him for aid in the furnishing of temp- 
 tations. 
 
 " Permit me one last word about our dinner. I have been think- 
 ing, sir, that if you start out alone, you may be charmed away 
 by some inviting vista, and never find us. Tour passion for 
 mountains might be too much for you. * * * * I am coming 
 for you, therefore, myself." 
 
 A most sensible conclusion to an excellent ser- 
 mon. That's what we call a practical climax, leav- 
 ing a pleasant sensation on the mind, to aid in the 
 
54 Country Margins. 
 
 digestion of a discourse. "Well, come along. "We'll 
 be ready. "We're not particular about tlie day or 
 the bouT, only let it be a week day, and not Friday. 
 That's a bad day — a day when they hang people ; 
 a day fuU of evil omens. AH the bad luck we 
 ever had was on Friday. "We fell into the Crooked 
 Lake on a Friday, and were so nearly drowned that 
 we never knew, save from hearsay, how we got out. 
 "We were upset in a stage coach, and had our nose 
 knocked to one side, and our wrist sprained on a 
 Friday. "We were in the railroad cars when a col- 
 lision took place ; we were fast asleep at the time, 
 and the shock pitched us headforemost agaiust a 
 lady who sat fast asleep in front of us, and whose 
 husband threatened, in his ignorance of the collision 
 (for he had been asleep too), to do us serious bodily 
 damage, on account of our involuntary rudeness — 
 all this was on a Friday night. Our house was 
 burned on a Friday night, and two as noble stag 
 hounds as ever followed the trail of a deer, perished 
 in the flames. They were shut up in the wood-shed 
 adjoining, and were suffocated before the flames 
 were discovered. "We never enter upon any new 
 imdertaking on a Friday. "We form no new ac- 
 quaintances on that day. "We never accept an 
 invitation for a Friday. We did that thing once 
 "long ago," and we upset a capital dish of roast 
 venison, covered with delicioTis gravy, in our lap. 
 "We had to send home for a pair of pantaloons, to 
 don in the place of our white ones, spoiled by the 
 
Don't come on Friday. 55 
 
 misadventure. We liave a theory on tte subject of 
 diurnal influences, and laugMng at us won't induce 
 its abandonment. We point to tlie facts, wbicli to 
 us, at least, are liistory, as evidence of its truth. 
 Don't come on a Friday ; something would surely go 
 wrong, to mar the pleasure of a new acquaintance, 
 and spoil a good dinner. On any other day, we say 
 in the beautiful langauge of the poet — 
 
 " Walk along, John." 
 
V. 
 
 A FRIEND FROM THE OLD DOMINION. 
 
 If yoTi do not hear from me soon again, Mr. Edi- 
 tor, you may consider that I am taking a rest. Per- 
 haps (as I remarked yesterday to my tall friend, 
 L. P., of the F. F. V.), perhaps you carry too many 
 guns for me. Perhaps you blow away my posi- 
 tions, and symmetrical arrangements, too easily. 
 Certain it is, that pleasantly as we have chatted 
 together over our peas and young onions, you have, 
 of late, grown upon me into a kind of overshadow- 
 ing greatness. Besides, August has come in upon 
 us with great force, and for a space now, I must 
 rest. On the first day of the month, and among 
 the first of those hours which I include in the 
 morning, I was rounding a pleasant dream up stairs, 
 when there was a vigorous knock at the front door. 
 Springing from bed, I put on my dressing-gown, 
 and with unshod feet went down the stairs and 
 opened upon — the first event of the day — my Rev. 
 friend and quondam from a neighboring State, whom 
 I had not seen for many years. Our mutual bewil- 
 derment in gazing upon each other, was almost at 
 the point of awkwardness. He, so clean and clerical, 
 
The Eeveeend Friend. 57 
 
 so firm and close-buttoned ; and I, like a ragged 
 cloud, all wild and loose. He; wlio, ten years ago, 
 had been spare-bodied like myself, and with eyes 
 full of that intense sensibility with which some 
 people go mourning about the world, was now 
 round and compact ; and I, who had been thin and 
 spare, now thinner and sparer stiU. His face, 
 which, like mine, had been sharply triangular, now 
 presented a projection and squareness of chin, which 
 implied, that let the world roll how it may, he was 
 ready for it. Eeady for to-day and for to-morrow, 
 and for next week, buUt up, expanded, consoli- 
 dated. 
 
 My friend seated himself comfortably by an open 
 window, and gravely searched about me for some 
 reminder of his old acquaintance ; finding, however, 
 only ruin and waste, with an occasional feeble flash, 
 like sheet lightning, telling of storms gone by. 
 And I couldn't help thinking there was something 
 exultant in his gaze, as he saw all this change, and 
 that hollow other-world look, which might have 
 checked him, one would say, from coolly remark- 
 ing, as he did, that, positively, if he had met me in 
 the street, he should not have known me. 
 
 Perhaps not; probably not. But accustomed as 
 I am to hear people say — " My dear Margin, how 
 well you are looking," I was taken a little aback. 
 Leaving him the freedom of the parlor, I returned 
 to my chamber, exclaiming to the world, sotto voce, 
 "Don't, my dear people, oh, don't let us be too 
 3 
 
58 COUNTEY Mabgins. 
 
 practical in a world like tliis." And I freely con- 
 fess to you, my dear Editor, tlie eflPort of getting 
 ready for breakfast that morning was more of a 
 labor than I have had for many a day. I didn't 
 pretend to shave, and my endeavors at getting my 
 hair straight were, for a long time, as Longfellow 
 says, " All in vain, all in vain." My young wife, 
 however, during this time, was bracing me up, this 
 way and that, and trying to put me in shape. 
 "Pray," said she, "what does Aeknow about you? 
 Why, my dear husband, you are younger now than 
 you have been for years. You are I Yes, for years. 
 Please don't hurry ; your cravat is all one side ; 
 yes, for years I Why, everybody tells you you are 
 better — ^wait a moment; your coat; yes, better a 
 great deal ; and you know you are /" 
 
 Strengthened, and built about in this way, I came 
 down to breakfast, prepared to demolish my stout 
 friend instantly, if he continued his vein of remark. 
 But, whether owing to the juvenile look which Mrs. 
 Margin had given me, or to a deep feeling of remorse 
 on his part, we had no further collisions. My friend 
 stopped only for an hour, barely touching upon us, 
 as he said, on his way home. But it was the touch 
 of a strong mind in a strong body, carrying me off 
 as with a whirlwind. I foxmd myself, in a little 
 while, bowling away with him to your city, and 
 whirling and speeding through times past, times 
 present, and the great time to come. Swift as flew 
 the wheels in that lightning train, were our ex- 
 
L.P.oftheF.F. V. 69 
 
 changes, shuttle-wise, of the great prominences in 
 our last ten years. Nothing was too great for us. 
 The roar of the train, and that outrageous scream 
 and blast of the steam- whistle, were as trifles to us ; 
 for we were piped up higher than that, and in a 
 %vider range, discussing as we did, not our affairs 
 only, but the pressing interests of the great world, 
 winding up, of course, with the Thirty-nine Articles 
 and the prospects of the Universe. An hour after 
 reaching your city, we parted; he, stronger than 
 ever; I, ready to descend rapidly into reactions. 
 Strolling along, feebly, by the Marble Pillar, I looked 
 wishfully over to No. 46 ; but weak as I was from 
 my one stout friend, I couldn't think of meeting 
 another. Not all our pleasant exchanges, sir, could 
 tempt me to cross that street. 
 
 In this collapsed condition, I came home in the 
 afternoon, to dinner and repose. About that time, 
 also, came a shower opening the very windows of 
 heaven ; and after dinner, over which we lingered 
 lovingly, just as the shower ceased, somewhere 
 about foiir to five o'clock, there was another knock 
 at the door, and behold — second event of the day, 
 and tall contrast to him of the morning — ^my great 
 friend, six feet four and three-quarters, L. P. of the 
 F. F. V. ! Yes, sir, my great friend and refresh- 
 ment, as you may say, from the Old Dominion. 
 AJl through that shower, he had been on our bor- 
 ders, in a shanty, on the farther side of Roaring 
 River, waiting for the floods to subside. And now 
 
60 COUNTEY MaeGINS. 
 
 here lie was, in all his extreme length, and with that 
 rich full voice, which, without loudness, could be 
 heard all over the house. I had to turn him around 
 twice in the hall, to enjoy him in different lights, 
 and at all points. My young wife came forward to 
 meet him, almost with a shout, and I some expected 
 to see him bend down, and leave an impression 
 upon Mrs. Margin; which, however, he did not, 
 but talked a continual stream of music and delight, 
 at the state of things now arrived at. 
 
 "Well, sir, he has been with us three days, and 
 he grows taller every day. Taller in our esteem, in 
 our heart's regard, and in our determination to keep 
 him, if possible, to the full extent of his furlough. 
 Having preached four sermons a week, for the last 
 ten months, now, he says, is the time for rest. 
 Duhe est desipere in loco, and what loco like thife (so 
 he flatters me) with his friend, Mr. Margin, whose 
 appreciation of rest has reached a perfection scarcely 
 to be found, perhaps, ia all the round world. Now 
 for easy chairs and the piazza, the book and the ham- 
 mock ; or rather, the hammock without the book — 
 (books are a nuisance), At this moment, he is 
 lying at fuU length on the parlor sofa, smoking a 
 cigar. He is calHng to me now, and his voice has 
 to travel around through the hall and two door- 
 ways, but comes with perfect distinctness. 
 
 "I say, Margin — " 
 
 "WeU, whatisit?" 
 
 "Did I tell you about the little boys?" 
 
EisingSun. 61 
 
 (Wtile I was napping yesterday, my friend walk- 
 ed down to the Rising Sun, a village in tlie north- 
 east, and there surprised another Virginia friend 
 and rector, and was passed about like a bottle of 
 old wine with the cork undrawn, Ms friend holding 
 him stoutly by both hands, while he presented him 
 to some half dozen ladies and two clergymen, who 
 were present) 
 
 "Did I tell you about the little boya ?" 
 
 " No. What about the boys ?" 
 
 "Why, sir, there were four of them, and they 
 followed me all about the streets !" 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "Yes; and what do you suppose they were 
 after?" 
 
 " A penny, perhaps." 
 
 " No ; because I heard some of their remarks. ' I 
 say, Jim,' said one, 'did you ever see any thing 
 like that?' 'Crackee!' says another, 'just look at 
 him!' And the rascals followed me, sir, to the 
 very door of the rectory." 
 
 My friend having unburdened himself of this 
 matter, relapses again into silence, though I dare 
 say he is smoking vigorously, and not unlikely, 
 may continue talking the whole matter over to 
 himself, for some time to come. If I was nearer, I 
 should hear, perhaps, fragments of speech thrown 
 out with considerable force, such as the rogues ! the 
 scamps I the young rascals/ but not unkiadly, for 
 
62 Country Margins. 
 
 all fire and power as he is, he has a heart (as they 
 say out "West) " as big as an ox." 
 
 And now, Mr. Editor, I will say good-morning, 
 remarking, as once before, that I am not now in the 
 marginal way. "We design — my friend and I; I 
 say we design — or rather, we do not design. That 
 is the beauty of it : plans and designs are laid aside. 
 "We rest now, and wait for events. All things of 
 easy approach shall be welcome. Nothing more. 
 Cigars that smoke easy, we shall smoke. Dinners 
 that are patriarchally simple, and not distracting in 
 temptations, we shall have from time to time — ^in 
 fact daily ; unless we may arrive at that happy per- 
 fection of the ideal when a day witJwut dinner may 
 seem to be the maximum of easy enjoyment, in 
 which case we shall not dine. Cigars and easy 
 positions will be the general order, with occasional 
 short and celestial remarks. The great point will 
 be not so much to do things, as to let them be done. 
 "While we pause, the morning and evening will con- 
 tinue as usual : sun and shade, and rains and night- 
 dews, and the great world to whom they are sent ; 
 these all wiU come and go, roll about, migrate, 
 fluctuate, and so forth, but as pictures only to Mr. 
 Margin and his eminent friend L. P., of the F. F. V. 
 
 Meantime my young wife, who has finished her 
 jellies — ^in which seraphic employment, with short 
 gown and up-roUed sleeves, she has been busy for 
 so many happy days — she, I say, will join us at 
 
Taking a Rest. 63 
 
 times, waking \is from too long naps with some 
 pleasant song, or suggesting occasional novelties, 
 all in keeping with our sublimated Ufe. Of course, 
 if occasion requires, we shall preach to the people 
 roundabout ; but we hope there will be no occasion. 
 After our four sermons a week, for the last ten 
 months, we feel more like pardoning everybody 
 out and out. I say we feel more like this, as sailors 
 say, letting things go by the run : but, of course, 
 it's wrong ; we are aware of that, and if called upon, 
 we shall hope to be ready. But it would be 
 as wise, perhaps, to let us alone just now, for our 
 style is not of the mealy-mouthed kind. No, sir, 
 and may God preserve me from any levity in this 
 matter : we preach, as my father says, death, jvdg. 
 meni, and eternity. 
 
 Once more, Mr. Editor, good-morning; and till 
 we meet again, good-bye. 
 
 Yours, . 
 
 " If you do not hear from me soon again, yon may consider 
 I am taking a rest." 
 
 Don't do that, our dear sir — don't do it. Don't 
 take a rest. There's something sad in the idea of 
 taking a rest; something that speaks of decay, of 
 energies exhausted, of life-springs drying up. To 
 us the words come freighted with no pleasant mem- 
 ories. We had an ancient friend long ago, a 
 rough specimen of a man, but every inch a man — 
 
64 CouNTEY Margins. 
 
 one of nature's nobility — ^honest and straightfor- 
 ward as truth itself, whose good opinion we lost for 
 a time by " taking a rest." He was a man of eccen- 
 tricities, of idiosyncrasies, if you please, and it cost 
 us years of effort to get back into our old place in 
 Ms regards. "We said he was a rough specimen of 
 a man, but he was one of giant sympathies and a 
 big heart. He was a man of the back settlements 
 and the woods. He was a mighty hunter, and the 
 game he sighted might count itself as lost. He 
 loved his friends, and was proud of them. He 
 loved his rifle and his dogs. He loved the old 
 woods and mountains, and the wild streams. He 
 was older by a score of years than ourself, but 
 the icicles of age never gathered around his heart, 
 and the coldness of growing years never chilled the 
 genial warmth of his nature. He has passed to his 
 rest now, and sleeps quietly under the shadow of 
 thick foliaged maples on a little knoll selected by 
 himself. Calm be thy slumbers, mine ancient 
 friend, and happy thy long future in the world to 
 come. He loved his rifle and his dogs, and his 
 heart was ready to embrace the man who loved the 
 tangled forest-paths, who loved to hear the music 
 of his hounds upon the mountain, and to bring 
 down the flying deer. A marksman himself, he 
 was ready to love the man who could equal him in 
 skill with the rifle ; and to be his superior was a' 
 surer passport still to his affections. 
 
 On a Christmas day, long ago, when we were 
 
Turkey Shooting. 65 
 
 younger by many, many years, than we are now, 
 we went to a gathering, known among tlie border 
 villages as a shooting match. Turkeys were the 
 prizes contended for. A plank was placed at some 
 five and twenty rods distance, with a hole in it, 
 through which was thrust the head of the turkey, 
 while his body was secured behind it. At this 
 mark the sportsmen fired. If blood was drawn, the 
 marksman was entitled to the turkey. Each com- 
 petitor paid a small piece of money before taking a 
 shot, which went to the owner of the turkey. 
 Well, we were there with our rifle to take our 
 chances with the rest for a Christmas dinner. A 
 number of marksmen had preceded us, and we 
 ourselves had failed in a shot or two, when it was 
 proposed to " take a rest ;" that is, to lay down with 
 the rifle resting upon a block properly arranged, 
 and in that position take sight and fire at the head 
 of the poor bird. Its owner had already pocketed 
 twice its value in shillings, and he consented to the 
 arrangement. The block was placed in position, 
 and the first shot fell by lot to ourself. Among 
 hunters in those days, taking a rest either at living 
 game or a dead mark, was a violation of all the 
 proprieties of woodcraft. It was opposed to all rule, 
 a practice which, if largely indulged in, would cost 
 one his position among sportsmen, and the regards 
 of every true hunter and woodman. As we said, 
 the first shot fell by lot to ourself, and we were 
 about taking our position, when we felt a hand laid 
 3* 
 
66 OouNTBT Margins. 
 
 upon our slioiilder. Turning, we saw our old 
 friend standing beside us, leaning upon his long 
 rifle. We had not noticed him before. "Don't do 
 it," said he; " Sam, don't do it — ^never take a rest, 
 stand up like a man, and fire off-hand ; if you miss, 
 you can't help it, and nobody blames you, but 
 never take a rest." His voice sounded more in 
 sorrow than in anger, but we saw that his confi-. 
 dence in our woodcraft was shaken, and his esteem 
 for us as a hunter fading away. 
 
 We did stand up and fire off-hand, and the head 
 of the turkey was shattered by our ball. That shot 
 did much towards calling back to us his wandering 
 regards, but it was not until we had hunted with 
 him, and brought down many a noble deer in his 
 company, that the impression of our weakness in 
 " taking a rest" was effaced from his mind. We 
 admonish you, therefore, o\ir very dear sir, in the 
 language of our ancient friend, "Don't do it, never 
 take a rest. Stand up like a man, and fire off- 
 hand. If you miss, nobody blames you, but ' nev- 
 er take a rest.' " There's a moral ia the admoni- 
 tion, a moral and deep philosophy in the advice. 
 Always, and at all times through life, whatever 
 temptations may beset you, however misfortune 
 may darken around you, yield not a foot to the 
 tempter, bend not a joint to misfortune, but " stand 
 up like a man and fire off-hand." 
 
 " On the first day of the month, and among the first of those 
 hours, which I include in the morning, I was rounding a pleas- 
 
FiBST Song op the Lark. 67 
 
 ant dream np stairs, when there was a vigorous knock at the 
 front door." 
 
 Served you right, our dear sir, right, to a dot. 
 What right had you, you, blessed with intelligence, 
 eyes to see, and ears to hear, what right had you to 
 be " rounding a pleasant dream up stairs," when all 
 nature was awake, joyous, fuU of gladness, chaunt- 
 ing the songs of the morning ? And in the country, 
 too ! Talk not of " pleasant dreams up stairs," of a 
 summer morning. There's no such paradox in na- 
 ture. Dreams, indeed ! In the crowded thorough- 
 fares of city life, the thronged streets and clustered 
 houses, where the air is poisoned by the smoke of 
 ten thousand cooking-stoves, and machine-shops, 
 and gas-factories, and forges, and the thousand vil- 
 lanous smells that exhale from the haunts of con- 
 densed civilization, " a pleasant dream up stairs" of 
 a morning is within the range of conjecture, but 
 such a thing in the country would be a libel 
 upon nature. No, no! Thank your stars that 
 a worse, evil did not befall you. Why, our 
 dear sir, you should have been up when the 
 first bright gleam of the morning glanced upward 
 from behind the eastern summits. You should 
 have heard the first song of the lark, as he leap- 
 ed from his perch, and went carolling joyjully 
 towards the sky. You should have seen the 
 last stars as they retired from their watch, passing 
 away into the depths of the heavens. You should 
 have watched the mist that went up in the gray 
 
68 CouNTBY Margins. 
 
 twiliglit, from "Eoaring Eiver," and faded like a 
 vision in the air. You should have seen the first 
 ray of the sun, as it lighted upon the tops of the 
 mountains. You should have looked away to the 
 east, and seen the sun, like a great torch, hanging 
 for a moment in the tree-tops, and then noted how 
 gloriously he leaped forward into the clear sky. 
 You should have seen the dew-drops, sparkling like 
 diamonds on the grass blades, and heard the wild, 
 free song of the birds in their gleefolness. You 
 should have snuffed the pure air, loaded with the 
 fragrance of flowers, and the freshness gathered 
 from the fohage of the woods. With these things 
 all around you, you should have looked away to 
 the Providence that spread so rich a feast; to the 
 God that made the morning, and all the beautiful 
 things that belong to it. 
 
 " Yes, sir, my great frieind and refreshment, aa yon may say, 
 from the Old Dominion. All through that shower, he had been 
 on our borders in a shanty, on the hither side of Bearing River, 
 waiting for the floods to subside, and now here he was, in all 
 his extreme length, and with that rich, full voice, which, with- 
 out being loud, could be heard all over the house." 
 
 Strange reunions— r-meetings of old friends under 
 curious circumstances, sometimes take place. Years 
 may have fled away, events may have hurried us 
 along, changing us in position, in appearance, in 
 feelings, in temper, in all things. Suddenly an an- 
 cient friend is thrown across our path, and our 
 
A Good Teout Stream. 69 
 
 youth, the long, long past, comes rushing with his 
 presence around us. The present vanishes, and we 
 are again among the pleasant memories of the olden 
 time. 
 
 Some years ago we were at Blosburgh, in Penn- 
 sylvania. "We went there ostensibly to view the 
 coal mines. The entrance to these mines is mid- 
 way up a mountain of some fifteen hundred feet in 
 height, along the base of which the Tioga Eiver 
 flows, which is here but a good-sized trout stream, 
 in the summer season. "We went up to the entrance 
 of the mines. "We saw a great dark hole in the 
 side of the mountain, into which our companions 
 entered, and were lost to sight in its cavernous 
 depths. For ourself, we have no taste for dark 
 places and deep holes in the ground. "We never 
 enter a cave. There 's something dismal and sepul- 
 chral about them. They smell* of mortality. "We 
 should expect to see skulls grinning at us, and to 
 stumble over dead men's bones. "We keep clear of 
 caves. We preferred trout fishing, to groping 
 around in the damps of the mines, away in the car- 
 bonized bowels of the hiU. "We came down to the 
 river, and borrowing a rod and line, started up 
 stream, with a view of fishing down. "We travelled 
 a couple of miles along a pleasant path that follow- 
 ed the windings of the river, and then rigged and 
 threw for the trout. They were plenty in those 
 days, and we were having a good time of it all 
 alone in the woods, notwithstanding the affectionate 
 
70 Country Margins. 
 
 attentions of the mosquito and the black-fly, that 
 phlebotomized us after a fashion peculiar to them- 
 selves. We were busy hauling in the trout and 
 fighting the mosquitoes, and as we came roimd a 
 great boidder, bigger than a haystack, that thrust 
 itself from the bank half way across the stream, 
 there we stood face to face with an old friend that 
 we had lost sight of for a dozen years. " Hallo I 
 Harry," said we, "where on earth did you come 
 from?" "And from what cloud did yowdrop?" 
 was his reply, as we shook hands most cordially. 
 - We sat down upon that old moss-covered boulder, 
 and talked of the days of Old. We were school- 
 mates in our boyhood. We were students in the 
 same law of&ce, were examined in the same class, 
 for admission to the profession, returned from Al- 
 bany, with our licenses in our pockets, together, 
 and the week after such return we shook hands and 
 parted, swinging out in different directions into the 
 world. For a year or two we heard of him occa- 
 sionally; then darkness settled down between us, 
 and we heard of him no more till we met in the 
 middle of the Tioga Eiver, at the spot where that 
 big boulder stands so boldly out into the stream, 
 each with a fishing-rod in his hand. The world had 
 gone well with him. He had gathered largely of 
 its treasures. He was a man known on 'Change. 
 
 We parted the next morning, never to meet 
 again. Consumption laid its withering hand upon 
 him. He crossed the great ocean, in the hope that 
 
Eetuening Home to Die, 71 
 
 the genial climate of tlie South of Europe would 
 bring back health and vigor to his frame. He vis- 
 ited Italy ; spent a few months at Rome, and then 
 passed on to Venice. But the grasp of death was 
 upon him, and he turned his feeble steps towards 
 home, in the hope of dying in the midst of his kin- 
 dred. He died on the ocean ; and he now sleeps in 
 a New England churchyard, where his fathers 
 sleep. He was the only son of his parents, and he 
 left no children. 
 
VI. 
 
 A CHAPTER FOR THE SABBATH. 
 
 My tall friend is gone. Even now, as I -write, he 
 is speeding on over the long iron tracks, to the 
 Blue Eidge of the Old Dominion. The round 
 •week — seven golden days — ^he staid with us, find- 
 ing some rest, we trust ; but now all this is of the 
 past. By-gone, so soon I Pictures all, so soon! 
 Oh, the swift certainty of to-morrow; for however we 
 may pause, God has always something for us to do. 
 He, who doth neither slumber nor sleep, how kind- 
 ly, how safely, he takes us all on through the night, 
 into the beautiful morning ! 
 
 My friend, sir, was in great demand. All our 
 choice arrangements for repose were of small ac- 
 count. And as life flies by now-a-days, perhaps it 
 is well. "We should make no long steps now, for 
 there is little time for rest here. Time enough for 
 that — ^to those who shall attain to the true life — 
 when they shall have shaken off these working 
 garments and put on the white robes; when the 
 lame shall walk, and the blind see, and the deaf 
 
AGood-Bte to the L. P. 73 
 
 hear; when their halting frames shall be clothed 
 anew with strength and with glory, and their pal- 
 sied tongues find voice in the acclamations of that 
 great host, "which no man can number." Time 
 enough for that, when the night cometh, that no 
 man can work. When from groping through these 
 swift-roUing years, they shall see, at last, face to 
 face, and walk in the light of God for ever ! Time 
 enough for repose, in that great time to come, the 
 time beyond all time, the ^eat circle, the round 
 time, when they shall have gone up to dwell for 
 ever with their master and their king, their Saviour 
 and their Redeemer, Jesus Christ the Righteous ! 
 
 But now, oh how swiftly speeds the world I No, 
 it is not the place for rest. " My Father worketh 
 hitherto," said Christ, "and I work." No, it is 
 neither the place nor the time for rest. Nor is it to 
 be found here. Health itself, life itself, subsists 
 only in action, change, accomplishment. This tire- 
 less spirit, as it came from God, so in some measure 
 Hke Him, it scarcely can slumber or sleep, even 
 here. 
 
 Time has been when, owing chiefly to physical 
 causes, we have loved rather the life of thought and 
 meditation ; but the union of both — ^meditation and 
 action — ^is the true life, both here and elsewhere. 
 The good deed, the kind word, the helping hand in 
 the right way — ^and when these are impossible, the 
 bended knee in the silent chamber, the use of that 
 power that "moves the arm that moves the uni- 
 
74 Country Margins. 
 
 verse ;" these axe the agencies — these are the pow- 
 ers that be. To whom these are possible, all else is 
 but wind and ashes. 
 
 A man may float in deep water, motionless, by 
 looking straight up to Heaven ; but he must look 
 out for the heavy seas. In fact, he can float no- 
 where, save in the still water, and at best, it is but 
 floating: balancing, as it were, between life and 
 death. To make headway, he must strike out right 
 and left, pull and pusfi, and reach on contin-vially : 
 and, moreover (to finish this matter), it is mostly 
 your good swimmers only who can float. 
 
 Make no long stay, Mr. Editor, in any " Saint's 
 Rest"* you may find here. The world rolls too fast 
 now for long pauses. As in youth the days were 
 long, and in age they seem to take wings for their 
 travel, so the world of to-day, as it quickens and 
 concentrates thought and action, quickens and 
 shortens the minutes, the hours, the days and the 
 weeks, and the round year itself: so that we can 
 look forward to some approximation to that life in 
 which, even to xis, " a thousand years may be as 
 one day, and one day as a thousand years." 
 
 Good-bye, my tail Virginian, and may God pros- 
 per you for ever, and make aU your days as pure 
 as the sunlight, and as bright. Good-bye — ^but come 
 back again — will you? Gome back in the golden 
 October, and wake us again with your clarion 
 tones. John Knox, as he preached to the assembled 
 * See Appendix B. 
 
Bishop Hebek's Poetry. 75 
 
 royalties of Scotland, could not more have startled 
 our sleepy souls, than did your ringing cadences 
 last Sunday night. Come back, and rouse us from 
 the dull inaction of this hum-drum life. Come 
 back, and leave a few coals of your Southern fire on 
 our Northern altars, and cry aloud to us, " Awakci 
 thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and 
 Christ shall give thee life." 
 
 Yours, . 
 
 " He who doth neither slumber nor sleep, how kindly, how 
 safely, he takes ns all through the night into the beautiful 
 morning !" 
 
 "We never think of the good Providence that 
 watches over the world, in the stiU hours of the 
 night, without connecting with the thought a beau- 
 tiful little hymn, of which we think Bishop Heber 
 was the author, although of this we are not certain ; 
 a hymn so full of the pure spirit of poetry, as well 
 as devotion, that we venture to give it here : 
 
 Hark ! 'tis the breeze of twilight calling 
 
 Earth's weary children to repose : 
 While round the couch of nature, falling 
 
 Gently the night's soft curtain's close. 
 Soon o'er the world in sleep reclining. 
 
 Numberless stars in yonder dark. 
 Will look like eyes of seraph's, shining 
 
 From out the veil that hides the ark. 
 
 Guard us, oh thou that never sleepest — 
 Thou that in silence throned above ; 
 
76 CouNTBY Margins. 
 
 WLo through all time, unwearied, keepest 
 Thy watch of glory, power and love. 
 
 Grant that beneath thine eye securely. 
 Our souls from life a while withdrawn. 
 
 May in the darkness, stilly, purely, 
 like sealed fountains, rest till dawn. 
 
 Strange linMng of memories I Speaking of 
 Bishop Heber reminds us of an anecdote of tlie ex- 
 cellent Bishop C . We were in New York 
 
 soon after Trinity Chnrcli was completed, in com- 
 pany witli tlie lamented John Young, late Gov- 
 ernor of this State. We visited the church to- 
 gether. We found, upon entering, a venerable 
 man, who stood near the centre of the great aisfe 
 looking with apparent rapture upon the gorgeous 
 and imposing architectiire of the interior of that 
 
 magnificent structure. It was Bishop C . The 
 
 Governor was acquainted with him. After a frank 
 and cordial greeting, the good Bishop remarked, " I 
 have been thinking," said he, "how different our 
 place of worship was when I first became the rector 
 of a parish in what is now my diocese, from this 
 splendid edifice. It was a little building, half 
 school-house and half church, and cost less than 
 five hundred dollars. Yet we were a happy and 
 united people, and, I sometimes think, more piirely 
 devotional and pious than we were at a later period, 
 when we worshipped in a vastly more costly 
 church. It always seems to me that pride enters 
 somewhat too largely into the devotional exercises 
 
Great and Glorious Truths. 77 
 
 of a place like tliis ; and I think of tlie lines in one 
 of our beautiful liymns : 
 
 " Say, shall yre worship with costly devotion, 
 
 Odors of Eden and offerings divine, 
 Gems from the monntain, pearls from the ocean, 
 
 Myrrh from the forest and gold from the mine ? 
 Vainly we offer each ample oblation, 
 
 Vainly with gifts we his favor secure : 
 Bicher by far is the heart's adoration. 
 
 Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor." 
 
 There was something infinitely impressive in the 
 earnest and solemn, yet simple manner with which 
 the good Bishop repeated those lines. They con- 
 tained, as he spoke them, a whole sermon — one that 
 went to the heart with far greater force and direct- 
 ness than many we have heard that were vastly 
 more studied and elaborate. 
 
 " Bicher by far is the heart's adoration. 
 
 Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor." 
 
 Great and glorious truths, all ! Infinite goodness 
 could alone have sent them forth to the world, to 
 give comfort and hope to man. What if we be 
 poor and of mean estate ? Our hold on heaven is 
 stronger than theirs who dwell in palaces, and are 
 clothed in purple. When misfortune and sorrow 
 gather around us, when desolation comes down 
 upon us like a flood, and destruction sweeps away 
 the little we may have gathered of the world's goodsj 
 when we look forward to a helpless age and see no 
 
78 Country Margins. 
 
 promise of provision for its dreary hours, when the 
 heart sinks before the darkness of the future, then 
 comes the soul-cheering truth, fresh from the 
 throne of God, a voice speaking from the cloud 
 that encompasses us, 
 
 " Richer by far is the heart's adoration, 
 
 Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor." 
 
 " And as life flies by now-ardays, perhaps it is as well that we 
 should make no long stops, for there is little time for rest here." 
 
 Aye I " March on I" is the order of the universe, 
 now ; no halting by the way — ^no pausing to reckon 
 with the past, or calculate the future. The world 
 is in motion. A rest under the shadow of tall 
 trees, by the bubbling fountain, leaves you behind. 
 The great army passes on, and you are reckoned, 
 as you are in fact, a laggard in the race of life. 
 Look back for only a quarter of a century, and see 
 the mighty stride that the world has taken. Where, 
 then, were the iron roads over which the locomotive 
 now thunders on his mission of civilization — where 
 the telegraph that mocks at time and annihilates 
 space? Hark! there are new sounds breaking the 
 stillness of night, and startling the mountain echoes 
 from their sleep of ages I It is the scream of the 
 steam-whistle, the snort of the iron-horse, the deep 
 rumble of his long train, freighted with human life, 
 rushing with lightning speed, shaking the ground 
 like an earthquake, as it moves along. A new 
 
OldMemoeies. 79 
 
 sight is seen on the ocean. It is the tall ship that 
 goes forward when the air is still, and calmness is 
 on the face of the deep — ^that moves forward in the 
 eye of the wind, forward still in the face of the 
 storm — ^that turns not from its course for billow or 
 blast. It is the ocean steamer, that makes but a 
 ferriage of seas, that comes and goes over the great 
 deep regardless of wind or storm. These are but 
 types of the mighty progress of civilization within 
 that quarter of a century. Look back again to the 
 scenes of your boyhood. Where are the landmarks 
 that you loved, the pleasant things around which 
 cluster the memories of youth ? Where the tall 
 forest tree that was spared when the old woods 
 were swept away? Where the clustered plum- 
 trees, the wild hazles, the willows along the brook, 
 the maples that shaded the spring that came out 
 from among their roots ? Gone 1 all gone ! The 
 old school-house and the play-grounds — ^the path 
 across the fields that led to them — ^where are they ? 
 Gone again, all gone ! The friends, the companions 
 of your youth — ^where are they ? A voice comes 
 out of the deep silence of the grave, from the ocean, 
 from the far-off city — from beyond mountain 
 ranges, bearing the solemn answer — 
 
 " They are scattered and parted by mountain and wave, 
 And some are in the cold, silent womb of the grave." _ 
 
 Where are the high hopes, the lofty aspirations, 
 with which we started in our young career? 
 
80 CouNTBY Margins. 
 
 Gone, all gone ! wrecked by tlie liand of disease laid 
 heavily upon us. "Wrecked by the hand of death 
 that tore from us the joy of our being and the 
 treasures of our hearts. "Wrecked by disappoint- 
 ment in a thousand forms, that beset us in our path 
 of life. 
 
 Yes, yes, onward and onward is the word- Ev- 
 erything is moving. Childhood passes to youth, 
 youth moves onward to manhood, manhood to old 
 age, and the grave devours them all. If we pause, 
 even to linger by the graves of the loved and the 
 lost to us, the tramp, tramp, of the world is heard 
 passing us. If we fall, its onward tramp is over us 
 as it hurries along in. the forward movement. Like 
 a mighty river, the tide of human life, the current 
 of human progress, flows on, pauseless and steady, 
 swelling in volume, moving forever and ever to- 
 wards eternity. But what of that ? Better to float 
 on with the tide, than to pause in the turgid eddies, 
 and stagnant bayous, even though our course be 
 over beetling precipices into the boiling whirlpool 
 beneath them. On the spray of the cataract hangs 
 the rainbow of promise. It is the sign of redemp- 
 tion, the seal to the covenant of God, that he will 
 rescue us from the troubled waters, and take us to 
 his "house not btult with hands, eternal in the 
 heavens."" 
 
 " Good-bye." 
 
 How many emotions cluster around that word I 
 How full of sadness, and to us, how fuU of 
 
The Last Farewell. 81 
 
 sorrow it sounds! It is witli us a consecrated 
 word. We heard it once wittin the year, as 
 we hope never to hear it again. We spoke it 
 on an occasion such as we hope never to speak it 
 again. It was in the chamber of death, at the still 
 hour of night's noon. The curtains to the windows 
 were all closed, the lights were shaded, and we 
 stood in the dim and solemn twilight, with others, 
 around the bed of the dying. The damps of death 
 were on her pale young brow, and coldness was on 
 her lips, as we kissed her for the last time while 
 living. " Grood-bye, my daughter," we whispered, 
 and " Grood-bye, father," came faintly from her dy- 
 ing lips. We know not if she ever spoke more, but 
 " Grood-bye" was the last we ever heard of her sweet 
 voice. We hear that sorrowful word often and 
 often, as we sit alone busy with the memories of the 
 past. We hear it in the silence of night, in the 
 hours of nervous wakefulness, as we lay upon our 
 bed thinking of the loved and the lost to us. We 
 hear it in our dreams, when her sweet face comes 
 back to us, as it was in its loveliness and beauty. 
 We hear it when we sit beside her grave in the 
 cemetery where she sleeps, alone, with no kindred 
 as yet by her side. She was the hope of our life, 
 the prop upon which to lean when age should come 
 upon us, and life should be runniag to its dregs- 
 The hope and the prop is gone, and we care not 
 how soon we go down to sleep beside our darling, 
 beneath the shadow of the trees in the city of the dead. 
 4 
 
VII. 
 
 ROARING RIVEK. 
 
 How are you now, my friend? Eejoicing, no 
 doubt, on tliis first wave of coolness and strength. 
 But liow were you in the late solstice ? Sitting, as 
 we now do, by fires, morning and evening, it seems, 
 like looking far away into the depths of last sum- 
 mer, and yet it is but one short week. Midway of 
 that solstice, came our young friends Snowdrop and 
 Honeysuckle, from a down-river margin, and with 
 the ease and grace of maidenhood, melted at once, 
 into our quiet ways ; took attitudes, at once, all iu 
 keeping, and were properly silent and musing for 
 so solemn a time. Pleasant pictures — Snowdrop 
 and Honeysuckle — and good for warm weather. 
 But not so our friend Powerful, who came with 
 them ; he being not at all adapted to such high 
 ranges of the mercury. Too fiery and precipitous. 
 Why, sir, he had the madness to go into argument 
 before he had been ten minutes under our roof; 
 and this, when earth and sky were panting and 
 breathless in that hot blast. And my private opin- 
 ion is, (I must tell you, sub rosa, that I like Power- 
 
Stop Every Thing. 83 
 
 ful, in toto, fire and all, for lie is equal to about sev- 
 enteen of the common young men of these times), 
 but I haven't a doubt that he had been in argument 
 all day. How else, and owing to his plunging na. 
 ture, and my quick sympathy with it, ffor I jump 
 to all humors,) how else could we have tumbled 
 out of that train as we did, while carpet-bags came 
 after, through the windows, and oxir two large 
 trunks, in the hot haste, slipped fizzing away into 
 the sides of the north, and all the people laughed at 
 our confusion ? 
 
 Let that pass, for the trunks came back the next 
 day, and three days later the cool winds northwest- 
 erly. But then, in view of what might happen with 
 Powerful in the house, and of what was happening, 
 the hot, white, quivering sunlight pouring down 
 day after day, I issued the following general order : 
 " Eemember the weather, my people, and be wise. 
 Propositions are vain, and arguments all out of 
 place. This day avoid controversy and shun dis- 
 putation. Argue with no man, or woman. If you 
 find a sitz-bath, sit down on it, asking no questions, 
 but don't go spying about. Stop every thing that 
 can be stopped, and let us rest. Stop talking, stop 
 thinking, stop eating, stop drinking, stop walking 
 up and down the room ; and in fine, retire as far as 
 possible into a vacuum, and there remain until the 
 north wind blows again." 
 
 My next grand proposition (for the general order 
 was scouted all over the house) I brought forward 
 
84 Country Margins. 
 
 as modestly as possible, merely holding it forth, as 
 a stray thought which had occurred to me, to wit : 
 chairs in Roaring River — ^under the bridge, sir. In 
 the shoal water, you know, say about waist deep, 
 and there to sit, making short remarks, and waiting 
 for the wind to blow. The Editor was to be in- 
 vited, and we were all to form a circle there and 
 talk up ancient events — aU in chairs in Bearing 
 Eiver. I say ancient events, for I should know 
 you instantly : you would be to me as an open vol- 
 ume — a folio of rare value — all in chairs in Eoaring 
 Eiver. Small Bob would bring us the proper re- 
 freshments; sweet milk loaded with ice and one 
 brown cottage loaf, and water from the well, from 
 the old oaken bucket, sitting all around in State 
 editorial — all in chairs in Eoaring Eiver. 
 
 But what strange mistiming of nonsense was all 
 this, sir, when men were dropping dead in the 
 streets of our cities (as the swift lightning soon re- 
 ported to us), not in twos, and in threes, but in tens 
 and twenties, and in hundreds ! And stiU comes 
 the report from a far Southern city — two hundred 
 ■ dead, to-day. 
 
 There 's a time for work, and a time for play, 
 says the old adage. But a startling question some- 
 times presents itself, as to whether the world has 
 not outgrown its play-time, leaving us the work 
 only. Certainly there is not much play-time, now, 
 to the people of that plague-smitten city. 
 
 Two hundred dead, to-day I Gone away, that is to 
 
WiiEKE ARE WE Going? 85 
 
 say, to try another mode of living ; another mode 
 of acting ; another mode of thinking. No, not that. 
 For as a man thinketh, so is he. And as a man dies, 
 so he remains. Whatever moral pestilence he dies 
 with, he takes with him. Whatever poisoned gar- 
 ment he has on, is his forever. He can ship it to no 
 foreign market ; and if he cries it at auction, no 
 man will buy. Nor will fire burn, or the moth 
 consume it. Like himself, it is immortal. 
 
 But Tnove on ! say you ; and move on 1 shouts the 
 world. Oet out of the way. We cwrUt stop here over 
 a dead body. 
 
 No, indeed, but oh my friend, where are we going? 
 Where, and under whose orders? Who has the 
 command, in this case? Who is Ofi&cer of the 
 Night ? for the look-out, just now, is like that of 
 night, rather than the light of day. I don't know, 
 sir, about this onward movement, until we establish 
 quite well what we are about. I must be posted on 
 this, before I make the first step. To cast about, 
 with whatever vigor, or with whatever hopefulness 
 that all wUl be right by-and-bye, will in nowise 
 modiiy the ultimate fact ; and this ultimatum I must 
 not guess at, but know. 
 
 For motion, sir, is not life. Momentum is not life. 
 It is a power, or rather it is a result, but it is not 
 life. The iron horse that leaves your city in the 
 early morning and takes his last refreshment this 
 side of Buffalo, somewhere before sundown, has 
 traversed some hundreds of miles ; but he has only 
 
86 Country Margins. 
 
 changed places; and tMs he has done, only by 
 clinging to the rails. Take away his hold upon 
 earth — ^his grasp from the iron bar — and though his 
 wheels may flash with a whiz, and his pipes sputter 
 and scream to the verge of madness, he will not 
 have moved forward a hair's breadth. A grasshop- 
 per shall sit square before his driving-wheel, and 
 laugh at him aU the day long. 
 
 No, sir, 45 miles an hour takes no man nearer to 
 Heaven. If we are to march on, let us know the 
 way, and the country whither we go. We have but 
 one day before us, and by night we must rest some- 
 where, if possible. It would be sad, after a hard 
 day's work, to find no welcome, no glad face to meet 
 us, no news of home, of rest, of peace, no cheering 
 voice to hail us, through the deepening gloom, — 
 ^'AU right I This way, my friend 1 All right I " 
 
 Not to hear this, but to take our wearied limbs 
 on into still deeper darkness, and be conscious, sud- 
 denly, that we are lost — that we have taken the 
 wrong way— this would be sad, it would be ter- 
 rible. Yours, . 
 
 " Chairs in Roaring River, under the bridge, sir. In the shoal 
 water, you Isnow, say about waist deep, and there to sit, making 
 short remarks, and waiting for the wind to blow. The Editor 
 was to be invited, and we were all to form a circle there, and 
 talk of ancient events — aU in chairs in Boaring River — Small 
 Bob would bring us the proper refreshment, sweet milk loaded 
 with ice, and one brown cottage loaf, and water from the well 
 from the old oaken bucket, sitting all around in state editorial, - 
 all in chairs in Roaring River." 
 
Mountains and Rivkrs. 87 
 
 We should not have accepted that invitation. 
 We love rivers. We love to look upon them as 
 they flow on forever, and yet are never wasted 
 We love to inquire how it can be, that their cease- 
 less current, that always has been and always will 
 be moving away and away towards the ocean, should 
 never be exhausted? To ask of science how they 
 gather their constant, unfailing supply, and why the 
 ocean, into which all these gigantic tributaries pour 
 their mighty floods, never overleaps its bounds? 
 To ask philosophy, by what subtle machinery the 
 far-off fountains that come out from away up among 
 the mountains, are fed with fresh water forever? 
 Why they always bubble up in the same place, and 
 run away in the same channel to make up these 
 great rivers ? We like to look upon the bubbles 
 that float along on the surface of the water, and see 
 them burst and vanish away. We like to watch 
 the spray that goes up from the cataract and the 
 turbulent rapids, and the mist that rises from the 
 broad, still current. As the river moves along at 
 our feet, never pausing, finding no resting-place in 
 its ceaseless flow, such, we say, is the tide of human 
 life. The bubbles that float upon its surface are 
 the hopes of man. The spray and the mists are his 
 cherished plans and schemes of life. The bubbles 
 burst, the spray and the mists vanish away, but the 
 river moves on to the ocean. 
 
 A pleasant place for meditation is " Roaring 
 River," but to sit waist deep in its waters, beneath 
 
88 Country Margins. 
 
 the shadow of the bridge, does not comport with our 
 philosophy. There is romance, doubtless, in the 
 matter, but it is not our kind of romance ; and hot 
 or cold, sunshine or a cloudy sky, let the mercury 
 range high or hide itself in the bulb, " we'll none of 
 it." If we must needs " sit around in State editorial 
 — all in chairs in Roaring River," we should claim 
 the highest seat, the longest legged chair — one in 
 which we could sit with our feet on the top round, 
 clear of the water. We would not mind being a 
 good deal doubled up, drawn together in a heap like, 
 for the sake of the company and the refreshments, 
 but we should cut the concern, vamose when the 
 water began to come into our boots. 
 
 " Two hundred dead, to-day." 
 
 WeU, what of that ? Remember we speak not 
 for ourself. Ours is not the voice of a disintegrated 
 atom, an individuality. We speak for the world, 
 for aggregated humanity, and we say what of that? 
 Think of the physical suffering that wrung the joints 
 of these "two hundred dead" before the spirit left 
 them. We answer again, what of that? Is physical 
 suffering a new thing under the sun, to startle us by 
 its cry of angviish, and make Tis to pause by the 
 way-side for its contemplation ? Think of the sor- 
 rows, the tears that are wrung from the living, the 
 broken hearts, the crushed hopes that followed to 
 the grave these " two hundred dead, to-day." Again 
 we repeat, what of that ? Is sorrow a new thing on 
 
All Aboard! 89 
 
 the eartli? Are broken hearts strangers to the 
 world, or crushed hopes a novelty ? Talk not to us 
 about physical suffering or mental anguish — ^what 
 are they to us? we have no time to listen. The bell 
 rings, the steam whistle shrieks, " All aboard 1" cries 
 the conductor, and we are off on the train that 
 never returns — ^the cars that are always running the 
 same way. And herein is the singularity of this 
 railroad of life — there is no return train. The travel 
 is always in one direction. The world is moving, 
 every living thing is whirling with a rush towards 
 the great terminus, and of all the countless millions 
 that have travelled that road, not one has ever re- 
 turned. Strange fascinations, wonderful attractions 
 must that country have, from which no traveller 
 ever comes back. 
 
 But there are "two hundred dead to-day," say 
 you. As an individual, we can comprehend the 
 . vast amount of suffering, the aggregated anguish 
 that pervades the stricken city, ^he plague is no 
 respecter of persons. It strikes every where. The 
 rich, the poor, the high, the low, the respected, and 
 the despised — ^the mother that breathes out her life 
 in the arms of her children, and the forsaken, that 
 dies by the way-side. The pestilence smites at 
 random every where. Here is a gorgeous hearse, 
 followed by a long train of mourners ; the dead is 
 going to his rest beneath the shadow of a tall monu- 
 ment in the cemetery. Handle the cof&n tenderly, 
 the ashes it contains are precious — jar it not rudely. 
 4* 
 
90 Country Margins. 
 
 There, is a deal coffin, alone on a rude cart, on its 
 •way to tlie Potter's Field, the resting-place of the 
 desolate. Ask you who goes thus solitary to a 
 nameless grave ? The heartless song of the official 
 that sits upon his coffin, answers, 
 
 " Battle his bones over the stones, 
 He's only a, pauper that nobody owns." 
 
 The spirits that once breathed in these human An- 
 tipodes, are immortal. They have gone to be judged 
 at the same bar, under the same law, and to stand 
 side by side in the presence of the Judge, who looks 
 straight into the heart, and &om whose vision 
 nothing can be hid. What a lesson is here ! Take 
 care, oh! rich man, look to it — ^that the despised 
 pauper, whose dust is in the Potter's Field, is not 
 chosen of God, while you, whose ashes are beneath 
 marble that is inscribed with a lying epitaph, are 
 rejected. 
 
 "Whatever moral pestilence he dies with, he takes with him. 
 Whatever poisoned garment he has on, is his for ever. He can 
 ship it to no foreign market, and if he cries it at auction, no 
 man will buy." 
 
 The moral leprosy of the soul, if uncured by the 
 "healing waters," clings to it throughout eternity ; 
 stripped as it may be of physical atoms, the plague 
 spot remains. The miser who barters salvation for 
 treasure, who seUs Heaven for gold, carries with 
 him his thirst for gain, which remains raging and 
 
The Waters of Health. 91 
 
 quencliless for ever. The debauchee who defied 
 God, and scorned the restraints of His law, finds 
 in his burning lusts the hell he scoffed at. The 
 naurderer looks upon his spectre hand, and sees 
 upon it the redness of the blood he has spilled. 
 His awakened conscience, as he wanders an impon- 
 derable shadow in the region of banished souls, is 
 the torment of his eternity. The sin that is unre- 
 pented of is a fiery and hissing serpent, coiling 
 around the soul for ever, as the serpents coiled 
 around and crushed the Laocoon. But what of 
 that? For this moral pestilence, there is a cure. 
 For the leprosy of the soul, there is a healing balm. 
 The blood-stains may be washed away, and the 
 spirit of man be re-clothed in a spotless garment. 
 A voice from heaven calls to the leper ; speaking 
 from the throne of God to the pestilence stricken, it 
 cries : " Ho ! every one that thirsteth, come ye to 
 the waters ; and he that hath no money, come ye, 
 buy and eat — ^buy wine and mUk, without money 
 and without price." In' these waters there is health. 
 This wine and milk will charm away the pestilence, 
 and cleanse from the mark of the plague. They 
 are free. "Wealth cannot purchase them, power 
 cannot grasp them, strength cannot control them, 
 kings cannot command them. The earnest soul 
 that asks will receive them; the earnest seeker will 
 find them. They are at the door of the penitent 
 everywhere. Poverty is no bar, weakness no pre- 
 vention, obscurity no impediment to the enjoyment 
 
92 CouKTBY Margins. 
 
 of them. Strange, then, tliat men should die of 
 moral pestilence, or pass into eternity with a poi- 
 soned garment wrapped around them. That they 
 should turn away from the healing waters • that 
 they should reject the wine and mUk so freely 
 offered ; that they should be deaf to the call of the 
 helper, to the ten thousand invitations of the Good 
 Physician, urged every day and every hour of a 
 lifetime. Man, oiily, can be guilty of such madness 
 and folly. 
 
 It would be sad, after a hard day's travel, to find no welcome, 
 no glad face to meet us, no news of home, of rest, of peace ; no 
 cheering voice to hail ns through the deepening gloom, "All 
 right ! ihis way, my friends — all right!" 
 
 If we have secured seats in the right car, and 
 our tickets are all regular, we shall find a welcome, 
 we shall meet glad faces — ^we will find a home, and 
 rest, and peace. When the night comes, a cheering 
 voice will hail us, through the deepening gloom, a 
 kind hand will guide us to our eternal habitation. 
 There is no guess work, no uncertainty about this ; 
 it is all fixed as the purposes, inamutable as the 
 promises of God. But we must see to it, that we 
 take the right train. The conductor we know. His 
 protection is sureJ He wUl not deceive or forsake 
 us. "What he promises he performs. Have no ap- 
 prehension about that. Lean upon Him, trust Him, 
 follow His direction. He will carry us safely and 
 surely to the end of our journey. When we cross 
 the dark valley of the shadow of death, He wUl be 
 with us. We shall hear his pleasant voice as time. 
 
Mile Posts by the "Wayside. 93 
 
 and the tilings of time, the world, with its troubles 
 and its sorrows, pass away, welcoming us within 
 the gates of the city of God. There we shall have 
 a place of rest, where weariness can never come 
 where age cannot visit us with its infirmities ; where 
 death cannot rob us of our heart's treasures. Care 
 and sorrow cannot enter there. Tears are never 
 shed there. Angels wUl be around us. The spirits 
 of the loved ones that preceded us, will be around 
 us. There are no summer heats to oppress, no 
 winters cold to chill us, no night of darkness, no 
 day of storms. Calm, and quiet, and peace reign 
 forever there. Years and months, the seasons, days 
 and hours, are all unknown there. Forever is writ- 
 ten upon all things. 
 
 What matter, then, how soon we accomplish our 
 journey? Nay, if we are in the r^ght car, Avill we 
 not cry to the good conductor, "Faster, faster still, 
 press on the steam, wait not for the night of age, 
 for the going down of the sun ; land us safe in the 
 great city at noon, or even in the morning of life ?" 
 "Why should we tarry by the way ? Why sigh as 
 we pass along, and the beautiful things of the world 
 fall behind us, and vanish in the distance ? Things 
 more beautiful await us at the end of our journey. 
 Why start we, as gray hairs whiten our heads, the 
 brow becomes wrinkled with age, and stiffness takes 
 hold of our limbs, and the steps become slow and 
 careful? These are but the mile-posts that stand 
 by the wayside, to tell us that our weary journey 
 is drawing to its close. 
 
VIII. 
 
 HOW POEMS LOOK IN PRINT. 
 
 "We send you, sir, today, three maidenly court- 
 esies and a poem. The courtesies you may keep, but 
 the poem we want returned, in large and handsome 
 type, so that we may see how the thing looks in 
 proper attire. It has been in type once, some years 
 ago, but in such a way as to make a very sorry 
 appearance. 
 
 We all want copies — Snowdrop, Honeysuckle, 
 Powerful, Mrs. Margin — and I can't tell how many 
 distant cousins and friends ; including the strong- 
 minded young ladies, who have not yet arrived. 
 Send therefore, as Col. T. used to say, send a quan- 
 tity, marked " Country^ — care of Small Bob, Roaring 
 River." 
 
 Our friends being about to return to their home 
 in the mountains, we desire to part fair : and as a 
 last expression suitable for a time of good-byes, we 
 put argument aside, and join hands over this little 
 poem. Here it is : 
 
 As the rocks in moantain rapids 
 
 Become islanded with ice, 
 So our stony hearts snrronnd them 
 
 With the rough, hard mail of vice. 
 
ALittlePoem. 95 
 
 Then we say it's cold — though snimner 
 
 Airs float roand us, soft and warm ; 
 Then — though skies are blue and cloudless — 
 
 That all life is but a storm. 
 
 Doubtless : and the special wonder, 
 Not that life doth craze or pall, — 
 But, this Death in Life while under, 
 How or why we live at all. 
 
 If no finger on the dial 
 
 Of this world points how to live. 
 It were well to make the trial 
 
 What the next may chance to give. 
 
 Haply something else than sadness, 
 
 Want, and woe, and o'er and o'er 
 Lost and crime, and Hell's last madness. 
 
 Something less, or something more. 
 
 Haply some bright world of beauty, 
 
 Peaceful, glorious, heavenly fair, 
 Where dwell only God and His angels : — 
 
 What, — oh what wouldst thou do there ? 
 
 Scorner, — thou, who having eyes 
 
 And ears, art yet both deaf and blind ; 
 Ever to whom, doth only rise 
 The pictures of thy own dark mind. 
 
 If the world is bad, improve it ; 
 
 Poor and suffering, heal and give ; 
 Forget not there is one above it ; 
 
 Seek thou that, and thon shalt live. 
 
96 Country Margins. 
 
 But, thou weary one, who bearest 
 All the burden of the day — 
 
 Mock'd, derided, yet forbearest, 
 Holding stoutly on thy way ; 
 
 Ailing, thirsting, starving, fettered. 
 Dogged at, from thy very birth, — 
 
 Ah, until the world is bettered, 
 Thou hast but one friend on earth I 
 
 But that Friend— oh, wondrous glory ! 
 
 Angels and archangels bend. 
 To tell the worlds the matchless story 
 
 Of the love of this thy Friend. 
 
 Ask, and trust aU things to Him ; 
 
 The day, however long, must close ; 
 Welcome the night, or dark, or dim. 
 
 For thou shalt find repose. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 " The courtesies you may keep, but the poem we want return, 
 ed in large, handsome type, so that we may see how the thing 
 looks in proper attire." 
 
 la regard to the " couxtesies," we can, of course, 
 keep them, and -we can return the poem in the 
 manner indicated, but we do not altogether like the 
 manner in which we have been treated in this mat- 
 ter. When we started with our friend " Maegins," 
 we set out solely with a view of having a little 
 friendly chat with him by the way, which chat we 
 took for granted would be held in honest old-fash- 
 ioned English prose. We had no idea that we were 
 
Briefs not Plenty. 97 
 
 to be confounded by the use of unknown tongues, 
 or led a dance through the mazes of poetry. Time 
 ■was when we strung rhymes, and thought that we 
 were Byronic in our versification. We have given 
 up that idea years ago. The occasion of our cut- 
 ting the society of the muses was this : — ^We had a 
 good many leisure hours on hand when we com- 
 menced the practice of the law. Briefs were not as 
 plenty as blackberries with us, and we undertook 
 to fill up the time between them by literary efforts. 
 "We resided in a flourishing village then, which re- 
 joiced in a neATspaper published weekly. Through 
 the columns of that paper we poured our effusions 
 for the benefit of the reading world, securely hid 
 as we supposed, behind a nom de plume selected 
 from the most celebrated names of the olden times. 
 But this is an envious world. It cannot bear to see 
 merit working its way upward. Genius will be 
 hawked at, and if possible brought down to the 
 level of plodding humanity. It was so with us. A 
 very particular friend of ours undertook to criticise 
 our poetry. And he cut, and slashed, and belabor- 
 ed, and ridiculed our effusions and ourself in a man- 
 ner in no way pleasant to the feelings of a very vain 
 young man. The worst of it was, his criticisms 
 were, in the main, just. He succeeded in satisfying 
 the world, so far as our poetry and his criticisms 
 were read by it, that we would never become im- 
 mortal in that line. "What may be regarded as still 
 more singular, he satisfied ics of the same fact. "We 
 
98 CouNTRV Margins. 
 
 cut tlie muses, and for twenty odd years have not, 
 save on two or three occasions, undertaken rhyme. 
 Some three or four years ago, we listened to GouGH, 
 the celebrated and eloquent temperance lecturer. 
 As one of the causes which induced habits of intem- 
 perance, he spoke of the convivial suppers some- 
 times indulged in by young men — ^feasts where the 
 wine flowed freely, and the song, the story, and the 
 merry jest accompanied the circulation of the bottle. 
 He said he never saw or heard of these convivial 
 feasts without imagining that they were got up by 
 the " gentleman in black " for the purpose of en- 
 snaring victims, and that he always thought he 
 could hear his demon laugh above the bacchanalian 
 revelry, and see the print of his hoof among the 
 broken glass upon the floor. Indeed, he said he al- 
 ways regarded them as dinners given by Satan to 
 his followers, to confirm them, in his service, and he 
 could, at such times, almost see him sitting with his 
 horned head, dragon tail, and cloven hoo^ at the 
 table, encouraging the revellers in debauchery. 
 From that lecture, we returned to our ofiice, and 
 indited the following. We had never any idea of its 
 publication, and it would not have been given for 
 the edification of the world now, had not our friend 
 " Margins " cornered us by his effusion. On him, 
 therefore, rests the responsibility. 
 
The Gentleman in Black. 99 
 
 FEAST OF THE "GENTLEMAN IN BLACK.' 
 
 " The man in black" made a feast one day, 
 
 A dinner for all his friends, 
 And he sauntered about to invite them out 
 To taste of his dainties, and dance at his rout. 
 And stuff themselves with tender regoutte ; 
 
 For, says he, " the devil's to pay." 
 
 He got him a priest to preside at his board. 
 
 And he grinned when he sat him down, 
 For I ween, says the devil, a whining priest 
 That sins with a sanctified look, at a feast 
 Is entitled to precedence over the rest, 
 So I'll honor the cowl and gown. 
 
 And he got him a lawyer to sit at the foot, 
 
 A jolly old fellow too. 
 Who had plundered the widow, and spoiled the poor. 
 And spurned the orphan away from his door. 
 And cheated by statute and plead, and swore 
 
 As cunning old lawyers do. 
 
 Then he got him a usurer plump and fat, 
 
 A sleek old cent per cent. 
 Who cut with a razor so sharp and keen. 
 That few who fell into his hands, I ween. 
 Were suffered to pass till he'd shaved them clean, 
 
 Tho' demure as any cat. 
 
100 Country Margins. 
 
 Then the " black man" got him a merchant too, 
 Who sold by the shortened yard ; 
 
 Who kept his accotmts in a way of his own — 
 
 When he sold two ounces he sat three down ; 
 
 And charged two shillings as half a crown, 
 And proved by his clerk 'twas true. 
 
 Then he got him a doctor, a queer old quack, 
 
 With his saddle-bags by his side. 
 Who physicked and sweated, without remorse, 
 Every living thing, from a man to a horse, 
 And blistered, and bled, and tortured them worse 
 
 Than the disease of which they died. 
 
 He filled up his table with others, I ween. 
 
 Of right good families old, — 
 For the Devil is proud, and a common knave ; 
 Who cheated by retail he would not have, 
 And the sight of a pickpocket made him grave, 
 
 So he tipped him the shoulder cold. 
 
 The guests were seated, the board was spread 
 
 With luxuries rich and rare ; 
 Each guest had a dish that suited himself 
 Reserved in the care of a dingy elf; 
 * As a dessert (the host had spared no pelf 
 
 In procuring a dainty fare.) 
 
 The guests were merry, they quaffed their wine, 
 
 Eight merry were they that night, 
 They cracked their jokes, and laughed and sung, 
 And huzzaed, and roared till the arches rung, 
 And jests obscene were on each tongue ; 
 They, in fact, were a little " tight." 
 
The Gentleman in Black. 101 
 
 The night, oh 1 it glided right merrily on, 
 
 And no one took note of time ; 
 And the old clock bell, in the old gray tower, 
 He hammered the peals of the midnight hour, 
 But the guests were too merry, they had no power 
 
 To list to the solemn chime. 
 
 The host he rose from his iron chair, 
 
 And he called for his burning bowl. 
 And he brought the table a terrible whack, 
 That startled the priest, and alarmed the quack. 
 And took e'en the lawyer a little aback, 
 
 When he thought of that thing — the soul. 
 
 He bowed to the chair, and he filled the cup 
 
 With right good liquor, I ween ; 
 That sparkled and flashed with gases old ; 
 That was meet to be quaffed by sinners bold. 
 Or the burly lips of the knights of old — 
 
 Oh, that host he had glorious wine ! 
 
 " A health!" quoth the host, "here's a health to all ! 
 
 Te have served me well and true : 
 Te have furnished my palace and filled my ranks 
 With souls seduced by your merry pranks ; 
 Te have labored so well that the meed of thanks 
 
 Is due firom your prince to you. 
 
 " I have traversed the earth from pole to pole, 
 
 I have wandered from sea to sea : 
 And the world is full of my followers now. 
 Whom you 've taught to sin, ye well know how : 
 And one and all at my feet to bow — 
 
 On earth there is none like me ! 
 
102 Country Margins. 
 
 " Te have finished your task. Tour work is done, 
 
 Aad need ye should take your rest. , 
 Te will speed with me to my murky home, 
 Where the rich flames flash round my burning dome, 
 And our demon orgies, 'mid smoke and gloom. 
 
 Have a richer and rarer zest." 
 
 Then he winked to his imps, and he flourished his tail. 
 
 And he stamped with his iron hoof. 
 And the guests were grappled and hurled along. 
 And the merry jest, and the shout and song 
 Were followed by shrieking loud and long. 
 
 As they tore through the riven roof. 
 
 There was wonder on earth when the morning broke, 
 And the lawyer, and priest, and quack, 
 
 And the merchant and guests that feasted there. 
 
 Were sought for carefully everywhere, 
 
 By many a longing, anxious heir, 
 But none of them e'er came back. 
 
 That feast was held in a ruined church. 
 
 That stood in a lonely dell. 
 That had battled with time and slow decay. 
 And the ivy had crept, in its loving way. 
 O'er its mossy towers and walls of gray — 
 
 Oh I a min it loves right well. 
 
 The ivy was scorched, and its leaves were black, 
 
 As if fire had revelled there : 
 And the wandering peasant often spoke 
 Of a sulphur stench and a murky smoke. 
 That hung o'er the ruin when morning broke— 
 
 And then floated away on the air. 
 
IX. 
 
 ISOL AT ION. 
 
 Sleep, oh, beautiful sleep, if thou wert an angel, 
 I would kneel down here and thank thee for this 
 hour of cool repose. 
 
 So I said or thought this afternoon after waking 
 from dreams and refreshment on the parlor sofa. 
 I had wandered home latish in the day, to find the 
 house closed and desolate. AU gone I all but my 
 father, and he asleep in his room — all gone. Of 
 course they were. I had just been to see them off. 
 
 Well, as you say, what of that? Why, my ex- 
 cellent Editor, you may say "what of that?" as 
 much as you please, but this crawling into your 
 own house, by the well-door or a back cellar window, 
 is a dismal piece of business. Rooms empty and 
 dark, and with that cold smell, into which you go 
 sneezing, and stepping carefully about like a cat, 
 and the servants so quiet and low-toned as though 
 it were Sunday again. Oh, would it were Sxmday 
 — ^the day of days, the glory of the week — ^the key- 
 stone of the arch. 
 
 Ugh ! throw open the windows and give us Hght, 
 light! LIGHT I 
 
104 Country Margiks. 
 
 Ah, sir, I don't ask for Sunday. I am not in the 
 mood for it. No, nor for any day. "What can I 
 do with this solemn circumstantiality, this inevitable 
 proceeding, this right foot foremost forever? Give 
 me rather (if I may choose), some cast-off fragment^ 
 some rough piece of chaos, not yet fashioned into 
 any respectable day-time, so it be other than this 
 bright, glittering, mocking Monday afternoon, which 
 finds my house desolate, as I have said, and my 
 very particular friend full of travel, and talk, and 
 laughter, a hundred miles away I To go away as 
 I did, so vive and elate, and come back drooping 
 and wiltered to be as a cheese-paring in the face of 
 this dazzling sunshine ! Thunders and red light- 
 nings ; it seems to me I should like, but this white 
 light, this breezy Monday I don't like, and there's 
 no use in talking about it. 
 
 Such was the perverse mood, sir, which sleep has 
 charmed away. 
 
 For we have had pleasant days, though they are 
 gone; genial days, and nights all-glorious. Sun- 
 rises and sunsets, painted with the hues and tones 
 of the first day. Day-dreams and night-dreams, 
 glad faces, and hearts more glad, and disquisitions, 
 and argumentations solid as the primeval granite. 
 AU gone now, but not lost — ^thank God for that — 
 not lost, but a part of our being, and forever. . 
 
 Backward, looking into these few past weeks, 
 my eye drops upon many pleasant pictures, and as 
 the artists say, studies, of a tempting character ; and 
 
Pleasant Summer Pictuees. 105 
 
 so looking, I behold on one of those most solstitial 
 days, two men, strangers to me, who were walking 
 up our yard, doubtless seeking for what might hap- 
 pen to turn up. One was stoutish, and as you may 
 say, established in all his ways ; the other jaunty in 
 both look and carriage, black hair, if I remember 
 aright, with a twist in it, and a decided cock to his 
 hat. The idea, as it recurs in my mind (for it is all 
 dream-Uke now, in the distance), the memory is, that 
 after shaking myself a little to make sure that I was 
 awake, I showed those gentlemen into our parlor, 
 just about sunset, while a smart crack of thunder 
 was waking up all our northern sky, and that soon 
 after we all took tea and compared notes somewhat, 
 as was proper to men of high consideration. My 
 people, as I remember it, were in white, (my wife, 
 certainly,) and all was cordial and serene. Doubt- 
 less there was laughing, and blushing, and pell-mell 
 talking, and a handsome confusion of exchange and 
 interchange, but the picture, as aforesaid, was in its 
 general tone cordial and serene. But it was all like 
 a panorama ; for my new friends straightway lighted 
 cigars and departed over Roaring EiTcr, and soon 
 after, were -wheeling away swiftly into the south. 
 This is one of the pleasant summer pictures in our 
 gallery, and if you, Mr. Editor, ever meet such stout 
 man with a Webster-like build of face and figure, 
 and that other individual, with a twist in his black 
 hair, and hat at an angle — ^I say, sir— give them 
 my regards. 
 
 5 
 
106 Country Margins. 
 
 Eeminiscences are pleasant, but facts remain. 
 You have pictures, but " it is not good for man to 
 be alone." If a man withdraws from the world, and 
 still' lives' a high, pure life, it is not because he is 
 alone, it is because he is not alone. He is living with 
 God. He is in a Presence, to which the coming in 
 of whatever hosts on earth, or in heaven, add and 
 detract nothing. But this is not isolation. ' 
 
 And a child,' scarcely as yet conscious of this Pres- 
 ence, save in a remote way (as when with closed 
 eyels. Tire feel, but do not see the light), wiU while 
 away hbur £iftet hour with soriiething of His handi- 
 work— ^a streak of sunlight, or a pebble, or a flower. 
 Put it out in the grass, under a rose-bush, and see 
 the thing wonder and philosophize, and laugh, all 
 alone (?) to itself. Not ^much talking at this tiniei 
 but what grave exclamations, what wise points of ad- 
 miration, what profound and questioning looks over 
 a leaf, or a blade of grass ! ' A year or two lafer, 
 piit this curious thing out there again, and it begins 
 to conibine andaerrange. Thepebble, and the grass, 
 and the flb-Wer, are worn out. They have talked 
 everythitig up for the present, and. now it says, let 
 us prepare for wax, or, if of the gentler sex; for a tea- 
 party ! In either case, it is not alohe^ — far from it ; 
 nor unhappy — ^far from it ; it is just one bubble of 
 enjoyment. But if you w'ant to hear its reserve 
 force, in full Bedlam exhibition, just put it in a dark 
 closet alone. 
 
 I never saw but one child that I thought would 
 
The Young Indian. • 107 
 
 bear that quietly. It was a papoose from the Florida 
 everglades. Col. Harney had been exploring those 
 recesses, shooting and hanging the Indians never 
 before disturbed in those retreats, and on one of the 
 little grassy islands, that are scattered about in those 
 clear waters, this youngster was found, after a fight, 
 and brought up a prisoner of war, to St. Augustine. 
 He was the gravest piece of humanity that I ever 
 beheld. A week before, it is safe to say, he had 
 never seen a white man, or any of his novelties. 
 Very likely all that he had seen of the world was 
 that one island, with the bright water running up 
 and away from its shores. Always there day and 
 night, running up and away again ; always clear and 
 bright and sweet to the taste. This, and the high grass 
 waving far away into the distance, overtopped here 
 and there by a palm, was all the world to him. There, 
 perhaps, he had heard Of the Great Spirit, whose are 
 all the islands and the waters, and the red men and 
 white men; and who has said, "vengeance is mine; I 
 will repay." There his mother had crooned wild songs 
 over the little red face, and his father had ttimbled 
 him in the grass and taught him the war-whoop* 
 He didn't want any other father or inother.' They 
 were good enough for him. .They were gone now, 
 and here was everything iiew and strange. ■ Houses, 
 streets, faces, language, all new, all stranige. But 
 nothing surprised him, nothing moved him, nothing 
 would make hitn laiigh, and certainly if his face t6ld 
 a true story, there was nothing to make him fear. 
 
108 CouNTBY Margins. 
 
 His keen black eyes were constantly busy noting this 
 tMng and that, but in sucb a blank, sad way, sad, 
 not fi:om its intensity, but from its want of all feel- 
 ing, as thougli lie saw notliing to bis liking. Very 
 nice, very fastidious was he, that nothing would suit 
 his particular humor. "Whether, in fact, this cool, 
 blank look, was that of ignorance and stupidity, I 
 know not; or whether he saw continually before 
 him a picture of his father dangling from the fig-tree 
 on his little island home in the everglades. Hang- 
 ing there all day in the bright sunlight, but so still 
 and speechless. Hanging there all night, staring 
 with dead wide-open eyes, at.the white moon and the 
 stars! 
 
 In any case, that boy seemed to me quite alone in 
 the world. 
 
 But isolation, literal and absolute, would proba- 
 bly be death ; and not merely death of the body, 
 but annihilation of aU being. There are lonely 
 beings now in the world, thousands and tens of 
 thousands, who, without lea,dings of thought and 
 hope from the cloud of witnesses about them, or 
 from the felt presence of. God himself, would sink 
 at once into nothingness, — bum out like a candle, 
 body and soul. And there are others of us, — God 
 help us all, — still more lonely and desolate, seeking 
 always for this same isolation, as though in that was 
 the very joy of life. Chalk-marking and laying out 
 the bounds, saying, "That's mine, — -take carel don't 
 step over there, you are on my premises," and so in 
 
No Man his own Master. 109 
 
 a general way crying out "Scat" and "Wheel" to 
 everything about The great fact being all the time 
 (as we get to know some day, or die as the fool 
 dieth) that man unassisted, or independent, as we 
 say, is but small comfort to himself. And this, 
 because he feels that he is with a stranger ; a being 
 with whom, as yet, he has scarcely more than a 
 nodding acquaintance ; one who, for aught he knows, 
 may yet turn out a robber and a cut-throat. 
 
 Am I exaggerating? Not a bit of it. Every 
 man of thought knows this. He bears his own bur- 
 den ; he carries his own secret with him. If he looks 
 within, it is not his whole being at which he looks, 
 for he can .see but one thing at a time, and he is 
 manifold in make — JEJ Pluribus Unum — a sort of 
 United States of being — ^wheels within wheels — a 
 strange mechanism, the motive power of which is 
 aU in double darkness — an infernal machine, which 
 may blow him up, he knows not how soon. No 
 man feels that he is his own master. He cannot 
 wholly guide his owni being. Any one who imagines 
 that he has any power of his own over his nature, 
 has fooled himself to believe a Ke. It is his nature 
 that guides, and hais power over, him. It sways 
 about with him this way and that, and it never rests 
 for one solitary moment of time. It is like a star, 
 whose glimmer is unceasing. You can never look 
 . it in the face, for it never will be still, for you to 
 do it. While you look for it here, presto, it is there. 
 While you fancy you are having a fair iite-d-(i(e, 
 
110 GouTSTTUY Margins. 
 
 behold it is in Galifomia or the South Seas. "While 
 you are bending over it microscopically, it has 
 gone six times around the world, and is back again 
 fresh -as ever. ' Lively, pert, inq-uisitive, joyous at 
 times, and mourning at times, and at other times 
 puffed with such impudence and deviltry, as heE 
 itself must feed, to give it such an air of royalty and 
 dominion. Thete is no peace with this strange 
 composition, till a man seeks his Maker, and asks 
 for power over, himself, day by day, and night-, by 
 night, and hour by hour, until he may escape from 
 this wild existence into something pure and rational. 
 
 And this something pure and rational — ^this life, 
 as distinguished from death — what is it ? It is not 
 motion, as we have said, or momentum. Nor is it 
 isolation, Or inertia, or repose in the sense of rest. 
 It is (as far as we may guess) action, needing no 
 repose. It is health after disease, sanity after inci- 
 pient madness ! It is thought, fluent and burning 
 as a star, high above day and night, and change. 
 It is self-possession and strength. It is a part of the 
 glory of God. It is crowiied. It is triumphant. 
 It is a living Hallelujah. It is wisdom, and know- 
 ledge, and power; and its utterance — the loftiest 
 speech given to men or angels, — " Olory be to Qod 
 in the highest I Amen and amen I" 
 
 And doubtless this life must be begun here, if 
 begun at all ; must be entered upon, if at all, here, 
 in this bustling and changing world, amid eating, 
 and drinking, and working, and dreaming, and strife. 
 
Sleep, Be autiful Seeep I 111 
 
 and trouble, and pain, and whatever apparent, con- 
 fusion confounded — "for there is no work, nor de- 
 vice, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave ;' 
 and life, in. its essential elements, is the same, in all 
 places and at ail times, and, like God himself is 
 unchangeable and everlasting. 
 , Good-night, sir. "We have had a long, lonely talk. 
 I will go up, now, and seek for more; of that sweet 
 oblivion which I found this afternoon^ on the paxlor- 
 sofa. Good-night. 
 
 Yours, , 
 
 Sleep 1 oh 1 beautiful sleep, if thou wert an angel, I would 
 kneel down here and worship thee for this hour of cool reposfc. 
 
 We worship no such divinity, as sleep, angel, or 
 no angeL "We are against sleep as an active prin- 
 ciple, an entity. We look vpon it as a necessity, 
 enforced, thrust upon, the world ; a thing to be en- 
 dured with resignation, rather than worshipped as 
 a God. Sleep, indeed ! Will anybody tell us what 
 good, what pleasurable thing, what positive emotion, 
 there can be in dull Oblivion — ^in lying down with 
 closed eyes, the mind a blank, and the physical man 
 utterly prostrate and powerless ? Have you a purse ? 
 A thief can steal it. Have you a house? The 
 incendiary may burn it over you. Have you an 
 enemy ? He may cut your throat, and this same 
 divinity, sleep, say no word against it. Mark, we 
 don't deny the recuperative power of sleep — ^we 
 
112 Country Margins. 
 
 confess its utility. When we are weary, sleep is a 
 good thing, a very pleasant thing. But it is all 
 negative, only an absence of weariness, a cessation 
 of pain — ^nothing more. And as well might a hun- 
 gry man worship a leg of mutton or a rump steak, 
 because eating it will allay his hunger. 
 
 But to sleep ! to dream ! Very pleasant things 
 are dreams, we admit, sometimes — ^not always. "We 
 can't choose our dreams. They come unbidden, 
 and are the subjects of no volition of our own; 
 shadows all, they come and go, and leave no trace, 
 no footprint on the sand, no mark on the wall. We 
 rather like dreams — they are racy; they have no 
 affinities with the sober experience, the hard realities 
 of life. Natural laws are nothing to the dreamer. 
 He laughs at, he spurns their control, and glancing 
 above them, revels in impossibilities. The birds 
 talk with him. Dumb animals converse with him. 
 Even the trees bend their tall heads, and while their 
 leaves are playing with the summer winds, open 
 their queer mouthg and speak to him. We had a 
 dream once : we have had many ; but this was im- 
 pressive, peculiar, and left its strange transitions 
 firmly fixed in our memory. 
 
 It was three years ago. We were out in the 
 woods with a guide, sleeping in a shanty built by 
 ourselves on the banks of the St. Eegis LaJce, one of 
 those beautiful little sheets of water lying all alone 
 in the forest away up north. Our shanty was built 
 in this wise : In front of the gigantic trunk of a 
 
Beook-Teout and Deeams. 113 
 
 fallen tree, and at some eight feet distance from it, 
 and as many feet from each, other, we placed two 
 forked posts. Across these we laid a pole, and from 
 each another pole, to the great log. Others still 
 were laid parallel with these as rafters, and over aJl 
 was spread bark peeled from the trees aromld. The ^ 
 sides were bmlt up with boughs, in order to keep off 
 the lateral dampness. The front was open, and di- 
 rectly before the door, which, by the way, was the 
 whole broadside of our dwelling, was a smttdge, or 
 fire buHt to keep the musquitoes and black flies 
 from devouring us. Our bed was of green boughs. 
 We had travelled far that day, and were hungry 
 and weary when we reached the lake. My guide 
 built the shanty while I caught a string of brook- 
 trout, in a little stream that came laughing and 
 scolding from the hills to lose itself in the waters of 
 the lake. These, with a steak from a deer we had 
 Idlled, afforded us a hearty supper, and we ate 
 as hungry men in the forest are apt to do. As the 
 darkness closed in upon the world, and while the 
 stars were coming out one after another to hold 
 their watch in the sky, we laid ourselves down on 
 our bed of boughs to sleep. The solemn night 
 voices were aU around us ; and weary from travel 
 and lethargic from a wildwood feast, y<re soon passed 
 into slumber. 
 
 As we slept upon that bed of boughs that night, 
 strange visions passed before us. "We were away vsx 
 a new world, and yet all that we saw was familiar, 
 5* 
 
114 COUNTBY Mae GINS. 
 
 nothing seemed strange to lis ;, we. -were, among 
 beings that we seemed to .know ; not raen and wo- 
 men, but rather the spirits of men and women ; not 
 as. of those who had, died, and whose bodies were 
 mouldering in the graver— they, had , form, but not 
 substance.; shadows that, moved and spoke; that 
 seemed formed after the similitude of men and wo- 
 men, but through whose, forma the sunlight passed. 
 We possessed all the attributes of humanity, save a 
 real, tangible body. Hands, and limbs, and body, 
 we. seemed to possess, palpable "tothe vision, but not 
 to the touch. Hunger, and cold, and heat, and 
 pain, were things that seemed to us unknown. 
 Space and time were as nothing. We. passed at 
 pnce without effort, like thought, from place to 
 place., :We think of scenes far distant from us— 
 niemory calls up th© stream,, the lake, the meadow, 
 the great trees, the cottage, and the garden ; we say 
 thought wandera away to such scenes. Well, this 
 seemed to, be with us a reality* If we thought of a 
 scene, a localily, hundreds or thousands of miles 
 away, at. once we were there. 
 
 We thought of Rome, of the great St. Peter's, and 
 there we stood, beneath that gigantic temple. We 
 thought of the. pyramids, and stood at their base, 
 and talked familiar with the mummies, that slept 
 within those granite piles. We thought of Water- 
 loo, and there we stood surveying that mighty con- 
 flict. We saw legions of men hurled against le- 
 gions of men. We heard the roar of the cannon, 
 
A Foe EST Dream.' 115 
 
 and the rattle of miisketry. "We saw the smoke of 
 battle wreathing up from blazing battalions. • We 
 saw the flashing, of. swords, as vast squadrons of 
 horsemen mowed down the flying foe. We heard 
 the -groans of the wounded, and the wild shrieks of 
 the dying. We passed unharmed through the con- 
 flicting hosts, looking upon the dying and the dead. 
 Wherever we chose to be, at once we were there. 
 How we passed we know not — ^the fact alone we re- 
 member. As our body was intangible, it was un- 
 affected by the elements, I'ire would not burn it, 
 water would not drown it. We could walk on the 
 bottom of the ocean with a thousand fathom of 
 water above us. We could plunge into the volcano's 
 seething cauldron. Eocks would not crush us, and 
 precipices, down which we plunged, were harmless 
 as the level plain. Such a being were we, and such 
 were those around us. Shadows, mere intellectual- 
 ities existing palpably to the vision, having form 
 and comeliness, but unfettered and unconfined by a 
 fleshly body. Of such a body, it seemed to us, we 
 had never heard, save in the wild,, theories of some 
 metaphysical dreamer. Its existence was a subject 
 of derision, and those who upheld its reality were 
 regarded as idle visionaries, nay, as pfofane reject' 
 ers of philosophical truths. 
 
 " A change came o'er the spirit of our dream." 
 
 We were away in the midst of the broad prairies 
 of the West, They lay there as they came from the 
 
116 Country Mabgiks, 
 
 Creator's hand. The eye of civilization had never 
 before looked upon them, and no civilized man had 
 set his foot upon the green grass that vegetated 
 upon their bosom. All aroimd us were vast plains, 
 treeless and shrubless as a shorn. meadow. Away 
 off, on the one hand, hanging like a blue dim sha- 
 dow upon the horizon, was a belt that we knew to 
 be timber ; while, on the bther, on the very outside 
 boundary of vision, loomed up the gigantic peaks of 
 the Eocky Mountains, moveless and fixed, like sen- 
 tinels of God, watching the boundless plains be- 
 neath them. The tall grass waved like vast fields 
 of grain in the summer winds ; rich flowers of the 
 most gorgeous hues sent their wild fragrance 
 abroad on the air, charming the vision by their 
 glory, and entrancing the senses by their sweetness. 
 In all this vast plain we saw no living thing. All 
 around us was silence ; vegetation alone seemed to 
 live there — and that grew and flourished in rich- 
 est and wildest luxuriance. It was like a vast gar- 
 den, planted and nourished by the hand of nature, 
 unaided, as it was unchecked, by the ingenuity or 
 the industry of man. Suddenly a blight seemed to 
 pass over that vast plaia ; the flowers faded ; the tall 
 grass shrivelled and died ; the leaves on the rank 
 weeds rolled together, and were blown away by hot 
 winds that swept over that ocean of land ; vegeta- 
 tion withered into a gray and sapless mass, standing 
 where it grew ; the streams, that were wont to 
 move in sluggish and tortuous windings, -vyere dried 
 
CA]fBICES Of A DnfiAM. - 117 
 
 up, leaving channels like the trails of gigantic ser» 
 pents; the blight of drought wafl upon all nature 
 about us. 
 
 As -we stood wrapped in conteniplation of the im- 
 mensity around us, a dull heavy sound fell upon 
 our ear, like the Tumbling of a thousand carriages 
 over the rough pavement of a far-off city. Turning 
 in the direction whence the sound seemed to come, 
 we saw in the distance vast herds of deer and ante- 
 lopes, flying at wild speed towards the spot where 
 we stood. Behind these came an army of elks; 
 their stately horns, glancing and waving in the sim- 
 light, seemed like a forest of dead, low, barklesa 
 trees. Behind these: came thundering . down again, 
 millions and millions of buffalo, making the earth 
 tremble with the weight of their rushing and count- 
 less hosts. For miles and miles, in width as well as 
 in depth, this vast herd covered the plain, bellowing 
 and roaring in seeming terror at some terrible de- 
 struction behind thein. Then came vast droves of 
 wolves, panting and howling in immense numbers> 
 with jaws distended and tongues lolling out, like 
 hounds wearied by the chase. None seemed seek- 
 ing for prey ; a mortal terror was upon all ; all were 
 fleeing, as it seemed for life, towards the belt of tim- 
 ber land visible in the distance. These vast waves 
 of animal life swept by us ; the roar of their count- 
 less voices died away like the tempest in its onward 
 flight. Then we saw the reason of their mortal 
 
118 CouNTBY Margins. 
 
 terror. Away, in the distance, was a dense, line of 
 dark murky smoke wreathing and twisting heaven: 
 ward, wrapping earth and sky in its sombre folds. 
 On came the fearful visitation, preceded by a line of 
 fire athwart the whole of that vast plain, flashing 
 and glancing upward as new fael was grasped by 
 its devouring toiigije, and it was hurled onward by 
 the rushing winds. On it came crackling and roar- 
 ing, like a mighty billow of flame, devouring and 
 overwhelming all things in its terrible career. . On- 
 ward and onward it came with the speed of the war- 
 horse, and the roar of the tornado. Before it was 
 destruction ; in its rear the blackness of desolation^ 
 Far as the eye could reach, on the right hand and 
 on the left, it moved in a line of fire, leaving no es- 
 cape save an onward flight. We stood spell-bound, 
 as it approached ; that mighty prairie seemed rolled 
 up as it swept along like a vast scroll, while the 
 impenetrable obscurity behind it was like the dark- 
 ness that was of old on the face of the deep. It 
 approached — ^it surroimded — ^it enveloped us within 
 
 its folds, when — < ^we awoke, and behold it was 
 
 a dream I and " yet not all a dream." The fire we 
 had kindled in front of o\ir shanty had crept along 
 the dry leaves until it reached the foot of a dead fir- 
 tree, among whose thick and withered branches a 
 wild grape-vine had spread its thousand tendrils- 
 That too was dead; the fire had crept up the dry 
 trunk of that dead fir-tree, and having reached the 
 
The Dream Over. 119 
 
 net- work of vines and sapless branches, it burst out 
 into a brilliant flame. Wben we started from our 
 sleep it was flashing and crackling, and twirling up- 
 wards, lighting up forest and lake like a vast torch 
 in the hand of some gigantic demon of the woods. 
 
X. 
 
 D, WITH A DASH TO IT. 
 
 Oh, compositors I oh, proof-readers I and' you, 
 oh, printers' devils! if you have anything to do 
 with it, please give us the facts which we send you, 
 as they are. The facts, not imaginations. 
 
 Wp admit that words are poor and inexpressive 
 signs, but they are aU we have to talk with. And we 
 can approximate somewhat to each other's ideas, by 
 a proper use of words. Usage has attached to them 
 certain meanings and values, and by judgment and 
 care, a man may sometimes say almost the very 
 thing which he has in mind. But, my dear sirs, it 
 is. a delicate business. It is walking a very tight 
 rope, and requires the most careful balance and fix- 
 edness of purpose. Moreover, it requires a perfect 
 agreement and unity of action. If we say oh, ah, 
 bah, and so forth, then we expect from you the same 
 oh, ah, bah, and so forth. If we say ex-plum-bum, ex- 
 plum-bum it is. Ex-bum-plum won't do, or plum- 
 bum-ex. No, sirs, give us nothing else but the 
 great fact, Ex-plum-bum ! 
 
 If you diverge the slightest from this solemn ex- 
 actness, you depart, at once, into fictions and all 
 
Troubles ofan Editor. 121 
 
 uncertainties. In short, you are in a dangerous way. 
 You don't know-T— you can't conceive — ^and no man 
 can know or conceive for you — the long-drawn mis- 
 cMef, to wliicli you give such a heedless begianing. 
 Why, sirs, you disturb the harmony of the world — 
 the moral equilibrium of things. You do not 
 merely stand in the light, you bring down mid- 
 night. You "create darkness." 
 
 This, I grant, is not always the case ; for when 
 you merely print on for or, as ia a late paper of 
 ours, a shrewd reader may discover the error ; but 
 when you drop whole words, containing the heart 
 of a paragraph, I can scarcely express my astonish- 
 ment. How you can sleep at night, after putting 
 forth such fragments to the world, it is difficult to 
 say. 
 
 But to some rules there are exceptions, and 
 although this belongs to nearly the highest ethics, 
 and is, in fact, almost that perfect law to which ex- 
 ceptions are impossible, there is one exception to 
 this rule, and it would rejoice my heart to see it 
 always recognized. 
 
 A club-mate of mine, who had been living a gay 
 life, as he supposed, discovered his mistake and 
 reformed; and in a letter to a mutual friend, cau- 
 tioned him not to write any more, "d, ioith a dash 
 to it." 
 
 This, sirs, is that exception, which, if always ob^ 
 served in papers and books, would gladden the 
 hearts of thousands upon thousands — this d, with a 
 
122 GotiNTET: Mae GINS. 
 
 dasli to it. Drop it, Mr. Compositor ; drop it, proof- 
 reader,, down with it, cast it out ; it is a devil. 
 Don't use d, with a dash to it. It. is not gentle- 
 manly, it is not manly, it is not decent. It is ho 
 part of a man's language. It is that abominaible 
 thing which God hates, and why should not you 
 and I? .There is no such blot in. the heavens, or 
 on the earth. No bird, or beast, no mountain 
 brook, or cataract, or earthquake, or thunders even, 
 that ever utter that word. It is of the Devil's make 
 and man's adoption ; applied to everything , hot, 
 cold, wet and dry, head, eyes, and body, and 
 (Heaven forgive us) to the soul itself, while it has 
 no fitness for any one thing or person placed, or liv- 
 ing legitimately on this our earth. It belongs to 
 that place prepared for the Devil and his angels. It 
 is proper there. It is there for the place and its 
 people. But you and I, my friend, are not yet sen- 
 tenced. Thanks be to our Father in Heaven, the 
 blue sky is still "bending over us all." We have 
 not yet gone down into darkness and despair. 
 
 Oh ! of all smallest performances under the sun, 
 what a study for a Hogarth, is that of "man, born 
 like a wild ass's colt," calling hastily for the day of 
 judgment, with this d, with a dash to it ! What 
 courage '. what heroism ! what greatness ! what a 
 sublimely high purpose ! My own life has been so 
 joyous, not to say exultant, that I cannot presume 
 to know how terribly some may be tempted ; but I 
 can well imagine that here and there, and more 
 
Blowing off Steam. 123 
 
 than here and there, in the pressing crowd who 
 are daily moving on to the grave, there may be 
 uplifted hands and trembling aspirations ; I can 
 imagine many a sinking! heart and weary brain 
 tempted, if you please, to cry, "Spare us. Good 
 Lord; Christ, have mercy upon us !"— but to invoke 
 evil — ^to ask for death and perdition, oh ! the mad* 
 ness — ^the madness! 
 
 Tastes no doubt diflfer, and to some, d, with a 
 dash to it, may have a pleasant twang, but. I would 
 rather have a pistol fired in my hair, than ever hear 
 it, or any of its horrid combinations, and I never 
 heard it even repeated, as from another, in rounding 
 a story, or ^ving a, fancied point to an anecdote, 
 that it was not accompanied with a sheep-faced con- 
 sciousness of having done a very small thing. I 
 never saw a man detected in stealing a leg of mutton, 
 but I should think such a man would have just 
 about such an expression of countenance. 
 
 There are people who think they feel better, 
 sometimes, for " blowing off steam," as they call it. 
 But swearing is not blowing off steam ; it is burst- 
 ing the boiler. Doubtless, as a people, we carry too 
 many pounds to the square inch— let us blow off, 
 by all means, but don't let us suppose that the final 
 cause and end of steam is to " blow up." 
 
 The truth is, we may, witkjust as much pro- 
 priety, just as much kindness, and about the same 
 effect, throw vitriol about among our friends, as to 
 
124 Country Margins. 
 
 foul the pure air of heaven with oaths and blasphe- 
 mies. 
 
 Is it not so, Mr. Editor, Mr. Compositor, Mr. 
 Proof-reader ? Then let us make it so. Let us down 
 with d, with a dash to it. 
 
 Its force is weakness— its point is bathos. The 
 world is bad enough, wicked enough, wretched 
 enough, miserable enough ; but it is not so bad, or 
 wicked, or wretched, or miserable, as to give any 
 logic or fitness to d, with a dash to it. It is not yet 
 in order. 
 
 What say you all to giving it the cold shoulder? 
 Ehl What's the vote? Send me, Mr. Editor, the 
 ayes and noes, on the following proposition : Never 
 to print — never to write — ^never to utter — ^never to 
 listen to it — ^never in any wayj shape, or manner, 
 open or sly, to use " d, with a dash to it." 
 
 Yours, . 
 
 " If you diverge the slightest from this solemn exactness, yon 
 depart at once into fiction,. and all uncertainties. In short, you 
 are in a dangerous way- Why, sirs, you disturb the harmony of 
 the world.^-the moral equilibrium of things ; you do not merely 
 stand in the light, you bring down midnight — ^you create dark- 
 ness," 
 
 Just so I We have laughed and scolded and said 
 a good many things, that to some might sound hke 
 profane swearing, over this same matter. We have 
 been victimized oxirself, dozens of times — ^made to 
 
Spelling Figs with a P. 125 
 
 say all sorts of queer tlimgs, by the mere change of 
 a letter, or mistake of a word. We came to our 
 present position entirely green, as to all matters per- 
 taining to the management of a newspaper. "We 
 had not, in all our life, had an hour's experience in 
 proof-reading. We have tried our best to improve 
 in this respect, but we still fall very short of perfec- 
 tion. The types make us say a good many things 
 we never dreamed of, and the worst of it is, when 
 they speak, whatever they say, becomes a fixed 
 fact, imchangeable as destiny, standing there impreg- 
 nable, defiant of all human agency to change it. 
 
 Not long since, we visited a firiend in the country, 
 and in giving an account of our ramblings and the 
 pleasant things we had seen, we undertook to. de- 
 scribe his beautiful garden, and in doing so, spoke 
 of a thrifty fig-tree and its fruit. We claim some 
 genius for graphic description, and have always been 
 a little proud of our efforts in that line. Judge 
 then of our mortification, when our attention was 
 called to the fact that we had hung all manner of 
 " pigs" on the oriental tree in our friend's conserva- 
 tory, from the little green nucleus from which the 
 blossom had just fallen, to the fully ripe "pig." 
 
 On a,nother occasion we had been presented with 
 a basket of oranges. Large, ripe, and luscious the 
 fruit was, direct from the sunny South, where it grew. 
 We acknowledged the gift in suitable terms, as all 
 editors who are presented with nice things should. 
 The next day one of those joke-finders, that are per- 
 
126 CouNTEY Margins. 
 
 mitted, for some inscrutable piarpose, to pester the 
 world, stalked into our office and gravely inquired 
 about the basket of " ourangoutangs" -we had been 
 favored with. "Bring us the paper of yesterday!" 
 we thundered to our devH, (not he of the lioof and 
 horns,) who was sitting cross-legged, on a stool, 
 studying the progrannne of a band of negro inelo- 
 dists, who were to give a banjb and bone cohcert in 
 the evening. The paper was brought, and sure as 
 fate, we had acknowledged the receipt of a basket 
 of most beautiful " oueangoutangs," from oui: 
 esteemed friend Mr.. John Smith, who had just re- 
 ceived a cargo of the same sort, at his old stand on 
 the Hill. 
 
 A friend of ours, who was formerly connected 
 with the press, as the editor of a country newspaper, 
 relates an amusing anecdote on this subject. He 
 had an old chuih, whose name was BOLLOCK, afid 
 who took to himself a wife one day. Our friend, 
 who attended the wedding, undertook to announce, 
 in a becomiag manner, through the columns of his 
 paper, the happy event. In the afternoon of the 
 day on which the announcement was made, Mr. 
 Bullock strode into his office, with face blazrug, and 
 eyes flashing with iadignation, one hand graspiiig 
 a newspaper, and the other closed up iato a compact 
 bunch of bones, like a sledge-hammer — "Look you, 
 Mr. D — ~," said he, with a voice choking with anger, 
 " by what name am I to be called ? Answer me 
 that, you type-setting, qtiiU-drivihg son of a cylinder 
 
An Excited Bridegroom. 127 
 
 press." "Hallo," fcried our iriend, "what's out, 
 now?" "I want. to know.wliat.my name is — my 
 NAME, that's what's out," cried the enraged Bul- 
 lock. " Your name ? Why Bullock, to be' sure — 
 Mr. J.D. Bullock, M.D. — ^who ever disputed that?" 
 replied our astonished friend. "Look there," said 
 the excited married man, pointing to the announce- 
 ment of his own wedding in bur friend's paper, and 
 there, sure enough, was the marriage of the beauti- 
 ful and accomplished Miss AMELIA Agnes So and 
 So, to J. D. BuLLCALl*, Esquire, M.D., with an ac- 
 knowledgment of the receipt of a large slice of the 
 bride's loaf, and a hberal puff for the wedding, 
 which. Tinder aU the circumstances, looked mightily 
 like a burlesque. The evident mortification of the 
 editor, and his solemn word of honor that it was 
 purely a mistake, appeased the injured party ; but 
 our friend always insisted that he narrowly escaped 
 a personal assault on that occasion. 
 
 "We are getting used to these things, and they do 
 not trouble us as they did once. They are vexa- 
 tious enough, but they toill happen. Writers will, 
 through all time, suffer from the inaccuracies of com- 
 positors and proof-readers. The best remedy we 
 know of, is contained id the prescription of a med- 
 ical friend of ours, who is principled against curing 
 the toothache by extracting the troublesome molar. 
 "Doctor," said a suffering patient, with his imder 
 jaw in a shng like a broken arm, and one aide of his 
 face swollen to the semblance of the moiety of a 
 
128 Country Margins. 
 
 moderately sized pumpkin, "I've got tlie tooth- 
 ache 1" "Have you ?" said the doctor, calmly. " Yes, 
 I have," replied the patient, " and it's the jumping 
 toothache, too. This infernal grinder kicks like a 
 whole team of mules." "Does it ?" said the doctor, 
 calm and cold as an iceberg. "Yes, it does," was 
 the answer. "What shall I do for this intolerable 
 agony?" " Grin and bear it, and be thankful that 
 you've got teeth enough in your head to ache," re- 
 plied the Doctor, as he turned his back on the suf- 
 fering patient and walked away. So we say to all 
 ?iuthors, and our friend, Margins, in particTilar, in 
 view of these occasional typographical blunders, 
 "Grin and bear it," and be thankful for the talent 
 that enables you to furnish a work in which the 
 world sees beauty enough to be marred by a f mis- 
 take of the printer." 
 
 Is it not so, Mr. Editor, Mr. Compositor, Mr. Proof-reader ? 
 Then let us make it so. Let lis down with d, with a dash to it. 
 
 It is all very well to iaUc about this downing " with 
 d, with a dash to it." Eeform is a pleasant thing to 
 talk about in a quiet way, to think of, and speculate 
 upon. In our closet we may imagine what a wrong 
 thing this or that popular habit maybe — ^how unpro- 
 ductive of good — ^how pregnant of evil — ^how easily 
 its folly may be demonstrated, and how readily it 
 will be abandoned by the people when they come 
 to understand it. All theory ! all imagination I our 
 dear Margins. Strong as we may be in logic in 
 
Mists of Eably Mobning. 129 
 
 these closet interviews witli ourselves, there is one 
 thing wanting, the lack of which annihilates our 
 theories, and dissipates our imaginings Hke the mists 
 that go up in the early morning, from the cascades 
 and waterfalls of your Roaring River. Go out into 
 the streets, and preach reform in this matter. Take 
 the swearer by the button-hole, and pour your exhor- 
 tations, your logic, your demonstrations into his ear. 
 TeU him it belittles humanity, and is a sin against 
 Grod. Prove its foUy, its utter uselessness. It's 
 hazarding the great interest of the soul, for that 
 which is more utterly worthless than a mess of pot- 
 tage. He won't argue, he won't gainsay a word of 
 your excellent admonition. He'U stand like a post 
 until you have exhausted the subject and passed on. 
 Then, as his companion emerges from around the 
 corner, and comes within speaking distance, he'll 
 point you out as one of those reformers (coupling 
 the latter epithet, may be, with an expressive adjec- 
 tive, made up with a " d, with a dash to it") who go 
 about preaching up the necessity of progress in the 
 moral condition of the world, and boring people 
 with their abstract notions of human perfectibility, 
 and thereupon he and his friend will have a laugh 
 over what they are pleased to term your folly, in 
 meddling with that which does not concern you, 
 instead of rolling up dollars, by attending to that 
 which does. The thing we lack in our closet 
 theories, in this as in most matters of reform, is the 
 want of practical applicability of those theories to 
 6 
 
130 Country Makgiks. 
 
 the actual condition of the world as it is. We forget 
 how impossible it is to make the people pause, to 
 make human nature pause, in its onward rush,-to 
 comprehend us, to feel the force of our reasoning, 
 and the justness of our admonitions. We forget 
 that something more is necessary to change, or erad- 
 icate ^ popular habit, than the mere demonstration 
 of its folly. Every body, for more than a thousand 
 years, has been convinced of the folly of profanity, 
 aye, of its wickedness, too. Nobody advocates it. 
 Nobody justifies it ; and yet about three out erf every 
 five of the people of all Christian nations indulge in 
 this most foolish and wicked habit of using the " d, 
 with a dash to it." It may in some sense be called 
 a Christian habit, and goes hand and hand with the 
 spread of Christianity. And yet against this habit 
 Christianity has been warring always. Always 
 denouncing, always execrating it. It finds no word, 
 or letter of sanction, in all the broad range of the 
 Chrtstian's creed, or the wide reach of Christian 
 duties. How shall we account for this, save by 
 supposing that the great Author of EvO. goes along 
 by the side of the evangelists, the missionaries, and 
 scatters his tares wherever he finds good seed taking 
 root, dropping an oath wherever he sees the germ 
 of a prayer, thus sending up to Heaven, with the in- 
 cense of every pious and holy aspiration, an attend- 
 ant blasphemy, to mar the joy of angels over a soul 
 redeemed ? 
 
A Marvellous Good World. 131 
 
 " The world is bad enough, wicked enough, wretched enough, 
 miserable enough." 
 
 True, every word most true ; and yet, as a whole, 
 it is a good, a marvellously good world. Could we, 
 friend Margiks, I mean you or I, or any human 
 power, iavent one that would, in degrees of perfection, 
 come within a sightless distance of this, which the 
 great Creator has made for us ? Would we venture to 
 point to one thing in the great universe of God, wheth- 
 er in the heavens above, or on this earth, and say this 
 is out of place, this is a deformity, this is useless ? 
 Would we, in looking over the doings of Providence 
 in the administration of his visible government, aad 
 selecting some great national or individual calamity, 
 one that spread ruin and sorrow even over a whole 
 people, venture to affirm that this should have been 
 ordered othermse ? Seeming evils there are doubt- 
 less — events ordered by God that may bear hard 
 upon us. Sorrow may darken around us ; the hopes 
 that we cherished may vanish away, and we may sit 
 down in desolation of spirit, to weep over the loss 
 of things that we loved. But when we see, aU. around 
 us, the clustering evidences of the boundless bene- 
 volence, the infinite goodness of the Power that con- 
 trols human destiny, would we venture, were the 
 choice given us, to turn aside even the sorrow that 
 feU upon ourselves ? Would we take the hazards 
 of marring the great plans of the Infinite Mind, or 
 bend them to square with our own feeble and narrow 
 
132 COUNTBY Maegins. 
 
 perceptions ? When we looked upon tlie pale, stiU 
 face of a beloved child, its eyes closed in death, with 
 the wreath encircling its marble brow, placed there 
 by the hand of love to decorate it for the grave, 
 would we call the spirit back, or breathe life again 
 into that moveless corpse ? The heart might yearn 
 for its darling, but who would not say, it is God's 
 work, let it be as it is ? 
 
XL 
 
 SEPTEMBER. 
 
 Dear Editor, we despair. For, of course, it is 
 raining again, (just tWs once,) after all tlie late 
 floods, and so we are not at No. — Broadway, though 
 we tried hard. We went to the station, where, as 
 you know, it is my way to "take the cars," but just 
 then a long line of black cloud roUed up from the 
 west, a white field rolled out beyond it, and certain 
 heavy cannonades in that quarter indicated the same 
 kind of thunderous Saturday afternoon, which has 
 been repeated now for about six times in succession. 
 And so we came back. 
 
 Eain, rain, rain I But we are safely housed again, 
 though what with riding home in a whirlwind, my 
 people have a color that will last them into next 
 week. 
 
 So brilliantly as we were made up, it is almost 
 provoking — almost, I say — not to have made a little 
 figure this afternoon in North Broadway. In the 
 confusion incident to whether we should go, I took 
 cards to show our intent, mounted into the one 
 
134 COUNTEY Maegins. 
 
 freight car just beiiind the engine, and came on 
 thundering through smoke and cinders, over Eoar- 
 ing River, while my people came back behind Bed 
 Jacket; but at Bungtown my courage failed, and I 
 dropped (for there was no other exit) from that lum- 
 bering concern, and came straight home again. It's 
 useless, said I, to separate man and wife. They 
 should go together in all things. 
 
 However, I send .the cards: Mr. Margin, Roaring 
 River; Mrs. Margin, Roaring River, Wild Rose, City. 
 Having parted with Snowdrop and Honeysuckle, we 
 take gladly such other blossoms as float our way, 
 and are rejoicing now in the Wild Rose. All of 
 one excellent garden, sir, but the world having so 
 many waste places, some must be transplanted to 
 grace other localities. We must be generous. 
 
 Did I tell you about "Wednesday ? "We were to 
 start that day also. I had said — the last thing over 
 night — " Eemember, to-morrow we are to visit the 
 great City Editor." 
 
 " "Will it rain ?" said Mrs. Margin. 
 
 " No, — ^beautiful night — stars all out, and moon- 
 light too : beautiful night, beautiful ! night of nights 
 — charmante I No, my blossoms ; no more storms : 
 go to bed now, and sleep on into the excellent day 
 that is coming." 
 
 Next morning, opening my clouded eyes, behold 
 the rain and the equinox ! 
 
 I say, sir, we despair. However, what could we 
 expect in September? 
 
AEainy September. 135 
 
 Oil breezy September, sbady September, eqxii- 
 noctial September, September and oysters for ever I 
 The bivalves we can have, though we see no Broad- 
 way, no city editor. But if a man has any thing 
 particular to say about September, let hiir^ speak 
 quick, for we are already in the latter end. 
 
 Good-bye, sir. Make our regards to Eosebud 
 and all the house, and all the people about the 
 house, and your neighbors, if you think proper. 
 But don't fail to grasp the great fact, that we started 
 and came back again — that it rained and re-rained — 
 that we tried hard, and failed magnificently. 
 
 Burr-rr-rr-urr I (that's a train on Eoaring Eiver.) 
 Squib! wish-sh-sh-ish f (that's a flourish.) Bawl aw- 
 aw-awh I (that's the blast.) Let them go. Foolish 
 people to be going off in the rain ; but let them go. 
 Tell that conductor, if you see him, that he owes, me 
 one, for I paid through and dropped at Bung. The 
 foolish man called out to me to go with him, but it 
 wouldn't do. Eains and thunders in the west, and 
 my people somewhere in the north country behind. 
 Bed Jacket; it wouldn't do, and I told him so. 
 
 Eain, rain, and again the rain I Are you looking 
 for us, sir ? Are you on the house-top seeking for 
 the wave of a white handkerchief? spying into the 
 uttermost north, for some dim sign of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Margin? Hallucinated editor, go down immedi- 
 ately. We are not coming. Go down before you 
 are wet through. Go down, sir, and dine, and enjoy 
 yourself Have you got any plums, I wonder ? My 
 
136 Country Margins. 
 
 people are just now making up for their early din- 
 ner, witli plums, grapes, and muskmelons — ^the last 
 about tlie flattest kind of fruit, according to my 
 digestion. But the plums, sir ; oh, the plums ! Of 
 aU. the generous, the bountiful things of the garden, 
 I love the plum-tree -with my whole heart. It gives, 
 you perceive, in such a whole-soided way, such a 
 bending fulness. We have but few, compared with 
 our great neighbor, who has his plum in every 
 corner. But our wealth is sufficient — ^four Bleeckers, 
 two magnum bonum, and one sugar-plum. It has 
 been very pleasant to feed out among those trees, 
 finishing or beginning a breakfast, or a dinner, or a 
 supper; for the ripe plum is harmless always. I 
 think I am a better man for those plum-trees ; at 
 any rate, my digestion is better. Our tropical sum- 
 mer and heavy rains have brought on all the fruits 
 this year, in great luxuriance. Everything is fat 
 and heavy with summer. Our second com is just 
 now perfect — large, but tender — and rich with 
 sugar. You are not obliged to nibble at it, but may 
 mow it down, as a heifer cuts away the first grass of 
 spring. But the plum is our stand-by. And let 
 me tell you, you can't do much better than to stop 
 under the Bleecker. Not so very aristocratic, but 
 good. The egg is a golden daiaty, an up-towri plum, 
 and the little sugars, to look at, are beauties, but the 
 Bleecker you may eat aU day. Our opposite neigh- 
 bor, who delights in fat cattle and pigs Hke a butter- 
 barrel, and who is rather cosmopolitan in his ways, 
 
Beautiful Summer Dats. 137 
 
 ■walks daily amid Ms great variety of finiits, tasting, 
 as a wine-bibber bis wines — that is, he did, but be is 
 gone now. He stepped in at Bung as I stepped 
 out, and bas gone away into tbe "West, taking the 
 White Rose witb bim, (anotber from our garden,) 
 wbere tbey are to plant nearly balf a county witb 
 plums, grapes, pears, apples, citron, squasbes, com, 
 and potatoes, and to baye aU manner of men, wo- 
 men, and cbildren running about tbe lots, planting, 
 sowing, chopping, harvesting, carpentering, mason- 
 ing, pond-making, prospecting, and churning tons 
 of butter — all which is very well. 
 
 If all our summers are to be 
 Like this fine summer of '53, 
 
 which, however, has gone even now while we were 
 looking at it — slipped away in a twinkling — ^walked 
 off in tbe night, and forgot to come back again. Ah, 
 if we could surround the beautiful summer days 
 and make them stay with us forever. But they 
 must go ; they were only here a little while on leave 
 of absence. We wiU meet them all again in the day 
 of judgment — ^all the beautiful days, all tbe golden 
 days, all tbe dark days and nights of storm — every 
 one will be there. But now it is good-bye and fare- 
 well. And we, Mr. Editor, you and I — stout as 
 you are, and full of blood as my veins are of late — 
 we shall soon be saying good-bye and farewell, and 
 to us, plum-time will be over forever. 
 
 But meanwhile — ^for this particular moment, at 
 6* 
 
138 Country Maegins. 
 
 least — ^we live ; and whatever winds Antarctic are 
 now ready, let tliem come. We are to roll on now, 
 amid cool nights and tlie checkered days of light 
 and shade. Let us take the downhill of the year 
 cheerily. There is no harm in being braced up a 
 little when the leaves fall. Our front maple has 
 already gone into colors. If this were in mid-sum- 
 mer, how untimely would it seem I This is why I 
 like not a certain deadness in Southern vegetation, at 
 this season. Its effort at being perennial falls short 
 of that brilliant success which we look for, while it 
 has nothing of the dying glories of our Northern 
 autumn. - The perennial, in fact, is not altogether 
 suited to our world, or to its prosperous administra- 
 tion. Let us have, rather, our blazing and dashing 
 summers, cooling off through the magnificence of 
 autumn, to the snows and ices of winter. So shall 
 we prosper and gather tone and character, and make 
 headway in the great business of life. So shall we 
 not tarry too long in some happy valley, and grow 
 timid and feeble in the mere joy of existence. 
 
 After all, it don't rain much, and we might have 
 gone. But it's too dark for introductions. No, let 
 them go, all the people. 
 
 ''Oh! oh I oh! oh!" 
 
 Another train going North. Let them go. They, 
 now, are going home. Sensible people. Coming 
 out into the country where are plums, grapes, sickle- 
 pears, pumpkins, and so-forth. Coming home for 
 Sunday. That is sensible, rational. You may 
 
Gold upon" the Landscape. 139 
 
 always expect sometliing of people who come home 
 for Sunday — ^the day royale, " day of all the week 
 the best." Perhaps we will sing that to-morrow 
 night, as we did in the old times, with a dozen voices 
 ' surging about through the four parts, not to say five 
 or six, for there were always one or two traversing, 
 and going crosswise; but we made a noise, you may 
 be sure. 
 
 Go ahead, up-train, home for Sunday/ Carry on! 
 up-train, home for Sunday. Pipe away, up-train, 
 and sing it out, through the valley — ^up the river — 
 over the hills and far*a-way — home for Sunday / And 
 you, all aboard there, engineer and fireman, brake- 
 man and conductor, young folks and old folks, 
 inside and outside — God bless you allr — coming home 
 for Sunday ! 
 
 I think now, Mr. Editor, I will go out to the west 
 piazza, and make a short speech to the plum-trees, 
 and by that time, Saturday will be gone. I must 
 thank somebody for the plums. 
 
 Au revoir, sir, good-day, bon jour, and so-forth ; 
 for bon it is, after all its wet and windy distractions. 
 The rain is over ; a spot of gold lies here and there 
 upon the landscape, while in the mid-heaven a few 
 clouds sail slowly about — ^but mostly, the blue pre- 
 vails. Good ! Look for us, suddenly, the first sunny 
 day. Yours, . 
 
 " Oh ! breezy September, shady September, equinoctial Sep- 
 tember, September and oystera forever ! The bivalves we can 
 
14.0 CouNTBY Margins. - 
 
 have, though we see no Broadway, no city editor. But if a man 
 has any thing particular to say about September, let him speak 
 quick." 
 
 "We have much to say about September, and in its " 
 favor, too. It is a good month, a great month, a 
 glorious month. It is the month of dahlias, and 
 of ripe fruits, the seed-time of the year. Out upon 
 oysters ! They have a taint of grossness about them. 
 There is nothing spiritual about the "bivalves." 
 Leave them for the long evenings and cold days of 
 "winter. But September has its inspirations. We 
 become poetic in September. It is the month of 
 yellow leaves, of purple and crimson foliage, the 
 month of the Katydids, and the Cricket. They pipe 
 clearest when September is young. The tza I tza I 
 of the one is loudest among the hazle bushes, and 
 the chirrup of the other shrillest in the wall. Sep- 
 tember makes them musical, but the frost comes, 
 and with it the last song of the Katydid. Did you 
 ever, dear Margins, indite poetry, perpetrate rhyme, 
 of a September evening, after listening to the little 
 night warbler among the clusters of hazle bushes, or 
 the branches of the small trees ? Did you ever ask 
 the insect tattler what Katy really did to make such 
 a stir in the world and give occasion for its everlast- 
 ing song of "Katy did?" No! "Well, we have, 
 and here is its answer. 
 
What did Katydid do? 141 
 
 THE KATYDID'S ANSWER 
 
 Oh, Katy, dear, you know you did, at midnight's silent hour, 
 Steal softly through the moonlight, to this my pleasant bower, 
 And here beneath its vines and leaves, by blushing roses hid. 
 You met the man you love, Kate — ^you did, you know you did. 
 
 And here you leaned upon his breast, his arm was round your 
 
 waist, 
 Your hand was locked in his, Kate, and when he stooped to taste 
 The nectar that was on your lip, how gently was he chid — 
 You loved to hear his whispered vows, — you did, you know 
 
 you did. 
 
 The moon was in the sky, Kate, the stars were watching there, 
 Th3 gentle breath of summsr night was sporting in your hair ; 
 I listened to your words, Kate, though soft and low they fell : 
 I heard them every one, Kate, and if I would, could tell. 
 
 But never fear me, gentle one, nor waste a thought or tear. 
 Lest I should whisper what I heard in any mortal ear. 
 I only sport among the boughs, and like a spirit hid, 
 I think on what I saw and heard, and laugh out " Katy did." 
 
 I sit among the leaves here, when evening zephyrs sigh. 
 And those that listen to my voice, I love to mystify. 
 I never tell them all I know, altho' I'm often bid : 
 I laugh at curiosity, and chirrup " Katy did." 
 
 I would not make you blush, Kate, your innocence I know — 
 I know your spotless purity is like the virgin snow. 
 And yet you'd better not, Kate, altho' you think your 're hid. 
 Steal to my bower by moonlight, as once you know you did. 
 
 The cricket, too, do you remember how in early- 
 September, he piped among the stones in the fields, 
 
142 Country Margins. 
 
 and how merrily lie sang in the wall ? We remem- 
 ber one that chirped in the corner when we sat by 
 our father's fireside. His voice was cheerful, and it 
 was a pleasant thing to listen to his happy song. 
 Father, mother, brothers, sisters were beside us then, 
 and we all talked of the little warbler as a thing 
 that we loved. If he came out upon the hearth, 
 nobody disturbed him. If he wandered over the 
 floor, nobody stepped upon or frightened him. He 
 repaid our kindness by his cheerful music, as each 
 evening he regaled us with a lay. But the comer, 
 and the cricket, and the home of our childhood, are 
 all gone. Decay has removed the one, and the 
 voice of the other is hushed in death — and those 
 who sat by the hearthstone listening with us to that 
 cricket's song, where are they? Father, mother, 
 sisters, brothers, where are they ? 
 
 Of the twelve that composed that circle, six have 
 gone to their rest, and the others have floated out 
 in divers directions on the currents of life. 
 
 Time ! Time ! ! the wreclcs that lie scattered 
 along thy pathway I 
 
 But will you tell us, friend Margins, why it ia 
 that all living things that come out in the September 
 evenings, have glad voices given them ? Why is it 
 that when the sun is gone down, and the hum of 
 business is still, when the voice of man is hushed 
 and the winds have retired to their caves, the voice 
 of the insect tribes, low and quiet and solemn, comes 
 abroad upon the air? Why does not silence come 
 
Song of the Cricket. 143 
 
 down like tlie curtains of night, and brood in the 
 darkness over us? It is that we may not forget the 
 lessons that nature teaches. The heavens may be 
 darkened by clouds ; the face of the moon may be 
 veiled, and the stars may not shine out to remind 
 us ; the sound of the winds may be hushed ; but 
 the song of the cricket tells us, that life and beauty, 
 and joy, and happiness are rife among the creatures 
 of God. Such will your answer be, and we concede 
 its truth. 
 
 " Oh ! if we could surround the beautiful summer days, and 
 make them stay with us forever 1" 
 
 We would not do it if we could, indeed we would 
 not. "We love the summer, we love its long beau- 
 tiful days, its broad fields of grain, its rich foliage ; 
 we love its haying time, its hoeing time and its ripe 
 harvests. But its hot, burning days, its noxious 
 vapors, its deadly malaria, its fevers, its cholera and 
 cholera morbus, we do not like. "We love the au- 
 tumn, with its ripened fruits, its com huskings, its 
 potato digging, its fat deer, and the music of the 
 hounds on the mountains. We love the flaunting 
 robes, all flaming in crimson and yellow, and green 
 and deep brown that it throws over the hill-sides, 
 dressing them in beauty like an eastern Houri for 
 the bridal. "We love the winter, with its social even- 
 ings, its pure white robe of snow. We love the 
 jingle of its meny sleigh-bells. We love to hear 
 the hissing of the north wind, as it whirls around 
 
144 CouNTET Margins. 
 
 the comers, and over the house-tops and along the 
 streets, looking into the crevices of the windows, 
 and peering under the doors, as we sit with our 
 friends around us, and the coals burning cheerfully 
 in the grate. We can laugh at the north winds, 
 and cry, ha! ha I at the driving snow. 
 
 "We love the spring, with its opening buds, its 
 growing foliage, and its early flowers. We love the 
 beautiftd green fields, and the sweet breath of its 
 south wind, that comes to fan us, loaded with the 
 fragrance of the meadows. We love the glad song 
 of the early birds, and to see them building their 
 nests in the branches of the trees. We love to hear 
 the shrill call of the quail from his perch upon the 
 fence-stake, and the song of the catbird, or the brown 
 thrush, as he sits upon the topmost branch of the 
 shade-tree in the pasture, swaying in the breeze as 
 he sings. We love to see the young things, the 
 lambs, the pigs, the calves, the colts, and the little 
 children, all in their places, joyful and happy, frisk- 
 ing and playing and running hither and yon, in 
 their gleesomeness, fall of the spirit of life, and fim 
 and frolicking, as if there was to be no storm, no 
 equinox, no bleak fall days or pinching cold of win- 
 ter. We love the spring. We love summer, and 
 autumn, and winter. We love all the seasons and 
 all the months. We love the days of the months. 
 They are not all bright, and 'glorious, and sunny, 
 and we love them the more because they are not so. 
 " Some daya must be dark and dreary.'' 
 
Days op Sunshine and Storm. 145 
 
 The seasons are tlie types of human life, and the 
 days are types also. Mark this, friend Margins ; 
 in human destiny there are bright days, and dark 
 days; days of sunshine, and days of storm. There is 
 spring, and summer, and autumn, and winter. But 
 mark again. We have but one set of seasons. Spring 
 will never return to us, and when the winter of life 
 comes, -its chill will leave us only at death, and its 
 ice be thawed away only in the grave. But what 
 of that ? There is another coimtry, where there are 
 no dark days, no equinoxes, no storms, no winter 
 ■winds, where spring is perpetual. - Are we bound 
 to it? 
 
 " Let US take the down-hill of the year cheerily." 
 
 Change the word "year" to "life," and you will 
 have brought out the great leading principle of the 
 true philosophy of living. " Take the down-hill of 
 life cheerily," is your only true wisdom. You and 
 I, friend Margins, have at least ceased to be young. 
 And however we may deny being old, yet so much 
 we will yield for the argument's sake. And, more- 
 over, we cannot stapd still. We are moving. 
 "White hairs are gathering upon our heads, and 
 wrinkles are invading the corners of our eyes. 
 These are mile-stones on our journey of life. It will 
 do no good to count them — ^to try to eradicate them 
 is foUy. "We must march on. "We are on the top 
 of the hill at best, and our way henceforth is down- 
 ward. "Well, be it so, and what then? " Take the 
 
146 Country Margins. 
 
 down-liill of life cheerily." No murmuriag at tlie 
 descent. Millions upon millions have gone be- 
 fore us. There are flowers along the pathway, 
 down-hill as it is. Hope blooms by the way — in- 
 hale its fragrance and gather its blossoms. Cheer- 
 ily ! cheerily ! cries our guide. Let us follow in his 
 footsteps, submit to his guidance, and all will be 
 well. The way may be rough — he wUl lead us 
 where we will not stumble nor plunge headlong 
 down the precipices that tower above fathomless 
 depths. The way may be dark. Cheerily ! cheer- 
 ily! sounds from the darkness, and light bursts 
 upon our path. Yes, yes, cheerily is the word. 
 
 " Perhaps we will sinj that to-morrow night as we did in the 
 old times, with a dozen voices surging about, through the four 
 parts, not to say five or six, for there were always one or two 
 traversing or going crosswise, but we made a noise you may be 
 sure." 
 
 There is something about this that awakens me- 
 mory. The clouds of the past are lifting, and old 
 scenes are rising ih the perspective. We are young 
 again. A quarter of a century has been obliterated 
 from the number of our years, and we are on our 
 way to the old brown, weather-beaten school-house, 
 near the clear cold stream that flows along through 
 Pleasant Valley, away out in old Steuben. Blessings 
 on that beautiful valley, and that clear, cold stream. 
 We have caught strings of the speckled trout from 
 its deep eddies, and upon its ripples, and under the 
 
The Village Schoolmaster. 147 
 
 old logs tliat lay across it. But we are on our way 
 to that weather-beaten school-house. It is a clear, 
 frosty night. The stars are glistening like bright 
 gems in the sky, and the moonbeams sparkle like 
 diamonds, in their cold brilliancy on the snow. 
 The oak-trees, that retain their dead and withered 
 foliage, cast their shadows hke clouds, on the un- 
 broken crust on the meadows that skirt the road- 
 There is stillness all around us. The night voices 
 are all frozen into silence, but there is nothing sad 
 or solemn in the cold, calm hush of a winter's night. 
 We axe on our way to the " singing school." "We 
 remember the tall, lathy " singing master," with his 
 earnest and solemn face, his long hair parted on his 
 forehead, and combed straight and sleek over his 
 coat collar and resting on his shoulders. He is be' 
 fore us now, with his long, bony hand and long 
 fingers, and his mahogany pitch-pipe. His nasal fa! 
 sol! la! as he gives the "pitch" to his class, is 
 sounding in our ear. He was a devotional man, 
 and his faith in the saving ef&cacy of psalmody was 
 perfect. Among aU the tunes taught in his school. 
 Old Hundred was his especial favorite. True, he 
 indulged in Mear, Amsterdam, Lenox, China, Green- 
 field, Coronation, and others of the same centenarian 
 character, but Old Hundred was his weakness, his 
 idol, his great tune of tunes. It was his first, his 
 last, his midst and without end. It was the first 
 given out in the evening ; it was sung in the centre 
 minutes of the school, and was sxire to be the last at 
 
148 COUNTEY Maeqins. 
 
 its close. And that class, merry, happy, laughter- 
 loving young people, were they all, full of mischief, 
 frolic and fun. The more the simple-minded teach- 
 er loved and venerated his old favorite tune, the 
 more they murdered it by their discords. Bass, 
 tenor, treble, -and counter, were sure to be playing 
 at cross purposes. Lab'or as he would, the bass 
 would be too low and the tenor too high ; the treble 
 would push along like a locomotive, while the coun- 
 ter would drag its slow length away behind, all fill- 
 ing the musical ear with the most horrible compound 
 of discordant sounds. 
 
 The good teacher has gone to his long rest. The 
 old weather-beaten school-house has passed away. 
 The &ee trout stream that went laughing and scold- 
 ing over the clean pebbles, on its crooked path 
 towards the lake, has been harnessed to a great 
 water-wheel and made to grind com. That class, 
 too, is all scattered — ^some are on the ocean — some 
 in the far Western States — some beyond the Eocky 
 Mountains, and some dwell in the city of the dead. 
 "We remember their happy faces, as they were that 
 last winter that we spent at the old homestead. 
 They are before us now, and we see them as they 
 were gathered in the singing school, worrying the 
 good " singing master," with their mischievous dis- 
 cords. Shadows all, creatures of fancy, hallucina- 
 tions, memories only. 
 
 "We visited the old homestead the last summer. 
 It passed into the hands of strangers years ago. 
 
Mateonly Composuee. 149 
 
 We inquired for the bright-eyed, romping girl, the 
 beauty of the class, and we found her sitting in 
 matronly composure in the shadow of a cherry-tree 
 in front of her dwelling, fat and of rotund propor- 
 tions, smoking a pipe that was none of the cleanest. 
 She had cattle, and sheep, and grain, and pigs, and 
 may be, money out on interest ; but the vision of 
 the singing school had vanished away. Time! 
 Time! The wrecks that are scattered along thy 
 pathway ! 
 
XII. 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 Heaven seems to come very near to us this 
 morning. It is picture-day everywhere. Overhead, 
 the blue, and the blue only ; and below, in the soft 
 air, scarcely a single wave of motion. A mile dis- 
 tant on the islands, a line of white, some hundreds 
 of feet high, runs through the valley, and along the 
 edge of this snowy embankment stand tall pines in 
 bright green. Within those white curtains may be 
 seen other forms, faintly outlined and ghost-like ; 
 and underneath the front rank, and nearer by, on 
 plateaus of rock, smaller forest trees, rich in crimson 
 and royal colors. 
 
 The golden tint is in the air. This is why the 
 shadows on the grass have not the sharp outline 
 which of late they had in September, but rather the 
 softness as of shadows by moonlight. Sound itself 
 seems muffled, and comes gently to the ear. With- 
 out thought as to the why of it, people speak low 
 and in kind tones. Every one stroUs about lei- 
 surely, saying, in a quiet way, "Beautiful — ^great!" 
 
Globy and Pomp of Octobee.151 
 
 No one hurries to enjoy the day. .There is no 
 feeling that it is soon to pass away ; we know that, 
 but incline to think, notwithstanding, that now we 
 are to have, always, days just Hke this, soft, rich, 
 dreamy, and brimming with a quiet joy. We laugh 
 at anybody who didn't know beforehand that we 
 were going to have just such fine, glorious weather. 
 Of course ! isn't it October, my hearty ? and hasn't 
 it rained enough, in all conscience ? However, let 
 us pause over it, and take it down slowly, as the 
 boys do the pippins in the orchard. 
 
 A gala-day, a picture-day, artistic, beautiful. 
 Only a little while ago we had the sharp sour winds 
 and the rains — day after day, the wind and the rain. 
 Those were the sneezing times, the coughing times, . 
 the tooth-ache and the face-ache times. It was hard 
 to look upon the world then, as other than a very 
 wet and cold affair. Now we counterpoise in the 
 calm, the repose, the pomp of October. 
 
 To-day, all things put on glory. Pureness, and 
 beauty, and glory. These grow up together always ; 
 the one from the other. Pureness and then beauty, 
 and then the crown of glory which God places with 
 his own hand on every perfected life. It is the 
 water made wine, by the miracle of death. For 
 death is not the Divine order of things, but' life. 
 Not pain and trouble, not sinning and shame, not 
 repentance and prayer, not struggle and labor, — 
 but peace and joy, acclamation and hallelujahs, — 
 the water made wine. Some excellent, well-mean- 
 
152 Country Margins. 
 
 ing people think it the reverse of this — ^to wit : the 
 wine made water. But, oh, no! Grod does not 
 offer his children any such cup of dilution, but the 
 fulness, (think of this, oh lame, and halt, and blind, 
 and deaf, ailing and struggling and starving world, 
 ponder well the promise,) the fulness of life. 
 
 One cannot well say, to-day, — "Be not angry 
 with us forever." We revolt at this, as unkind, 
 unthankful. Surely not to-day, not to-day is He 
 angry with us. Where is it written ? Let me see 
 the handwriting, the autograph of the Most High. 
 Where is it written that He is angry with \is? Not 
 in the blue up there ! Not in the little white clouds 
 which just now are forming from the morning 
 mist, — ^not in the rich fruits of the earth, — ^not in 
 this air tempered to the most exquisite finish of 
 strength and enjoyment, — ^not in this soft white 
 light, — not in the hearts of His people, for wherever 
 this morning you find any weakest servant of His, 
 you will find thanksgiving and praise, and a fiill 
 measure at that, pressed down and rimning over, a 
 well of waters springing up into everlasting life. 
 Ah, if we could hear the utterance of their hearts, 
 would it not be, "Thou, Thou art the King of 
 Glory, O Christ ! Thou, who art the everlasting 
 Son of the Father. Heaven and earth are fall of 
 the Majesty of thy Glory." 
 
 But these are all God's pure creations, and 
 restorations, without sin, without responsibility. 
 Looking beyond them, — ^into our own hearts, when 
 
Modern Stimulants. 153 
 
 not in accord witli the true and the right, — ^into the 
 actions of men, — ^into whatever -will live and bear 
 record always, we then perceive the need of that 
 petition, and the deeper we study the responsibilities 
 of life, the greater the need and the more terrible 
 the significance of those words, — " Be not angry 
 with us forever." 
 
 Of late — within a very few years — ^life has become 
 cheap. Our life, I mean, and not that of cattle and 
 brute things. I do not know it to be true, but it 
 seems to me that cases of sudden death (apart from 
 external violence) are much more frequent than we 
 have ever known before. Of course, there must be 
 a cause for this. "We live more upon stimulants 
 than upon healthy nutriment. The stimulants of 
 swift travel, of luxuries of eating and drinking, of 
 music and parade and dress, of appetites, mental 
 and moral, sharpened to indigestible consequences. 
 These we live upon, mostly, and the first child born 
 of this life is unchecked self-indulgence — ^pleasure — 
 the having a satisfactory to-day, anyhow, and with- 
 out regard to to-morrow. All this becomes, in the 
 aggregate, a passion so overwhelming as to entirely 
 overlook the very instrument by which whatever 
 pleasure is received, namely : the life itself. Whether 
 we shall so become accustomed to living faster than 
 our fathers as finally to reach a certain poise and 
 equilibrium, a clearness for giddiness, and strength 
 for mere animal spirits ; whether we shall arrive at 
 stability and speed combined, I am not shrewd 
 7 
 
154 Country Maegibts. 
 
 enougli to guess ; but no one ■will deny that, just 
 now, we are continually blowing up, or running off 
 tbe track, or knifeing, or clubbing, or shooting 
 somebody, because something unpleasant has hap- 
 pened. If we can show some sort of reason for 
 taking a neighbor's life, it is counted sufficient ; espe- 
 cially if we can make out that others in like circimi- 
 stances would have been tempted to do the same. 
 If it is natural, it must be right. In such cases, 
 juries acquit, judges pardon, and editors applaud. 
 At this rate, where, in the way of whirlwinds, are 
 we to bring up ? 
 
 A few days since a young girl in a distant city 
 shot her betrayer, and the Register, commenting 
 upon the facts, as they are reported, says, " She 
 served Mm right." It is probable that most of your 
 readers appreciated the spirit in which you said it, 
 but, you will excuse me for going out of my beat, 
 to show you how it looks to us here in the country. 
 Let us talk it over, in a quiet way. 
 
 And first, let me ask who has come down from 
 Heaven to say that a ball through the brain is good 
 and right for the seducer? Not any angel, — not 
 Jesus of Nazareth — not the Holy Ghost. Nor is 
 there any message left on record anywhere to that 
 effect. The sentiment therefore must be of human 
 origin. Accordingly, in the same article in the 
 Register, we find a law proclaimed, higher than any 
 of God's laws, and this higher law is supposed to 
 rule in this case. This, of course, you do not put 
 
One of God's Laws. 155 
 
 fortli as anything new, for there can be nothing new 
 in morals. At any rate, it is not new. It is so com- 
 mon that it may be called, -par excellence, " the com- 
 mon law " of the world; It is the convenient law 
 of human passion. It is the law of sin. It is ex- 
 ceedingly popular, and carries a high hand in the 
 affairs of the world. But it is something new to 
 hear of it as being good and right. If, in this case 
 in hand, there is anything that makes it seem right, 
 it is probably some element of partial justice, to 
 which we can say "amen" and pass on, without 
 further investigation. 
 
 One of God's laws commands that we "forgive 
 others, as we ourselves hope to be forgiven." Now 
 there may be existences, there may be groups of 
 worlds peopled with beings of whom such a re- 
 quirement never has been made, because unneces- 
 sary, inasmuch as they themselves need no for- 
 giveness. Such a people fulfilling aU law, we can 
 imagine, may have certain judicial authority, over 
 any intruders that may come among them of a lower 
 order, or over any of their own number, who may 
 be transgressors. At first thought this would seem 
 likely, but looking deeper into the matter, we per- 
 ceive that they would not be fit judges of matters 
 beyond their own experience. It would be neces- 
 sary to find some one who had been tempted with 
 all manner of evil, and yet remained upright, and so 
 maintained perfect clearness of perception and judg- 
 ment as to what is right and what wrong. If such 
 
156 Country Makgiks. 
 
 an one could be found, it would be perfectly safe to 
 vest in l^im all judicial authority . 
 
 Our case is different. We are all violators of law 
 — State's prison birds, every man of us — and for us 
 to set up judgment is to set up farce. Farce in fact, 
 but tragedy of the bloodiest kind in its results. All 
 we can properly do, is to change tbe venue to an- 
 other world, and meanwhile keep the peace as well 
 as we can, and wait untU we can all come into 
 court together. And while we wait, this precept of 
 forgiveness is all we have to live upon. It is liter- 
 ally our meat and drink. It is not only (through 
 mediation) divinely right, but it is the highest poli- 
 cy, the wisest expediency that can possibly be de- 
 vised. Without it, the world would go to pieces 
 before sunset. It is absolutely all that keeps us 
 alive. For we are all, as we say, in the same boat. 
 People on board ship, in a storm, and with the prosr 
 pect of wreck before them, are, for the most part, 
 exceedingly kind and forgiving. (I speak of men, 
 not devils.) All differences are overlooked — ^pistols 
 laid aside, as not at all pertinent to the matter^^and 
 every man bears a hand to avert the calamity. 
 
 But scattered about as we are in the world, and 
 in diverse ways of occupation, we forget the com- 
 mon danger, — the lee-shore and the rocks, — ^and 
 become hard and judicial. We set up higher laws, 
 and walk about with an assured emphasis. 
 
 As I am not addressing you especially, Mr. 
 Editor, but only throwing out a word against the 
 
The Betrayed Q-irl. 157 
 
 popular drift, will you permit me to talk on a little 
 further? It is refreshing, sometimes, to get into 
 commonplace. 
 
 You may ask, — (I am putting up ,an imaginary 
 editor) — " Do you not see the great moral force of 
 punishment? of justice satisfied? of the fearful retri- 
 bution which must follow transgression?" 
 
 Yes — I see that — ^and more. I see — murder. I 
 see that as long as reputable papers and warm- 
 hearted men cry " hravo" the use of the knife and 
 pistol will become exceedingly facile and con- 
 venient. I see a time ahead, when if this continues, 
 no man will dare to step into the street, until he has 
 well pondered whether in his breakfast, or in his 
 prayers, or in the cut of his coat, he has suited his 
 opposite neighbor, who stands ready with a loaded 
 pistol to blow his brains out, unless he is strictly 
 orthodox in all these matters. Kind Heaven for- 
 bid that I should compare these cases — I am speak- 
 ing of tendencies and results. 
 
 Furthermore, you admit that the law (human law) 
 may regard this act of the betrayed girl, as crime. 
 This, abstractly, is of no moment. Men. differ in 
 opinion as to crime, but crime is not one thing to- 
 day and another to-morrow ; one thing to me, and 
 another to you. Facts are not disturbed or even 
 modified by opinion or by human law. We take 
 side views, cross views, wrong views, and always 
 partial views, but in all this, we cast no shadow 
 upon the white glory of truth. The shadows all 
 
158 CouNTEY Margins. 
 
 fall the other way. Human action and thought are 
 of course to be judged by facts, not opinions ; truth, 
 not guesses or approximations. In this only rests 
 the safety and stability of all of God's creations. 
 
 There is trouble enough in the world, however 
 bright it may look to you and me. Men are daily 
 going mad by looking too long into these depths. 
 It is scarcely possible to look down upon punish- 
 ment, without being smitten and blasted by its near 
 approach. We come back, singed and blackened 
 with its smoke and fire. "We take within us some- 
 thing of the spirit of the place. It is better, as it is 
 how much pleasanter, to stay in Heaven's sunlight, 
 where there is a way to meet every trouble and 
 calamity that can happen to man (short of madness), 
 and that is, not with submission only, but thankful- 
 ness that God is caring for us in that special man- 
 ner. We know then that He is close by. He is 
 taking things in hand for us ; managing and order- 
 ing our affairs, which, whether we knew it or not, 
 were undoubtedly in a ruinous way. To resent 
 this and fly in the face of Heaven with pistols, &c., 
 — oh, this serves no one right, nor is it right in it- 
 self. 
 
 If it is, let us begin the work of death, right and 
 left. It has been quoted as proof of God's omni- 
 potence, as shown in his power over his own holy 
 attributes, that He does not at once punish all trans- 
 gression, or (as this would be, in effect) drop the 
 world from His hand, as a worthless creation. Car- 
 
ASOLITABY No. 159 
 
 ry out the purpose of serving everybody right to- 
 day, and the sun and moon would look down to- 
 night upon a dead world. In the fulness of time, 
 this will come, but let us not hasten the day. 
 
 But you win perhaps press the question close 
 home upon me — " Did you not, as to that leaden 
 ball which took the life of the seducer, say in your 
 inmost heart, and with all your heart, that it served 
 him right ?" 
 
 Well, Mr. Editor, suppose I say yes, and suppose 
 aU the world says " yes," — every man, woman and 
 child on the face of the earth — ^what has that to do 
 with it ? Suppose the vote were taken to-day, and 
 the mingling ayes of aU the living hosts were to rise 
 together, might there not possibly be one feeble 
 voice heard thrilling through the uproar, one heart- 
 broken child of sorrow, struggling through tears 
 and agony to drown this mistaken kindness ? And 
 might not this solitary "iVb" from a heart humbled 
 and broken before God, be more likely to go up 
 into Heaven than all the noisy affirmations that 
 would go clamoring about the world? And if 
 some one in Heaven were taking an account of the 
 transaction, might it not read something like this — 
 " Yote taken this morning on the earth, as to a ques- 
 tion of right and justice. Messengers report that 
 all the world voted aye, but nothing was heard 
 here save one feeble 'No,' from a penitent child. 
 The question is lost." 
 
 " But," say you," let us take the world as we find 
 
160 Country Margins. 
 
 it. We are not Gods. You have talked over a 
 long string of moralities, whicli nobody denies, and 
 for wMch no one is tlie wiser. Let us haVe some- 
 thing practical. What is your reply ?" 
 
 It is this, that I have not the remotest idea of 
 "what is right, in such a case. I see no good result 
 in such a terrible conclusion. Another crime is 
 added, which in nowise mends the matter. An- 
 other cause for sorrow, and the long, long nights of 
 trembling and fear ; of misgiving and doubt, of 
 horrors piled up breaker-like in tossing cpnfasion. 
 I see the vista of life darkened and storm-troubledi 
 in which shadows and lightnings play in fellowship. 
 I hear voices in that gloom, as of people going 
 about, saying " Served him right, served him right /" 
 I see no light there, no landscape of peace, no glory 
 of October. It is winter thereaway and night ! 
 Oh, thou Christ, who art the joy of the world, stay 
 with us always, and be our noon-day of light for- 
 ever ! 
 
 No, I can't take upon myself to know what is 
 right as a just punishment for another orfor myself ; 
 nor am I required to puzzle my brain about it. 
 But if there is any highway of escape, any ransom, 
 tell me about that. I came into the world only a 
 few years ago, and can't make out to see very far, 
 as yet, or very clearly. The confusion is great ; 
 the light and shade intermingle, and cheat the eye 
 continually with false distances, and false bearings, 
 and false magnitudes. Only one thing seems tolera- 
 
The Pippins in the Obchaed. 161 
 
 bly plain — ^that light and darkness are diverse — ^that 
 you can't make one out of tlie other — that you may 
 as well expeet a lamb from a wild-cat, as good from 
 evil. They won't breed together. They won't live 
 together. They go contrary ways, though they meet 
 often, and always to clash, and part, and come together 
 again, fighting to the last gasp. One or the other must 
 go to the wall, some day. This, I beheve, is getting to 
 bethe general opinion. We can't live so forever. Pa- 
 tience wUl be worn out, forbearance exhausted, and 
 there will be a general uprising of all souls that have 
 ever lived from Adam down, and a universal prayer 
 and shout will go up to Heaven from men, angels, 
 and devils, that the combatants be parted, and sent, 
 each to some prepared place, with such a gulf and 
 high walls between, as wiU keep them forever 
 asunder. 
 
 With a view to this, God has long ago set apart 
 a special day — the last of this administration — when, 
 without doubt, and without contingency, everybody 
 will be " served right. ' 
 
 Yours, . 
 
 " However, let us pause over it and take it down slowjy, as 
 the boys do the pippins in the orchard." 
 
 There are memories that come clustering about 
 these "boys," these "pippins," and the "orchard." 
 Do you remember the old Cider Mill, friend Mar- 
 7* 
 
162 Country Makgins. 
 
 GINS, and tlie old horse as he travelled roimd and 
 round, moving with a slow and dignified tread) 
 " hitched" to the long lever that turned the wooden 
 mill that crushed the apples into pummice ? Do 
 you remember the great " cheese" in its bandage 
 of straw beneath the press, and how, when the great 
 screws were turned in the massive gallows-shaped 
 frame, the rich juice of the apple came gushing out 
 and running into the great tub placed to receive it ? 
 Do you remember how, with a straw, the urchins, 
 as they came along on their way home from school, 
 filled themselves with sweet cider from the bung of 
 the barrel ? Do you remember how in the long 
 winter nights you sat around the fire-place wherein 
 logs were blazing, and how the pitcher of cider 
 and the platter of doughnuts were placed upon the 
 old cherry table that sat out in the middle of the 
 kitchen, and how you helped yourself to the cider 
 and the doughnuts, and how happy each one was 
 as he sat with his pewter mug of cider in one hand 
 and a doughnut in the other before that old-fash- 
 ioned kitchen fire-place? Those were pleasant 
 times. -But they are memories now. And then 
 the apple parings, or "bees," as they were called, 
 when the young men and maidens came together to 
 pare apples, and talk and laugh and play old-fash- 
 ioned plays, and say soft things to one another and 
 eat pumpkin pies, and be happy after the fashion of 
 the country people when you and I were yoxmg. 
 Primitive times those were, friend Margins, and 
 
The Favorite Apple-Tbee. 163 
 
 our proud daughters and city dames would turn up 
 their noses hugely were they to be present at an 
 old-fashioned apple-bee, such as they used to have 
 out in old Steuben when the country was new, and 
 the fashions were primitive. 
 
 We remember, when we were young, there was 
 a favorite tree in our father's orchard which bore 
 choice winter apples. It was called the big tree, 
 because it was the largest in the orchard. The 
 fruit of this tree was always left xintil the last, and 
 was gathered with great care. There was a worth- 
 less fellow living in the neighborhood who one year 
 coveted a portion of the fruit on the "big tree," 
 and was not deterred from its acquisition by the 
 divine commandment, "thou shalt not steal." A 
 quantity of the apples disappeared one night, and 
 the tracks of whoever stole them had a strange re- 
 semblance to those made by the heelless boots of 
 our dishonest neighbor. There were two insepara- 
 ble friends on the old homestead in those early 
 days ; the One a " colored gentleman," by the name 
 of Shadrach, who came to our father's possession in 
 payment for a debt, and who ran away regularly 
 two or three times a year, and then as regularly ran 
 back again, just as his master began to indulge the 
 hope that he had got rid of him for good. The 
 other was a great dog, half mastiff and half bull, of 
 ^ noble presence and a fearless courage. " Drive" 
 and " Shadrach" were inseparable. They worked 
 and played together, slept together in the same Joft, 
 
164 Country Margins. 
 
 and Shadxacli never ate a meal while tlie dog lived, 
 at least at home, without sharing it with his canine 
 friend. He would talk with Drive for hours 
 when they were alone, and although the dog didn't 
 say much himself, yet Shadrach said a good 
 many things, and laid down and argued out a great 
 many queer propositions, against which Drive 
 uttered not a word of dissent. 
 
 One chilly night in October, Shadrach and Drive 
 had been out along the cornfields on an imsuccess- 
 ful coon hunt. On their return the dog dashed off 
 through the orchard, and in a minute or two com- 
 menced barking, and Shadrach of course supposed' 
 he had treed a coon on one of the fruit-trees. Now, 
 Shadrach had an abiding faith in spiritual manifes- 
 tations, and stood in mortal fear of " the gentleman 
 in black," and all manner of spooks in general. 
 Upon arriving at the "big tree" by the foot of 
 which Drive sat, and looking up among the branches, 
 he saw there in the darkness a great black object, 
 with something which seemed like a winding sheet 
 in its hand. Shadrach's hair began to uncurl as he 
 looked, and hallooing " seek him" to Drive, broke 
 like a quarter nag for the house. He bolted breath- 
 lessly into the kitchen, exclaiming, " Massa, Massa 1 
 Drive got de debble in de big apple-tree !" "What 
 is that, you woolly-pated rhinoceros ?" replied his 
 master. "Drive got de debble treed on de big 
 apple-tree I" repeated the negro. A torch was 
 lighted, and upon going into the orchard, there sat 
 
The Thief in the Apple-Teee. 165 
 
 our thievish neighbor among the branches, with a 
 bag half filled with the coveted fruit. Our father 
 said not a word to him, but after giving Shadrach 
 certain directions, returned quietly to the house. 
 Old Shadrach laid his jacket down by the root of 
 the apple-tree, and ordering Drive to watch it, 
 said to the occupant of the tree, " Look hea, you 
 brack tief, you come down, and Drive eat you 
 head off sartain. ITgly dog dat. Eat a white tief 
 up like a coon, sure. Roost up dare like turkey, 
 yah! yah!" Shadrach went to his loft, and laid 
 himself quietly away. When the day broke, there 
 was the thief in the tree, and there was Drive watch- 
 ing him. When the sun rose they were there. The 
 negro gave Drive his breakfast, and left him his 
 jacket and the man in the tree to watch. Our 
 father and the " boys," of whom we were one, went 
 to husking corn in the orchard. Ten o'clock came, 
 and there was the dog at the roots, and the man 
 perched among the branches of the "big apple- 
 tree." The horn sounded for dinner, and when we 
 returned the two were there still. The thief called 
 beseeching to our father to allow him to come 
 down. "WeII,"was the reply, "why don't you 
 come down ?" " This infernal dog will eat me up 
 if I do," said the thief. " Very likely," was the 
 calm rejoinder, and we went on husking the corn. 
 Once or twice the occupant of the apple-tree, after 
 coaxing and flattering the dog, attempted to de- 
 scend, but Drive's ivory warned him of his peril, and 
 
166 CouNTEY Margins. 
 
 lie went back to his perch. There never was another 
 human being in such ecstasies all the day as was that 
 negro. " Yah ! yah !" he would break out in an un- 
 controllable cachinnation, and then roll and haUoo, 
 and yah I yahl among the corn-stalks, until you 
 could hear him a mile. The sun went down be- 
 hind the hills, and there still was the thief and the 
 dog. We all went in to supper, and in the twilight 
 of the evening, in pity to the famished and fright- 
 ened culprit, the dog was withdrawn, and he was 
 permitted to slink away home. He never stole 
 apples again, or anything else from our father, while 
 Drive and old Shadrach remained on the farm. 
 
 " A few days since, a young girl in a distant city shot her 
 betrayer, and the Register, commenting upon the facts, as they 
 are reported, says, ' She served him right.' " 
 
 We read one day in a Western paper that a man 
 had secured, by the seducer's arts, the affections of 
 a confiding and inexperienced girl; that he had 
 tempted her to leave her home and those whom she 
 loved, and who loved her; that, confiding in his 
 promises, and leaning upon his faith, she had gone 
 with him to a distant city, where he was to make 
 her his wife. That, delaying under various pretexts 
 the performance of his vows, he succeeded in rob- 
 bing her of her virtue, and then left her desolate 
 and penniless, unprotected and alone, in a strange 
 city. That when she sought him out, and claimed 
 the performance of his plighted word, he threw her 
 
She Served Him Eight. 167 
 
 from him in scorn, like a worthless weed, away. 
 That in her despair, and smarting under her match- 
 less wrongs, she smote hinj to death at her feet. 
 Upon reading this account of the gigantic wicked- 
 ness, the iron cruelty of her betrayer, we said, and 
 we say again, "She served him right;" and herein 
 it will be seen that we struck a chord that roused 
 up the latent energies of our friend Margins, and 
 brought forth his inward might. 
 
 We spoke of hximan nature as God made it. We 
 spoke of man as he is, exercising the attributes of 
 humanity ; of human instincts and sympathies, and 
 passions, as they are. We took the heart of man 
 as it came from the hands of Deity, fashioned as He 
 fashioned it, quick with all its natural yearnings 
 and finite pulsations. We spoke of right and 
 wrong, as human judgment views them ; of retri- 
 bution weighed in human scales, and, measuring 
 the infliction of the punishment in this isolated case 
 by the vastness of the wrong committed, we said 
 that the act which swept the seducer from among 
 the living, " served him right." 
 
 The murderer who is taken with the blood of 
 innocence fresh upon his hand, is doomed by the 
 law to death, and through the -agency of the gallows 
 or the axe he is launched into eternity. Does any- 
 body say that the law does not " serve him right ?" 
 Who preaches forgiveness to the law ? Who talks 
 to the law about exercising the attributes of Deity? 
 Or requires it to leave the punishment of the mur- 
 
168 CouNTKY Margins. 
 
 derer to God ? Who asks the law to -uncoil itself 
 from around its victim, and let him go forth to slay 
 anev? Nobody. Well, why does the law hang 
 the murderer, the traitor to his country, the incen- 
 diary who fires your dwelling in which your little 
 ones are sleeping ? What is the principle of the 
 thing, the philosophy of this matter ? " Serves him 
 right" is the maxim underlaying all penal codes — 
 " Serves him right" is the authority, the great fun- 
 damental truth whereon is based all human, aye, 
 and divine systems, too, of rewards and punish- 
 ments. It is useless to argue the propriety or pohcy 
 of the death penalty now. Wiser men than we are, 
 friend Maegins, have been arguing that question 
 for a good many hundred years, and have not set- 
 tled it yet. " Serves him right," says the judge, as 
 he did when the argument commenced. " Serves 
 him right," says the executioner, as he brandishes 
 his axe. " Serves him right," says the law, as the 
 head of the culprit falls. Mark, the act which the 
 law thus performs is one of retribution, based upon 
 the crime of the culprit. • It is justice, weighing out 
 punishment for wrong, adjusting the degree of the 
 one to the enormity of the other. Nobody blames 
 the law for inflicting death, or the officers who are 
 the ministers of the law. In the case of the mur- 
 derer, the law affixes the penalty, and appoints the 
 method of its enforcement. It is legal justice, but 
 based upon a higher principle of natural justice. 
 True, one object of the penal code which affixes 
 
The Midnight Culpeit. 169 
 
 the death penalty, is to protect society from tte 
 repetition of outrage, and some have claimed that 
 another object of punishment was the reformation 
 of the culprit, but we never knew the morals of a 
 man to be improved by hanging, or having his head 
 cut off. 
 
 Well, we assume that the law when it takes the 
 life of the murderer, " Serves him right," deals out to 
 him a just measure of punishment. Do you agree 
 with us in this, friend Margins? Yes! Then 
 we have advanced one step in the argument. 
 
 Now remember that the law, and the judge, and 
 the executioner are but instruments wielded by jus- 
 tice to do an act of retribution. It is not always 
 right to kill a man because the law sanctions the 
 act. The word of an absolute monarch is the law 
 of his dominions, yet when he says an honest man 
 shall die, and strikes off his head, it is not right. 
 It cannot be said of the sentence and the sufferer, 
 " It served him right." The law doomed the mar- 
 tyrs to the flames, but it did not " serve them right." 
 Why ? Because there was no great moral wrong, 
 commensurate with the magnitude of the punish- 
 ment, committed, to give vitality to the right and 
 power of the law to take life. The great ingredient 
 of crime was wanting. We give these illustrations 
 for the purpose of showing that it is not the might 
 of the law that makes it right. The murderer is 
 deserving of death independently of human laws. 
 Is the culprit who slays at midnight and hides his 
 
170 OOUKTRY MARGIN'S. 
 
 victim, the less deserving of punislimeiit .because 
 his crime cannot be proven in a court of justice ? 
 Is lie any the less guilty because he has concealed 
 his crime from the clear knowledge of the world, 
 and is he therefore the less deserving of punish- 
 ment? 
 
 In the dark annals of iniquity there can be no 
 crime of a deeper dye than that of him who coils 
 himself in the confidence, nestles in the warm affec- 
 tions of a trusting girl, and under the solemn prom- 
 ise of marriage, robs her of more than life, and then 
 leaves her to the cold scorn of the world, to wan- 
 der, hopeless and companionless, through long des- 
 olate years, to find a grave of infamy and sorrow at 
 last. Think of the mother's heart crushed, and the 
 father's anguish. Such a man commits more than 
 murder. He kills the body by a lingering agony, 
 and destroys the soul. Had he slain his victim at 
 once, you and I, friend Margins, would have said, 
 while we looked upon her moveless corpse, and his 
 hand red with her blood, "this man shall die." 
 We would have handed him over to the law, to the 
 judge and the executioner, as the ministers of a just 
 retribution, and bid them spare not. When the 
 sentence that doomed him to death had been exe- 
 cuted, we should have said, " served him right." 
 Aye, in looking upon his great crime, and the gal- 
 lows upon which he was hanging, with the last 
 pulsation of life choked out of him, looking upon 
 only these two great facts, and without a thought 
 
Just Measttbe of Eeteibutiobt. 171 
 
 of tlie process -whicli suspended him there, we would 
 say — " This is a just measure of retribution." "It 
 serves him right." But here was a crime greater 
 than a simple murder — a crime which inflicts a 
 lingering death, and destroys a soul, and when we 
 remember the gigantic wickedness of the destroyer, 
 and see him struck down even by a felon blow, will 
 we not still say, "served him right?" Eemember, 
 we are speaking now only of his deserts — of a just 
 measure of retribution so far as Ae is concerned, 
 neither more nor less. If he points to the wound 
 that is killing him, and claims our sympathy as a 
 wronged man, as suffering a penalty beyond the 
 measure of his deserts, we might be moved to pity 
 for his fate, but when we looked upon the desolate 
 and crushed victim of his heartless villany, every 
 instinct of our nature would still say — " served him 
 right." Were he standing on the verge of the pre- 
 cipice that towers above the boiling eddies of Niag- 
 ara, with the cry of his victim mingling with the 
 roar of the waters, as she struggled to pull him 
 down, when we saw him reeling to his fall, we 
 might, in mercy, reach forth a hand to save him, 
 but if before we could do so he should disappear 
 over the beetling cliffs, while we might be shocked 
 at his terrible doom, we should stUl say — " served 
 him right." And what matters it whether this 
 retribution is measured out by the law, or by the 
 hand of the individual wronged, we mean so far as 
 the wrong-doer is concerned? 
 
172 Country Margins. 
 
 Now we beseecli you, friend Margins, to under- 
 stand us. "We could say to his victim and his 
 slayer, " You are all wrong ; you have broken the 
 law; you have violated the social compact; you 
 have transgressed against the commandment of 
 God." In short, friend Margins, we could repeat 
 to her your excellent sermon and endorse it all, and 
 yet say as between her and her seducer alone, " she 
 served him right." Think you, that her seducer, 
 when he stands before the throne of eternal justice, 
 will be heard, when he complains of the wrong he 
 has suffered ? "Wrong there is doubtless, sin to be 
 answered for, but it will not be wrong against the 
 villain seducer, the destroyer of innocence, not 
 against him. The sin is against God and his law, 
 and when this controversy between the seducer and 
 his victim shall be settled in Heaven's chancery, 
 the verdict as between the two will be, " served him 
 right." 
 
XIII. 
 
 NELLY. 
 
 Dear Editor, have you not a young Bob, or 
 Dick or Tom, to come up and play witli our Nelly ? 
 K, you have, send hinn up, and we will return him to 
 you in the spring, fat and strong with corned beef 
 and country air. We want a companion for Nelly, 
 lest she should become plulosophioal and grand. 
 She ' has been with us but a few weeks, but is 
 already rather didactic, and asking questions quite 
 impossible to answer. I think some of writing a 
 profound treatise on life, beginning with Nelly as 
 a foundation, and coming up into mature years with 
 the child as a continual reference and standard of 
 values. 
 
 I imagine it would be seen (as Macaulay says in 
 the opening of his great history, it will he seen — it 
 will he seen), that notwithstanding what St. Paul 
 says of putting away childish things — children are 
 mostly in the right, and that for many of us to walk 
 back instead of onward, would be the wiser course. 
 It certainly is a beautiful arrangement that the 
 world is being constantly supplied with new begin- 
 
174 COUNTEY Maegins. 
 
 ners, creatures direct from God, and tliat so per- 
 petual newness and freslmess is continually kept 
 up. 
 
 We talk of Adam and Eve as having been, be- 
 fore the fall, in a very happy condition ; but one 
 thing they missed — ^they -were never children. They 
 never rode horse on a stick, or went to bed with a 
 doll. If they had begun life, little by little, line 
 upon line, seeing, and hearing, and thinking, and 
 acting slowly, and in a small way, but experiment- 
 ally always, as do their children, and i^ like them, 
 they had tumbled down stairs, seen stars on the ice, 
 burned their fingers, and in thousands of ways 
 stumbled and bruised themselves upon certain phy- 
 sical laws, hard thumping evidences of order and 
 sequence, would they, oh my excellent editor, would 
 they have eaten the apple ? And may not the order 
 of Providence, in their history, have been to show 
 not merely that all creatures must rely wholly upon 
 him absolutely and unconditionally as their life and 
 strength, but that this life and strength must be that 
 of slow and gradual accumulation ; that, in short, we 
 must toddle before we can walk? 
 
 And however sad may have been the giving up 
 of that Eden, it was the place where the apple grew. 
 It had its temptation, and what more have we? 
 Day by day thousands are born into life, who, if 
 they stay for any time, must be led out, with what- 
 ever kindness and whatever words of hope and love, 
 by the same hand, from the garden of childhood 
 
Little Nelly Fast Asleep, 175 
 
 into the cold and dark contrasts of struggling life. 
 Tlie gates are forever opening and closing upon the 
 little ones, and just in proportion as they have 
 deeply felt the joy and beauty of their first days, 
 and the strife and temptation of the days beyond, 
 "Will they go forth with saddened faces and with care- 
 ful steps. Thanks be to God, there is one who has 
 been before them, and who knows the way right 
 weU. 
 
 A flower is a pretty thing with its color and soft- 
 ness, and its modest joyfolness of expression ; so 
 may be a picture, better than whatever piece of 
 inanimate nature, but when you have the flower 
 and picture embodied in flesh and blood, walking 
 and running about, talking, laughing, siiJging little 
 songs and hymns and glorias all in a mix, question- 
 ing, wondering, and rejoicing always, or on its knees 
 talking with the Unseen, teUing Him some little 
 trouble and asking for guidance and help — then you 
 have a little piece of Heaven upon earth ; a young 
 sprout of intelligence fresh from God himself, placed 
 here to grow up into strength and beauty, and at 
 last, under His care, to return to Him in His own 
 home ; accepted, restored, saved it may be as by fire, 
 but crowned now with eternal glory. 
 
 Have you never, Mr. Editor, in the dead of night, 
 with some little NeUy lying close by, fast asleep 
 with a doll on either side, and her hair floating 
 over her face, have you never felt the insane desire 
 to have some burglar enter the room, so that you 
 
176 CouNTEY Margins. 
 
 might shatter him into ten thousand fragments? 
 Hare you never felt the power which Kelly would 
 give to the right arm which would hurl him down 
 the hall-stairs and smash the wash-bowl on his pre- 
 posterous brain? And would it be all because 
 Nelly is so helpless ? So we say, but that is not 
 all. It is because she is pure, and no breath of 
 harm must come to her. "We act, in such cases, in 
 God's behalf. The angels, perhaps, are with us, 
 those who behold the face of the Father. They — 
 it may be — give the strength, or the heart's blood. 
 We take care of these little ones, as the Israelites 
 did of the ark of the covenant. Let nothing pro- 
 fane come here — no rude hand, or word, or thought, 
 for it is ^oly ground. This is why a man may 
 think or speak evil in a temple of worship, or 
 whatever holiest moment or place, but not before a 
 little child, not before one of God's pure witnesses. 
 Nelly and I are getting slowly acquainted. 
 Yesterday, being rainy, she was busy for a long 
 time putting my hair in papers, after which she 
 advised a walk on the piazza, to give a set to the 
 curls, as that, she said, was the way they did out 
 "West. At night some of the papers were examined, 
 but not looking well, she recommended me to keep 
 them on all night, which accordingly I did, and 
 got up this morning with a headache. But the 
 whole thing, my dear editor, was a most melancholy 
 failure. Such was yesterday. To-day she is writ- 
 ing — ^something important, no doubt — with a sharp 
 
Peecocious Children. 177 
 
 stick ■which she is continually dipping in my ink- 
 stand. Her great distress — ^when she has any dis- 
 tress — ^is in the b-a-ba, k-e-r ker, line — as in making 
 e-a-r-t-h into ur^, the phUosophy of which is too 
 deep for her. How much falsehood is hinted in 
 this and the like orthographical lies, or how much 
 faith in the necessity of believing such monstrous 
 absurdities, would be a new question to discuss. 
 But these light troubles are soon over. Five 
 minutes after such a tribulation, she will be swing- 
 ing violently in the great rocker, with both dolls in 
 her arms, to whom she pours forth songs with a 
 die-away sentimentality and occasional cracked- 
 voice apphmb, that is sometimes very exciting. 
 
 Oh, my kind Editor, the world is safe as long aa 
 children are bom into it. If that arrangement 
 should ever cease, if men and women should spring 
 up, or be dropped down ready-made, we might as 
 well give up at once. There would be such a panic 
 and stampede as the world has never seen. Some- 
 thing approaching to this is unfortunately taking 
 place ia these latter days; children are not per- 
 mitted to be children, but with fearful precocity 
 are made up rapidly into men and women. This 
 is the way you have in town. But the cities — ^let 
 us be thankful — do not contain everybody. There 
 is a connection with God and Heaven still kept up, 
 . through the country and country hfe, Hereia is 
 the safety of the world, and of govermjient, and the 
 perpetuity of good iastitutions-rr-that you cannoib 
 8 
 
178 CouNTET Margins. 
 
 wall in the country, you cannot pave the lakes, and 
 the prairies, and the rivers; you cannot shut out 
 the blue sky and the stars, you cannot fence in the 
 mountains, you cannot bowl out the salt sea, and 
 make streets and build palaces there. God reserves 
 to Himself all these, and permits to those who like 
 them, the self-confidence of streets and common 
 councils, saying, however, that except He keep the 
 city, the watchman watcheth but in vain. 
 
 The time must come, Mr. Editor, when we shall 
 perceive that much of our crazy life here, is merely 
 exclamatory — that it is demonstrative of not much 
 more than noise and general dissatisfaction — a con- 
 tinual running up of wrong stairs — an incessant 
 shouting as to views and prospects — one crying lo 
 here! another, to there! the great sight consisting, 
 perhaps, in some splendid fog-bank, glittering in 
 borrowed light, and itself continually shifting and 
 passing away. When we shall be willing to come 
 down to simple statements — such as that little Nelly 
 has more life and wisdom than the telegraph can 
 report in a thousand years — ^we shall get along 
 better. When we shall perceive and carry it out, 
 as we say (but that is not quite enough ; we must 
 carry it out, and bring it in, travel with.it, work 
 with it, eat and drink with it, and go to bed and 
 get up with it), that the intellect is nearly as much 
 a mere instrument as the body, and of no use save 
 as an instrument; that, with all its glorification, 
 it never creates, but only finds out (invents) what 
 
Love of L ittle Children. 179 
 
 God had before created, and to wliicli He alone 
 gives form and life ; we shall become more qmet 
 (shall we not?) and return again to children and 
 principles. 
 
 But that day is not our day, and before it arrivesi 
 tbe world wiU doubtless continue to try what virtue 
 there is in stones and mortar, and iron and light- 
 ning, and all other aggrandizing physical and men- 
 tal forces, to an extent quite beyond our wildest 
 conjecture. To-day (in this movement) we have 
 the dinner, and the dollar, and the lightning train : 
 generous and magnanimous, but extravagant — and 
 material to the back-bone. "When the good day 
 comes, it will be (as far as human agencies are per- 
 mitted), through the proper training of children, as 
 nearest to God and the true life. 
 
 Yours, . 
 
 " Have you not a young Bob, or Dick, or Tom, to come np 
 and play with our Nbllt ?" 
 
 No. "We have no young Bob, or Dick, or Tom, 
 to do any such thing ; we have no little boys of 
 that name. "We have no litik children at all ; we 
 wish we h.ad a half a dozen of them, if they would 
 always remain so. "We love little children. One 
 of our neighbors has a pure artless little girl that 
 we borrow occasionally, when we feel sad, or out of 
 sorts with the world, and her pleasant voice and 
 childish prattle, as she sits beside us, always drive 
 
180 CouNTBY Margins. 
 
 away melanclioly, and make us clieerful again. 
 We love little boys and girls. We love their frank, 
 straightforward simplicity, their honesty. They 
 seem like fresh things, pure from the hand of God, 
 unspoiled by contact with the corruptions and the 
 wickedness of the world. What a pleasant place 
 this Earth would be, if grown men and women, 
 with their learniag, their gathered experience, their 
 matured iatellect, their wisdom, could retain the 
 honest frankness, the freshness, the purity of heart 
 and the sincerity of childhood ! It would be a place 
 then that one might be loath to leave. We do not 
 undertake to impeach the wisdom of Deity. We 
 know we are all wrong, but the thought will some- 
 times steal into our mind, that it would have been 
 better had man been created with less natural pro- 
 clivities towards evil. That the world would have 
 been happier, and human destiny loftier, had man 
 been so constituted that it would not have been his 
 tendency, prima facie, as the lawyers say, to sin ; 
 had a nature been given him that would have led 
 liiTn through the instincts with which he was en- 
 dowed, to choose good rather than evU. 
 
 " Oh 1 my kind editor, the world is safe as long as children 
 are bom into it." 
 
 We deny this, as an abstract proposition. We 
 deny it as a practical truth. We hold it as an 
 absurdity in theory, as well as fact. The past his- 
 tory of the world demonstrates its fallacy. Why, 
 
TheG-aedenof Eden. 181 
 
 when has the world been " safe," we should like to 
 know? "We have its history for seven thousand 
 years, or thereabouts, and it has never been in a 
 substantially safe condition for an hour. Society 
 has never been safe. Civilization has never been 
 safe. The people have never been safe. Human 
 rights have never been safe. Eeligion has never 
 been safe. Nothing that pertains to the full intel- 
 lectual or moral stature of manhood has been safe. 
 The great earth has been overwhelmed by a flood. 
 Geologists teU us, and astronomers endorse what 
 they say, that it has, at some period of its existence, 
 been run into by a comet ; and how do we know 
 that even now, away off millions upon millions of 
 miles distant, some wandering meteor in outer space 
 is not on its way to knock this our planet into a 
 universal smash ? But you mean the intellectual, 
 the moral world. No matter, even in that view the 
 world has never been safe since At)Am and Eve 
 were created and placed in the Garden of Eden. 
 By the way, that was a beautiful allegory of the first 
 man and woman, and the Garden of Eden. It was 
 humanity devoid of sin — ^living intelligences that 
 had done no evil. They were supremely happy, 
 because they were good. The Garden of Eden, 
 with all its beautiful productions, its flowers, its 
 fruits, its fountains and running streams, its shady 
 groves, its green lawns and its singing-birds, was 
 the human heart overflowing with contentment and 
 joy, before wickedness invaded it, to poison its 
 
182 Country Margiits. 
 
 fature, to sow remorse, and sorrow, and strife, wliere 
 virtue and peace only had before thriven. 
 
 But the world was in danger, even while Adam 
 and Eve were in the garden of Eden. There was 
 danger that Eve would eat the forbidden fruit, and 
 then tempt Adam to his fall. That danger was 
 realized, and they were thrust forth into the outer 
 world. Was there less danger there ? Was there 
 no danger that Cain should become a murderer, or 
 that Abel should be slain ? Pass along down to 
 the time of NoAH. Was there no danger that the 
 world should become so cojrupt that God would 
 destroy it in His wrath? Was there no danger, 
 when there could be found among aU the millions of 
 living men and women of the world, but one family 
 worth saving from the destruction which the Deity 
 had denounced against the human race? Was there 
 no danger at a later period, that a time would come 
 when the only just man iu all the world, the only 
 one that was without a fault, without one stain of 
 sin, one that was pure as Heaven is pure, should 
 be betrayed, and crucified between thieves on the 
 cross? Further along still, was there no danger 
 when moral and inteUeotual darkness hung like a 
 pall over Europe, when the religion of the cross had 
 degeneratedinto asenseless mummery, when its high 
 and holy precepts were perverted to the uses of op- 
 pression, when profligacy characterized the priest- 
 hood, and a brutalizing bigotry possessed the laity, 
 was there no danger that the world should have 
 
Nothing Free From Danger. 183 
 
 gone back to tlie darkness of idolatry, and the deg- 
 radation of heathenism? Was there no danger 
 that civilization should have been extinguished, that 
 human liberty should have become an obsolete term, 
 and human rights have been obliterated from the 
 vocabulary of the world? Was there no danger 
 that the light of science should have been put out, 
 and the fountains of knowledge that -have since 
 gushed so gloriously, irrigating and fertilizing these 
 latter days, have remained sealed forever ? Coming 
 down nearer to the present, was there no danger 
 when infidelity spread over Europe like a consum- 
 ing fire ? When France, then the strongest and the 
 greatest, the most elegant and refined nation in the 
 world, bloated with infidelity, and teeming with 
 unspeakable corruption, in the great legislative con- 
 vocation of her statesmen decreed that " there was 
 no God, and that death was an eternal sleep ?" Is 
 there no danger now, to-day, that the world, in the 
 pride of its fancied progress towards perfectibility, 
 shall forget, in the glory of the present, the mighty 
 sequence of the future ? Is religion safe ? Are hu- 
 man rights safe? Are governmental institutions 
 safe ? Are the public morals of the world safe ? If 
 the world is safe, why is it that every philosopher, 
 great and small, whether of science, morality, gov- 
 ernment, or of religion, are tinkering it, driving a 
 rivet here, and soldering up a crack there, polishing 
 this rusty spot, and placing a strengthening brace in 
 that weak place — all patching, and mending, and 
 
184 CouNTBY Margins. 
 
 hammering at it forever ? No I No I The worid 
 is not safe, never has been safe, and never will be 
 safe for an hour. And yet, from the time that Adam 
 and Eve went forth from the garden of Eden, chil- 
 dren have been bom into the world. Every day, 
 every hour, every second of time there are new in- 
 telhgences, fresh from the hand of Deity, added to 
 the aggregated intellectuality of the world. New 
 souls are thrown forward on the wing, to perch for 
 a httle while in this world, and rest at last somewhere 
 in eternity. Childhood, we admit, is an institution 
 that exercises a conservative influence over the 
 world, but the power of rendering the world '^^safe " 
 is a task too gigantic for its accomplishment. 
 
 " "We talk of Adam and Eve as having been, before the fall, 
 in a very happy condition ; but one thing they missed — ^they 
 were never children." 
 
 True. We never thought of that. Adam never 
 played marbles. He never played " hokey." He 
 never drove a tandem of boys with a string. He 
 never skated on a pond or played "ball," or rode 
 down hill on a hand-sleigh. And Eve, she never 
 made a playhouse ; she never took tea with another 
 little girl from the little tea-table set out with the 
 toy tea things ; she never rolled a hoop or jumped 
 a rope, or pieced a baby quilt, or dressed a doll. 
 They never played "blind man's buff," or "pussy 
 wants a comer," or "hurly burly," or any of the 
 
Adam AND Eve ko Childhood. 185 
 
 games with -wMcli childliood disports itself. How 
 blank their age must have been, wherein no memo- 
 ries of early youth came welling up in their hearts, 
 no visions of childhood floating back from the long 
 past, no mother's voice chanting a lullaby to the 
 ear of fancy in the stiQ hours of the night, no 
 father's words of kindness speaking from the grave 
 in the church-yard where he sleeps I APAivr and 
 Eve, and they alone of all the countless millions of 
 men and women that have ever lived, had no child- 
 hood. 
 
XIV. 
 
 DRKAMS. 
 
 "Well," said I to my wife, "there is nothing 
 new under the sun, even in dreams." 
 
 A few mornings since, as we sat at breakfiist, I 
 had recounted to that lady and our Nelly a curious 
 dream, which had occupied me through part of the 
 night, the novelty of which was, that at a large 
 family dinner T was charmingly surprised by hear- 
 ing the whole party chant a grace before taking 
 seats at the table. The thing was unique, as well 
 as g-roce-fol, and so transparently proper, that I 
 wondered it had never occurred to me before. 
 
 "Well, sir, as the gentle people say, what do you 
 think? I find, to-night, in a letter from Mr. Charles 
 Taylor, published in the Tribune, that chanting of 
 grace before meat is actually practised at this very 
 day among the Chinese ; and it's not unlikely, my 
 dear Editor, though I grieve to say it, destroying, 
 unmercifully as it does, the originahty of the most 
 exquisite night-thought which I ever had — ^I say it 
 is quite probable that those shaven-headed, pig- 
 tailed chop-stickers, have been doing it for thou- 
 
Trifles Light as Air. 187 
 
 sands of years. So mucli for trying to dream some- 
 thing new. 
 
 However, it was new to me, as a new star to an 
 astronomer. I am quite confident the thought had 
 never entered my brain before, imless, indeed, it 
 had crept in slyly and taken a place in some remote 
 comer, without waking my consciousness. Is this 
 possible, Mr. Editor? Is it not an absurdity? Can 
 we be taken possession of by thoughts and mental 
 processes, without being a party to the transaction? 
 as, after leaving our hall door open all day, we may 
 be surprised by an interloper at midnight, who 
 hasn't so much as turned a key or raised a window 
 to effect an entrance. Are we to be confronted by 
 ghosts, who claim an acquaintance, a place in our 
 house, and a seat at our table, whom we never saw 
 in the flesh, and all upon the villanous plea that 
 they had a nice time, one day, in our cellar or gar- 
 ret? Heaven only knows what vividness, what 
 terrible meaning may one day gleam upon us from 
 thoughts light as air, which we play with, or toss 
 from the mind as trifles and things of no account, 
 or from that daily crowd to which we open all our 
 doors and windows, and would take off the roof 
 from our house, if necessary, to let them in. Must 
 we not be amused and diverted ? Are we not to 
 have a good time, I ask you ? Is not this the ob- 
 ject of life — ^the be-all and the end-all — ^that we 
 should have a good time ; and have it right away. 
 
188 OouNTKY Margins. 
 
 to-day, because we are a i^t people, and wide 
 awake ? 
 
 Any one who follows up tlie line of these sugges- 
 tions without a cold shudder, must have a cool brain 
 and high expectations. No doubt, there are thou- 
 sands in the world who would gladly be excused, 
 if it were possible, from this mysterious life, as being 
 too weighty, too solemn, too terrible in its possible 
 conclusions. 
 
 The process of thought — the way it acts — the 
 place where it lives — ^the quo modo of its first pulsa- 
 tion, as a living thing — something which a moment 
 ago was not, had no place in the universe (to me), 
 and now is — ^has begun life — ^has character and 
 meaning, and a length of days which is eternal — 
 will always be with me, whether I choose, or do not 
 choose — which I cannot bum, or bury (beyond 
 resurrection), which I can give to another, but must 
 keep always the stereotype from which it was first 
 printed — which, in fact, is now, not a thing external 
 to me, as my coat or my body even ; but a part of 
 myself, the destruction of which never can take 
 place, trifling as it may be, without involving the 
 destruction of my whole being, so that if that die, 
 then I die with it-^all this, not so much from its 
 mystery as from its plainness, its demonstrative 
 horror, and its reach into the infinite and the abso- 
 lute, I dare not discuss. Nor would I sully, with 
 my tame conjecture, the starry grandeur of this 
 
Cheistianizing the World. 189 
 
 topic — ^its beauty of possible result — ^its fellowship of 
 glory with tbe Father of Spirits. 
 
 But it is easy to imagine that the perception of 
 this truth in all its bearings would Christianize the 
 world in a moment, so that for the first time since 
 men have gone abroad in the world, there would be 
 a universal pause among aU nations, and kindred, 
 and tongues — ^the noisy business of life would cease, 
 and there would be heard in the crowded city, and 
 upon the seas, and in the valleys, and upon the 
 mountains, only the voice of prayer and praise and 
 supplication to the Most High. Something like this 
 is doubtless imagined by those who hold that the 
 intellectual and the moral necessarily carry with them 
 the Christian influence ; whose faith is, that to see, 
 is to believe ; to know, is to adopt and to act. But 
 this broad way of suggestion, looking apparently 
 into the darkest mystery of our being, is closed (not 
 far down) by an iron door, whose bolts and bars 
 yield only to the touch of God himself. The pal- 
 pable sight of Hell and Heaven, the darkness and 
 the light, the confusion and the order, the woe un- 
 utterable, and the peace which passeth all under- 
 standing, would offer no barrier or inducement to 
 the soul which chooses to be guided by its own 
 will, and to be its own God. This must be ; i: e. it 
 must be that the intuitions of this life as to the next, 
 however feeble, are, in the main, correct. One can- 
 not imagine what Heaven is in its extent, but he 
 can imagine, and does imagine, and that truly, whe- 
 
190 CouNTKY Margins. 
 
 ther it would suit him. Therefore it is that all 
 philosophy, all morality, all science, all churches 
 and ministries, all struggle and labor and prayer, 
 are dead as ashes for all purposes of an hereafter, 
 unless given to Christ, who alone, as he xireated the 
 world out of nothiag, can give to these feeble begin- 
 nings for him who seeks them, honor and glory and 
 immortality. To every child of Adam, who goes 
 daily and always to Him, and asks, believing, Christ 
 says. Let there be light f and in a moment, in the 
 twinkling of an eye, a new creation is made for him, 
 holy angels are sent down to him, and all agencies 
 of trouble, and sorrow, and struggle, and doubt, and 
 fear, and temptation, and all powers and principal- 
 ities resident on high, — are enlisted henceforth in 
 his behalf; his name is at once written down in the 
 book of life, and a white robe is made ready for him, 
 and a seat set apart for him in the starry courts, — 
 so that now there is no more death to that soul, — 
 it has entered already into life everlasting. 
 
 But we were talking, Mr. Editor, of dreams. I 
 trust, sir, that you are still in practice. The magni- 
 ficent specimen you gave us last summer, proves 
 you a splendid dreamer. After editing, all day, the 
 recreation of dreams, the wide area, the ease of ac- 
 complishment, the might Olympian of that nodding 
 land, must be especially refreshing. Or do you 
 merely repeat and worry over things already done, 
 thoughts already stale, and pictures beautiful in the 
 making, but now to the mind only so much paint 
 
The Phantasies of Dreams. 191 
 
 and canvas? Do you find yourself pulling at the 
 same oar at night, wlucli you pulled in the morn- 
 ing? Lifting trout again, or dropping a two-pound- 
 er, just as you have him almost in hand ? Do you 
 fall iuto Crooked Lake, now-a-days ? Do you have 
 sunrises at midnight ? Do you see great wonders 
 and marvels, bright and glorious, all in the dark- 
 ness of your chamber? Do you travel before you 
 have so much as thought of your trowsers, and see 
 all the strange lands and stranger people? To 
 whom, also, you make speeches and wind up al- 
 ways with "America and the Albany Register for- 
 ever?" Do you edit in Chinese and Persian, and 
 chat pleasantly with the Czar, as to how he likes 
 the war? 
 
 To take a meat supper, quite late, with pickles 
 and old cheese, and in due time have what you may 
 call — ^the consequences, is one way of dreaming, 
 but dreadfully common. To have faces about 
 the bed-side grinning and expanding and multiply- 
 ing into hundreds is more artistic, but has the same 
 kind of vulgar unpleasantness. It is not enjoyable. 
 
 Perhaps the most common, but fuU of character 
 and import, is that kind of bewilderment which 
 may be called the dream difficult. To be always 
 striving at impossible things and saying to yourself 
 "it's all fudge, it's no kind of use," but still to go on 
 grasping and pulling again at this intangible some- 
 thing, which, aU fadge as it is, quite reftises to be 
 pulled or grasped. To go about a room in the dark 
 
192 Country Margins. 
 
 involving and revolving, searching for a door- 
 handle. To feel for matches which, when you find 
 them, refuse to go off, and at last, when they do, 
 to wait through long palpitating hours until the 
 full blaae of light pierces the room before you dare 
 put naked eyes afloat in the air. To have a con- 
 sciousness that the shutters in strict propriety ought 
 to be closed, as your room is on the ground floor 
 and opens into all out-doors. Then, of a sudden, 
 to be patiently busy (though it is a midsummer 
 night) sweeping the snow off the piazza, and saying 
 to yourself " I have now swept away exactly six 
 inches, and if it snows all night I shall know direct- 
 ly in the morning that there is a foot of snow," — 
 then, on your return, to undertake the shutters, 
 which doing quickly, a sleigh with four horses 
 heavily apparelled with bells goes by on the jump, 
 but as you knew before that you were dreaming, 
 you smile, and immediately detect it all as a decep- 
 tion, " it is merely the sound of your breath in your 
 left nostril ; if you listen one way it's like a trumpet 
 but another way, it's like a bell." As you stand 
 by the window and discuss this, your father, or 
 some friend who occupies the next room, comes to 
 the door, and asks, in a soft voice, " what is it you 
 are talking about so much." To this, you reply, in 
 the same soft way, "that you are very sorry, but 
 positively you did not thiok you had opened your 
 lips to say any thing, in short, you had said nothing 
 at all, and your friend must have imagined it ; the 
 
Nothing New Under the Sun. 193 
 
 night was dark and the wind was noisy, it "Was easy 
 to be deceived, and any-way it was of no conse- 
 quence, as it was all a dream." 
 
 The sleeping thought, my dear Editor, (I have 
 done with the dream — ^the above is an exact copy 
 of one as far as remembered,) I say the sleeping 
 thought tells even better what we are, {hidden away 
 in the possibilities of this human nature, which, wak- 
 ing or sleeping, is one always,) than the waking 
 thought. It tells fearfolly, but unerringly, and, as 
 I believe, truly. If a man desires not to wrestle 
 with perpetual night-mare in the life to come, let 
 him look well to his dreams, while he has them. 
 For dream-time will soon be over with us, and we 
 shall stand, then,* in the broad, unfettered, unsleep- 
 ing life, with no cloak to cover, no indigestions to 
 father the sins of the heart, and what we carry with 
 us, will be our companion and keep-sake forever. 
 I look upon the dream as my better angel, who 
 shows me, now and then, gleams of the very Hell 
 itself, that I may decide now, whether I will make 
 that my home hereafter, whether it wiU be pleasant 
 to be a part of that dark confusion. But now, it is 
 morning — ^thank God, it is still to-day — ^it is the 
 light of the sun that crowns these heavens — it is 
 still the world of dreams. 
 
 Youxs, . 
 
 " ' "Well,' said I to my wife, ' there is nothing new under the 
 son, even in dreams.' " 
 
194 Country Makgins. 
 
 We shall not undertake to follow you, friend 
 Margins, in your metaphysical dissertation on 
 dreams. Your theory as far as we, being of un- 
 sophisticated and plain understanding, can compre- 
 hend it, may be all right ; we shall neither dispute 
 nor endorse it, but the fact asserted above, we deny. 
 "We insist that there is something " new in dreams." 
 "We remember one dream of our own, that, by its 
 perfect distinctness as well as its comicality, made 
 a deep impression upon our mind, and it remains 
 fixed in our memory. There was such a seeming 
 reality about it, such vividness and clearness in all 
 things, that were it not utterly opposed to all our 
 experience in life, and the knowledge of its impos- 
 sibility, we should almost doubt whether in truth it 
 were not sober fact instead of a vision of the night. 
 In order that we may be understood, we must be 
 permitted to describe a certain locality as it was 
 long ago, and as the recollection of our boyhood 
 paints it, for it is "the spot that we were born in." 
 It is aU changed now, and has been for many years. 
 And who with white hairs upon his head can say 
 that the scenes of his childhood axe not changed ? 
 That the ancient landmarks have not been remov- 
 ed? That the things that memory calls up from 
 the long past, the trees, the stumps, the plum-trees, 
 the cattle and sheep in the pasture behind the 
 house, the meadow behind the barn, and the old 
 house and barn themselves, and the fences, are all 
 there still? Gro back, our dear Margins, to the 
 
Puke Spring Water. 195 
 
 place of your nativity, with all your young memo- 
 ries clinging around your teart, and note how sadness 
 will creep over you, and how the tear will start, ag 
 you miss the things that you remember and loved 
 so well. 
 
 Our father's farm lay out at the head of tha 
 Crooked Late, in the pleasant valley that stretches 
 away westward from that beautiful sheet of water. 
 The land rose with a gentle slope from the pebbly 
 beach, and a broad meadow lay between the shore 
 and the old farm-house, which stood some fifty rods 
 from the Lake. Midway between the house and 
 the Lake, a spring of the coldest and purest water 
 came gushing up, around which stood a cluster of 
 some half dozen maples that had been left when the 
 old forest was cleared away. The long arms of 
 these ancient trees lovingly entwined, and the thick 
 foliage that covered them in the summer-time, made 
 a dense cool shade all around the spring, and its 
 waters being soft, it was the place where the wash- 
 ing for the family during the warm season was 
 always done. 
 
 There was an elderly woman, who with her half- 
 idiot son, lived in a log house on a comer of the 
 farm, a kind of dependent upon, and was chiefly 
 supported by the family. "We remember " Aunt 
 Peggy," as she was always called, and "SUly 
 Dick," well. They were never for an hour sepa- 
 rated. "Wherever the mother went, there was sure 
 to be her idiot son. "We have no recollection of 
 
196 COUKTEY MARoINS. 
 
 ever seeing them apart. If " Aimt Peggy" -was at 
 work in the house, Dick would be sitting on the 
 (Joor-sill if it was summer-time, or if it was winter, 
 in the corner waiting, and watching patiently till 
 the work was done and his mother should go home. 
 Among the few words that he was able to learn, 
 that of "mother" was most frequently on his lips. 
 He was a gentle, harmless creature, always obedient 
 and affectionate, leaning upon his mother for pro- 
 tection with the perfect confidence of childhood, 
 though in stature and strength almost a man. The 
 affections and care of Aunt Peggy were all centered 
 upon Silly Dick, and her mother's instincts clung 
 the closer to him because of his imbecility. Poor 
 Dick and his mother have been dead many, many 
 years. He died on a Tuesday, and on the following 
 Monday she was laid in a grave by his side. The 
 only tie that remained, the last link that bound her 
 to life was broken, and she died from very grief for 
 the loss of her idiot son. 
 
 Aimt Peggy used to do the washing for the fam- 
 ily down by " the Spring," in the summer-time, 
 under the shade of the maples. Silly Dick would 
 bring water for her from the spring, and see to the 
 fire imder the kettles, and lay around on the grass 
 watching his mother, when he could not be useful 
 in aiding her labors. They seem to be present to 
 us now as we remember them in our childhood, she 
 humming a simple tune, or singing some nursery 
 song or baUad, and he under the shadow of the 
 
A Dream of Childhood. 197 
 
 trees, talking in his silly way to tlie birds among 
 tlie branches, or to himself, as he lay stretched at 
 length upon the grass, or looking at his own face 
 reflected from the bottom of the spring, and won- 
 dering, perhaps, who it was that was always watch- 
 ing him from away down in the water. Those old 
 maples, that old farm-house, that meadow with all 
 the old things we remember so well, are all gone. 
 A flourishing village, with himdreds of houses, and 
 stores, and small gardens, and streets, cover what 
 was then the meadow, and that spring itself is con- 
 ducted under ground to the lake. This great 
 change has been going on for a quarter of a cen- 
 tury, and it is only by groping among the memo- 
 ries of our boyhood, that we can recall the spot in 
 its primitive beauty, and as it was long, long ago. 
 
 Well, not many years back, as we were sleeping 
 upon our bed here in this great city, we dreamed a 
 dream. " We were a boy again," and in the mead- 
 ow at the head of Crooked Lake as it was of old. 
 There was the farm-house, and our father and 
 mother, sisters and brothers. There was the path 
 down through the meadow; there were the old 
 maples, with their summer foliage, all bright and 
 green, and there was the spring itself its crys- 
 tal waters bubbling up and flowing ia a little rivu- 
 let over the sand and pebbles to the Lake. There 
 lay the Lake, sleeping in calmness and beauty. 
 There were the forest-covered lulls on the right 
 hand and on the left, there the high promontories 
 
198 COUNTBY Maegins. 
 
 around which the smooth waters seemed to creep 
 and hide themselves. And last of all, there was 
 Aunt Peggy by the spring washing, and Silly Dick 
 was on the grass watching and talking to the birds 
 that were hopping about, and singing and twitter- 
 ing in the branches above him. The vision was all 
 perfect; not a feature, not a tint was wanting.- We 
 saw and felt as of old, as if thirty years of our life 
 had been obliterated, and nothing of its cares or 
 trials, its struggles or hard experience, remained. 
 Everything on this side of our boyhood was clean 
 wiped out. The scene had not to us even the charm 
 of novelty. The sun was shining bright and warm 
 in the sky, and it seemed pleasant to be under the 
 shadow of those old maples, as a refuge from his 
 rays. 
 
 Darkness gathered away down on the Lake ; a 
 dense black cloud seemed to come up out of the 
 water, and from behind the high promontories, not 
 rising slowly and majestically like thundercaps 
 from behind mountains, but heaving and swelling 
 and rolling at first like the biUows of ocean, and 
 then rising in dense columns towards the sky, 
 wreathing and swirhng, and twisting upward Hke 
 the smoke that goes up from a burning building in 
 the night, but infinitely blacker and deeper, and ex- 
 tending all across the eastern sky. Eed lightnings 
 flashed upward and downward, and crosswise, and 
 every way, trailing like fiery serpents across the 
 face of the cloud. Wild geese and ducks, and 
 
An Extbaobdinaey Prayer. 199 
 
 eagles, and osprays, came sweeping in flocks, and 
 screaming in mortal terror to the westward over us. 
 A mist gathered in the air, and though it was noon- 
 day, yet a shadowy and spectral twilight gathered 
 aroimd us. An immense ball of fire shot Hke a blaz- 
 ing comet across the sky from the approaching dark- 
 ness. The thunder growled with horrible intense- 
 ness, shaking the very earth to its centre. To us 
 all this war of the elements seemed neither strange 
 nor terrible. "We had no idea of danger, no appre- 
 hension of harm. Not so, however, with the poor 
 washerwoman ; but one idea seemed to have a place in 
 her mind, and that was that the day of judgment had 
 come, at a time when she least expected it. She tried 
 to pray, but every prayer ended with " The house 
 that Jack buUt." She essayed to sing a hymn, but 
 every effort ended in Yankee Doodle. Try as she 
 might, exert all her powers, aided by the mortal terror 
 that was upon her, every verse would end in Yankee 
 Doodle. Every strain, however devotional in the be- 
 ginning, was sure to close with Yankee Doodle, till in 
 utter hopelessness her hands dropped by her side, and 
 in a voice choked by the agony of despair, she cried, 
 "Lord help us, my poor boy, what kind of a song 
 wiU. that be to sing in Heaven ?" To us who felt no 
 sense of danger, there was something so infinitely 
 ludicrous in the poor woman's astonishment and 
 dismay, that we could not restrain our risibility, 
 and " What in the name of aU that's funny are you 
 laughing at now?" said our wife, starting up in 
 
200 Country Mabgins. 
 
 amazement at the vehemence of our cachinnations, 
 scattering the dream, and the tempest, and the 
 meadow, the old maples, and the spring, and poor 
 Aunt Pegqt, and SUly Dick, like visions of the 
 night, as they all were. 
 
XV. 
 
 THE BRIGHT MORNING-AND JULY. 
 
 The day lias gone by. Like tlie amen to prayer, 
 comes tlie night. The night, too, has gone, now, 
 and lite the smile of God comes the morning. 
 
 The sun is riding high in the heavens, but finds 
 me loitering and dreamy. The intense vitality of 
 this July day, — the richness of this beautiful morn- 
 ing, only make me shrink within myself — ^paralyz- 
 ing instead of strengthening ; prostrating, not up- 
 lifting. I am thinking, too, of a brighter day than 
 this — a. purer glory. Oh thou kind Heaven, for- 
 give me if I dream too much, and act too httle for 
 that pure day, — ^that golden morning of which every 
 sunrise here is a prophecy — every noon-day, a wit- 
 ness and proof I For it is not far away from earth, 
 where the sun shines on forever. It is almost aa 
 though one might stand on some mountaia top and 
 reach up a hand into the living waves where sun- 
 rise and sunset meet and clasp each other, destroy- 
 ing night. 
 
 How still it is, to-day 1 Soft as mezzotiats, and 
 as motionless on the grass lie the shadows of the 
 9 
 
202 Country Margins. 
 
 maples, spotted with the light. One might think 
 that Nature, all clad with the glory of God, had 
 suddenly ceased to breathe, and were waiting the 
 announcement of something new to be. But it is 
 not that. The announcement has been made al- 
 ready. Death has been busy again, (he who parts 
 the day and the night, so that they meet no more, 
 have no more fellowship, one with the other,) he 
 has been busy again, and has taken one more of 
 our young friends. The swift lightning brought us 
 the news, last night, and to-day the world is changed. 
 It is not the same world it was yesterday. . She, 
 who is gone, is not a part of it, to-day. She is liv- 
 ing yet ; the pulses of her being, in whatever^ won- 
 derful way God has provided for her, are beating 
 yet, and will hve on forever — ^but not to our sight. 
 And what have we had to do with this matter — ^this 
 new life to her — ^this change, beyond whieh, and in 
 which, is no change ; we, who in times past, have 
 been near her, for so many bright days, so many 
 evenings made glad with the music and joy of 
 youth ? Oh, it will not do to turn away from this 
 question, for it comes home to us, now, and it will 
 come home to us again, in the day of judgment. 
 If through all her bright or clouded days here upon 
 earth, we have been pleading with God to prepare 
 her for something purer, brighter, holier — ^if we 
 have sought mightily, and as for our own souls, 
 that Jesus Christ, the righteous, would come down 
 and make her His child, and number her with those 
 
The Death of Susie. 203 
 
 who shall sit with him in glory — doubtless it is all 
 written down in heaven, and will keep well — ^the 
 ink will not fade — the print of that record will be 
 bright, even in the great day of account. 
 
 If we have not done this, it is too late now. "We 
 may go to our closets and bend low before the 
 Infinite Majesty — ^we may know that God is there 
 — as leaning in the dark on the arm of a friend, 
 whom we see not ; we may feel the touch, and know 
 that Jesus is there, ready to save to the uttermost, 
 the living, — ^ready to hear and answer petitions for 
 the living, for whatever other child of our heart 
 may not yet be on the road to Heaven, — ^but we can 
 ask nothing more for Susie, — she is gone. 
 
 At such a time we pause in our routine, and take 
 new bearings and stand-points. Life becomes 
 touched with a higher value, and we ask as to this 
 question of values, what kind of currency passes in 
 Heaven, what exchange rules there — ^what transac- 
 tions are going on there, — ^what is the fashion of 
 life there, and what the speech and apparel of that 
 High Court. In this way, God calls to us, the 
 angels call to us, the friends gone before call to us, 
 the whole world, and the brute and inanimate things 
 of God, cry aloud to us. The sunshine playing in 
 spots under the trees, becomes purer, brighter, more 
 like a thing of life itself; as though it would plead 
 •with us, and win us away from the world and its 
 noisy doings. " Look at me," it says — as we stop 
 musing under the maples — " and see how pure and 
 
204 CouNTBY Margins. 
 
 bright I am, doing only the will of God, for He 
 sends me and gives me wings to travel with, and 
 all the strength I need. Oh, come away from the 
 world, my friend, and busy yourself with something 
 handsome, something worthy of yourself and your 
 Creator." 
 
 At such times, also, a passage, say a sentence 
 from a book, some forgotten author, or forgotten 
 prayer, will enter and quite take possession of the 
 mind, driving out all other thought with its inces- 
 sant repetition, hke the face of a child whom we 
 love,pressing, importunate, not to be refused. 
 
 "Within the last ten years my father and myself 
 have visited occasionally an old homestead near 
 New Haven, of which now nothing is left save a 
 small new stone house, standing however on the 
 old ground, and with the same hills and meadows 
 about it, which were there when it was my father's 
 home — ^the home of his childhood. Our object is, 
 sometimes, to stop at the old place, or to make a 
 few inquiries among the neighbors, and sometimes 
 merely to take one more look, as we pass by ; for 
 there are none that know us there now — not one. 
 If they remember us at all, it is probably only as 
 the strange old gentleman and his son, who some- 
 times stop and ask questions about people who lived 
 there sixty or seventy years ago — and who cares 
 about such people ? Why, they are all dead, mostly. 
 So my father says. There is scarcely a man or 
 woman in all New. Haven who remembers him. 
 
An Obliging Host. 205 
 
 " All gone," says my father, " all gone — every one 
 of tliem that I used to know." 
 
 What attraction there is to him in this solitary 
 ride I can hardly say, but perhaps he Hkes it best, 
 that he is not interrupted in his meditations therea- 
 bouts, by friends on the look-out. It suits him, 
 perhaps, that they do not come crowding about the 
 carriage, and urging him to stop and stay with them. 
 What are they to him, or he to them ? They are 
 not of the same generation. 
 
 On our last pilgrimage, only one summer ago, 
 we stopped, as usual, at the Park House by the 
 College Green, and a^er the usual questioning, 
 were recognized by the landlord, who always makes 
 amends for not knowing us, by extraordinary civil- 
 ities, after making us out. We have, usually, the 
 front first floor rooms, and if in season, the landlord 
 always remembers my father's partiality for the 
 dragon oysters, and supplies us three times a day. 
 Early on the morning after our last arrival, we 
 started for our drive. My father was urgent for 
 a one-horse wagon, and I as urgent for an open 
 double carriage and driver, and so we started in a 
 roomy barouche, with the top thrown back, and a 
 trusty driver, who had driven a coach, as he told 
 Tis, for more than twenty-five years. 
 
 To my mind, it was a beautiful arrangement, and 
 my father, I saw plainly, was soon of the same 
 opinion. There was room to point his ca»e in all 
 
206 OOUNTEY MARaiNS. 
 
 directions, and entire comfort as to cushions and 
 back. A cliarming arrangement ! 
 
 In this satisfactory manner, we slowly bowled 
 tbrougb the streets, my father marking for me, as 
 we passed, aU the places of note, and here and there 
 questioning the driver, who sat high up in the air, 
 as to occasional novelties, which were of late date, 
 and consequently of small significance. "All 
 changed — all changed," said my father, after touch- 
 ing up the driver with his cane, as to some new 
 structure, which was built perhaps six months be- 
 fore. "Here," he continued, turning to, me, "on 
 this corner was the old church, where we came to 
 meeting. I see nothing of it now," said he, look- 
 ing, very hard at a plain house which stood there, 
 as if he thought something might be left, " I see 
 nothing of it,— but here, sir, we came and heard the 
 great Dr. Edwards more than sixty, yes, seventy 
 years ago. And here," he continued, as we rolled 
 out into the country and passed the creek, " here is 
 the ground where my father planted his cannon 
 and drove back the British. I wasJ)n the lull with 
 my mother, where we had retired in the night. 
 We staid in a barn up there, till the troubles were 
 over, — ^aU the women and children gathered together 
 there, for days and nights, living as we could on 
 what we had caught up in haste, as we left our 
 homes. There your aunt was born, shook into the 
 world by the roar of cannon on the plains. It was 
 a hard time, sir, a hard time." 
 
AFathee's Recollections. 207 
 
 " Up this road," lie continued, " a mile or more, 
 lived a man whom I remember as Uncle Joe Ball, 
 who came down to the old house twice a week, 
 always, to shave my father. The Tories in the 
 neighborhood threatened Uncle Joe severely, to 
 which he replied that as long as Captain M. needed 
 a barber he (Uncle Joe) should attend to him, and 
 if they, the rascally Tories, would give hinn half as 
 good a breakfast as he always got at the old Cap- 
 tain's, he would shave them, too." 
 
 We made no stop, this time, at the homestead. 
 Perhaps we had frightened them too much, years 
 ago. On that occasion, I being an invalid and lag- 
 ging behind, my father walked swiftly in at the 
 front door, and by a side-door passed on through a 
 sitting-room, startling several women who were 
 there, and still moved on without let or pause, to a 
 back kitchen, where he threw his cloak on the floor, 
 and exclaimed to all who might be concerned ,ia 
 the declaration, " The very spot where I was bom !" 
 This was his first and last remark. Looking for a 
 moment at the frightened people with exceeding 
 severity, as though they had scarcely a right to 
 appear on the face of the earth, and with his great 
 cloak, which I replaced on his shoulders, swinging 
 in the wind, my fiither immediately marched out 
 again, by a rear door, and has never entered the 
 house since. I returned a moment to apologize, and 
 learned that they bear our name, but knew nothing 
 about us. The event of that morning they doubt 
 
208 Country Margins. 
 
 less remember, as we do hurricanes, as something 
 fearful, but (providentially) rare. 
 
 At this time, as I said, we made il?) halt, save for 
 a look, but a mile or thereabouts further south, my 
 father stopped the carriage, and directed my atten- 
 tion to a small two-story building, probably now 
 used as a corn-house. " I remember it well," said 
 he, " for there was where we first came to school. 
 I was a mere child, for it is at least seventy years 
 ago, but I remember it well, because the house was 
 once struck by lightning, and none of us hurt, not 
 one. But I remember it better from another cir- 
 cumstance. It was kept by a school-mistress. I 
 shall never forget that place, or that school-mis- 
 tress," said my father, looking at me with a smile, 
 "for every morning and evening she prayed for us, 
 closing, always, with this petition, — that we might 
 all meet again in the bright morning of ^ Resurrec- 
 tion." 
 
 As we drove on into the city, my father leaned 
 back, for the first time, in the carriage, and ex- 
 claimed, (quoting from one of his own poems — ^the 
 originality of which we afterwards discussed,) 
 
 " Lovd strikes the clock of Time ! This, sir, is 
 probably the last drive that we shall ever have 
 together to the old homestead." 
 
 I hope, Mr. Editor, that I have not wearied you 
 with these personal matters. It is that petition of 
 the school-mistress, which has been haunting me 
 to-day. That is the child's face which has been 
 
"Indepeitdence." 209 
 
 before me all tlie morning. It -was said seventy 
 years ago, or thereabouts, and doubtless it bas been 
 said many thousands of years ago, but it is good 
 yet, is it not ? It will never become old or tire- 
 some. As time piles up tbe years and hurries 
 them off into the past, this old-fashioned petition 
 will become brighter and brighter by repetition, 
 and for all the years that remain to this rolling 
 world. And long after we, my dear Editor, have 
 stepped aside from this swift procession — ^when we 
 have written our last Margins, and aU. this beauti- 
 ful arrangement for sunrise and sunset shall have 
 floated away from us, as a dream and a mist, there 
 will still be thousands, and thousands, and ten times 
 thousands, evermore looking up, and uttering, by 
 day and by night, through all the round world, 
 that sweet petition — that we may all — all meet in the 
 bright morning of the Resurrection. 
 
 Yours, . 
 
 "the intense vitality of this JULY DAY." 
 
 Speaking of July, reminds one of " Independ- 
 ence," and that again of celebrations, of the boom- 
 ing of great guns, the fizzing of fire-crackers, of 
 rockets skiving through the heavens at night, and 
 all the paraphernalia belonging to the commemora- 
 tion of the birth-day of a great nation. "We have 
 done one thing in our day to tell of What few 
 9* 
 
210 CoxjNTBT Margins. 
 
 living Editors, we venture to say, or lawyers either, 
 for that matter have ever done. "We once delivered 
 an oration in a state's prison, on a Fourth of July, 
 and our audience consisted only of the convicts 
 and their keepers. Most people in this State, leg- 
 islators and tax-payers especially, have heard of 
 the Clinton prison, an establishment away up in 
 Clinton County, right in the woods, literally at the 
 end of the road. It consists of a great pile of stone 
 buildings surrounded by palisades, inclosing some 
 dozen or more acres, inside of which is a bed of 
 iron ore, which is wrought by the convicts. This 
 ore is raised and separated at an expense of some 
 five dollars, or thereabouts, per ton, and sold at 
 something like four dollars, leaving a clear profit 
 of about one dollar to the State — out of pocket. 
 However this may be, the State has for the last ten 
 or more years been looking for the "good time 
 coming," when the Clinton prison would sustain 
 itself without the aid of taxation, and the treasury, 
 and that same good time is in prospect still. 
 
 Four years ago we were out among the Chatau- 
 gay woods, tramping over the lulls and along the 
 streams, floating over the lakes and climbing the 
 mountains, and playing the savage among the 
 Adirondacks for a fortnight. "We had a nice time 
 among the game. "We shot all the deer we desired 
 to, and caught as many trout as we pleased. "We 
 killed a wild cat and a fisher, and squirrels and 
 rabbits not a few. "We floated over those beautiful 
 
NoETHEBN Lakes. 211 
 
 lakes that lay there all alone in the woods, rowing 
 around their rocky shores, talking with the old 
 forest spirits and weird things that had not yet been 
 frightened away by the tramp and the roar and on- 
 ward rush of civilization. 
 
 Beautiful, aye, most beautiful are those northern 
 lakes, lying aniong the mountains and surrounded 
 by the ancient forest, just as they were placed there 
 by the command of God. Especially beautiful are 
 the Saranacs, and Bound Lake, and Tupper's Lake> 
 studded with picturesque islands, some treeless and 
 shrubless, mere brown moss-covered rocks, great 
 boulders rising up out of the deep water. Others 
 are covered with solemn old primeval trees, against 
 which the woodman's axe has never been swung. 
 Eomantic bays steal around and are hidden behind 
 high promontories. Fragmentary rocks in some 
 places are piled up like a ruined wall along the 
 banks, while at others a sandy beach stretches back 
 to the alders and scrubby trees that line the shore. 
 A beautiful river is the Eacquet, coming down from 
 among the mountains with a deep and quiet cur- 
 rent, save where occasional rapids occur,, when it 
 dashes madly along, foaming and eddying, and 
 whirling round, among, and over the rocks, and 
 roaring onward for a little way, and then settling 
 down again into calmness and a dignified flow. 
 
 We returned, or as our guide termed it, " came 
 out," from our forest wanderings at the Clinton pri- 
 son, on the afternoon of the third of July. We 
 
212 Country Mabgins. 
 
 accepted the invitation of the Agent to spend a 
 day or two with Mm. In the evening the good 
 old chaplain called upon ns, and stated that the 
 convicts were to have a prison hohday and an ex- 
 tra dinner on the morrow, and requested us to give 
 them an oration. We prepared one during the 
 night, and delivered it on the Fourth, in the presence 
 of some three hundred or more convicts and their 
 keepers, in the chapel of the prison. It was a new 
 thing to talk about liberty, and progress, and social 
 order, the glories of a free government and the 
 advance of civilization to men whose view waa 
 circumscribed by the palisades of the prison, who 
 were slaves to the State in the hands of their keep- 
 ers, and with whom freedom of word or action 
 was a memory only. When we rose from the chap- 
 lain's desk to address them and looked upon the 
 fiices before us, every one of which wore a settled 
 melancholy, a sorrowfcd, almost hopeless express- 
 ion, an indescribable feeling of sadness overpow- 
 ered us, and we had to sit down to wipe away the 
 tears that obscured the pages of the manuscript 
 before us. We had addressed a good many audi- 
 ences in our day, but never one like that. We 
 saw, before we had spoken a word, the big tears 
 coursing down the cheeks of those with • whose 
 hearts memory was busyrr-memory that brought 
 their Httle ones around them, with their childish 
 prattle and innocent faces, from whom their crimes 
 had banished them, and no doubt conscience was 
 
They are Gone, All Gone. 213 
 
 doing its work. No man ever had an audience 
 that listened with a more earnest attention to his 
 words, than did those three hundred convicts to 
 ours, and the memory of that Fourth of July ora- 
 tion, in a State's prison, will remain with us always. 
 
 " So my father says. There is scarcely a man or woman in all 
 New Haven who remembers him." " All gone," says my fa- 
 ther, " all gone, every one of them that I used to know." 
 
 Herein is one of the mysteries of being. We 
 see those who started with us in life dropping away, 
 falling like the Autumn leaves around us, the cir- 
 cle growing smaller and smaller, the weak and the 
 strong falling alike, and if we are spared only a 
 few years longer, we too can say of the companions 
 of our youth, "they are gone, all gone." We 
 remember a Scotchman, a neighbor of our father's, 
 who was a middle-aged man, when we were a boy. 
 He left his native village in Scotland before attain- 
 ing his majority, and came to this country in pur- 
 suit of fortune. Hi a industry and finigality secured 
 that, and after the lapse of near half a century, he 
 was seized with a longing to go back to the scenes 
 of his childhood, to look once more upon the things 
 he loved so well, and which memory had treasured 
 so fondly in his heart. He was absent some three 
 or four months, and we met him here in the city 
 on his return. He was an old man, numbering 
 nearly or quite three-score years and ten, but vigor- 
 ous and hearty as an ordinary one of fifty. We 
 
214 CouNTBY Margins. 
 
 inquired of the friends he expected to find, and 
 deep sadness gathered on his features as he an- 
 swered, " I found only their graves. None knew 
 me. I was a stranger alike to the memory and 
 traditions of my kindred." 
 
 There is small philosophy in pausing to inquire 
 why we are spared. The mystery of this everlast- 
 ing change, this dropping into, and dropping out of 
 life, is a matter upon which we may speculate, but 
 one that we cannot solve. This we know, that busy 
 and successful as death is, and has always been, in 
 recruiting his ranks, the great army of the living 
 goes on increasing always. Being bom, is a pre- 
 requisite to death, and although it be a fixed fact 
 that it is appointed unto all men once to die, yet it 
 is an equally certain thing, that more men have 
 been bom into the world than have died. When 
 one, or a hundred, or a thousand, disappear from 
 among the living, one, or a hundred, or a thou- 
 sand, together with a few extra numbers, step iato 
 their places, and it is doubtless a fact that there 
 are more people in the world to-day than there 
 were yesterday, or at any previous period, and 
 there will be more to-morrow than there are to- 
 day. The number of living men and women is 
 increasing, and has been, we have no doubt, since 
 the ark rested on Ararat, and that number will go 
 
 on increasing until when? The world is not 
 
 full of people yet, by a long shot. 
 
Deag ON Oysters. 215 
 
 " We have nsnallj the front first floor rooms, and if in season, 
 the landlord always remembers my father's partiality for the 
 Dragon oysters, and supplies us three times a day." 
 
 Do you think, oiir friend Maegins, that the 
 Landlord of the "Park House by the College 
 Green," cotild be induced to extend his civilities 
 in this respect to a new customer? Would the edi- 
 tor of the Register be likely to be treated to those 
 same Dragon oysters ? If so, we shall be Kkely to 
 patronize the " Park House by the College Green," 
 for we confess that of all the delicate morsels a 
 fresh Dragon oyster right from his oozy bed, is oxir 
 weakness; we hold him to be the prince of the 
 bivalves ; not the largest, certainly, nor the fattest, 
 but he is the sweetest, the one that is just right to 
 a dot. We have small respect for the college or 
 institutions of learning of New Haven — not that we 
 would speak in dispraise of them. They may all 
 be, and doubtless are, well enough in their way. 
 They have doubtless sent out many men who have 
 made a noise in the world, and there may be many 
 more like them to follow ; but there are a himdred 
 other places where great men are manufactured, 
 where colleges and institutions of learning abound; 
 but New Haven alone can boast of the genuine, 
 unadulterated Dragon oyster, and this great fact is 
 its crowning glory. It is the Dragon oyster that 
 links New Haven to history, and makes it immor- 
 tal. Ask of a Yirginian where New Haven is, and 
 he will tell you it is where they have the Dragon 
 
216 CouNTKY Margins. 
 
 oyster fresli every day — ^ask him its principal attrac- 
 tion, and tie '11 answer tlie Dragon oyster — ask him 
 its principal production, its chief article of manufac- 
 ture, he'U tell you the Dragon oyster; and his 
 mouth will moisten, and his eyes dilate while he 
 sums up his geographical knowledge of the locality 
 in the great fact, the Dbagon oysteb. 
 
XVT. 
 
 THE DINNER, AND QOOD-BYE- 
 DECEMBER. 
 
 Now tliat we have dined, Mr. Editor, let us 
 shake hands, and part. 
 
 Some years ago on the Kaatskills, I wrote a little 
 poem about the country near Stratford-on-Avon. 
 In that, I discoursed, very much to my satisfac- 
 tion, of 
 
 " The journeying hills that wind away 
 Slowly, as to a passing-bell ; 
 like friends who say good-bye, yet stay. 
 And still repeat — good-bye — Farewell. 
 
 That was very proper for Ould England, but 
 don't let us, Mr. Editor, copy after such nonsense. 
 For it is time, sir, to have done with Margins. 
 Unless we stop soon, your readers will think that 
 we have set up for an institution, " most tolerable, 
 and not to be endured." The year, too, draws to a 
 close, and it's hardly worth while to carry over the 
 old year's talk into the new. I am, as you know, 
 a little slow, at best, although you have waked me 
 some, (I rise, now, perhaps an hour earlier, than 
 
218 CouNTKY Margins. 
 
 wlieii we began our discussions:) But I need all 
 the helps of appositeness and picked time of entrie. 
 Now that we are to part, it will not be taken in any 
 begging sense, if I confess myself behind the times, — 
 not up with the rising generation. Not that I care ex- 
 ceedingly about this. Probably not. If there is any 
 one body in the round world, or say any two or three, 
 (counting in my wife and Nelly,) who carry their 
 days along with more high content than do we in 
 this quiet up-country, I should like to make their 
 acquaintance. So that it is not, you perceive, that we 
 care as to being not quite so enterprising as the world 
 that dashes by us, — ^but that others do. Mrs. Dash, 
 I suspect, has a feeling in this matter — so have 
 other neighbors, and so, perhaps, have you and 
 your readers. People well out at sea, and under 
 full sail, don't care to be straining their hearing, to 
 please some idler on the shore, who is shouting to 
 them through a trumpet. 
 
 And now, sir, if only that Conner deals kindly 
 with you, I shall be more than content. It was the 
 dinner to which you were invited, six months ago, 
 and now that it is accomplished, I see no occasiop. 
 for further talk. Six months ago, we were to dine. 
 The six months have gone, and we have dined. 
 That is to say. Quod erat demonstrandum, et demon- 
 stratus est. What's the use of margins, when we 
 have found the text, the very heart of the matter? 
 
 The talk, then, was of peas, young onions, and 
 spring chickens ; but we can't bring June up into 
 
How DID THE Editor Eest? 219 
 
 mid-winter. You must be content, sir, -vrith having 
 had a Christmas dinner. I flatter myself, however, 
 that we did a fair thing in the way of onions, — 
 the boiled and the pickled; — and the chickens had 
 been spring chickens, which, I take it, satisfies the 
 conscience, the moral sense, as to that matter. If a 
 chicken has been young in its day, what more can 
 you expect? Oh, my Editor, in this age of progress, 
 when there's a chance of attaining to the full cackle, 
 the perfected crow, it's quite ridiculous to expect 
 that spring chickens are always to continue and 
 remain spring chickens 1 
 
 How did you rest, Hammond? Did you go 
 through without landing ? Did Rowring River trouble 
 you? "All in the solemn midnight," (not cen- 
 turies ago — ^but this same last night, Dec. 27th-28th, 
 now gone past, and at this moment hanging some-- 
 where, all cold and dark and starry, on its way 
 over the lakes and the prairies,) did there come up 
 any ghosts of dinner — ^nice things that ought to be 
 quiet, — ^tit-bits, that wouldn't be kind to you ? 
 
 One thing is certain — ihe fire-water we did not 
 have, nor the Claret, nor the Sauterne, nor the Old 
 Port, nor the Heisdich. "We did not find the key to 
 the hall-closet. 
 
 Of course, sir, it would be highly improper for 
 me to speak of the 'pre-arrangements for this din- 
 ner. It would scarcely be fair to Mrs. Margin. 
 For instance, it would never do for me to say, that 
 the last six weeks, more or less, have been and 
 
220 CouNTEY Margins. 
 
 gone chiefly as antecedents to this event — ^that we 
 began to smell onions and scolloped oysters (I think) 
 in November — ^that the draft in the parlor chimney 
 though powerful, was the wrong way — ^that I placed 
 there an old-fashioned Franklin grate, which from 
 its look of high satisfaction I was anxious should 
 have a good time, and which itself evidently had its 
 whole heart in the matter, burning and smoking in 
 the most generous manner, straight into the room — 
 that I talked with it, and argued, and theorized, 
 and threatened, for days and nights — ^firedit up this 
 way, and that way, tried it with the north wind, 
 with the south wind, with a powerful west wind, 
 and found all winds alike to it, the honest old 
 Franklhrtaking all, and giving nothing back to the 
 chimney — ^that finding, at last, a combination of 
 flues, such as no decent stove could submit to, and 
 after working hard all day, carefully noting the 
 smallest hints, the slightest coquetry of agreement, 
 filling and opening, and again filling and opening 
 certain dark and sooty chambers, that same old 
 stove suddenly put on a bright and complaisant 
 face, smiled through all its brass headings, and 
 drew to a charm ! 
 
 This, sir, would never do to mention out of the 
 family. I will only remark, therefore, that having 
 established that chimney commimication, we held 
 it with a firm hand, so that a perpetual flame went 
 up those ancient flues, to the hour of your arrival. 
 
 So, also, as to apparel, especially boots, of which 
 
A Struggle with Boots. 221 
 
 I found an elegant pair, wliicli have been on my 
 feet tliree times, I believe, in the last five years. 
 Some weeks ago (to be forehanded), L pulled my 
 astonished feet into those boots, and perhaps the 
 happiest moment of my life, was when I pulled 
 them out again. However, I keep them safe. I 
 lay them up choice. They will be good for exer- 
 cise ia stormy days, when we can't get out doors. 
 I have made a calculation, that if I begin to pull 
 them on right away after breakfast, I shall just be 
 able to get dinner, when it will be time to begin 
 immediately at getting them off again. This will 
 fill up the whole day with vigorous exercise, and 
 be excellent for the arms and chest. Any tendency 
 of blood to the head, can be kept down by cold ap- 
 plications. 
 
 They were put aside, therefore, as useful in that 
 view, but not for a holiday. For the struggle with 
 those boots, sir, opened my eyes, as to the folly of 
 all such vain and windy endeavor ; and when the 
 fitness, the simplicity of shoes presented itself, I was 
 at once a better and a stronger man. Having con- 
 quered the glistening temptation of boots, other 
 troubles were light as air ; so that siuce that day, 
 and the establishment of the upward current in the 
 parlor chimney, the whole house has been a-blaae 
 with the liveliest satisfaction, up to the breezy mo- 
 ment when you and yours stepped in at our front 
 door. 
 
 But, oh my dear Editor, my commentator, and 
 
222 Country Margins. 
 
 alter ego of tlie Maxgins, you perceive that all this 
 is entirely a private matter. Exclusively, sir, ex- 
 clusively. It is due to myself — ^it is due to my 
 "wife — and I tMnk, too, that even Nelly might have 
 a feeling in this matter — a nice and delicate sense 
 of the proper, that you should not so much as dream 
 that anything of the kind has taken place. I say, 
 therefore, nothing about it. 
 
 Good-bye, Hammond — good-bye, and addio. 
 Now that we have dined, and supped, and slept, 
 and breakfasted, while the wheels are still rolling 
 that carry you home, and the white breath of that 
 fire-horse goes up into the gold of sunrise, we send 
 after you this last greeting and farewell. 
 
 With the day, especially the early morning, are 
 light, and strength, and hope. "With the night, 
 are darkness and dreams, prophecies and mysteries. 
 I like, always, to shake parting hands in the morn- 
 ing. 
 
 Addio, sir, and take our best up-country regards 
 to all your household. Especially my wife's and 
 Nelly's, I trust you will keep in your choicest 
 remembrance. And as you travel down to that 
 last hour to which we all journey on together, may 
 you and yours prosper continually ; may you greet 
 many another Christmas ; and with the same firm 
 step with which you just now crossed the high 
 bridge over Roaring River, may you walk on into 
 the mornings of many, and happy. New Years to 
 come. 
 
 Yours, . 
 
Shake Hands and Part. 223 
 
 " Nov that we have dined, Mr. Editor, let ns shake hands 
 and part." 
 
 Don't say that, friend Margins, don't say it. Part- 
 ing is a hard word, indeed it is. Have you so many 
 friends, that you can throw off even one without 
 a feeling of loneliness about the heart? "We know 
 that modern friendships, those formed when white 
 hairs are gathering on the head, are not like those 
 of our early years — at all events, they are less easily 
 formed, and herein is a curious matter pertaining 
 to human character. It is more difficult to form 
 friendships as we grow old. We become cautious ; 
 we weigh character carefully; we start at any in- 
 consistency, any weakness, that we entirely overlook 
 in an old friend, and close up our hearts against 
 that confidence which in our youth we so freely 
 entertained. No. matter how many of our old com- 
 panions may fall from around us, no matter how 
 we may see ourselves, year by year, isolated, con- 
 tact with the world, a practical knowledge of its 
 insincerity, its hollowness, and its vanities tooy 
 make ua shrink from filling the void which death 
 has created, by new intimacies. Besides, we become 
 cold and frigid in our natures. Icicles form around 
 our heart, and the hot tears, over the graves of our 
 early friends, will not melt them away. We should 
 cherish the friendships of our youth the more, be- 
 cause it is so difficult to form new ones, and we 
 should prize a new one, formed at our years, as a 
 
224 CouNTBY Margins. 
 
 diamond set around with rubies ; as gold that had 
 passed the refiner's ordeal. 
 
 Say that we shall cease our discussions, if you 
 please ; that this is the last of the Makgins. Eetire 
 to enjoy the otium cum dignitate of your literary la- 
 bors, but don't say, "let us shake hands and part," 
 don't say it. 
 
 * ♦ * "And the cliickens had been spring chickens, 
 which, I take it, satisfies the conscience, the moral sense, as to 
 that matter. If a chicken has been young in its day, what 
 more can you expect ? Oh 1 my Editor, in this age of progress, 
 when there is a chance of attaining the full cackle, the perfected 
 crow,— it 'a quite ridiculous to expect that spring chickens are 
 always to continue and remain spring chickens." 
 
 Precisely so — the theory looks plausible, and so 
 far as the argument goes, we cannot gainsay it. 
 But it won't stand the test of fact : and how many 
 of the ten thousand theories originated by human 
 wisdom will stand that test ? The world once be- 
 lieved that this little earth was the great centre of 
 created things. That it was a vast plain stretching 
 out every way, consisting of oceans and dry land, 
 lakes, mountains and seas, rivers and islands. That 
 when a man started to go west, west he might go 
 forever, until he came to the outer edge, the jump- 
 ing off place, if any edge there was. That the sun 
 travelled round the earth by day, and the moon by 
 night, and that all the stars were only shining things 
 set up in the sky for ornament. This theory was 
 
Test of Spring Chickens. 225 
 
 a great thing for Imman pride, and tlie men of those 
 times had a great opinion of themselves and their 
 mighty world. No wonder that " there were giants 
 in those days." But the demonstrations of science 
 knocked this proud theory into fragments. Great 
 ships swung out upon the ocean, and sailed away 
 westward, and sailed on, traversing unknown seas. 
 Onward they went, westward and westward stiU, 
 until one day they made their appearance in the East, 
 returning to the harbor they had left. People still 
 insisted that the earth was flat ; but there stood the 
 fact, of a voyage always in one direction, straight- 
 forward, that terminated where it began. Here 
 was a practical demonstration, a solitary fact that 
 scattered the logic and the learning of ages, and a 
 great theory that had stood as truth for centuries, 
 to the winds. It proved that this earth was not 
 flat, but round. Science again applied its cold de- 
 monstrations of fact to our planetary system, and 
 proved that this mighty earth was a wonderfully 
 small matter in the great visible universe of God, 
 that it travelled roimd the sun as a sort of tender 
 only, and that the little stars that twinkled away 
 up in the sky, were glorious worlds, to whose vast 
 magnitude this earth is in comparison as a grass- 
 hopper to the mastodon. 
 
 And now, friend Margins, let us test your the- 
 ory in regard to spring chickens — and remember 
 we are discussing a theory, not a dinner, and espe- 
 cially not the " Christmas dinner," for that was all 
 10 
 
226 Country Margins. 
 
 that an epicure could ask, to say nothing of the 
 generous hospitality, the pleasant couTersation with 
 which it was seasoned. Ask a " diner out" who 
 has a taste for that choicest of delicacies, the spring 
 chicken, if he is contented with the argument that 
 he should feed upon an antiquated rooster, because 
 it had at some remote period been a spring chick- 
 en ? Every tooth in his head would cry out against 
 such a forced conclusion. Eeason with him as you 
 might — ^pUe Pelion upon Ossa and Ossa upon Olym- 
 pus, in the way of theoretical demonstration, still 
 his aching jaws, that had in vain essayed to masti- 
 cate the muscles and ligaments of the venerable 
 game-cock, and his sense of taste that had detected 
 no delicacy of flavor, would, by the simple applica- 
 tion of palpable facts, demolish your learning and 
 your logic. No, sir, a spring chicken is sui generis. 
 It never exceeds a partridge in size. When it " at- 
 tains the ftill cackle, the perfected crow," as a 
 spring chicken it ceases to have an existence ; caU 
 it a fowl, a hen, a rooster, anything you please, but 
 it is not a spring chicken. It may be, and I affirm 
 it is, a good and edible thing, but a spring chicken 
 it is not. It has not the delicate flavor, the juicy 
 tenderness — ^in short, the perfection of all that is 
 pleasant to the palate, that belongs to the spring 
 chicken. 
 
 " One thing is certain, the fire-water we did not have, nor 
 the Claret, nor the Sauteme, nor the old Port, nor the Heid- 
 sick ; we did not find the key to the hall-closet." 
 
Never Floored But Once. 227 
 
 And therein we insist upon it we were right. 
 Will you tell us, friend Margins, why it is, that 
 rational men, who can reason accurately from cause 
 to effect, should indulge in this same fire-water ? 
 Why they will insist that they cannot be jolly, 
 without invoking to their aid the wine-God, or the 
 still more dangerous potentate, Eong Alcohol ? If 
 you will look over our pleasant correspondence you 
 will find, somewhere in the back numbers, this 
 expression in regard to ourselves : 
 
 " Wine floored ns once, and only once, and then 'twas by 
 treachery. Under the influence of repentance and soda-water, 
 we cut its acquaintance forever." 
 
 We have smiled over the memory of that occa- 
 sion more than once, notwithstanding certain 
 twinges of conscience, which tempered our pro- 
 pensity to laughter, for be it known to you, friend 
 Margins, that there is "a mirthful sadness as well 
 as tears of joy." 
 
 We had just finished our term of study required 
 as an antecedent to being admitted to practice at 
 the bar (we mean, of course, as a lawyer) ; and as 
 the court was in session in New York, went there 
 for the purpose of passing the ordeal of an exami- 
 nation preparatory to obtaining a license to put 
 " Attorney at Law" at the end of our name. It 
 was of a January day when we, with some forty or 
 fifty others, were examined, and cold enough to 
 satisfy the conscience of a Laplander. Much as we 
 
228 COUNTBY Maegins. 
 
 liad dreaded the examination, and diligently as we 
 had applied ourseLf to be prepared for it, it finally 
 turned out to be a very commonplace affair, the 
 principal object of which seemed to be, to occupy 
 the time until a supper to the examiners, at what 
 in those days was a celebrated restaurant's in the 
 neighborhood of the City Hall, could be prepared. 
 When that event was announced the examination, 
 of course, terminated, and we were all pronounced 
 uncommonly learned young men, in every branch 
 of legal science ; and as the supper was excellent, 
 we maybe said to have graduated with great honor. 
 We are green enough, mercy knows, now, but were 
 much more verdant then. The greater part of our 
 long clerkship of seven years had been spent ia the 
 rural districts where Champagne was a mere rumor, 
 an ideality, a thing to hear spoken of by travelled 
 gentlemen ; besides, our finances, if such cheer had 
 been plenty, would have been a barrier between us 
 and indulgence. 
 
 Beside us at the table sat one that might have 
 been called, in modem parlance, a fast young man ; 
 so fast, indeed, that he ran himself out of constitu- 
 tion, out of health, and into the grave at last, before 
 he was thirty years of age. He was the son of 
 wealthy parents, highly educated, and of brilliant 
 mind. But a career of dissipation squandered one 
 of the noblest intellects that God ever gave to his 
 creatures, and made his mother's head white, and 
 her brow wrinkled long before their time, and the 
 
A Bkick in the Hat. 229 
 
 memory of his last hours, when the drunkard's 
 dehrinm was upon him, broke her heart, and she 
 sank childless into the grave. He sat beside us at 
 the supper-table. Upon him wine had small effect. 
 Inured to its use, his brain seemed almost proof 
 against indulgence, however copious his libations. 
 The Champagne was choice, and we remember well 
 that it was pleasant to the taste. Our neighbor 
 drank and urged us to drink, descanting all the 
 time upon its harmless nature, and we were foolish 
 enough to drink one glass to his two, during the 
 sitting. "We had a joUy time of it; just such a 
 time as lays up repentance and humiliation, and 
 self-abasement, when the sober second thought calls 
 up the follies of the past. We were entirely regular, 
 so long as we remained at table, and in tiie equable 
 atmosphere of the room, but when we got out into 
 the piercing cold outside, all at once the lights 
 seemed to be dancing a quadrille with the houses, 
 and the streets with their lamps seemed to go up in 
 a long vista towards the sky. Everything seemed 
 in motion. The buildings got out into the middle 
 of the streets. The Old City Hall was tumiDg a 
 somersault, and the horses and carts, and car- 
 riages seemed to be all standing straight up on end, 
 or going perpendicidarly up towards the stars, that 
 were dodging about in a manner that was a sight 
 to behold. The side-walks were steep, very steep, 
 and it was an up-hill business to travel upon them. 
 "We remember catching around a lamp-post that 
 
230 Country Makgins. 
 
 was liunying up Broadway, on a two-forty gait, 
 just as the glass came down in a crash around us, 
 a friend of ours having thrown his hickory cane at 
 it to stop the runaway. At that instant, a kind 
 gentleman, who belonged to the night watch, intro- 
 duced himself to our acquaintance. What the 
 subject of his remarks -was we do not remember, 
 but when he said watch-house, we said " a carriage, 
 "Western Hotel, call in the morning, all right, go 
 ahead." The rest is a blank. We awoke in the 
 morning about ten o'clock, in our own room at oxir 
 hotel, with ten thousand bees humming and swarm- 
 ing in our head, temples throbbing with pain, and 
 a deep sense of shame in our heart. That night's 
 experience satisfied us. If we cannot be jolly with- 
 out a recourse to artificial stimulants, we have made 
 up our mind to " go mourning all our days." It is 
 a bad thing, a dangerous thing, to trifle with this 
 "fire-water." Better play with the forked light- 
 ning, better grapple with the locomotive when he 
 comes crashing and thundering along, screaming 
 and roaring with the voice of the arch-fiend, and 
 hurling forward with the speed of the wind, his 
 ponderous train. 
 
 Well, friend Margins, if part we must, so be it. 
 To us, at least, our season of communion, brief 
 tho\igh it be, has been pleasant. We shall look back 
 upon it as one of the green spots of a life that haa 
 
Pabbwell. 281 
 
 been to some extent a barren one. There are many 
 desolate places along whicli its course has been, and 
 few flowers have bloomed by the wayside. But 
 "addio" be it, and God bless you and all those that 
 you love. May health and strength return to you, 
 may no sorrow cast its dark shadow around you. 
 May your life be a long and a happy one, and may 
 your last hour be the happiest of all, by reason of 
 " the faith that leans upon God." 
 
COUIS^TIIY HUMBLES. 
 
OOTTTsTTRY HUMBLES. 
 
 I. 
 
 GANAUDAIOUA — PENN YAK — CROOKED LAKE — 
 BATH — HOKNELLSVILLE. 
 
 I AM at Canandaigua, certainly one of tlie most 
 beautiful country towns in the State. The scenery 
 about it is not grand or sublime; there are no rug- 
 ged mountains rearing their tall heads to the cloudsi 
 frowning in eternal barrenness upon majestic rivers 
 sweeping around their base, or lakes sleeping in 
 quiet valleys below them ; there are no waterfalls 
 rushing down from the lulls in foaming cascades, or 
 winding in deep ravines among old primeval woods; 
 but there is that which is better. There are rich 
 farms spread out all around, far as the eye can 
 reach, fields of grain waving in the summer breeze, 
 meadows covered with rich grass ready for the 
 mower, and pastures in which flocks and herds are 
 feeding; fine farm-houses hid away among the tall 
 trees and shrubbery, and bams filled with the pro- 
 ducts of agriculture, are in view. On the south is 
 a beautiful lake winding away around low promon- 
 tories, with cultivated fields or patches of green 
 
236 Country Eambles. 
 
 woods stretcMng away from the beach. Such is 
 the scenery around Canandaigua. There are pleas- 
 ant drives in every direction. The road that winds 
 along the shore of the lake will afford a delightful 
 ride of a summer morning or evening, and the other 
 avenues leading away into the country are scarcely 
 less pleasant. Everywhere are the evidences of 
 wealth, of progress, and of civilization. Fine horses, 
 fine cattle and sheep, and rich harvests, are con- 
 stantly in view. These things are around Canan- 
 daigua, outside of the village, within range of a 
 walk or a drive. But the village itself affords a 
 greater display of quiet beauty and taste than I 
 have seen elsewhere. The houses are massive and 
 elegant, surrounded by large and tastefully laid out 
 grounds and gardens, decorated with the rarest 
 flowers, and the richest shrubbery. There are 
 " solid men," as Daniel Webster would say, in Can- 
 andaigua — "soUd" in intelligence and social quali- 
 ties, in moral and political influence, and solid in 
 dollars. Men who live for something beyond the 
 mere accumulation of wealth ; who will leave be- 
 hind them a monument in the taste with which they 
 have adorned the spots they occupy. These beau- 
 tiful residences, the grounds decorated with rare 
 shrubbery, and abounding in the richest fruits ; 
 these gardens, sending abroad upon the air the 
 fragrance of flowers that charm the vision by their 
 beauty, and entrance the senses by their sweetness, 
 are better than railroad stocks or vast investments 
 
A Beautitul Landscape. 237 
 
 in the funds, to leave as a monument when one 
 dies. The tree one plants, surviyes him ; the grape" 
 vine remains when the hand that plants it is cold; 
 the rose-bush blossoms when he who placed it in the 
 garden is alone in the quiet house of death ; and 
 while the tree bears its fruit, the grape-vine its rich 
 clusters, or the rose its sweet blossoms, his name 
 will remain connected with them, as if chiselled in 
 marble. I remember that in one of the old towns 
 of New England, I was conversing with a lady who 
 is not unknown to fame, when she pointed to some 
 elms that stood on the lawn in front of her dwell- 
 ing, and said, "these trees were planted by my 
 grandfather," and then pointing to some venerable 
 pear-trees that hung with then \inripe fruit, said, 
 "those were planted by the original proprietor of 
 these grounds, of whom my, grandfather purchased 
 them." The name she gave I have forgotten, but 
 it was associated with the old pear-trees, and had been 
 for more than a hundred years. And so it will be 
 with the trees and shrubbery of these beautifiil 
 grounds. They will preserve the memory of those 
 who placed them where they stand, and for genera- 
 tions be a monument to their virtues and their 
 name. 
 
 From an observatory on the top of one of the 
 most splendid dwellings in the village, I had a view 
 of the country around. The glass was slightly 
 stained, of the windows through which I looked, 
 and it gave a mellowness to the picture that was 
 
238 Country Rambles. 
 
 exceedingly beautiful. I have never been in Italy; 
 I know about an Italian sunset, only from descrip- 
 tions by tourists and from paintings by masters of 
 the art, but if an Italian sunset exceeds in beauty 
 the prospect that was before me, as I looked from 
 that observatory, it is then beautiftil indeed. The 
 lake, the farms and avenues lined with trees in the 
 distance, the village residences, the gardens and 
 grounds near by, and the delightful walks and trees, 
 and rich fruits and flowers immediately beneath and 
 around me, formed a landscape which, seen in the 
 mellow light afforded by the stained glass of the 
 windows through which I looked, no painter could 
 transfer to canvas, or Italy excel. 
 
 I dined with the owner of this residence and his 
 excellent lady, in the true style of Scotch hospi- 
 tality. They were among the pioneers of what 
 years ago was known as the Genesee Country. 
 They have seen the ancient forests standing on the 
 site of Canandaigua, and stretching away to the 
 great lakes, and they have watched the progress of 
 that war which civilization makes upon the old 
 primeval things, sweeping away the woods and 
 spreading out broad farms, planting churches and 
 school-houses, and building up cities and towns. 
 They heard the first blast of the stage coachman's 
 horn, on the great stage route through the centre of 
 the State, and they heard its dying echoes as it was 
 succeeded by the scream of the steam- whistle and 
 the snort of the iron horse. They shared the trials 
 
Declining Years of Life. 239 
 
 and hardships incident to the settlement of a new 
 country, and in their declining years they are 
 reaping a rich harvest, as the reward of their perse- 
 verance and energy. May they be long spared to 
 enjoy the fruits of their labors; and when their 
 appointed time shall come, may they pass away 
 quietly and calmly as the last lingering stars pass 
 from the twilight of morning into the brightness of 
 the perfect day. 
 
 As we were walking in the garden after dinner, 
 among the beautiful and rare flowers and shrubbery, 
 I said to the excellent lady of the mansion, " It 
 seems to me that you are blessed, certainly not 
 beyond your deserts, but beyond the ordinary lot 
 of the people of this world. You have wealth, and 
 you have the taste to use and enjoy it. You have 
 this beautiful mansion, and these delightful grounds, 
 these flowers, these fruit and shade trees, these 
 pleasant walks, and all that can make life pleasant. 
 You have health, and spirits to enjoy it all. While 
 I, who have all the love for all these things, have 
 neither house nor grounds, can cultivate no shrub- 
 bery or flowers. My life is a long struggle for 
 bread." 
 
 " My friend," she replied, and a shade of sadness 
 came over her countenance as she spoke, " we do 
 not differ so much from you. We have no children 
 to bestow our affections upon. You have. Would 
 you exchange them for all that you have seen here? 
 They are your garden." 
 
240 COUNTET EAMBLES. 
 
 And I thouglit of tlie cherished flower that death 
 had so recently plucked from the garden of my 
 home, and how I missed its perfume, and that I 
 would give all the treasures of earth, were they 
 mine, to look upon the sweet blossom again. 
 
 There is, at Canandaigua, one of the finest hotels 
 in the country. It is spacious and new. The 
 rooms axe large and airy, and furnished with great 
 taste and neatness. In no hotel have I found more 
 care or attention paid to the comfort and conve- 
 nience, and even the luxury of the guests. To 
 those who love quiet, who would be away from the 
 bustle and noise of a city, who have no taste for the 
 excitement of the watering-places or fashionable 
 resorts, Canandaigua offers peculiar inducements to 
 tempt a stay. The hotel, I repeat, is among the 
 very best in the State. The country around is 
 charming, the drives delightful. Everything that 
 can add to the luxury of quiet and repose during 
 the heat of summer, is to be found here. 
 
 I am at Penn Yan, the county seat of Yates 
 County, a neat and prosperous village ia one of the 
 smallest, but richest counties of the State. The 
 farms around it are productive, admirably managed, 
 and the farmers are rich. In no part of the State 
 has there been a more rapid progress in improve- 
 ment and wealth made. It is a pleasant thing to 
 
Penn Yan Then and Now. 241 
 
 see the great fields of grain, of wheat just ready for 
 the harvest, of barley ripening for the sickle, of oats 
 yet in their coat of green, and com even with the 
 fences, just in the gorgeous hvery of a thrifty 
 growth. Time was when Penn Yan by no means 
 enjoyed the best name in the world for morals. It 
 was once emphatically a hard place, a place of hprse 
 trading, horse racing, card playing, of drinking, 
 and the other proclivities which go to make up an 
 evil reputation. But all these things belong to the 
 past, and Penn Yan is now as distinguished for its 
 public virtue, its high tone of public morals, as it 
 was, in days long gone by, for its evil practices. 
 Churches and school-houses, and the persevering 
 effort and example of good men, have wrought an 
 utter revolution in its moral character. Its vices 
 have been forsaken, its evil practices abandoned. 
 The bad men who stained its reputation with their 
 evil courses, have passed away, or forsaken then- 
 bad ways. Penn Yan is a sober village, full of 
 enterprise, energy and industry, where the right 
 tone of morals prevails. 
 
 In sight of Penn Yan is the Crooked Lake. 
 This beautiful sheet of water has, to me, a thousand 
 charms, and as I look upon it a rush of pleasant 
 memories come clustering around my heart. I was 
 reared npon its banks ; I have floated a thousand 
 . times upon its surface, and bathed and fished in its 
 waters ; I have caught hundreds of salmon trout 
 out in the deep water, and thousands of yellow 
 
242 COITNTET Eambles. 
 
 percli and sunfisli along the sliore, or on the points 
 of the bars, -where the ecpiatic weeds grow thick 
 and luxuriant, like a cane-brake or a wild meadow 
 away down in the water. I remember when my 
 father's log house stood at the head of the lake, 
 some forty rods back from the shore, with a gentle 
 slope of meadow to the water's edge. Great maples 
 that had been spared when the old forest trees were 
 swept away, stood a few rods apart in that meadow, 
 spreading abroad their leafy arms, and rising in the 
 summer tiine like pyramids of green towards the 
 sky. Midway from the door to the lake was a 
 cluster of some half dozen of these beautiful trees, 
 from among the roots of which a cold pure spring 
 came gushing up, and ran in a little brooklet over 
 a bed of pebbles to the lake. It was a new country 
 then. No highway or road extended beyond my 
 father's clearing. He lived eight miles from a mill, 
 and the same distance from a store or a physician. 
 But all this is changed now. Where then was that 
 meadow, and fields full of stumps, or old primeval 
 woods, is now a thriving village of some fifteen 
 hundred busy people. All the ancient landmarks 
 have been removed. Civilization, in its onward 
 progress, has swept everything that then was to 
 oblivion. The old maples are gone, the clustering 
 plum trees, the tall sycamores, the hickory, the 
 butternut and the wild cherry trees are all gone. 
 That beautiful spring is in the cellar of a village 
 store. The house that "I was bom in" is gone. 
 
A Beautiful Sheet of Watek. 243 
 
 and its place occupied by a pleasant village resi- 
 dence. 
 
 This was a beautiful sheet of water long years 
 ago, when there were few clearings along its shores, 
 and it is a beautiful sheet of water stUl. The forest 
 that grew in dense luxuriance to the water's edge, 
 by its gigantic growth indicated the strength of the 
 son. Where that forest stood, are now rich farms, 
 giving back wealth to the descendants of the hardy 
 pioneers that swept it away. The scenery around 
 this lake is most beautiful — ^not Hke that of Lake 
 George, where rocks and mountains are piled up in 
 stately barrenness, opposing their bald heads to the 
 storm, or hiding their summits in the mists of 
 heaven. The scenery of Lake George is grand, 
 subKme ; but is the grandeur of sterility, the sub- 
 limity of desolation. Civilization can never beau- 
 tify or adorn its rugged acclivities ; agriculture 
 cannot thrust its sickle into ripened grain, nor the 
 ploughshare penetrate the granite soil that surrounds 
 it. It may be a resort for the traveller in the 
 summer months, to enjoy the freshness of the 
 mountain air, and the coolness of the mountain 
 breeze, but civilization cannot winter there. 
 
 The scenery about this lake is of a different 
 character. It speaks of wealth, of comfort, of intel- 
 ligence, of civilization and progress. The farms 
 that stretch away in gentle acclivity from the shore 
 are rich in agricultural products, great fields of 
 wheat, just passing into yeUow ripeness, waving 
 
244 COUNTEY Eambles. 
 
 like an ocean in a gentle breeze. Meadows, wliieh 
 are now being sbom by tlie mowers — acres upon 
 acres of oats and com, now in their richest robe of 
 luxurious green — ^pastures where flocks and herds 
 are grazdng. Painted houses and great bams, 
 patches of woodland left to supply fuel, and timber 
 for fences and building. These make up the land- 
 scape that skirts the Crooked Lake. There is no 
 lack of secluded bays or shaded nooks, into which 
 the httle row-boat may glide, nor rugged promon- 
 tories coyered with stately trees, beneath the shadow 
 of which one may luxuriate, safe from the noonday 
 heat, and refreshed by the cool breeze that sweeps 
 over the water. Midway between Penn Yan and 
 the head of the lake is Bluff Point, around the base 
 of which the lake sweeps, and which forms a penin- 
 sula, separating the east from the west branch of 
 the lake. This point, as it is called, is a hill of 
 some thousand feet in height, rising with a steep 
 acchvity, but cultivated to the water's edge. On 
 the top it is comparatively level, and presenting for 
 some eight or ten nules a beautiful farming country. 
 At the highest elevation stands a pleasant farm 
 house, overlooking the lake and all the country 
 roimd. Seen from the water, it stands out in bold 
 relief against the sky, like some ancient castle of 
 the barons of old. From Penn Yan to this dwell- 
 ing, is a pleasant ride of some ten or twelve miles 
 over a plank road most of the way. When there, 
 the traveller will have a view worth a day's ride to 
 
A Beautiful Vallky. 245 
 
 look upon. He will be far above tbe surrouncliiig 
 country. On three sides of him will be the lake 
 with the beautiful scenery that skirts it. To the 
 East he wiU overlook a country of forest and farms 
 for miles and miles, within which he will see two or 
 three smaller lakes ; to the north he wiU see Penn 
 Yan, and the rich agricultural district that surrounds 
 it, and beyond, the Seneca Lake. Away to the south 
 he will be charmed by the beautiful valley that 
 stretches away from the head of the lake, and is 
 lost among the hills that hem in the valley of the 
 Conhocton ; while to the west his eye wiU wander 
 over a country more wild and rugged, but still rich 
 and beautiful. No traveller should leave Penn Yan 
 without visiting Bluff Point. Nor should he fail to 
 take a passage over the lake in the pleasant little 
 steamer Steuben. In Captain John Greig he wiU. 
 find an intelligent and courteous gentleman — one 
 who loves his boat and the lake he navigates, and 
 the country and the people round it; who loves to 
 point out the beauties of the scenery, and hear the 
 tourist respond to his own enthusiasm. He is, as I 
 said, an intelligent man, not profoundly educated in 
 scholastic lore, but one who has read and thought a 
 vast deal. Talk about the birds, and you will find 
 him an omothologist. He will show you his collec- 
 tion of birds, prepared in a superior manner by 
 himself Among these he will point out to you a 
 loon or northern diver, taken on a hook upon a 
 night line in more than a hundred feet of water. 
 
246 Country Eambles. 
 
 Talk about the fishes, and you will find him deeply 
 conversant with piscatory lore. Talk of the animals 
 that, when the country was wild, frequented the 
 forests in this portion of the country, and you will 
 find him at home on the subject. In whatever 
 relates to nature, and the living things of nature, he 
 is learned as careful reading and study can make a 
 man of his years. 
 
 I go up the Lake with him to-morrow, and shall 
 write you again. I go to visit the old scenes of my 
 boyhood. Though everything is changed, though 
 the old land marks that I loved are all gone, yet I 
 love to linger around the spot where my early youth 
 was spent, and call up visions of scenes long, long 
 past. I love to call back the brave old trees, the 
 fields, the fences, the stumps, the gushing spring, 
 and brushing away the houses and the streets, place 
 them as they stood of old. I love to call up the old 
 maples that stood in the meadow between the old 
 log house and the lake, in all their ancient verdure, 
 and talk with the unseen spirits that people their 
 green foliage. I love to tear away the store houses, 
 the docks, and the great high wall that usurp the 
 place of the little bay at the northwest corner of the 
 lake, that shot landward beneath the spreading arms 
 of the ancient elms and oaks, up whose great trunks 
 the wild grape-vine climbed, and creeping out along 
 the branches, covered them with its tendrils like a 
 net work, and spread out its broad green leaves like 
 a thatched roof, shutting out the light of the sun. 
 
Cbooked Lake Eeminiscences, 217 
 
 And yet it is a sad tiling to visit these old places and 
 see the mighty change that has come over them. 
 
 I am on the Crooked Lake, a passenger in the 
 pleasant little steamer Steuben, under the command 
 of Captain John Geeig, of whom I have spoken 
 before. AU that I said of him then was true, all 
 that I said of the scenery around this lake is true, 
 unless it be that I have failed to do it justice. I 
 said I was reared upon the banks of this lake, and 
 that as I looked upon its pure clear water, and upon 
 the lulls, the gentle slopes, the valleys and the 
 streams that come to it wandering away from the 
 country, a crowd of sad, but pleasant memories 
 come clustering around my heart. It is not now as 
 it was then. Everything is changed. The old 
 forests are gone, the tall pines, the majestic oaks, 
 the maples, the sycamores, the gigantic elms, the 
 lofty lindens, the wild cherry and the butternut 
 trees, old primeval things all, are gone. Let me 
 describe it to you as my memory paints it, before 
 civihzation had robbed it of its ancient beauty, as it 
 lay here in the midst of the wilderness, sleeping 
 alone. Let us look upon it as it was years and 
 years ago, when I was a boy. We will talk with 
 the old settlers, the pioneers that first made war 
 upon the forests that stood in primitive sohtude 
 about it. They were the vanguard of civilization, 
 
248 CouNTBY Rambles. 
 
 and changed by their labor tbat great wilderness 
 into fruitful fields. True, they bave all passed 
 away, dropped into bonored graves, but we wiU 
 call' tbeir spirits around us, and tbey will tell us of 
 tbe times of old, of tbe scenes of tbe early settle- 
 ments, of tbeir struggles and bardsbips. Tbey can 
 tell us many a story connected witb tbis lake tbat 
 bas lain bere so long unappreciated and unbonored. 
 We will not look upon tbe beautiful farms, tbe vil- 
 lages tbat now are found upon its sbores. "We will 
 people tbe fields witb tbe old forest trees, and brusb 
 away tbe bouses and barns. We will take away 
 tbe fences, and remove aU tbese evidences of civili- 
 zation. Where tbe flocks and berds are feeding in 
 ricb pastures, we will replace tbe deer and bear, 
 and tbe otber wild animals tbat roamed there before 
 tbe woodman's axe frightened .them away, or the 
 hunter's rifle doomed them to destruction. We will 
 do as I did more than thirty years ago, when there 
 were but few clearings along tbe shore, go a voyage 
 around the lake in a canoe made from the trunk of 
 a gigantic pine. I earned my first five dollars by 
 that voyage. I was hired by two English gentle- 
 men to row them round the lake. Tbey were kind- 
 hearted men, for when they saw, boy tbat I was, 
 that I was weary, they relieved me in turn from 
 the oars. We were four days in making the circuit 
 of the lake, but the guinea they paid rae made me 
 richer than I have ever been since. 
 
 At the northwest comer of tbe lake was a beauti- 
 
Killing My Fiest Deeb. 249 
 
 ful little bay, stretching landward some five or 
 six rods by two or three in width. Above it the 
 branches of taU oaks and elms were intertwined, 
 and the wild grapes that crept up their great trunks, 
 spread their net- work all over the tops of the trees, 
 and made with their broad leaves an arbor through 
 the arches of which the sun never shone. The water 
 of this little bay was clear as crystal, and the white 
 pebbles on the bottom, some three or four feet down 
 in the water, were as visible as though nothing but 
 air was above them. At the head of the bay, a 
 cold spring that came gushing up at a few rods dis- 
 tant, entered. From this little bay I have caught, 
 first and last, hundreds of speckled trout weighing 
 from half of a pound to three or four times that 
 ' weight. But it is all filled up now — stores and 
 shops, and a street, and docks, and a great high 
 wall occupy the place of that little bay, and those 
 old elms and oaks, and that spring, have all disap- 
 peared. I killed my first deer as he stooped his 
 head to drink of the water of that little bay. I had 
 watched him from my hiding-place for ^n hour, as 
 he came browsing along the side of the hill. Just 
 as the sun was going down, he stepped from the 
 thick bushes on to the pebbly beach, and after look- 
 ing all around him, and snnffing the air, he stepped 
 confidently into the water to slake his thirst. My 
 rifle was upon him, the ball that sped fi-om it pene- 
 trated his brain, and he fell dead. Further south, 
 stood a tall sycamore, the roots of which were laved 
 11 
 
250 Country Eambles. 
 
 by tlie water ; upon the dead brandies, near the 
 top of which, was a favorite perch for the fish-hawk, 
 as he watched for his prey. Occasionally a bald 
 eagle would alight there to plume himself, and 
 watch for the wild ducks that frequented the lake. 
 Further south still, were a few acres of low marshy 
 ground, where the main inlet entered, where the 
 musk-rats built their houses, and the mink and the 
 otter stole along the margin in pursuit of prey. 
 The inlet took its rise some seven or eight miles up 
 the valley, in a multitude of large springs, and it 
 was full of the speckled trout. Let us pause here, 
 and call up some of the old -settlers, whose farms 
 extended from this "big creek," as it was called, 
 which flowed along through the centre of the val- 
 ley, back to the hiUs. Judge Bakee, I believe, was 
 the first white man who stuck his stake in that val- 
 ley, and commenced the war against the ancient 
 forests, that has been carried on ever since with 
 such relentless vigor. His farm is now in posses- 
 sion of his son, and a most beautiful one it is — ^rich 
 in all tWt belongs to agriculture, and cultivated to 
 a charm. 
 
 Judge Baker was a most remarkable man, 
 strong in physical strength, one calculated to en- 
 dure the hardships of a new country, but stronger 
 still in native, vigorous, common sense. I remem- 
 ber him well. In his latter years, when his early 
 industry had relieved him from the necessity to 
 labor, he was a reading man, and was always a 
 
One of the First Settlers. 251 
 
 thoughtful one. He was the first who explored 
 that region with a view to settling there. He came 
 from Pennsylvania up the valley of the Conhocton, 
 and reaching the place where the village of Bath 
 now stands, struck off through the valley towards 
 the head of this lake. The forest around the lake 
 was exceedingly dense, and before reaching it he 
 climbed into a high tree, to take a look about him. 
 He was not aware of its proximity, and when 
 he had reached the topmost branches of the tree, 
 there it lay within fifty rods of him, its waters calm 
 and stn], unruffled by a wave or a ripple. Two 
 Indians were paddling their canoe along the shore, 
 going down the lake, while several deer were feed- 
 ing among the grass and water lilies that grew 
 about the mouth of the inlet. I have listened often 
 and often to the old man's description of this beau- 
 tiful sheet of water, as he then saw it for the first 
 time. How he descended from his perch on the 
 tall old elm, and worked his way to the pebbly 
 beach, and how calm and still it was, how the tall 
 forest trees cast their shadows out over the water 
 as the sun was sinking in the west. How solemn 
 and moveless the hills stood around. How the 
 trout leaped in their gleesomeness from the surface, 
 and schools of the yellow perch made the water 
 boil in spots around. How he shot a deer that was 
 feeding along the margin ; how gently but gloomi- 
 ly the night shadows gathered around him ; how 
 the fireflies flashed their little torches in the dark- 
 
252 COUNTEY Eambles. 
 
 ness ; how he slept on his bed of boughs, in a brush 
 shanty built by himself; how gloriously the sun 
 came up in the morning over the eastern hills, cast- 
 ing his brightness on the rippling waters, and mak- 
 ing them glisten in the sunlight, like a sheet of fire. 
 I remember, as I heard him describe the scene, 
 how I thought I should hke to have been with him 
 on his exploring tour that time, and looked upon 
 the lake as it lay there all alone, surrounded only 
 by those old forests, and navigated only by the 
 wild men of the woods. It would have been a 
 thing to remember always. 
 
 My father came there some years later, but while 
 the lake was still surrounded almost entirely by 
 woods. True, there were at long intervals clearings 
 along the shore. But its primitive wildness was 
 gone. Civilization began to develop itself there as 
 long ago as I can remember, and I could only 
 watch its progress as it moved forward. 
 
 My father had become security for a friend in the 
 loan of money, and to indemnify himself from loss, 
 had taken a mortgage upon a negro, (slavery exist- 
 ed then in this State.) The debt fell upon my father, 
 and he became the owner of a man. Old Shadrach 
 was a Yirginian by nurture, but an African by birth, 
 having been imported in his infancy. He had a 
 mortal fear of snakes and toads, and he could be 
 frightened into anything by the threat of putting a 
 snake or a toad in his bed. I call him old, because he 
 was between forty and fifty at my earliest recollection. 
 
A Frightened Negro. 253 
 
 and of course became older before he died. Old Sha- 
 dracli ran away regularly two or three times a year. 
 He would stay away sometimes a fortnight, some- 
 times a month, and on two or three occasions so 
 long that my father began to congratulate himself 
 upon being rid of him entirely. But some morning 
 old Shadrach would come crawling out from the 
 hay mow, and promise "massa" that he would 
 never run away again as long as he lived. Sha- 
 drach, as I said, stood in mortal fear of snakes. 
 He was one day fishing in a canoe on the lake, and 
 drew up what he took to be a rattlesnake. He 
 dropped his pole in horror and leaped overboard, 
 yelling and screaming for help as if a thousand In- 
 dians were scalping him. He could swim like a 
 duck, and he struck out, screaming in horror at 
 every pull. Upon reaching the shore he broke like 
 a quarter-horse for the house. My father, who was 
 at a short distance, hurried up, to know the reason 
 of the outcry. " Massa," cried Shadrach in all the 
 earnestness of terror, "de lake is full of rattle- 
 snakes." "Get out, you wooUy-pated rhinoceros," 
 replied my father, " who ever heard of rattlesnakes 
 in the water?" My father went out ia another 
 canoe to the one in which Shadrach had been fish- 
 ing, and upon securing the pole, which was floating 
 about, found that Shadrach had hooked a great eel, 
 a fish by no means common in the lake. But Sha- 
 drach regardiug it as belonging to the family of 
 
254 Country Rambles. 
 
 snakes, never trusted himself alone after that on 
 tlie water. 
 
 Let us pass along down on the eastern shore, 
 close along under the hill. The land is rugged 
 here, the hill rising in steep acclivity several hun- 
 dred feet. It is early morning. See how the sun- 
 light first rests upon the hills on the western side 
 of the lake. Eemember it is all woods there ; see 
 the shadow retreating in a long line down the side 
 of the hill ; see, it has reached the water. It is ten 
 o'clock, and we are still in the s"hade. We are five 
 miles from the head of the lake, in a beautiful little 
 bay under the lee of " "Welles' Point." The clear- 
 ing that we see, is that of Dr. Welles, the father of 
 the Hon. Henpy Welles, one of the Judges of the 
 Supreme Court. Dr. Welles was one of the pio- 
 neers of the region along the lake. He was a man 
 of energy and learning, and of infinite usefulness 
 in the early settlement of the country. This is the 
 only clearing in sight, save that from which we 
 started. (We are speaking of times "long ago.") 
 His log house stands back from the bay in which 
 our canoe is floating. I have, when a child, accom- 
 panied my father and mother on a visit to Dr. 
 Welles — ^not in a carriage, along a pleasant road 
 skirted by green fields, but in a canoe or skiff; my 
 mother seated in the stern with a trolling line in her 
 hand, with the hook a hundred feet or more behind 
 her ; myself seated in the bow and my father row- 
 
Good Old Times. 255 
 
 ing. I have travelled tliat way more than once, 
 listening to the songs that my father and mother 
 sang as we sailed along, and have seen her draw in 
 many a trout on the way. Good old times those, 
 when the men in that region " chopped down and 
 chopped up" acres and acres of woods ; when they 
 ** sheared their own fleece and wore it" Let us 
 rest in this little bay and talk of the times of old, 
 when everything was wild and natural, before 
 steamboats came ploughing their way through these 
 waters, or the scfeam of the steam-whistle was 
 heard. 
 
 Dr. "Welles was the first settler within miles of 
 this locality. He came from Columbia county, in 
 the summer of 17 — , cleared a few acres, and put 
 up a log house, and the next summer brought his 
 family to reside here. Boards were scarce in those 
 days. When he built his house he had enough for 
 the roof and the floors, but not for the doors. 
 "When his family took possession, they hung blank- 
 ets at the opening for doors, and the family for sev- 
 eral nights slept on beds made up on the floor. 
 The Doctor brought with him a negro slave, who 
 rejoiced in the distinguished cognomen of Scipio 
 Africanus, which by such liberties as white people 
 take with the names of colored persons, was stripped 
 of its euphony, and reduced to simple Sip. Old 
 Sip, with the rest, had his bed in a comer. One 
 morning it was discovered that his face was paler, 
 and his hair straighter than common, his great white 
 
256 Country Rambles. 
 
 eyes had a bolder prominence. His hand trembled 
 like that of a man who had indulged in a debauch 
 over night, and his words were tremulous and inco- 
 herent. Something was evidently wrong with Sip. 
 Nobody knew of his having been sick; he had 
 made no complaint, he had uttered no groan, he 
 had lain abed after the others were stirring, with 
 the blanket drawn partly over his head, leaving only 
 his great eyes glistening the more brightly in con- 
 trast with the ebony of his skin. The Doctor rous- 
 ed him from his bed, got him up on end, questioned 
 and cross-questioned him, but could get nothing 
 coherent from him, and it was not till a strong ap- 
 plication of old Jamaica, that Sip's recollection 
 came back, and enabled him to tell his story. He 
 was laying awake long after the others had gone to 
 sleep, when, as he affirmed, a great black animal 
 pushed aside the blanket that hung in the place of 
 a door, and walked around to the beds that were 
 ranged on the floor, paused a moment at Sip's bed, 
 and then walked leisurely out. There were two 
 things confirmatory of Sip's story. First, he was 
 frightened by something as near out of his wits 
 as it was possible for a human being to be ; and 
 secondly, there was found on the boards of the floor 
 several tracks resembling those made by a bear, 
 when his foot is wet with dew, and the bottom of it 
 covered with earth. Whatever the truth of the 
 matter may have been, the Doctor believed the as- 
 sertion of Sip, and the collateral evidence of the 
 
A Beak Instead of a Deer. 257 
 
 tracks, and always supposed that a bear had invad- 
 ed the privacy of his dwelling that night. This 
 anecdote I had from Judge Welles, who is not a 
 man to indulge in fictions. 
 
 It was a common thing for the deer to swim the 
 lake in the summer time, and many were taken by 
 the Doctor's family by pursuing them with a canoe 
 in the water. On one occasion, a deer, as was sup- 
 posed, was seen swimming across the lake, from the 
 west, towards the eastern shore, and a daughter of 
 the Doctor, who subsequently was the wife, and is 
 now the widow of the late General Geo. McCluke, 
 together with Sip, put out in a canoe in pursuit. 
 Away off in the forest, among the new settlements, 
 young ladies are more courageous than they are in 
 the cities, and come to understand woodcraft, and 
 love the wild sports of the forest and lake almost as 
 well as their brothers do. I have seen those who 
 could fire a rifle with the precision of a marksman, 
 who could row a skiff or paddle a canoe with the 
 best, who were successful anglers for the speckled 
 trout, and could take the salmon trout with a troll- 
 ing Une on the lake. And yet, they lacked nothing 
 of the natural refinement and innate modesty that 
 belong to the true woman. I said the daughter of 
 Doctor "Welles and Sip started in pursuit of the 
 deer that was swimming the lake. He swam but 
 slowly, and they easily overtook him. The young 
 lady was in the stern of the canoe, and Sip was in 
 the bow. As they approached the game, Sip's eyes 
 11* 
 
258 COUNTET Eambles. 
 
 began to open witli astonishment. " Golla, Missus," 
 he cried, " dat deer am black — my ! he ain't got no 
 horns, he ain't got no long ears, nudder." As they 
 approached nearer. Sip's paddle was suspended, and 
 his teeth began to chatter — " Dat no deer, dat de 
 debil," he shouted, as he tumbled over in the bot- 
 tom of the canoe in utter affright. But whatever it 
 was, the canoe was close upon it, and then it turned 
 to give battle. It was a huge bear, and such a set 
 of ivory as it showed was a sight to see. In the 
 astonishment of the moment, the canoe had float- 
 ed within reach of the now furious animal, and 
 he threw his great paw up on the bow. "Let go 
 dat," cried Sip, as, with a last effort of despair, he 
 struck a furious blow with his paddle. The bear 
 caught the oar with his paw, and hurled it to a dis- 
 tance in the water, but his hold of the canoe was 
 loosed, and by a skilful movement, the young lady 
 sent it beyond his reach. A spare paddle was in 
 the canoe, and the way Sip and she pulled for the 
 shore, was astonishing. They arrived in time for 
 the Doctor to return with his gun and axe, and 
 dispatch the animal before he reached the shore. 
 See those stately old elms on the point, how they 
 tower up towards the sky, stretching abroad their 
 leafy arms in dalliance with the summer winds, and 
 casting their morning shadows away out on the 
 water. They grew there from the seed planted by 
 the hand of nature, and where they stand others as 
 gigantic have grown, till weakened by decay or 
 
Passing Down the Lake. 259 
 
 riven by the lightning, the storm hurled them to 
 the ground, to rot where they fell. In the times of 
 old the deer crouched in the heat of noon in their 
 shade. The elk may have browsed upon the tender 
 plants beneath them, or the bear clambered up 
 their great trunks. But they are gone now, and 
 the willow, and smaller shrubbery planted by the 
 hand of man, occupy their place. Strange that 
 those stately old elms should have been removed to 
 give place to trees of a lower dignity, and a meaner 
 growth. Strange that when civilization sweeps 
 away the old forests, it does not leave more of the 
 ancient monarchs of the woods standing where they 
 grew, as memorials of its triumphs over nature, and 
 as witnesses of the achievements of human strength 
 and labor. 
 
 Let us pass on down the lake. I must remind 
 you that we have swept away these fields, and 
 houses, and bams. We have restored the forest in 
 its primitive grandeur. "We have banished the 
 horses, and cattle, and sheep, and have called back 
 the wild animals that belonged here in the times of 
 old. Five miles below " Welles' Point" we enter 
 another little bay or cove, formed by a point of 
 land running far out into the lake. I was here 
 more than thirty years ago. It was all wild then, 
 all woods. There was neither farm-house nor clear- 
 ing in sight. On the voyage round the lake with 
 the two Englishmen, as before mentioned, we 
 rowed silently round this point, and saw a noble 
 
260 COUNTEY Eambles. 
 
 deer swimming out from the shore, as if starting 
 across the lake. He had antlers like a stag, and 
 ■when we came in sight, he wheeled towards the 
 shore with the snort of a war-horse. The English- 
 men had a rifle along, and as he was almost at the 
 shore, one of them fired upon and killed him. He 
 was a noble animal. We dined upon venison that 
 day, and a more delicious meal I have never tasted, 
 though it was cooked ia a primitive way, by a fire 
 built on the shore of the lake. From this little 
 bay let us cross over to Bluff Point. We are 
 opposite to it now. See how it looms up towards 
 the sky, covered with a dense forest. The top of 
 that hill is the highest land in sight, by hundreds 
 of feet. It is no mountain peak, piercing, in 
 stately barrenness, the heavens, but a rounded 
 promontory, rising on three sides from the water, 
 and seems to us, as we look upon it, like a great 
 island in the midst of the lake. It seems close by 
 us, and yet to reach its base we must row a mile 
 and a half. See how the " West Branch" winds 
 around, and seems to hide away behind and among 
 the hills. Look away off towards Penn Yan. 
 There, too, the lake seems to steal around behind high 
 promontories, to lose itself in the forest of great 
 trees. It was a beautiful view from this point 
 " long ago," and it is beautiful still. Then it was 
 romantic and wild, as nature made it, with all the 
 old things standing round, as she placed them when 
 she threw this earth finished from her hands. 
 
The Sweet-Voiced Birds. 261 
 
 Now it is robbed of its ancient dress, and decorat- 
 ed by the ingenuity, tbe labor, and the industry of 
 man. Fields are where forests stood, and the things 
 that civilization gathers around it, make up the 
 landscape. Which is the more beautiful, I leave 
 others to determine. For myself, I love nature in 
 her old primitive garments, and I love civilization 
 with her smiling, though painted face. I love the 
 old woods, and I love the fields. I love the wild 
 things, and I love the tame things too. All I bar- 
 gain for is to leave me the birds, the happy, the 
 free, the sweet- voiced birds. You may sweep away 
 the forests. It is best that they should be removed. 
 It is necessary for the progress, and to meet the 
 necessities of humanity. Launch your steamboats 
 upon lake and river, and send forth your iron 
 horse, thundering along the valleys, spread out 
 your farms, push back the woods with the fields, 
 build your cities and towns, destroy the deer and 
 the wild animals that must perish with the forests, 
 but leave me the birds, the happy singing-birds, and 
 I am content. 
 
 "We will now row westward, aroimd the base of 
 Bluff Point, six. miles to the head of the West 
 Branch. On both sides of the branch the hills rise 
 with greater or less acclivity, but nowhere so steep 
 as to prevent cultivation. At the head of the , 
 branch is a beautiful valley stretching away to the 
 northwest, through the centre of which winds a 
 small stream alive with the speckled trout. Pines, 
 
262 Country Eambles. 
 
 and elms, and oaks, witli the wild cherry, butternut 
 and maple trees, constitute the principal growth of 
 timber. Remember we are speaking still of " long, 
 long ago." There is a neat village here now sur- 
 rounded by rich farms. It was all forest when I 
 passed a night on the banks here on my first voyage 
 round the lake. "We wiU pass along south again 
 on our return to the head of the lake. The lull 
 on the west side of the lake and the rising grounds 
 for miles were covered with a forest of pines. High- 
 growing stately trees, like the masts of a tall ship. 
 No axe had as yet marred their beauty, and they 
 stood here clothed in fadeless green, and murmur- 
 ing softly and solemnly as the breeze stirred in their 
 fohage. This forest of pines has been swept away, 
 and you see fields of grain and pastures, and 
 meadows where they stood. 
 
 We pass along to IngersoU's Point, three miles 
 from the head of the lake. "We will land here, and 
 see how this point of land was formed. "We go a 
 few rods on the main land, and we enter a ravine or 
 gulf as it is called. The hill-side is steep, but we 
 walk on a level, straight into the lull. A little 
 stream goes laughing along over the smooth stones. 
 It is tranquil and pleasant now, good-humored and 
 gay ; but when the snows are melting and the spring 
 jjfreshets come, it is a mad and a mighty torrent, 
 roaring and foaming down the gorge, vast in volume 
 and resistless in power. The rocks begin to rise on 
 either hand higher and higher, and as we advance 
 
Foaming Cascade. 263 
 
 a perpendicular wall of slate rock rises on either 
 side to the height of a hundred feet. Before us 
 now the little stream trickles with a gentle voice 
 down the shelving rocks, from away up towards 
 the top of the hUl, leaping from ledge to ledge. 
 Our progress is stayed here, unless we choose to 
 cHmb where a false step or a slip on the smooth 
 rock would send us skiving in the gulf below. It 
 is a goodly sight when the " stream is up," to see 
 how it cascades down from the plain above into the 
 gorge below, rushing, and tumbling, and roaring in 
 white foam over the beetling rocks. " IngersoU's 
 Point," and the acres of flat land stretching out 
 into the lake, were made by the earth excavated 
 from the hillside by the stream when its back was 
 up. 
 
 Captain GtEEIG is in his element to-day. He has 
 a pic-nic party on board from Penn Yan, and they 
 dine here on " IngersoU's Point." He has a company 
 of a hundred " fair women and brave men," married 
 and single, all cheerful and happy. They have a 
 band on board, and quadrilles, and waltzes, and 
 polkas occupy the young people, while the elders 
 look on, and like myself, think of the times when 
 they were young, when they " went out a gypsey- 
 ing," and were merry in the dance. The dinner 
 was spread on "the point," under the shadows of 
 the brave old elms and on the green grass beneath 
 their spreading branches. Towards evening aU 
 were on board again, and the steamer started out on 
 
264 Country Eambles. 
 
 her return voyage. As the sun went down we swept 
 across the head of the lake, in view of the pleasant 
 village of Hammondsport, and then headed away 
 for Penn Yan. The darkness came down calmly 
 and stniy. The winds were hushed, not a ripple 
 was on the water save the long wake in the rear of 
 the boat. It was a pleasant thing to hear the 
 echoes that came back from the hUls, returning with 
 a mellow harmony the music of the band ; and it 
 was pleasanter still to look upon the happy faces of 
 the young people as they glided about in the mazes 
 of the dance, or chatted in the fulness of their glee. 
 That was an evening to be remembered, the return 
 of that party from their pic-nic on " Ingersoll's 
 Point." 
 
 I bid good-bye to the Crooked Lake with regret. 
 I could linger here for months, busy with old 
 memories and scenes of the "long, long ago" — 
 scenes that like our youth belong to the return- 
 less past, to be recalled only in fancy, that can come 
 back to us only in dreams of the night. 
 
 I am at Bath, the county seat of Steuben. This is 
 another beautiful village, nesthng quietly among 
 the hills of the Southern tier. It was among the 
 early settlements of what was once called the West- 
 ern Country. It was located by Chaeles Wil- 
 liamson, the first proprietor of several millions of 
 
Thriving Village of Bath. 265 
 
 acres, known as the Pultney estate. A pleasant 
 farm tliat — one tliat might afford an industrious man, 
 ■who exercised a proper degree of economy, a good 
 living, and enable him to portion off with a fair 
 number of acres a reasonably large family of chil- 
 dren. It was not so valuable when Sir "William 
 Pultney became the proprietor as it is now, as it 
 passed into his hands, as I have heard, for some- 
 thing like a shilling an acre. 
 
 Bath is a pleasant and a thriving vUlage, remark- 
 able for its neatness and healthful location. On the 
 East is a high mountain, rising in steep acclivity 
 some eight or nine hiindred feet, whose rugged sides 
 can never be cultivated, and along whose base the 
 Conhocton river flows. In the early times, before 
 the Erie Canal was built, Bath was the outlet to 
 market for the grain of a broad sweep of country. 
 It was regarded as the head of navigation, and was 
 to be the site of a great city. You will not of course 
 suppose that great ships visited its port, or even the 
 periogues, formerly so common on the waters of the 
 great West. There was but one direction to navi- 
 gation from Bath, and that was down stream. Arks 
 were built of pine planks, which would carry some 
 thousand or fifteen hundred bushels. They were 
 queer-shaped craft, not very well calculated to stand 
 a rough sea, but they were made water-tight, and 
 cost from $75 to $100 each. These were floated to 
 the storehouses that stood down by the river, and 
 
266 Country Eambles. 
 
 when the spring freshets came, the grain was turned 
 into them in bulk, and covered from the rain ; with 
 a pilot, and a hand at each long oar that projected 
 away out at bow and stern, started with their freight 
 on a retumless voyage towards the Chesapeake Bay. 
 Their course was down the Conhocton to the Che- 
 mung river, down that river to the Susquehanna, 
 and down that noble river to tide water. These 
 frail vessels did not always reach their destination. 
 About one out of ten emptied its contents in the 
 river as it was dashed against some unknown ob- 
 struction, or was stranded on the shore through the 
 unskilfulness of its pilot. Thousands upon thou- 
 sands of bushels of grain found their way to market 
 through this precarious channel, and Bath was 
 looming up, when the canals were built and its 
 glory departed. The ark of the Conhocton passed 
 into history, the rats took possession of the store- 
 houses, board after board fell from their sides, the 
 roofs caved in, the beams rotted away; at length 
 what was left of them tumbled to ruin, and the place 
 where they stood is now a meadow where the mower 
 swings his scythe, unconscious that he treads on 
 historical ground. The course of trade from Bath 
 for more than a quarter of a century, has been to the 
 North, through the Seneca and Crooked Lake, and 
 the Cayuga and Seneca Canals to Montezuma, and 
 then on the Erie Canal to the Hudson, and so to 
 New York. It is now changing again, not to the 
 
Daylight Among the Hills. 267 
 
 ancient channel of tlie river, but to tlie New York 
 and Erie Eailroad, and so to New York by tbat 
 great thoroughfare. 
 
 The mountains about Bath were famous, years 
 ago, for deer, and I have spent many an exciting 
 hoiir in the chase after them. It was a pleasant 
 thing to start for the hilla while the light was just 
 breaking in the East, while a few stars glimmered 
 faintly in the sky, and the grayness of twilight 
 lingered in the valleys. To feel the grass crisp 
 with frost beneath your footfall, and see the mist 
 rising from the river, and creeping up the sides of 
 the hills. It was a pleasant thing to stand on the 
 brow of that high green hill over against the village, 
 just as the sun was coming up from his resting- 
 place, and see how he threw his early light on the 
 tops of the hUls on the east and west ; to mark how 
 the shadow retreated from their sides down towards 
 the valley, and when he rose above the forest treeS) 
 how gloriously he started on his course. It was 
 pleasant to look upon the clustered houses away 
 down below you, and watch how the smoke came 
 up from chimney after chimney, and went wreathing 
 upward towards the sky. It was a pleasant thing 
 to look upon the farms, the fields, and watch the 
 flocks of sheep as they started from the fold, wend- 
 ing, in the early morning, in a long line towards 
 their pasture, and the cows gathering around the 
 place of their milching. It was a pleasant thing to 
 look upon that little lake, sleeping so qiuetly just 
 
268 CouNTEY Eambles. 
 
 east of the village, and afar off to the north the 
 Crooked Lake, stretching away and hiding itself 
 among the highlands that surround it. All this I 
 have looked upon more than once, while a pair of 
 noble stag hounds were crouched at my feet, impa- 
 tient for the chase. Turning from the pleasant 
 landscape beneath me, I would strike into the 
 woods. The forest extended back unbroken for 
 mUes then, and when I had passed a short distance 
 from the brow of the hill, I would lay on the dogs. 
 Glad enough they would be for the freedom to hunt. 
 Par off in the woods, perhaps, the voice of the 
 staunch old hound would be heaxd, deep and long 
 drawn out. After a moment it would be heard 
 again. The interval between his baying would 
 become shorter and shorter, until the voice of both 
 dogs would break out in a fierce and continuous 
 cry, and then I would know that the game was up 
 and away. 
 
 I need not tell you of the music there is in the 
 voice of a pair of stag-hounds in the deep forests of 
 a still morning. How it echoes among the moun- 
 tains, and swells up from the valleys ; how it comes 
 like a bugle from the forest dells, and glanciag away 
 upwards, seems to fill the whole air with its joyous 
 notes. Now the sound of the chase grows fainter 
 and fainter, as it recedes, until it is lost in the dis- 
 tance, and the low voice of the morning breeze, 
 whispering among the forest trees, alone is heard. 
 Again faint and fax off is heard the music of the 
 
Excitement of the Chase. 269 
 
 chase, swelling up, and then dying away, like the 
 sound of a fliite in the distance, when the night air 
 is still — clearer and more distinct it comes as the 
 dogs course over some distant ridge. Now it is 
 loud and joyous, making the woods vocal with the 
 melody of voices. Again the music dies away as 
 the dogs plunge into some hollow way until it 
 seems to come up like the faint voice of an echo 
 from some leafy dell. Again it swells louder and 
 fiercer, as the chase, changing its direction, sweeps 
 up the valley towards you. Louder and louder 
 groAVS the music. You hear the measured bounds 
 of the deer as he goes crashing on his way to the 
 river, fleeing from the destruction that is howhng 
 on his trail. He passes beyond the range of your 
 rifle, in his frightened course, and the dogs rush by 
 you, running breast high on his track, and your 
 Tally Ho ! gives fresh impulse to their speed, and 
 a fiercer and more joyous strain to their music. 
 You hear in the distance the sharp crack of a rifle, 
 that comes echoing up firom the valley beneath you. 
 In a few minutes the music of the hounds is still, 
 and you know that your friend stationed at the river 
 has secured his game. 
 
 The public buildings and the best residences of 
 Bath are fronting its beautiful square of some six or 
 eight acres. In the centre of the square "long 
 . ago," stood a taU pine that for years was known as 
 the " liberty tree." It was left when the old forest 
 was swept away, and stood there solitary and alone 
 
270 Country Eambles. 
 
 for neaxly a quarter of a century. But it faded in 
 seeming sorrow over the fate of its companions, tliat 
 had been so ruthlessly destroyed. Its green branches 
 died, one after another, till a bare trunk with leafless 
 arms stretching out, as if in hopeless and barren 
 desolation, was aU that was left of that once stately 
 monarch of the woods. It was at last hurled to the 
 earth by the strong winds, and the place of the 
 "hberty tree" was vacant. 
 
 I studied law in this pleasant village, under one 
 whom I can never cease to respect. He resides 
 here still, an honored, and justly honored citizen. 
 A sore affliction has recently jarred among his heart- 
 strings. May the wound that was inflicted be healed 
 by the affectionate kindness of those that remain to 
 comfort him, and may he find consolation in the 
 memories that come up from the graves of the good, 
 who pass away in the pride and strength of their 
 early manhood. 
 
 There are " solid men" in Bath, too, as well as 
 in Canandaigua. Men who, by their indomitable 
 energy, have risen from comparative poverty to 
 great wealth. Who started in life with only strong 
 hands and stout hearts, but who have mastered 
 fortune. Men who are stiU in the vigor, the strong 
 time of life, and who can reckon their dollars by 
 hundreds of thousands. The old settlers, the pio- 
 neers of Bath, axe all gone. Many of them I knew 
 "long ago." The tombstones that stand in the 
 quiet grave-yard, that record their virtues, bear no 
 
"Gentlemen of the Juey!"271 
 
 lying epitaphs, nor lines of bitter irony respecting 
 tlieir worth. 
 
 I said I studied law in Bath. Let me relate an 
 anecdote connected with the first suit I ever had the 
 honor of appearing in as counsel. My friend, H. 
 "W. EOGEBS, now of Buffalo, was my fellow-student 
 then, and he will pardon me for relating the triumphs 
 of the genius of two young men who were seeking 
 distinction under some difficulties. A worthless 
 scamp had been arrested for some misdemeanor — 
 assault and battery, I believe — and being too poor 
 to employ other counsel, apphed to my friend 
 Rogers and myself to defend him, promising to 
 pay us a small fee for assisting him in his trouble. 
 
 "We readily undertook his defence, promising 
 ourselves no light harvest of reputation from our 
 first effort at forensic eloquence. A jury was sum- 
 moned, and three magistrates sat in solemn judg- 
 ment to hear the evidence against our unfortunate 
 client. We had a day to prepare, and the speeches 
 with which we intended to astonish the court, and 
 confound the jury, were profoundly studied and 
 reflected upon. Well, the evidence was closed, and, 
 as was arranged beforehand, I rose to address the 
 jury, and my friend was to follow. I got as far as 
 " Gentlemen of the Jury," and there I stuck, hke a 
 pig in the fence. Not another sentence of my great 
 speech could I utter, to save me. At length, in 
 despair, I told the jury, " that as I was to be fol- 
 lowed by my elder and abler associate, I would oc- 
 
272 Country Eambles. 
 
 cupy no more of their time," and sat down in 
 perfect confasion and sbame. Friend Eogers then 
 rose to deliver his maiden speech. He, too, got as 
 far as " Gentlemen of the Jury," and there Ae stuck, 
 as I had done before him. There was no use in 
 trying to go on. The great speech was gone, not 
 a word of it could he catch, not a sentence could 
 he bring to mind. He was in a hopeless dilemma, 
 but he extricated himself by saying to the jury 
 that " the case had been so ably summed up by the 
 counsel that had preceded him, that he felt it omne- 
 cessary to add a word to the argument," and he sat 
 down with the big drops standing on his forehead. 
 We were laughed at some, by those who gathered 
 to hear aur maiden efforts. The best of the joke 
 was, that friend Haert was several years in find- 
 ing out that he had perpetrated a good thing at 
 my expense. 
 
 There were formerly many excellent trout streams 
 around Bath. Spalding's run, Neal's creek, the Camp- 
 belltown creek, the Michigan creek, the Twelve-mile 
 creek, and Townsend's run, and many other pleas- 
 ant streams that came down from the hills were 
 famous in their day. That was before sawmills 
 and high dams, and the other utilitarian devices 
 of civilization poisoned the waters, or the mul- 
 titude of anglers had destroyed their speckled in- 
 habitants. Just below Bath, within a mile of the 
 village, is Lake Salubria, a beautiful little sheet of 
 water of some two or three hundred acres. It has 
 
Beook Tbout. 273 
 
 neither inlet nor outlet above ground, but its waters 
 are clear and pure. I was one of three or four 
 tbat "long ago" put a hundred or more brook trout 
 that we caught in the Townsend run with a net, alive 
 into this lake. I remember the day well. We rig- 
 ged a half hogshead with water on a lumber wagon 
 and started for the run. "We waded around in the 
 water, and punching with long poles under the old 
 logs and cavemed banks, and having secured over 
 a hundred, started for home. The heavens gathered 
 blackness, and one of the severest storms I have 
 ever known overtook us. The lightning flashed 
 and the thunders rolled through the heavens, and 
 the rain came rushing from the clouds in a deluge 
 upon us. My Panama hat hung like an elephant's 
 ears about my shoulders, and my very boots were 
 filled with the drenching rain. "We persevered, 
 notwithstanding the storm, and got our himdred 
 trout, all alive and active, into Lake Salubria. 
 They did not, however, multiply as we hoped they 
 would. For years one would hear occasionally of 
 a great trout being caught in the lake, till at last 
 they were all gone. They lacked the ripples and 
 the running water. They lived to be old, and then 
 died without progeny, "making no sign." 
 
 I am at HomeUsviUe, where the Buffalo and 
 New York Eailroad forms a junction with the 
 12 
 
274 COUNTBY Eambles. 
 
 New York and Erie, in the valley of the Canisteo. 
 Steuben is my native county, and I am at home 
 among its high hills and beautiful valleys. Thirty 
 years ago this town was a hamlet. A store, a wood 
 tavern, a dwelling house or two, made up the vil- 
 lage, and a solitary stage coach bore the only visit- 
 ors, and constituted the only means of conveyance 
 to and from its sequestered location. In the winter 
 an army of lumbermen swarmed in the forests 
 around, and the sound of the axe and the crashing 
 of the tall pines as they thundered to the ground, 
 broke the frozen silence of the woods. When the 
 spring freshets c£tme, the raftsmen started on their 
 long journey down towards the Susquehanna, and 
 away to the broad Chesapeake, and when they de* 
 parted, HomeUsville was alone for the balance of 
 the season. But now it has its brick blocks, its 
 long streets, its taU steeples, its machine shops, its 
 factories, and its mills, and the hum of business 
 and the clank of machinery is everywhere heard. 
 Long trains of cars, drawn by the iron horse, are 
 rushing along almost hourly ; the old stage-coach, 
 with its fat driver, is gone, and the sound of his 
 horn will be heard there never again. Broadfarms 
 are spread out in the valley, and the fields are 
 creeping up the sides of the hUl. Blessings on the 
 vaUey of the Canisteo ; blessings on the streams 
 that come down from the mountains in which I 
 have so often, in days that are past, angled for the 
 speckled trout. Blessings on the pine-clad lulls 
 
A HtxKTiNO Anecdote. 275 
 
 over wluch I have hunted the wild deer, and whose 
 echoes I have so often wakened by the thrilling 
 music of my hounds. Those brave old hills are 
 here yet, covered with their summer fohage — defy- 
 ing by their steepness the farmer's plough, and 
 laughing at what here I call the desolation of civil- 
 ization. Fields may be green in the valleys, and 
 flocks and herds may eat lazily of the rich pastures, 
 but the rugged sides of these hills will remain un- 
 changed. The tall pines may fall victims to the 
 lumberman's axe, but the sides of these hills as ■ 
 they rise in steep acclivity towards the sky, will 
 always, when the summer smiles, wear their gar- 
 ments of green jn spite of human progress, and the 
 wasting of the beauties of natural scenery that 
 marks its career. Let me tell you a hunting anec- 
 dote. I was, many years ago, on a hunting excur- 
 sion with my old friend , Andrew Helmer (as 
 staunch a woodman as ever "sighted a rifle") on 
 the lulls that skirt this beautiful valley. We were 
 driving the ridges,' as it is termed. From the log- 
 way at the brow of the hill, down which the pine 
 logs were rolledj a timber road ran straight back, 
 into what was then a forest of many miles in ex- 
 tent. In this road we stationed ourselves some 
 sixty rods apart, but in plain sight of each other. 
 There were two runways for the deer, one of which 
 was beyond him and which he was to watch, and 
 the other on the opposite side of me, which I was 
 to take care of. Having taken our positions, a boy 
 
276 Country Eamblks. 
 
 was sent into the woods to lay on the dogs. In a 
 short time we heard the cry of the hounds — ^the 
 game took a turn over a distant ridge — ^the hounds 
 in hot pursuit — and their music was a pleasant 
 thing to hear in that calm autumnal morning. In 
 a short time the deer swept round the base of a 
 hill, and instead of taking to the usual runway, 
 dashed forward between Helmer and myself. The 
 woods were thick, and we could only judge of his 
 whereabouts, by his measured bounds and the crash 
 of the brush, as he sped in his terror from the cry 
 that was close behind him. I knew that he could 
 be seen only as he crossed the timber road, and 
 what was done for his destruction, must be done 
 quickly. I stepped into the middle of the narrow 
 road, and raised my rifle to my shoulder. As I 
 did so, there stood Helmer with his rifle poised and 
 pointed straight at me, and it seemed to me that I 
 could look into the barrel, away down to the ball, 
 which, if it should chance to miss the deer, would 
 stand a smart chance of hitting me. I knew Hel- 
 mer too well to doubt of his taking the chances of 
 firing whether he hit me, or I hit him, or we both 
 hit the deer. A large pine stood invitingly close 
 by the road — ^I lost no time in getting behind it, 
 but as the deer came crashing up to the road, I 
 leaned out, and as he leaped across, fired and dodged 
 back. Helmer's rifle answered to mine like an 
 echo, and the deer fell in the edge of the brush, 
 dead ; but one ball struck him, and that I claimed. 
 
Who Killed the Deer? 277 
 
 Helmer claimed it as his, and though I never gave 
 up the point, yet truth compels me to admit there 
 were two slight circumstances in his favor. The 
 baU-fiole was on his side of the deer, and we cut a rifle 
 hulht from a tree, slightly out of range of the deer, 
 and ffie side of that tree where we found the bullet was 
 towards where I stood. 
 
II. 
 
 NIAGABA — POSTAGE — ^WELLSVILLE — COUDEES- 
 POBT. 
 
 I AM here in siglit of old Niagara, and witMn the 
 sound of its thnnderiag voice. I have never before 
 seen this eichibition of grandeur spread out here, to 
 humble the pride of man, and show forth the power 
 and majesty of God. I look for the first time upon 
 this stupendous panorama, so full of all that is grand 
 and glorious, all that is beautitful and sublime. 
 Here is the drainage of more than 150,000 square 
 miles of the great lakes, those inland seas that lay 
 out "West and North, the hundred rivers and streams 
 that come into them from the hills and broad plains, 
 and the thousand springs that bubble up away down 
 in their silent depths — all these "mighty waters" 
 are concentrated into a narrow gorge of less than 
 half a nule in width, and, impelled by a resistless 
 hand, they go boiling and heaving, roaring and 
 struggling, like some gigantic monster in his wrath 
 and agony, rushing forward in their matchless 
 power, to plunge in wild fury down beetling cliffs 
 into the retumless depths below. The voice of 
 
The Mighty .Cataract. 279 
 
 the cataract is never silent. In summer and win- 
 ter, in the brightness of noonday and the dark- 
 ness of midnight, its roar is on the air. When 
 the great flood subsided, from the time when the 
 dove brought back the olive branch, and the raven 
 went forth on his solitary and returnless flight — 
 when the Ark rested on Ararat, it was heard, 
 shaking the earth with its roar ; and the sound that 
 then startled the wilderness will be heard tiU the 
 crack of doom^-that mighty flood will roU on^ over 
 the shelving rocks and down the stupendous pre- 
 cipice, till the time appointed for the earth's destruc- 
 tion shall come. I have stood on the brow of that 
 precipice, and looked upon the rushing waters 
 as they were hurled into the deep abyss ; I have 
 stood at its base, and looked upward at the beetling 
 cliffs, and seen that flood as it seemed to me rush- 
 ing in appalling grandeur from the sky — around 
 me was the mist and the spray, and arching above 
 me was the rainbow, glowing in prismatic bright- 
 ness, Kke that which spans the rear of the retiring 
 storm. I have looked upon the cataract in the 
 calmness of a clear night, and seen the stars as they 
 stole out one after another from the deep vault of 
 the sky, as if to watch its eternal flow. The voices 
 that elsewhere break the stillness of nocturnal re- 
 pose are here forever silent, as if awed by the sub- 
 limity of its power. But one sound is heard, deep, 
 solemn, and ceaseless — ^never changing, never losing 
 its intensity. When the storm rages, it is heard 
 
280 Country Eambles. 
 
 above the storm. When the winds rave and the 
 tornado sweeps by, it is heard above the winds, and 
 the wild fiiry of the tornado. "Es the voice of the 
 Cataract I 
 
 But who shall describe Niagara ? Let it flow on 
 in its majesty, tUl man shaU conquer its fury, and 
 make it subservient to his will ; tiU he shall " lay 
 his hand upon its mane" and tame it into subjec- 
 tion ; till human genius shall chaui it to the great 
 water-wheel, and make it a motor to endless ma- 
 chinery — ^grind com to satisfy human hunger, and 
 throw the shuttle and spin. Unless some new dis- 
 covery shall render valueless water-falls as motors, 
 even Niagara will, in the course of human progress, 
 one day be compelled to become utilitarian, and 
 perform an active part in the great drama of life. 
 
 There is one thing in regard to Niagara that 
 strikes. It can have no rival. Saratoga may be- 
 come antiquated — ^the sea-shore a resort only for 
 invalids. Fashions may change in regard to pleas- 
 ure resorts. Rival locations may compete by op- 
 posing attractions. But Niagara can have no rival. 
 The flood wfll sweep on over the precipice, the 
 waters wiU boU and foam, they wfll straggle and 
 heave down the rapids, rushing on forever, and the 
 roar of the cataract will be there through all time. 
 Its deep, thundering voice of power, will be heard 
 in its solemn intensity ; its ceaseless sermon of the 
 majesty, the omnipotence of God, wfll be preached 
 while the waters flow, and stupendous precipices 
 
A Niagara in Miniatube. 281 
 
 confine tliem witMn tlie changeless gorge. In all 
 the world there is but one Niagaxa, and all the 
 world will visit the mighty show. You may build 
 up a city there, you may make long streets, and 
 line them with houses, and crowd them with peo- 
 ple ; you may rob it of its wild scenery, and strip 
 it of the thiugs that nature spread out all around it, 
 you may construct canals and erect machinery, but 
 still the great cataract will be there, and the world 
 will travel hundreds and thousands of miles to see 
 it. They wiU go to the brow of the precipice to 
 look down, and to the base of the precipice to look 
 up. They will involve themselves in the mist and 
 the spray for the sake of gazing upon the rainbow 
 that is above them. They will ramble on Goat 
 Island by moonlight listening to the roar of the 
 waters, or enjoy its cool and pleasant shades at 
 noon-day. You may roU your great water-wheels 
 in their ceaseless rounds; you may harness your 
 machinery and set your great hammers in motion ; 
 your hundred strong hands may hurl the ponder- 
 ous sledge against the ringing anvil ; you may set 
 yo\ir ten thousand puny machinists at pounding the 
 iron and driving the spikes, make aU the noise you 
 can, and the roar of the cataract will drown it all. 
 
 I am at Portage, and a wild place it is too — 
 Niagara in minature. I am standing on the high 
 12* 
 
282 COUNTHY EAMBLE3. 
 
 bridge. A train of cars lias jiist mslied by me away 
 up ia the sky, higber than the top of the tallest forest 
 tree, two hundred and fifty feet above the surface 
 of the water below. Think of a traia of cars thun- 
 dering through the air, higher than the weathercock 
 on the loftiest steeple, hurled forward at a speed of 
 forty miles to the hour. It passes within six feet of 
 me, there is a blast of wind, a rushing, roaring 
 sound, and the train is gone — it vanishes around a 
 point of the forest, and while I stand in mute aston- 
 ishment, the snort of the iron horse is heard miles 
 away. But the bridge remains firm; there is no 
 swaying or i yielding; a slight tremor, and the deep 
 rumble, is aU that tells you you are not on the solid 
 ground. The genius of man has conquered the 
 "great gulf" that iatervened between the per- 
 pendicular precipices, and you pass in security over 
 the mighty chasm, as on a level plain. Just below 
 the bridge, the river leaps down a precipice of sixty 
 feet. Further down, but in sight, it leaps down 
 again some eighty feet; and lower stUl, it plunges 
 again down a precipice of the same depth. You 
 will remember that the surface above these falls is 
 level. You look down from the bridge, and your 
 companion in the gorge below looks like a boy, and 
 you wonder why the lady that is on his arin is not 
 in pantaletts and kilts ; that a child so small should 
 dress like a woman, and carry a parasol, surprises 
 you. Pass down to the lower falls, take your stand 
 by a dwarfed cedar that grows out from the rocks 
 
A Great Lumbeb Eegion. 283 
 
 and shoots upward, and. look over tlie cliff into tlie 
 fearful depths below. You axe nearly five hxmdred 
 feet above the level of the water, and there is nothing 
 but air between you and the boiling stream. You 
 can plunge down from that dizzy height, if you will, 
 and rest in quiet beneath the wave. There will a 
 voice whisper in your ear to take the fearful leap. 
 Beware of the tempter and stand back, for there's a 
 fascination in the whirling waters, and your brain 
 may yield to its power. 
 
 " Come on, sir, here's the place. Stand still — 
 How fearful and dizzy 'tis to cast one's eyes so low 
 The crows and choughs that wing the midway air 
 Show scarce so gross as beetles : half way down 
 Hangs one that gathers samphire j dreadfol trade. 
 Methinks he seems no bigger than his head. 
 The fishermen that walk upon the beach 
 Appear like mice. The murmuring surge. 
 That on the unnumbered idle pebbles chafes, 
 Oannot be heard so high. I'll look no more. 
 Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight 
 Topple down headlong." 
 
 I am at Wellsville, a village in Allegany county,, 
 on the Erie Eailroad, and on the borders of the State 
 of New York. It is situated on the Genesee river, 
 which here is a comparatively small strearh. It is 
 the lumber depot for a broad sweep of" country. 
 Boards and plank are piled up here in vast quan- 
 tities, waiting transportation to the east, and long 
 
284 Country Eambles. 
 
 lines of teams are drawing more from the cotmtry 
 beyond. I counted twelve loaded wagons pass the 
 door of the public house where I am stopping, within 
 half an hour. I have been here, too, years since, 
 when there was not an acre cleared for imles below 
 this, towards the north ; when it was all wilderness 
 from a few miles south of Angelica, away to the 
 southern and eastern slope of this portion of the 
 Allegany moimtaios. I once came with a party of 
 fishermen, among whom was Sammk Fitzhugh, 
 Esq., of Livingston county, a man known for many 
 years through all the Genesee country, for his social 
 qualities, and his skiU and science as a sportsman. 
 He has gone to his rest now. "We left Angelica on 
 the occasion spoken of, and went up the Genesee to 
 where Philipsbuxgh now stands. There was a dam 
 there which had been constructed years before, in 
 connection with which a mill and fulling Tnill had 
 been built ; but the mill had been burned down, and 
 the place deserted. There was no one living within 
 several miles of it. We followed the river for some 
 three or four miles abov& where WeUsviUe now 
 stands, and then camped down for the night. In 
 the morning we started down the stream again ; our 
 object was in part to examine the timber land, which 
 one of our party had bought, or was about buying, 
 and in part to have a good time with the trout in 
 the river. It was no trick, then, to take trout in 
 the Genesee river weighing from a quarter of a 
 pound to a pound and a half, beautiful yellow- 
 
Shbewd Tax Gathekers. 285 
 
 finned fellows. The country was wild enough then ; 
 I have never seen it since until now, and can hardly 
 believe, as I look upon it, that it is the same locality 
 that I saw then, covered with gigantic pine trees, 
 and away beyond civilization. I have been won- 
 dering, as I heard the cars passing, what we would 
 have thought, as we lay in our blankets, sleeping 
 on boughs that night that we " camped out," away 
 off here iu the woods " long ago," had we heard the 
 scream of the steam- whistle, and the roar of a train 
 of cars coming thundering along the gorges of the 
 mountains, as they now do, startling the sleeping 
 echoes, and chasing slumber from our eyes. I've a 
 notion we should have stared some. 
 
 I am at Coudersport, the county seat of Potter 
 county, in the State of Pennsylvania. I have crossed 
 the high ridge that separates the waters of the 
 Genesee from those of the Allegany. This is a 
 sequestered little place, nestling among the hills, on 
 one of the remote branches of the Allegany. The 
 people here have a semi- weekly mail, and some of 
 them take a weekly paper, but not many. They 
 are engaged in building a very large court-house for 
 so small a place, and upon inquiry I find it is built 
 mainly by taxes levied upon the immense tracts of 
 non-resident lands of the county. I say mainly by 
 such taxes, because, although the tax purports to be 
 
286 GOUNTBY Eambles. 
 
 general and equal upon all lands according to their 
 value, yet a shrewd assessor, who knows the resi- 
 dent from the non-resident owners, can so discrim- 
 inate as to lay the burden upon the shoulders of 
 those who own immense tracts and live at a distance. 
 This, it strikes me, is no bad way of providing means 
 to erect good public buildings, without burdening, 
 to a very serious extent, those who are encounter- 
 ing the difficulties incident to the settlement of a 
 new country. 
 
 We leave Coudersport en route for the Sinne- 
 mahoning, a river that has its source in the same 
 range of highlands with the Genesee and the Alle- 
 gany. This ought, "upon principle," to be the 
 highest land east of the Mississippi. It can be 
 proved to be so by a very simple, and apparently 
 conclusive course of argument. The Genesee river 
 rises here, and flows off north to Lake Ontario, and 
 so through the noble St. Lawrence to the ocean. 
 The Allegany flows west and south, and is the re- 
 motest eastern and northern branch of the Ohio, that 
 finds its way to the ocean by the Gulf of Mexico, 
 while the Sinnemahoning reaches " the great deep" 
 through the Chesapeake Bay. But high as this region 
 is — and it is high enough and cold enough for all 
 practical purposes — ^it is by no means the highest 
 region of the Alleganies. 
 
III. 
 
 LAKE OHAMPLAIN. 
 
 BURLINGTON — KEESEVILLE — ATT SABLE FORKS-^ 
 FRANKLIN FALLS — SARANAO LAKE— ROUND LAKE 
 — ,TUPPER LAKE — ^BOG RIVER — ON THE BANKS — 
 THE BLACK FLY. 
 
 I AM on the Ohamplain, in the steamer America. 
 She is a staunch and beautiiul boat, under the 
 command of Captains Flagg and Mayo, two as in- 
 telligent and gentlemanly commanders as can be 
 found on the .American waters — ^men who under- 
 stand their business thoroughly, and whose atten- 
 tion and politeness to their passengers are worthy 
 of all imitation. This steamer is a most staunch 
 one, furnished with great elegance and care, and 
 she goes ploughing on her way with a steadiness 
 and speed rarely equalled. I write this in a state- 
 room, while the boat is in motion, and you may 
 judge of the quiet way in which we move along. 
 
 I have been for hours on the deck of the boat, 
 ■watching by the moonlight the changing scenery 
 along the shore. On the one hand are the moiia- 
 tains of Essex looming up dark and shadowy, their 
 
288 Country Eambles. 
 
 bare heads glistening in tlie moonliglit, and tlie 
 forests along their base and up their rugged sides 
 resting in sombre blackness like a shroud, save 
 where here and there some bluff and bare rock 
 shines out midway up the mountain. Away off on 
 the right are the Green Mountains, standing out in 
 bold relief against the sky, upon which the starry 
 covering appears to rest, or behind which it seems 
 to hide itselfl Away off in front of the vessel are 
 islands, seeming with their green trees like gigantic 
 war vessels floating darkly on the Lake. While 
 behind is a long stream of light, where the moon- 
 beams are thrown back by the agitation of the wa- 
 ters. By the way, why is it that nobody praises 
 Champlain? Why have tourists neglected to chron- 
 icle the charming scenery aroimd it ? To my no- 
 tion, it is one of the most beautiful sheets of water 
 in the world. 
 
 There are a thousand romantic bays, that steal 
 landward around jutting promontories, lying in 
 the deep shadow-like entrances to immense caverns ; 
 a hundred beautiful islands ; green fields stretching 
 away to the base of the hills, tall precipices rising 
 in ragged and beetling cliffs right up from the deep 
 waters, upon the tops of which stand old primeval 
 trees, like sentinels upon the battlements of some 
 ancient castle. As we ploughed along in view of 
 Ticonderoga and Crown Point, the chimneys of the 
 ruined fortifications stood up in solemn stillness, 
 while Mount Defiance, on the top of which Bur- 
 
An Imaginaet Picture. 289 
 
 goyne planted his cannon, looked grimly down upon 
 the desolation and decay beneath it. Did yon ever 
 tiy to call Tip the ghosts of the dead men whose 
 names history has linked to the ruins upon which 
 you may be looking, and locating them in imagina- 
 tion, as history locates them — ^make them do again 
 the deeds that gave them immortality? While I 
 sat on the deck of the steamer as we passed the 
 ruins on these points, I saw in imagination the little 
 army of Ethan Allen, emerging from the forest on 
 the Vermont side of the Lake ; I saw them crossing 
 the narrow channel from point to point; not a word 
 was spoken, not an oar splashed in the water, not a 
 sound disturbed the stillness. I saw their muskets 
 lowered, lest the sheen of the moonlight from their 
 blight barrels or from their bayonets, might attract 
 the notice of their enemies. I saw them as they 
 landed noiselessly upon the beach and formed into 
 columns for attack. I looked away to the fort. The 
 ruins were gone. The fortification stood there in 
 its strength. I saw the cannon as they were ranged 
 along the top of the walls looking threateningly 
 over the waters. I saw the sentinels as they march- 
 ed back and forth, unsuspicious of danger. I read 
 their thoughts as they tramped their lonely rounds. 
 Their hearts were away across the ocean to their 
 homes in their native land. Parents,' brothers, sis- 
 ters, perchance their little children were about them, 
 and I could see the tears gather in their eyes while 
 memory was bringing loved faces around them. 
 
290 Country Eambles. 
 
 Suddenly a tumult, a mid cry of alarm, a shout of 
 triumpli broke the stillness of the night, as Allen 
 and his sturdy followers came plunging over the 
 walls into the very heart of the fort. Eesistance 
 was in vain. The surprise was complete, and with 
 the fixing of but foxir or five guns and the death of 
 two soldiers the stronghold of the English was lost 
 and won. I saw the astonished Briton when the 
 surrender of his post was demanded in the name of 
 the " Great Jehovah and the Continental Congress." 
 I saw him as he stood in his deshabille surrendering 
 his sword to the conquerors, and the stars and 
 stripes as they were run up to float in the night 
 winds, and while the shout and hurrah of victory 
 echoed among the mountains and went floating over 
 the Lake, the vision melted away. The dead men 
 went back to their graves, the ruins as they have 
 stood for fifty years, battling with time, resumed 
 their solemn shape, and desolation and decay again 
 came over the place where brave men fought and 
 bled and died. 
 
 I am at Burlington, the largest and most flourish- 
 ing town in Vermont. It is not a city. Vermont 
 has but one city, and that of the smallest. This is 
 her only port. She lays away from the Ocean, 
 inland, and the Champlain, until recently, was her 
 only outlet to the markets of the great cities. This 
 
Islands in the Lake. 291 
 
 is a most beautiful town, situated on an elevated 
 plain, overlooking the lake. From the CoUege 
 green you look away over the water, on the one 
 hand, and beautiftil raial scenery on the other. 
 There are many pleasant situations, fine gardens, 
 and splendid residences in Burlington ; and there 
 are many " solid men" here, too ; solid in wealth, 
 in business capacity, and in the hospitalities that 
 adorn life. Looking out on the lake, you see many 
 beautiful Islands, conspicuous among which is one 
 on which stands the light-house, some three miles 
 from the main shore. On the left of this, and mid- 
 way between it and another beautiful Island, a soli- 
 tary rock lifts its sharp head, some twenty-five feet 
 from the surface, remaining there always, treeless 
 and shrubless, all alone, throwing back the waves 
 when the winds sweep over the waters, and move- 
 less and solemn when the moon looks down on the 
 still surface of the lake. Further off, still, are two 
 small Islands, covered with tall trees, that seem to 
 rise right up from the water. No brush, no water- 
 grass, no sandy shore surround them; but they ap- 
 pear to go straight up from the deep water, and in 
 the distance, with a haze in the atmosphere, look 
 like great war- vessels with a press of black canvass 
 spread from invisible masts. Burlington is a busy 
 place. I see far out on the lake two steamers, 
 comiQg in opposite directions towards the docks, 
 and I hear the roar of a steam-whistle off to the 
 South, as a train of cars comes thundering iu from 
 
292 COUN-TRY Eambles. 
 
 Boston, wliile another iron horse is rushing with a 
 ponderous train from Rouse's Point. Here and 
 there, all over the lake, as far as the eye can reach, 
 are seen the white sails of smaller craft, moving in 
 every direction; some up the lake, some down, 
 and some beating across, all seeming bent on pro- 
 gress towards or from a market. 
 
 Burlington must be a most delightful summer 
 residence. The air is so pure, so bracing, the drives 
 so pleasant in every direction ; the scenery around 
 so enchanting, that I wonder it is not preferred by 
 everybody to the crowded and cramped-up places 
 of fashionable resort. 
 
 There is good lake fishing at Burlington. In 
 the early morning before the sun had come up over 
 the eastern hills, I went out with a boatman on the 
 water; I saw the first rays of the morning as they 
 lighted on the peaks of Essex. I saw them chase 
 the shadow down the sides of the mountains, and 
 I saw them when they first glanced across the sur- 
 face of the lake, making it shine like molten silver 
 as the fresh morning breeze swept over it. I hauled 
 in some three or four noble fish on my way to the 
 light-house Island, and as many more on my return, 
 on a trolling line of three hundred feet in length. 
 It was a glorious morning ; the breeze was so fresh 
 and the air so bracing, that I was tempted to shout 
 and hurrah with gladness, as I floated over the 
 water. It made me young again. The spirit of 
 boyhood came over me, and I felt as of old, before 
 
When I Gkt Eich. 293 
 
 gray hairs had gathered upon my head, or stiffness 
 had seized upon my joints. A beautiful and a 
 pleasant town is Burlington. The lake that lays 
 spread out before it is beautiful. Its mornings are 
 glorious, its summer breezes bracing, exhilarating, 
 healthful ; everything around it is beautiful, heavenly 
 in the summer time, and between you and I when 
 I become rich, I shall have a country seat some- 
 where in the neighborhood of the College parks, 
 with my fine horses and carriage, my boats on the 
 lake, my rowers dressed after the latest sailor 
 fashion, strong-armed, and skUful in the use of the 
 oar. I shall have my trolling lines, and all the ap- 
 paratus for fishing in perfection, and every morning 
 while the last stars are shining dimly in the sky, 
 struggling with the morning beams, while the gray- 
 ness of twUight lingers in the valleys, I'U be out on 
 the water, to welcome tjie rising day, and haul in 
 the bass, the pike, and the pickerel. Towards even- 
 ing, I'll ride round the country, and at night gather 
 my friends around me and be jolly, (not with wine 
 or strong drink. I have parted company with them.) 
 Won't we, my friend, have a good time when I get 
 rich? 
 
 I am at KeeseviUe, a pleasant and thriving vil- 
 lage, five miles from the Lake, on the Au Sable 
 Kiver, Immense quantities of nails and bar-iron 
 are made on this stream, at, and within a few miles 
 
294 CouN'TRY Rambles. 
 
 of Keeseville. There is a capital water-power 
 Here, which is fully occupied. The water-wheel 
 travels its ceaseless rounds. The bellows are puff- 
 ing, the fires are blazing, and the gigantic rollers 
 are in motion. The nail-making machines are con- 
 stantly at work, day and night — ^the clank of ma- 
 chinery is mingling with the roar of the waters. It 
 is a hot day, and great drops of sweat are chasing 
 each other down the cheeks of the stalwart opera- 
 tives, as they handle the blazing iron, drawing it at 
 a white heat, sparkling and throwing off scintilla- 
 tions from the furnaces, and passing it through the 
 great rollers, or lifting the melted ore from its bed 
 of fire, and placing it beneath the gigantic pressing 
 machine which converts it into blooms. This opera- 
 tion requires strength of muscle, as well as of con- 
 stitution, and powers of endurance. It requires some 
 skill, too, and a raw hand would make small pro- 
 gress, till experience has taught him wisdom. 
 
 It is a pleasant tldng to see one of these great 
 workshops in the night time. The glare of the forges, 
 tiie intense light of the chunks of iron as they came 
 at a white heat from the blazing furnace, to see 
 them pass through the immense rollers as they 
 are formed into fitness for nail-making, coming out 
 from the pressing machine longer and longer, in- 
 creasing in length, stretching out and running along 
 the floor like fiery serpents, while the stalwart oper- 
 atives handle them with iron tongs, as if they were 
 harmless things. 
 
A Wonderful Gohge. 295 
 
 The Gorge is some two miles belo-w KeesevUle 
 — one of the greatest ciiriosities of this country. 
 The river goes roaring, and plunging, and cascad- 
 iag, more than a mile, through a chasm some thirty 
 feet wide, on either side of which the rocks rise ia 
 |)erpendicular precipices from one to two hundred 
 feet in height. On the top of these ledges you 
 may stand, on the very verge of these great high 
 walls, and look away down upon the boiling waters 
 as they go surging and roaring on their way. This 
 chasm does not seem to have been worn out by the 
 river in its everlasting flow, but to have been made 
 by the parting of the hills. The rocks on one side 
 are counterparts of the rocks on the other, as if 
 pulled apart. Rock matches rock, and shape is 
 fitted to shape. An indentation on the one side, is 
 matched by a prominence on the other, and you 
 can see plainly that if the river could be withdrawn, 
 and the chasm pressed together, the two sides 
 would fit lik.e the halves of an apple that had 
 been cleft by the blade of a knife. Above Keese- 
 viUe are evidences that a lake once covered what is 
 now a beautiful valley, stretching away for miles 
 to the southwest, and through which the Au Sable 
 now flows. Where now are rich farms, was once 
 the bottom of this lake, and fishes sportfed above 
 the fields that are now rich meadows, or covered 
 with grain. Some mighty power, centuries upon 
 centuries ago, struggling in the remote depths of 
 the earth, upheaved these lulls, till the surface part- 
 
296 COUKTBY Eambles. 
 
 ed, leaving this Gorge, through which the pent-up 
 waters rushed, emptying the lake of its contents, 
 and giving its foxmdations to the world as a place 
 for man to beautify, over which the ploughshare 
 should pass, and his flocks and herds feed. 
 
 Some three miles west of Keeseville is Halleck's 
 Hill, standing on which, and looking to the north, 
 you see, not a rugged mountain scenery, where 
 giant ranges stretch away, and tall peaks lift their 
 bald heads to the clouds. There is no desolation, no 
 wild and rocky sterility, but a beautiful, level plain, 
 a valley reaching away for miles, rich in agricultu- 
 ral products, and teeming with the evidences of 
 wealth and civilization. Away off to the right is 
 the ChamplaLa. The spires of Plattsburgh may be 
 seen in the distance, seeming to rise like white pil- 
 lars from the depths of a belt of forest, while in 
 front of them can be viewed the spot where was 
 fought the naval battle of Lake Champlain, in tha 
 last war. The beautiful landscape before me is the 
 valley of the little Au Sable. It was settled by 
 Quakers, men of peace, who till the ground in 
 quiet, and never go up to the wars with weapons 
 of destruction in their hands. The spot where these 
 peaceful people, startled by the booming cannon, 
 went up and stood to view the conflict on the Lake, 
 when McDoNOUGH and Downie fought against 
 each other, is near me. These men of peace were 
 patriots. They loved their country, and while 
 from principle they refrained from the shedding of 
 
Beave Men are Sleeping. 297 
 
 human blood, yet their hearts and their prayers 
 were with their countrymen, against their country's 
 foes. When the smoke of the battle floated away, 
 and the triumph of American arms was manifest, 
 there went up a shout of gladness, a loud hurrah 
 from these honest Quakers, which showed that the 
 "old man" was strong within them. 
 
 In plain view from where I stand is the little 
 Island on which the killed in that memorable battle 
 were buried. There, in the midst of the lake, side 
 by side in amity, rest the bones of those who strug- 
 gled against each other on that day of mortal strife. 
 Death is a queller of animosities, and the hands 
 that struck at each other in life are quiet enough in 
 the grave. Brave men are sleeping on that little 
 island. It shoiild be regarded as consecrated ground, 
 and a tall monument should be erected to their 
 memory. It should be made to speak of the noble 
 daring of the men who perilled and lost their lives 
 for their country. There are no rich men btiried 
 there. No titled men. They were the sailors, men 
 who stood by the great guns, and whose breasts 
 were bared to the foe. They were what the world 
 calls common men, and who, had they survived 
 the battle, would have lived and died without fame ; 
 but they are just the men who win victories, and 
 bring feme to commodores and generals, and upon 
 whose bravery hangs the result of battles. Over 
 these bones of these brave men buried here, these 
 poor men, these sailors, these "common men," 
 13 
 
298 Country Eambles. 
 
 should be erected what will save them from dese- 
 cration, and tell to the far-off generations how 
 stoutly they fought, and how bravely they fell in 
 the cause of their country. 
 
 I am at the Au Sable Forks, a small town in 
 extent but great in respect to the business done in 
 the way of manufacturing iron.^ The Rogers' 
 have their principal forges and nail factories here. 
 Almost every man is an operative, or connected 
 with the business of iron-making in some way. 
 You meet the coal man with his face blackened by 
 coal dust, and you meet the bloomer, (not those of 
 the short gowns and pantaletts), but those who 
 handle the blazing iron, covered with the dust and 
 rust of the forge. You meet the teamster with his 
 short pipe and California hat, and you adinire his 
 independence as he sits upon his load of nails or 
 blooms, or bars of iron, sending the smoke from 
 his tobacco-pipe wreathing gracefully upward, and 
 his voice has a cheerful ring as he cries " gee whoa" 
 to his sober team. You meet the liunberman, with 
 his bushy beard and long whiskers, with his axe on 
 his shoulder, and his great boots on the outside of 
 his pantaloons. He is just from the woods in the 
 far interior, where he has been making war upon 
 the pine forest trees, hurling them to the earth, 
 shaping them into logs, and transporting them in 
 
On an Elevated Plain. 299 
 
 rafts down tlie rivers and over the rapids and falls, 
 to the mills. His labors are over until the fall 
 snows come again. He will work in the harvest 
 fields, or fish or hunt till then, when he will dive 
 again into the forest, to winter ia his cold shantee, 
 and make war on the old pine trees. Of these 
 lumbermen's shantees I shall tell you more hereaf- 
 ter. They are a great feature in the Chateaugay, 
 the Saranac, and the Eaquette woods. You meet 
 the miner, covered with the debris of the ore, 
 among which he delves away down in the bowds 
 of the earth; a man who spends twenty out of 
 the twenty -four hours in darkness, either that of 
 the night or that of the mines into which the day- 
 light never looks. Everybody in this little town 
 is busy. 
 
 I am on the elevated plain between the Au Sable 
 and the Saranac rivers. A broad sweep of country, 
 bare of timber, yet without fields or houses. Here 
 is a tract of thousands of acres, that of old was 
 covered with great pine trees and other timber of a 
 large growth. First the lumberman attacked and 
 swept away the pines — then the charcoal men swept 
 away the other large trees, and last of all the fire 
 went rushing and roaring over this plain complet- 
 ing the desolation, leaving blackness and utter life- 
 lessness behind it. No living thing, whether ani- 
 mal or vegetable, remained on its tract. The fire 
 had extiaguished or driven them all away. An old 
 resident told me of the " great burning," as he 
 
800 Country Rambles. 
 
 termed it, of this plain. "It was," said he, "of a 
 hot September morning, the wind blew fresh and 
 strong from the west. Somehow the fire got out 
 from the coal pits, on the western border of the plain, 
 among the dry tree-tops and dead limbs, and brush, 
 and spread out sideways, and every way for miles. 
 By-and-bye as the wind rose to a gale, it started on 
 its career across the plain. It was a glorious as 
 well as a fearful sight, to see it leaping forward and 
 upward, swirling and flashing onward, crackling 
 and roaring like thunder, and sending the smoke 
 in dark and dense columns, curling, and wreathing, 
 and rolling towards the sky. The deer and other 
 wild beasts fled wildly and madly before it, towards 
 the mountains, or across the cleared fields of the 
 valley. Fortunately there were no people inhabit- 
 ing this plain, and the few that chanced to be along 
 the road, fled to the settlement below. It was a 
 grand sight that burning, a thing that is to be seen 
 but once in a man's lifetime." 
 
 The view from this plain is a magnificent one, if 
 we regard as such only wild and desolate grandeur, 
 where no sign of civilization crosses the vision. On 
 the south and east, lofty peaks loom up towards the 
 sky. The highest and boldest of them all, is the 
 baldfaced mountain, the head of which stands glis- 
 tening in the sunlight, like the white locks of some 
 ancient giant. Away off beyond this, dim and 
 hazy against the sky, are the peaks of the Adiron- 
 dacks, Mount Marcy, and Mount Seward, the lofti- 
 
AFiBE IN THE Woods. 301 
 
 est of tHese, while on every side, peaks of a lower 
 stature, mountains of less notable height, bound the 
 vision. It is a goodly thing to pause here of a clear 
 morning, and look upon the things around you, 
 standing as they do in everlasting silence just 
 where God placed them, and no land mark of civil- 
 ization, no cottage or field, to tell of the destruction 
 to natural things, which marks human progress. I 
 love these old mountain ranges, and the Lakes that 
 lay sleeping under their shadows, and the streams 
 that wind around their base. 
 
 I am at Franklin Falls, a little village some eigh- 
 teen miles from the Au Sable Forks. It is situ- 
 ated on the Saxanao Eiver. There is a fall in this 
 stream here, of some thirty feet, across which a dam 
 has been thrown, and the water has been made to 
 operate one of the largest and finest saw-nulls in 
 the State, a miU capable of turning out some forty 
 thousand feet of lumber per day. There is here a 
 large tavern house for so small a place, which is 
 well kept, a larger store, and a score or more small 
 but neat cottages clustered around them. Two 
 years ago the present summer, this little town, 
 with the mill and everything in the shape of a 
 building, every out-house, shed, and fence, was 
 clean wiped out. A "fire in the woods" came 
 sweeping down from the southwest, driven for- 
 
302 Country Eambles. 
 
 ward by the gale, hurled onward by the strong 
 winds in resistless fury. In an hour it had passed 
 on, leaving in its track only smouldering ruins 
 and the blackness of desolation. Every vestige of 
 houses, nulls, great lumber piles, stables, bams, 
 everything that would bum had been given to de- 
 struction, and the villagers were grouped about 
 congratulating each other on their own fortunate 
 escape from a terrible fate. But enterprise has 
 conquered the desolation, and a better null, a bet- 
 ter store, better hotel and better houses, now stand 
 where those that were swept away by the fire stood. 
 These fires in the woods are fearful things in this 
 section of the State. You will remember that this 
 was, of old, a lumber region, or rather there were 
 thousands and hundreds of thousands of pine trees 
 scattered aU over the woods. These have been 
 mostly chopped away, and their dead branches, 
 dried tops and foliage, as they lay where they fell, 
 make rich food for the flames. The foliage of the 
 spruce and hemlock, green though it be, is com- 
 bustible, and when a fire chances to get loose, and 
 the winds are on the wing, the flames move for- 
 ward with a speed and power which nothing can 
 resist. I witnessed one of these fires in the woods 
 years ago. It was in the night-time, and I was 
 floating on the waters of Tupper's Lake. It came 
 rushing and roaring around the base of a mountain, 
 flashing and leaping upward and sideways, and 
 every way, as the wind impelled it onward, or in 
 
A Country Tavkrn. 303 
 
 gustful eddies laterally among the combustible 
 materials in its reaclu For a few minutes it would 
 dash forward before the wind, and then seem to 
 pause as if for breath, the flames going straight up 
 among the foliage of the fir-trees, like gigantic 
 torches. Again it would leap forward as the wind 
 returned, pushing the flames in long streams on- 
 ward among the branches, like the fiery tongues of 
 great serpents. The surface of the lake was lighted 
 up like the day, and its waters was the barrier at 
 last, against the progress of the fire. When it 
 reached the lake, it died gradually away, and when 
 I awoke in the morning, a track 'of blackness a 
 quarter of a mile in width, trees standing up in 
 charred and leafless desolation, and here and there 
 smoking logs and chunks among which the burn- 
 ing lingered, marked the track of this " fire in the 
 woods." 
 
 I am at the Saranac Lake, at the " Saranac 
 House," kept for the accommodation of sportsmen 
 in the summer, and lumbermen in the winter. 
 This is a decent, respectable country tavern, standing 
 literally at the end of the road, and kept by pleas- 
 ant and obliging people. It is on a beautiful little 
 bay, of some hundred acres, at the north end of 
 the lake. All around are the old woods, the an- 
 cient forest standing as it grew, and as it has stood 
 for thousands of years. 
 
304 COUKTEY Eambles. 
 
 The shores of this bay are bold and rocky, save 
 a few acres at the head of it, where the inlet enters. 
 Here the pond lilies spread their great round leaves 
 over the surface, and the brilliant yellow and white 
 blossoms shine out like stars of silver or gold, on 
 the water. We arrived here a little after sundown, 
 while the glad songs of the day were being hushed, 
 and the night voices were coming abroad on the 
 air. High above all was the music of the frogs, 
 that was kept up all the long night, making the 
 woods and lakes vocal with their deep sepulchral 
 notes. By the way, I have seen frogs in my day, 
 that might claim to be sizeable animals, but I have 
 seen nowhere else this kind of amphibia at all com- 
 parable in dimensions to those of the Lower Sar- 
 anac. Great plump green fellows, that would weigh 
 a pound or two, and thousands of them, having 
 voices deeper and louder than that of the bassoon 
 or the brazen serpent; and when they strike up to- 
 gether, the whole air is fall of soimd. The leaves 
 of the pond lilies are the largest I have ever seen, 
 some of them being full a foot in diameter. On one 
 of these great leaves, some patriarch frog will seat 
 himself towards night, with his great round leaden 
 eyes protruding from his head, his long limbs 
 gathered under him, his wide mouth stretched in a 
 changeless grimace, and as the twilight gathers, 
 he win inflate his ponderous and pouched jaws like 
 a bellows, and send forth sounds that would aston- 
 ish the puny froglings of the marshes of the Hud- 
 
Music of thk Frogs. 305 
 
 son. There is a peculiarity about tlie melody of 
 the frogs here, that I never noticed before. For a 
 little -while all mil be still, save the shrill note of 
 the little peeper close along the shore. Then from 
 his leaf, away out on the lake, some deep-mouthed 
 croaker wHl bellow out, while from every direction, 
 voice after voice will fall in, until as it were a solid 
 roar fills the air. Gradually this wiU die away 
 and for a minute or two all will be still, and this 
 succession of sound and silence goes on until the 
 sun lights up the day again. 
 
 Directly opposite the Saranac House, and across 
 a low ridge, through the forest a half mUe or more, 
 is a little lake say of two thousand acres, which is 
 a perfect gem. Its waters are clear and cold, the 
 banks, save a little >patch at the south, bold and 
 bluff, the hills rising gradually from the water's- 
 edge, little bays stealing around and hiding behind 
 rocky points, laying there in eternal shadow ; as a 
 whole it is one of those beautiful little sheets of 
 water, which is the more charming because the eye 
 can take in at once all its delightful scenery. As 
 we rowed around it, we saw on a natural meadow 
 of some three or four acres, two noble deer feeding. 
 We paddled silently to within eight or ten rods of 
 them, when they seemed to scent us. They raised 
 their heads and looked all around, but as we were 
 perfectly moveless at, the time, they did not seem 
 to notice us ; still, they were alarmed and uneasy, 
 evidently satisfied that there was danger somcr 
 13* 
 
306 Country Eambles. 
 
 where. At length we rose up in the boat, and 
 shouted, and it would have done you good to see 
 how they hoisted their white flags, and with what 
 prodigious bounds they went snorting and scamper- 
 ing away. 
 
 I am at Round Lake, ten miles from the Saranac 
 House, on my way to the Eaquette River, Tupper's 
 Lake, and the wild regions that lay around the 
 sources of Bog River. We left Martin's this morn- 
 ing, in a little water-craft, made of thin cedar boards, 
 and which weighs perhaps a hundred and twenty 
 pounds. This little boat, light as it seems, and 
 tottlish and unsteady as it may be when unloaded, 
 will carry four persons, and a reasonable amount of 
 baggage, with perfect safety, over these beautiful 
 waters. These rivers and lakes are the highways, 
 the turnpikes, the railyoads of these high and wild 
 regions, and these little boats are the carriages, the 
 stage coaches, and the cars, in -vrhich everybody 
 must travel. You start from the head of the Lower 
 Saranac, and with a few carrying places, over 
 which the sturdy boatman trudges with his boat on 
 his back, you go a circle of a hundred miles in 
 diameter ; you traverse the Lower Saranac, Round 
 Lake and the Upper Sar^ac; you cross the 
 *' Indian carrying place" of a nule, along a pleasant 
 and beaten pq,th througli the woods. Then you 
 
An"^Involuntaey Plunge. 807 
 
 launch again, on a series of ponds and down Stony 
 Brook, to tlie Raquette Eiver, and then up or down 
 that beautiful water-course, as your fancy dictates, 
 to the lakes beyond ; you meet every little while a 
 boatman, returning from a journey to the woods, 
 alone or with passengers who have been on a sport- 
 ing trip among the lakes and forest streams. The 
 rowers rest a moment on their oars, kindly greet- 
 ings are passed, news of the sports and from the 
 outside world are exchanged, and each passes on 
 his way. A turn in the river, or an island in the 
 lake, hides him from your view, and you are alone 
 again. 
 
 While we were packing our traps in our boat at 
 Martin's in the morning, an incident occurred which 
 occasioned some amusement, at whose expense I 
 will not now say. The shore where the boat was 
 landed was bold, going down steep into the water. 
 The bow of the little craft lay upon the bank, and 
 the stern on the water some four feet in depth. The 
 party were all in the house save one who stepped 
 into the boat for the purpose of placing a small pail 
 of butter under the stem seat. His weight tipped 
 the bow clear of the land, and the boat started out 
 on the water. Turning to see what the difficulty 
 waSj'and forgetting for a moment the care neces- 
 sary to steady the craft beneath him, he lost hia 
 balance, the boat glided out from under him, and 
 he went down like a great frog, head foremost into 
 the water, and came up in five feet depth, wet as a 
 
808 CouNTEY Eambles. 
 
 drowned rat. Fortunately the water was not cold, 
 and what was better, nobody happened to see him 
 as he crawled out upon the shore, every hair of his 
 head and every thread of his garments dripping 
 like an eave-trough. It was a goodly sight to see 
 him there, shaking himself like a Newfoimdland 
 water-dog, or standing up straight and stiff, to let 
 the water run off from his saturated garments. 
 When the discovery of the facts was made, a hearty 
 laugh was indulged in at his expense, and coTintless 
 were the jokes to which he was subjected. Do you 
 ask who it was that took this involuntary plunge into 
 the Saranac ? Sir, there are questions which people, 
 though they possess all the knowledge necessary to 
 the solution of them, do not like to answer, and this 
 is one of them. All I choose to say is, he was a man 
 of about five feet nine in height, somewhat rotund in 
 shape, of fourteen stone and a little over in weight, 
 and somewhat given to grayness about the head. 
 Perhaps you may know him. If you do, you will 
 confer a special favor on me by saying nothing 
 about the matter. 
 
 I am at Tupper's Lake, a sheet of water which 
 I assert has no peer in beauty in this country. It 
 is some ten miles in length, and varying from one 
 to three miles in width. Its waters are pure and 
 cold, though less transparent than some of the lakes 
 
EiCH Mines of Ieon. 309 
 
 in this region. This is owing, prohably, to the iron 
 ore, ■which doubtless underlays and which we know 
 abounds around it. At the foot of the lake, a few 
 rods from the bank, the ore crops out on the sur- 
 face, and you can easily trace it from an eighth to 
 a quarter of a mile. The ore appears to be very 
 rich, and from the indications on the surface, exten- 
 sive. I have no doubt that long years hence, may- 
 be centuries, this and other rich mines of iron, 
 known to exist in this now wild locality, will give 
 employment to thousands of men, and send out 
 their portion of metal to meet the immense and 
 always growing demand for iron, required by the 
 operations of civilization. The great features of 
 Tupper's Lake, those which give it its principal 
 charm, are its islands and bays. These are the 
 most charming imaginable, always remembering 
 that we leave out of view civilization, regarding 
 only wildness, solitude, and primitive grandeur. 
 These bays stealing around behind jutting and 
 craggy promontories, winding away in the deep 
 shadow of forest and moimtain, they lay there uut 
 rippled almost by a breeze, always. Floating into 
 one of these, you are hid from a view of the lake ; 
 above you is only the sky, while the tall trees, and 
 hills that surround them, limit the vision, as though 
 you were in the bottom of a great bowl, and could 
 look only upward. The islands are of various size 
 and appearance. Here a bare rock, an immense 
 boulder, lifts its brown and moss-covered head, 
 
310 Country Rambles. 
 
 riglit up from tlie deep water, standing all solitary 
 and alone, with no tree, shrub, grass or vegetable 
 thing growing upon it. There one,, maybe, of a 
 few rods only in circumference, covered with fir 
 trees and pines, standing clothed in everlasting 
 green^ with no rocks visible to the eye. Then again, 
 there are others containing maybe hundreds of 
 acres, covered with timber, among which great 
 boidders, larger than haystacks, stand, with here 
 and there precipices rising straight up, fifty or sixty 
 feet, gray and gloomy, while occasionally a bare 
 ropky peak rises above even the tree-tops. As you 
 float by one of these islands, and see the great 
 boulders, the walls, and rocky peaks, struggling as 
 it were for mastery with the forest. growth above 
 and around them, you can hardly divest yourself of 
 the idea that you are looking upon some gigantic 
 ruins of the olden times. The crumbling walls, the 
 decaying and deserted battlements of ancient castles, 
 and strongholds built by people of a rude and 
 vanished age, when physical force, and strong arms, 
 conquest and j5lunder, were the great landmarks of 
 the times. You can almost mark the spot where 
 the lofty towers stood, where the ponderous gates 
 swung upon massive hinges; where were draw- 
 bridge and moat, and you think how impregnable 
 the sturdy old Baronet was in his stronghold 
 against everything but Time. And then you 
 think how that same Time demolishes the strongest 
 and proudest works of man, how it topples down 
 
The Two Settlees. 311 
 
 castle and hold, lio-w it sweeps away at last, by its 
 strong, slow, but sure process, the most massive 
 works of human energy. 
 
 There are two settlers on the shores of this lake ; 
 the one at the outlet, and the other near the head of 
 the lake. The first, a fisherman and hunter, who 
 has some two or three acres cleared, raising simply 
 vegetables for his family, taking the world easy, as 
 most frontier men do, seldom sweating from hard 
 labor, or tired by real work. The other is a lum- 
 berman, energetic and industrious, has small taste 
 for hunting or fishing, or any of the wild sports of 
 the forest or lake. He has some forty acres cleared, 
 a good log-house for his family, and another of 
 larger dimensions, fitted up with tiers of berths all 
 around, like the cabins of the large steamboats, but 
 not by any means with the same degree of elegance. 
 Here, during the Winter months, and until late in 
 the Spring, an army of lumbermen congregate, oc- 
 cupying this as their sleeping apartment, and board' 
 ing with the hardy settler in this wildemess. This 
 family is eight miles from a neighbor, some fifty 
 miles from a doctor, the same distance from a church 
 or school-house, and you will readily see that what- 
 ever pleasure there may be in isolation, they enjoy 
 it to the fail. Speaking of school'houses reminds 
 me of a matter that I omitted to mention in a former 
 letter, a thing that I " booked for discussion" on my 
 way, but forgot to mention it in its proper place. 
 
 Between the Au Sable Forks and Franklin 
 
312 CouNTEY Eambles. 
 
 Falls, as I said to you, is a higli region of country, 
 cold and uninviting for agricultural purposes, deso- 
 late by nature as a place of residence, but covered 
 •vvith a large growtii of timber. This timber is a 
 mine of wealtli to tlie manufacturers of iron, fur- 
 nishing tbem witli cbarcoal for their furnaces and 
 forges. Occasionally you come to a city, almost, of 
 coal-pits. Hundreds upon hundreds of them clus- 
 tered around. Some smoking in the slow progress 
 of combustion, some just covered, and some just 
 being piled ready for covering, and some already 
 burned, from which sooty, and charred men, I had 
 almost said, are raking away the coals, and load- 
 ing them for the forges. As a matter of fact, it re- 
 quires people, to chop the wood, build and bum the 
 pits, and carry away the coals ; and they are to be 
 found in plenty, in log-houses along the road. ^ As 
 a corollary from these facts, it follows that children 
 will be born to them. And you will see the sturdy, 
 knotty, and hardy-looking little wilderness-bom 
 chaps, swarming in what you and I might consider 
 inverse ratio, so far as numbers are concerned, to 
 any apparent necessity for their presence, or provis- 
 ion for their support. Now, in this country, as a 
 general thing, wherever you find a dozen children, 
 you will find a school-mistress and a school-house. 
 These three institutions seem to be inseparable, 
 growing along up together, and it is a glorious 
 thing that it should be so. It develops the native 
 energy of the American character, and brings forth 
 
"Seminary of Leabninq." 313 
 
 its inward miglit. Well, some tliree or four miles 
 south of Franklin Falls, in the " coal formation," 
 as geologists -would say, stood a log-house. There 
 were some fifteen or t\v;enty barefooted, healthy-look- 
 ing boys and girls, playing and scampering, and 
 shouting around the door, and I wondered at the 
 evidences of a prolific reproductiveness, which seem- 
 ed to characterize whoever inhabited it. WhUe 
 we were some distance from it, however, I heard 
 a loud rapping on the window-sash, and the little 
 ones disappeared with a rush into the house. 
 That sound was too fall of old memories, recollec- 
 tions of long ago, not to explain the problem that 
 had puzzled me. That log-house standing there 
 all alone in that little clearing, was a school-house, 
 a " seminary of learning," a small branch of a great 
 system, that has thrown and is throwing this coun- 
 try forward, with a rush of progress such as finds 
 no parallel in the world's history. As we passed it, 
 the door stood open, and I took an observation of 
 the inmates. There was the plain but neatly dress- 
 ed mistress, with her clean calico dress and black 
 apron, her white neckerchief over her shoulders, 
 and crossed gracefully over her bosom; her hair 
 combed modestly and smoothly from her forehead, 
 and fastened in a knot on the back of her head, 
 standing with book in hand, and a class of little 
 girls before her, about hearing them read. One 
 chubby little fellow, of say eight or nine years of 
 age, was standing by himself in the middle of the 
 
314 Country Eambles. 
 
 floor, with a paper cap on his head, his pantaloons 
 rolled half-way to his knees, his legs and feet bare, 
 and the fore finger of his right hand in his mouth, 
 and his face down in a ludicrous-sheepish, and 
 shame-faced fashion. There was no mistaking his 
 position. He was undergoing punishment for some 
 sin against the laws of the school, demonstrating 
 the great truth that reaches all the way from the 
 cradle to the grave, that the way of the transgressor 
 is hard. There was something so old-fashioned, so 
 familiar to me in all this, that I was tempted to 
 laugh and cry at the same time, as the present and 
 past stood out so palpably before me. 
 
 Do not think me capable of ridiculing these prim- 
 itive people, or primitive schools. They are too 
 important, too essential to the prosperity and prog- 
 ress of this country, in my estimation, for that. I 
 remember with feelings of profound veneration the 
 log school-house of my own boyhood days. It was 
 the foundation of the small progress I have made in 
 life. The teachings begun in these log school-houses 
 have given direction to, and roused the latent ener- 
 gies of many a great and good man of our country, 
 whose names have passed into the history of these 
 States, who will live in the world's memory when 
 thousands of graduates of the Colleges and Uni- 
 versities will have perished. Blessings on that 
 log school-house in the Saranac "Woods, on its school- 
 mistress, and the little children, whose "young 
 ideas" she was teaching "how to shoot" 
 
Deep Fishing. 315 
 
 We leave Tapper's Lake by a direct road to 
 go up the Bog Eiver, to tlie ponds and lakes to- 
 wards its source. There are beautiful trout in this 
 lake, and abundance of them. "We did not care to 
 take them, for we could not get them out to the set- 
 tlements, and we had more of the brook and river 
 trout than we knew what to do with. "We saw 
 some taken by the settler at the lower end of the 
 lake, weighing from eight to twelve pounds. These 
 he salts for winter use, though he can take them at 
 all times. The trolling > season is nearly over, and 
 but few can now be taken in that way. They 
 are caught now by what is called deep fishing. 
 Buoys are made in water from fifty to one hundred 
 feet in depth, where the fish are baited. Long 
 strips of bark are peeled and tied together, to make 
 a sort of cable, to one end of which a stone is fast- 
 ened as an anchor, and at the other a piece of light 
 wood is made fast, and left to float on the water. 
 About this, chub, shiners, and suckers, cut into 
 small pieces, are thrown for a day or two, and then 
 the fisherman goes out in his boat, fastens to his 
 buoy, drops his long line and great hook, baited 
 with a mianow, and naturally draws in the six, 
 eight, and ten pounders, that have been fettening on 
 the fish he has been furnishing them. 
 
 I am at the upper falls of Bog Eiver. This large 
 stream, but small river, forms the inlet to Tapper's 
 
316 Country Eambles. 
 
 Lake, and comes down from a plateau some sixty 
 feet above it, in three cascades over shelving rocks, 
 of about twenty feet each, and shoots off in a powerful 
 current far out into the lake. Across this current, 
 where it enters the lake, and in the eddies formed 
 by it, are great places to throw for the river trout. 
 They may be caught in great quantities and of a 
 large size, and their play is beautiful. They are, 
 however, at this time, caught both larger, and if 
 possible faster, by trolling, with a minnow for bait, 
 back and forth, a few rods from the shore, across 
 the current. Beautiful yellow or orange-bellied fel- 
 lows, of from one to three pounds in weight, and 
 their activity and strength is exceedingly exciting 
 to those who have a taste for that method of taking 
 them. For myself, I love the fly or grasshopper, 
 or even the vulgar angle-worm, best ; and when I 
 can use thera, neither deep fishing for ten-pounders, 
 nor trolling, will tempt me to forsake them. 
 
 Our boatmen carried our boat and what a Hoosier 
 would call our plunder, from the lake, a few rods 
 up a steep ascent, and launched it on the river, above 
 the falls. For some three or four miles above, the 
 river flows in a deep and tortuous channel, witb but 
 a light current. We then entered a region of boul- 
 ders, lying in mid-channel, around which the cur- 
 rents wound, and went twisting and eddying away. 
 Here I threw my fly, by way of experiment, and 
 found the trout abundant. Some half a mile further 
 on, we came to a rapid, half a mile in extent, around 
 
The Kapids. 317 
 
 wluch the boat liad to be carried. And I may say 
 liere, that during the day we encountered nine 
 rapids, of greater or less extent, around which 
 our little vessel had to be transported. These 
 carrying places where, however, short, and aa we 
 had two boatmen, occasioned but little trouble or 
 delay, and afforded rather a relief from the fixed 
 posture which we had to assume in the boat. 
 There has been a vast amount of lumbering done 
 on and in the neighborhood of this stream the last 
 winter. Twenty thousand logs have floated down 
 it, to the lake below, during the Spring freshets, 
 and there are a vast many lying scattered along 
 the banks, which must await the Spring freshets of 
 next year. On each of the falls (and there are seven 
 of them) dams have been built, to hold back the 
 water, until all is ready, when the flood-gates are 
 opened, and the mighty rush of waters carries every- 
 thing before it. "We could see the mark of the flood, 
 six or eight feet above the present level, on the trees 
 along the bank, and the water is yet greatly above 
 low- water mark. I can imagine with what tremen- 
 dous force the river goes thundering through the nar- 
 row gorges, and down the rocks among the great 
 boulders fixed as moimtains in the channel ; and the 
 wonder is, how even the great logs can withstand 
 its mighty power, and not be splintered into shreds, 
 among the gigantic obstructions against which they 
 are hurled. The shanties of .the lumbermen are 
 seen every few miles along the banks, and they con- 
 
318 COUNTEY Eambles. 
 
 stitutc a great feature of this region. They are built 
 of long logs, covered with shingles split from the 
 pines and spruce. Tiers of berths axe built one 
 above another, on each side, and across the ends, 
 save where you enter the door. In the centre is a 
 rude fire-place of stone, but without a chimney, 
 while a hole in the roof is left for the escape of the 
 smoke. In some of them are immense cooking 
 stoves, instead of fireplaces. 
 
 The bed of the hardy lumbermen was of hemlock, 
 or spruce boughs, or of hay or straw, and here they 
 managed to live comfortably, according to their 
 notions, through the cold winters, though the clull 
 winds whistled through a hundred openings, and the 
 snow drifted in through the crevices. These shan- 
 ties are deserted now, and they stand there tenant- 
 less, with most of the tools remaining which were 
 used by the lumbermen during the winter. These 
 tools are entirely safe from plunderers, for there is 
 a sort of faith among woodmen, that is a surer pro- 
 tection than bolts and bars. "We entered one of 
 these shantees, the door of which was on the latch. 
 There, in the centre, stood a great stove, with the 
 utensils for cooking upon and around it. In one 
 comer was piled up axes, crowbars, log chains, iron 
 dogs. On a shelf was a cask of vinegar, and an- 
 other that smelled mightily like whiskey, a great pile 
 of codfish, and bread hard and dry enough to an- 
 swer for cannon balls, pewter dishes, knives and 
 forks, selected for strength rather than elegance, 
 
An Eccentric Habit. 319 
 
 and on a little shelf in tlie corner, a pack of cards, 
 so soiled and greasy, that one could safely bet they 
 had been through ten thousand games of "Old 
 Sledge." The whiskey and the cards brought out 
 a strong characteristic of the lumbermen of these 
 woods in bold relief, while the hundred black stubs 
 of pipes, and the codfish, added a sort of comment- 
 ary to the card and whiskey text. And yet, prob- 
 ably there was neither a confirmed drunkard nor 
 a gambler among them all. They drank whiskey 
 upon principle, and played cards, and smoked, and 
 eat codfish by way of giving relish to the " rye." I 
 remember an eccentric old gentleman, who was a 
 member of the Legislature for two or three sessions 
 some years ago, from one of the down-river counties. 
 He was a jolly, pleasant, companionable, and withal, 
 an intelligent man — but he had three weaknesses in 
 rather a remarkable degree. These weaknesses 
 were a game of whist, a gin sling, and a cigar. He 
 could indulge in his favorite game from eve till 
 dawn, provided the gin was good, and the cigars aU 
 right. He would play, and drink, and smoke with 
 a zest that defied weariness or desire for sleep, and 
 yet he was never intoxicated, and never staked a 
 cent on the cards. He claimed to be a temperate 
 man, and was principled against drunkenness and 
 gambling. He would, however, stow away more gin, 
 and smoke more cigars of a night, and go to bed 
 soberer, than any two men I ever happened to know. 
 He used to say he loved to drink because it made 
 
320 Country Eambles. 
 
 him relisli a cigar so, and lie loved to smoke because 
 it made him so dry. It is, doubtless, so with the 
 lumbermen of this region. They like to drink, be- 
 cause it makes them relish their pipes, and they like 
 to smoke, because it makes them so dry. 
 
 We have mastered all the rapids and falls, and 
 are now in smooth water, and shall be until we 
 . reach a series of nameless ponds, lying between us 
 and Mud Lake. We have seen several deer on the 
 route thus far, since we left Tupper's Lake, but 
 there are no grasses or food for them along the 
 river, and our meeting with them has been entirely 
 accidental. It is said we are now entering upon a 
 portion of the river that affords abundance of pas- 
 ture for them, and that we shall have a sight at a 
 great many on our passage up. 
 
 I am on the banks of one of the small lakes, 
 the outlet of which goes to help to make up Bog 
 Eiver. These ponds or little lakes are without 
 names, so far as I can learn. They have some, but 
 not all of the beauties of the waters further north. 
 They are in part bordered by marshes, and they 
 lack the bold and striking outline of rocky bluff and. 
 hillside, nor have they the charming bays that steal 
 around, as it were, from the broad lake, to sleep 
 in the shadow of the forest trees. We are very- 
 near the "top of the house" here, an^ though we 
 
The Astonished Buck, 821 
 
 can see in the distance mountain peaks going up 
 towards the sky, yet there are no ranges, no high- 
 lands, as distinguished from these peaks in sight. 
 We must now be some four or five hundred feet 
 above Tupper's Lake, and a single rise of some fifty 
 feet in all, around roaring rapids, will bring us to 
 the upper level, beyond which there is in this direc- 
 tion no higher plain, no more elevated river or 
 lake. 
 
 After leaving the upper falls, the river flowed 
 with a sluggish current through broad marshes, 
 where the wild grasses skirted the shore, and the 
 broad leaves of the pond lilies covered the water. 
 "We saw abundance of deer feeding upon these 
 aquatic pastures. I was exceedingly amused by 
 one of these animals, a noble buck. In many 
 places the channel is narrow, and exceedingly 
 crooked, turning suddenly around wooded points. 
 Soon after leaving the upper falls, the oars were 
 unshipped, and the paddles only used, that when 
 we came upon these deer pastures, we might not 
 frighten the animals by the noise of rowing. As 
 we rounded noiselessly one of these short elbows, 
 we came suddenly upon a large deer, that was feed- 
 ing only some four or five rods from us. He was 
 standing with his nose and a part of his head, in- 
 cluding his eyes, for the moment imder water, 
 apparently trying to loosen the stem of a pond lily 
 from the bottom, the water being a foot or more in 
 depth. These stems are of the same pithy and 
 14 
 
322 Country K ambles. 
 
 fibrous character as a cabbage stalk, rough and 
 knotty like it, and when loosened at the roots, will 
 float on the water. The deer are fond of these 
 Hly stalks, and you will see fragments of half-eaten 
 stems floating in the ponds and eddies where they 
 grow. We were perfectly silent and motionless, as 
 we saw him feeding so near us ; not a hand was 
 moved. He raised his head carelessly from the 
 water, and as his eye fell upon us, he straightened 
 himself up, then throwing forward his ears, looked 
 in utter astonishment upon us, as if saying to him- 
 self, " What, in the name of all that is wonderful, 
 is that ?" Presently he hoisted his tail, snorted in 
 amazement, and trotted a few rods towards the 
 shore, looking with arched neck at us over his 
 shoulder. Still, as we did not move, his curiosity 
 seemed to overcome his terror, and he stopped, and 
 turning towards us, stood gazing with a peculiar 
 intensity of look at us. He would stamp with his 
 foot, and whistle, as if to arouse us from our fixed 
 and motionless attitude, if we were living things. 
 Presently we swung our hats and shouted, and he 
 was off like the wind. The discharge of my rifle, 
 and the whistling of the ball near him, added vigor 
 to his terror, and new wings to his flight, and he 
 plunged madly into the thick brush along the mar- 
 gin of the river, and went crashing and snorting up 
 the mountain. 
 
The Slumbers 6f Night. 823 
 
 I am now on the banks of a small lake, the prin- 
 cipal source of the west branch of Bog Eiver. "We 
 are shanteeing here in the old woods, in a house 
 made of bark peeled from the trees around us, com- 
 posed of a single room, with the whole gable end 
 for a door, and just large enough to accommodate 
 two men if disposed of horizontally, and laid along 
 lengthwise on a bed of boughs rolled up like sacks 
 of potatoes in their blankets. Before it are blazing 
 logs, for the nights are cool, and were it not so, the 
 smoke and the flame are needed to keep off the 
 mosquitoes, that in these woods and around these 
 lakes have each a proboscis that an elephant might 
 envy, and they have a mighty insinuating way 
 with them too. Our boatmen lay wrapped in their 
 blankets in the open air, with their feet to fire 
 and their heads resting on blocks of wood for a 
 pillow, and it woidd do you good to see how 
 soundly they sleep and to hear them snore. From 
 out in the forest comes the solemn hooting of the 
 owl, and the wild voice of some solitary night bird 
 floats upon the ear, while at long intervals the clar- 
 ion voice of the loon comes clear and musical from 
 the lake. The hoarse and guttural bass of the 
 frogs comes roaring deep, sonorous and solemn, 
 from among the pond lilies that grow along the 
 shore, and yet with all these noises sounding on the 
 ear, you feel an impression of silence, and you are 
 soothed into a desire for repose. "With the air foil 
 of noises, you sink away into slumber, and in the 
 
324 Country Eambles. 
 
 morning awake fully refrested, tte weariness of 
 the previous day all gone, and you feel a degree of 
 buoyancy of spirit and limb, whicli no night's rest 
 in the city can give you. 
 
 The pure bracing air of this high region has an 
 effect upon the system which it is impossible to 
 describe. Such at least is its effect upon me. You 
 feel as you inhale it in the morning, an exhilaration, 
 a hilarity that tempts you to shout aloud, hurrah, 
 sing, and be jolly as everything around you seems 
 to be. I have seen people while under the influ- 
 ence of Champagne, cut strange capers, and perform 
 most ridiculous antics, and the mountain air of 
 these wild regions so pure, so bracing, so full of 
 freshness, so dehoiously sweet, that though rigid in 
 your observance of the temperance creed, you be- 
 come almost drunken with excitement, as if you 
 had been worshipping at the shrine of Bacchus. 
 
 We saw a great many deer yesterday, caught all 
 the trout we wanted, and we can see the deer this 
 morning feeding on the shore over and across the 
 lake. We intended to stay a week in this region, 
 laying around in a loose promiscuous way, fishing 
 as we needed the trout, and knocking over a deer 
 when we needed venison, telling stories,, and hear- 
 ing them told, of life in the woods, indidging in 
 fact or fiction, in fact, being joUy in a natural way 
 outside of civilization, away from books and news- 
 papers, away from highways and the thoroughfares 
 of life, away from the thunders of railroads and 
 
A Fellow Spobtsman. 325 
 
 the roar of the steam whistle, outside of paved 
 streets, outside of green fields, and outside of the 
 fences, untrammeled by the conventional proprieties 
 of Hfe, to be wild men in feet away off in the old 
 woods, renouncing for a time the guardianship of 
 the laws, the companionship of the world, alone 
 with nature and the wild things with which God 
 has peopled the forests, the lakes and streams. I 
 have thus far written only in the singular number, 
 and have in this, as it strikes me now for the first 
 time, done wrong. There is with me an intelligent 
 gentleman, who is a keen sportsman, one who rel- 
 ishes a tramp in the woods, who loves to throw the 
 fly, and be among the deer, to hear the forest 
 sounds, and look upon the wild scenery of nature, 
 as much as I do myself; and I have been indebted 
 to him, all the way, for pleasant conversation and 
 "interesting debate" on many subjects besides 
 woodcraft. His skill in all that pertains to the 
 sports of the wilderness, is quite equal to my 
 own. I may as well say here, that I do not excel 
 in any branch of woodcraft. I can throw the 
 fly with only a medium skfll, and am not re- 
 markably successful with a baited hook. I 
 am no great shot with the rifle. What I 
 love most is to float along the romantic shores of 
 these secluded lakes, to glide iato their shadowy 
 bays, be rowed down or up the secluded little 
 rivers that have flowed here in everlasting solitude 
 through . the old forests, and around the base of 
 
326 Country Eambles. 
 
 these mountains. I love to commune witli the 
 primeval things all aroimd me, to go back in imag- 
 ination, to the time when this vast Continent was 
 one great wilderness, hid away here across oceans 
 by the Creator, given to the possession of wild men 
 and wild things, tiU in his own good time he should 
 open it up to the knowledge of the world, making 
 it the field of a regenerated and renewed civiliza- 
 tion ; where the great principles of human freedom 
 could be planted in a virgin soil, and man's capa- 
 bility for progress be fiiUy developed. This must 
 have been a glorious hunting ground for the Indian, 
 and admirable residences, too, for his brother the 
 beaver. There was no need of these latter building 
 dams to accommodate themselves with still water. 
 The lakes and ponds spread all over the country, 
 were prepared for them; and when they and the 
 wild men of the woods lived in amity, before the 
 greed of the white man had set a value upon their 
 fur, and tempted the cupidity of the Indian to con- 
 trive their slaughter, the beaver must have had a 
 good time of it here among these waters. And 
 yet these industrious and provident animals were 
 not entirely satisfied with the natural ponds and 
 lakes alone. There are occasional localities pointed 
 out along the streams where there are unmistakable 
 evidences stiQ existing that they had in the olden 
 times their dams. There are, too, water-ways, 
 narrow channels across low marshy grounds, from 
 one pond to another, that are called by the wood- 
 
Beaver Canals. 327 
 
 men "Beaver Canals," wMch, it is said, are the 
 works of the beaver. These " Canals " are some 
 three or four feet wide, the water with scarcely a 
 perceptible current, and in some none at all, wind- 
 ing across the marshes, skirted by tall grass or flags, 
 and you feel almost certain that they are not natural 
 water-courses. You can easily persuade yourself 
 that they are the work of art, have been excavated 
 for the purpose of opening a convenient passage 
 way, and the many muskrats that are seen con- 
 stantly swimming to and fro in them prove that 
 they are still regarded as highways of travel. There 
 is one across a neck of land on the Eacquette River, 
 just above a noted locality known as the " drift- 
 wood." This " Canal " is some quarter of a mile 
 in length, leading from the river to a body of 
 water containing probably three thousand acres, 
 known as Isham's Pond. This pond connects with 
 and is on the same level with the river, and the 
 " Canal " across the Isthmus saves a journey of 
 some four or five miles round. It is from four to 
 six or eight feet in width, through a dense forest of 
 lowland timber. The water is about two feet in 
 depth, though the excavation, if excavation it be, is 
 from four to six feet in depth. "We passed through 
 this canal with our boat. There was scarcely a 
 perceptible current. Whether it is the work of the 
 beaver, hundreds of years ago, or a natural canal, I 
 do not undertake to say, but to me it appeared like 
 an artificial channel, made for convenience of com- 
 
328 Country Eambles. 
 
 munication between the river and pond, and our 
 boatmen seemed to liave no doubt on the subject. 
 
 I have thus far given you the romance of a 
 journey into these woods, the sports that abound 
 here, the abundance of trout and deer, the beauty 
 of the lakes and rivers, the romantic and wild 
 scenery which you will find spread out all arotmd 
 you. It is, in sober truth, a charming region to 
 visit, for the purpose of whiling away a fortnight or 
 a month. But — and what a pity it is that this 
 disjunctive should always steal in, standing forever 
 in the way of fulness of enjoyment, obstructing our 
 pleasures, and casting a shadow on what should be 
 all brightness, all sunlight, all glory. Yet so it is, 
 there is a BUT in this case, and at this season of the 
 year, during the month of June, the freshest, green- 
 est, brightest, loveliest, most glorious of all the 
 months, when the birds are merriest, the forest 
 foliage most beautiful, the air balmiest, and all 
 nature is clothed in its gayest garments, decked 
 with its sweetest smiles, the black fly greedy for 
 blood, hungry, relentless in cruelty, swarm in mill- 
 ions around you, and spite of your most active 
 exertions, your most ingenious devices subject you, 
 especially if your skin is thinner than that of the 
 rhinoceros, to a protracted torment, to which cruci- 
 fixion would almost seem a positive pleasure. I 
 am a reasonably courageous and persevering man 
 in purstiit of pleasure in the woods. I can bear a 
 great deal of positive hardship, labor, for which, 
 
The Saranac "Woods. 329 
 
 were it encouiitered for Mre, a very large "pile" 
 ■would have to be paid. I have before now been 
 hungry and cold, I have fought the musquito and 
 the midget, been outia the rain and the chill windsi 
 in pursuit of game. I have tramped in hot days 
 long miles over mountains, stumbling over boulders 
 and among tangle-brush, weary and dripping with 
 perspiration. I have encountered the black fly 
 before in these same woods and in the same beau- 
 tifiil month of June without a thought of surren- 
 dering, but I never, and the oldest hunter of these 
 woods never encountered them in such myriads, 
 absolute swarms, as they have appeared the present 
 season. I have been compelled to surrender, ac- 
 knowledge myself vanquished. I said we intended to 
 stay here a week. We came here last evening and 
 we start for home this morrdng, absolutely driven 
 from the woods by the BLACK FLY, a little insect 
 not larger than the head of a pin, but with teeth 
 hke a tiger's. If I live to get out to the settlements; 
 a problem the solution of which the next two days 
 will solve, if there is enough of me left to make it 
 an object worth preserving, I'U tell you in my next 
 all about it. If I should be clean eaten up, a 
 catastrophe by no means improbable, do not charge 
 it to the panthers or the wolves, lay no blame upon 
 the bears or any of the beasts of prey, but to the 
 BLACK FLY. In that imhappy event, my last 
 injunction is: Keep out of the Saranac Woods 
 
 IN THE MOKTH OF JUNE. 
 
 14* 
 
^FPEN^DIX- 
 
^. 
 
 SUNRISE IN THK COUNTRY. 
 
 " I've seen the snn rise. I saw his Tangnard of light that 
 preceded his ascent from the other side of the world. I saw 
 him when he leaped into his chariot and started westward 
 across the sky." — Letter from a Correspondent. 
 
 We have witnessed the same phenomenon three 
 times during the present month. Once we were 
 on the St. Lawrence, along the island that lays op- 
 posite Cape Vincent. Once we were on Lake 
 Champlain, opposite Burlington ; and once sitting 
 on a venerable, moss-covered boulder overlooking 
 a beautiful meadow just by the village of Lenox, 
 in the State of Massachusetts. It is a glorious 
 thing, the rising of the sun of a calm, clear sum- 
 mer morning. At Gape Vincent we rose while the 
 larger stars were yet shining faintly in the firma- 
 ment, and the moon was still visible in the sky. 
 The morning was warm and still, the river imruffled, 
 and we started with an early waterman in a row- 
 boat from the dock, to troU for the pickerel, bass or 
 muscalange, if they choose to make the acquaint- 
 ance of our baited hook. "We heard the first 
 
334 Appkndix A. 
 
 morning song of the wild bird, and saw tlie last star 
 vanisli in depths of the sky. We saw the light 
 grow brighter and brighter in the east, as the twi- 
 light faded into day. "We had j ust hooked a famous 
 pickerel, and were drawing him in on a line 250 
 feet in length, as the sirn came up over the eastern 
 hUl in all the brightness of his glory. It was a 
 splendid thing to look upon, and so was the pickerel 
 that had our hook in his jaw. The sun blazed 
 along the surface of the water, dazzling the eye by 
 his sheen, and the pickerel floundered in his astonish- 
 ment, while we looked first upon the one and then 
 upon the other, rejoicing in the double favor that 
 was granted us, and thinking 
 
 " How happy coald we be with either, 
 Were the other dear chatmer away." 
 
 We admired the sunrise, and hauled in on the 
 pickerel. We made prey of the fish, and let the 
 sun go on in his course. 
 
 At Burlington, we were out on the lake alone in 
 a skiff by the time the fiirst rays of the sun illumin- 
 ed the Eastern horizon. It was a calm, beautiful 
 morning, the air was balmy and fall of invigorating 
 freshness. A light breeze rippled the surface of 
 the water, as we rowed out from the shore to watch 
 the departure of the darkness, and see the lighting 
 up of the world by the sim, as he came up from his 
 resting place. We saw how he first gave his rays 
 to glow on the tops of the mountains away off in 
 
Sunrise in the Qountby. 335 
 
 Essex, while in tlie valleys at their base the gray- 
 ness of twilight still lingered. We saw the sunlight 
 chasing the shadows down the sides of the moun- 
 tains, and we looked upon the sun as he seemed to 
 hang for a moment, like a great torch among the 
 trees that stood out on the eastern summits against 
 the sky, and then how he rose above them to go 
 forth on his course, like a charioteer of old, with his 
 steeds of fire. He seemed to rejoice in the great- 
 ness of his strength as he leaped clear of the hills 
 and moimted aloft in the sky. The darkness van- 
 ished from before him, and the moon and stars hid 
 themselves from the glory of his presence. We 
 breakfasted on a yellow bass that morning, which 
 was but one of a half-dozen we caught before the 
 sun was clear of the tree-tops. 
 
 At Lenox, among the mountains of the Old Bay 
 State, we saw the sun rise again. Lenox is a sweet 
 spot, surrounded by an amphitheatre of hills. Beauti- 
 fal.farms are spread out all around the town. Beauti- 
 ful roads, lined on either side by the sugar maple ; 
 beautiful streams and beautiful lakes are within 
 range of a morning walk, or an evening drive. It 
 has pleasant fields and shady groves in sight, and 
 deep ravines where the grass grows to the edge of 
 the soft-toned brooklet, as it sings faintly over the 
 smooth pebbles, and the deep shadows of the arch- 
 ing trees cool the heat of noon. We rose, as at 
 Cape Yincent and Burlington, while the twilight 
 yet hovered over the fields and town. We saw the 
 thin mist rising from the meadows, and creeping up 
 
336 Appendix A. 
 
 tlie sides of the hills, hiding their shadowy verdure, 
 and making them look like the fair face of a maiden 
 shining dimly in its beauty through a veil of gauze. 
 We heard the wild matin songs as they broke in 
 their gladness from the stillness of night, and watch- 
 ed the swallows as they started from the bams and 
 chimneys on their arrowy flight. We heard the ' 
 first note of the meadow-lark, as he flew from his 
 night perch, and the last song of the whip-poor-will, 
 as he folded his wings to rest for the day. We sat 
 for half an hour on a venerable boulder that over- 
 looked a meadow. On our right, at a few rods dis- 
 tance, was a half-grown elm, on the topmost branch 
 of which sat a brown thrush, singing his morning 
 song, and swaying gracefully in the breeze while 
 he sang. On our left was a thorn bush, among the 
 thick branches of which the catbird mocked the 
 brown thrush, while over against us, perched upon 
 a fence stake, was a quail, whistling in his clear and 
 silvery notes to his mate, as she brooded in her fond- 
 ness over her treasured nest. 
 
 'Twas a pleasant thing to watch the departure of 
 the night shadows, to hear the voices of the morning 
 breaking into harmony, and look upon the sun as 
 he came up from behind the eastern hills. It seemed 
 to us that the gladness grew in intensity, and that 
 a new song burst forth as he came into view. The 
 brown thrush sang with a clearer voice, and the cat- 
 bird in his thorn bush mocked with fresh vigor, 
 while the bob-o-link darted up from the meadow- 
 
Sunrise in the Country. 337 
 
 grass "witli a freer bound, and while lie shook the 
 dew-drops from his wing, and balanced himself 
 gracefully in the air, sang with a prolonged lay, and 
 a gladder energy. 
 
 Sunrise in the country is a glorious sight, a vision 
 infinitely more pleasant than those which visit the 
 pillow of the sluggard while indulging in his morn- 
 ing sleep. Go out into the country among the moun- 
 tains, or among the fields, where everything is fresh, 
 where the dew-drops glisten on the grass, or sparkle 
 on the forest leaves — where the morning breeze 
 comes to you fragrant from the meadows or the foli- 
 age of the old woods. Look upon the stars as they 
 depart from the sky, and upon the sun as he comes 
 up from ' his bed of darkness. It is a glorious ex- 
 hibition, and open for all. It can be seen without 
 money, and enjoyed without price. Go into the 
 country and see the sun rise. 
 
B, 
 
 THE "SAINTS' BEST." 
 
 You need not take down your map and look for 
 the location of " Tke Saints' East." It is not laid 
 down on the map. You need not look into your 
 gazetteer. It is not in the gazetteer. You need not 
 inquire of the oldest inhabitant about its locality, 
 for he has never heard of it. It is not the place that 
 good people have been looking for, for ages, the 
 place where Christian people hope to repose when 
 earth, with its cares and sorrows, shall have passed 
 away. And yet " The Saints' Rest" is a veritable 
 locality. It occupies a place in the world, and is 
 not inaptly named. First let me tell you how we 
 got here, and who I mean by we^ for I am not 
 alone. 
 
 At Coudersport we took a lumber wagon, and 
 packing our movables, consisting of provisions, 
 jfishing tackle, and a rifle, took to the woods, over 
 a road such as you have probably never travelled. 
 Great bags stuffed with hay, as compactly as they 
 could be, and laid in the bottom of the box, con- 
 stituted our seats. I said we took to the woods 
 
"The Saints' Eest." 339 
 
 and we went up and up for hours, towards the top 
 of a range of hills that seemed to have no summit, 
 over a road that was good, at least for dyspeptics, 
 if jolting over roots and topling down into deep 
 holes is beneficial. Once in two or three miles we 
 would come to a clearing of a few acres, with a log- 
 house, or maybe two or three near each other, com- 
 posing a little settlement surrounded by a dense and 
 sombre forest of great hemlocks, from the Umbs of 
 which the lichens hung, and above which mountain 
 peaks went looming up towards the sky. 
 
 Towards four o'clock we came in sight of a little 
 settlement of three or four families, the entire of 
 whose clearings may have amounted to a hundred 
 and fifty acres. A log house for each family, and 
 two or three bams, constituted all the buildings in 
 sight. The day had been excessively warm and 
 sultry. The tree frogs were piping all along the 
 road ; the leaves on the trees as they stirred in the 
 sluggish breeze, lifted their leaves fan-like to the 
 sun, making the tree-top shine all over like silver. 
 As the day advanced, clouds came flying over in 
 solemn procession from the southwest, indicating that 
 a storm was on the march. As we entered this httle 
 clearing dark and heavy clouds came heaving sol- 
 eionly up over the western hills, the low growl of the 
 thunder was heard in the distance, faint flashes of 
 lightning glanced across the sky, whUe around us was 
 the gloomy stillness that precedes a summer storm. 
 We were some dozen nules from the " The Saints' 
 
340 Appendix B. 
 
 Eest," seven or eight of wliicli lay througli woods 
 without a house. We applied at one of the houses 
 in sight, and were accommodated for the night. 
 We had got ourselves and our team comfort- 
 ably housed, and the storm came on. It was a 
 goodly sight to see the rain come down as it did 
 then, as if the clouds had been torn asunder to 
 empty their contents at once in a rushing flood 
 upon the earth. It was a goodly sight to see the 
 lightning, flashing and streaking, in a ragged, zig- 
 zag from the clouds down to the forest-covered hills, 
 and it was a goodly sound to hear the sudden boom 
 of the thunder as it burst like artillery upon the ear, 
 and went rolling and dying away among the moun- 
 tains. In an hour the rain was over, and the bow 
 of promise hung arching upon the rear of the storm. 
 In the morning we breakfasted with our entertainer, 
 compensated him for his trouble as far as money 
 could do, and grateful for his kindness, took up our 
 journey again for the " Saints' Eest." You may 
 judge of the quality of the road when I tell you we 
 were some seven hOurs in going less than a dozen 
 miles. We passed over a high range, and went 
 singing and jolting, whistling and laughing down 
 towards the Sinnemahoning, in the pleasant valley 
 of which is the " Saints' Eest." Our last mile or 
 two lay along a stream that came down from the 
 hnis, beautifully clear and cold, and I left my 
 companions with the promise to procure a mess of 
 fish for our dinners. I redeemed that pledge, for 
 
"The Saints' Eest." 341 
 
 within two hours of their arrival at the " Saints' 
 Eest," I was there with a basket literally fuU, of as 
 beautiful speckled trout as an epicure would wish 
 to see. 
 
 And now you ask who compose the we, of which 
 I have been speaking, for you are aware that in 
 these letters I indulge in no editorial plurals. Well, 
 first and foremost, there is the Dominie, a pleasant 
 and a Christian man, one who, while he never for- 
 gets the dignity of his high calling, is neither a zealot 
 nor a bigot. He is a man of varied reading and ripe 
 scholarship, full of pleasant anecdote, and of a cheer- 
 ful wit. He is no ascetic, moving along through 
 the world with a brow of solemn severity, who " wiU 
 not smile though Nestor swears the joke is laugha- 
 ble." Then there is the dominie's wife, a cheerful- 
 hearted, pleasant and accomplished lady. Then 
 there is my friend the lawyer, a man whose weak- 
 ness is a pleasant trout stream, a rod and fly — one 
 who takes to the water like a duck, as if he were 
 amphibious, who, with rod in hand, will stalk 
 boldly into the stream, and. throw the fly with the 
 water rippling around his knee-pans, defying all the 
 spirits of neuralgia, rheumatism and lumbago; a 
 man, too, of giant sympathies, and a big heart. And 
 then, there is his wife, who sings like a bird, and 
 loves nature with the strong affection of a devotee 
 — a most sensible and excellent woman, younger 
 than the dominie's wife, and less serious, per- 
 haps, as if fitting for a lawyer's lady. Then there 
 
342 Appendix B. 
 
 is my own wife, of wliom it does not become me to 
 speak, save that we started in life together before 
 either had numbered twenty years, and have walked 
 quietly and peacefully through many dark days and 
 sore trials, to the present time, and no repining or 
 unkind word has she spoken, to me at least. Here, 
 then, we are, six of us, at the " Saints' Eest," in the 
 sequestered valley of the Sinnemahoning, and here 
 we propose to stay for a week. By the way, shortly 
 after I left the wagon, and while the ladies were 
 talking about the wild animals that belong in these 
 old forests, a fine deer stepped from the covert of 
 the woods, on the other side of the river, into an 
 open space on the bank, and having gazed for a 
 moment upon them, hoisted his white flag and 
 bounded away. It was a pleasant and a new sight 
 to them. They described, with enthusiasm, his sym- 
 metry of form, and his graceful movements, as he 
 bounded into the forest. 
 
 To you, who profess only a love for brick houses 
 and paved thoroughfares, who prefer the long 
 vista of a street, with the rumbling of carriages 
 and a moving panorama of sidewalks covered with 
 people, to tall mountains and old forests, and 
 streams and fields, there would be nothing inviting 
 here. Every locality has its legends and every 
 place its history, and why should not this quiet 
 spot have its history and its legends, too ? The 
 " Saints' Eest" has its history as well as the largest 
 city. It is only a clearing of some five-and-twenty 
 
"The Saints' Best." 343 
 
 acres, having a house of the composite order of 
 architecttire, being a log house and a frame one con- 
 joined. My friend, the lawyer who is with me, a 
 year or two since furnished its owner with the 
 means of buUdiag an addition to his log-house, to 
 accommodate him and his friends on their fishing 
 excursions to the valley of the Sinnemahoning. 
 While he and his male companions came, without 
 their wives, it was called the "Sinners' Home." 
 Last season they brought their wives, and so glow- 
 ing were their descriptions of its charms, that the 
 old name was expunged, and it was christened the 
 " Saints' Eest'." 
 
 We are here, six of us, as I told you in my last, 
 in one of the most primitive and secluded spots in 
 the world. In front of the door runs the Sinnema- 
 honing, a most pleasant little river, on its way to 
 the noble Susquehanna. In the still night, and in 
 the early morning, you hear its gentle song as it 
 flows along in ripples over the smooth stones. To 
 the right, a mountain peak runs upward towards 
 the sky to the height of some fifteen hundred or 
 two thousand feet, covered with gigantic hemlocks 
 to the summit. In front is a mountain range, regu- 
 lar in form, extending north and south, which 
 forms the eastern barrier to the narrow valley of the 
 Sinnemahoning, rising to the height of fifteen hun- 
 dred feet, with a steep acchvity, covered with dark 
 evergreens, the mountain birch, and gnarled maples 
 to the top. To the left, the valley stretchiag away 
 
344 Appendix B. 
 
 to the north, and from among the arching trees, 
 that reach their long arras out over the water, and 
 the dense willows that grow thick and luxuriant 
 along the shore, the river comes quietly out as from 
 a cavern, and is lost to the view in its solemn 
 shades. In the rear of the house is another moun- 
 tain, lifting its sombre head to the clouds, to the 
 left of which a little stream comes down through a 
 mountain gorge, while on the right is a pleasant 
 valley reaching away up between the hills, where 
 the old forest stands in all its primeval grandeur, 
 and through the centre of which a cold stream 
 carries its tribute to the river, in sight of the 
 " Saints' Eest." Here, then, in this bowl, this valley, 
 surrounded by high mountains, is the " Saints' 
 Eest." Pleasant fields are around the house. A 
 foot-bridge consisting of the long trunk of a great 
 pine, hewn on one side, spans the river, beneath 
 which the water spreads out still, placid and lake- 
 like. Just below, there is a ripple where the river 
 goes singing along over the smooth stones, swirling 
 away under caverned banks, and then hiding itself 
 in deep eddies among the pHed-up drift wood that 
 bridges it when the water is low. The owner of 
 this spot has been here some nineteen years, and is 
 one of nature's nobility, an honest and a Christian 
 man. He is the owner of a hundred and fifty 
 acres of land, and was the first man that ventured 
 into this wild region as a settler. He is an Irish- 
 man. He came from Philadelphia at that early 
 
"The Saints' Eest." 345 
 
 day as an agent for a large land owner. He erected 
 for his principal a dam across tlie river, and a log- 
 mill. The dam is standing where it was bmlt, and 
 the log-mill is there but it has gone to ruin — ^the 
 rafters decayed, and the roof fallen in — ^the water- 
 way has become filled up, and willows and alders 
 grow around the doors, and reach their arms in at 
 the windows, and hang them over the logs that 
 formed the outer walls of the miU, hiding what 
 remains of the structure from view, as if to conceal 
 the decay and desolation that has settled down 
 upon it. 
 
 I have been exceedingly interested in hearing his 
 excellent and simple-minded wife recount the scenes 
 through which she passed in the first years of her 
 residence here. On one occasion #he took her in- ' 
 fant in her arms and went out to where her hus- 
 band was engaged in chopping down the trees. Let 
 me tell you her story as she told it to me, in her 
 own simple language. " I was lonesome," she said, 
 "in the house, and I took Lizzie" (her daughter, 
 now a wife and mother) " in my arms, and went 
 out to where my husband was at work. She was 
 a little baby then, but a few weeks old, and I wrap- 
 ped her in a shawl to keep the wind from blowing 
 upon her. When I came out to where my husband 
 was, I told him I'd help pick up the brush, and he 
 told me to lay Lizzie down by the side of a stump. 
 She was asleep, and I wrapped her up carefully and 
 laid her down among the bushes, and went to 
 15 
 
346 Appendix B. 
 
 gathering up the brusli and piling them in heaps. 
 My husband was cutting down a large tree at a 
 little distance, and I went up to where he was. I 
 asked him which way the tree woiild fall, and he 
 pointed in a direction different from where my 
 baby lay. I stood by him, seeing the chips fly as 
 he swung his axe, and watched the tree aa it began 
 to reel to its fall like a drunken man. It began to 
 shake at the top as if in great trouble, swayed for 
 a moment this way and that, and then started, 
 slowly at first, right towards where my baby lay. 
 You can't teU what my feelings were. My heart 
 swelled with horror almost to bursting as the tree 
 went reeling to its fall. I screamed in agony as it 
 went sweeping along through the air, and, wild 
 with terror, thrust my fingers into my ears to shut 
 out the death-scream of my child, and ran like a 
 crazy woman into the woods. My husband ran to 
 where my baby lay, and was there almost as soon 
 as the tree touched the ground. There by the side 
 of the stump, with the broken and crushed limbs 
 all around it, lay my baby unharmed. He turned 
 and ran after me into the woods, hallooing to me to 
 stop and come back, and that Lizzie wasn't hurt. 
 That was a glad voice to me, and the words went 
 to my heart at first like a dream. I stopped for a 
 moment to listen again. 'Lizzie is safe,' cried 
 my husband, 'come back.' I couldn't yet fully 
 understand the meaning of what he said. ' LizziB 
 is safe ' seemed to be sounding all around me. It 
 
"The Saints' Best." 347 
 
 came down like a voice from tlie sky, and upward 
 like a voice from the earth. The great trees all 
 around me all seemed to have voices of gladness, 
 and aU seemed to say 'Lizzie is safe.' 'Come 
 back,' I heard my husband say again, 'Lizzie 
 aint hurt ;' and everything around me seemed full 
 of happy laughter and great joy. I stopped and 
 listened in bewilderment, and as I did so, ' Lizzie 
 is safe ' was anywhere, above, below and around me, 
 everything cried 'Lizzie is safe.' My husband 
 came up to me and took me by the hand, and said 
 kindly, 'Don't be frightened, Lizzie isn't hurt;' 
 and then a trembling came over me, and my 
 strength seemed to be all gone. Li a moment I 
 was better, and when my mind took in the sense 
 of my husband's words, I thanked God with a full 
 heart that he had turned a great sorrow from me. 
 I went with my husband to where I left my baby, 
 and there lay the little thing, hid away among the 
 broken limbs of the great hemlock, and the bent 
 and tangled bushes, like Moses among the rushes, 
 fast asleep. The great hemlock had, in its fall, 
 struck the stump by the side of which Lizzie lay, 
 and glanced off on the other side ; but its limbs, 
 broken and ragged, had been forced into the ground 
 all around her, and it was a wonder and a great 
 mercy that she was not crushed. 
 
 "I took her up and went home and laid her in her 
 cradle, and then knelt down and thanked the great 
 and good God, that takes care of his creatures, even 
 
848 Appendix B. 
 
 in the deep forests, and tlie lone woods. I've pass- 
 ed through many sorrows, and I never wept as 
 long at once as I did then, but it wasn't with grief. 
 I was very happy. My heart was very light, but 
 I couldn't laugh. It seemed as though joy like 
 mine could only speak in a low hushed voice, and 
 be seen only in tears. Lizzie has been a kind, good 
 girl, all her life, and I often teU her how lonely and 
 sorrowful my life would have been, had she been 
 crushed to death by that great tree felled by her 
 father's hands." 
 
 We arrived here of a Saturday afternoon, and 
 it being ascertained that one of our number was a 
 clergyman, the good lady of the house urged him to 
 preach to the settlers on the coming Sabbath. To 
 this he cheerfully consented, and word was sent to 
 all the families on the Sinnemahoning, some six or 
 seven in all. On the morrow they came in, hus- 
 bands, wives, and little children, to hear what was 
 not often permitted them in their wilderness home 
 — ^the preaching of the gospel, and to mingle in the 
 pubho worship of God on the day of his appoint- 
 ment. The number was small, but I have never 
 seen a more attentive and seemingly devout audi- 
 ence. When the service was over, they gathered 
 around the excellent dominie, shook hiTn cordially 
 and gratefully by the hand, and then departed 
 quietly and cheerfully to their homes. Blessings 
 on these good people that have made their homes 
 away out here in these narrow and secluded valleys. 
 
"The Saints' Eest." 349 
 
 beneatli the shadow of these tall mountains, and 
 amid the gloom and seclusion of these ancient 
 forests. 
 
 I have been here a week, and have as yet seen no 
 man or woman, save those who came with me, who 
 belongs outside of this sequestered valley. I have 
 seen no team passing along the road, no traveller 
 winding his way to some remoter spot, or to some 
 settlement further in the wilderness. I have, how- 
 ever, seen the mail boy that comes to this neighbor- 
 hood once a week on horseback. The post-office is 
 about a mile from us, and is " the last of the series.'' 
 The post-boy delivers his collapsed mail bags to the 
 post-master, feeds his weary nag, and then turns 
 back towards home. There is no post-office beyond 
 this, on this side of the mountains. There are fifteen 
 voters in the town, and the quarterly receipts at the 
 post-office, I understand, average about seventy-five 
 cents per quarter. 
 
 I love this lonely region — I could dally here for 
 weeks among the hills, and forests, and streams. I 
 hear the old sounds that were familiar to me in my 
 boyhood, and see the things that I have not seen 
 since my early youth. In the evening, so delight- 
 fully cool, we sit on the foot-bridge, and listen to 
 the old owls away up on the sides of the mountain, 
 talking to each other among the old hemlock trees. 
 "Hoo! hoo! hoohol" says one on the right. 
 " Hoo ! hoo ! hooho !" says another on the left, and 
 "Hoo I hoo I hooho!" says a third among the 
 15* 
 
350 Appendix B. 
 
 branches of a great tree near us, and their solemn 
 voices come out on the night air, like those of the 
 "wood demons, as if inquiring who it is that invade 
 their territory and profane their ancient sanctuaries 
 by human footsteps, and the voice of civilization. 
 Along the stream the frogs croak, and the peepers 
 send their shrill voices from among the grass in the 
 damp and marshy places. The raccoon calls from 
 the margin of the woods along the clearing, and is 
 answered from away off in the forest. The fire- 
 flies flash their tiny torches along the meadow, and 
 over the stiU waters. The voice of the river is 
 heard away below us, as it flows over the riffles, 
 singing as it dances over the smooth stones, in a 
 ceaseless chaunt, and the wind murmurs softly 
 among the thick foliage of the trees. Then, when 
 we have listened to all these forest sounds, so 
 ancient and so primitive, we lift up our own voices 
 in song. I said in a former letter, that we had with 
 us a lady (the lawyer's wife) who could " sing like 
 a bird," and it was a pleasant thing to hear her 
 sweet clear voice swell out on the night air, full and 
 melodious, and to note how the other sounds ceased 
 as echo prolonged the strains, as if enraptured by 
 the new and pleasant music. 
 
 "We have many romantic spots to resort to in the 
 heat of noon, where we talk over the things of the 
 outside world in a quiet way, as we sit around on 
 the green knolls or the trunks of -the fallen trees. 
 There is a little island near the foot-bridge, covered 
 
"The Saints' Best." 351 
 
 with great trees, from which, the underbrush has 
 been cleared away, so that the ground is covered 
 with a delightful grassy verdure. Above, .the arms 
 of the trees are lovingly intertwined, their thick 
 foliage shutting out the sunshine, and making a 
 shade beneath, delightfully cool and sweet, while the 
 rippling waters are murmuring aU around. This is 
 one of our favorite resorts when the sun is high ; and 
 were all those that we love — our children, and our 
 heart companions — around us, it would be hard to 
 part from the charming spot. As we were sitting 
 on the foot-bridge I spoke of, on the Sunday even- 
 ing after our arrival here, the inquiry arose as to how 
 many trout would be required for a breakfast for 
 all. "We settled upon thirty, as the number that 
 could be safely regarded as a full supply — ^being 
 five to each person — and I promised to procure them 
 in time. I can never sleep late in the morning out- 
 side of a city or large town. I know not why it is, 
 but in the country I am always awake by the earli- 
 est dawn. It was so here — ^I was wide awake be- 
 fore the day-break, and as I lay listening to the 
 ceaseless sound of the river, I heard the first song 
 of the first bird of the morning. I rose and dressed 
 myself, and long before the sun had thrown a ray 
 upon the mountain, I was ready with my rod and 
 basket, to redeem my promise of the night before. 
 I could have caught the requisite supply of trout 
 within sight of the house, but I chose to have a ram- 
 ble, as well as a pleasant time with the fish before 
 
352 Appendix B. 
 
 breakfast, and I started off up tlie stream that came 
 down tkrough. tKe valley I spoke of in a former let- 
 ter. A pathway led up the valley, which I follow- 
 ed for a mile. I have written so much about the 
 music of the woods, that it may well have become 
 tiresome, but I venture to still say that it seemed to 
 me I never heard the songs and sounds so ftdl, so va- 
 ried, so gleeful and so happy, as they appeared to 
 me then. On every side, and from everywhere 
 came the voices of wild things, some loud and bois- 
 terous, some solemn and deep, some hoarse and gut- 
 tural, and others clear and shrill, but all blending 
 in nature's harmony, and all full of gladness and joy. 
 There is no sorrowful sound among the voices that one 
 hears in the woods — sounds of terror there may be ; 
 the thunders roll through the sky, or burst in start- 
 ling peals, the tornado sweeps by in its wrath and 
 majesty, the tempest roars in its power — all these 
 speak of the mighty strength and power of God, 
 but there is in the whole range of natural voices 
 that one hears in the wilderness, no accent of sor- 
 row, no note of grief. 
 
 A mile up this valley I came to a clearing of 
 some half dozen acres, which, however, was without 
 a possessor. The fences were all gone, the roof of 
 the log-house had fallen in, the chimney had fallen 
 down, and blackberry bushes clogged up the door, 
 while the rank weeds grew where once was the 
 floor. The settler that made this clearing, had 
 abandoned it long ago. The wilderness was too 
 
"The Saints' Eest." 353 
 
 lonesome for him. His wife pined for lier kindred, 
 and after two or three years of solitude and trial, he 
 departed leaving this cleared spot in the forest as 
 the only memorial of his former presence. As he 
 left it so it remains, excepting such decay and deso- 
 lation as comes with time, and, as is sure to be writ- 
 ten, upon what is abandoned by the care of man. I 
 sat down by what was once the door-yard of this 
 primitive dwelling — a spring of pure cold water 
 came bubbling up at my feet, and ran away in a 
 little brooklet, to the large stream that I heard in 
 the distance. The sun was just beginning to Ulum- 
 ine with his first rays the peaks around. The thin 
 mist was stealing slowly up the sides of the moun- 
 tains, while around me still lingered deep shadow, 
 and the grayness of the morning twilight. I sat 
 here for half an hour watching the sunlight chasing 
 the shadow in a long line down the mountain sides, 
 and listening to the sounds that were coming from 
 the woods around. From within the old walls of 
 the old log-house, among the rank weeds and bro- 
 ken timbers, a porcupine came stealing out, and un- 
 conscious of my presence wandered all around me, 
 seemingly looking for grass-hoppers, and insects or 
 worms that were chilled by the night-damps. He 
 came to the little brook, within a rod of me, and 
 drank; I remained perfectly stOl, and he wandered 
 carelessly away into the woods, never discovering 
 that the thing he took for a stump by the spring, 
 was a man. 
 
354 Appendix B. 
 
 I rigged my fishing apparatus and struck thiough 
 the woods to the stream that I heard, and which 
 flows towards and empties into the Sinnemahoning, 
 within a few rods of the " Saints' Eest." My hook 
 had scarcely touched the water when it was seized 
 by a trout. I. found no difficulty in supplying the 
 promised number. I had caught thirty in fishing 
 less than that nimiber of rods, and that after reject- 
 ing aU the small ones. I added eight to the num- 
 ber, and then returned by the path along the valley, 
 and by which I had entered the forest. I was back 
 while all my companions were yet sleeping soundly 
 in their beds. I said I hear again old sounds that 
 were familiar to me in my boyhood. They are the 
 cow-bells iu the woods, and the sheep-bells along 
 the fences ; the woodman's axe, as he battles with 
 the forest, and the crash of the trees as they come 
 thundering to the ground ; the cackling of fowls in 
 the barn-yards, and the loud baying of the house 
 dog, as some new sound stirs in the forest — all these 
 are hke household words to me, but they belong to 
 the "long, long ago." 
 
 It is a curious thing to watch the growth of a 
 region that is young and wild — ^to see it change from 
 a wilderness into a fruitful and populous country — 
 to look upon the march of civilization, as it moves 
 along with a slow and toilsome progress, sweeping 
 away the old things of Nature, and spreading out 
 all around the things that pertain to its dominion. 
 Some bold-hearted adventurer marches into the 
 
"The Saints' Eest." 355 
 
 woods, witli Ms axe on one shoulder and liis rifle on 
 tte other, and falls to chopping down the great trees. 
 Presently there is a spot in the forest, on which the 
 sun shines down bright and clear. The logs and 
 brush are burned up, and a field of grain waves in 
 the summer winds. After a little will be seen a 
 log-house, and a woman sitting on the door-Sill with 
 a brood of tough, hardy little ones, tumbling and 
 frolicking about her. You will hear the blows of an 
 axe, as the settler battles with the tall forest trees, 
 and you wiU hear them through the day crashing 
 and thundering to the ground. You will hear the 
 barking of a house-dog, the cackling of fowls, and 
 the quacking of the ducks and geese. You will hear 
 the loud ding-dong of the cow-bell in the woods, 
 and the tinkling of the sheep-beUs along the fences. 
 These are new sounds in the forest, and the old 
 woods may know by them that their time is come. 
 Away off, perhaps nules away, another hardy settler 
 puts up his cabin, and makes war on the ancient 
 forest trees. Year after year the woods are pushed 
 back by the fences. Fields spread out wider and 
 wider, until settlement meets settlement, and the old 
 primeval things have vanished away. Painted 
 houses have succeeded the log-cabins. Flocks and 
 herds, feeding in rich pastures, are everywhere seen. 
 The sound of the woodman's axe, and the crash of 
 the falling timber, is still. The burning fallows, 
 sending their dense columns of smoke, wreathing 
 and curling towards the sky, are things that have 
 
356 Appekdix B. 
 
 ceased to be, for the old woods have been swept 
 away. The ding-dong of the cow-bells and the 
 tinkling of the sheep-bells are no longer heard. 
 Stage-coaches are rolling along the highways, or an 
 engine dragging with lightning speed a train of 
 cars, loaded with human freight, goes thundering 
 along the valleys. Villages and great farms, and 
 school-houses, and church-spires, are everywhere 
 seen, filling up the view that once swept over a 
 boundless forest. Civilization has settled down with 
 its train of concomitants, and the things of old have 
 vanished from its presence. 
 
 As it has been elsewhere, so will it one day be 
 here. Farms wiU be spread out in these valleys, 
 fields will creep up the sides of the hiUs. These 
 streams that have rolled, during the long forever of 
 the past, in untrammelled freedom, roaring and 
 surging in the spring and autumn freshets, and flow- 
 ing pleasantly and quietly in the summer months, 
 will be harnessed into the service of man — ^be chain- 
 ed to the revolving wheel, and made to grind corn, 
 or throw the shuttle and spia. True, these tall 
 mountains wiU. stand here ia all their solemn 
 grandeur as they now do, but these broad forests 
 that they now overlook will be gone. The great 
 trees that give a sombre beauty to their steep acclivi- 
 ties or crown their lofty summits, will pass into the 
 structure of human dwellings, or edifices erected 
 by human labor.