/i/J^t 
 
 ESSAYS, 
 
 5 
 
 <0 
 
 SKETCHES, AND STORIES, 
 
 SELECTED FROM THE WRITINGS 
 
 OP 
 
 GEORGE BRYANT WOODS. 
 
 WitI) a ^iogragI)ical JEemou, 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 
 
 Late Ticknor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co. 
 
 1873. 
 

 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, 
 
 BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., 
 
 in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
 University Press: Welch, Bigelow, & Co., 
 Cambridge. 
 
NOTE BY THE EDITOR. 
 
 TT is believed that the selections of which this 
 -^ volume is composed will be interesting to Mr. 
 Woods's friends and acceptable to the general public; 
 but it is felt to be doubtful whether this book or any 
 which might be similarly made up could convey a 
 just idea of the peculiar penetration and discrimina- 
 tion which characterized Mr, Woods's editorial work, 
 and which gained for him his high position as a 
 journalist. Much of the best writing which is done 
 upon newspapers is ephemeral, both by reason of its 
 subjects and of the methods of treatment employed, 
 but none the less is its merit unquestionable and its 
 value substantial. The very fact that many of Mr. 
 Woods's leaders did their work, and did it well, 
 makes their insertion in these pages impossible ; for 
 the emergency which created them has happened, 
 has been met, and is now completely forgotten. 
 Newspaper criticisms, also, of plays as they are per- 
 formed in a great city, and of the lighter novels and 
 
iv NOTE BY THE EDITOR. 
 
 poems of tlie day, — no matter how excellent in- 
 trinsically, or liow valuable in their time to the com- 
 mnnity, — can seldom find a proper place in a 
 printed book. Under the pressure of this necessity, 
 much of the best of Mr. Woods's work has been 
 omitted from this volume ; but care has been taken 
 that specimens of all the different forms of his 
 literary labor should be presented, in order that the 
 reader might see the versatile vigor of a man who 
 was an original and effective essayist, a sound and 
 brilliant critic, a clever and graceful story-teller, and 
 a master correspondent. 
 
 The set of sketches contributed to '' Every Satur- 
 day " under the heading of " Town Talk " — of which 
 both the idea and the title were originally suggested 
 by Mr. Woods — has been deemed sufficiently 
 characteristic to be reprinted entire. 
 
 The editor of this volume ventures from the 
 routine of his duty to ask the special attention of 
 readers to the essays entitled " How Old was Ham- 
 let ? " and " The Time of Hamlet." Hebelieves that 
 the clearness of vision and closeness of observation 
 exhibited in these articles are remarkable ; and he 
 thinks it an extraordinary circumstance that it was 
 reserved for so young a critic as Mr. Woods to dis- 
 cover from Shakespeare's own text a plain answer to 
 
NOTE BY THE EDITOR. V 
 
 certain vexed questions, which does not seem to have 
 occurred to the most eminent commentators. 
 
 A complete list of the newspapers and periodicals 
 to which Mr. Woods at any time contributed is as 
 follows: — The "Barre Gazette/' the "Household 
 Monthly," the "Worcester Evening Transcript," 
 the " Wide World," the " Boston Evening Travel- 
 ler, " the " Saturday Evening Gazette," the " Worces- 
 ter Evening Gazette," the " Cincinnati Commercial," 
 the " Chicacjo Illustrated Times," the " Chicaojo 
 Times," the "Chicago Tribune," "^"orthern Lights," 
 the "Thursday Spectator," the "Boston Daily Ad- 
 vertiser," the "ISTew York Tribune," "Old and 
 New," " Every Saturday," the "Atlantic Monthly," 
 " Temple Bar," and the " North American Eeview." 
 Obituary and biographical articles, of which he was 
 the subject, were printed in "Every Saturday" of 
 May 20, 1871, in the " Boston Daily Advertiser " 
 of May 1, in the " New York Tribune " of May 1, 
 in the " Sunday Chronicle " of Charlestown of May 
 7, in the "Worcester Evening Gazette" of April 29, 
 in the " Barre Gazette " of May 5, in the " Boston 
 Transcript" of April 29, in the '' Boston Traveller" 
 of April 29, in the "Boston Journal" of April 29, 
 in the " Boston Post "of May 1, in the " Springfield 
 Kepublican " of May 1, in the " Worcester Spy " of 
 
VI NOTE BY THE EDITOR. 
 
 May 1, in the " Saturday Evening Gazette "of April 
 30, in the " Lowell Courier " of May 2, in the " Com- 
 monwealth " of May 6, in the " Boston Times " of 
 April 30, and in the "Hartford Courant" of May 4, 
 1871. 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 GEOEGE BEYANT WOODS, the eldest cliild 
 of Edwin Woods and Martha Angelia (Bry- 
 ant) Woods, was born in Barre, Massachusetts, on 
 the twenty-fourth day of October, 1844. As a 
 child he was delicate in body and precocious in 
 mind ; — so delicate in body that his attendance at 
 school was deferred till long after he had reached 
 the age at which little country boys are usually 
 launched into their lessons, and so precocious in 
 mind that the assiduous efforts of parents and friends 
 could not restrain him from the too rapid acquisition 
 of knowledge. When seven years old, he first began 
 regular study; but the school-house was a rustic 
 building nestled among trees and flowering shrubs, 
 in the garden of his father's family physician, 
 where, as was the intention, more was done for the 
 hearts and eyes and muscles of the pupils than for 
 their brains. Nevertheless, we find him attending 
 the intermediate school of his district within a 
 year, advancing with easy swiftness through all the 
 grades of the grammar school, and entering the 
 high school of the town at the almost unprecedented 
 
vm IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 age of nine. The more advanced studies, in wliicli 
 he at once began to make extraordinary progress, 
 fired his ambition and elicited his hearty enthusiasm ; 
 his zeal and facility in learning had the effect, as 
 was natural, of obscuring the fact of his excessive 
 application, and when he was twelve years old 
 he was suddenly stricken down with brain fever 
 in its severest form. After his recovery, — in ac- 
 cordance with the advice of the late eminent Dr. 
 Perry, of Boston, — he was never allowed to enter a 
 school-house again, and every effort was made, both 
 by those who cherished him and by the boy himself, 
 to bring his body back to its true and wholesome 
 relation with his intellect. The success of this 
 attempt was only partial, however, in spite of the 
 employment of every aid which athletic exercise, 
 travel, and careful regimen could afford ; and he was 
 never really robust or hardy as a youth or a man. 
 This result, it may be reverently said, seemed inevi- 
 table, for even as a boy he knew the value of exer- 
 cise, and practised in accordance with his knowledge ; 
 and in after years his life, short as it was, was 
 greatly prolonged by his conscientious and pains- 
 taking observance of the laws of health. 
 
 At a very early age George Woods showed a 
 decided turn for literary work, composing with great 
 freedom, and exhibiting uncommon originality both 
 of style and thought. Fond as he was of reading, 
 he was, even when a little fellow, studious to avoid 
 imitating the authors whom he loved, and to culti- 
 
IN MEMORIAM. ix 
 
 vate the habit of independent thinldng ; and it is 
 worthy of note, that once, when the duty of giving a 
 " declamation " at the close of the school term had 
 been assigned to him, he recited a poem which could 
 not be found in the books, and the authorship of 
 which was attributed to him from its unfamiliarity, 
 and not from its want of merit. He was fond, too, 
 as a boy, of writing dialogues and little plays, and 
 entered with equal zest into the laborious pleasure 
 of adapting them to a home-made stage, and then 
 of acting in them. The guide of his education, 
 the companion of his boyhood and of his youth, the 
 moulder of his mind and habits, and his constant 
 adviser and friend was his mother; and to her wise 
 and tender counsels he owed no small part of' his 
 attainments, and of his characteristic gifts of justness 
 and discrimination of mind. Early in life he had 
 marked out the path which he intended to pursue : 
 he meant to be an author, and to compose books that 
 should live ; and it was with this goal ever before his 
 eyes that he strove — with real success, as his friends 
 believe — to make for himself a style of writing which 
 should be transparently clear but yet not inelegant, 
 brilliant but not sensational, cultivated but not 
 pedantic. 
 
 His first opportunity for really entering upon his 
 chosen pursuit was afforded by an uncle, who invited 
 him to share in the office work connected with 
 " Bryant's Household Monthly," a magazine which 
 reached and kept a considerable circulation during 
 
X IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 the whole of its brief existence. The offer was 
 eagerly accepted, of course ; and, as a matter of fact, 
 the duties of principal and not of assistant devolved 
 upon him within a very short time. And in June, 
 1859, at the age of fourteen, when his school com- 
 panions were striving for small clerkships, or per- 
 haps thinking of entering college, we find him 
 absorbed in the hard editorial work of reading, 
 accepting, and rejecting manuscripts offered for 
 publication, and of writing sketches and stories of 
 real merit and more than ordinary attractiveness. 
 Some ten months later, when the ill health of the 
 publisher, Mr. Bryant, compelled him to abandon 
 his enterprise in periodical literature, George re- 
 turned to his home in Barre, and remained there 
 to be the comfort and stay of his mother's last 
 days. For a short time within this period, namely, 
 for the first four months of the year 1862, during the 
 attendance of the regular official in the State Legis- 
 lature, he assumed the functions of editor of the 
 " Barre Gazette," performing the work with a spirit, 
 skill, and sound judgment which bespoke the ma- 
 turity and experience of a man rather than the undi- 
 rected and effusive zeal of a boy. 
 
 The Great War meanwhile had begun ; and on 
 the 27th of May, 1862, in answer to the urgent 
 appeal which came from "Washington after General 
 Banks had been defeated in the Valley of the 
 Shenandoah, Woods enlisted as a private in the 
 Eighth Massachusetts Battery, Captain A. M. Cook, 
 
IN MEMORIAM. xi 
 
 to serve for six months. It had been found prac- 
 tically impossible to restrain him from entering the 
 army, although, as was natural, friends and rela- 
 tives had been united in their anxiety to turn him 
 from his purpose, and although many of his acquaint- 
 ances went so far as to predict that the fatigues and 
 exposures of camp life would be certain death to one 
 so delicate. His age at the date of his " mustering 
 in " was less than the minimum permitted by the 
 government, and the friendly eagerness of his com- 
 manding officer alone made possible his acceptance 
 as a recruit. Like most of his companions, he was 
 raw to military service ; but he learned what was 
 necessary with his usual rapidity ; and his skill with 
 the pen resulted in his being made the clerk of the 
 battery, a position full of labor, and not without re- 
 sponsibility, and the duties of which he performed 
 with the most thorough-going devotion and skill. 
 The Eighth Battery, in its short time of service, 
 had a very severe experience of bivouac, march, 
 and battle, being concerned in the great chase after 
 Stonewall Jackson, and then in the grand retreat with 
 General Pope, and taking an active part in the dis- 
 astrous battles of the Second Bull Eun, of Chantilly 
 and South Mountain, and of Antietam. It can be 
 readily surmised that George Woods never made his 
 clerical duties an excuse for shirking the sterner 
 work of the campaign. It is recorded by his com- 
 panions, that the moment the battery was summoned 
 into action he would drop the books and accounts. 
 
xii IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 witli wliicli he was often busied on the limber of the 
 battery wagon, run forward to the gun to which he 
 had been assigned, and never flinch from his task so 
 long as anything remained to be done. His cool 
 courage in the terrible fights in which the battery 
 was hotly engaged was really extraordinary, and ex- 
 cited the surprise and admiration of the men by the 
 side of whom he was but a stripling, and who had 
 previously looked upon him as a penman rather than 
 a soldier. With the ofiicers he was equally a favor- 
 ite, as appeared from the fact that the offer of a 
 lieutenancy in a new battery was made to him by 
 Lieutenant Kirk at the end of his six months' ser- 
 vice, and just after he had reached his eighteenth 
 year. An incident which occurred soon after his 
 reaching his first camp in Virginia deserves men- 
 tioning, partly because it can be given in his own 
 language, and partly because it perfectly illustrates 
 one of his most marked characteristics : — 
 
 " I fell very sick. With the best will in the world 
 to enjoy military life, the exposure, the unaccustomed 
 food, the hot climate, brought on such a sickness as 
 most soldiers have to go through before they can call 
 themselves seasoned, but in my case unusually severe 
 and even dangerous. We were sending men off to 
 the hospital every day, and there was little sympathy 
 to spare. Major Church had double duty to do now 
 that my help was withdrawn, and had no time for 
 nursing. I seemed in very forlorn condition indeed. 
 Home thoughts and memories crowded about me as 
 
IN MEMORIAM. xiii 
 
 I dozed on the straw ; hosts of predictions as to my 
 inability to sustain the hardships of the camp in- 
 sisted upon being remembered. I began to get bkie ; 
 and I knew that in low spirits was my worst peril. 
 Half wandering in my mind as I grew weaker, I 
 thought of an old superstitious practice I had read 
 of and often tried when at home, — that of opening 
 the Bible at random and putting the finger upon 
 some passage, as a sort of fortune-telling. The book 
 lay in reach of my hand, and tempted me. 'At 
 least,' I thought, as I tossed painfully on my straw 
 bunk, — ' at least it may give me some encouraging 
 word.' I closed my eyes, unclasped the volume, and 
 pointed to a verse. What a shudder ran through me 
 as I read it : ' And the young men arose, wound him 
 up, and carried him out and buried him.' I doubt 
 if there is another text anywhere which describes 
 more accurately the fate which seemed likely to 
 befall me in a day or two. Some sensitive natures 
 would have received a shock from such an incident 
 which would have made the prophecy come true. 
 But it shocked me in another way. It aroused my 
 combative instincts. * i^ot this time ! ' I shouted. 
 And just then Bartholomew came in with some 
 blackberries he had walked miles to pick for me ; 
 they checked my disease, and I recovered to laugh 
 at superstitious notions." 
 
 This quotation is from a little manuscript vol- 
 ume, entitled "A Boy's Campaign," in which Mr. 
 Woods not many months before his death chronicled 
 
xiv IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 his military experience, with a view, not to publica- 
 tion, but simply to pleasing and instructing his 
 own children. The work, however, is of exceptional 
 merit, being characterized by remarkable freedom, 
 vigor, and vividness of style; and American boys 
 and girls will lose a substantial and wholesome de- 
 light if it is never printed in book form. 
 
 In spite, however, of the sickness just described, 
 of a somewhat severe accident occasioned by a fall, 
 and of other sufferings which he encountered in the 
 ** seasoning " process of his early campaigning, the 
 result of his service in the army was favorable to his 
 general health, and he returned home at the end of 
 his term of enlistment stouter and stronger in body 
 than he had been for several years. On the 2d 
 of December, 1862, he was " mustered out." On the 
 1st of January, 1863, Mr. Woods returned to his 
 chosen calling, accepting the position of assistant 
 editor of the "Worcester Evening Transcript," a 
 small daily printed in the " heart of the Common- 
 wealth"; and tliis post he occupied — except during 
 the interval between August and December, 1863 
 — until January, 1864. In this instance, again, as 
 in the case of his apprenticeship with the " House- 
 hold Monthly," the name of his office was a mis- 
 nomer. During the greater portion of the time of 
 his connection with the " Transcript," the editor-in- 
 chief was absent, and Mr. Woods, as the writer has 
 heard from his own lips, did the entire editorial and 
 office work of the paper unassisted, — writing the 
 
IN MEMORIAM. XV 
 
 leaders, reading and cutting from the exchanges, 
 " doing " all tlie locals, " making up " the sheet, and, 
 after the paper had come from the press, folding and 
 mailing some of the copies, and selling the rest to 
 the newsboys ; and, besides all this, keeping the 
 books and paying the employes. His faculty as a 
 journalist developed rapidly in this severe training- 
 school, and many of his editorial articles attracted 
 attention in Boston by their vigor and soundness. 
 Here, as throughout his entire career, Mr. Woods's 
 course was marked by a stout-hearted and conscien- 
 tious independence, which was not truculent or 
 quarrelsome, but which could neither be wheedled 
 nor bullied. The quality of this independence was 
 tested with peculiar severity at one time, when the 
 anger of some of his fellow-townsmen reached such 
 a point that he was threatened with a mob if he did 
 not discontinue his sharp, outspoken criticisms upon 
 the famous Congressional " committee on the con- 
 duct of the war," — a body in whom Mr. Woods, 
 though zealous both as a patriot and a partisan, had 
 no confidence ; but the menace did not make him 
 retreat an inch from his position. 
 
 In January, 1864, Mr. Woods answered an adver- 
 tisement of Mr. Charles Hale, who was then one of 
 the principal proprietors of the " Boston Daily Adver- 
 tiser," and was by him engaged to take the posi- 
 tion of " night editor " of that journal. Mr. Woods 
 came to Boston an entire stranger to his supe- 
 riors upon the paper ; but within a very few weeks 
 
XVI IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 their attention was attracted by the great accuracy, 
 intelligence, and rapidity with which he performed 
 the tedious and exacting duties of his place. Special 
 service in the preparation of " war extras," where he 
 cheerfully undertook excessive and fatiguing labor, 
 and exhibited unusual literary skill and judgment, 
 made a great impression upon Mr. Dunbar, the 
 *^ editor-in-chief, and shortly after he was deputed as 
 ^' the special correspondent of the "Advertiser" to 
 the QhiuAfflD Convention of 1864, which nominated 
 Abraham Lincoln for re-election. The difficult task 
 thus assigned to him, and to which he came without 
 the slightest previous experience, was admirably 
 well performed, and the letters and despatches then 
 published over the signature " Wachusett " were the 
 first of a long and varied series, of the value and 
 interest of which his authorship was soon recognized 
 by the public as a sufficient guaranty. He was 
 regularly installed as first assistant editor of the 
 "Daily Advertiser" in December, 1864, and from 
 that time until a few days before his death — with 
 an interval only of six months — he performed the 
 manifold labors of the position, writing leaders, minor 
 " editorials," letters, dramatic criticisms, book notices, 
 and, on rare occasions, local articles. Several times 
 during this period he was sent away as special cor- 
 respondent, and the fruit of these missions, as well 
 as of excursions in which he united business and 
 pleasure, appeared in capital letters from the seat of 
 war at Petersburg, from Eichmond at the time of 
 
IN MEMOEIAM. xvii 
 
 the triumphal entry of our army, from Washington 
 directly after the assassination of President Lincoln, 
 from Northern Vermont during the Fenian invasion, 
 and from scores of watering-places and inland and 
 seaside resorts. From March, 1865, to June, 1865, 
 and during the impeachment of President Johnson, 
 he also acted as the regular Washington correspond- 
 ent of the "Advertiser," and sent letters and tele- 
 graphic despatches which were models of their kind. 
 The interval of six months, alluded to above, occurred 
 between tlie January and July of 1867, for which 
 period he was editor-in-chief of the " Saturday Eve- 
 ning Gazette," of Boston. Mr. Woods and the gentle- 
 man who was at that time the sole owner of the 
 " Gazette " did not at all agree in their theories of 
 newspaper management. The fearless and outspoken 
 language of some of Mr. Woods's leaders proved to 
 be very distasteful to the proprietor of the " Gazette," 
 and on the 14th of July, 1867, the connection 
 was terminated, to the great satisfaction of both. 
 The article entitled " Criticism," which will be found 
 on the third page of this volume, may perhaps derive 
 additional interest from the fact that it especially 
 wounded the feelings of Mr. Woods's sensitive 
 employer. 
 
 At the same time that Mr. Woods was fulfilling 
 the duties of his editorial chair in the " Advertiser " 
 of&ce, he contrived to do a great amount of outside 
 work. He was for a long time the regular Boston 
 correspondent of the ^' New York Tribune " and of 
 
xvm IN MEMOEIAM. 
 
 the"Cliicago Tribune"; and he contributed frequently 
 to the "Atlantic Monthly" and "Every Saturday" 
 during the latter part of his life, and was known 
 as an occasional writer for the "North American 
 Eeview," and for the " Temple Bar " of London. With 
 all this he kept up his reading in every important 
 branch of politics, literature, and art, and found time 
 in which to enjoy his home and family, and to re- 
 ceive and visit his friends, — pleasures in which he 
 took special comfort and satisfaction. The secret of 
 his immense capacity for labor was doubtless in his 
 skill in economizing time, — a skill which was both 
 a gift and a habit with him. His hard thinking he 
 seemed to do at odd moments, — in wakeful hours 
 at night, in the horse-cars, in his long walks between 
 his office and his home ; and when he sat down to 
 write, his work appeared generally to be little more 
 than that of transcribing what was plainly inscribed 
 on his mind. 
 
 As early as 1866 the serious anxiety of Mr. 
 Woods's friends was excited on the subject of his 
 health, and in the spring of 1867 it seemed to many 
 that he was in the last stages of pulmonary con- 
 sumption. A vacation and visit to Washington in 
 March of the latter year, however, had the effect of 
 restoring his strength, — temporarily, as it proved, 
 but so completely, as it then seemed, that every hope 
 was entertained of his permanent recovery. Gradu- 
 ally, however, the insidious disease again advanced 
 upon his life, and at length prevailed, though it was 
 
IN MEMORIAM. xix 
 
 resisted with a quiet persistency and courage which 
 were nothing short of wonderful. On the 17th of 
 March, 1871, he once more sought restoration in 
 travel, and for the last time made a visit to Wash- 
 ington. But it was too late for any regimen or rest 
 to avail ; and in a few weeks he returned to his 
 home in Boston, and there passed away peacefully 
 on the 29th of April, 1871. 
 
 It is foreign to the purpose of tliis memoir to pro- 
 nounce any eulogy upon the private hfe and personal 
 character of George Woods. That work has already 
 been done in the spirit both of tender affection and 
 of careful judgment by many skilful writers con- 
 nected with the press ; and from them it was wel- 
 come, if not necessary. By the world at large it is 
 inevitable that, as a man, he should be soon forgot- 
 ten ; while the remembrance of his spotless life and 
 his sweet, strong, unselfish nature will be enshrined 
 forever in the hearts of those who knew and loved 
 him best. 
 
 H. A. C. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Note by the Editor 
 
 Page 
 
 iii 
 
 In Memoriam 
 
 vii 
 
 Social and Literary Topics. 
 
 
 Criticism 
 
 3 
 
 Our Manners 
 
 6 
 
 Co-operative Housekeeping . 
 
 Domestic Service 
 
 . 12 
 14 
 
 Carriage Journeys in New England 
 
 A Magical Transformation . . . . 
 
 . 16 
 20 
 
 Cattle-Shows 
 
 . 23 
 
 Christmas Morning . . . . 
 
 26 
 
 Summer at the Seaside .... 
 
 . 27 
 
 Compounding Felonies . . . . 
 The Sleighing Season .... 
 
 30 
 . 33 
 
 Women in Medical Schools 
 
 38 
 
 ''Our Society" 
 
 The Lecturers 
 
 . 41 
 47 
 
 The Dickens Dinner of 1842 . 
 
 . 52 
 
 Charles Dickens 
 
 62 
 
 Our Portrait Statues .... 
 
 . 67 
 
 Eobert Collyer 
 
 Alexandre Dumas 
 
 . 79 
 
 Mr. Tenniel's Cartoons . . . . 
 
 84 
 
 Wendell Phillips as an Orator 
 
 . 90 
 
 Dramatic Topics. 
 
 
 ♦ How old was Hamlet? . . . . 
 
 99 
 
 P The Time of " Hamlet " ... 
 
 . 102 
 
 Hissing in the Theatre . . . . 
 
 106 
 
XXll 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 ''The Nightingale" at Selwyn's 
 
 Nilsson in the Concert-Room 
 
 Two Comedies 
 
 Dramatizations . 
 
 Two Enghsh Artists 
 
 Edwin Booth's " Richeheu " 
 
 Opera Bouffe and its Manager 
 
 Charles Fechter 
 
 Joseph Jefferson . 
 
 Thomas W. Robertson 
 
 An American Play, — " Saratoga " 
 
 The Lovers of the Stage . 
 
 William Warren 
 
 The Menao:erie . 
 
 109 
 111 
 116 
 120 
 125 
 130 
 134 
 139 
 144 
 149 
 154 
 160 
 165 
 170 
 
 Political Topics. 
 
 Primary Meetings .... 
 The Punishment of Jefferson Davis 
 Mr. Sprague and his Oratory . 
 Mr. Adams's Letter . 
 
 177 
 180 
 182 
 186 
 
 Letters from a Wandering Correspondent. 
 
 Inland Journeyings 
 First Day of the Journey . 
 Second Day of the Journey . 
 Third Day of the Journey . 
 Fourth Day of the Journey . 
 A Ramble through Petersburg . 
 Richmond .... 
 Assassination of President Lincoln 
 A Week with the Fenians 
 
 191 
 197 
 202 
 206 
 212 
 217 
 225 
 246 
 250 
 
 Stories. 
 
 A Freshman's Romance 285 
 
 The Blue River Bank Robbery . . . .316 
 
 Our Breakfast at the Astor .... 340 
 
 Our Maid : How we lost and how we found her . 353 
 
 Marrying a Pickpocket 377 
 
I. 
 ESSAYS AND SKETCHES 
 
 ON SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS 
 
SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 CRITICISM. 
 
 ONE of the most peculiar traits of the American 
 character is its combination of extreme insen- 
 sibility to criticism in political matters with the most 
 morbid sensitiveness to criticism on all other subjects. 
 Our public men denounce each other as imbeciles, 
 as corruptionists, as apostates, even as traitors, and 
 nobody is offended. One distinguished man makes 
 it his business to go about the country calling this 
 statesman an ass, that one a mass of jelly, and an- 
 other a trimmer, and at the next meeting of the friends 
 of the prohibitory law he will be seen cordially greet- 
 ing on their common platform the very men whom he 
 has so bitterly abused. The newspapers carry their 
 attacks ujDon men high in the public estimation into 
 the realm of private life, and the enormity is accepted 
 as a matter of course ; and journalists, the most ex- 
 alted in influence and reputation, in their controver- 
 sies with each other exchange the lie and the foul 
 insinuation as freely as the fishwomen of Billingsgate. 
 The national hide seems calloused in regard to mat- 
 ters of this kind ; and the politician or the editor who 
 should complain of any special piece of severity as 
 unfair or unjustifiable would only injure himself by 
 his querulousness, and be scornfully advised to harden 
 
4 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 his nerves. But when we leave the sphere of politics 
 for that of literature or of the arts, all is changed, and 
 we find a general tenderness quite as remarkable as 
 the roughness observed before. In other countries it 
 is not decent and perhaps not safe to call a man a 
 drunkard or a knave simply because he has been hon- 
 ored with high office, or to hurl the lie in a gentle- 
 man's teeth because he conducts a political paper; 
 but a book, a picture, a play, or a piece of acting, 
 claims no shelter behind the personality of author or 
 artist, but expects, even challenges, and at any rate 
 receives, criticism upon its merits only, — and criti- 
 cism becomes an art second to none other, and an 
 important element in the structure of society. 
 
 That this is precisely reversed in America, no one 
 needs to be told. The prima donna who reads of a 
 false note in her aria or a failure in her acting seeks not 
 to correct the faults so much as to suggest some cause 
 for the malevolence of the critic, and perhaps to find 
 a way to retaliate for the injury done. The picture- 
 dealer who finds that of a certain collection the merits 
 of some paintings are pointed out and the faults of 
 others are indicated, does not rejoice that the public 
 taste is educated, and his business thereby benefited 
 if he chooses to move upward with the tide, but flies 
 into a passion because bidders are more apt to dis- 
 criminate, and less likely to buy canvas by the foot 
 with their eyes shut. If a new book is praised, the 
 publisher considers that the newspaper has done its 
 duty, and rewards it with sugar-plums in the shape 
 of advertisements ; if the work is condemned, he 
 cuts ofi" the supplies in the same kind, and insinuates 
 that the criticism appears because he has not been 
 sufficiently liberal in the past. If a play is received 
 with anything short of unqualified praise, the man- 
 
CRITICISM. 5 
 
 ager vents his wrath upon the collector of the offend- 
 ing journal, makes the meagreness of his advertisement 
 in its columns in striking contrast with the display 
 of large tyj^e in its more complaisant neighbors, and 
 perhaps descends a stej) lower to refuse the too frank 
 critic a seat in his house or an admission at his door. 
 Of course, all this is the most short-sighted folly. 
 Honest criticism not only benefits the interests of lit- 
 erature and art in general, but it benefits in the most 
 direct manner the publisher, artist, or manager, whose 
 A'entures are the subject of remark in particular. 
 The journal which tolerates only a dead level of ful- 
 some praise soon ceases to have its criticisms read, and 
 the space which they occupy might just as well be left 
 blank, so far as either critic or criticised is concerned ; 
 while the paper which gained a reputation for fair, care- 
 ful, and, if need be, sharjD criticism is eagerly looked 
 to, its praise when it comes is worth having, and its 
 comment of any kind attracts more attention to the 
 thing discussed than a dozen advertisements. This 
 is patent to all who intelligently observe ; yet while 
 our literature and our arts advance, at this day one 
 may count upon his fingers the journals, from daily 
 to quarterly, which may be constantly relied upon for 
 independent criticism ; and the digits of one hand 
 will suflSce for those producers in any class who re- 
 ceive such criticism in a kindly siDirit, and do not treat 
 all public mention of faults as a possible evil to be 
 bought off by extra favors, or an accomplished injury 
 to be avenged by direct retaliation. This is a humili- 
 ating confession ; and the results of this unfortunate 
 tendency are manifest enough; for if any one attempts 
 to explain the lack in our civilization in any depart- 
 ment, — as, for instance, the unsatisfactory condition 
 of the stage, and the entire absence of any original 
 
6 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 drama, — the demoralized condition of our criticism is 
 first put forward, and with justice. We can only hope 
 that each day's advance brings progress towards re- 
 form in this all-important matter. Encourage, as a 
 public, those journals which hold the truth dearer than 
 bread and butter, and so make truthfulness and profit- 
 ableness go always hand in hand, as they are sure to 
 do in the end ; and generally cultivate that correct 
 appreciation of the uses and value of criticism in 
 which many large classes of the community seem, 
 when its lash touches themselves, to be so sadly defi- 
 cient. 
 
 OUR MANNERS. 
 
 The observer of society who shuts himself up in his 
 lodgings, and gets his notions of life from day to day 
 and month to month by taking in the Daily Advertiser 
 and the Atlantic, may fondly cherish the belief that 
 we are a well-bred people, and feel a wholesome indig- 
 nation at the caricatures of Mr. Dickens and Mr. Trol- 
 lope, or a sincere rejoicing that the times when we 
 were open to their criticisms have gone by forever. 
 Our literature has grown, our artistic tastes have de- 
 veloped, our politics have become purified, many of our 
 crudest characteristics have been toned doAvn, in the 
 last twenty years ; but no one who goes about among 
 his kind can help seeing and lamenting that, however 
 gratifying may be the culture of some cliques and the 
 refinement of some communities, in the point of man- 
 ners we have advanced very little beyond the age 
 when the acutest of modern observers could find 
 among us no better national types than Elijah Pogram, 
 
OUR MANNERS. 7 
 
 Jefferson Brick, and Hannibal Challop. These gen- 
 tlemen would tell us that this people, sir, have been 
 too busy in extending our boundaries and our currency, 
 settling our prairies and our rebels, to attend to mat- 
 ters of such minor consequence as our manners. But 
 the eloquence of Mr. EUjah Pogram cannot i3ersuade 
 us that this subject is of trivial importance ; and the 
 shrewdest thinkers realize that, not only in the esti- 
 mation of foreigners who scrutinize us when they 
 visit America and when we travel abroad, but in our 
 own national self-respect, and our progress toward 
 that height of civilization and morality as a people 
 which is our goal, this matter of manners is an ele- 
 ment hardly second in importance to any other. 
 
 The closet of the student may create many brilliant 
 theories ; there may be and are many parlors and 
 circles of parlors where the finest representatives of 
 the salons of Paris and the drawing-rooms of London 
 may meet the fruit of our culture and the flower of 
 our society on equal terms and part with mutual 
 esteem and respect ; but in the regions of fact and of 
 active every-day life the encouraging indications are 
 few. A recent writer in a British magazine, indeed, 
 takes the ground that Americans are too gallant to 
 women ; but in our street-cars and public assemblies 
 the displays of this excessive courtesy are rare indeed, 
 though the instances of the forgetfulness of propriety 
 on tlie part of the other sex, which forms the main 
 topic of the article referred to, the omissions to ex- 
 press any acknowledgment for services rendered, the 
 imperious demands for the most extreme favors as 
 vested rights of femineity, are frequent enough. If 
 we leave the street-car for the place of public amuse- 
 ment, no matter of what grade, the illustrations of the 
 general lack of consideration for the privileges of oth- 
 
8 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 ers become more numerous and more flagrnnt. At the 
 loftiest tragedy or the rarest concert there is always 
 a sufficient minority who forget the first of the vir- 
 tues, and come straggling in with various degrees of 
 tardiness to spoil the first portion of the programme 
 so far as the majority are concerned; and always a 
 larger proportion to join, from five to fifteen minutes 
 before the close of the entertainment, the hideous 
 stamjDcde started by some acute observer who has 
 detected the approach of the denouement^ and flees 
 from it with his followers as from a pestilence. Then, 
 between these left and right wings of the army of 
 the ill-bred, who thus assault the enjoyment of their 
 neighbors, there are always the couple who come to 
 flirt and not to hear ; the mother who brings her teeth- 
 ing baby to the play, and enjoys the performance 
 through its cries with calm serenity ; the man who has 
 seen the play before, and heralds every incident in 
 trumpet whispers to an enduring companion; the 
 man who hums and beats time to all the music ; and 
 the man who rises to a long struggle with a tight- 
 fitting overcoat in the midst of a tableau which he 
 hides from fifty pairs of interested eyes, when by 
 waiting three minutes to the end of the act he would 
 disturb nobody. The general submission to these 
 outrages upon courtesy and the rights of the majority 
 may indeed be adduced as a proof of the extreme po- 
 liteness of the community; but there is a point beyond 
 which forbearance ceases to be a virtue, and a simple 
 and stinging rebuke to these violators of the general 
 comfort would be a good deed in the cause of man- 
 ners, and in no way an ofience against them. 
 
 But no experience at home can open one's eyes to 
 the prevalence of ill-breeding as the observation for 
 which travel gives an opportunity. The incivility of 
 
OUB MANNERS. 9 
 
 railroad and steamboat officials has passed into a prov- 
 erb ; the venerable Mr. Theodore D wight was cruelly 
 sacrificed, not very long ago, to the brutality of a New 
 Jersey conductor; and Mr. Bayard Taylor has just 
 told us how in the West he has seen a gentleman 
 knocked down with a slung-shot by a brakeman for 
 attempting to quit a filthy smoking-car for a comfort- 
 able and half-tenanted " ladies' car." Then travel 
 brings us in contact, not only with the class of public 
 servants who are exceptionally boorish because it is 
 their chief duty to be civil, but with those uncouth 
 specimens of extraordinary abomination whose eccen- 
 tricities outweigh the undemonstrative good-breeding 
 of fifty people, and who have so naturally found their 
 way into the note-book of every tourist w^ho has vis- 
 ited our shores. We had the fortune the other day 
 to sit next one of this class, who, without any 
 occasion for hurry and with the calm system of every- 
 day habit, ate a dinner of several regular courses — 
 soup, roast, cold meat, pastry, and fruit, with the usual 
 accompaniment of vegetables and minor dishes — in 
 precisely eight minutes, and yet managed to find time 
 to blow his nose on his napkin. Doubtless his doctor 
 and dyspepsia have his punishment in store for him ; 
 but his proximity was hardly more unpleasant than 
 that of a kindred spirit encountered at another hotel, 
 who called the waiters invariably " Sir," and yet bul- 
 lied them shamefully, grasping at one who was attend- 
 ing to another table, sending three or four after one 
 order, reaching fabulous distances after the dishes of 
 his neighbors, and committing a long catalogue of 
 enormities for which he should haA'e been whipped 
 when a child of four. Both these men were arrayed 
 in broadcloth, and apparently not wanting in intellect- 
 ual ability or social position. Indeed, the mostlament- 
 1* 
 
10 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 able feature of this constant cropping out of ill- 
 breeding is that it is not confined to any class or any- 
 social grade. Fashion and taste are not exempt : the 
 audience at the opera or at one of Ristori's perform- 
 ances is guilty of as many violations of taste as the 
 spectators of "The Black Crook;" and the most ill- 
 mannered assemblage of people Ave have ever seen in 
 Boston was made up of the creme de la crtme of 
 Cambridge and its dej^endencies, who had taken 
 tickets by subscription to aid and compliment an 
 amateur joroiff?^/!. Sex and position do not keep the 
 skirts clear ; for M. Blot's first class here was formed 
 of the choicest material, yet he was forced to contem- 
 plate calling in the aid of a policeman to keep the 
 ladies from devouring instead of tasting his specimen 
 dishes, and from spoiling each other's dresses in their 
 easrerness. Political eminence has no defence ; for 
 the memory of the most shameful indecency in the 
 House of Representatives at Washington, in wdiich 
 the venerable so-called leader of that body took a 
 principal part, has hardly faded away Avhen we have 
 an almost equally imworthy passage betw^een two 
 esteemed Senators, one who jDrides himself upon his 
 culture, and the other the most dignified in the cham- 
 ber, snapping at each other like a couple of school- 
 boys. It is as uncommon to find a mistress who 
 knows how to speak to a servant as an American or 
 Irish servant who comprehends her own position ; 
 Harvard College has its hazing record, and the pulpit 
 furnishes the cross-examiner of the license-law wit- 
 nesses ; and so we are forced to the conclusion that 
 the taint is upon every class alike, and that it is unfaii* 
 to attempt to throw^ the odium upon shoddy or the 
 backwoods. The shoulders of the whole people must 
 bear the burden until progress in civilization gives us 
 the right to repudiate it. 
 
OUR MANNERS. 11 
 
 There is, however, one exception of an entire class, 
 sufficiently notable to be made and marked with 
 emphasis; and this is in favor of that despised and 
 wronged black race, which, through all its misfortunes 
 and in sj^ite of all its weaknesses, has maintained a 
 propriety of manners which might well furnish a les- 
 son to those who detest and those who patronize it. 
 Of course, CufFee would not shine in the drawing-room, 
 and Dinah might be as uncomfortable a neighbor at the 
 opera as the fair damsel wdio knows how to flirt, but 
 not how to whisper; but these people have the rare 
 faculty of preserving a bearing suitable to their place. 
 The most amiable and stately lady may fail to elicit 
 anything but surliness and imj^udence from Bridget ; 
 but whoever knows how to treat her servant properly 
 may be sure of respectful behavior fi-om the black 
 domestic, whether she comes fi'om an apprenticeship 
 of slavery or freedom. 'No other servants in America 
 seem able to maintain their dignity without insolence, 
 to obey orders imj^licitly without slavish subservience. 
 The doubter need only go from one of our own hotels 
 where colored waiters are employed to one w^here 
 they are not to perceive the contrast, — a contrast so 
 important and so material as to make all the differ- 
 ence between comfort and annoyance, between a 
 repast eaten with a relish and a meal awaited with 
 im]3atience and received with disgust. 
 
 We shall bave to surrender to the charge of preach- 
 ing a long sermon without a practical application ; 
 for there is no recipe in any manual from Adam 
 Smith to Pierre Blot for teaching a community the 
 manners which its members should have learned in 
 childhood ; and the most ardent advocate of sump- 
 tuary laws would hardly vote for a statute forbidding 
 men's eating with their knives, and compelling women. 
 
12 ■ SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 to return thanks for seats given them in the street- 
 cars. We have only to chronicle the signs of the 
 times, and to hope that progress, even if it be slow, 
 may be made in the direction of refinement and not 
 of barbarism. 
 
 CO-OPERATIYE HOUSEKEEPING. 
 
 We have lately made a careful investigation of a 
 new attempt to establish a co-operative kitchen in 
 this city, being inspired with the hope that a step has 
 thus been made towards the solution of a question of 
 no small importance in our social economy. While 
 the enterprises undertaken by members of society for 
 their own relief halt in the i^reliminary stages, this 
 project, begun as a private speculation, covers most of 
 the essential features of the actual need, and is well 
 worth studying as a plan and watching as an experi- 
 ment. 
 
 There seems no doubt that, in the advancing life of 
 our cities, Boston taking the lead as is her wont, some 
 such system as this will be incorporated among our 
 national habits. While servants are getting rarer and 
 rarer, and the art of managing servants is forgotten ; 
 while women grow feebler with each generation, and 
 feel more and more inclination to give their time and 
 thought to labors and pleasures outside the home ; 
 while people crowd into cities, and are content to live 
 like bees in a hive for the sake of being near the gay 
 thoroughfare, the theatre, the music-school, the lecture- 
 room, the picture-gallery, the library ; while provision- 
 dealers are in such haste to be rich that the modest 
 profits of their fathers seem contemptible in their 
 
CO-OPERATIVE HOUSEKEEPING. 13 
 
 eyes; while restaurant-keepers fail to hit the happy- 
 mean of cheapness and cleanliness, good service and 
 wholesome fare, — while these things continue, there 
 will be a demand for institutions to supply good food 
 from a common kitchen to the private table at a low 
 rate. 
 
 But while acknowledging this, and that the need 
 which has grown upon us and is still growing must be 
 met, we still insist that the ideal life is to be found 
 in the older fashioned ways. He whose wife does 
 not know the difference between a skillet and a skew- 
 er, whose servant-maids have been a procession of 
 inefficiency, stupidity followed by drunkenness, and 
 drunkenness suj^erseded only by larceny and impu- 
 dence, who has sighed for the quiet of the hotel and 
 the wholesome fare of the boarding-house, — may greet 
 the teams which drive up to his door with dinner 
 ready-made and hot, as heralds of a new era of com- 
 fort, peace, ease, and economy. But that is still the 
 happier family which has an individuality in its cook- 
 ery as in its dress, its reading, the pictures on its 
 walls ; in which the kitchen ministers to the wants of 
 the dining-room as a horse responds to the moods of 
 his rider ; in which the housewife controls the flavor 
 of the pudding and the amount of salt in the soup ; in 
 which the children grow up to know and love the 
 taste of the home steak and the home waffles as they 
 learn to love the faces and voices of father and mother. 
 The co-operativC' kitchen may be the best device 
 for the average American of the period, — living in a 
 hurry, with no class accepting as a permanent sj^here 
 of life the position of domestic servants ; but the home 
 kitchen will, nevertheless, be at the foundation of 
 the social structure in our highest and best civili- 
 zation. 
 
14 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 DOMESTIC SERVICE. 
 
 The compiler of the social almanac, if sucli a con- 
 venience is ever invented, will not fail to observe that 
 this season of the year is the period of kitchen revolu- 
 tions, and of a host of petty miseries, anxieties, and 
 embarrassments which come from the general transfer 
 of servants. The many families who come back from 
 the summer journey seek busily for cooks and house- 
 maids to re-organize their city establishments, and by 
 their eager demands and liberal offers act as bulls in 
 the domestic market. The households which have 
 been in running order all summer feel the effect at 
 once, in a general uneasiness, and willingness to ter- 
 minate long-standing contracts uj^on the slightest pre- 
 texts. The intelligence offices and the organs of 
 "want" advertisements i^rofit by the general shift- 
 ings ; but housekeepers, rich and jDOor, suffer alike, 
 and the cries of complaint over the deficiencies of 
 our social structure become louder than ever. The 
 prophets of the coming dispensation of China in the 
 kitchen are looked to in vain for relief; they can 
 promise, even with the Pacific Railroad and Mr. 
 Koopmanschap in energetic activity, no positive relief 
 for the present generation. Two of the most brilliant 
 ladies of the Beecher family have put their heads 
 together, and made a book which aims to meet every 
 want of the modern household ; but he will consult it 
 in vain who seeks a method of obtaining a good ser- 
 vant when there are none in the land. 
 
 An English literary paj^er surveys the field of fiction 
 to point the moral, which for us needs no illustration, 
 that in the Old World fidelity is a recognized and fre- 
 quent quality of the attendant, while in our country 
 
DOMESTIC SERVICE. 15 
 
 such a trait is wholly unknown. Job Trotter sticks 
 • to his master as stoutly as Sam Weller stands by his ; 
 Trim's very existence is dependent on Uncle Toby ; 
 Donncr, in "Felix Holt," identified her own dignity 
 with that of " her mistress " ; Miss Muloch's books are 
 full of faithful servitors. It is hard to recall a marked 
 instance of treachery except that of Major Pendennis's 
 " own man," Morgan; and he was a valet of wonderful 
 efficiency, and a very model of respectful demeanor, 
 until the explosion which closed his career. But in 
 our novels, or at least in those which picture with any 
 accuracy the condition of our society, the faithful ser- 
 vant is unknown, or else has a black face and tropical 
 blood which flee far away from the frosts of Xew 
 England. 
 
 It would seem that such examples as that of the 
 head-waiter at a New York hotel, who wears shirt- 
 studs in which is concentrated the value of five thou- 
 sand dollars, would send hosts of avaricious aspirants 
 into a calling the rewards of which are always more 
 sure and sometimes more lucrative than the prizes of 
 Wall Street. But no such temptation has availed to 
 induce competent men and women to take the chances 
 which are opened : the field is left clear to the mem- 
 bers of a single nationality ; and they, dull as they 
 may be at the problems of a pudding, are quick to 
 l^erceive their own advantage in the absence of com- 
 petition, and to manifest the discovery in many ofien- 
 sive vrays. 
 
 Under these circumstances it is cheerful to know 
 that California and Oregon are clamoring for an in- 
 crease in the supply of " female help " from Xew 
 England. Misery ever loves company ; and it is 
 pleasant to hear of communities which can be worse 
 ofiT in this respect than ourselves. Moreover, the 
 
16 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 offers the agents of the Pacific States make — twenty- 
 five dollars a month in gold and a husband in a few 
 months — are exceedingly tempting ; and we may 
 contemplate with equanimity the thought that they 
 will draw across the continent some of the more am- 
 bitious young ladies who sit clothed in scorn at our 
 employment agencies and communicate their im- 
 perious demands and fastidious requirements to 
 the public through the press. But these reflections 
 are dashed by the thought that these eager people are 
 much nearer the vaunted inexhaustible reservoir of 
 Celestial labor than we are, and must have had an 
 abundant opportunity to test its quality. If the long- 
 cued cook from Canton be so skilful, so cleanly, so 
 honest, so industrious as represented, why does San 
 Francisco make extravagant bids for the experience of 
 the tyranny under which Boston groans ? Such an 
 infxtuation is incredible. The conclusion cannot be 
 avoided, that China has a fatal flaw of which the 
 eulogists have told us nothing ; and with the discovery 
 vanishes the last hope of a suffering community. A 
 witty lecturer has taken for his theme " The Comedy 
 of the Boarding-House"; but a dozen Lyceum courses 
 would not give scope enough for adequate elucidation 
 of the Tragedy of the Kitchen. 
 
 CARRIAGE JOURNEYS IN JSTEW ENGLAND. 
 
 Two tastes which are almost universal, the love of 
 natural scenery and the fondness for driving good 
 horseflesh over a good road, can be gratified so well 
 by no other way of employing the summer vacation 
 
CARRIAGE-JOURNEYS IN KEW ENGLAND. 17 
 
 as by the expedition around the country in a carriage. 
 This form of pleasure has an independence, a variety, 
 a bhiif wholesomeness about it, which can be claimed 
 for no other method of pleasure travel except the 
 pedestrian journey, the advantages of which are bal- 
 anced by limitations which we need not enumerate. 
 For the married j^air whose relish of each other's so- 
 ciety is so thorough as to need no added element, and 
 for the well-regulated family in which the temper of 
 the little folks can be depended upon under occasional 
 trials, there are possibilities of enjoyment not easily 
 to be reckoned in the trip which turns its back on the 
 steamboat and keeps aloof from railroads, and com- 
 bines something of the zest of the explorer in new 
 lands with something of the racy flavor of gypsy life. 
 Good judgment is needed, of course, in arranging 
 the details of the journey. The party, be they two 
 or four, must be provided with a maximum of good- 
 nature to a minimum of baggage. The organization 
 must be that of a constitutional monarchy with ab- 
 solute power in the hands of him who holds the reins, 
 yet with a channel open for advice from those subject 
 to his authority. The lunch-basket may be neglected, 
 but the shawls and overcoats must not on any account 
 be forgotten. The carriage may be handsome, but 
 must be easy ; and a single uncomfortable angle in one 
 of its seats may convert the journey from a tour of 
 pleasure into such a pilgrimage of penance as those 
 worthy joeople were wont to take who w^alked to 
 Rome with peas in their shoes. The harnesses do not 
 need gilded monograms so much as uniform strength ; 
 and room should be made somewhere for a S2:)are strap 
 or two to make up for any possible shortcoming. The 
 horses will do very well, though they have never ac- 
 complished a mile in three minutes, if they are equal to 
 
18 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 fifteen or twenty miles a day for a long stretch, afraid 
 of nothing, never given to stumbling, and willing to 
 stand patiently in the shade if required. Moreover, one 
 horse is better than two, if the party does not exceed 
 two persons. The route should be so mapped out be- 
 forehand as to have certain definite aims, and yet 
 should have such elasticity as to be capable of modifi- 
 cation in all minor particulars ; and it should be 
 down in the bond that none of the company is either 
 of sugar or salt to be spoiled by a wetting, and that 
 nobody is afraid either of dust or of salt-pork. 
 
 With such careful preparation in advance as we 
 have indicated in outline, days filled to the brim w^ith 
 delight may be counted upon from the beginning to 
 the end of the excursion. New England has special 
 advantages over any other portion of the country for 
 carriage travel. The South has in some sections 
 scenery as picturesque ; but the roads are apt to be 
 intolerable ; and the fare has quite too liberal an in- 
 fusion of swine's flesh and hominy for the good-humor 
 which is in any way dependent upon digestion. The 
 West is altogether too large, its prairies too monot- 
 onous, to be enjoyed at anything less than railroad 
 speed. But New England has infinite variety of hill 
 and valley, with plenty of w^ater to give life to the 
 landscape : it is by no means cultivated into tameness ; 
 its town system keeps its roads (out of sight of the 
 State-house) in very good order ; and the traveller 
 may be reasonably sure, in almost any village, of fair 
 accommodations for man and beast. Whether lie 
 strengthens his tugs and looks well to the breeching, 
 and then clambers about the hills of Berkshire, or takes 
 the lazier rides among the tobacco and broom-corn of 
 the Connecticut valley, or v>\anders among the dairy 
 farms of Worcester County, or chooses a route where 
 
CARRIAGE-JOURNEYS IN NEW ENGLAND. 19 
 
 the parting forests give glimpses of the sea, and the 
 material for the noonday lunch was drawn from its 
 home under the waves after sunrise, the tourist can 
 hardly go wrong in Massachusetts ; and we need not 
 say that, about the inlets of Narragansett, in the White 
 Mountains and the Green Mountains, or away down 
 East until civilization begins to ravel out in the num- 
 bered townships, the charms of each region Avill find 
 many admirers to extol them in superlative adjectives. 
 The party fairly inoculated with the fascination of 
 the indejDendent journey will find early rising not 
 necessary, but natural and agreeable. A good start 
 insures a good day. The horses trot better, the birds 
 sing more briskly, before the fi-eshness of morning is 
 past. Whatever part of J^ew England is chosen, 
 there is sure to be a variety in each day's rides. If 
 a forest-covered mountain shades the road to-day, a 
 river, or a plain checkered with cornfield and meadow, 
 will open before the gaze to-morrow. A snake gliding 
 across the road, a squirrel chattering audaciously on 
 the wall, a laborer musically whetting his scythe, will 
 furnish material for conversation as interesting for 
 the nonce as the opera or the war in Europe. To 
 enjoy fully, one should not know his road too well; 
 for there are delicious glimpses of life and character 
 to be gained in the pauses at lonely farm-houses to 
 inquire the way. The villages, all bearing the New 
 England stamp we know so well, yet with individual- 
 ity enough to interest each in itself, are scattered 
 along thickly enough to break up any tediousness 
 which might be found in the world as its Maker left 
 it. Then the halt for dinner is likely to be full of fun, 
 if not of good eating; and the guest of catholic tastes 
 is sure to find something to be enjoyed at the plainest 
 country inn. If the bacon is hard, the eggs will be 
 
20 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 fresh ; if the bread is charged with saleratus, there will 
 be an aj^ple-pie or a griddle-cake, the art of making 
 which to perfection has been a tradition in that fam- 
 ily for generations. Or, failing all these, there is no 
 dessert which the Revere House could oifer to com- 
 pare with the privilege of stopping a mile from town, 
 loosing the check-rein that the horse may browse by 
 the roadside, and picking berries, which Nature has 
 placed there on purpose, w^ith no envious pint or quart 
 measure to limit the quantity of the feast. Then, if 
 one is a good questioner, each town is sure to reveal 
 something of special interest, — some ancient burial- 
 ground or Indian camp, some cave or natural bridge 
 or old man of the mountain, some cascade or special 
 view, some paper-mill or cheese-factory, a visit to 
 which, even at the expense of a detour^ will break the 
 monotony of the afternoon. The day's drive is likely 
 to end before sunset : the supper may retrieve w^hat- 
 ever was lacking in the dinner, and at least there will 
 be a tumbler of warm milk ; and if the village hotel 
 offers small entertainment for the evening, going to 
 bed early will make it all the easier to begin in good 
 time the pleasures of the following day. 
 
 A MAGICAL TRANSFORMATION. 
 
 The city awoke yesterday morning to find itself 
 enchanted. Nothing had been too grand, nothing 
 too common, to undergo a beautiful transformation. 
 The very walls of the brick houses were veiled with 
 a delicate fretwork of snow, the black- walnut doors 
 having their carvings illuminated with a nev;" elegance, 
 
A MAGICAL TEANSFORMATION. 21 
 
 and every window-casing forming a separate picture 
 for the study of the artist. Here and there a dingy 
 block was changed, from eaves to foundation, to the 
 splendor of white marble, and the real marble build- 
 ings looked dingy beside them. Every ornamental 
 iron fence was adorned with a tracery far more grace- 
 ful than the original lines ; every plain jDost was 
 crowned a king ; every homely shed was capped with 
 a stately dome. The very clothes-line in the back- 
 yards became great cables, big enough to hold a 
 frigate in her moorings. The public clocks had be- 
 come mere blank disks, with hands and figures alike 
 obliterated. Every tree and shrub had a new beauty 
 of its own, to be studied with intense enjoyment by 
 appreciative eyes, but not to be described in words. 
 There was something of sadness in the brilliant scene 
 presented by the Common; for while the branches 
 were all cloaked in snow, the snow was thickly strown 
 with branches torn roughly off by the wind. The 
 shield with the State arms, on the West Street gate, 
 might have been the silver shield which the knight 
 fought for in the old story ; and a snow hand above 
 it upheld a snow sword as the arm 
 
 " Clothed in -white samite, mystic, wonderful," 
 
 caught by the hilt and brandished the wondrous 
 sword Excalibur, of which 
 
 " All the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, 
 JMyriads of topaz lights, and jacjnth work 
 Of subtlest jewelry." 
 
 The Granary Burying-ground was one of the most 
 exquisite spots in the city, with its bushes arched to 
 the ground, and its aged stones of the j^urest white 
 and the most perfect curves. The statue of Franklin 
 might have been a representation of Sir John Frank- 
 lin on one of his long tramps in the Arctic regions ; 
 
22 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 and the figures in the bronze bas-reliefs below looked 
 like some of Paul Konewka's silhouettes, standing 
 out boldly against their spotless background. Flora 
 and Pomona, on the Horticultural Hall, facing a dif- 
 ferent way, seemed merely to have put on tij^pets and 
 sacks of ermine to protect themselves from the un- 
 congenial season. In short, everything in the boun- 
 daries of the city had undergone a change " into 
 something rich and strange" ; and in the country the 
 transformations wrought by the storm were even more 
 picturesque and fantastic. Poets and children were 
 delighted ; practical people, who had to take an early 
 walk to the railway-station, or had planned a day's 
 shopping, grumbled and looked sour at all the glorious 
 sights ; and poor folk, who had waited all winter 
 with hardly one fair job of snow-shovelling, were glad 
 in their own way. 
 
 In the country, things remained about as the storm 
 had left them ; but the impatient city was not long 
 in spoiling all the splendor which had come over it 
 in its dreams. Gangs of men cleared the sidewalks, 
 and knocked the dainty filigree-work from the fences 
 from sheer vandalism; Bridget brushed the graceful 
 mounds away from the window-copings ; the sun sent 
 the white curtains which veiled the house-fronts drijD- 
 ping down upon the heads of the passers ; and even 
 the trackless waste of the Common was crossed by 
 sharp-cut paths. The hurrying teams soon turned the 
 frequented streets to brown, and then to black ; and 
 in a few hours all had resumed the every-day aspect 
 of the city winter. 
 
CATTLE-SHOWS. 23 
 
 CATTLE-SHOWS. 
 
 September is a month with her special charms to 
 the resident of the city. The season of vacations, of 
 harbor excursions, of days at the sea-shore, is over; and 
 the season of operas, concerts, and lectures has not 
 begun. The excitement of politics seems still a re- 
 mote possibility of the future ; the chief activity is in 
 the circles of trade ; and it is generally a month of 
 work and of preparation rather than of brisk enjoy- 
 ment. But to the country people it is a month of rare 
 excitement and pleasure. The city cousins, with their 
 unintelligible raptures over the smell of the hay and 
 the luxury of stillness, have flitted away ; the labor 
 of the farmer's year pauses, or puts on its pleasantest 
 phase in the gathering of the ripened harvest; and, 
 above all, it is the month of the agricultural fair, — 
 that festival which, more than any other holiday in 
 the round year may be enjoyed in the reflected glow 
 of anticipation, brightened by the busy labor of ]^re- 
 paring for it in all the departments which are the 
 pride of the household and the farm. 
 
 Every morning during the present season sees, in 
 some elm and maple shaded village of New England, 
 the pleasant sight of which no long repetition stales 
 the infinite variety, either to the farmer who has driven 
 his choicest stock to the public pens every year for a 
 lifetime, or to the sturdy boy who was not old enough 
 last year for a place in the family wagon. Before 
 daylight the task of currying, of harnessing, milking, 
 dressing, and packing, begins ; and sunrise sees the 
 parties from every farm on the way to the common 
 centre, — the cattle marching along with a dignity of 
 demeanor as if they somehow understood the impor- 
 
24 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 tance of the occasion, the horses snuffing the excite- 
 ment of the track afar off, the pigs traversing the dis- 
 tance half a dozen times in their noisy miwillingness 
 to keep on as their driver wishes, the poultry droop- 
 ing and despondent under their unwonted condition 
 of close imprisonment, the family in their Sunday best 
 in the most spacious vehicle at their command, under 
 the seats of which lurk pots of butter from the dairy, 
 loaves of bread made by the oldest daughter, baskets 
 of the biggest and ruddiest apples culled from the 
 whole orchard, and perhaps a folded quilt, the slow 
 and constant work of the household's grandmother 
 for many months of matching and stitching. And by 
 these conservative companies, as they near the fair- 
 ground, dash the rejDresentatives of the more progres- 
 sive element of the country cattle-show, — self-pos- 
 sessed men in skeleton sulkies, with slender horses 
 brightly caparisoned, and long, erect whips brushing 
 the trees which arch the road. Mowers and reapers and 
 stump-pullers are also often encountered, driven and 
 attended by the shrewd inventors, or the wide-awake 
 agents of the manufacturers ; and with these motley 
 elements mingle the gaudy wagons of the soap-sellers, 
 the razor-strop men, and Yankee prototypes of the 
 class which Dr. Marigold rej^resents in English litera- 
 ture, and the mysterious covered vans which hide the 
 wonders of the snake-show, the wild men of Borneo, 
 the fit woman, or the five-legged cow. 
 
 We need not sketch the scene which is formed, or 
 the incidents which follow, when all these elements, 
 and more, commingle within the enclosure of the fair- 
 ground. The ploughing-match ; the cavalcade ; the 
 crowded hall with its heterogeneous collection of nee- 
 dle-work and big squashes, triumphs of the jack-knife 
 and miracles of pastel painting ; the harsh cries of 
 
CATTLE-SHOWS. 25 
 
 the doorkeepers of the booths, and the venders of 
 oysters and ten-cent watch-chains ; the wilder shouts 
 of the jockeys, and all the furious excitement of the 
 trotting, — combine to impress the imagination, and 
 linger in the memory, of the farmer's boy, who hardly 
 sees the sun go down on the delicious day before he be- 
 gins to look forward to the next September cattle-show. 
 And for the slower-going veteran of the society there 
 are the luxuries of ins23ection and comparison along 
 the rows of lowing cattle, the study of the principles 
 of the new tedder, the chat with the friend from the 
 next town, not seen since the last year's fair, the pub- 
 lic dinner, with its profusion of honest home viands, 
 and the oratory which follows it, when the governor, 
 or the senator, or the famous preacher, or the aspiring 
 politician, whom the trustees have secured from the 
 outside world to grace the occasion, tells the assem- 
 bled comj^any of the nobility of agriculture, and the 
 superiority, over all other fascinations, of the charms 
 of a farmer's life. 
 
 The cattle-show, with the variations in detail which 
 localities or tastes dictate, has become as general and 
 as firmly established an institution as the Thanks- 
 giving Day, which shares with it the honors of the 
 autumn. We rejoice to see that this year brings no 
 sign of its decadence in popularity, and no new sign 
 of the demoralizing influence which many have feared 
 in the disproportionate importance given to trials of 
 the speed of horses. It is probable that the fair 
 will have its nps and downs, to be traced to a mul- 
 titude of causes ; but we have firm faith in its con- 
 tinuance, unimpaired in favor or in usefulness, while 
 'New England retains its character as a community, 
 and while the land gives its best fruits to the best 
 farmer. 
 
 2 
 
26 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 CHRISTMAS MORNING. 
 
 The little stocking by the cliimney-corner. The 
 Puritan hatred for the Old World holiday, and the 
 grim record of the first 25th of December spent on 
 New England shores, "So no man rested all that 
 day." The mistletoe, and the merry impudence and 
 coy modesty beneath it. The goose. The houseless 
 wanderer, and the duty of giving a gleam of cheerful- 
 ness to his sad day. Green wreaths smiling from 
 every window. The great service done by Mr. Dick- 
 ens's genial stories. The tree glittering with candles, 
 and loaded with pretty things. Crowded markets 
 and brisk trade. The pudding, the walnuts, and the 
 wine. Mrs. Peerybingle and the cricket on the hearth. 
 The great festival day at the English theatres, and 
 the new extravagances of the latest clown and panta- 
 loon. Young cheeks ruddy with pleasure, and old 
 wrinkles rippling with enjoyment. The wassail-bowl 
 of old days. Santa Claus loaded with gifts. The 
 minstrels singing carols outside the window. The 
 crisp air without and the yule-log within. Old enmi- 
 ties healed, and long fricndsliii3S renewed and fresh- 
 ened. Scrooge and Mr. Fezziwig, Bob Cratchit and 
 Tiny Tim. " God bless us every one ! " 
 
 We have not written the journalist's Christmas ser- 
 mon ; but we have given the materials of which scores 
 of such articles are made every year, and of which 
 scores will be made to-day ; and each of our readers 
 may adorn the frame-work to suit himself. The boy 
 who found the dissected map or the locomotive blocks 
 in his stocking, an hour ago, will show them how the 
 task is to be done. But while the incidents and the 
 phrases of Christmas-tide are so old as to be known 
 
SUMMER AT THE SEASIDE. 27 
 
 by heart to all of us, the lesson of the day is as new as 
 the sunrise Avhich lighted the frosty hills this morning. 
 There is no man or woman who can con it too often. 
 It is not a lesson of laziness, or personal jDleasure, or 
 selfish enjoyment. It is a lesson of effort and thought- 
 fulness and kindness and charity ; of a, warm hand, a 
 tender heart, a cheering word, an oj^en purse. But 
 the day itself is the best text ; and the thoughts 
 which its associations will bring to every reader's 
 heart are better than any sermon which the types can 
 preach. 
 
 SUMMER AT THE SEASIDE. 
 
 The sea-shore has one advantage over all the other 
 rivals for favor in the summer vacation. He who so- 
 journs there avoids the chief of the discomforts of 
 summer, — he keejDS cool. There are days in every 
 year when the wanderer in the country village feels 
 as great a desire to take off his flesh and sit in his 
 bones as does the toiler in the city ; when the lack 
 of shady sides to the streets is felt to be an unpar- 
 donable drawback; when it is neither merciful nor 
 safe to take the horse from his stall for a drive ; and 
 when night, in the small, low rooms, with their im- 
 practicable windows, is less tolerable than day. At 
 the mountains, such days have no cool moments ex- 
 cej^t on the very summit ; and the exertion necessary 
 to reach the breezy height is not to be thought of. 
 As for the springs, compensating Kature has some- 
 how provided that, wherever the earth flows "^ith 
 medicine ready mixed, the sun shall beat down with 
 greater heat than anywhere else, so as to make medi- 
 
28 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 cine a necessity. But by the sea, in our climate, if 
 one chooses his place well, there is always freedom 
 from the torment of the hot day. Places which have 
 a land breeze are to be avoided; and spots nearly 
 surrounded by salt water are to be sought. Then, 
 with the tide twice a day washing everything clean 
 and cool, with the night always bringing fresh winds, 
 which whisper counsel of flannels and overcoats, with 
 the bath and the boat ever at hand, one may live 
 from June to September without once realizing that 
 it is summer, without once feeling the impulse to con- 
 sult the thermometer for sympathy. 
 
 There is a certain degree of freedom, inseparable 
 fi'om the sea, which also gives a residence on the 
 shore a special charm. Dames wedded to fashion may 
 wear silks and diamonds to breakfast in the country, 
 as they may at Niagara or Saratoga, and rustle all 
 day in the armor of stiffness and ceremony. But 
 whoever ventures upon a salt-water bath surrenders 
 in the act something of conventionality; and Mrs. 
 Grundy and Flora McFlimsey alike descend to the 
 level of common humanity when they run from the 
 bathing-house across the beach like timid scarecrows, 
 and rise from the first embrace of the surf dripping, 
 and divested of every vestige of the dignity which is 
 borrowed from elaborate apparel. After being bowled 
 over by the same wave, or after being rocked in the 
 same yacht, people feel an acquaintance, an instinct 
 even of friendship, which is not produced by riding 
 up a mountain in the same stage, by drinking nau- 
 seous water from the same dipper, or by dancing to- 
 gether all night in the same set. Thus there is grad- 
 ually created a sort of family feeling among the guests 
 of a sea-shore house, which may be looked for in vain 
 among the boarders at inland resorts, even at the end 
 of a summer of close contact. 
 
SUMMER AT THE SEASIDE. 29 
 
 Of course, there are drawbacks to be set against 
 these special advantages, and the scores of others 
 which might be named in a more elaborate essay 
 upon the charms of seaside hfe. First and chief is 
 likely to be the meagreness of the table, after the 
 rich flavor of the chowder, and the dainty relish of 
 the mackerel fresh from the hook, begin to pall upon 
 the palate. He who has chosen with great care the 
 sandy spit or rocky island which gives the best as- 
 surance of cool air, is aj^t to discover presently that 
 the location so eligible in this respect is not suited 
 to the production of milk in j^lenty, of eggs in fresh- 
 ness, of fruit and vegetables in the haj^jDy medium 
 of i^erfect rii^eness, even of tender steak or plump 
 chickens. There are cii'cumstances under which a 
 hearty appetite is an aggravation, and the hungry 
 convalescent looks back reluctantly to the days when 
 he was content with a slice of toast and a cujd of 
 tea. It may be set down, also, on this side of the 
 account, that the sea has dangers which the land 
 knows not, which cause nervous mammas to spend 
 long days of misery in aj)prehension lest the adven- 
 turous boy should be swept beyond his depth, should 
 be seized by an untimely cramp, should be knocked 
 from his boat by some unruly boom, or should be 
 jerked off the pier by some strong-mouthed fish at 
 the end of his line. 
 
 But, on the whole, the charms have a decided pre- 
 ponderance over the drawbacks ; and few, at least of 
 that large portion of mankind who are born, as Charles 
 Dickens was, with a liking for things maritime, ever 
 leave the sea-shore disappointed. The roar of the 
 surf, which is like no other sound in the world, and 
 always strikes upon the ear with a new grandeur; 
 the sunsets more brilliant, and moonrises more ten- 
 
30 SOCIAL AND LITERAEY TOPICS. 
 
 der than the city or the country ever sees ; the gentle 
 romance which ever invests the passing-ship, and the 
 grace which belongs to the roughest oarsman or the 
 most disreputable yacht, when seen at a distance; the 
 invigoration of the plunge into water which buoys 
 UJ3 and encourages the swimmer as no pond or river 
 can ; the gentle interest of a search for rare shells ; 
 the joys of a swift voyage on a craft bending piquantly 
 under the topsail till the wave kisses the gunwale, 
 yet answering the helm with superb promptness ; the 
 very flavor of a blue-fish, which an hour ago was 
 lounging along in the cool comfort of deep soundings, — 
 all these are joys which the sea-shore monoj^olizes, and 
 which no milHonnaire has yet been able to transfer to 
 the country seat or the city mansion. 
 
 COMPOUNDING FELONIES. 
 
 At the proper interval after the last great bank rob- 
 bery we have the usual croj) of the reports about the 
 robbers and the detectives which experience has made 
 familiar. The burglars are known, but they are not 
 to be punished. The officers of justice are after the 
 thieves, but they are not to be expected to treat them 
 uncivilly. If we are to believe half of what we read on 
 every side, nothing is so easy as to find out who are the 
 men engaged in an operation like that upon the Boyls- 
 ton Bank, and nothing is so absurd as to expect that 
 they will pay any penalty for what they have done. 
 The Boston detectives have only to ask their friends, 
 the New York detectives, to inform them who of tlieir 
 intimate associates, the New York thieves, have been 
 
COMPOUNDING FELONIES. 31 
 
 away from home for the past few weeks, and the secret 
 is discovered. But nothing follows according to old- 
 fashioned ideas of the relations of a policeman and a 
 thief "Negotiations are opened," instead of traps 
 being set. No such ngly word as " crime " is uttered. 
 An arrest would be an insult to a man carrying in his 
 pocket what entitles him to respect. A web of mys- 
 tery is woven. All parties concerned go about with 
 their fingers on their lips. And by and by, when the 
 hurried public has forgotten the matter, the man who 
 has been j^hmdered receives back a small share of his 
 property, and thinks himself lucky ; the police officer 
 gets his share, and thinks himself a hero ; and the 
 burglar plunges into riotous living with his share, 
 knowing there are more strong boxes to be plundered 
 when that is gone. The detectives of his city know 
 his comings and goings; but if he disappears from the 
 surface for a while, they do not follow and capture him 
 at his work, but make a note of the fact, to be used 
 in opening negotiations when they are again needed. 
 
 Now, all these parties in interest think any reflection 
 upon their way of doing things is harsh and unkind. 
 The widow who has lost her all, and longs to see a little 
 of it back, feels any censure of the means adopted as 
 an added injury. The policeman who helps her to 
 some of her money thinks he should be praised and 
 not scolded for the relief he has brought her. With 
 what the burglar's opinion is we need not concern 
 ourselves. But there is another party in interest who 
 takes but a little space in the summary, yet whose 
 rights should not be overlooked. It is a class to 
 which the owners of the lost bonds, now naturally 
 striving their utmost to save a plank from the wreck, 
 belonged a week ago : we mean the public. 
 
 Any confusion of argument in this affair, and affairs 
 
32 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 like this which are constantly coming up, arises from 
 the fact that there are two opposing interests. It is 
 the interest of the losers by the robbery to recover a 
 part of their losses, whatever may become of the rob- 
 bers. Tt is the interest of those liable to loss by future 
 robberies that the culprits be arrested and punished, 
 whatever may become of their plunder. All so far is 
 clear. But when the interests of these two parties, 
 diametrically opposed to each other, are put in the 
 hands of the same agents, injustice and wrong are 
 the result. The tax-payer pays the detective very 
 meagrely to keep watch of thieves for the sake of 
 frustrating their designs and of bringing them under 
 the reach of the law. The loser — who is also an in- 
 dividual tax-payer, and feels that he has a claim on the 
 help of the common servant — is ready to pay munifi- 
 cently any detective who shall turn his w^atchfulness 
 of thieves to account in bargaining with them for 
 their booty. It takes no skill to work out the equa- 
 tion. The loser is sometimes assisted. The criminal 
 is hardly ever punished. 
 
 Now, it is the system which is wrong. We are far 
 from saying that, in this particular case, if the detec- 
 tives were to turn their attention that way, the dealer 
 in fictitious bitters and his accomplices might be 
 brought into the dock if the quarter of a million in 
 dollars were to be sacrificed. But we do say that, so 
 long as the detectives act in this double capacity, great 
 robberies will be committed, will never be foiled in 
 the act, and will never result in that punishment 
 which bears a fruit of safety for time to come. When 
 the two labors are made distinct ; when the servants 
 of the public give their whole time and thought and 
 energy to the preventing of robberies in contempla- 
 tion, and the detection of crimes once done ; when the 
 
THE SLEIGHING SEASON. 33 
 
 private sufferers have to call on private enterprise to 
 help them in getting back their lost possessions, — 
 when these changes come, we shall see a different 
 state of affairs. 
 
 THE SLEIGHIKG SEASOK 
 
 Winter, ruler of the inverted year, 
 
 A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne 
 
 A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, 
 
 But urged b}^ storms along its slippery "way, 
 
 1 love thee." Cowper. 
 
 " Hear the sledges with the bells — 
 Silver bells, — 
 What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! 
 How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle 
 
 In the icy air." Edgar A. Poe. 
 
 One does not know a man thoroughly until one has 
 seen him when the dinner is late and the soup 
 scorched, and also after a good dinner, with his 
 children about him. Just so it is impossible justly to 
 understand a city until the visitor has become fa- 
 miliar with its wi'etched quarter, — its Five Points, 
 or Ghetto, or St. Giles's, — and has tested the charms 
 of its favorite drive. Every city has a pet drive of some 
 sort ; and though a large majority of its inhabitants 
 never see this feature of its life, nor know any excur- 
 sion for pleasure but that of the rumbling horse-car or 
 palpitating steamboat, yet the minority who do enjoy 
 it is made up of such notable and characteristic ele- 
 ments that it must be seen before the city is ap^Dre- 
 ciated. The drives of the world have a local flavor, a 
 marked individuality, which does not belong to the 
 theatres, the dinners, the shops, the markets, or any- 
 thing else by which a stranger makes up his impres- 
 2* c 
 
34 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 sions. We might speak of the quaint, easy vehicle of 
 Montreal, and the view of the city from the mountain; 
 the brilliant, deliberate pageant of the Avenue at 
 Newport, where everybody that is anybody has a foot- 
 man in livery, and to look behind is to forfeit caste as 
 fatally as did Lot's wife ; the rattle and dash of the 
 trip to the Lake, at Saratoga, with its memorable and 
 monotonous fried potatoes ; the perfect shell road at 
 Savannah, where the gray moss hanging from the 
 trees gives an air of romance and melancholy to the 
 scene, but where the staidest horse strikes involun- 
 tarily a gait of a dozen miles an hour, or faster, and 
 his hoofs ring against the hard surface like castanets ; 
 the spacious Cliff Llouse Road at San Francisco, 
 where the goal is the glittering Pacific ; the versatile 
 charms of the sedate and elegant Central Park drives, 
 and the swifter fascinations of the way to Blooming- 
 dale, to suit the diverse tastes of the great metropolis ; 
 the dusty, sad, beautiful journey across the Long 
 Bridge and about Arlington, the dome of the Capitol 
 ever present like a fairy castle in the distance, and 
 every rod of the way burdened with tragic and heroic 
 memories ; or the more fashionable direction through 
 Fourteenth Street in the same city, where senators are 
 as plenty as fence-posts; the indescribable grandeur 
 of the four-mile stretch along Nantasket Beach at low 
 tide, where the music of the surf fills the soul with a 
 noble rapture, where the firm sand barely takes the 
 print of the wheels, where water-nymphs in blue flan- 
 nel splash close by the carriage, and the scudding sails 
 carry the thoughts away to distant countries ; the new 
 glory of the ride along Wabash Avenue in Chicago to 
 the boulevard that is to be, and back by the lake, with its 
 warp of railroad tracks and its border of palaces; the 
 lovely view from the high ground overlooking Rich- 
 
THE SLEIGHING SEASON. 35 
 
 mond and the James, once seen, never to be forgotten, 
 — some or all of these will occur to the reader who 
 has travelled in his own land, and many others to 
 those familiar with scenes abroad, as proofs of what 
 we have tried to say of the distinct, individualized 
 traits of the drives of different cities. 
 
 All these may be enjoyed at the favorable season of 
 summer or autumn ; but there are few cities which 
 know the luxury of a sleighing-road, or have such 
 opportunity to enjoy it as to impress it with the char- 
 acteristics of their owm life. Evanescent everywhere, 
 excej)t in those rural regions which know the sober 
 reality of " six weeks' .sleighing in March," the snow 
 very rarely visits I^ew York so as to be more than a 
 tantalizing glimpse of a melting opportunity, too coy 
 to be caught between clearing off and thaw. In the 
 cities south of New York it is little more than a tra- 
 dition, a miracle of so rare occurrence that the means 
 are never at hand to improve it. It is only Boston 
 which has a sleighing carnival as a regular incident of 
 the year, like the coming of the tragedian, or the 
 ripening of the strawberries, to be anticipated and 
 provided for and made much of. And even in Boston 
 there is a rarity and uncertainty about it, — dreadful 
 memories of winters when the cutter never left the 
 stable-loft, a likelihood that he who stops to think about 
 it will lose his chance, — which, indeed, add not a little 
 to the charm, as they add a great deal to the expense. 
 
 One great advantage of this feature of Boston life 
 is its concentration. There are so many agreeable 
 summer drives in the zone of villages which encircles 
 the city, that one may ride about from June to Octo- 
 ber and never meet his neighbor. But Avhen sleighing 
 comes, everybody hurries to one centre. The prince 
 and the peasant — which is a poetic way of referring to 
 
36 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 the dignified merchant and the vociferous jockey — 
 head their teams for the same destination. The na- 
 bob, with his heavy, hulking span, cautious driver, 
 and profuse provision of robes and furs, and the spend- 
 thrift with his lean, shorn, showy steed, his frail shell 
 and frailer companion, both contrive to be on the 
 Brighton Road at the popular hour just before sunset ; 
 and it is this unanimity of choice, this tacit agree- 
 ment upon place and time, which makes the sight to 
 be seen there one of the most brilliant and exciting 
 living panoramas which America possesses, the sensa- 
 tion of a first visit there one which no visitor should 
 miss, which it is worth a special journey from afar to 
 enjoy. It is an experience which we can only hint at 
 rather than describe. 
 
 In tlie first place, those who have the pleasure yet 
 before them should dismiss all anticipation of being 
 particularly struck by the attractions which nature 
 furnishes. Boston has in its suburbs an infinite vari- 
 ety of beautiful scenery ; but the Brighton Mile and 
 the road by which it is reached from the city have not 
 such charms as to impress the beholder very strongly 
 through the veil which winter spreads over land and 
 water. The dazzling splendor of fresh-fallen snow, 
 the wholesome intoxication of clear, frosty air, — these 
 are the chief natural beauties; and man has done 
 nothing but build the prosaic, forbidding houses and 
 commonplace fences of that dullest phase of New 
 England which is neither country nor city. The 
 sleigh-riders bring with them the joys which they 
 seek. There is a rare exhilaration in the spectacle of 
 the crowded ground, dense with sleighs as far as the 
 eye can see, a narrow strij) in the middle compara- 
 tively clear for the faster ones to dash up and down 
 at the utmost speed of their horses, two lines on each 
 
THE SLEIGHING SEASON. 37 
 
 side of quieter parties, jogging along as steadily as at 
 Newport. A fine horse never looks so well as when 
 newly clipped, his light burden scarcely perceptible 
 behind him on the smooth track, his senses all aroused 
 by the proximity of the noblest of his kind, the jingle 
 of the bells, and the brisk, bracing atmosphere. With 
 all the variety which wealth and ingenuity can give 
 in wheeled vehicles, there is never the graceful pic- 
 turesqueness so simply to be attained in the curves 
 and tints of the sleigh. A pretty w^oman never looks 
 so well as in the inspiring hour of the sleigh-ride, in 
 the fleeting moment before her nose reddens too 
 deeply, and her tresses are blown into too palpable 
 disorder. There is no such background in art or na- 
 ture as the crisp snow, setting out everything admira- 
 ble in as bold relief as that of Konewka's silhouettes. 
 
 With such reasons as these for the enjoyment 
 which the stranger may feel, the habitue of the road 
 has the pleasure of the recognition of the faces of peo- 
 ple, whose heterogeneous mixture has all the eflTect 
 of the perpetual astonishments of the kaleidoscope. 
 There is not to be seen here the Boston of the Dick- 
 ens reading, of the Fechter benefit, of the oratorio, or 
 the Emerson lecture ; but there is a mingling not a 
 whit the less delightful to look upon. Drawn by one 
 common taste, which is the only thing possessed in 
 common, here are the veteran politician, the tranquil 
 gambler, the lady of foshion, and the lady whom soci- 
 ety ignores, the journalist, the merchant, the actor, 
 the preacher, the dowager, the sophomore, the college 
 president, each with his turn-out in harmony with his 
 tastes or his pocket-book, and not one without a cer- 
 tain pride and pleasure in the presence of the rest. 
 Then the butcher-boy and the expressman have as 
 good a right to the road as anybody, and their occa/- 
 
38 SOCIAL AND LITEEARY TOPICS. 
 
 sional transit adds a ^^I'actical but not disagreeable 
 element to the motley company ; while now and then 
 a comet whirls through the constellations in the shape 
 of a tandem team, or other eccentricity, or the gor- 
 geous trappings and liveries which the spoils of a 
 stolen railroad have paid for. 
 
 There are many other features of the scene which 
 we cannot touch upon, even incidentally : the possible 
 pause at the wayside inn, where one seems transi3orted 
 into the iDrimitive Avays of fifty years ago, and where 
 flip and punch flow freely in apparent universal uncon- 
 sciousness of the statutes framed under the dome a 
 few miles away ; the hot moment of excitement when 
 a runaway pair darts down into the labyrinth, smash- 
 ing and wounding as it goes, and giving that tang of 
 danger which, to some natures, adds the highest zest 
 to any enjoyment; the wild shouts of the racing men, 
 who begin to claim the road for their own as sunset 
 approaches, and the slower classes retire to their wait- 
 ing dinner-tables, — the reader's memory or his imagi- 
 nation must supply all these things. For, lo! the 
 next morning dawns, and a thaw has set in, or the thin 
 snow has been worn out with one afternoon's multitu- 
 dinous use ; and only by the memory or the imagina- 
 tion can be commanded the transient pleasures of a 
 sleighing afternoon on the Brighton Road. 
 
 WOMEN IN MEDICAL SCHOOLS. 
 
 The medical students of Philadelphia have done 
 more than any institution of medicine has yet done, 
 have accomplished more than any orator of the cause 
 of woman's rights has yet effected, towards the free 
 
WOMEN IN MEDICAL SCHOOLS. 39 
 
 admission of women to the study and practice of 
 medicine. By their demonstrations of turbulence, 
 their shouting, and stamping of feet, their attempts to 
 insult the women seeking instruction in their lecture- 
 room, they have supplied an argument, not logical 
 but powerful, which has been used with great effect, 
 and will be prized as an invaluable weapon for a long 
 time to come. Students of medicine generally have 
 never been esteemed a class of the community to 
 whom we should look for teaching or example on 
 great and delicate j)oints of moral questions. Though 
 from their ranks must come the men whom we honor 
 and respect almost above any other profession, and to 
 whom we intrust our lives and the welfare of our 
 families, yet upon doctors in the embryo there has 
 always been a disposition to look with something of 
 distrust. The Bob Sawyer and Sam Huter of the 
 novelists have been types of the prejudices of a world 
 of readers. But setting aside this antipathy, for which 
 an abundance of reasons might be assigned upon anal- 
 ysis, there is a grossness and bitterness of persecution 
 about the conduct of the young men in Philadelphia 
 which produces a great sympathy with the persecuted 
 in the outside world. All good things, it is argued, 
 have been reviled and mobbed in their beginning; 
 therefore anything which excites the opposition of 
 the mob-spirit is good. And straightway we have a 
 great deal of encouragement and support from all 
 quarters for the undertaking of young women to study 
 anatomy and disease in the company of young men. 
 
 But such an inference is not always safe ; and there- 
 fore we are glad to see the real question at issue 
 calmly and fairly put by the physicians of Philadel- 
 phia. The professors of two institutions for medical 
 instruction, the officers of ten hospitals, and over 
 
40 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 seventy doctors in active practice, join nnanimonsly 
 in signing this paper, protesting against clinical in- 
 struction to mixed classes of male and female students 
 of medicine. The reasons which they give, guarded 
 and reserved as they must be in their expression, seem 
 unanswerable. So long as no reformer can abolish 
 the fict of sex, it is difficult to see how any sincere 
 demand can be made for the examination, in the pres- 
 ence of young men and maidens sitting together as 
 pupils, of all the organs of the body, and a perform- 
 ance of all the operations of surgery upon patients of 
 both sexes. But if in the progress of the age the quali- 
 ties of womanliness and modesty, as ourflithers under- 
 stood them, are so far lost in some cases that such a 
 demand is made, it is right that it should be resisted : 
 justice to the teacher, to the patient, to the student, 
 to the interests of science, all require it; and the sanc- 
 tity of Avomanhood requires it no less, though women 
 may be found, influenced by ambition and enthusiasm, 
 who themselves forget it. And when resistance comes, 
 it is infinitely better that it should come with the 
 voice of dignity and experience, as in the remonstrance 
 of the physicians of PhiladeliDhia, than in the clamor 
 of a rabble. 
 
 It can hardly fail to be understood that this discus- 
 sion has no bearing on the question of the right of 
 women to study and practise medicine, and of the pro- 
 priety of their entering the profession if they choose. 
 There are certain classes of cases for which they seem 
 j^eculiarly fitted, many others in which they have equal 
 qualifications with men. But so long as there is a class 
 of cases in which they could never be called to attend, 
 it is unjustifiable for them to intrude themselves upon 
 and embarrass the study of such cases ; and so long 
 as sex exists it is simply right that they should pursue 
 some of their studies by themselves. 
 
"OUR SOCIETY." 41 
 
 "OUR SOCIETY." 
 
 "If gilt were only gold, or sugar-candy common-sense, what a fine 
 thing our society woiild be ! " — George William Curtis. 
 
 " 'T is pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print.*' 
 
 Byron. 
 
 TwEXTY years ago a brilliant essayist, in the first 
 flush of his youthful eloquence, wrote a pungent paper 
 beginning with the words we have quoted above, ex- 
 posing the emptiness, the frivolity, the intellectual 
 squalor, amid the utmost splendor wealth could com- 
 mand, which characterized what called itself " Our 
 Best Society " in those days. The essay appeared in 
 "Putnam's Monthly," and was town-talk for many 
 weeks ; it did more to make its author famous than 
 the two delightful books of Eastern travel he had 
 previously published ; and, with the series of papers 
 which followed it, analyzing more in detail the char- 
 acter of Mrs. Potiphar and her friends, it made his 
 place in American literature secure. But what would 
 he have done had he the motive and the cue for satire 
 that we have ? Surely he would not fail to — 
 
 " ^lake mad the guilty and appall the free, 
 Confound the ignorant, and amaze, indeed, 
 The very faculties of eyes and ears." 
 
 For we have before us a journal — a handsome sheet 
 issued in the best style of modern printing — called 
 " Our Society," the revelations of which cast every- 
 thing disclosed about the circle of Mrs. Potiphar en- 
 tirely into the shade. 
 
 We could wish, if it were possible, to give our 
 readers in small space an adequate idea of this publica- 
 tion, as the " London Times " w^as photographed down 
 to the size of a fig-leaf for its journey to Paris in the 
 days of the siege. But of such a result we despair, 
 
42 SOCIAL AND LITERAEY TOPICS. 
 
 since it is a quarto sheet of ten closely printed pages, 
 not one line of which can be spared from a perusal 
 which shall give a clear concejition of its character, — 
 so full is each paragraph of the spirit of the whole, 
 and yet so charged with new surprises to the reader 
 in the development of possibilities of which he had 
 not dreamed. We must rely, therefore, ujDon such 
 general description and such meagre extracts as we 
 can give to convey an approximate notion of one of 
 the most amazing social phenomena of our time. But 
 before attempting even this we must premise that this 
 is no exceptional and eccentric freak of a moment, 
 which it is best to pass by with a glance. Strange fish 
 come into the net of the newspaper exchange list ; 
 and from much of it it is not safe to generalize. There 
 is the " National Moonly Voice," for example, a sheet 
 of stark, staring lunacy, Avhich comes to us from some- 
 where in New Jersey : it is not just to infer from it that 
 the editor addresses an audience to whom his madness 
 seems to have method, or that there is a community 
 in New Jersey, where, to borrow from " Hamlet " once 
 more, it is no great matter, for all the men are as mad 
 as he. " Our Society" is no such fruit of the folly of 
 a day. The number before us is the twenty-first of 
 the series ; its comely and costly dress indicates sub- 
 stantial prosperity; its managers have advanced the 
 price of advertising in its columns a hundred per cent 
 since it was established ; and, moreover, we have the 
 testimony of eighty newsdealers of New York that 
 they sell regularly more copies of this than of any 
 other weekly paper upon their stands. 
 
 It is worth while, therefore, to make this paper the 
 subject of a serious analysis. And in the first place 
 it is, not only handsomely printed, as we have said, 
 but it is printed upon pajoer of a delicate " tea-rose 
 
" OUR SOCIETY." 43 
 
 shade," — the latest achievement of the skill of the 
 manuflicturer, devised expressly for the peculiar needs 
 of this journal, and quite impossible to imitate. Hard- 
 ly have we recovered from the effect of this discov- 
 covery, when we are electrified by another, — that the 
 second distinguishing feature of the paper is its bad 
 grammar. Hardly a sentence in its editorial columns 
 is without some hideous inelegance, some word wrong- 
 ly used, some tangling of relatives and pronouns. 
 Tea-rose shade, and wretched English, flavored with 
 worse French, — what could be abetter introduction 
 to "Our Society"? 
 
 We despair of giving our readers any notion of the 
 contents of the paper, except by reproducing them ; 
 and yet we shrink from copying the names it so freely 
 gives in full, lest here and there one of them may 
 have been used without the consent of the owner. 
 The public is informed that Mr. Eugene So-and-so — 
 his residence appended to prevent any mistake — is " a 
 general favorite among ladies." Miss Louise Blank, 
 a few lines farther on, " has hosts of admirers among 
 the young gentlemen. She is entitled to them." There 
 is a curious gradation of compliment in these brief 
 references to ladies, of which the first page of " Our 
 Society" has about eighty. One is " both witty and 
 musical " ; another is " noted for her beautiful hair, 
 au naturel^ also for her musical talent"; a third is 
 " quite a favorite among the military gentlemen of 
 the navy-yards"; another is " a general Society favor- 
 ite"; and to two married ladies wdio are named is 
 awarded the honor, which we take to be the highest 
 " Our Society" can confer, of being " considered the 
 most distingue ladies in our city." It is not confined 
 to belles, this sort of gentle adulation. Male creatures 
 have it. " Mr. Harry Dash is one of the handsomest 
 
44 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 Benedicts in our city." Churches are flattered, — not 
 for the good work they do, however. "It is acknowl- 
 edged that more handsome ladies attend the Church 
 of the Heavenly Rest than any other church of its 
 size in New York." Note how carefully that qualifi- 
 cation, " of its size," was put in, to avoid any possible 
 jealousy among the churches on this point. Children 
 also are judiciously tickled. " Master Clifford Asterisk, 
 at the Metropolitan Hotel, is a special favorite with 
 all who know him." Imagine the influence upon the 
 mind of a nice little boy of such a paragraph ! But 
 we are convinced that we know nothing about the 
 children of Society (our paper always prints this 
 mystic word with a capital letter), when we read 
 in the column of "Receptions," that a certain enter- 
 tainment at a " palatial home " was " given in honor 
 of Master Charley's third birthday"; that about 
 seventy-five young masters and misses were present ; 
 that " the supper was superb, and the music all that 
 could be desired," with further details about the 
 flowers presented to Charley by the "young lady" 
 guests, and names of the "Masters" whom "we 
 noticed " as present. 
 
 " Can such things be, 
 And overcome us hke a summer's cloud, 
 Without our special wonder? " 
 
 But we have not reached the end yet. A little 
 further on is an elaborate account of a " brilliant re- 
 ception " on the occasion of " the debut of Fanchon, a 
 superb and sweet-faced doll." This doll, we learn, had 
 a trousseau of over five hundred pieces, including an 
 elegant Indian shawl, imported expressly for it, and 
 everything that goes to make up " a Society lady's 
 wardrobe." It was a gift to "a little Miss oi four 
 years " ; and we are told, in defiance of all our ex- 
 
"OUR SOCIETY." 45 
 
 perience of children of that age, that she " highly- 
 appreciated " the toy. And then the narrative goes 
 on to catalogue the diamonds, satins, court trains, and 
 point laces of the ladies who Avere i^resent at this 
 worthy celebration. 
 
 After all this there is a peculiar shock in reading 
 that Mrs. Somebody of Cincinnati " has been greatly 
 missed from Society this winter, from which she 
 has retired since the death of her little child." Do 
 little children, then, die in Society ? What a pity 
 they are not all sweet -faced dolls, who may be 
 packed in cotton and preserved without trouble, or, 
 if lost, replaced without inconvenient and troublesome 
 mourning ! 
 
 We cannot go through all the departments of this 
 astonishing journal in detail. We notice that a grace- 
 ful writer in one j^lace, speaking of the gentlemanly 
 floor-managers at a certain ball, remarks that " to say 
 that they were not energetic in their efforts to please 
 would indeed be superfluous." We pause also at a 
 request that, if any representative of " Our Society," 
 being an invited guest at any entertainment, violates 
 the strictest decorum in any way, the editor may be 
 at once informed of the fact. Have we not seen a 
 similar notice at the foot of some bills of fare, having 
 reference to the waiters ? Here is another warning, 
 too savage to be particular about grammar: "Any 
 party sending us false information, whether used or 
 not, will be published in an editorial and full address 
 given." There is a column for " Our Approaching 
 Marriages," in which various engagements are given 
 uj^on rumor, and a fair proportion of the betrothals 
 announced the week before are contradicted, or de- 
 clared " premature." A popular " evangelical " church 
 on a fashionable avenue is puffed, not only for the 
 
46 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 eloquence of the preacher, but for the music and the 
 flowers, and a list is given of the more fashionable 
 people present. And as we read this, and glance over 
 the five or six hundred feminine toilets described, or 
 rather catalogued, in the different departments of the 
 paper, we are driven to the conclusion that it is the 
 people themselves Avho report these things. It is Mrs. 
 Fifth Avenue who writes out an account of her party, 
 and casually mentions that the host gave entire carte 
 hlcmche to the caterer. It is perhaps not the Ilev. 
 Boanerges Thunder wdio sends in a notice of the 
 beauty and dress represented in his congregation, but 
 it is somebody in his confidence. Perhaps it is not 
 Miss Fanny Frivolous who contributes to " Our So- 
 ciety " the information that that young lady " is known 
 as a brilliant conversationalist," but it is surely done 
 by her lover ; and is not this a modern improvement 
 on the old style of sending a painful sonnet " To F. 
 F." to the poet's corner of a newspaper ? and may we 
 not expect that for the next number a soft feminine 
 hand will confide to the editor of "Our Society" 
 the information that Mr. Augustus Spoonbill parts 
 his hair very accurately in the middle, and is celebrated 
 for his delicate lisp and overpowering manners? But 
 " Our Society " is altogether too droll to be successfully 
 parodied ; and, on the other hand, it is in some views 
 too serious a matter to be laughed at. And so we 
 leave such a faint sketch as w^e have been able to 
 make of it for the edification of our readers, — tea- 
 rose shade, clumsy grammar, doll's parties, enormous 
 circulation, and all. 
 
THE LECTURERS. 47 
 
 THE LECTURERS. 
 
 " Happily to steer 
 From grave to gay, from lively to severe." 
 
 Pope's Ussay on Man. 
 
 " How the subject theme may gang, 
 Let time and chance determine; 
 Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 
 Perhaps, turn out a sermon." 
 
 BuK^'s's Ejoistle to a Young Friend. 
 
 It is fashionable to sneer at the motley programmes 
 of the variety theatres, where the trapeze and the 
 comic song, the concentrated melodrama and the 
 educated mice, the Arab from the desert and the lady 
 on parlor skates, follow each other in rapid suc- 
 cession on the same crowded evening. But the mix- 
 ture is not more heterogeneous than that made up by 
 most respectable committees, who sell with one piece 
 of pasteboard the right to hear Mr. Beecher and to 
 see Mrs. Scott-Siddons ; to listen to General Butler on 
 the charms of war and to Mr. Sumner on the glories 
 of peace ; to be thrilled by Wendell Phillips, charmed 
 by George William Curtis, and convulsed by Petro- 
 leum V. Nasby. It is quite like one of Dr. Marigold's 
 irresistible parcels, — a j^air of razors, a flatiron, a 
 frying-pan, a genuine chronometer watch, and a half- 
 dozen dinner-plates. Does nobody bid?' Then the 
 enterj^rising committee adds an orchestral concert and 
 an evening with the stereopticon, and sells its season- 
 tickets for two dollars, just as the Cheap Jack throws 
 in a rolling-pin and a looking-glass, and then names a 
 price so low that everybody opens his eyes with 
 wonder, and makes a bid in spite of himself. After 
 the marvellous combinations of this kind with which 
 custom has made us familiar, the sense of the harmony 
 
48 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 of things is too far dulled to be seriously shocked by 
 the announcement, made not long since by a Western 
 manager, that the same fifty cents would cover ad- 
 mission to a lecture by Mr. Emerson and to a dance 
 at the village hotel to follow the intellectual enter- 
 tainment. Even the appearance upon the lecture 
 platform of a conspirator against the life of Abraham 
 Lincoln, taking that infamous j^lot as his theme, has 
 hardly disturbed the public equanimity ; and, with a 
 few more turns of the wheel of fortune in Europe, we 
 might be treated to a programme like this : Unparal- 
 leled Attraction ! The World's Star Course ! Open- 
 ing Lecture, The Secret History of the Coup d'Etat, 
 Louis Napoleon ; Why the Good Cause did not Suc- 
 ceed, Jefferson Davis ; How the Empire was Built, 
 and the Causes of its Downfall, Count von Bismarck ; 
 Flirtation and its Consequences, Isabella ; The True 
 Record of the Burdell Affair, Mrs. Cunningham ; The 
 Power of the Pulj^it, Mr. Spurgeon ; Grand Con- 
 cluding Entertainment, Ode by Victor Hugo, Song by 
 Mile. Schneider, Poem by Mr. Swinburne, and brief 
 Farewell Address by Mr. Disraeli, on Literature, Criti- 
 cism, and Politics. 
 
 Raillery aside, however, there is abundant cause for 
 congratulation in the prosperity of the lyceum in 
 America, — an institution so peculiarly our own that 
 even the word by which we have named it has no 
 such meaning across the water. In sj^ite of many 
 gloomy prophets, the prosperity of the system grows 
 with every year ; and how much it does for popular 
 culture and refinement cannot be estimated. To 
 be sure, the golden days which Colonel Ingham has 
 celebrated in the introduction to one of his clever- 
 est stories, when people left their homes on winter 
 evenings solely to be instructed and informed, have 
 
THE LECTURERS. 49 
 
 gone by forever. But as we do not read Shakespeare 
 to be instructed, nor Goldsmith to be informed, so 
 we may not be ashamed if we go to hear Robert 
 Collyer and Mrs. Livermore primarily for the in- 
 tellectual entertainment they offer; and, as he who 
 knows a little Shakespeare and nothing else is a 
 fuller man than he who knows a little algebra and 
 nothing else, so he who goes away saturated with the 
 earnest eloquence of the Chicago preacher, erst the 
 Yorkshire blacksmith, may have spent his evening 
 quite as profitably as his neighbor who has listened to 
 a summing-up of all the world knows as to geology, 
 which the discoveries of the next century may ntterly 
 supersede. 
 
 But the great virtue of our lyceum system is in its 
 wide range, not in subjects but in territory. The great 
 cities have many means of culture. They have great 
 libraries, and many journals, theatres, concert-rooms, 
 and art-galleries. The lecture is but an incident of 
 their crowded winter. In the country towns it is the 
 one great event, the single window by which eager 
 minds can look into the Avorld of literature and all the 
 higher phases of civilization. Miss Nilsson, Mr. Jefi'er- 
 son, and Mr. Booth, immense as are the numbers of 
 their admirers, are limited to a com2:)aratively narrow 
 circle of large cities ; but Mr. Gough packs his sup- 
 porting company, his organ and orchestra, his scenery 
 and properties, into his carpet-bag, and carries his 
 treasury of delight to the little settlements, which 
 next year may be cities, in Kansas and Michigan, to 
 the thriving communities in Ohio and Indiana, to the 
 scores of minor cities between the Alleghanies and the 
 Mississippi, and gives to every listener just as rich a 
 treat as he gives to the great audiences of New York 
 and Philadelphia and Chicago. His fun and his pathos 
 
50 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 are town-talk in all the little Washington s and Frank- 
 lins of the West, just as the fine touches of Mr. 
 Church's last picture, and the delicate points of Mr. 
 Fechter's Hamlet, are town-talk in London and in 
 Boston. And following in his wake, a small army of 
 wise and witty men and brilliant women are travel- 
 ling up and down the land in the paths arranged by 
 the lecture agencies, 
 
 " A mighty maze, but not without a plan," 
 
 as King William's Uhlans were scattered over France. 
 The essays they read may not be of the very highest 
 order of literary merit : they may work, consciously 
 or unconsciously, with a little bolder hand than when 
 they write for the cold permanency of a book ; but it 
 is something that they are all facing the right way 
 (with a few such exceptions as the demagogue who 
 strives to excite a people to a needless war, and the 
 escaped conspirator who glories in his own crimes), 
 and all using such influence as they have for good. 
 Miss Kate Field and Mr. Curtis pointing out the 
 grandeur of Dickens's genius, Miss Dickinson rehears- 
 ing the heroic career of Joan of Arc, may not directly 
 utter a single profitable maxim, but they are pointing 
 to noble ideals ; and the listener may go away as 
 keenly stimulated to a higher ambition and purer life 
 than he knew before as if he had heard a sermon on 
 the Ten Commandments. Lecturers diflTer, of course, 
 as all honest men differ, on a host of subjects ; but 
 they are very few in number who go about the coun- 
 try ad vocating anything wrong, or petty, or mean, — 
 defending the condition of the civil service, for exam- 
 ple, or glorifying the career of the barons of Erie ; 
 and the man or woman who makes a very serious 
 blunder on the platform, either in taste or ethics, very 
 
THE LECTUEERS. 51 
 
 seldom receives a second invitation from the same 
 locality, and so jDasses presently on the shelf, Avhile 
 new aspirants are sought for ; and only worthy vet- 
 erans kee-p the field. 
 
 Another way of estimating the value of the j^lat- 
 form is to reflect how much we owe to it, not in prac- 
 tical leadership and the formation and guidance of 
 public sentiment, but in personal acquaintance, as it 
 were, with men whom their books only half make 
 known to the public. How the lad of to-day will 
 prize, for example, as he looks back upon it thirty or 
 forty years hence, the memor}^ of the night when he 
 saw Emerson in the lecture-room, with his grave, 
 sweet presence, his gentle yet strong face, through 
 which you can see the thoughts strike fire ; his odd 
 awkwardness with his manuscript, which is so much 
 better than some men's grace and ease ; his rich, pure 
 voice, which, without a gesture or a suggestion of elo- 
 cution, makes the grandest ^^oetry seem grander in his 
 recitation of it ! What a new light on " School-Days 
 at Rugby " was enjoyed by those, comparatively few 
 in number, in two great cities, who heard Tom Brown 
 in the flesh — the same sturdy Tom Brown of the foot- 
 ball match, but grown grave and bald in the passing of 
 years — trying to reconcile two nations, or telling of 
 the struggles of labor ! What is the worth, in dollars 
 and cents, of the treasured experience of those who 
 saw Thackeray in one of his American tours, and 
 heard him tell the story of that Dick Steele whom he 
 so loved, or of that Fourth George whom he so de- 
 spised? All these priceless things we ow^e to the 
 lecture-committee : so let us forgive them if they 
 occasionally give a vantage-ground to a charlatan un- 
 worthy of a public hearing, or if every feature in their 
 programmes does not apj^eal to the highest tastes. 
 
52 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 THE DICKENS DINNER OF 1842. 
 
 It is a little more than twenty-five years since 
 the visit of Charles Dickens — then a young man, 
 the author of "Pickwick" and two or three other 
 successful books — created a great sensation in this 
 country, and was made the occasion for demonstra- 
 tions of cordial hospitality and admiring enthusiasm 
 without a parallel in the memories of the people 
 or in the experience of their guest. The near 
 approach of the same gentleman — himself matured, 
 and his fame rounded and made symmetrical by a 
 long succession of works, displaying a wider grasp 
 and a firmer hand than his early productions — to the 
 same community which greeted him before, and which 
 also he will find that the hand of change has not left 
 untouched, gives a peculiar interest just now to the 
 incidents of that memorable first visit. Perhaps the 
 whole journey had no more notable occasion than the 
 dinner given by " the young gentlemen of Boston " 
 to Mr. Dickens, on the first day of February, 1842; 
 and we invite our readers to follow us in a search 
 among the musty records of that brilliant evening. 
 The dinner was spread in the most suitable place 
 which the accommodations of that day afibrded, — in 
 Mr. Papanti's hall in Tremont Street. The tables were 
 " splendidly laid and profusely," — if we may credit the 
 glowing report in the "Daily Advertiser and Patriot" 
 of the next day but one, — by Mr. Barton, the expe- 
 rienced and successful caterer of the Albion. The 
 guests numbered about two hundred. The whole 
 afiair was in the hands of the young men of the city ; 
 and so the Hon. Josiah Quincy, Jr., j^resided at the 
 tables, and his assistant vice-presidents were Dr. Oliver 
 
THE DICKENS DINNER OF 1S42. 53 
 
 Wendell Holmes, and Messrs. George S. Hillnrd, 
 Ed^yard G. Loring, and J. Thomas Stevenson. This 
 array, we may remark in passing, was considered bril- 
 liant even in those youthful days of the distinguished 
 men mentioned ; for in the later hours of the evening, 
 when wine and wit ran sparkling together, Mr. T. C. 
 Grattan, then the British consul at this port, remarked 
 that " the president's four vices were equal to the 
 four cardinal virtues of any other man." The report 
 before us mentions, as active in the management of 
 the festival, Messrs. E. H. Eldridge, W. W. Tucker, S. 
 A. Appleton, Henry Le«, Jr., and Samuel E. Guild ; 
 and in the addresses of some of the letters of apology 
 we find the names of George Tyler Bigelow, Nathan 
 Hale, Jonathan F. Barrett, Fred. W. Crocker, and W. 
 W. Story, who served as the committee of invitation. 
 These were the young gentlemen of Boston ; but they 
 graciously admitted their seniors to a share in the 
 feast ; and so among the invited guests we note Mr. 
 President Quincy of Harvard University, even then 
 of venerable age ; Governor Davis, whom indisposi- 
 tion compelled to retire early, and without making a 
 speech ; as well as Washington Allston, Judge War- 
 ren, Mayor Chapman, George Bancroft, Richard H. 
 Dana, Sr., Franklin Dexter, and Dr. Jacob Bigelow. 
 The feast began at five, and the 7iaif reporter ob- 
 serves, at another stage of the proceedings, that it 
 was " an advanced hour for a dinner-party." The com- 
 l^any was formed, and marshalled into the dining-room 
 to the strains of " Washington's March," followed 
 by "God save the Queen." The Rev. Dr. Parkraan 
 invoked a benediction before the removal of the cov- 
 ers, and thanked Heaven for the presence of "the dis- 
 tinguished stranger." The substantial rej^ast of course 
 preceded all further speech-making; and then came 
 
54 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 toasts and fun and eloquence in rapid succession. The 
 most peculiar feature of the dinner, which distin- 
 guished it from all other dinners, was that one person- 
 age was, at every pause and in every exigency, called 
 upon to bring down the com23any with a laugh, and 
 made to do a most unfair share of the work of enter- 
 tainment. That hardly served personage was Mr. 
 Samuel Weller. Did anybody wish to begin his 
 speech with a telling point, or end it with a snapper, 
 he quoted Sam Weller. Did the j^resident of the 
 evening wish to introduce a new speaker effectively, 
 or comj^liment one who had just taken his seat, he 
 drew upon Sam Weller. Did he wish to brighten up 
 the jDarty when somebody had been dull, and the flow 
 of soul seemed to flag, he opened the volume of 
 "Pickwick," and read a saying of Sam Weller. But 
 it should be remembered that Mr. Dickens had writ- 
 ten but few books then. The number of his characters 
 had not become a multitude : even Micawber and 
 Pecksniff" and Tom Pinch did not then exist, to say 
 nothing of the still later creations of Wegg and Joe 
 Gargery, and the young man of the name of Guppy, 
 or even of the Peerybingles and Dr. Marigold, and 
 the host of Christmas folk ; so the public made all 
 the more of what it had, and fondled Sam Weller and 
 Little Nell and Barnaby's Raven all the more affec- 
 tionately. 
 
 Mr. Josiah Quincy, Jr., of course, began the speech- 
 making ex-officio; and, as in duty bound, was warmly 
 and enthusiastically complimentary to Mr. Dickens, 
 running pleasantly over the list of his characters, as 
 well known on this side of the ocean as in their 
 native land, and especially emphasizing the fact 
 that in all the novelist's works there was a reforming 
 object and a high moral tone, and that they w^ere 
 
THE DICKENS DINNER OF 1842. 55 
 
 directed against the abuses of the day. He concluded 
 with the toast which follows, and which was received 
 with tremendous and prolonged cheering, — " Health, 
 happiness, and a hearty welcome, to Charles Dickens." 
 Mr. Dickens responded with an exceedingly well- 
 written address, delivered, in the judgment of our old- 
 time reporter, " in a warm, fluent, and manly tone." He 
 gracefully expressed his thanks for the welcome given 
 him, and said he had dreamed for years by day and by 
 night of that visit to America which he had now begun, 
 and had come "with all his sympathies clustering richly 
 about this land and people." He then spoke, with no 
 affectation of modesty in the matter, about his own 
 writings, and the theory of the nobility of virtue, how- 
 ever poor, and the hatefulness of vice, however rich, 
 which he had kept in view in his books. He spoke with 
 feeling of an allusion made to " a little heroine of mine 
 who died in her youth," whom he seemed to regard 
 with peculiar fondness, and told of the letters he had 
 received, many fi'om the fir West, giving histories of 
 domestic joys or sorrows in which the children — ■ 
 generally lost children over whom the mother wept — 
 in this or that respect resembled Nell. And then, with 
 characteristic oddity of fancy, Mr. Dickens said that 
 his entertainers here had no chance of spoiling him ; 
 for he felt as though they were merely agreeing about 
 third parties, and at every new act of kindness said to 
 himself, "'That's for Oliver, — I should not wonder if 
 that were meant for Smike, — I have no doubt that is 
 intended for Nell ' ; and so I become a much ha])pier, 
 certainly, but a more sober and retiring, man than I 
 ever was before." The speaker closed by laying par- 
 ticular stress on the need of an international copy- 
 right between England and America, " firstly, be- 
 cause it is justice ; and, secondly, because without it 
 
56 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 you never can have and keep a literature of your 
 own"; and offered the toast, "America and England; 
 and may they never have any division but the At- 
 lantic between them." 
 
 The president then alluded to the theory that poets 
 and painters, in ideal pictures of female loveliness, 
 unconsciously sketched the features of her who Avas 
 dearest to their hearts, and offered a sentiment in that 
 connection which was drunk standing, with three times 
 three cheers, " The health of the lady of our distin- 
 guished guest. If she were the model of the j^ure and 
 elevated females of his works, it might be well said that 
 she was the better half even of Charles Dicl^ens." 
 
 Mr. Edward G. Loring spoke eloquently of the 
 bonds of union between England and America in their 
 common parentage, history, language, and literature, 
 and common devotion to liberty. He closed with a 
 reference to Harvard College, and a compliment to 
 the representative of the University at the banquet. 
 " It is n't quite fair, gentlemen : it is n't quite fair," 
 began Mr. President Quincy, as the storm of applause 
 called him from his seat ; and then he went on Avith a 
 speech so apt, so witty, so running over with humor, 
 that the genial reflection of its fun was cast over the 
 whole remainder of the evening. He said, in regard 
 to the idea of his making a speech in such a youthful 
 assembly, " I felt like giving myself the same advice 
 that Swift gave to the man. Said the man, ' I have 
 set up for a wit.' ' Well,' rej^lied Swift, ' I Avould now 
 advise you to sit down. ' " A man of threescore and 
 ten, he said, should no more be expected to make an 
 after-dinner speech than to dance a hornpipe. It re- 
 quires Avit as Avell as Avisdom and abundance of imagi- 
 nation ; the speech "should be strcAvn Avith roses such 
 as are groAvn on the sides of Parnassus ; there should 
 
THE DICKENS DINNER OF 1842. 57 
 
 be alternate layers of the utile and the dulce ; and on 
 the top of all there should be a layer of sugared senti- 
 ment." Such a comjDound reqmres both memory and 
 fancy ; and an old man has neither. " To an old man 
 Memory is an arrant jade, and she is in no way deli- 
 cate in letting him know that, like the rest of her sex, 
 she gives young men the preference." But he had 
 consented to come among the young men this time at 
 their urgent solicitation, feeling a curiosity regarding 
 the composition of the meeting "much as Sam Weller 
 did when he was invited to dine upon veal-pie, — ' A 
 weal-pie is a werry nice thing, when you know the 
 lady as made it, and are quite sure it ain't kittens.' " 
 But none of Mr. Quincy's jokes created so much fun 
 as an accident which befell him. As he drew his re- 
 marks to 'a close, he fell into a graver strain, and pres- 
 ently said, "I will conclude by giving you a toast, 
 if my treacherous memory will so far serve me. I will 
 give you, Genius^ — in — in — in — " But here the 
 venerable gentleman's memory did desert him ; and, 
 after striving a moment or so to catch the fugitive 
 words, he looked around pleasantly, and said, " Gen- 
 tlemen, a good memory is a great thing; and I will 
 give you all a piece of advice which it may be useful 
 to you to remember : when you are not certain that 
 you can keep a thing in your memory, be sure to keep 
 it in your pocket." And then, as if to enforce his 
 precept by example, Mr. Quincy did draw from his 
 own pocket a scrajD of i3aper, and read from the manu- 
 script the toast which had eluded him. This set the 
 company in a roar : and then Mr. Quincy, Jr., found 
 a text approj)riate to the occasion concerning Mr. 
 Sam Weller and his father, which set them into 
 another roar ; so that it was some time before they 
 were sufficiently recovered to listen to the next 
 3* 
 
58 SOCIAL AND LITEEARY TOPICS. 
 
 speaker. This was Mr. George S. Hillard, who took 
 up the subject of English literature in an admirable 
 address to which no summary can do justice. Mr. 
 Thomas C. Grattan, one of whose jokes we have 
 quoted above, followed, and, like Mr. Quincy, deemed 
 it necessary to apologize for being present at a young 
 men's party. He said he had " thought of laying 
 some ' flattering unction ' to his hair and whiskers, to 
 change their rather equivocal tints," and so, deceiving 
 his juvenile friends, to turn Papanti's assembly-room 
 into another " Do-the-boys Hall " ; but when he heard 
 who was to be tl.Q president of the evening, he saw 
 " that the very head and front of oiiending was his as 
 well," and thought he would be safe in serving under 
 the banner which Mr. Quincy, Jr., hung out. To 
 this sally the president retorted by quoting Sam 
 Weller, that it was "addin' insult to injury, as the 
 parrot said ven they not only took him from his native 
 land, but made him talk the English language after- 
 wards." Mr. Richard H. Dana, Jr., was then called 
 upon, and made only a brief response, as being " among 
 the youngest of those present." A requisition was 
 next made upon Dr. Holmes, who, "without a single 
 apology," favored the company with the song to the 
 air of " Gramachree," written for the occasion, which 
 appears in his published works, and in which 
 
 *' Dewy blossoms wave 
 
 Alike o'er Juliet's storied tomb 
 And Nelly's nameless grave." 
 
 Mr. Washington Allston was the next gentleman up, 
 but spoke in so low a tone, having been recently ill, 
 that the rejDorters could not catch a sentence except 
 the concluding toast : " Tlie Prophetic Raven, who 
 spoke to posterity when he said ' Never say die ' to 
 Barnaby Rudge." 
 
THE DICKENS DINNER OF 1842. 59 
 
 The merchants of Boston were honored in the next 
 sentiment ; and Mr. J. Thomas Stevenson responded 
 in their behalf, in a speech bristling with puns, and 
 closing with a punning toast concerning the " right 
 hand of the law raised for no sinister purpose," which 
 of course brought up Mr. Franklin Dexter. He, de- 
 claring himself " more punned against than punning," 
 spoke only soberly and briefly. 
 
 A letter was then read from Mr. William H. Pres- 
 cott, bearing date at his house in Bedford Street, and 
 excusinoj his absence on account of the irritable state 
 of his eyes, which would be sure to suffer fi'om the ex- 
 citement and heat of such an occasion. Mr. George 
 Bancroft was present, however, to respond for both to 
 " The Historians of America," in a speech in which he 
 took occasion to express his great admiration for the 
 works of Lord B}Ton, and closed with a toast to the 
 memory of the poet. 
 
 In introducing the next speaker, the Hon. Jonathan 
 Chapman, the president ingeniously quoted a passage 
 from " Pickwick " concerning a certain calamitous ride 
 of the members of the club, and gave, " The horse 
 that Mr. Pickwick could not get rid of, and the mayor 
 that nobody ever wants to get rid of." Mayor Chap- 
 man followed up the vein, so popular with many of 
 the speakers of the evening, by infomdng the com- 
 pany that he had been called upon that day by the 
 veritable Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller, who came to 
 express a fear lest the editor of their doings should be 
 utterly extinguished by the attentions showered upon 
 him, and killed with kindness. The fancy was quaintly 
 managed in a narrative of some length, perhaps the 
 best thing in which was an observation of Mr. Pick- 
 wick : " I stand in a peculiar relation to the young 
 man, one never known before ; indeed, in a truly Pick- 
 
60 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 wickian relation, namely, that he first created me and 
 
 then I made him." Mr. Stevenson then remarked 
 
 that, whether Mr. Dickens was to be extinguished by 
 
 attentions or not, it was hoped he would not be put 
 
 out by anything taking place on the present occasion. 
 
 The next incident of the evening was a song by Mr. 
 
 J. M. Field, then well known as " Straws," and whose 
 
 daughter has become known to the readers of this 
 
 generation over the signature of " Straws, Junior." 
 
 This song purported to be " The wery last Obser- 
 
 wations of Weller, Senior," was set to a popular air, and 
 
 made a great hit, being at once placed on sale at the 
 
 music-stores. We make room for two of the most 
 
 telling stanzas : — 
 
 " They '11 eat you, Boz, in Boston ! and 
 They '11 eat you in New York ! 
 
 Wherever caught, they '11 play a bles- 
 sed game of knife and fork ! 
 
 There's prayers in Boston now, that Ca- 
 nard's biler may not burst; 
 
 Because their savage hope it is, 
 Dear Boz, to eat you first! 
 
 " I '11 tell you vot you does, Boz, 
 
 Since go, it seems, you vill : 
 If you vould not expose, Boz, 
 
 Yourself their maws to fill. 
 Just ' Marryatt' or ' TroUope,' Boz, 
 
 Within your pocket hem ; 
 For blow me if I ever thinks 
 
 They 'II ever swallow them ! " 
 
 This must have brought the evening on to a late 
 hour, for the subsequent proceedings were rapid. Mr. 
 Richard H. Dana, Sr., spoke briefly, the point of 
 his remarks being a direct application to Mr. Dickens 
 of a question quoted from Mr. Bob Sawyer, but we 
 hardly think original Avith that gentleman, " If he 
 would take something to drink." Rev. Dr. Palfrey 
 reiterated the arguments in favor of an international 
 
THE DICKENS DINNER OF 1842. 61 
 
 copyright; and Judge Warren spoke on the same point 
 and in favor of the same end. Dr. Jacob Bigelow had 
 something witty to say, as a medical man, about the 
 newly imported medicine coming among us in Pick- 
 wick i^apers, which need not be shaken before taken, 
 because those who took it were sure to shake 
 themselves ; and which sent people into convulsions, 
 happily without serious consequences. The Rev. Caleb 
 Stetson told how a child had once assured him of his 
 personal resemblance to Mr. Pickwick. Other brief 
 speeches were made, which are not fully reported, by 
 Mr. William H. Gardiner, Mr. Clifford of New Bedford, 
 Mr. J. C. Park, and Mr. George F. Minns. Letters of 
 apology were read from Washington Irving at Sunny- 
 side ; fi'om Judge Story at Washington ; from Rev. Dr. 
 William Ellery Channing ; from Rev. Dr. Moses Stuart 
 at Andover ; from Mr. John Neal at Portland, ex- 
 pressing his esteem for "Dickens the reformer"; from 
 Mr. Charles Sprague ; from IST. P. Willis at Glenmary, 
 with a toast in honor of " Master Humphrey's Clock, 
 — wound up to run with the stars " ; and from 
 Louis Gaylord Clark, with a sentiment to " the health 
 of Charles Sprague, our poet of the heart, who, amid 
 the cares and turmoils of active life, keeps his holier 
 affections and better thoughts unspotted from the 
 world." It Avas near one o'clock when the president 
 and the guest of the evening withdrew ; but the faith- 
 fril reporter informs us that Mr. J. T. Stevenson took the 
 chair, and that a few more songs and volunteer senti- 
 ments intervened to make a night of it before the 
 jolly company broke up. 
 
62 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Meist die every day, in all grades of life, and com- 
 paratively small circles are stirred by their departm-e. 
 Their places may seem great ; yet the world gets along 
 without them very easily, and presently they are 
 hardly missed. But to-day the world is not as it was 
 yesterday ; every heart feels a blow, every eye recog- 
 nizes a gap ; the people of two great nations have 
 suffered a bereavement which none of this generation 
 will ever cease to feel keenly as a personal loss. 
 Charles Dickens is dead. Suddenly as the news came 
 to us in America, even more abruptly than the shock 
 itself fell upon the stricken family, the first instinct 
 was to disbelieve the terrible news. But confirmation 
 and details soon left no room for doubt ; and men and 
 w^omen throughout all the English-speaking countries 
 felt such a pang of regret as will follow the loss of no 
 monarch, no statesman, no warrior, no author, whom 
 he has left behind him. 
 
 Dickens was not an old man ; but as we look back 
 over his life, it seems as if it had been a long one. 
 In fact, he began his work very young, and worked 
 very busily and very hard. He was born in 1812, at 
 Portsmouth, the son of a naval clerk. Of his child- 
 hood and boyhood there is very little printed record. 
 He had no liberal education, though from the mention 
 which may be gathered here and there of " certain 
 tragedies achieved at the mature age of eight or ten, 
 and represented with great applause to overflowing 
 nurseries," and of the " not very robust child with his 
 head full of Partridge, Strap, Tom Pipes, and Sancho 
 Panzn," we may guess that the tastes of his life were 
 of early development. They were not sufficiently 
 
CHARLES DICKEXS. 63 
 
 marked, however, to prevent an attempt of his father 
 to article the kid to an attorney, — an episode to which 
 we are asked to attribute the familiarity with some 
 phases of the legal profession to be seen in nearly all 
 his novels. But it may be remarked that an almost 
 equal familiarity is displayed with other branches of 
 life ; and, were the records to be swept away, as in the 
 case of Shakespeare, the analyzing critics of the future 
 would have no difficulty in proving Mr. Dickens's ap- 
 prenticeship to a score or two of avocations. He had 
 not long passed the gates of manhood when he began 
 to tend toward the ways in which his feet were born 
 to walk. He entered literature through the stubbly 
 path of short-hand writing in the semce of a morning 
 newspaper ; but soon he gave such signs of a strong 
 hand in his sketches of London life, contributed to a 
 daily journal and a monthly magazine, that the happy 
 prescience of a publisher selected him for the job-work 
 of writing a serial story to fit some comic pictures. 
 " The Pickwick Papers " was the result ; and no sud- 
 den fame of Byron or the author of " TVaverley " can 
 parallel the blaze of popularity which shone upon the 
 book and its author before the rambling work was 
 completed. Its characters were the talk of all Eng- 
 land as the numbers appeared ; and though the criti- 
 cism was not all friendly, and there were many weak 
 spots in the fabric, when the last number was issued 
 the world was ready to bow down and acknowledge a 
 new humorist in this yomig man of six-and-twenty. 
 The book showed only one side of his genius ; but 
 already " Oliver Twist " was coming out in the same 
 fi*agmentary way to which the author ever afterwards 
 adhered, exhibiting a veiy diflerent phase of the same 
 matchless power. We need not rehearse the biogi-a- 
 phy, the principal incidents of which mark new experi- 
 
64 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 ences of delight on the part of all our readers ; the mar- 
 vellously swift succession of novels, which left hardly a 
 month for many years without its instalment of pleas- 
 ure ; the inestimable service to many great reforms ; 
 the brief deviation into another sphere of service in 
 the establishment of the " Daily News " ; the brilliant 
 episode of the Christmas stories ; the sad disclosure 
 of domestic unhappiness in a life which seemed to de- 
 serve so much of the richest joys of home and love ; 
 the splendidly successful experiment of the readings ; 
 the two visits to this country ; the ready aid given to 
 a host of enterprises of charity and education ; the 
 wealth gradually amassed and liberally used ; the last 
 unfinished novel. All is too familiar to need minute 
 rehearsal ; and now the day has come to which he 
 looked forward as he closed his last completed story 
 five years ago : he has " joarted company with his read- 
 ers forever;" and there " is written agaiust his life the 
 two words," wdiich he that day penned thoughtfully, — 
 " the end." It is something to be thankful for on his 
 behalf, that the end came painlessly, bearing him away 
 without the interval of suffering, the anguish of part- 
 ing, which is the lot of the mass of humanity, but Avith 
 the unconscious departure vouchsafed also to Thack- 
 eray, to Hawthorne, to Irving, to Macaulay, and to 
 many of the brightest minds of our day. 
 
 This is not the time to estimate calmly the rank 
 which the verdict of the future will give to Charles 
 Dickens as an artist. He Avill undoubtedly be valued 
 chiefly for his humor, which, in its richness, its origi- 
 nality, its breadth of range, is worthy to be compared 
 with that of Shakespeare. If in the other walks of his 
 art there were limitations, if his rhetoric was somewhat 
 florid, if his prose was apt to become blank verse, if his 
 drama was inclined to melodrama, if his pathos showed 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 65 
 
 a tendency to sentimentalism, if the great depths of 
 passion were very rarely reached, there were at least no 
 bounds to the infinite variety or the abundant felicity 
 of his jDowers as a humorist. There was as delicate a 
 touch in Goldsmith, as graphic a pencil in Fielding ; 
 but we cannot speak of either of them in comparison, 
 when we remember but a tithe of the great multitude 
 of personages who have leaped from the pen of Dickens 
 into the memories, the affections, the familiar language 
 of the world, each one stamped with an individuality 
 I^erfect and unmistakable. And it is especially to be 
 set down to the lionor of the man and the praise of 
 the artist, that, writing in a language in which almost 
 every humorist has been gross, living in an age Avhen 
 even the poets have dabbled in impurity, and emulated 
 each other by j^lunging more deej^ly into foulness, his 
 books are as clean as new-fallen snow. 
 
 As a literary artist, Mr. Dickens's j^ower of throwing 
 his whole energy into his characterization, his prodi- 
 gious observation, and his care in detail w^ere his most 
 remarkable traits. He lived his books. When he 
 Avrote the stormy " Tale of Two Cities," he " so far 
 verified what is said and done in its pages, that he cer- 
 tainly did and suffered it all himself." As he completed 
 a book, he seemed to himself to be " dismissing some 
 portion of himself into the shadowy world when the 
 crowd of the creatures of his brain w^ere going from 
 him forever." When he had written the chapter de- 
 scribing the death of little Paul Dombej', he wandered 
 for a whole winter night, restlessly and with a heavy 
 heart, about the streets of Paris. To the acuteness of 
 his observation every page of his novels bears witness. 
 His eyes seemed to photograph the scenes of cities, 
 the traits of people casually met, the ways of animals, 
 and his memory held and reproduced them all. There 
 
66 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 is not a character in all his books that is not drawn 
 from life ; and if the color is filled in so warmly that 
 Mrs. Nickleby does not know herself, and the brothers 
 Cheeryble have no suspicion of their identity, the 
 skill of the artist is no less great. To the care of his 
 workmanshi]3 his biographer must testify. From the 
 time when he went down into Yorkshire in a bleak 
 winter to look for a school for an imaginary orphan, 
 and was warned away by a real John Browdie to the 
 night last October when he explored the opium dens 
 of London to obtain material for the opening of " Ed- 
 win Drood," reproducing in the first number word for 
 word the very dialogue to which he listened, he al- 
 ways studied from the life. And though the his- 
 torical novel was not his forte, his tales of the French 
 Revolution and the Gordon Riots were based ui:>on as 
 careful study, and were as faithful in detail, as any- 
 thing done by Scott or Thackeray. 
 
 Of tlie private character of Mr. Dickens as a man, 
 his own friends will speak in the proper time and 
 way. He was never the hon vivant of the pojDular 
 notion, but prudent, abstemious, temperate ; an in- 
 domitable worker, a systematic man of afiairs, keen 
 and ready in business, generous and oi^en-handed, 
 brilliant in conversation, incomparably happy in the 
 oratory of festival occasions, the warmest and most 
 sympathetic friend, faithful to every duty of life, 
 with a rounded character which drew to him such a 
 multitude of i^ersonal friends as have gathered about 
 very few men in any age. 
 
 The crudest reference to Charles Dickens would be 
 incomplete without a reference to that genius as an 
 actor which was only less than his genius as a creator 
 because it appealed to a smaller public in his own day, 
 and leaves nothing behind for future generations to 
 
OUR PORTRAIT STATUES. 67 
 
 enjoy. To those who never saw the reader at his 
 desk, no words can convey a conception of his power ; 
 and of the multitude who gained an appreciation of 
 it by Mr. Dickens's visit here two years ago, very few 
 can need a reminder in words to call up the memory 
 of that lithe figure under the '' garish lights," or of 
 those quick, jjicturesque gestures, those flitting expres- 
 sions of feature, those sympathetic tones, which put a 
 character before us as no device of the stage, with all 
 the accessories of paint and costume, could do it, and 
 painted a personage by a wave of the hand, an into- 
 nation, or the curving of an eyebrow. All who have 
 read " David Coj^perfield " can mourn sincerely for 
 the death of the great author ; but only those have 
 tested the full measure of the genius now snatched 
 fi'om the earth who have sat in tears and laughter 
 under the spell of the author's impersonation of the 
 " Christmas Carol." 
 
 OUR PORTRAIT STATUES. 
 
 "The statue is but newly fixed." 
 
 Winte7'''s Tale. 
 
 " Beauty will not come at the call of a legislature, nor will it repeat 
 in England or America its history in Greece." — Emerson. 
 
 If material encouragement could insure the devel- 
 opment of a branch of art, we should surely rise to a 
 pre-eminence among the nations of the earth and of 
 history in portrait sculpture. It may well be doubted 
 if the artists of Greece or Rome were ever so busy in 
 this class of tasks for any equal period as American 
 artists have been within the last five-and-twenty years. 
 
68. SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 The patronage is ample, the stimulant of that fervent 
 approval which may pass for fame is not wanting, and 
 the prices paid are enormous, compared with any 
 standard which may be chosen. We pay, for exam- 
 ple, treble or quadruple the rates which European 
 governments offer for original statues ; and our sculp- 
 tors work in the same marble, hire the same assistants, 
 have every facility open to the artists of Italy and 
 France. As to the patronage, there seems no limit 
 to it. If a great man dies, there is an immediate crop 
 of orders for statues of him. If a man rises to fame 
 or wealth, his friends or his wife serve as a convenient 
 stalking-horse for his vanity by insisting upon at least 
 a bust. If a man seems in a fair way to earn an in- 
 famous name by corrupt conduct in public station, 
 the first step he takes in self-defence is to procure a 
 statue in the suggestive purity of marble. If a young 
 girl shows a taste for modelling and a tact for lobby- 
 ing, a complacent Congress votes her a commission 
 for a full-length statue of one of the most difficult 
 subjects, and sends her to Europe to execute the 
 work. Even architecture, in its earliest infancy with 
 us, is beginning to call in the service of sculpture for 
 decoration ; and still the portrait statue is preferred 
 to the ideal. 
 
 In glancing at the results of all this lavishness, we 
 are not called upon to notice the new figure of Abra- 
 ham Lincoln by Miss Vinnie Ream, Avhicli we have 
 not seen, or the statue of Mr. Tweed of New York, 
 which we believe is not yet in actual existence. We 
 speak only of works of art worthy of the name. 
 And in a general survey of results we r.re inclined to 
 think that unbiassed criticism would admit that our 
 art has accomplished more of real value in this line 
 of i^ortrait statues than in any other. There may be 
 
OUR rORTRAIT STATUES. 69 
 
 a doubt, or something stronger than a doubt, whether 
 The Greek Slave, or Zenobia, or Bierstadt's enormous 
 and showy canvases will very deeply imjn-ess the next 
 generation ; but there does not seem room for ques- 
 tion that the Beethoven of Crawford in the Boston 
 Music Hall will be treasured more and more dearly as 
 the years pass, and will have an incalculable educat- 
 ing and refining influence on the Bostonians of ages 
 to come. It is so admirable as a statue, it so triumphs 
 over the stumbling-blocks of costume, and it so thor- 
 oughly embodies the traits of the great composer, — 
 the mental and spiritual characteristics of the man as 
 well as his external aspect, — that we cannot but think 
 well of the possibilities of art in the country which has 
 produced such a work, though the hand which fash- 
 ioned it is cold in the grave. And the same lamented 
 artist has left in Richmond a still more admirable and 
 thoroughly American memorial in the monument to 
 Washington, and other worthies of Virginia. The 
 equestrian statue of Washington which surmounts the 
 structure is a most excellent piece of work, stamped 
 with genius in every part, and only marred in effect 
 by a slight inadequacy of the base to sustain such a 
 figure. It lifts the soul of the spectator, and brings 
 back, not only the Father of his Country, but the time 
 in which he lived, and the grandeur of the cause for 
 which he fought. Such of the surrounding figures as 
 are from Crawford's models are in good harmony 
 with the main work. The statue of Patrick Henry 
 in the very act of passionate oratory is a brilliant 
 victory of audacity, Avhich should teach the sculptor 
 that there is nothing which may not be done in his 
 art if it be only done with skill. About the j^oorest 
 parts of this noble work of art, added in the recent 
 completion of the elaborate design, there is nothing 
 
70 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 SO absolutely bad as to offend the eye. One would 
 imagine that it would have an elevating, refining in- 
 fluence on the life, the thought, the moral tone of the 
 city in which it stands; and so doubtless it does, 
 intangibly and invisibly ; but when Richmond went 
 into rebellion, instead of striving to dignify the hour 
 by homage to these Virginia rebels here immortalized 
 in bronze, she could think of nothing better than to 
 seat a grinning slave on the shoulders of Washington ; 
 and throughout the war the monument was probably 
 never regarded with such genuine respect as when the 
 Northern soldiers poured into the city, and gathered 
 round it in silent admiration, and when the newly- 
 freed negroes chose it as the rallying-point for their 
 meetings of jubilee. 
 
 It is unfortunate that the national capital should 
 display such sorry specimens of art, since it is there 
 that foreign critics look for our best achievements, and 
 there only that citizens of different j^arts of our own 
 country meet on a common footing, free from any in- 
 citement to local jealousies. But it is a consequence 
 of our way of doing things, which gives to men like 
 Mr. Clark Mills a vantage simj)ly from being on the 
 ground, and thrusting their rearing horses upon the 
 sight of every passenger who approaches the Capitol. 
 It follows, therefore, that, in any survey of American 
 portrait sculpture intended to be comforting to our 
 self-esteem, we must not pause for an instant to look 
 at the careering steeds and fantastic statesmen who 
 constantly pop out upon the vision from amid the 
 shrubbery of the squares, and in the corridors of the 
 public buildings. The half-naked Washington with 
 the sword is the most offensive of all, and fully meets 
 the assaults of artists and critics upon the costume of 
 our age, calling up Hawthorne's remark on modern 
 
OUR PORTRAIT STATUES. 71 
 
 nude statuary in " The Marble Faun " : "I am weary, 
 even more than I am ashamed, of seemg such things. 
 Nowadays people are as good as born in their clothes, 
 and there is practically not a nude human being in 
 existence." 
 
 The arrangement of the costume of Launt Thomp- 
 son's bronze statue of General Sedgvv'ick, at West 
 Point, would have pleased Ilavvthorne. The loose 
 blouse of the Sixth Army Corps and the high cavalry- 
 boots are a thousand-fold more effective than the tra- 
 ditional toga and sandals which are so absurdly made 
 to do duty in many of our statues. This work and 
 Quincy Ward's Shakespeare — judging the latter by 
 the small plaster model, for the statue itself is not fin- 
 ished — deserve a high rank for their artistic concep- 
 tion and execution. We are warranted in looking to 
 both these sculptors for many more works of enduring 
 merit. 
 
 The newest addition to our stock of portrait sculp- 
 ture, and that which makes the general subject an ap- 
 propriate theme for the comments of town-talk at this 
 time, is the marble statue of John A. Andrew, by 
 Thomas Ball, which has been placed in the State 
 House in Boston. ISTow, Boston has not been uniform- 
 ly lucky in her ventures in this direction. With the 
 best intentions, there have come, in several instances, 
 the worst results ; and ready as the residents of the 
 city usually are to stand stoutly by their local institu- 
 tions, and to proclaim their geese the most swanlike 
 of swans, there are no Bostonians who will confess to 
 being proud of the clumsy Webster with his cruelly 
 inappropriate fasces^ — signifying that magisterial 
 authority and honor which Webster craved, but never 
 gained ; the crude and ungainly Horace Mann ; the 
 granite Hamilton, swathed like an infant or a mum- 
 
72 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 my; or the ungraceful image of the ever-graceful 
 Everett, who might be holding uji his hand to catch 
 the jokes and sneers, so many have been hurled at the 
 statue by the public which respected and loved the 
 man. In the other scale of the balance are the grand 
 Beethoven w^hich we have mentioned ; the somewhat 
 realistic but still powerful equestrian Washington of 
 Ball, in the Public Garden, the prosaic and yet some- 
 how agreeable and deservedly popular Franklin ; the 
 worthier work of Story in the portrayal of his father ; 
 and the other statues which, like that, deserved to be 
 transferred to a place more familiar to the public eye 
 than the " dim, religious light" of the chapel at Mount 
 Auburn. We may not pause to mention the beauti- 
 ful memorial statue by Richard S. Greenough, lately 
 placed in the hall of the Latin School, or the group 
 which commemorates the discovery of etherization, 
 since we have restricted ourselves to portrait, as dis- 
 tinguished from ideal, sculpture. 
 
 It seems to us that the statue of the War Governor, 
 though not above criticism, is to be added to the list 
 of successful work. The artist has had a difficulty to 
 contend with in the figure of the subject hardly less 
 serious than confronts those who have to deal with 
 the gaunt angularity of Lincoln ; and he has had also 
 the ever-vexatious problem of clothes. He has very 
 happily conquered the first, idealizing slightly the 
 rotund outlines of the well-known form so that grace 
 is attained, and yet preserving its essential character- 
 istics sufficiently for all purposes of likeness. In 
 meeting the latter, he has been aided by the habit of 
 Governor Andrew — who had ever a taste for the 
 imposing and picturesque — of wearing a graceful 
 military cloak ; so that there was no need to borrow a 
 garment for the sake of getting the necessary ampli- 
 
OUK PORTRAIT STATUES. 73 
 
 tilde of drapery. So far all is well ; but in the greater 
 task of the trousers the sculptor has not vanquished 
 the tailor. The apparel thrusts itself upon the eye ; 
 it is not subordinate to the man within. But partial 
 failure here is only ftiilure where few indeed have won 
 success and we cannot but think it is better than the 
 subterfuge of wrapping the legs in impossible swad- 
 dling-clothes, which has been adopted in some of the 
 statues we have mentioned. It is when we come to 
 the head; that we appreciate the full merit of the 
 work. It is not only faithful portraiture, — always 
 Mr. Ball's strong point, — but there is something bet- 
 ter than literal likeness about it — an incorporation 
 into the marble of the noble nature of the man — which 
 is the highest achievement of art. John A. Andrew's 
 was not a coldly immaculate character. He had a fiery 
 temper, he made mistakes, he erred sometimes in judg- 
 ment of measures and of men. But there was nothing 
 ignoble about him, nothing mean. He never thought 
 of himself first and the State second. His heart was 
 always hot with patriotism, and tender with charity 
 to all men. He never bated a jot from principle for 
 the sake of joopularity, and more than once breasted 
 the current of public opinion. All these traits we see, 
 or think we see, suggested in the fine, clear-cut face, 
 the firm lips and delicate nostril and grand forehead, 
 the symmetrical shape and dignified pose of the head, 
 especially when it is seen in profile. There is, too, a 
 glimpse of the personality of the subject, as well as the 
 skill of the sculptor, in the hands, — so admirably 
 combining beauty and strength and delicacy of tex- 
 ture that one feels that the grasp of such a hand was 
 warm and earnest, its blow direct and irresistible. 
 Altogether the statue moves the spectator to hearty 
 liking; and we feel sure that it will grow into the 
 
 4 
 
74 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 popular heart, as it stands close by where the govern- 
 or toiled and thought through five exhausting years, 
 surrounded by the tattered flags of the thousands of 
 Massachusetts boys who, like him, gave their utroost 
 effort for nationality and liberty, and many of whom, 
 like him, sealed the sacrifice with death. 
 
 ROBERT COLLYER. 
 
 ** A man he was to all the country dear.'* 
 
 Goldsmith. 
 "And the hearts of the people where he passed 
 Swayed as the reeds sway in the blast, 
 Under the spell of a voice which took 
 In its compass the flow of Siloa's brook, 
 And the mystical chime of the bells of gold 
 On the ephod's hem of the priest of old." 
 
 Whittier. 
 
 The time has gone by when the reputation of the 
 preacher was merely local, like that of the doctor and 
 the schoolmaster. A generation or two ago the most 
 eminent pulpit orator was known only in his own 
 county. He made the exchanges which his people 
 grudgingly permitted in the towns clustering about 
 his own parish ; and beyond the radius which his stout 
 but not showy horse could travel in a day his name 
 was an empty sound. Such pilgrimages as that of 
 Whitefield, who traversed the nation from Georgia to 
 Massachusetts, and in whose route 
 
 •'The flood of emotion, deep and strong, 
 Troubled the land as it swept along, 
 But left a result of holier lives," 
 
 were rare and memorable exceptions. But now we 
 
ROBERT COLLYER. 75 
 
 have not a few preachers of national renown, whose 
 characteristics are commented upon from the Missis- 
 sippi to the Athmtic, if not from one ocean to the 
 other. Mr. Beecher has built up in Brooklyn a fame 
 so broad and strong that whoever visits the metropo- 
 lis, let his creed be what it may, come he from Kansas 
 or Constantinople, is very sure to give his first Sun- 
 day to Plymouth Church, where a perfume of geni- 
 ality, almost of hilarity, pervades the atmosphere, 
 where children play fearlessly on the pulpit stairs, 
 Vv'Iiere the preacher makes gentle jokes now and then, 
 yet where the listener's heart is sure to be moved by 
 evidences which lie cannot question of earnest devo- 
 tion, of sincere faitli, and of a big heart full of love 
 for man and for his Maker, beuting responsive in 
 preacher and congregation. Other clergymen do not 
 exert such a powerful magnetic influence, drawing 
 their hearers from all over the land ; nor is it needed. 
 Exchanges are made over distances limited only by 
 the breadth of the continent. Last year a Boston 
 clergyman and the most popular preacher of San 
 Francisco filled each other's pulpits for the Sundays 
 of a month, meeting and passing in the gorges of the 
 Rocky Mountains far too swiftly for the dignified 
 greeting, the comparison of texts, and the friendly 
 mug of flip Avhicli the New England pastor of the 
 olden time, in similar circumstances, used to enjoy at 
 the half-way tavern. So the author of " A Man with- 
 out a Country" and the author of " Nature and Life" 
 more recently made a like barter, to the great satis- 
 fiiction of themselves and their congregations. As 
 for the leading preachers of New York, they make 
 nothing of a flitting every few wrecks to Boston or to 
 Philadelj^hia for a Sunday. Then, almost all ministers 
 at some time in their lives enter the lyccum circuit, 
 
76 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 in order to obey the Divine injunction, and make to 
 themselves friends of the mammon of unrigliteous- 
 ness in the readiest way open to men of brains in 
 America. But even those who do not venture out- 
 side tlie pulpit at all, by the system of exchanges Ave 
 have mentioned gradually extend their fame and in- 
 fluence to the people of all the great cities, at least 
 to those inside their own denominations; and thus it 
 is that the name of Robert Collyer, whose noble elo- 
 quence is the dearest jewel in the crown of Cliicago, 
 will kindle a flush of enthusiasm on the faces of 
 thousands of men and women who never saw the 
 busy, precocious, egotistical, thriving city by the 
 Western lake. 
 
 It is to be said, in the first j^lace, of Robert Collyer, 
 as of Henry Ward Beecher, that he belongs in the 
 pulpit. An active mind does many things outside 
 its vocation. Mr. Beecher has lectured hundreds of 
 times, has edited various newspapers, has dabbled in 
 politics, has written delightful little essays by the 
 bushel, has written, or tried to write, a serial novel. 
 Mr. Collyer has done some of these things, and be- 
 sides has made, we believe, many excellent horse-shoes. 
 But it was the true gravitation that drew both these 
 men to the real work of their lives ; and no one can 
 claim any thorough knowledge or appreciation of 
 their traits who has not sat under the shadow of their 
 pulpits. Mr. Beecher, especially, addresses every week 
 an immense audience who never saw his face ; but 
 not one of them knows the best half of the man. So 
 with Mr. Collyer : we dare say many who read these 
 lines may turn to the next published words from his 
 pen, and find there little depth of thought or elegance 
 of expression, who yet, if they could once experience 
 the magnetism of his presence, Avould find those same 
 
ROBERT COLLYER. 77 
 
 words to sing with the music of a j^oem of that other 
 northern-born Robert, whose character the Chicasfo 
 preacher has so fondly and beautifully pictured in one 
 of his lectures. 
 
 A hearty, bluflP, white-haired man,- of burly frame and 
 large, kindly features, who looks as if he never knew 
 the meaning of sickness or of languor, rises in the 
 pulpit. His prayers are short and simple; there is 
 nothing in his reading of Scripture or hymn to attract 
 attention as out of the common, except that he looks 
 always " up and not down," as a colaborer of his in 
 the same field advises, aiming his words at the chan- 
 delier or the organ-loft instead of at the pews below 
 him, and that now and then a word has a curious broad- 
 ness and bluntness of pronunciation, such as belongs to 
 not one of the several American dialects. But there 
 is nothing marked enough to excite the special atten- 
 tion of the tired church-goer, wearied with the cares 
 of the week and familiar with the ways of many admi- 
 rable preachers, until the sermon begins. 
 
 The speaker sets out as if he were in a prodi- 
 gious hurry, and, from text to conclusion, goes on 
 with a rush, pausing nowhere, dwelling upon noth- 
 ing, never hesitating for a word or to find a lost 
 place in his manuscript, never stop2oing to beat out 
 the text while his thoughts and energies rally for 
 a new start. His only difficulty seems to be that 
 too many things crowd upon him to be said in 
 the little time at his command. But before he has 
 gone fir on his swift journey, the dullest listener is 
 aroused, and " cannot choose but hear." How earnest 
 he is ! How far from shouting, how gentle and con- 
 ciliatory in manner, yet how he moves his hearer to 
 catch every word as if it were a pearl ! How sunny 
 is his face, how tender his voice, as he speaks of some 
 
78 SOCIAL AND LITEKARY TOPICS. 
 
 natural beauty, — the daisy or the, heather or the 
 ocean! And here we hit upon one of the most salient 
 traits of the man, in his affection for the little beauties 
 of this beautiful world, — never forced, never over-de- 
 monstrative, never dwelling in detailed and minute 
 description, but breathing through his every utterance 
 and lurking in his every thought. It is there, bounding 
 through his pulses, just as it leaps along in the lines 
 of Jean Ingelow more than in those of any other 
 poet of this generation, so that you know she is think- 
 ing of daisies and buttercups, linnets and hedge-spar- 
 rows, though she may not once mention them from 
 the beginning to the end of the ballad. Robert Coll- 
 yer cannot speak of the blue sky without your seeing, 
 or seeming to see, the grand dome of heaven, warm, 
 lovely, and illimitable, above ; and, what is more, when 
 you think of the man afterward, you seem to see it 
 again in exquisite beauty, like the one i:)erfect day of 
 many remembered Junes. 
 
 Closely akin to this is the warm sympathy of the 
 preacher with human nature, his love for what is good 
 in it under all its flaws and frailties. There is no 
 thunder in his voice, nothing terrible in his creed. 
 He is pre-eminently the discij^le of a cheerful Chris- 
 tianity. Let him discourse upon sin as he may, one 
 leaves the church thinking, not of the hideousness of 
 sin, but of the beauty of virtue ; not abasing himself in 
 the dust, but seeking some poor brother whom he may 
 lift up out of it ; with a warmer hand-clasp for every 
 friend, a readier forgiveness for every hurt. The ser- 
 mon rushes on like a mountain torrent, bearing illus- 
 trations snatched from every shore, from literature, 
 from travel, from every-day life, from a rich personal 
 experience of infinite variety. No one sobs, no one 
 laughs ; but every face ripples with a smile, every eye 
 
ALEXANDRE DUMAS. 79 
 
 glistens with unconscious tears. The Yorkshire bun- 
 is forgotten ; nobody has an inclination to criticise 
 manner or matter ; the congregation of strangers feels 
 like a family party. Then the end is reached ; and the 
 preacher stops, not because his theme is exhausted, 
 but because his thne is up ; and the auditor feels, and 
 may prove by actual test if he pleases, that the orator 
 is just as fresh and full of electric force for an after- 
 noon or an evening sermon as if he had passed the 
 morning on the sofa in his study. 
 
 ALEXANDRE DUMAS. 
 
 "Ah, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, you are a magnificent trio! 
 .... I think of the prodigal banquets to which this Luculhis of a man 
 has invited me, with thanks and wonder." — Thackeray's Round- 
 about PajJers. 
 
 Had it occurred a year ago, the death of Alexan- 
 dre Dumas would have been town-talk in Paris for 
 nine days, and then for nine days more. The airy, 
 gay, luxurious, wicked old fellow had furnished so 
 much pleasant entertainment to the wicked, luxurious, 
 gay, airy city that everybody would have been moved 
 to chat about him; and his life was so full, not of 
 heroism, not of instruction, but of the material for gos- 
 sip which Paris relished, that the journals would have 
 been busy with him for weeks; and the boulevards and 
 the cafes would have echoed many stories, true and. 
 false, not to be printed even in Parisian journals. But 
 now, if perchance the pigeon which bears the news un- 
 der its wing loses its way, or flies within range of a 
 needle-gun, Paris will not even know that he is dead ; 
 
80 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 or perhaps the tidings may be carried in on the day 
 of the entrance of the German armies, and will hard- 
 ly be noticed in the confusion of the hour, and while 
 the humiliation of the 23roud capital fills with bitter- 
 ness every heart within its gates. 
 
 Only a Frenchman can speak with genuine appreci- 
 ation and sym23atliy of Dumas, the most thoroughly 
 French of any man of his generation. The mere 
 story of his life makes a j^icture at which an American 
 looks with amazement and incredulity. There is noth- 
 ing in " Monte Cristo " itself more extravagant than 
 the realities of this man's career. The mere trivial 
 incidents of his life are bizarre to the last degree. 
 Imagine him lying silent on his back for two days on 
 the deck of a yacht in the Mediterranean, at the end 
 of the time rising, and calling for dinner, with a novel 
 complete in his head, and all ready to be written off 
 at railroad speed, fr.ster than three expert scribes could 
 copy. But very few of his works apj^ear to have re- 
 quired so much thought in advance as this. Fancy 
 him, again, sitting in a little room, big enough only 
 " for a table, a j^en, and an inkstand," in a gorgeous 
 and fantastic palace built from his own designs out of 
 the profits of one or two of his books, surrounded by 
 an artificial lake, and approachable only by a clravr- 
 bridge, which the writer in his tower raised and low- 
 ered by touching a golden knob at his right hand. 
 Fancy him entrapped by an ingenious manager, con- 
 fined in a gorgeous chamber adjoining the ajDartment 
 of a pretty actress, and kept a close prisoner there 
 for eight days, until a drama he had bargained to 
 Avrite was finished. Think of the man's making an 
 elaborate toilet to take part in the barricade-building 
 of the revolution of July ; of his having written a 
 cookery-book, and an account of his emotions on 
 
ALEXANDRE DUMAS. 81 
 
 Mount Sinai ; of his campaign vnih Garibaldi ; of his 
 fragment of an autobiograjijhy in twenty-seven vol- 
 umes. Then try to imagine Thackeray, or Dickens, 
 or Charles Reade working under similar conditions, 
 doing such things, leaving such a record, and you real- 
 ize how much more is the British Channel than forty 
 rough miles of salt water. 
 
 Endeavoring in these rambling j^aragraphs, not to 
 criticise or to analyze Dumas or his books, but simply 
 to crystallize a little of the endless variety of gossip 
 which his name suggests, it is worth wdiile to note 
 that he was a dramatist before he was a novelist, and 
 that it is to the French stage, more than to French 
 literature, that he belongs. Perhaps he is not exactly 
 a product to be envied ; but we cannot help sighing 
 for the day when we, too, shall have an original stage, 
 capable of giving birth to a dramatist who shall sat- 
 isfy the needs of America and represent America as 
 Dumas satisfied and represented France. There is no 
 page in the story of his career w^hich more strikingly 
 illustrates the enormous gulf that separates the world 
 we live in from the world he lived in than that which 
 *tells of his first play. It was about the year 1827. 
 Alexandre Dumas, a quadroon youth of four-and-twen- 
 ty, was a clerk in the office of the Secretary of the Duke 
 of Orleans, — a clerk appointed only on the strength of 
 his neat handwriting, and because his father had been 
 a gallant officer. He had already been reduced in rank 
 once for indolence and inattention to duty. His salary 
 was twenty dollars a month. He had written a his- 
 torical play, and a manager had accepted it. He 
 called on the Duke of Orleans, and requested that 
 royal personage — afterwards King of France — to 
 attend his first night. The invitation was courteously 
 decUned, because the Duke had engaged to entertain 
 
 4* Ij 
 
82 SOCIAL AND LITEEARY TOPICS. 
 
 a score of princes and princesses at dinner at almost 
 the very hour the play was to begin. But Dumas 
 was not abashed. He suo-o-ested that if the dinner 
 could be set an hour earlier, he would make the per- 
 formance begin an hour later, and would find seats for 
 all the noble company. The Duke, amused at his 
 audacity, consented. The piece was played before a 
 brilliant audience and a balcony glittering with royal 
 spectators. The prestige thus given was matched by 
 the originality, imagination, and wit disj^layed in the 
 drama ; and next morning Dumas was the most 
 famous man in Paris. Managers and publishers were 
 running after him; not long after he had eighty 
 works under contract, and engaged with a newspaper 
 to write in addition eleven novels a year for five years, 
 for a splendid salary ; and for forty years he made 
 fortune after fortune with a swift pen, and spent his 
 wealth as rapidly with a lavish hand. 
 
 "We have no princes in America ; but we have 
 colored boys, whose fathers fought in the army, in 
 petty clerkships in the government service. We make 
 more boast of the equality of men than France ever 
 made. But we will not tax the imagination of our 
 readers by asking them to conceive a smart quadroon 
 youngster in the Treasury Department inviting Secre- 
 tary Boutwell to see his new play, and to suppose that 
 officer and a bright bevy of generals and admirals, 
 judges and senators, lending eclat to the initial per- 
 formance. The parallel is quite too extravagant to be 
 carried out, even in the imagination. 
 
 In the words we have placed at the head of this 
 paper, Thackeray testified his warm admiration for 
 the teller of twelve hundred stories ; and he has ex- 
 pressed the same feeling many times in his books. 
 The great English humorist had the true novel-read- 
 
ALEXANDRE DUMAS. 83 
 
 er's instinct. He enjoyed a story for n story's sake, 
 and relished Walter Scott and Wilkie Collins, " Don 
 Quixote " and " Tom Jones," Gil Bias and Leather- 
 stocking, with a true catholicity of taste. It were 
 curious to know what Dumas thought of Thackeray. 
 It is doubtful whether he would find anything in 
 "Esmond " to please him. He professed, it is true, to 
 adore Shakespeare ; but he professed also to make 
 the great dramatist his model, and it is prol)able that 
 he understood no better than he imitated him. Wo 
 are told that Dumas could not read "The Scarlet 
 Letter," finding it so dull ; and his knowledge of 
 American literature covered little besides Cooper, 
 whose books, he said in his French way, " were grand 
 enough to make one believe in the immortality of the 
 soul." In fine, his taste in sauces was better than 
 his taste in books ; but for his own books, they display 
 the same matchless fertility of invention v\-hich he 
 showed in devising sauces. No one who can enjoy the 
 exercise of the imagination pure and simple — without 
 humor, without thought, without conscience, but 
 imagination of the same rich quality which may be 
 tasted in " The Arabian Nights," saturated with the 
 spirit of the France of the nineteenth century — need 
 fear to confess an honest liking for the books which 
 Thackeray owned he had "read from sunrise to sun- 
 set with the utmost contentment of mind." 
 
84 SOCIAL AND LITERAEY TOriGS. 
 
 MR. TENNIEL'S CARTOONS. 
 
 "Look here, upon this picture, and on this." 
 
 Hamlet. 
 
 " Punch is the comic version of Enghsh good sense. Many of 
 its caricatures are equal to the best pamphlets, and will convey to 
 the eye in an instant the popular view which was taken of each turn 
 of public affairs. Its sketches are usually made by masterly hands, 
 and sometimes with genius." — Emerson, English Traits. 
 
 It has for several years been fashionable and proper 
 to sneer at Pnnch. Long before its editor, Mark 
 Lemon, died, it had ceased to command any such 
 circle of wits as gathered around its cradle, — when a 
 Cln-istmas number might chance to contain " The Song 
 of the Shirt," when Thackeray in his obscure, vigorous 
 prime poured in ballads and dissected snobs from 
 week to week, and Douglas Jerrold told " The Story 
 of a Feather" and rehearsed "The Caudle Lec- 
 tures." One by one they have passed away ; and the 
 greatest loss of all, from the Punch public's point of 
 view, must have been when John Leech died, and 
 those matchless sketches of English life and character, 
 those hunting-parties and children's balls and ser- 
 vants' colloquies, ceased to be a feature of every num- 
 ber of the little paper. But Punch still lives and 
 thrives in spite of the sneerers who announce the ap- 
 pearance of a real joke in its columns as almost as rare 
 a phenomenon as an earthquake. Still the opened 
 numbers attract the gaze of the public to the shop- 
 windows where they are suspended ; and still he who 
 would understand England, who would know the tone 
 of British sentiment at any crisis, must examine Punch 
 as surely as he must consult the Times. 
 
 When we come to analyze this jDersistent power 
 and popularity, we speedily discover that Punch as it 
 
MR. TENNIEL'S CARTOONS. 85 
 
 exists to-day rests mainly upon the shoulders of one 
 man, and that man Mr. John Tenniel. Its reading 
 columns must be acknowledged to be dull. There is 
 commonly food for smiles in the gentle humor of Mr. 
 Buruand's contributions ; but Mr. Barnand seems to 
 have but one vein, and after a series of years even that 
 becomes tiresome to the constant reader ; while as for 
 the rest of the letter-press, one is more apt to check 
 himself sighing over it than to be forced to laugh. 
 But the j^ictures are always worth looking at; and 
 the leading cartoon, which is almost always from the 
 same pencil, is worth study and preservation. For 
 many years Mr. John Tenniel has stood at the head 
 of this department of art, — a department requiring 
 peculiar powers, not only of artistic execution, but of 
 judgment, of wit, of command of classical allusion, 
 and of a certain nameless facility in catching the spirit 
 of an event and presenting it in a new form which is 
 worth all the other qualities together. Mr. Leech 
 used now and then to undertake political cartoons; 
 but his success Avas nothing like that he attained in 
 the more congenial work of social sketches. Mr. 
 Tenniel stands without a rival in our time ; and when 
 we compare his delicacy and strength with the coarse 
 brutality of Gillray and the inferiority of many others 
 who have gone before, we feel confident that in him 
 England possesses one of the greatest caricaturists 
 that ever lived, and that the judgment of the future 
 will assign him a unique place and an enduring fame, 
 like that attained by that great humorist of another 
 school, William Hogarth. 
 
 Were we to go back in a long survey of Mr. Ten- 
 niel's notable work, we should be brought face to face 
 with the fact that he, like so many other Englishmen, 
 misinterpreted our war, and, in his caricatures of Mr. 
 
86 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 Lincoln, went beyond the bounds of artistic exaggera- 
 tion to which he has generally adhered, — 
 
 " With mocking pencil wont to trace 
 
 Broad for the self-comph^cent British sneer, 
 His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face, 
 
 "His gannt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair, 
 His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, 
 His lack of all we prize as debonair, 
 
 Of power or will to shine, of art to please." 
 
 But this would remind us that he bore a part in the 
 manly avowal of error which Punch made when the 
 assassination of the President opened its eyes, and 
 that, with that memorable poem from which we have 
 quoted, in which the "sciirril jester " acknowledged 
 the greatness of the man he had flouted, was a cartoon 
 by Tenniel, showing Britannia placing a wreath upon 
 the bier by which Columbia and the negro sobbed in 
 sympathy. 
 
 Or, did we design to point out the skill and pun- 
 gency with which the wide variety of subjects coming 
 within the scope of Punch's comment are treated, we 
 should be at a loss which to select from the multitude 
 of political cartoons which press upon the memory. It 
 would have been impossible to give more accurately 
 in a volume of discussion the English view of the Irish 
 question, during the heat of the Fenian excitements, 
 than did Mr. Tenniel when he condensed it into a 
 picture of a scene from " The Tempest." Mr. Glad- 
 stone, as Prospero, stands calm and dignified, his wand 
 the Irish land bill. Gentle Hibernia, as Miranda, 
 clings affrighted to the serene magician. Caliban — 
 an Irish Caliban, the ugliest creature pencil could de- 
 vise — rages before them with frenzied face and furi- 
 ous fists ; and the inscription is : — 
 
 " This island 's mine, by S3 corax my mother, 
 Which thou tak'st from me." 
 
MR. TENNIEL'S CARTOONS. 87 
 
 Or, in another vein, what could be better than the 
 picture entitled " Critics," — two gentlemen at a book- 
 stall, unconscious of each other's presence; Mr. Glad- 
 stone sternly turning over the pages of " Lothair," 
 with " Hni ! Flippant ! " and Mr. Disraeli airily skim- 
 ming through " Juventus Mundi," with " Ha ! Prosy ! " 
 As good as either, and illustrating an era which seems 
 far back in the past, though really less than a twelve- 
 month ago, was the cartoon which followed the 
 French plebiscites — Madame La France, as a buxom, 
 comfortable hourgeoise landlady, looking over a paper 
 she is about to sign, while a peasant in wooden shoes, 
 but with the unmistakable aquiline profile and waxed 
 mustache, waits in company with his comely, frank- 
 faced boy. Says Louis, the tenant, " Madame will not 
 object, I hope, to tico lives in the lease?" "Hm," 
 says madame, aside, "I suppose I ccmH object." 
 
 It is our purpose, however, in the space which is 
 left us, to recall some of the more striking features of 
 ]Mr. Tenniel's treatment of the war just ended on the 
 Continent. We cannot reproduce the skilful, vigor- 
 ous drawing of his figures, but Ave can indicate some- 
 thing of the happiness with which he catches the pre- 
 vailing feeling of his country as to the prominent 
 event of the week, and the force with which he em- 
 bodies his conception. There is a tradition that the 
 cartoon is a matter of debate at the weekly council 
 of Punch editors and contributors over the pub- 
 lishers' dinner-table ; but we cannot err in ascribing 
 the main credit of thiC felicitous invention to the artist 
 whose hand does the work, since such a uniformity 
 of character marks all his pictures, not only as designs, 
 but as embodiments of opinion. 
 
 The first war cartoon ai:>peared in Punch of July 
 23. Was it a happy hit only, or a fire sagacity, which 
 
88 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 called tlie struggle even then "A Duel to the Death"? 
 The duelists are stripped to their shirts and trousers, 
 rapiers in hand, arms bared, poised for the encounter. 
 Matronly Britannia strives to remonstrate. The king 
 stands cold and silent. Napoleon says, " Pray stand 
 back, madame: you mean well, but this is an old 
 family quarrel, and we must Jight it outr How terse, 
 how clearly cut, how precisely in the right words, and 
 not one wasted, are these inscriptions! quite as good 
 in their way as those of Leech to his pictures, in 
 which there was often a humor as rich as Dickens's 
 own. The very next Aveek's picture seems in the 
 light of to-day like a bit of prophecy. The two Louises 
 are riding at the head of a numberless army of French- 
 men, the Emperor cloaked and seemingly shivering 
 as if the night were chilly, the boy prince with a ju- 
 venile jauntiness of bearing. The ghost of Napoleon 
 I. on horseback and in his fimous military surtout 
 confronts them in the path ; and the one word of the 
 inscription is " Beware ! " 
 
 A little later the flurry of the secret treaty revela- 
 tion engaged England's attention, and gave an oppor- 
 tunity for lighter humorous treatment. The whole 
 essence of a fortnight's excitement, of scores of de- 
 spatches and contradictions, of hundreds of news- 
 paper columns, is distilled into one picture. John 
 Bull sits at his table, the secret treaty spread before 
 him, his frame dilating, and his face radiant, with 
 wrath, his eyes upon the tAVO monarchs before him. 
 " 'Pon my word," he exclaims, " you 're a nice couple ! " 
 France is represented by Napoleon, with the most 
 elaborately deprecating, insinuating manner, and the 
 words, " Blague ! Mon cher ! It is nothing ! If I 'd 
 wanted Belgium, why have I not taken it any time 
 these five years ? " Prussia, embodied in King Wil- 
 
MR. TENi!^IEL'S CARTOONS. 89 
 
 liam, stands erect, with an air of injured dignit}", and 
 exclaims, " Mein lieber Johann ! You cannot believe 
 that I, — a so respectable, so religious friend, — con- 
 nected by marriage, also ? You cannot believe it ! " 
 And Mr. Punch expresses his opinion and the opinion 
 of England when he gives his bright sketch its title, — 
 " Six of One and Half a Dozen of the Other." 
 
 It was after Sedan that the war assumed its saddest, 
 its most tragic phase, which the cartoons of Punch 
 adequately reflected. After the disappearance of 
 Napoleon from the scene, Mr. Tenniel caught the 
 conception of the new France as a woman with a 
 suggestion of Joan of Arc about her, with features 
 bearing in their energy and determination a resem- 
 blance to those of the American eulogist of the Maid 
 of Orleans when lighted up by the excitement of 
 oratory, to which he afterwards adhered to the end. 
 We saw her at every stage of the struggle, — in ar- 
 mor and hopeful, giving elevation to the heavy artil- 
 lery of the Paris ramparts, with the cap and bells and 
 other symbols of Parisian folly trodden under her 
 feet; shouting the rallying-cry of the "Marseillaise," 
 with the banner of the republic held aloft ; solaced 
 with lying bulletins by Gambetta, while Truth is re- 
 pelled at the door; crouching in agony by her gun, 
 while " Germany's Ally," a ghostly, hooded figure of 
 Famine, is stretching its hands over her ; hurling a 
 last defiance to " the new Caesar " ; driven to her knees, 
 but still brandishing her broken and dripping sword 
 at the German Emperor, who waits in patience sur- 
 rounded by his princes; at length, in her final extrem- 
 ity, covering her face, and tearing her hair, the hid- 
 eous hounds of Fire, Famine, and Sword showing their 
 fimgs about her, William, Bismarck, and Yon Moltke 
 still calmly looking on, and the passionate inscription, 
 
90 SOCIAL AND LITERAEY TOPICS. 
 
 "Call off the Dogs," telling that the story is at an 
 end. 
 
 These j^ictures are much more than ephemeral car- 
 icatures. They are works of art of a very high order, 
 and deserve more minute comment, more worthy 
 description, than our mere hints of their general 
 character and purpose. They must often have been 
 done in haste, and with no opportunity for finishing 
 touches; but they show no signs of hurry, are at once 
 marvellously graceful and superbly vigorous, and very 
 rarely defaced by any defective drawing. May the 
 succession long continue, and may it be many years 
 before the familiar signature of "J. T." disappears 
 from the leading page of Punch ! 
 
 WENDELL PHILLIPS AS AK ORATOR. 
 
 " Thence to the famous orators repair, 
 Those ancient, whose resistless eloquence 
 Wielded at will that fierce democratic, 
 Shook til' arsenal, and fulmined over Greece." 
 
 Milton. 
 
 " His hard head went through, in childhood, the drill of Calvinism, 
 with text and mortification, so that he stands in the New England 
 assembly a purer bit of New England than they, and flings his sar- 
 casms right and left This man scornfully renounces your civil 
 
 organizations, — county, or city, or governor, or army, — is his own 
 navy and artillery, judge and jury, legislature and executive. He has 
 learned his lessons in a bitter school." — Emekson. 
 
 It is difficult to treat a man like Wendell Phillii^s 
 in a single character, even though that j^hase be the 
 one in which he stands most prominently before the 
 world. Mr. Phillips has made a mark upon his time 
 otherwise than as an orator. A leader in one great re- 
 form movement for nearly thirty years, he has been 
 
WENDELL PHILLIPS AS AN ORATOR. 91 
 
 active also in various other reforms ; he has been all 
 his life a political critic, not only through his platform 
 utterances, but by his pen in different journals ; he has 
 been a recognized power in politics, though never 
 until last year himself a candidate for office or iden- 
 tified with any party ; and if his own desire or opinion 
 were to settle the matter, it would hardly be as an 
 orator that he would stand in history. But it is his 
 oratorical power which makes him a theme for the 
 gallery of tovrn-talk ; it is that quality which makes 
 cities and towns from one end of the country to the 
 other vie in entreaty for a visit from him, and gathers 
 great audiences to listen to expressions of oj^inion 
 with wdiich, j^erhaps, not one man among them agrees ; 
 and it is as an orator that w^e desire to consider him 
 here, studying the secret of his skill as we might that of 
 a tragedian or a sculptor, and setting completely aside 
 what he says, to treat the manner in which he says it. 
 And, first of all, we are struck by the difficulty 
 of comparing him with anybody. Wendell Phillips 
 stands alone. His style is unique. It is impossible 
 to apply to him even the universal maxim of Demos- 
 thenes. "Action, action, action," is not the first 
 requisite with him, for it is by no means an essential 
 element of his oratory. We cannot imagine him de- 
 claiming the " Give me liberty, or give me death " of 
 Patrick Henry, or piling ujd the massive perorations 
 of Daniel Webster. His intensity of passion is as un- 
 like the exuberant tropical fervor of Rufus Choate as 
 his calmness is unlike the elaborate and impressive 
 dignity of Edward Everett. It is impossible to con- 
 ceive of Wendell Phillips resorting to such tricks as 
 the dagger of Chatham or the fainting of Sheridan 
 after his plea in the Hastings impeachment ; yet 
 Chatham and Sheridan were reckoned the two great- 
 
92 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 est orators of the eighteenth century. We think we 
 have approached a gUmpse of him when we read that 
 Warren Hastings said, after Burke's presentation of 
 the charges against him, " As I Ustened to the orator, 
 I felt for more than half an hour as if I were the most 
 culpable being on earth"; but in a moment we re- 
 member that Burke, with all the splendor of his intel- 
 lect, was never orator enough to bind the multitude, 
 and that his stately style is totally unlike that of the 
 American speaker. John Bright furnishes no better 
 basis for a comparison than does Lamartine. We 
 must abandon the search for a comparison, and study 
 Mr. Phillips by the light of no genius but his own. 
 
 And the first trait which deserves mention — as in 
 the analysis of greatness in so many other spheres of 
 effort — is that of simplicity. So simple, pure, and 
 direct is the oratory of Mr. Phillips that it evades de- 
 scription. We can dwell upon the manifold beauties 
 of a picture by a great artist ; but it is difficult to di- 
 late upon Giotto's O. There it stands. It is without 
 a flaw. It completely answers the purpose for which 
 it was intended. There is nothing more to be said 
 about it. So it is with the eloquence of Mr. Phillips. 
 He stands erect and quiet beside his desk, or without 
 any desk, rarely changing his place upon the platform 
 more than once in the evening. He begins in a some- 
 what low voice, but in a few sentences attains the 
 even tone which is kept u]) to the end, every word of 
 which can be heard throughout the hall, but not one 
 word of which sounds particularly loud to any listen- 
 er, though he sit within arm's length of the speaker. 
 He appears to think his speech out as he utters it, — 
 at least he has no manuscript or memoranda, never 
 seems to trouble his memory, and arranges his topics 
 according to the warning of the clock. Does he make 
 
WENDELL PHILLIPS AS AN ORATOR. 93 
 
 any gestures? They are of the very gentlest sort, — a 
 clasping and unclaspmg of the hands, a slight waving 
 of one hand, — and we doubt if Mr. Phillips ever 
 raised his arm in the attitude of the Everett statue, or 
 once struck the table with his fist as Sergeant Buzfuz 
 does at the close of every resounding 2:)aragra2:)h. 
 Raising neither his voice nor his hand, he talks on 
 with an utterance which, if pleasant to the ear, has 
 none of the silvery cadence of Curtis; and the listen- 
 er, never inattentive for an instant, thinks, not of the 
 man, nor the tone, nor the manner, but only of what is 
 said. The orator culls none of the flowers of rhetoric 
 as he ofoes : you may search in vain through his 
 yolume of published speeches for one beautiful meta- 
 phor, one brilliant antithesis, one elaborately con- 
 structed period. He has no perorations. But, on the 
 other hand, he never utters a sentence that a child 
 might not comprehend ; he uses no illustration the 
 force of which would not be apparent to the group 
 about the stove in a country store ; he discusses jiolit- 
 ical issues in such a way that the young girl who has 
 come to the lecture with her lover, who never read a 
 debate in Congress in her life, and does not know the 
 names of the Senators from her own State, understands 
 what he says, and is interested. 
 
 Tliese are very indift'erent virtues, says the reader 
 who has never experienced Mr. Phillips's fascinations, 
 and is trying to get an idea of them from our feeble 
 essay. The man talks in a pleasant voice, uses simple 
 and universally intelligible language, addresses the 
 common apprehension, is not awkward in bearing, has 
 none of the vices of exuberant rhetoric. Of how many 
 may all these things be said, who yet are not orators 
 in any sense of the word. Yet it is these things, with 
 a nameless something else which may not be caught 
 
94 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 with types and ink, whicli make Wendell Phillips the 
 most charming orator in America, perhaps in the 
 world. The magnetism of his presence is too subtle 
 to be photographed. He is always plainly dressed, 
 and has a very rare and enviable faculty of never 
 having his garments appear new. He has not those 
 flashing, speaking eyes which imagination attributes 
 to the orator ; indeed, his eyes are so nearly closed as 
 he speaks, especially if the light be strong, that the 
 auditor a few seats away could not tell whether the 
 lecturer were a blind man or not. His smile is sin- 
 gularly pleasant and winning; but his lips seldom 
 break into a smile on the platform, cxcej^t Avhen the 
 speaker feels that somebody else is wincing under his 
 savage words. To say that Mr. Philli23s's bearing 
 toward his audience is cold would be to use a wholly 
 inadequate term. It is often er hostile, not seldom 
 defiant. He delights to assume that his listeners are 
 offended by what he says, are admirers of the men at 
 whom he points his arroAvs of scorn ; and a chorus of 
 hisses, and the retort which springs to his lips at the 
 sound of a hiss, seem to be to him the most agreeable 
 possible incident of an evening. 
 
 And yet Mr. Phillips has such command over his 
 audience as very few men can ever attain. He is 
 satisfied to use it to comjjel their attention ; and this 
 he always does. But he can use it, wherever he so 
 wills, to command their applause. There is a little 
 story which he often tells, in which it is necessary, to 
 make his point, that the audience should clap their 
 hands at a certain point ; and the audience always 
 falls into the trap, as the spectators at a legerdemain 
 entertainment always draAV the cards the magician 
 chooses. It is a story of a luinker college president 
 in the old days before the war, who, in a speech to the 
 
WENDELL PHILLIPS AS AN ORATOR. 95 
 
 students, offered to give tliem a motto for their politi- 
 cal action. "No slavery anywhere," — the audience 
 applauds. " You applaud," says Mr. Phillips ; " so did 
 the students; but the president's hand came up to 
 the level, and checked them: 'I am not done yet. 
 'No slavery anywhere, — outside the Slave States ! ' " 
 Now, there is no reason under the sun why an as- 
 semblage in New England, in this decade should be 
 moved, to a demonstration of enthusiasm by such a 
 cheap sentiment as "No slavery anywhere." Let 
 anybody try to raise applause with it in his next 
 speech in the lyceura, the town-meeting, or the com- 
 mon council, and see for himself But it suits Mr. 
 Phillips's special purpose to have a round of applause 
 just at this point; and he gets it just as readily as a 
 child might pick up an apple. But he uses this ]:)ower 
 very seldom. He has tested the value of plaudits 
 long ago. When they would have been sweet to him, 
 he got little but hisses and abuse : he speaks for some- 
 thing else. When he does draw down the house in 
 applause, it is commonly by the mention, with two or 
 three curt words of eulogy, of the j^ublic man who is 
 his favorite at the moment, and not for any eloquently 
 uttered sentiment of his own. 
 
 And this brings us to say — wdiat w^e must say in 
 conclusion, though the subject is very far from being 
 exhausted by our surface treatment — that Mr. Phil- 
 lips is most brilliant as an orator when he is most 
 bitter. The listener who goes away at the end with- 
 out hearing one of his acid sentences about some 
 leader whose course has offended him feels that he 
 has been cheated of his privilege ; but it is very 
 seldom that there is cause for any such disappoint- 
 ment. This brilliancy in bitterness is as hard to ana- 
 lyze as the other qualities of Mr. Phillips's eloquence. 
 It is not invective, as invective is commonly under- 
 
96 SOCIAL AND LITERARY TOPICS. 
 
 stood, — a torrent of scathing words. He commonly 
 beheads his victims with a single stroke of his blade. 
 He wastes no words, either in praise or in censure. 
 His heartiest eulogy of the politician in whom, appar- 
 ently, he most fervently believes, was uttered Avhen 
 he called him "the grim soldier who held New Or- 
 leans." It was the same stern economy of words that 
 labelled Abraham Lincoln "the slave-hound of Il- 
 linois." In twenty different speeches he has called 
 Mr. Seward a bottle of cologne-water, placed him in 
 opposition, now to nitric acid, and now to the Rock of 
 Gibraltar, and there left him. There is little in these 
 phrases when they are read ; but in the manner of 
 their utterance, albeit calm and smooth as ice, there 
 is a power that electrifies the listener like the sound 
 of a trumpet. Who that heard Mr. Phillips say in 
 one of his Massachusetts campaign speeches a few 
 years ago " I announced that I never again would 
 speak to William Claflin," did not feel at the instant 
 that William Claflin was withered up and puffed away 
 like a rose-leaf; and yet who, reading the remark in 
 the faithful newspaper report next morning, could dis- 
 cover where lay the eloquence of the arrogant words? 
 We have said little, after all, of the eloquence of 
 Wendell Phillips, except that it cannot be described. 
 No man who has heard it has ever denied its marvel- 
 lous power ; no man has ever imitated it, or conveyed 
 a conception of its fascination to another; no man 
 who has not heard it will ever know what makes it 
 great. And this, after all, is the fate of the orator, as 
 of the actor and the singer : he is of priceless value to 
 his own generation ; but to those to come, or to the 
 world outside his own circle, he is nothing but the glitter 
 of a name. His genius is grander, perhaps, than that 
 displayed in any other art ; but it reaches no farther 
 than his voice, and its triumphs perish with his life. 
 
11. 
 ESSAYS AND SKETCHES 
 
 ON DRAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
DRAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 HOW OLD WAS HASILET? 
 
 THE new analysis of " Hamlet," which Mr. Richard 
 Grant White has added to the already mountain- 
 ous accumulation of commentaries on the same subject, 
 contains many fine suggestions in regard to the mean- 
 ing and j^urpose of the tragedy. Some of them may 
 have been offered before by English and German 
 writers, but most are new and original ; the form in 
 which they are put is unique and attractive ; and the 
 appearance of the article in a popular magazine at 
 this time, when a concurrence of circumstances has 
 directed the attention of the public of our principal 
 cities anew to " Hamlet," cannot but do good in show- 
 ing the host of readers and theatre-goers how much 
 there is below the surface to reward attentive study 
 in this and every other work of Shakespeare. 
 
 Mr. White's comments upon Hamlet's assumed in- 
 sanity, his weakness of purpose, his ambition, his 
 intellectual quickness, and all the traits of his charac- 
 ter as skilfully developed by the dramatist in the suc- 
 cessive incidents of the play, seem to us very judicious 
 and well considered. His interpretations of many 
 special points are ingenious ; as, for example, where he 
 points out that, in the frenzy to which Hamlet gave 
 way at Ophelia's grave, he claimed the royal rank, 
 
100 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 his right to which he had long been brooding over, 
 by announcing himself as The Dane. But there is 
 one theory to which the critic has been led in his mi- 
 nute study of the develoj^ment of Hamlet's character 
 which seems to us so preposterous that the autlior 
 himself must abandon it now that he looks at his 
 words in the cool permanence of print. This is noth- 
 ing less than that Hamlet was only twenty years old 
 when his father died, and was thirty when he killed his 
 uncle, having spent ten years in the irresolute debat- 
 ings and devices which are the theme of the traged}'. 
 Absurd as this seems at hrFt glance, Mr. White finds 
 some ground for it in Hamlet's studentshi]? at Wit- 
 tenberg, and in the references to his youth in the 
 early part of the play. But we cannot allow Shake- 
 speare to be so misrepresented. Though forced to 
 disregard the unities in his historical plays, he was too 
 consummate an artist to violate the consistency of 
 time and place when he was not compelled to do so ; 
 and in his ideal tragedies, and in " Hamlet" especially, 
 he has not only himself been consistent, but has taken 
 pains to tell the spectators of the lapses of time in 
 the course of the drama as plainly as modern drama- 
 tists set them down in the play-bills, and so that it 
 would seem that he who runs through it at railroad 
 speed must understand. 
 
 Hamlet the elder died ; " within a month " his wid- 
 ow married his murderer ; when he was " two months 
 dead," his ghost appeared to Hamlet the younger, and 
 the Prince thought himself ready to sweep to his re- 
 venge " with wings as swift as meditation or the 
 thoughts of love." But he delayed and debated, 
 feigned madness, devised plans ; and the dramatist 
 has very clearly indicated how much time his irresolu- 
 tion thus consumed by Ophelia's statement in the 
 
HOW OLD WAS HAMLET ? 101 
 
 play scene, that it is now four months since the King 
 died. That very night Hamlet killed Polonius ; the 
 next day he was sent to England ; and here occurs the 
 only other break in the continnons action of the play. 
 It was long enough for Hamlet, " two days old at sea," 
 to be transferred by accident to the deck of a pirate, 
 and so brought home again, arriving on the same day 
 of the death of Ophelia, in the new madness caused 
 by her father's loss. On the day of her funeral the 
 dramatist, that we may be in the dark about nothing 
 necessary to a full understanding of his conceptions, 
 goes out of his way to inform us that Hamlet was 
 thirty years old. It all holds together like a chain ; 
 and on any comparison of the text of the tragedy it 
 will be seen that its auxiliary incidents — the mission 
 of Cornelius and Yoltimand to Norway and their re- 
 turn, the journeys of Laertes, the expedition of For- 
 tinbras — all fit in precisely ; not, perhaps, with any 
 known guide-book of geography and of the modes of 
 locomotion of any particular age, — for these things 
 Shakespeare cared very little about, — but with each 
 other and with the main action of the tragedy. 
 
 It seems incredible that an acute critic like Mr. 
 White should be led away into so manifest a perver- 
 sion of the intention of the writer he has studied so 
 long as to stretch these few months into ten years ; 
 but it is a new illustration added to many of the 
 delusions which the best minds will fall into by dwell- 
 ing upon and magnifying detached texts in which 
 they fancy they have found a new meaning. A like 
 instance of error, but in a matter of far less con- 
 sequence, is seen in the assertion that the Ghost, when 
 Horatio and the soldiers saw it, disappeared upon 
 "the midnight cock-crowing." The passage of every 
 hour is made clear in the tragedy, though in the stage 
 
102 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 version all is jumbled together. Francisco was re- 
 lieved at twelve, "most carefully ujoon the hour"; 
 after some chat, "the bell then beating one," the 
 Ghost appeared. After it " stalked away," the watch- 
 ers beguiled the slow passage of the night with talk 
 of politics and history; it came again, and disappeared 
 upon the note of " the bird of dawning," " the trum- 
 pet to the morn"; and immediately the coming of the 
 day was seen in the east. It is most curious, upon 
 any examination of Shakespeare upon such little 
 points, to see in what workmanlike fashion he wrote ; 
 how carefully he gathered up all loose threads, not 
 as if constructing hurriedly for the stage of his 
 theatre, but as if foreseeing how the critics of future 
 ages would pry and scrutinize, and determined to 
 make all clear to the dullest, and all smooth to the 
 most captious. Yet he saw no such coming critics, 
 and the perfection of his detail was merely the fruit 
 of the artistic instinct, stronger in his mind than 
 in that of any other man from the birth of the 
 world. 
 
 .THE TIME OF "HAMLET." 
 
 It is half a year or more since Mr. Kichard Grant 
 White, in the revival of discussion and criticism of 
 " Hamlet " started by Mr. Fechter's remarkable per- 
 formance of the leading character, took the amazing 
 ground that Shakespeare's intent was to show the 
 Danish prince at the beginning of the play as a youth 
 of twenty, and at the end of it as a man of thirty, 
 ten years being spent in doubtings and vacillations 
 between the demand of the Ghost for revenge and 
 
THE TIME OF "HAMLET." 103 
 
 the killing of the King and Queen. A little examina- 
 tion of the text showed that even this careful and 
 learned Shakespearian scholar had been hasty in 
 adopting a forced interpretation, which not only the 
 instinct of the reader but the explicit words of the 
 dramatist contradicted. But a new attack is made 
 upon Mr. White's position in a recent number of 
 the Atlantic Monthly by Miss Kate Field, who is 
 not content with denying it, but asserts a new theory 
 of her own, — that the action of the tragedy covers 
 only ten days, four of which are necessarily occupied 
 by Hamlet's voyage toward England, " two days old 
 at sea," and back again by the pirate ship. This 
 theory, which gives only six days to all the host of 
 events rej)resented and spoken of, occurs very natu- 
 rally in a eulogy of the performance of Mr. Fechter, 
 whose Hamlet has been found fault with because he 
 has no irresolution in his temperament, no apparent 
 tendency to doubt and delay, but would surely have 
 swept to his revenge as swift as the thoughts of love, 
 instead of stopping to debate about it. If Miss Field 
 is right, Mr. Fechter is right. Their conception of 
 Shakespeare's idea is the same. But it seems to us 
 that they are both WTong, and can be proved to be 
 wrong, not by any subtleties of speculative criticism, 
 but by a plain citation of the text, which cannot be 
 overthrown. 
 
 We need not go over the whole of Miss Field's 
 chain, the result of "carefully scanning the play." 
 It is all strong as steel except one link. Its weak 
 point only need be mentioned. She says that the 
 second act must succeed the first with only a day's 
 interval, because Hamlet's purpose of assuming mad- 
 ness is hinted at the end of the first act, and its first 
 symptom appears early in the second ; " not more than 
 
104 DKAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 a day is likely to have elapsed between the concep- 
 tion and the execution of his plan." This is assuming 
 a great deal too much. What Hamlet says is, — 
 
 " I, perchance, hereafter shall think meet 
 To put an antic disposition on." 
 
 This by no means necessarily implies an immediate 
 assumption of madness. That it does not imply that 
 is plainly shown by the dates the dramatist is careful 
 to give. In the first scene in which he appears, the 
 same day of the appearance of the Ghost, Hamlet 
 says his father is 
 
 " But two months dead, — nay, not so much, not two." 
 
 In the third act, the play scene, — which by Miss 
 
 Field's chronology is only two days after the Ghost's 
 
 revelation, — Hamlet in his assumed madness says, — 
 
 " Look you, how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died 
 within two hours." 
 
 Ophelia promptly and simply replies, 
 
 "Nay, 'tis twice two months, my lord! " 
 
 In this statement Hamlet at once acquiesces. 
 
 On the testimony of tliese two witnesses, Hamlet 
 and Ophelia, made in each case before the witness can 
 be impeached by any suspicion of the clouded intel- 
 lect which afterwards might be suspected to confuse 
 their notions of dates, we may be content to rest our 
 case. We would take the word of this unfortunate 
 lady and gentleman in this matter for a thousand 
 pound, against any opinion of any actor or critic who 
 ever lived. Shakespeare never put the statements 
 into their mouths without meaning something by it ; 
 and he meant to tell us that it was two months after 
 Hamlet heard of his father's murder before he made 
 up his mind to test his uncle's conscience by means 
 of the players, just as plainly as he meant to tell us 
 
THE TIME OF "HAMLET." 105 
 
 Hamlet's age by the grave-digger's conversation in the 
 last act. All the other dates in the play are indicated 
 just as clearly, and Miss Field states the rest of them 
 all rightly. 
 
 But if corroborating evidence were necessary fur- 
 ther to fortify this impregnable proof, there is plenty 
 of it. Ophelia would not say, 
 
 " My lord, I have remembrances of yours 
 That I have longed long to redelivei'," 
 
 if she had only taken the notion since the day before 
 yesterday. N"or, in the same scene, if she had ]3arted 
 from Hamlet within forty-eight hours, would she greet 
 the Prince with the words, — 
 
 " How does your Honor for this many a day? " 
 Nor can we readily imagine Hamlet explaining to 
 his friends, " I have of late lost all my mirth," and so 
 following, if he had only adopted his disguised bear- 
 ing the day before. It is obvious also that the King 
 would not have had time to send for Rosencrantz to 
 pry into the causes of Hamlet's conduct on such a 
 supposition. Nor is it natural to suppose that Polo- 
 nius would send an agent to carry money to his son, 
 and spy into his behavior in Paris, the very day after 
 Laertes himself had sailed from Denmark. Polonius 
 himself is not exactly the best witness to call as an 
 expert in cases of insanity ; but his phrases are worth 
 something as shedding light on the passage of time, 
 and we find that his theory is, that, after the repulse 
 of his love-letters and visits by Oi^helia, Hamlet 
 
 " Fell into a sadness; then into a fast; 
 Thence to a watch ; thence into a weakness ; 
 Thence to a lightness; and, by this declension, 
 Into the madness wherein now he raves." 
 
 Even Polonius would not describe in this fashion a 
 
 tumble through all these stages which took only a 
 
 5* ^ 
 
106 DEAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 few hours. In the same connection we may note that, 
 in the course of the drama, Fortinbras prepares to 
 make war on Denmark; is compelled by his uncle, 
 "Old Norway," to desist; turns his armies against 
 "the Polack"; marches across Denmark, wins a vic- 
 tory, and marches back again in time to be in at the 
 deaths of the Danish royal family. Diplomacy and 
 arms could not be conceived to accomplish all this in 
 ten days, even if Shakespeare were dreaming of the 
 telegraph and the needle-gun. In short, it is only 
 necessary to admit that Shakespeare wrote with his 
 eyes open, and, while disregarding the unities and 
 the probabilities, still made the different parts of his 
 work hang together, and rarely wrote a blundering 
 line, to see that the action of "Hamlet" occupies 
 between two and three months, no more and no less. 
 
 The remainder of Miss Field's essay is a very keen 
 and clever analysis of Mr. Fechter's rendering of 
 Hamlet, pointing out its many beauties with rare 
 nicety of discernment. 
 
 HISSING m THE THEATRE. 
 
 If the drama decays and good acting becomes rare 
 in America, no small share of the blame must lie with 
 that cultivation of amenity which has abolished the 
 hiss as a method of criticism. We have mended our 
 manners at the expense of our enjoyment. The hiss 
 is as obsolete in our theatres as the rushlight and the 
 epilogue ; and we doubt if any badness in a play short 
 of absolute indecency, any shortcoming of an actor 
 less flagrant than manifest drunkenness on the boards, 
 
HISSING IN THE THEATRE. 107 
 
 would call forth a sibilant rejDi'oof fi*om the audience ; 
 and even then the first spectator to venture upon such 
 an expression of rebuke would be very likely to be 
 made to feel, by the interference of a policeman or 
 the dismay of his neighbors, that he was almost as 
 much in fault as the offending artist. 
 
 They manage these matters, as they do so many 
 others, much better in France. There the hiss is rec- 
 ognized, systematized. At the October 023ening of 
 the year's season in the provincial cities, several nights 
 are set apart expressly to obtain the exj^ression of 
 public opinion. The engagements of individual artists 
 are often made dependent uj^on it. The programmes 
 are so arranged as to introduce the whole comj^any. 
 "When the curtain falls, the manager comes forward, 
 and calls out, one by one, the names of the different 
 actors and actresses. After each name follows a 
 pause. If the audience applauds, the artist is ap- 
 proved ; if it hisses, he is dismissed. If it is comj^lained 
 that this summary disapproval — for which a man or 
 woman listens heart-sick with ajDj^i'ehension, his bread 
 depending on the verdict — is cruel and heartless, it 
 is deemed a sufficient answer to point out that the 
 Avhole year's entertainment of the town dej)ends upon 
 securing a clever company. The same general prin- 
 ciple applies to the reception of plays. It will hardly 
 be urged that the French are not a polite people. 
 And as a result of this disregard, in the interests of 
 art, of what we call j^oUteness, the French actors are 
 the best in the world, and the inlays of Parisian dram- 
 atists are the magazine from which the amusement 
 of both hemispheres is drawn. We do not learn that 
 anybody suffers seriously by the practice. People 
 who can earn a good living as barbers and ladies'- 
 maids are prevented from continuing a hopeless career 
 
108 DEAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 on the lower rounds of the dramatic ladder. One poor 
 fellow who thought himself qualified as first tenor was 
 undeceived by a tempest of hisses at Bordeaux, and 
 on the spot, choking with emotion, begged a few 
 weeks' trial in a lower position, in which he promised 
 to do his best. The audience consented; and the 
 young man by hard work rose to a high place on the 
 operatic stage of the capital ; but it is doubtful 
 w^hether he would ever have found his level if he had 
 begun where he wished. 
 
 One of the many evils of the universal American 
 complaisance^ which contrasts so strongly with this 
 system, is the undue responsibility which it throws 
 upon the dramatic critics of the press. Excej^t in a 
 few instances where extraordinary success is indicated 
 by very great applause, the audience waits dumb as 
 an oyster, and gets its opinions from the newspaper 
 of the next day. Thus, upon a few men in each city 
 is cast in a great measure the regulation, the censure- 
 shijD, the very fortunes, of the theatres. The liability 
 to injustice is great. A single bad dinner, or an 
 attack of spleen, may lead thousands of readers to look 
 frowningly on a meritorious play. Or one soft heart 
 may awaken false hopes in the most thoroughly un- 
 qualified actor. But where a national habit like this 
 is once formed, there is slight prospect of any radical 
 amendment. We shall look for no hissing judgments 
 from American audiences during this generation ; nor, 
 were the innovation to be made, would it be at once 
 indicative of a trustworthy opinion ; for the power of 
 quick criticism comes only with experience, and a 
 public needs to be educated into the art of hissing, 
 just as much as the player needs to be educated into 
 the art of acting. 
 
"THE NIGHTINGALE" AT SELWYN'S. 109 
 
 "THE NIGHTINGALE" AT SELWYN'S. 
 
 Slow poison and slow music. A stolen child and 
 a sham tombstone. Forgery, robbery, murder, treach- 
 ery, and an avenging pistol-shot. Blue gauze and 
 darkness, and a maniac mother in a drifting boat. 
 The chief villain of the Indian mutiny with a tawny 
 skin and a French accent, Bahawder Khan, rolling in 
 wealth in England, now in a dress-coat and a breast 
 sparkling with orders, now in a gorgeous Oriental 
 dress and a dagger, attending parties, practising med- 
 icine, managing a swindling company, kidnapping 
 babies, and popping up at every corner like the fiend 
 in a poor pantomime. A hero who is a parson in one 
 act and a soldier in another, without needing to be 
 either for any purpose in the plot, and who comes to 
 nothing in the end. A heroine who makes a tremen- 
 dous hit as a prhna-donna in Italian opera in Lon- 
 don, and then goes to singing ballads in the streets 
 for a living. All these component parts mixed togeth- 
 er in about as much confusion as we have enumerated 
 them must make a new play by Mr. Robertson, for so 
 the bills assure us. But it cannot be the clever dram- 
 atist of "School" and "Caste"; such a combination 
 would be more incongruous than anything in the dra- 
 ma. It may be the work of Robertson the schoolboy, 
 done years ago, in his first dreams of seeking fame 
 and fortune as a playwright. Or, if not, it is the work 
 of Robertson exhausted by the unreasonable demands 
 of the managers, crazed by the applause of the public, 
 maddened by the censure of the critics, who has found 
 his brain unequal to the task of producing a drama, 
 and has called in Mr. Wilkie Collins, Mr. Dion Bour- 
 cicault, Dr. J. S. Jones, and Miss Braddon, and mixed 
 
110 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 the potions they have prescribed for hnn in one in- 
 comj^rehensible draught. 
 
 We have not described the five-act play of " The 
 Nightingale." Such a task would be impossible. But 
 we have hinted at it. We have only to say, in addi- 
 tion, that the artists of Selwyn's theatre have entered 
 earnestly into an effort to make something of the 
 piece. Mr. Robinson has dyed his face and hands, 
 and generally disguised himself with great skill, and 
 brought a great deal of force and vigor to the per- 
 formance of the Franco-Turkish Indian, whose dark 
 deeds call on Mr.Koppitz for an aggregate of an hour 
 or two of tremulous fiddle-strings. Mrs. Barry has 
 summoned a great deal of pathos and pitifulness 
 to the rendering of the persecuted heroine. Miss 
 Kitty Blanchard has rallied all her vivacity to the 
 task of keeping an audience good-humored while 
 setting out the Nightingale, in which she has the 
 solitary but efiicient assistance of Miss Mary Wells 
 in a single act. Mr. Bascomb has dej)arted from 
 his usual duties of smooth lines and mild protestations, 
 to paint his face with furrows, and go through all 
 the agonies of a death by poison in the presence of 
 the audience. The management has supplied several 
 bushels of snow, and em^^loyed men to turn out and 
 relight the gas every few minutes. The gentleman of 
 the bass-viol has been willing to do double duty all 
 the evening in furnishing thrilling accompaniments. 
 Everybody, in short, has done his best. But we can- 
 not hope that Mr. Robertson will be informed by cable 
 of any transcendent success for his play, as the result 
 of all these efforts. There are some things which can- 
 not be saved. 
 
NILSSON IN THE CONCERT-KOOM. Ill 
 
 OTLSSON m THE CO:Kr CERT-ROOM. 
 
 • 
 
 " Oh ! could you view the melody 
 Of ever}^ grace, 
 And music of her face, 
 
 You 'd drop a tear; 
 Seeing more harmony 
 In her bright eye, 
 Than now you hear." 
 
 EicHARD Lovelace. 
 
 " Nor dare she trust a larger lay. 
 But rather loosens from the lip 
 Short swallow-flights of song, that dip 
 Their wings in tears, and skim away." 
 
 Tennyson, In Mevwriam. 
 
 If there is any one subject more peculiarly than 
 another the theme of town talk, it is the new prima 
 donna. The benighted peoj^le of the villages have 
 no share in the whirl of excitement which the comet 
 of the concert-room or the opera creates in her flight 
 over the country ; for her notes, her beauty, and her 
 graces, so much more costly than wisdom of Emer- 
 son or eloquence of Phillips, are luxuries only to be 
 afforded by crowded cities, which can offer thousands 
 of dollars for an evening's pleasure. So it is the great 
 towns only which are talking about Miss Mlsson, 
 naming hats and tints after her, buying paj^er collars 
 and perfumery because the wrappers bear the image 
 of her placid brow and yellow curls, and inquiring, 
 Philadelphia of ISTew York, and ISTew York of Bos- 
 ton, and Boston of her own fastidious high-priests of 
 criticism, " Have you seen her ? how do you like her ? 
 and how does she compare with Malibran and Son- 
 tag and Jenny Lind and Parepa and all the bright 
 procession which has gone before ? " 
 
 A great deal of the town talk which bubbles and 
 
112 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 foams through the drawing-rooms on the advent of a 
 new singer comes from those who know no more about 
 music as an art than they know about Greek; who 
 discern no difference between smorzati and solfeggio ; 
 who listen witli forced attention, yet find their thoughts 
 wandering off now and then in the midst of the most 
 intricate and brilHant passages of song ; and who go 
 away to chat about the value of the singer's diamonds, 
 the pattern of her skirt, the archness of her smile, 
 and the winsome simplicity of her manner. Many of 
 these men and women, it is true, find themselves 
 thrilled to the very soul, without knowing why, by 
 the melody of some trivial ballad, or the magnetic 
 loveliness of a single clear note in the very centre of 
 some gorgeous aria ; but they are sniffed out of the 
 way by the oracles of music as an art, who say that 
 the lady may do these things well enough, but if she 
 is well advised she will do them no more. It is by no 
 means to be hinted that this dull portion of the audi- 
 ence, whose ears might almost as well be stuffed wdth 
 cotton, for all the j^leasure they get through them, 
 should stay away, and devote their time to the com- 
 edy, the panorama, the lecture, w^hich they can enjoy 
 thoroughly, or at least apj^reciate understandingly. 
 For fashion dictates such matters as this ; and he who 
 lives in town may as well resign his right to a share 
 in the talk of the hour altogether, may as well pass 
 Thanksgiving Day without a dinner, or Christmas 
 without good cheer, as fail to see the singer who hap- 
 pens to be the rage. Thus it is that the opinions of 
 this section of the public must be consulted, and their 
 tastes be deferred to. Thus it is that a singer, though 
 her voice be perfection itself, could never attain 
 to the first rank in popularity, were she absolutely 
 plain of feature or awkward in bearing. And thus it 
 
NILSSON IN THE CONCERT-EOOM. 113 
 
 is that we may endeavor to crystallize some of the 
 town talk about Miss Nilsson, as she flits over the 
 land, from the Atlantic to the Mississippi, without ven- 
 turing into the discussion whether she sings or merely 
 vocalizes, whether the vibrations are judicious or the 
 pianissbno exaggerated, or indeed entering at all into 
 the wide field of criticism ofiered by her voice and her 
 use of it. 
 
 The most marked impression of the Swedish sing- 
 er's appearance which the spectator of a single even- 
 ing bears away with him is its changeableness. Cleo- 
 patra herself had not such infinite variety. Endeavor to 
 fix upon the mental retina some asj^ect of this woman's 
 presence, and it is gone, and another, different even 
 to contrast, has taken its place. This is the reason 
 why the photographers have had such bad luck, and 
 why the art-stores and the music-shops are flooded Avith 
 so many portraits which give no satisfactory idea of a 
 living face. A tall, slender figure comes forward on the 
 platform, sweeping a long train ; with what serene 
 dignity, almost sad, almost stern, she surveys the wait- 
 ing, eager throng below ! How like a queen she bears 
 herself! And yet a second look, and it is the peas- 
 ant girl of Smaland who stands there, fresh from the 
 spinning-wheel and the cow-house, wearing her gor- 
 geous robes with a certain gaucherie^ like the damsel 
 of the farm in unaccustomed masquerade. How sim- 
 ple and sweet is the expression of her face, how mild 
 the glance of her gentle eyes ! She turns but a hair's- 
 breadth to the right or the left, and lo ! it is the wo- 
 man of the world who stands scornfully before us, as 
 cold as she is graceful, as haughty as she is beautiful, 
 knowing the precise efiect of every attitude, the artis- 
 tic value of every fold of her costly dress. An instant 
 more, and she is an ardent, passionate girl, full of 
 
114 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 wild impulses and emotions which she is too inexpe- 
 rienced to conceal. As she turns again to one side, 
 or as a new thought flits over her mind, she seems 
 the skilled, audacious, merry, cruel coquette, bartering 
 smiles for hearts, and keeping a record of victims on 
 her ivory tablets. But before her fascinations have 
 had their full effect, the face is a mask again, or, rather, 
 wears another mask, and the keenest eye can see 
 nothing there but placid composure, or dreamy devo- 
 tion to an exalted ideal of art. All this is not only 
 while she is singing, or while she is enacting the her- 
 oine of some oj^era, or giving exj^ression to the senti- 
 ment of some tender ballad ; it is while we have a 
 right to look for the woman herself, as she enters the 
 platform or quits it, or as she oddly simulates in silence 
 the singing of an air while the orchestra is inlaying the 
 introductory strains. She is Dante's Beatrice, and 
 then Shakespeare's ; she is the Scandinavian maiden 
 whom Arne loved, and in the same instant she is the 
 Zenobia of Hawthorne's imagination. And while to 
 some observers all these phases are equally apparent, 
 and, evanescent as they are, go to make up the impres- 
 sion which the mind carries away with it, others catch 
 only one aspect ; and thus it is that the listener to 
 the comments of the lobbies, or he who gathers up 
 the judgments of the next morning, finds current the 
 most diverse descriptions of the singer's airs and her 
 simplicity, of her ease and her awkwardness, of her 
 fervor and her frigidity. 
 
 One obvious inference from this versatility of tem- 
 perament is, that the person so made up must be the 
 possessor of dramatic power. And this is the salient 
 comment which town talk has to make upon the pri- 
 tna donna whose coming is the event of the city sea- 
 son. America will not half know her if she goes back 
 
NILSSON IN THE CONCERT-ROOM. 115 
 
 having sung in our concert-rooms only. If the criti- 
 cisms of Paris and London are studied, it Avill be seen 
 that eulogy dwells far more u^^on her acting than 
 upon her singing ; more upon the infusion of her own 
 individuality into Margaret and Lucia and Ophelia 
 than upon any merely vocal achievement. It is the 
 displays of this order of genius that have won her 
 the most enthusiastic aj^plause in her concerts here ; 
 but such displays on the platform are hamj^ered with 
 every disadvantage. Ophelia i^acing up and down a 
 narrow area in splendid silks and an elaborate cheve- 
 lure, strewing imaginary flowers and accosting imagi- 
 nary companions ; Leonora addressing her wails of 
 lamentation to a green baize screen, behind which 
 stands a corpulent tenor in dress-coat and prominent 
 watch-chain, — if these impress the beholder, what 
 must be the effect of the same powers exerted with 
 all the favoring circumstances of the stage to aid them ? 
 It is as if we had seen Edwin Booth only in his reci- 
 tation of Manfred at the Philharmonic Concerts ; as if 
 our only knowledge of Fechter's Hamlet were derived 
 from such elocutionary interpretation of the tragedy 
 as he could give in full evening dress behind a read- 
 ing-desk, a nosegay in his button-hole, a big folio 
 before him, a glass of water at his right hand, and a 
 shaded gas-jet at his left. Fate will be very unkind 
 if it sends Christine Nilsson back to her rivalry Avith 
 Patti in the opera-houses of London and St. Peters- 
 burg without giving us one glimpse of her genius as 
 it shines across the footlights of the lyric stage. 
 
116 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 TWO COMEDIES. 
 
 Two modern plays have this year especially de- 
 lighted the English-speaking public of the world, — 
 beginning in London a career which extends, not only 
 to Liverpool and Manchester and Dublin, not only to 
 New York and Boston and Philadelphia and Chi- 
 cago, but on and on until the actor, going west from 
 San Francisco, with his manuscript of a new piece in 
 his pocket, meets the actor coming east from Mel- 
 bourne and Victoria, armed in the same way. These 
 are " M. P.," by Mr. Kobertson, and " The Two Roses," 
 by Mr. Albery, — the works respectively of a veteran 
 of many victories, of whom, nevertheless, very few 
 people had heard four years ago, and of a young 
 knight whose very first tilt has wreathed his crest 
 with laurels. They are very much alike in the essen- 
 tial elements, although each has a strong and unmis- 
 takable individuality of its own. Neither of them 
 has a single murder, or even a forgery ; neither de- 
 pends for its effect upon a house on fire, or a child 
 stolen by gypsies, or a detective in disguise ; they in- 
 troduce us to neither burglars nor libertines ; com2:»ared 
 with " Othello " or with " Monte Cristo," or with " The 
 Colleen Bawn," they are both as mild as milk. They 
 deal with the English society of to-day, with no ex- 
 tremes of high or low classes to mark a contrast, and 
 with no more exciting incidents than the gain and 
 loss of a fortune, and the record of a contested parlia- 
 mentary election. And it is not even to these inci- 
 dents that the attention of the spectator is chiefly 
 directed, but to the picture of the minor social cus- 
 toms of every-day life, to the delicately drawn love- 
 stories in which sentiment rather than passion is mir- 
 
TWO COMEDIES. 117 
 
 rored, to the sketches of character, and to the wit 
 and humor which the two playwrights have infused 
 into the dialogue. It is by such traits as these that 
 they have charmed the British metropolis, and that 
 they have pleased the audiences of a long list of Amer- 
 ican cities. 
 
 The day of dramatic literature is jDrobably over, — 
 the time, that is to say, when plays are written which 
 are interesting and profitable to read. Shakespeare 
 wrote his plays with no thought of the printer ; but 
 they have been esteemed worth reading by several 
 generations, and those of his contemporaries are only 
 less valuable than his. From Addison's time to Sher- 
 idan's, plays were written almost as much for the j^ub- 
 lisher as for the manager ; and often the sale of the 
 book brought the author more money than his share 
 of the receipts at the box-office. But that all belongs to 
 the past. So much of the charm of the best comedies 
 of our day depends upon the inarticulate parts, — the 
 trifling with a pitcher, with a sewing-machine, a per- 
 ambulator, the cooking of a dinner in barracks, — that 
 nobody but an actor could read them understandingly ; 
 and even were they all as closely packed with wit as 
 Mr. Albery's " Two Roses," in which every sentence 
 has a pun for a snapper and every rejoinder is a repar- 
 tee, they would be pronounced very slight stuff in the 
 chilly atmosphere of the library. But this is not con- 
 demnation. A play is made to be played, after all ; 
 and if a comedy pleases the refined tastes of culti- 
 vated people when neatly represented on the stage, if 
 its literary and dramatic qualities win the applause 
 of the moment and leave an impression of pleasure in 
 the mind, the author has not a little to be proud of. 
 Mr. Robertson has shot his shaft into the very centre 
 of the target again and again, in a series of plays 
 
118 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 wHcli have done more than meet the public taste, — 
 have educated and improved it ; he has done abso- 
 lutely well in "Caste " and " School" and " Ours," and 
 almost as well in " Society " and " Home " and " M. 
 P." ; and if he has done very badly in " The Night- 
 ingale," and one or two other vmfortunate deviations 
 from his chosen path, the public is very quick to for- 
 get the failures of a successful playAvright, and he has 
 no spectre of " Collected Works " and " Complete 
 Editions " to bring up his blunders to bear witness 
 against him continually. Mr. Albery, following very 
 closely in Mr. Robertson's path, though with a vigor- 
 ous gait of his own, has produced an admirable piece 
 of work in " The Two Roses," with an obvious fault 
 in the too great stress laid now and then upon details 
 inevitably petty, and with a peculiar merit in the del- 
 icacy and wholesomeness of the sentiment, and the 
 lively play of the wit which flashes about the stage 
 from the rising of the curtain to its going down. 
 
 The American spectator rises from the enjoyment 
 of such plays as these with a keen regret that we can 
 have such a pleasure only by importation. English 
 critics are constantly harj^ing upon the poverty of their 
 stage, and sneering at the obligation they are under 
 to the French; yet how rich is London compared to 
 New York in this respect ! It is an old question why 
 we have no American plays worth having, and it is a 
 question to which there is no answer. Certainly it is 
 neither because our life does not furnish material, nor 
 because our audiences lack appreciation. If there 
 were a play of American society and manners which 
 should give such photographic glimpses of the every- 
 day experiences of the war of the Rebellion as " Ours " 
 gives of the Crimean War, how people would rush to 
 see it ! How the eyes which fill to the brim and run 
 over, from the mere tender suggestion of our own war 
 
TWO COMEDIES. 119 
 
 days, and the music of " Annie Laurie," played by the 
 band of the regiment marching by the drawiug-room 
 window, would glisten could the strains of the " Hal- 
 lelujah Chorus " be introduced with similar skill in a 
 drama of our own. Nor is the war our only treasury. 
 Our politics are full of rich things for the dramatist. 
 The audience which relishes the election scenes in 
 " M. P.," though the main " motive " of indispensable 
 bribery, is unknown to our camj^aigns, and though half 
 the technical allusions are absolutely unintelligible, 
 would be carried away with enthusiasm, could a con- 
 gressional election be set before them on the stage 
 with an equal approach to fidelity. Familiarity with 
 the theme breeds contempt in such matters only when 
 the work is done clumsily. Let it be managed with 
 an artist's hand, like Mr. Robertson's, and there is 
 wealth and fame waiting to reward success. Our late 
 " domestic institution " was too dark and tragic in its 
 elements and situations to fm*nish the best material 
 for the stage ; yet how quick w^as the response to Mr. 
 Boucicault's use of it in " The Octoroon," though he 
 worked, as he always does, with a big brush. We 
 have not the gradations of classes which English au- 
 thors have used for the framework of hundreds of 
 dramas, nor the loose condition of society which gives 
 congenial themes to the Parisian playwrights ; but 
 we have a field all our own, and all the better because 
 it is fresh, in the excitements of New York business 
 life, in the countless complications of jJoUtics, in the 
 swift shiftings of fortune, in such episodes as Fenian 
 raids and oil bubbles and Crispin strikes and Chinese 
 experiments. We see nowhere even the cloud of dust 
 which may indicate the api^roach of the coming man 
 in this department of our national life ; but we wait 
 with eagerness and almost with confidence for his 
 anival, notwithstanding. 
 
120 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 DRAMATIZATIONS. 
 
 " Bless thee, Bottom, bless thee! thou art translated." 
 A Midsumvier Nighfs Dream. 
 
 " Fro' first to last, a muddle." 
 
 Stephen Blackpool, in Hard Times. 
 
 The genius of our time and language has its best 
 expression in prose fiction. What the drama was in 
 EHzabeth's day the novel is in Victoria's. If Dick- 
 ens had lived two hundred years ago, he would have 
 written plays, and acted in them ; if Shakespeare had 
 been born in the nineteenth century, he would have 
 given the world a series of stories. But the stage still 
 exists, and the public enjoys it as well, appreciates it as 
 highly, spends money upon it as liberally, as at any 
 time since the days of " Gammer Gurton's Needle." 
 In return, the English-speaking stage offers great 
 and original actors, but no great and original plays ; 
 and in the lack of these it draws its supply from two 
 sources, — the fertile ingenuity of the French drama- 
 tists, and the rich abundance of the novel-writers. Just 
 now, and for three or four months past, the creation 
 of comedy in Paris has been checked by the tremen- 
 dous tragedy in which Napoleon and William, Bis- 
 marck, Trochu, Bazaine, and Von Moltke have borne 
 the leading parts with immense armies of supernu- 
 meraries and a reckless disregard of expense. So the 
 other reservoir has been forced to supply the whole 
 demand ; and thus it is that the world of theatre- 
 goers has almost a surfeit of " Barnaby Rudge " and 
 "Man and Wife" ; that a vivacious little Bohemian of 
 California training is going up and down the earth pro- 
 fessing to play Little Nell and the Marchioness; that an- 
 other sprightly lady, who erst was delighting the pubhc 
 
DRAMATIZATIONS. 121 
 
 with a chase of a chicken and a dance with her shadow, 
 is striving to embody the sombre experiences of Jane 
 Eyre ; and that even that saddest tragedy of all our 
 literature, the unsolved "Mystery of Edwin Drood," 
 has found several dramatists bold enough to cojdc with 
 its problem, and to bring its tangled plot to a ha23i3y 
 endino; on the stao-e. 
 
 The cause which we have indicated has produced 
 just now an unusual proportion of the plays in which 
 an adapter seeks to climb into public favor from the 
 shoulders of a successful novelist. But from a gener- 
 ation past, these productions have been as plenty as 
 blackberries. The sensational actors and actresses 
 seek for their prey the sensation novelist, and so each 
 thrives upon his kind. " Uncle Tom's Cabin " is acted 
 yet, though the little girl who used to jDlay Eva has 
 grown old enough for Miss Ophelia ; and probably the 
 piece will continue to draw occasional crovv'ds just as 
 the novel continues to be sold to new readers, long 
 after the great crime it pictured has ceased to exist in 
 the land. We hear of few people now reading "East 
 Lynne " ; but the play is amazingly popular with a large 
 class, and managers are besieged with applications to 
 revive it again and again. Authors are not apt to be 
 pleased with the dramatic versions of their books, and 
 no wonder; but they all have to submit to it. Thack- 
 eray was almost the only j)rominent novelist of our 
 day whose productions were not voraciously snatched 
 by managers' hacks ; and he had a compensating cause 
 for regret in the fact that his genius was so essentially 
 undramatic that even when he wrote a comedy the 
 theatre which his friend managed could do nothing 
 with it, and he was forced to turn the thing into his 
 poorest novel before he could get a penny for it. 
 Charles Reade is the one A\T.iter who is so much at 
 6 
 
122 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 home on the stage that his best book was made by 
 himself into a capital play which deserves to become 
 standard, and which is so neat and workmanlike in its 
 construction that the keenest critic may be defied to 
 tell whether " Masks and Faces " is a dramatization 
 of " Peg Woffington," or Avhether the tale is the com- 
 edy expanded into a book. As for Dickens, the adajot- 
 ers began to work njDon him as soon as he began 
 to write, without the slightest regard for suitable- 
 ness ; even rambling " Pickwick " has been made into 
 a I3lay, with thirty or forty characters and ever so 
 many acts; and we should hardly be surprised at an 
 announcement of " American Notes " as a comedietta, 
 or "A Child's Dream of a Star" as a sentimental 
 drama. The great humorist, who got angry, as he did 
 everything else, with his whole heart and soul and 
 strength, devoted a page of " Nicholas Nickleby " to 
 a very wrathful excoriation of a presuming j^lay wright 
 who had put the story on the stage before it was near 
 comj^letion, and forced the novelist to devise a new 
 and somewhat absurd conclusion in self-defence. The 
 passionate young author made out the dramatizer to 
 be far more wicked than the pickpocket. But even 
 Dickens acquiesced in the inevitable in the later years 
 of his life ; he made treaties with the theatres, made 
 sure that the adaiDtation was confided to friendly 
 hands, and paid compliments to actors and actresses, 
 who assumed his characters, — O, how far from as well 
 as he could play them himself! Indeed, one of his 
 last Christmas stories, written in conjunction with 
 Mr. Wilkie Collins, was planned less as a literary 
 work than to give an opportunity for the display of 
 the powers of his friend, Mr. Fechter, in the charac- 
 ter of Obenreizer, — a character, by the way, a per- 
 formance of which thousands of the American admir- 
 
DRAMATIZATIONS. 123 
 
 ers of the novelist and the actor are waiting impa- 
 tiently to see. 
 
 It remains to be said that a novel, which affords the 
 very highest pleasure to cultivated people in the read- 
 ing, becomes, when adapted for the stage in the usual 
 way, almost unbearable stuff to the same class of 
 minds, though to a lower order of tastes it is very en- 
 joyable in its new form. Those who cannot appreciate 
 the charm of the literary work can relish the play ; but 
 to those who can fully apj^reciate the novel the j^lay 
 is an offence. Who that can enter into the spirit of 
 the exquisite fun of the Marchioness, bjoad but still 
 tender, almost fircical, perhaps, yet almost tragic too, 
 does not feel insulted by the travesty of the small 
 servant which Mr. John Brougham and Miss Lotta 
 have devised between them, — a bold, eccentric crea- 
 ture, who plays a banjo and dances a clog-dance, and 
 who bewilders an audience with the fi-eaks of her 
 heels. As to the Little Nell which the same actress 
 offers in the same play, it is not to be spoken of with- 
 out overstepping the bounds of proper indignation. It 
 is as if a trained monkey — and one rather poorly 
 trained at that — were to offer to fill the character of 
 Desdemona. The success of Mr. Stuart Robson in 
 his performance of Simon Tapj^ertit has become a 
 tale of two cities ; but the spectator who knows 
 " Barnaby Kuclge " cannot help wishing that the ex- 
 travagant drollery of voice and action, the comic 
 songs and imitations of actors, were exhibited in some 
 burlesque which professed to be nothing else, and not 
 where to the fresh mind they will inevitably color and 
 pervert the impressions of Dickens's character to be 
 gained in the future. But there are many people so 
 deficient in imagination that a character, however 
 vividly drawn, is hfeless to them in the printed page, 
 
124 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 but can be realized and enjoyed when distorted in 
 the convex mirror of the actor's fancy ; and these are 
 they who iiock to enjoy the dramatizations, and after- 
 wards can read the book with a keen pleasure, so that 
 profitable sales of the novel are made at the box-office 
 of the theatre to a public who never otherwise would 
 read it. 
 
 Those at all fastidious are repelled, not only by the 
 transformed characters of the stage versions, — in whom 
 they can recognize nothing of their old friends but 
 the costume, — but also by the confusion into which 
 the framework of the novel is thrown by the unskilled 
 literary carpenters of the theatre. The labyrinth of 
 incident which Mr. AYilkie Collins has elaborated in 
 scores of closely packed chapters cannot fairly be 
 made intelligible to an audience in a half-dozen scenes. 
 The exigencies of the stage even divorce Barnaby 
 from his Raven, and in the same way cut the events 
 of the story from their proper connection, until he 
 who has not read the book cannot understand, and he 
 who has read it cannot endure, the play. This is in a 
 measure to be avoided by a playwright with discern- 
 ment enough to select a single episode of the story 
 for dramatic j^resentation, and to rej^roduce only the 
 characters necessary for its development, as Mr. An- 
 drew Halliday did with " David Copperfield " in his 
 "Little Em'ly," and as he is likely to do with "The 
 Old Curiosity Shop " in the " Nell " which he now has 
 in hand ; but it is inevitable with those artisans who 
 undertake to cram the essence of five hundred pages 
 into an evening, and to bring several scores of prin- 
 cipal and minor characters together upon the stage. 
 It is a task like that of the fisherman in the Arabian 
 story who has to get an Afrite, towering to the clouds, 
 into a little black jar, — only a miracle can accom- 
 plish it. 
 
TWO ENGLISH ARTISTS. 125 
 
 TWO ENGLISH ARTISTS. 
 
 *' A foreign nation is a kind of contemporaneous posterity." — The 
 Recollections of a Man of the World. 
 
 " The lady dotli protest too much, methinks." — Hamlet. 
 
 " On their own merits modest men are dumb." — The Heir at Laiv. 
 
 The English stage is not rich in great tragic actors. 
 Garrick and Edmund Kean have left no successors in 
 this generation. From Mrs. Siddons to Mrs. Scott- 
 Siddons is a long stej^, but it is fairly tyj^ical of the 
 inferiority of the genius of our time to that of the 
 days when there were giants on the London stage. 
 Comedians are plenty enough ; the era is favorable to 
 them ; but the England of to-day furnishes no wearers 
 of the buskin. It is a Frenchman who has given to 
 London its greatest theatrical excitement for the j^ast 
 decade ; it is an American girl who draws the largest 
 houses in all the British cities year after year. Thus 
 it is that it is worth while for foreigners to devote 
 the prodigious labor necessary for acquiring the com- 
 plete mastery of a new tongue in mature life, to satisfy 
 the earnest demand of the English-speaking jDublic for 
 good serious acting. Philosophy might find a reason 
 for this in the training and habits of thought, the 
 literature and politics, of the English community, and 
 might point out subtle lines of connection between 
 Leech and Thackeray and Toole and Buckstone, be- 
 tween the peaceful j^olicy of Gladstone and Bright, 
 and the absence of any brilliant light from the English 
 stage. But we do not care to follow the matter so 
 far, and only speak of it as having a bearing upon the 
 visit to our own cities this season of two English 
 artists of the loftiest aspirations, and to explain why 
 we need not dofi* our hats and fall on our knees at 
 
126 DEAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 once upon the advent of Miss Isabella Glyn and Mr. 
 Walter Montgomery, but may test their quality by 
 the same cool criticism which we should give to 
 Americans making the same attempts to win the 
 public favor. 
 
 The lady and gentleman do not come in company, 
 but their ambition lies very nearly on the same line ; 
 so that while Miss Glyn was reading Cleopatra in New 
 York, Mr. Montgomery was playing Antony in Boston. 
 There may be objection to treating them both as Eng- 
 lish, since one is a Scotch woman, and the other was 
 born within sight of the steeples of New York ; but it 
 is the London stage which has given them their train- 
 ing, and to the London press and public they owe their 
 rei^utations. So it seems fair to sj^eak of them both 
 as English products, and to deal with them both to- 
 gether, — the more so as both of them, and the gen- 
 tleman especially, have come heralded by that florid 
 and patronizing style of advertising which, in view of 
 the notorious poverty of the English stage to which we 
 have alluded, is doubly offensive. It may give a Yan- 
 kee a friendly interest to know that Charles Dickens 
 admired the readings of Miss Glyn ; but it is surely an 
 impertinence to expatiate to us on the favor shown to 
 Mr. Montgomery by the Prince of Wales and the 
 royal family. His Royal Highness has tastes which 
 make him a better judge of the antics of Schneider 
 than of any acting in " Hamlet " ; and we who have 
 produced Edwin Booth and Charlotte Cushman and 
 Joseph Jefferson are not to be awed out of the free 
 exercise of our own good judgment by such august 
 recommendations. 
 
 Miss Glyn's portraiture of Cleo2:)atra may be made 
 the subject of much honest commendation. Pier read- 
 ing of the play is a frame for this, and nothing more ; 
 
TWO ENGLISH ARTISTS. 127 
 
 all the other characters come like shadows, so depart. 
 It is evidently the result of long and loving study; in 
 reckoning its shortcomings, the extreme difficulty of the 
 part must be considered ; and in comparison with her 
 her large and vigorous handling the efforts of ordinary 
 actresses seem tame and dull. She does not lead us 
 to imagine Cleopatra in the guise of the British matron 
 of the period, for a description of whose type the 
 reader must be referred to the memorable paragraphs 
 in Hawthorne's essay on " Leamington Spa " ; but she 
 achieves what is perhaps more difficult, in creating 
 upon the mind's eye of the spectator a distinct con- 
 ception of the Egyptian queen in her varying moods, 
 in her lion-like love and her tiger-like hate, quite dis- 
 tinct from the personality before him. As she suc- 
 ceeds in doing so much in the reading-desk. Miss Glyn 
 is perhaps wise in avoiding the stage, even though in 
 her youth her best victories were won there ; for there 
 are many obstacles to be overcome in the acting wliich 
 do not stand in the way of the reader. And, having 
 said so much in praise of Miss Glyn's reading of her 
 favorite character, we are bound to make admissions 
 which bring us back near our starting-point. With 
 all her richness and power of voice, with all the energy 
 wdiich makes possible such an enormous sustained 
 effort as each of her evenings, with all the force and 
 ardor which she throws into her interpretation of 
 Cleoj^atra, — we do not recognize a spark of the fire 
 of genius in it. There is a constant straininsf for ef- 
 feet, shoAvn even in overloading the minor passages 
 with passion, in the determination that nothing shall 
 be lost. But after all the effect is not attained. The 
 audience is never thrilled to the spinal marrow by the 
 magnetic fire of grand acting, as we can all remember 
 to have been thrilled when we first heard Ristori in 
 
128 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 Mary Stuart taunt Elizabeth with the frailties of 
 Anne Boleyn ; when we first saw Ki]) Van Win- 
 kle driven out in the storm ; when Meg Merrilies 
 rushed upon the stage without speaking; when Ed- 
 win Booth's Brutus ordered the execution of his 
 son. We go away with heads quite cool and pulses 
 entirely calm, discussing the passages where the 
 reader's emphasis has missed the plain meaning of 
 the text ; and, seeing her again in w^oful misinteq^re- 
 tations of " Macbeth " and " Hamlet," our verdict is 
 confirmed. Miss Glyn is an actress of rather more 
 than ordinary ability, who by sympathetic study has 
 drawn very near to one of Shakespeare's greatest and 
 most difiicult creations ; but she has no tragic genius, 
 nor even that inferior but still rare faculty which 
 qualifies one properly to read to an audience of cul- 
 ture and intelligence a play of greatness thoroughly 
 familiar and crowded with individualized characters. 
 That it is possible to possess this power without being 
 a very great actress, Fanny Kemble proved to the 
 world in those "precious evenings, all too swiftly 
 sped," the charm of which Longfellow has crystallized 
 in a sonnet telling, — 
 
 " How our hearts glowed and trembled as she read, 
 Interpreting by tones the wondrous pages 
 Of the great poet who foreriins the ages, 
 Anticipating all that shall be said." 
 
 But Miss Glyn has given us no new proof. 
 
 Of Mr. Walter Montgomery substantially the same is 
 to be said. The imj^ersonations of Shakespearian char- 
 acters, with which he is making the tour of our cities, 
 shoAV a noble ambition ; and this is much : for if to love 
 the Lady Elizabeth Hastings was a liberal education, to 
 admire Shakespeare ardently is a great deal in an act- 
 or's favor. But we may safely go further, and credit 
 
TWO ENGLISH ARTISTS. 129 
 
 Mr. Montgomery with intelligent assumptions, which is 
 much more than was to be expected from the author 
 of such amazing advertisements and childish manifes- 
 toes as it his habit to pelt the public with through the 
 newspapers. He bears himself handsomely, and plays 
 with spirit and good discretion. But for genius, we 
 are unable to detect the slightest gleam of it. 
 
 Now we fear that, for an entirely successful starring 
 tour in this country at this time, some degree of 
 genius is absolutely essential. In a London fog, a 
 link-boy's torch may pass for a star ; but where other 
 luminaries are shining clearly to compare it with, 
 there is no reason for rating it above its value. Both 
 the artists of whom we have spoken are entitled to 
 a cordial welcome here, as faithful, honest students, 
 doing careful and conscientious work in a department 
 where such attempts are rare at the best, and only 
 mediocrity and quackery are common. But if — in a 
 vanity which we may speak of without delicacy, since 
 it seems to be a professional trait and not a weakness 
 to be jDcrsonally responsible for — they have looked for 
 a career here of greater brilliancy, such as genius of 
 the first rank commands, whether displayed on the 
 stage, the concert platform, or in the reading-desk, 
 they are doomed to a common disappointment, which 
 no courtesy of the critical pen can alleviate. 
 
 6* 
 
130 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 EDWm BOOTH'S "RICHELIEU." 
 
 "Even those you were wont to take such delight in, the tragedians 
 of the city." — Hamlet. 
 
 " The Minister is here." — Twelfth Night. 
 
 If the spirit of Shakespeare ever exercises the priv- 
 ilege which he himself bestowed upon the ghosts of 
 so many of his characters, and comes back for night 
 walks about the earth, it must often have occasion for 
 such degree of surprise as spirits are capable of It 
 would encounter various Globe Theatres scattered 
 about the world, all named in honor of the establish- 
 ment where the new tragedy of " Macbeth " had its 
 "first performance on any stage"; it would find 
 " Hamlet " and " Othello " more in favor than in their 
 fresh days, and played with many subtleties of in- 
 terpretation never dreamed of when the author him- 
 self took minor parts and suj^erintended rehearsals. 
 But it would also find that scenes indicated in Eliza- 
 beth's day by roughly painted signs posted among 
 the fashionable gallants who sat upon the rush-strewn 
 stacre — "This is an Orchard," "A Room in the Pal- 
 ace" — are now pictured to the eye by elaborate 
 achievements of painting and canvas architecture, cost- 
 ing more money than Shakespeare ever possessed, and 
 their splendor made a leading feature of the entertain- 
 ment. To pass from the impossible to the merely im- 
 probable, it would be really worth the while of the 
 venerable baronet who has written the most popular 
 plays of our era to make a trip to this country to see 
 with what a rare combination of taste and magnifi- 
 cence an American actor and manager has placed 
 upon the stage his favorite drama, in the production 
 
EDWIN BOOTH'S "RICHELIEU." 131 
 
 of " Richelieu," to run, as the custom is, for the entire 
 winter, at Edwin Booth's theatre in New York. 
 
 If Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton were to act upon 
 this suggestion, and make a pilgrimage to New York, 
 his taste for the gorgeous and superb, as it is indi- 
 cated in his own rhetoric in prose and verse, could 
 not fail to be struck by the rich dress in which his 
 play has been presented to the American public. He 
 would note that the opening scene — a gambling- 
 room in the house of Marion de Lorme, wdiich the 
 exigencies of the stage commonly require to be rep- 
 resented by a meagre "front flat" — is a rich and bril- 
 liant aj^artment, elegantly furnished and ornamented, 
 the gamesters who are plucking that gay pigeon, De 
 Mauprat, occupying an alcove in the rear, so that 
 it is not an absurdity for the political conspirators 
 to be talking over their intrigue in the main apart- 
 ment. He would see this elaborate stage-j^icture give 
 place, as easily as the phantasmagoria of the magic- 
 lantern dissolve one into another, to the room in the 
 Palais Cardinal, where the premier of Louis XIII. 
 carries on the affairs of state, — a room in a palace, 
 indeed, with walls and ceiling, doors and fireplaces, 
 no less fliithfully presented to the eye than the furni- 
 ture of the period, the carved chairs and footstools, the 
 quaint clock, the armor, the busts and statues in various 
 niches, the odd little brass disk, which, struck by a 
 hammer, summons different attendants, according to 
 the number of blows given, — all faithfully studied 
 from museums and antiquarian research, and having 
 the effect, not of painful imitation, but of reality it- 
 self. The Gothic chamber in the Castle at Kuelle is 
 another picture of the same sort, widely different in 
 detail but equally striking in effect. The noble open- 
 air view of the gardens of the Louvre, with the lofty 
 
132 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 flight of steps leading to the door of the palace, 
 whence the king descends, attended by his staff of 
 gentlemen in waiting, and its marble statue of a 
 classic figm'e standing boldly out upon its pedestal, 
 seems the climax of the series of stage pictures ; but it 
 in turn is surj^assed by the grand saloon of the Louvre, 
 copied from the historic reality, even to the broad arch 
 of the ceiling, frescoed with rare grace of design and 
 softness of coloring, and with every detail in harmony, 
 which deserves to be long remembered and carefully 
 studied, as the finest achievement of the kind ever 
 reached on the American, or perhaps on any stage. 
 
 But after all has been said that there is room for 
 upon this theme, — and we might continue at much 
 greater length did space permit, — after the full 
 splendor of the stage setting is ajDpreciated, and the 
 great expenditure of money is taken into account, it 
 is not to be forgotten that if this were all, the jDraise 
 to be awarded would be that which might be giv- 
 en to a panorama or a puppet-show. The devising of 
 these difficult and admirable pictures requires art, but 
 not the highest art. Acting, nevertheless, remains 
 the province and the glory of the stage. We give 
 credit to our public in the belief that, with all the 
 finery of Booth's Theatre in scenery and costume 
 redoubled, if that were possible, they would not go 
 to see " Richelieu " if it had not the tragedian's genius 
 to illumine the prmcipal part; and we go further, 
 and believe that his genius would attract the public 
 as it does now, were he to play among the signboard 
 substitutes for scenes of the old Globe Theatre. It is 
 to his honor, therefore, that he devotes such liberality 
 and study to the setting of the jewel; and its richness 
 should not be permitted to distract attention from the 
 gem itself. 
 
EDWIN BOOTH'S "RICHELIEU." 133 
 
 Edwin Booth's Richelieu, if not so magnetic as his 
 Hamlet, so intense as his lago, so simply great as his 
 Brutus, must still rank among the noblest of his as- 
 sumptions. It is not merely, a cluster of fine histrionic 
 bursts of passion, but a symmetrical and artistic "svhole 
 as a conception of character, — perhaps not histori- 
 cally faultless, but consistent with itself and w4th the 
 play, which is all that can reasonably be required in 
 historical drama. Mr. Booth does not couo;h throuah 
 the part, like an actress in the last scenes of " Camille," 
 as some j^layers think it needful to do ; but it seems 
 to us that he indicates the age and infirmity of the 
 Cardinal sufficiently, and adheres faithfully to these 
 conditions in every step, every tone, every gesture. 
 He has succeeded, as he has improved and i3olished 
 his rendering from year to year, in elaborating the 
 nice details without sacrificing the sahent points of 
 power which such elaboration is apt to endanger. 
 Thus his threat of the curse of Rome in the fourth 
 act is as great in its way as any efibrt known to the 
 stage of our time, suggesting the traditions of Edmund 
 Kean, and producing an electric efiect which leaves 
 the listener without the power to criticise details or 
 methods ; but we place close beside it, as worthy of 
 almost equal praise, those delicate touches of the 
 earlier scenes, in w^hich the humor of the old states- 
 man, his irony and sense of fun, are delineated. Every- 
 where there are nice bits of detail, w^hich show the 
 careful artist ; and among them we cannot omit to 
 notice Richelieu's grasping at his little crucifix when 
 the steel of the assassin is close to his heart, and his 
 fumbling of the symbol all through the defiance which 
 the unarmed priest hurls at the mailed murderer, — 
 so much does it convey, to those who notice it, of the 
 character of the man and the emotions of the moment. 
 
134 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 But we cannot continue to point out the little traits 
 of excellence which go to make up the complete and 
 admirable whole. 
 
 Mr. Booth has chosen, to surround himself with 
 matchless scenery and proj^erties rather than with 
 actors of noteworthy skill in the minor parts ; but 
 the latter are not so easily obtained, even with money, 
 and the public must be reconciled to a little less than 
 absolute excellence somewhere. 
 
 OPERA BOUFFE AND ITS MANAGER. 
 
 " A French song, and a fiddle, has no fellow." 
 
 King Henry VIII. 
 " Unchaste looks, loose gestures, and foul talk." 
 
 The Mash of Comus. 
 " Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale. 
 Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man ; 
 And bitter shame hath spoiled the sweet world's taste, 
 That it yields naught but shame and bitterness. 
 
 And he that stands upon a slippery place 
 Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up." 
 
 King John. 
 
 When the foulest phase of French opera was at its 
 height in New York, the chief ap|)lause in that infa- 
 mous work, " Genevieve de Brabant," even the motif 
 of which is unspeakable to modest ears, was won by a 
 skilful actor in the part of a comic soldier. His droll 
 gestures and grimaces became the sensation of the 
 hour; and the little scene in which he appeared had 
 to be rej^eated again and again every night, amid the 
 applause of delighted audiences. .This actor, whose 
 name was Gabel, had been in his time a real soldier, 
 
OPERA BOUFFE AND ITS MANAGER. 135 
 
 and the poWer of drollery which fascinated the audi- 
 ences of America was trained in the frolics of French 
 camp-fires. When the war with Prussia broke out 
 last summer, he joined his old regiment, with patriotic 
 ardor undiminished by absence, by j^rofitable occupa- 
 tion, or by the less perilous glory of the footlights. 
 He handled his chassepot like a serious soldier, and 
 not a comic one ; and in the charge which decided the 
 fate of the tottering empire, at Sedan, Gabel was 
 killed by a German shell. 
 
 We might use this incident as a type of the extinc- 
 tion of the class of ojieras in which this man played ; 
 for the empire of Louis Napoleon furnished the 
 congenial soil in which this degradation of art flour- 
 ished, and with the downfall of his power it ought to 
 disappear from the fice of the earth. But it has not 
 yet perished. Paris, indeed, thinks little of opera to- 
 day, either serious or comic ; but we doubt not that, 
 with the first return of cheerfiilness and peace to the 
 city, its wickedness will blossom out again in full flower. 
 And in the American metropolis the prettiest of all the 
 theatres is devoted to this same meretricious entertain- 
 ment, and more money than ever before is spent in 
 fostering it. We find a loophole of j^romise, however, 
 in the fact that this outlay, lavish as it is, produces no 
 corresponding liberality on the part of the public, and 
 that the enterprise is a losing speculation, carried on 
 for the amusement and gratification of one man. 
 Dazzling and demoralizing entertainments were es- 
 sential to the Paris of Napoleon III., and in just the 
 same way they are essential to the New York of James 
 Fisk, Jr. ; but the seed in the one case was planted so 
 deep that the crop will long outlast the sower, while in 
 the other the harvest is withered and blighted already. 
 
 It is not our purpose to enter into criticism in detail 
 
136 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 of the French troupe now under Mr. Fisk's manage- 
 ment. It is a comi^any of very large numbers, with 
 many men of that native talent, that inborn comedy, 
 that skill in all the minutiae of the stage, that admira- 
 ble art which conceals the fact that it is art at all, 
 Avhicli is so common among French actors and so rare 
 among those of other nations. There is also a large 
 l^roportion of those easy, confident, occasionally auda- 
 cious women, who know just how far it is safe to go 
 with an audience to whom modesty and awkwardness 
 are alike unknown, who are to be found in Paris and no- 
 where else, though there are strenuous efforts to imitate 
 them in other countries, which result only in offensive 
 failures. These people combine to give, with a rattle 
 and dash, a spirit and fire, which we should like to see 
 copied in more wholesome entertainments, the operas 
 of Offenbach, — now one in which mere fun predomi- 
 nates, so that the purest maiden could enjoy it without 
 a blush, if she understands no French, and does not 
 follow the libretto too curiously ; and now one so full 
 of odious suggestion and abominable stuff of every 
 sort that the whole air of the theatre is jooisonous 
 with wickedness, and no honest woman who has 
 strayed in unawares can look her neighbor in the face. 
 But both classes alike fail to attract the jiublic, and 
 the management seeks to tempt it by odd devices, 
 such as having one character played by three actresses 
 in one evening, much as the appetite which retains no 
 liking for simple food may be aroused by extravagant 
 doses of red pepper. 
 
 But there is not so much material for edification in 
 the spectacle on the stage, the merry, brilliant music, 
 the bright dresses, and uproarious fun, the foulness 
 leering out from amid the gayety, as in the figure in 
 the box at the left. It is the man whose name is on 
 
OPERA BOUFFE AND ITS MANAGER. 137 
 
 every tongue in New York, yet by none mentioned 
 with respect, save by a little circle of satellites de- 
 pendent upon his bounty. He sits radiant with 
 jewels, surrounded with such company as the Prodi- 
 gal Son kept, before he consorted with honest pigs, 
 gazing now at the show which costs him a little for- 
 tune every month, now at the superb structure in 
 whose lofty vestibule his initials are emblazoned. He 
 has no more worlds to conquer. He draws his rev- 
 enues from a great railway, one of the most impor- 
 tant thorouglifares of the country, which he has cap- 
 tured and put in his pocket. He spends his Avealth 
 upon such gorgeous follies as we see before us. He 
 gives his spare time to smaller theatres, to hotels, to 
 steamboat lines, to country-seats, to militia regiments, 
 which he has bought with the 2:)lunder of his j^rincipal 
 operations. He is in alliance with the loolitical ad- 
 venturers who rule the great city seething without, 
 and all its citizens pay tribute to the band to which he 
 belongs. His name is mentioned in every newspaper, 
 and except in the two or three journals which receive 
 his subsidies, always with bitterness and contemj^t; 
 but that is of little moment to him, so long as he is 
 kept before the public in some way. Every week some 
 new scandal, some railroad war, or political intrigue, 
 or vulgar quarrel over the favors of the frail, keeps up 
 his notoriety. He counts among his servitors various 
 judges, who sit upon the bench at his will, and to do 
 his bidding ; and foremost on his pay-roll are certain 
 distinguislied lawyers, men of brains and social rank, 
 who study to protect him in his fortress of robbery 
 and fraud. 
 
 It is not a picture on which we as Americans may 
 look with pride ; but when we look it fairly in the 
 face, it is not one of which we may seriously fear the 
 
138 DRAMATIC TOPICS.. 
 
 demoralizing influence. For evidently tliis man, who 
 has satisfied every dream of his ignoble ambition, has 
 even in his own estimate gained nothing like what he 
 has lost. He sits in the box of his magnificent theatre, 
 or in the gorgeously furnished apartments of his ofiice 
 in the same great castle, and every man who looks 
 upon him sees a face from which not only have honor 
 and shame vanished long ago, but from which the 
 knowledge of pleasure has gradually gone too. We 
 should not fear to set before him the most impressible, 
 the most energetic Yankee boy, such as this worn and 
 weary man himself doubtless was thirty years ago, 
 and say, " If you can envy this man, imitate him. If 
 what he has become pleases you, make his career your 
 model." It is not that conscience troubles him ; con- 
 science may be snuffed out, in some natures, like a 
 candle; but in the darkness that follows, there is more 
 of wretchedness than of enjoyment. And, moreover, 
 if he listens to the voices which whisper his name up 
 and down the metropolis, he knows that all are looking 
 for his fall from the semblance of wealth which he has 
 attained. He must not only fight his battle every 
 day, but he must struggle with the consciousness that 
 defeat is the only end which can come, and that defeat 
 to him means fiiendless ignominy of the most miser- 
 able sort. 
 
 The music strikes up gayly; the laughing' chorus 
 echoes from stage and balconies. It is the opera of 
 "The Brigands." These gay fellows have a merry 
 life ; they corrupt all the innocence of the village, and 
 attach youth and beauty to their own camp; they 
 plunder with a jest; they disguise themselves as 
 beggars to rob the innkeeper, put on his apron to rob 
 the traveller, and don his cloak and wig to entraj) the 
 next arrival. They swagger and boast, and pick every 
 
CHARLES FECHTER. 139 
 
 pocket with neatness and despatch. Does the man 
 with the waxed mustache and lack-histre eyes, who 
 looks listlessly at the j^lay from the manager's box, 
 see in their exploits a reflection of his own career? 
 The brigands are a jolly crew, says the libretto ; but 
 they come to grief in the last scene, even with no 
 loftier poetical justice than that of Offenbach ; the 
 millions they would have swept into their coffers prove 
 to have melted away; they are sure to have their 
 masks torn off at last. 
 
 CHARLES FECHTER. 
 
 " His was the spell o'er hearts 
 
 Which only Acting lends, — 
 The youngest of the sister arts, 
 
 Where all their beauty blends ; 
 For ill can Poetry express 
 
 Full many a tone of thought sublime; 
 And Painting, mute and motionless, 
 
 Steals but a glance at time ; 
 But by the mighty Actor brought. 
 
 Illusion's perfect triumphs come, 
 Verse ceases to be airy thought, 
 
 And sculpture to be dumb." 
 
 CAaiPBELL. 
 
 "The company seemed not much to disapprove of me for an asso- 
 ciate. They all, however, apprised me of the importance of the task 
 at which I aimed ; that the public was a many-headed monster, and 
 that only such as had very good heads could please it; that acting was 
 not to be learnt in a day; and that, without some traditional shi'ugs 
 which had been on the stage, and only on the stage, these hundi-ed 
 years, I could never pretend to please. The next difficulty was in 
 fitting me with parts, as almost every character was in keeping." — 
 The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 Now that Mr. Fechter has fairly abdicated his 
 Boston throne, has shown a brief glimpse of his face 
 
140 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 to 'New York, has plunged into the smoke of Pitts- 
 burg, and is on his way to face the difficult, capricious 
 audiences of Chicago, calm criticism of his character- 
 istics as an artist seems again to be in order. This 
 was clearly impossible during the last weeks of Mr. 
 Fechter's stay in his chosen American home, when 
 charges and counter-charges hurtled through the air; 
 when reporters rushed up and down the earth, and 
 out to Long Branch, to contribute spicy dishes of 
 scandal to the feast of controversy ; when street-cars 
 and club-rooms echoed with the encounters of parti- 
 sans, and rival choruses of bitter sneers and exagger- 
 ated adulation rose about the retiring manager in 
 disagreeable din. Then any question as to Mr. Fech- 
 ter's reading of a soliloquy, his conception of a char- 
 acter, was complicated with countless side issues, 
 entirely irrelevant to art, as to his manners, his 
 temper, his sagacity, his punctuality, his arrogance, 
 his salary, and so forth. Now it seems possible to 
 brush all these aside, and to discuss his acting with 
 no more reference to his management of the Globe 
 than we should give, in considering the rank of 
 Edmund Kean as a tragedian, to the affair with Mrs. 
 Alderman Cox. 
 
 Mr. Fechter is to us a great actor. There are some 
 candid critics who, stumbling at the threshold upon 
 his French accent, or looking chiefly at his Shake- 
 spearian interpretation, deny him this rank altogether; 
 but, with the most moderate estimate of the j^ersonal 
 magnetism of the man, his unquenchable fire and 
 vigor, his power over an audience of cultivated peo- 
 ple, we cannot but pronounce him an artist of 230sitive 
 genius. This very matter of the accent is at the 
 bottom of much of the wide difference of opinion 
 about Mr. Fechter. To some ears such violence as 
 
CHARLES FECHTER. 141 
 
 he does to the natural emphasis of an English sen- 
 tence is destructive of all enjoyment of it, as a spoon- 
 ful of castor-oil might ruin the taste of a beaker of the 
 best wine. To others it scarcely interferes at all with 
 the brilliancy of the acting itself, which maybe admired 
 as we should admire the o-randeur of Niag^ara, thouo-h 
 compelled to look at it through tinted spectacles. Tlie 
 qualities we have named may command appreciation 
 in spite of any such drawback, and custom may 
 make it seem slighter every day, until one almost 
 forgets that Claude's speeches are not as purely and 
 crisply uttered as Pauline's. 
 
 Passing this consideration by, therefore, as we may 
 be justified in doing, as incidental and immaterial, we 
 recognize in Mr. Fechter's acting in most of his chosen 
 parts a glow of genuine fire, which shines in brilHant 
 contrast with most of the tragic torchlights of the 
 day. It is spontaneous and unforced; it has no rant- 
 ing and rushing about the stage, no conventional 
 bursts and poses, but always an attainment of effects 
 by tlie simplest means, which, for the moment, seem 
 like nature itself It is not nature precisely; for the 
 plays which Mr. Fechter affects are of a class in which 
 nature has very little part. It can only be said that, 
 given a Ruy Bias or Edmund Dantes, the manner in 
 which this actor plays them is consistent with the 
 ideal of the drama and with itself He embodies 
 romance as no other actor has done ; he makes every 
 man in his audience a Melnotte, every woman feel a 
 reflection of the ardor of the Lyons belle, for the hour 
 or two the play holds their imaginations. The method 
 by which this is attained is beyond analysis. TTe 
 may note the never-failing grace, the always pictur- 
 esque and fitting gesture, the art which leaves no 
 instant without its proper expression of face and 
 
142 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 figure, tlie energy wHcli seems to take possession of 
 the man and carry him along without an effort ; but, 
 after all, we cannot catch and put ujDon paper the 
 essential something which goes with all these traits, 
 and makes great what would otherwise deserve only 
 a tamer adjective. See Mr. Fechter in the last act 
 of " Ruy Bias," when he stealthily locks the door, 
 snatches his enemy's sword, and announces himself 
 his executioner; see him in "Monte Cristo," when, 
 just as he has challenged a lad to a duel which is 
 to complete an elaborate vengeance, he learns that he 
 is planning to kill his own son : see these marvellous 
 triumphs of acting, which need not a spoken word to 
 interpret the mighty emotions expressed, then try to 
 describe them in detail an hour later, and you will 
 not expect the critic to enumerate all the elements 
 which go to make up the charm of the artist. 
 
 Having said thus much, and leaving unsaid not a 
 little as to Mr. Fechter's remarkable elegance and 
 finish in light comedy, of which his plays give us flit- 
 ting and tantalizing glimpses here and there, we come 
 to what justice requires to be said as to the limitations 
 of his art. There be admirers who will allow no 
 qualification, and whose injudicious praise almost off- 
 sets the unfairly harsh treatment which Mr. Fechter 
 has now and then encountered. But it ought to be 
 no more a cause of offence to point out that there are 
 bounds to his greatness than to say that the range of 
 Tennyson is narrower than that of Shakespeare. The 
 romantic plays in which Mr. Fechter appears do not 
 cover the whole corhpass of art; nor has he given 
 evidence, dining his American stay, of such a degree 
 of versatility as would make it unjust to measure him by 
 the standard of such dramas. And, on the other hand, 
 his performance of Hamlet has shown how far he may 
 
CHARLES FECHTER. 143 
 
 fall short of the demands of a difficult Shakespearian 
 character. His Hamlet deserves all credit for its bold- 
 ness and originality of conception, for its contemptu- 
 ous discarding of many unworthy traditions of the 
 stage, for its occasional glimpses of the highest dra- 
 matic power, as in the passionate scene with Ophelia. 
 We cannot doubt that it is the result of more and 
 deeper study than any other of Mr. Fechter's assump- 
 tions. But, nevertheless, it so violates consistency, 
 and so constantly contradicts the plain text of the 
 tragedy, it has so many and grievous faults on the in- 
 tellectual side, that it must be j^ronounced a radical 
 failure. No Hamlet who turns fi*om his father's ghost 
 to give his mental attention, as well as his bodily 
 strength, to a violent struggle with his friends, and 
 stormily scolds them in the presence of the awful vis- 
 itor, can command the entire respect of a thinking 
 and sympathetic audience through the first act ; and, 
 failing here, he. fails at a critical point, which is repre- 
 sentative of a multitude of similar shortcomings 
 through the j^lay. We need not follow them in de- 
 tail, but may sum them up as leading to the belief 
 that Mr. Fechter's genius is so alien to the spirit of 
 true Shakespearian acting that he cannot give an 
 adequate interpretation of any of the English poet's 
 greatest characters, — a belief Avhich waits for his first 
 essay in America as lago for revision and perhaps cor- 
 rection. 
 
 Mr. Feehter, then, is an actor of very great bril- 
 liancy and genius in his own chosen walk of art ; and, 
 outside that, his ambition is loftier than his ability. 
 There are very few artists in the treasured names of 
 the world's history of whom more can be said. 
 
 We cannot leave the subject without giving a line 
 or two to a recognition of the talent, — which wins 
 
144 DKAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 applause from those who decry Mr. Fechter as well as 
 from his admirers, — of the English actress who has 
 accompanied him in his American tour, Miss Carlotta 
 Le Clercq. There is a vigor and polish about this 
 lady's style, an evenness and care-taldng about all her 
 performances, a grace and ease in her quieter acting, 
 only marred by a too obvious effort now and then in 
 her more passionate passages, which very few actresses 
 of our generation can equal ; and in the great requi- 
 site of a supporting actress, in giving essential aid in 
 the critical moments of a piece, in being ever ready to 
 the second with word and gesture, and never in the 
 wi'ong place, she is perfection itself. 
 
 JOSEPH JEFFERSON. 
 
 "Full of tears, full of smiles." 
 
 As You Like It. 
 
 " One touch of nature makes the whole world kin." 
 
 Troilus and Cressida. 
 
 The white-haired, bright-eyed personage whose por- 
 trait appears upon another page is familiar all over 
 tlie world. The genius of three minds at least has 
 combined in his creation : a genial humorist shad- 
 owed him forth in a story, a clever artist gave him 
 form and costume in a series of pictures, and a great 
 actor has given him life ; so that to all of us he seems 
 as real and near as an old friend ; nor is the part in 
 the matter of the veteran playwright who has fash- 
 ioned the original tale into shape for the stage so un- 
 important as to be fairly overlooked. The result, the 
 solid, substantial entity which we call Jefferson's Rip 
 Van Winkle, has been town talk for years in every 
 
JOSEPU JEFFERSON. 145 
 
 quarter of the earth. If a copy of our paper finds its 
 way to Ballarat, his face will be recognized there by 
 hosts of people who never heard of the Hudson but 
 as Rip's river ; in London, and in all the minor British 
 cities, he is known and lovingly remembered; and all 
 over this country, where he was recognized last of 
 all, he is a household word, and the people to whom 
 he is as a stranger seem rare exceptions. 
 
 There are perhaps some of the elements of a prob- 
 lem in the great and enduring popularity of this one 
 performance of a comedian. The play in itself is the 
 slightest of sketches, with not a single dramatic situ- 
 ation in it, and with not even probability or possibility 
 in its plot to fix the interest of the spectator. Its 
 opportunities for scenic display are very slight, and 
 even these are seldom improved. Its minor person- 
 ages are tedious to the last degree. And as for the 
 leading character, he does not make one jjoint such as 
 we are accustomed, to in our experience of the stage ; 
 he has not one passionate line, not one situation 
 thoroughly laughable in itself Describe the Rij^ Van 
 Winkle of Josej^h Jeiferson to one who has never 
 seen it, and see how little you have to tell, how slight 
 an impression your account makes upon the mind! 
 It is as untranslatable as the perfume of new-mown 
 hay ; yet very few people who have known it fail to 
 acknowledge its fascination. 
 
 The problem, however, is not so ditficult as it seems. 
 The trait which is at once the peculiarity and the 
 charm of this matchless piece of acting is its fidelity 
 to nature, — a fidelity w^hich all must recognize, which 
 rises above all the conventions of the stage, which 
 disdains all appeals for efiect, and yet which has a cer- 
 tain glamour of poetry about it which removes it from 
 mere shallow realism into the sphere of art. In the 
 7 . J 
 
146 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 very dress of the character every temptation to ex- 
 aggeration is avoided. The dialect is as close to the 
 actual speech of a certain class of American Dutch- 
 men as the utterance of one Dutchman is like that of 
 another ; and there is not an accent nor an inflection 
 too much for the sake of the impression so easily to 
 be heightened in that way. How jovial, how simple, 
 how true, are Rip's drinks, his light talk about his 
 wife, his trivial dog-story, with Avhich his part begins. 
 It is not a temperance lecture ; it is not remarkably 
 bright wit or droll fun ; it is simply a picture, of a 
 very ordinary subject, yet a\ liich it requires years of 
 study and real genius to paint. Then, when we come 
 to the indication, by a few delicate touches, of this 
 thriftless, lazy fellow's love for his child, which gives 
 the first dignity to his character, how deep and tender 
 is the feeling, and yet how few the words which hint 
 at rather than exjoress it ! How rich and genuine is 
 the humor of the interview with the children when 
 their intention of marriage is announced, when the fa- 
 ther suggests that he himself has not been consulted, 
 and when he reflects that he is not a proper custodian 
 for the little lover's savings. It provokes smiles rather 
 than laughter; it is the humor of Elia rather than 
 that of Pickwick ; but it is of a very rare quality, and 
 the stage gives us nothing with which to compare it. 
 
 We cannot follow Mr. Jefferson through the play 
 in detail, — through the broader humor of the scene 
 in the kitchen, where the tales of the rabbit and 
 the bull always seemed to us the least worthy of the 
 genius of the actor of all the passages of the play ; 
 and the tragic close of the act, where Rip is turned 
 out of his wife's house into the storm, and where, at 
 once so simple and so subtle is the artist's method, 
 the spectator is moved without knowing why, and 
 
JOSEPH JEFFERSON. 147 
 
 cannot resist emotion for which there seems no ade- 
 quate cause in the bearing of the man who sits with 
 his back to the audience, and at last goes off with hard- 
 ly a word or a gesture to emphasize his exit. The 
 next act shows a complete alteration of demeanor, 
 such as the changed circumstances justify, and con- 
 tinues the strongly marked variety in which we find a 
 second and important explanation of the popularity 
 of " Rip Van Winkle." It is thoroughly unique, this 
 monologue of flesh and blood among a group of gro- 
 tesque and silent ghosts; and Mr. Jefferson grasps the 
 situation admirably, mingling a very genuine awe and 
 fear with a new develo23ment of the humor of the 
 character, which makes the episode of the mountain 
 one of the most enjoyable things of the drama, though 
 the materials are so slight that in the hands of another 
 nothing would be made of them. And then the last 
 act, — that amazing piece of acting at which we haA^e 
 seen one half an audience rapt in silence, with glisten- 
 ing eyes and 23arted lij^s, while the other half, natures 
 of a different grain, seeing a different phase, were con- 
 vulsed with laughter ! To us there is no food for a 
 smile in this weird old man, perplexed and bewildered 
 in a transformed world, his brain feeling, like his limbs, 
 the effect of twenty years of sleep, trembling and tot- 
 tering into life again, doubtful as to his identity, and 
 strong only in the one strong emotion of his youth, 
 his yearning love for his child. His every utterance 
 strikes upon the heart with a pang of sympathetic 
 pain ; and as we note, as we may do when the play 
 becomes familiar, how quietly, how gently, all this is 
 done, we are moved to ask, "Is it not thus that trag- 
 edy should be played ? Is not the fi-enzy of Lear's 
 curse, the shouting of Othello's agony, after all a mis- 
 take? And is not this low tone, this depth of sugges- 
 tion, this superb forbearance, the grandest possible 
 
148 DKAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 achievement of serious acting ? " And all the while 
 our neighbor in the next seat is laughing with all his 
 might at the old man's cramped legs and dazed man- 
 ner, and thinks " Rip Yan Winkle " the funniest play- 
 he ever saw. 
 
 Any i3raise of Mr. Jefferson's famous masterpiece 
 of acting is in danger of doing him injustice if it 
 conveys the idea that he is essentially a one-part actor. 
 True it is that of late years he has played this charac- 
 ter almost exclusively, and that hundreds have be- 
 come familiar with him in the part who have never 
 seen him in any other ; and we can credit the report 
 that he earnestly craves some new play in which he 
 can parallel the triumphs of " Rip Van Winkle," and 
 that a fortune awaits the man who shall produce such 
 a piece. The opportunities which Irving's legend 
 gives for the display of the different phases of his 
 versatile genius are not readily to be combined else- 
 where. But it does not show all those phases, nev- 
 ertheless. Mr. Jefferson is an admirable light come- 
 dian ; he can throw pathos all aside, and conquer 
 an audience by sheer force of fun, light, airy, and 
 delicate as may be conceived. He is a capital low 
 comedian also ; and some dry, broad drolleries of his 
 in farce linger in the memory after many efforts of 
 more ambitious actors in that line have fided away. 
 And in burlesque, when he gives full rein to the 
 power of extravagance and absurdity which he pos- 
 sesses ; when, with a face as serious as the clock, he 
 fills an audience with laughter of the wildest kind ; 
 when he parodies the gestures of tragedy or imitates 
 in his own lithe person the whole entertainment of 
 the circus programme, — then the astonished admirer 
 of " Rip Van Winkle " discovers that there is latent 
 in this consummate artist the comic power of the 
 most brilliant burlesque actor America has ever seen. 
 
THOMAS W. EOBERTSON. 149 
 
 THOMAS W. ROBERTSON. 
 
 " Tired he sleeps, and life's poor play is o'er." 
 
 Font's Essay on Man. 
 
 " Then, at your play, behold the fairest flower 
 Of youth collect, to hear the revelation ! 
 Each tender soul, with sentimental power, 
 Sucks melancholy food from your creation ; 
 And now in this, now that, the leaven works, 
 For each beholds what in his bosom lurks ; 
 They still are moved at once to weeping or to laughter, 
 Still wonder at your flights, enjoy the show they see. 
 A mind, once formed, is never suited after; 
 One yet in growth will ever rateful be." 
 
 Goethe's Faust, Taylor's Translation. 
 
 The successful dramatist, whose sudden death has 
 followed so closely upon the failure of his latest play, 
 was never a favorite with the London critics. He 
 made the fortune of a theatre as well as his own, and 
 the jDublic made his ears familiar with the music of 
 rounds of applause, and of guineas jingling in at the 
 box-office. But from the first the journals treated 
 him coolly ; they pronounced his brightest play a pla- 
 giarism from the German, and covered his latest work 
 with derision, as though it were the product of an ut- 
 terly incompetent novice. The "Saturday Review" 
 never had anything pleasant to say of him; and the 
 " Athenaeum " lately gave him the first place in a series 
 of papers on the dramatists of the day only to sneer 
 at his " teacup and saucer dramas," and to lament 
 that there is a public so silly as to enjoy them. In 
 one breath he is accused of carrying realism to an 
 extreme, in the next of making his joeople talk as no- 
 body ever talked in actual life. 
 
 And yet it seems to us that, now that Mr. Robert- 
 son is dead, there must be a general recognition of the 
 
150 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 fact that he had done something for the drama in his 
 time, and that the stage is better than if he had not 
 lived, the popidar taste cultivated by his influence 
 upon it. We claim this without for an instant assign- 
 ing to his plays any rank whatever in literature, in 
 which they have no more right than the daily news- 
 2:>aper which criticises them. There seems little pros- 
 l^ect that even the best of his productions, as "Ours" 
 and " School," will be played to any audiences twenty 
 years hence; they could not be translated into a 
 foreign tongue without evaporating like soap-bubbles; 
 no human being will ever read one of them through 
 for pleasure. Indeed, with the warmest faith in Mr. 
 Robertson's peculiar talent, in his absolute eminence 
 in a certain department of art, it is impossible to sit 
 down over one of these dramas in the silence of the 
 library without a shiver of misgiving as to whether 
 it can really have any value whatever. The wit dis- 
 appears with the footlights, the tender sentiment with 
 the scenery. We might as well waste our enthusiasm 
 over the rough structure of beams and laths which 
 last night gleamed out against the black sky as a 
 piece of gorgeous fire-works. 
 
 Mr. Robinson's popularity has been won to a great 
 extent by his love scenes. Let us follow one of them 
 a little way : — 
 
 " Sidney. When must you return? 
 '^ Maud. At nine. 
 
 ^^ Sidney. Twenty minutes. How 's your aunt? 
 ''''Maud. As cross as ever. 
 " Sidney. And Lord Ptarmigant? 
 " Matid. As usual, asleep. 
 
 " Sidney. Dear old man, lie does doze liis time away. Anything else 
 to tell me ? 
 
 " Maud. We had such a stupid dinner; such odd people. 
 
 " Sidney. Who'^ 
 
 " Maud. Two men of the name of Ghodd. 
 
THOMAS W. ROBERTSON. 151 
 
 ^^ Sidney (uneasihj). Chodcl! 
 
 " Maud. Is n't it a funny name ? Chodd ! 
 
 ^^ Sidney. Yes, it's a Chodd name, — I mean an odd name. Where 
 were they picked up ? 
 
 " Maud. I don't know. Aunty says they are both very rich. 
 
 " Sidney {uneasily). She thinks of nothing but money. (Looks at 
 watch.) Fifteen to nine. Maud! 
 
 '* Maud {in a lohisper). Yes. 
 
 " Sidney. If I were rich — if you were rich — if we were rich — 
 
 '■'■Maud. Sidney! 
 
 " Sidney. As it is I almost feel it 's a crime to love you. 
 
 ''Maud. Sidney!" 
 
 We should not dare to say that it grows better than 
 this as it goes on, or that the corresponding scenes in 
 other plays are of a higher order. But it may be said 
 that lovers are always pointless in conversation, that 
 this is Mr. Robertson's realism, and that we ought 
 to turn to the wit and humor of his plays before 
 passing judgment upon them. But we should look 
 through the books in vpjn to find anything nearer true 
 humor than the maudlin incoherences of old Eccles, 
 any nearer approach to a repartee than the remark of 
 Cecilia Dunscombe in " M. P.," that it is a pity court- 
 ship ends in marriage, because it would be so much 
 better if marriage ended in courtship. We doubt if 
 there is in any of the comedies a solitary joke so good 
 as one of the many in Mr. Albery's "Two Roses," 
 where a young man, being ai^proached by a bore with 
 a request for "a word in his private ep.r," replies 
 quietly, " Select your ear, sir, and proceed." 
 
 Notwithstanding all this, we are willing to under- 
 take the championship of the departed writer's title to 
 honorable remembrance. If he carried simplicity 
 to an extreme bordering upon inanity, he at least led 
 us away from the direction in which Mr. Boucicault 
 and other prosperous playAvi'ights have been tending. 
 "School" is as much better than "Formosa" as "Sir 
 
1^2 DEAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 Harry Hotspur " is better than a dime novel. There 
 is nothing; of sensationalism of incident in Mr. Robert- 
 son's best plays, no chaining a hero down upon a rail- 
 way track, nor hurling a heroine off a crag ; there is no 
 vulgarity of allusion to catch the favor of the noisiest 
 dispensers of applause ; better than all, in an age when 
 the greater brilliancy of the French dramatists has 
 given a tone to the whole stage, there is no dabbling 
 in immorality for the sake of the easy advantages to 
 be gained thereby. He has striven only to hold the 
 mirror up to the nature of the pleasanter phases of 
 the English life as he has seen it. The delight of look- 
 ing on at a tea-j)arty on the stage very like the tea- 
 table from which the spectator has just risen at home, 
 with chat no wittier than there, and lovers no more 
 eloquent than the pair one may encounter on the next 
 doorstep, may be of a somewhat infantile character ; 
 but it is at least harmless, and it may lead the way 
 to something higher. We seem to be passing out of 
 the era of unnaturalness on the stage, — of Claude 
 Melnotte and Mrs. Haller and Camille, with their mor- 
 bid, unAvholesome sentimentality; of Joseph Surface 
 and Dr. Pangloss, with their artificial construction and 
 elaborate wit and humor — into a period when natural- 
 ness shall be the first essential, when Jefferson's Rip 
 Van Winkle shall be the highest type of excellence, 
 and exaggeration the chief of offences. In this transi- 
 tion perhaps the j)ump and tubs of Mr. Crummies, the 
 burning steamboats of Mr. Boucicault, were essential 
 steps; but surely we reach a higher level when we 
 come to the placid prettinesses of Mr. Robertson, and 
 may trace his influence with gratitude in the plays 
 which shall be natural and yet vigorous, healthy, and 
 also hearty, modest as Dickens, and yet absorbing as 
 
 Sardou, which we all hope the early future of the 
 
 7* 
 
THOMAS W. ROBEETSON. 153 
 
 English or perchance the American stage may have in 
 store. 
 
 "We have not, in all these rambling remarks, at all 
 succeeded in indicating what is the essential charm of 
 Mr. Robertson's ]3lays ; and, indeed, it is somewhat 
 elusive, and defies analysis. But among its chief ele- 
 ments must be set down that minute knowledge of stage 
 business which came to this playwright from a lifetime 
 of familiarity with the boards, and which in his case 
 was combined with a certain refinement and delicacy 
 in the use of the devices of the theatre which such 
 familiarity does not always give. A leading place 
 also, in assigning the causes of his jDOj^ularity, should 
 be given to his treatment of the passion of love. 
 " All mankind love a lover," says Mr. Emerson ; and 
 there is a universal pleasure in seeing lovers tenderly 
 and prettily presented on the stage, not in the lofty 
 style of "Perdition catch my soul, but I do love 
 thee!" but with the airy nothings which to nine people 
 out of ten brino; back the as^reeable memories of their 
 own enchanted days. If Mr. Robertson has to go to 
 Tennyson for the expression of his sentiment, so do 
 most of the cultivated young men and maidens of the 
 time for the proper utterance of theirs. It is this 
 same faithful reflection of the way in which the com- 
 monplace people who make up the world tell and 
 confess their love, that has made much of the popu- 
 larity of Mr. Anthony Trollope ; and it is his books 
 which furnish us the best parallel that literature 
 affords for the comedies of the writer who died last 
 week. It was when Mr. Robertson stepped aside from 
 this path of whispering lovers, and undertook to deal 
 with historical themes, or with passions of deeper 
 shading, that he made the occasional failures of his 
 dramatic career. It is sad to remember that the 
 
154 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 " War," which was his last piece j^erformed, was one 
 of the worst of these failures, and that the hisses of pit 
 and galleries were among the last sounds of earth to 
 his sensitive ears ; and it would be pleasant if it should 
 prove that the " Birth," from his pen, which has yet to 
 be played, should prove to be a 2:>roduct of his haj)piest 
 inspiration. 
 
 AI:^ AMERICA]^ PLAY, — "SARATOGA." 
 
 " lEppolyta. This is the silhest stuff that e'er I heard. 
 " Theseus. The best iu this kind are but shadows; and the worst 
 are no worse, if imagination amend them. 
 
 '■' nip2Jolyta. It must be your imagination, then, and not theirs." 
 
 A 3Iidsu7nmer Night's Dream. 
 
 For eleven or twelve weeks one of the theatres of 
 New York has been crowded every evening, and at 
 many matinees, by j^eople eager to see a purely Ameri- 
 can drama, — a comedy by a New York journalist, 
 with its scene laid in familiar localities, its j^lot, char- 
 acters, and language all of home manufacture. The 
 theatre is a very small one, to be sure, and the city 
 very big ; but the long run of the play is full of sig- 
 nificance, nevertheless, since it is such as very few 
 pieces of any character can command. The play has 
 been produced also in Boston, and seems to have w^on 
 the public favor there, in S]3ite of the general coldness 
 of the critics. It is possible that it is only just 
 beginning a career of popularity which is to extend 
 through all the theatre-going towns of the country, 
 on the strength of the prestige given by its metropoli- 
 tan success. At any rate, the history of the affair, so 
 far as it has gone, decisively refutes the theory that 
 
AN AMERICAN PLAY, — " SARATOGA." 155 
 
 the lack of American drama is clue to the coldness of 
 the public or of the managers, and furnishes a new 
 basis for sj^eculation on this ever-fruitful subject. 
 
 Now, what is this j^lay of "Saratoga"? It is an 
 extravagant five-act force, of thinner construction and 
 shallower wit than any farce of our acquaintance, but 
 provoking a laugh now and then by sheer absurd- 
 ity, more absurd than that of the wildest burlesque. 
 The author has set out with an idea not absolutely 
 bad, nor incajjable of development, — borrowing fi-om 
 a last summer's novel, by a bright Canadian writer, 
 the conception of a fascinating, not positively wicked, 
 young man, betrothed to four or five ladies at once, 
 and madly in love by turns with each of them. This 
 sort of thing would not be quite agreeable in real life, 
 but it is admissible in fiction and on the stage, and 
 capable of being worked up into very entertaining 
 complications. But the author of " Saratoga " is not 
 capable of working it up. Starting out so bravely, 
 with the aid of Professor De Mille, he is unable to 
 walk a step alone. Having introduced his fickle and 
 all-embracing hero, and taken him and his bevy of 
 beauties to the fashionable watering-place, he can 
 think of nothing better to carry on the action than a 
 series of challenges to mortal combat, sent at the 
 demands of the slighted belles, and given and taken in 
 earnest. No duel is actually fought ; but upon the de- 
 vice of the numerous challenges, the various degrees of 
 cowardice and ingenuity disj^layed, and the confusion 
 attending the meetings appointed, the interest of the 
 last half of the play turns. 
 
 A man writing for children would not introduce 
 the duel as a feature of the American life of to-day, 
 knowing that the outrage upon probability would be 
 resented by readers who accept the coach of Cinder- 
 
156 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 ella and the purse of Fortunatiis without a question. 
 The incongruity is too glaring. The English tourist 
 who listens for the Indian war-whoop on Broadway, 
 and exj^ects to kill a buffalo on his journey up the 
 Hudson, is not more at war with reason and common- 
 sense. That an audience can listen to such things 
 with forbearance and good-humor argues an extreme 
 degree of patience on the part of the public; but that 
 a play constructed of such stuff can win marked suc- 
 cess indicates something more, which is worth a little 
 searching. Such a phenomenon cannot exist without 
 a cause. Yet the further we probe the play, the more 
 we are struck with the opportunities which it over- 
 looks, rather than with those which it improves. 
 Where is a more promising mine for the dramatist 
 than the Irish maid-servant of our day, as develoj)ed 
 by American institutions, — a richer fund of humor, a 
 better chance for real, honest fun ? Her Avit is fresh 
 and charming, her blunders are delicious, her very 
 ignorance is picturesque. There is an Irish nursery- 
 maid in this play ; but she has no more drollery than 
 the Turk who stands before a tobacco-shop, and in 
 fact does nothing but cross the stage occasionally, 
 and wail a monotonous lament over the frivolities 
 of fashionable mothers, which might as appropriately 
 come from the lips of a Greek chorus. The same 
 chance is thrown away in dealing with the negro 
 waiters of the watering-place hotels, — a class full of 
 rare and grotesque characters admirably fitted for 
 stage illustration, could the dramatist and the actor but 
 study from the life instead of from the minstrel hall. 
 And the same comment is called for all the way up 
 the list of personages ; they are but the shadows of 
 caricatures, and the skill of the best actors can do 
 little towards giving them substance. As to the wit 
 
AN AMERICAN PLAY, — "SARATOGA." 157 
 
 of the comedy, it consists mainly in making a man 
 say over a dull thing so many times that the audience 
 laughs at last, and in naming a character Muttonlegs, 
 and then letting the others exasperate him by mis- 
 calling him Muttonhead. Sentiment there is none, — 
 or only a few A^apid lines of silliness, which compare 
 with the emj^tiest dialogue of Robertson as Robertson 
 with Shakespeare. The author has apparently shrunk 
 from any attempt to gratify the i^ublic liking for 
 honest, simple love-making, and has thrown in a little 
 dirt instead, to meet another public taste more easily 
 to be satisfied. 
 
 And yet we feel bound to find an explanation for 
 such success of this play as is imj^lied in people's 
 crowding to see it by the thousand, and watching its 
 progress with pleased countenances to the going down 
 of the curtain. N^ot a few critics find in this indubi- 
 table proof of the silliness and stupidity of the public, 
 the lack of taste to detect the deficiencies of the drama 
 and to appreciate anything better. But we prefer to 
 see in it something more encouraging, in the earnest 
 craving of the public for an American play rising 
 above aU other considerations. *' Saratoga " is at least 
 American ; it deals with a watering-place which every- 
 body knows; its scenery faithfully dej^icts familiar 
 localities ; its personages wear the dresses of Ameri- 
 can men and women, and their conversation has no 
 allusions unintelligible to hearers who know no life 
 but our own. The gratification to be got by watching 
 even so faint an imaging forth of American life, with 
 its duelling in New York, and its belles who are no 
 more like those of Saratoga, except in dress and com- 
 plexion, than they are like the belles of Dahomey, is 
 nothing like what would be produced by a comedy 
 really reflecting our actual existence as " Money " or 
 
158 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 " Caste " reflects England ; but the difference is only 
 in degree. The people really want representations of 
 our own manners and society on the stage ; failing to 
 get any that are good, they take and enjoy the best 
 they can get with such relish as they may, supplying 
 its deficiencies fi'om their own imaginations, as Theseus 
 advises his bride to do in the case of Manager Quince's 
 company. 
 
 Our inference therefore is that there is a demand, 
 growing more and more urgent, for an American 
 drama; and the demand ought to create a supj^ly. 
 " Saratoga" and other similar productions which might 
 be named have demonstrated that the drama will pay. 
 We have no information as to the share of profits 
 accorded to authors by our managers ; but if it be 
 reckoned on such a basis as that adojDted in London 
 or in Paris, the author of" Sai*atoga" should have had 
 as profitable a winter as the most popular lecturer 
 known to the lyceum bureau. And even sup230sing 
 " Saratoga" to be a work of real sparkle and power 
 instead of the inane trash it is, how much less the 
 wear and tear of producing it than that of a long lec- 
 ture tour! This is not an empire, and literature and 
 the drama have to stand on their own legs, and will 
 be none the worse for it in the end. But were we in 
 the counsels of an empire striving to foster letters and 
 to advance the higher phases of civilization here, we 
 should seek to add to such temptation as is implied in 
 the pecuniary rewards we have shown to be within 
 reach, such further inducements of gain and glory as 
 would set many pens at work on dramatic experi- 
 ments. In that imaginary Utopia, the author of 
 "The Potiphar Papers" and "Trumps," the author 
 of "The Man without a Country," the author of 
 " Oldtown Folks," the author of " My Summer in a 
 
AN AMERICAN PLAY, — "SARATOGA." 159 
 
 Garden," the author of " Little Women," the author of 
 " Suburban Sketches," the author of " The Outcasts of 
 Poker FLat," ay, the Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table 
 himself, and the creator of Hosea Biglo\r, should all 
 do their best in such line of dramatic effort as suited 
 their resj^ective tastes, — " tragedy, comedy, history, 
 pastoral," and so following. They would not all succeed. 
 Thackeray failed in a comedy, and Dickens made no 
 success of any value with either comic opera or farce ; 
 but Charles Reade has written almost as many good 
 plays as good novels ; and " What mil He do with It? " 
 is not a whit better or more likely to live to the next 
 century than " Richelieu " or " The Lady of Lyons." 
 So we need not go back to " She Stoops to Conquer" 
 to jjrove that brilliancy in other literary walks is no 
 bar to the best achievement with the tools of the 
 stage. And with such a company as that we have 
 suggested at work, witli as many more of almost equal 
 rank who would be stimulated by their example, what 
 a prize we might draw ! Who shall say that we have 
 not among us some mute inglorious Sardou, some pos- 
 sible Sheridan wasting his richness on the desert air 
 of the comic column of a daily newspaper? The com- 
 mittee on a National Hymn did not accomj^lish much, 
 to be sure ; but that was in war-time, when deeds, not 
 words, concerned us ; and it is not to be dogmatically 
 assumed that a committee on an American Play might 
 not do better, with a great, hungry, generous public 
 behind them to distribute the medals. 
 
160 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 THE LOVERS OP THE STAGE. 
 
 "I frequently look in at the playhouse, in order to enlarge my 
 thoughts, and warm my mind with some new ideas that may be ser- 
 viceable to me in my habitations." — Addison, in "TAe Tatler.''^ 
 
 "This is Ercles' vein, a tyrant's vein; a lover is more condoling." 
 
 A Midsummer NigliVs Dream. 
 
 Although love is the theme of three quarters of 
 the plays, as it is of nine tenths of the romances, ever 
 written, yet dramatists have generally been inclined 
 to be very chary of actual love scenes on the stage. 
 It has been deemed good policy to keep the tender 
 passages, like the terrible crimes, out of sight of the 
 audience. We are vouchsafed a word or two, and left 
 to imagine the rest. Of Hamlet's love for Ophelia, of 
 Othello's wooing, the audience knows only by hearsay. 
 Putting that youthful production, " Romeo and Juliet," 
 out of the question, there is hardly one of Shakespeare's 
 plays which gives us more than a glimj^se of real, earn- 
 est courtship. The witty fencing of Benedick and 
 Beatrice, the stormy subjugation of Katharina by Pe- 
 truchio, we have at length ; but we are left to fill out 
 from our own imagination and experience how Loren- 
 zo won Jessica, how sweet Anne Page bestowed her 
 heart among her cluster of admirers. And it is per- 
 haps because the exceptions to this general habit of 
 Shakespeare do not shine among the brightest parts 
 of his plays, that dramatists since his day have com- 
 monly followed his example. Mock love-making, 
 misunderstandings and complications and blunders in 
 courtship, we have in plenty, from Marlowe besieging 
 the imaginary barmaid, to Lady Gay leading Sir Har- 
 court to his own discomfiture; but of such serious, 
 fervid love-making as is the staple of novels, very 
 
THE LOVERS OF THE STAGE. 161 
 
 little. Mr. Anthony Trollope has wiitten say thirty 
 novels, with six j^roposals, three acceptances, and three 
 refusals in each story, if ^ye may strike a rough aver- 
 age. No two of them have been j^recisely alike, and 
 all have furnished very pleasant reading. Thackeray 
 never ignobly dodged a love scene, though he did the 
 work always delicately and with few touches, as if he 
 were dealing with something too holy for his pen. 
 Dickens was not at his best in such chaj)ters ; but who 
 can think of Ruth Pinch's beefsteak pudding, with 
 John Westlock looking on, and say that any writer 
 surpassed him ? Charles Reade has given us a host of 
 pictures of all the j^hases of love ; but even he recog- 
 nizes the difficulty of dealing with it on the stage, and 
 his plays skijD over these parts of his novels very 
 lightly. 
 
 In fact, it seems almost impossible to deal with a 
 pair of devoted lovers behind the footlights mthout 
 being either too stiff or too soft. What unutterable 
 bores are Falkland and his Julia in the midst of all 
 the liveliness of " The Rivals " ! One can only ap- 
 plaud Sheridan's own discernment of the fact as 
 shown in his next great play by condensing the 
 love-making of Charles Surface and Maria into two 
 short lines. And, j^assing to a different sort of drama, 
 what a mental nausea is that produced by the per- 
 petual adoration offered to Marco, in "The Marble 
 Heart," by the foolish sculptor whom every spectator 
 feels an inclination to wake uj^ to reality with a stream 
 from a garden hose ! 
 
 One great exception will occur to the mind of every 
 reader. While the modem public and modern play- 
 wrights have seemed to agree in banishing sentiment 
 from the stage, and in substituting for it such lurid 
 passions as those of the twin heroines of sensational 
 
162 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 literature, Lady Audley and Lady Isabel, one drama- 
 tist has thriven by love-scenes of the simplest and 
 pm-est sort. Mr. Thomas William Robertson was 
 always happiest when he could get two young people 
 under a tree in a thunder-storm, or chatting over a 
 milk-pitcher in the moonlight ; and his audiences were 
 happy also, if the j^layers who took the parts had the 
 least sympathetic quality about their acting. But Mr. 
 Robertson's success in this vein was unique, and not 
 to be analyzed ; one may read the passages and find 
 nothing in them whatever ; the fascination lay in a 
 peculiar combination of stage business and skill in 
 suggestion, with a certain refinement and delicacy, 
 which no rival or successor will be likely to attain. 
 
 When we leave the lovers of dramatic literature to 
 come to the actors who have distinguished themselves 
 in scenes depicting the universal passion, we have 
 not in our own day a long list to go over. Garrick, if 
 we may believe the traditions, was as irresistible in 
 Romeo as he was powerful in Abel Drugger ; but usu- 
 ally tragedians have outgrown the age to play the lov- 
 er with thorough ardor before they have reached the 
 experience to play anything with discretion. Mr. For- 
 rest has long banished plays of juvenile sentiment from 
 his list; and he was never the man to embody the 
 softer passion as he did revenge and ambition and the 
 like, though he pictures the tenderness of a fiither very 
 beautifully in Yirginius and in Damon. Edwin Booth, 
 though perhaps more young ladies have fallen harm- 
 lessly in love with him across the footlights than with 
 any other actor of this generation, shines chiefly in 
 parts like Richelieu and Shylock, Hamlet, lago, Bru- 
 tus, and others of a sombre cast. His love-making is 
 fierce and fervid, almost gloomy, and with none of the 
 roseate glow about it which should color Romeo's 
 
THE LOVERS OF THE STAGE. 163 
 
 apostrophes. N"o scene of his of this kind so lingers 
 in the memory as that of Richard with Lady Anne, 
 where the 23assion so effectively displayed is simulated 
 for a i^urpose, and the cruelty and hatred of the man 
 gleams even through the suitor's appeal to the pretty 
 ■wddow to despatch him with his own sword if she can- 
 not bid him hope. As to the actor most eminent in an- 
 other school, Mr. Lester Wallack, a general knoAvledge 
 of his manner leaves the impression ujjon the mind 
 that the heroes he enacts are rather inclined to assume 
 a dignified and graceful hauteur^ while the heroines fill 
 in love with them, than to develop a great deal of sin- 
 cere ardor of their own. And this leads to the general 
 remark that the actors of lovers, being generally hand- 
 some men, are somewhat disj^osed to rely on those 
 charms which nature has given them rather than to 
 exert such fascinations and to betray such depth of 
 emotion as should mark the wooer. We have known 
 more than one young man receiving a handsome 
 salary from a theatre's treasury year after year on 
 the strength of a straight nose, fine eyes, and a coal- 
 black mustache. Now, it is not the handsome men 
 who are the brilliant and unconquerable lovers of the 
 world ; it is the ugly fellows like John Wilkes, who 
 know that they cannot rely on their fices, yet who 
 can boast with good ground that with half an 
 hour's start they fear no comely rival. Perhaps there 
 will be the beginning of a new era in dramatic art, 
 when the Aj^othecary and Romeo change places, and 
 the juvenile j^arts are no longer assigned with refer- 
 ence to eyes and mustaches. 
 
 To this branch of the subject, as to th6 other, there 
 is one great exception, which must have occurred 
 before this to the mind of every reader. It were 
 impossible to speak of the lovers of the stage and to 
 
164 DEAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 leave out that prince of stage lovers, Mr. Fechter. 
 What rhapsodies have been written over his Claude 
 and Ruy Bias, chiefly by literary ladies, no catalogue 
 can tell; and male critics have joined in the chorus, 
 from Charles Dickens down to the last Western jour- 
 nalist who has recognized his genius. It was as a 
 lover that he first flashed into fame in Paris, in the 
 most popular play of the younger Dumas ; and those 
 who see him now in similar characters find it hard to 
 believe that middle life has brought with it any dim- 
 inution of the power he then possessed of portraying 
 a passion as filling a man, saturating his whole exist- 
 tence, leaving no room for any other thought, and 
 making the diflerence between the presence and ab- 
 sence of one woman a difference as wide as divides 
 the equator and the pole. Mr. Fechter is to many the 
 ideal lover; but to us there is now and then — not 
 always — an earthiness about his manifestations of 
 passion which suggests that there might be some- 
 thing better in the range of the highest art. We do 
 not care to go into this discussion in detail, however, 
 but prefer to point out that one of the actor's happiest 
 achievements in this sjoecial line is in a play which we 
 believe he has yet given nowhere in America but in 
 Boston, — "Black and White." It is a flimsy melo- 
 drama enough ; but it gives great scope for the romantic 
 acting of Mr. Fechter. In its first scene the hero, a 
 young Frenchman of rank, wealth, education, of bril- 
 liant and fascinating manners, who has never known a 
 cloud to disturb the keen enjoyment of life which be- 
 longs to fortunate youth, comes to the West Indies in 
 quest of the heiress he has met in Paris, whom he 
 loves and who loves him. Nothing can surpass the 
 dash and sparkle with which the zest of the bright 
 moment, the exhilaration of high spirits, the airy 
 
WILLIAM WARREN. 165 
 
 audacity of the youngster, the passionate clevotion of 
 the hopeful lover, are conveyed to the audience. 
 Every face shines with a radiance reflected from his. 
 It is but a moment or two before stern, melodramatic 
 fate steps in, and the nobleman discovers that he is a 
 slave and the son of a slave ; but the picture stands 
 complete in itself, and it commands recognition as the 
 masterly sketch of a great artist. 
 
 WILLIAM WARREN. 
 
 " One man in his time plays many parts." 
 
 As You Like Tt. 
 
 " Did he never make you laugh V " 
 
 Much Ado About Nothing. 
 
 It is the age of one-character actors. It is not the 
 fault of the players so much as of the public ; but it is 
 at any rate a fact which Ave cannot helj) recognizing. 
 Miss Heron played Camille till the very sound of the 
 name made her sick at heart ; but the public still de- 
 manded Camille only at her hands, stayed coldly away 
 when she produced new plays, and clamored for the 
 frail heroine of Dumas with such persistency that it 
 drove the actress from the stage at last. Who thinks 
 of Maofsrie Mitchell but as Fanchon ? John Owens 
 may introduce an engagement with one or two 
 glimpses of old comedy or English farce, but the world 
 knows and the actor knows he must presently fill 
 back on Solon Shingle. Even a trasredian of such 
 versatility as Edwin Booth studies a character and 
 brings out a play for a whole winter's run, and New- 
 Yorkers to-day know but a few sides of his power. 
 
166 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 from this very habit. It is said that Joseph Jefferson 
 is willing to hand over a fortune in hard cash to the 
 writer who shall give him a new play in which he can 
 make a hit coramensm-ate with his reputation ; but 
 the play is not ready, and he goes on with Rip Van 
 Winkle still. Miss Bateraan, Mr. J. S. Clarke, and 
 Mr. Sothern are other instances of a class which we 
 might go on multiplying indefinitely. For the cause 
 we must go back to the star system, the inevitable 
 tendency of which is to make all our actors players 
 on a fiddle of a single string. 
 
 Nevertheless, it seems to us the higher ideal is that 
 of an actor of another sort, though Ave have to go 
 outside the star system to secure him. The great 
 sculptor does not rest content with reproducing copies 
 of a single statue ; the great poet never ceases to cre- 
 ate ; nobody ever set up Single-Speech Hamilton as an 
 example of a great orator. The great actor who fills 
 the conception in our mind's eye need not be equally 
 great in " tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral- 
 comical," and all the rest of the list; but he should 
 in his line play many parts, and jolay them all well, 
 making his genius tributary to many phases of life, 
 and making many dramatists tributary to his genius; 
 as Johnson said of Goldsmith in his Latin epitaph, he 
 should " leave nothing untouched, and touch nothing 
 which he did not adorn." And the American stage 
 has no artist to whom this description so fully applies 
 as to the gentleman whose name we have placed at 
 the head of this paj^er. 
 
 Mr. William Warren does not suffer in the slightest 
 degree from being a Boston actor. Indeed, he is not 
 a Boston actor in any limited sense of the words. His 
 reputation is not local, but national. He was tempted 
 into trying a stariiug tour half a dozen years ago, and 
 
WILLIAM WARKEN. 1G7 
 
 the result proved, if proof were needed, that his fame 
 extended all over the land, and that the people of all 
 the cities were eager to flock to see him. But he gave 
 up the experiment as foreign to his tastes and life- 
 long habits, and returned to the quieter triumphs of 
 the stage which had become as home to him ; and the 
 familiar saying may be applied in a new phrasing : 
 Since Mahomet will not go to the mountain, the moun- 
 tain comes to Mahomet. Mr. Warren not only has 
 the aj^preciative and affectionate Boston public, but 
 admirers of good acting from all quarters make pil- 
 grimages to Boston to see him, and the enjojinent of 
 his genius is one of the most valued features of a 
 visit to the city which possesses him. Thus, instead of 
 lazily settling down into the performer of a little clus- 
 ter of familiar parts, as he would be sure to do as a star, 
 his powers are kept keen and fresh, and his creative 
 faculty is never suffered to become dull. He takes as 
 many new characters in a year as the youngest novice 
 in the profession ; and in a stately Shakesjierian revi- 
 val, in a crisp comedy by Sardou, in the most sensa- 
 tional adaptation of Wilkie Collins, or the most deli- 
 cate device of Robertson, this faithful artist is ever to 
 be found doing his best for the author and the public, 
 abnegating all thoughts of self, and thereby winning 
 his highest glory. 
 
 It is this very breadth and variety of Mr. Warren's 
 genius and its development that makes it difficult to 
 speak of him as he deserves in so brief an essay as we 
 are permitted to devote to him. The lover of art 
 who is familiar with his multitude of j)ersonations — 
 as all lovers of art are who have the opportunity to 
 enjoy them — sees him in ever so slight a part, and in 
 his very presence on the stage feels the charm of a 
 host of past triumphs of acting. It is something as 
 
168 DEAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 the scliolar stands half in revery before his book- 
 shelves, and luxuriates, in mere reading of the gilded 
 titles, in the diverse excellencies of Boswell and Elia, 
 of " The Tempest " and " The Scarlet Letter," of 
 Mrs. Poyser and Hosea Biglow. We do not think 
 of William Warren as Dr. Pangloss or Tony Lumpkin 
 or Sir Harcourt Courtly ; but we detect the aroma of 
 all those delicious pieces of acting when he comes 
 upon the stage in the most trivial part, or as we hear 
 his voice behind the scenes before he enters. 
 
 We cannot go into minute analysis of the elements 
 of this great comedian's skill. Were we called upon 
 to name the foremost attributes of his power, we 
 should select his forbearance, his dignity, the delicacy 
 of his humor, the sympathy and magnetism of his 
 pathos, and above all the faithfulness to detail and to 
 duty which mark all he does. Never does he take 
 advantage of his fame or of the fondness of his 
 audience to put himself forward when some necessary 
 question of the play is to be considered ; yet never 
 does he lapse into tameness or inattention, though he 
 be lost in the background or hidden in a multitude. 
 No minor actor ever need complain that an ojipor- 
 tunity of his own was sacrificed to one of Mr. War- 
 ren's points ; no author could ever claim that a part 
 or a plot was marred by anything lacking or anything 
 overdone on his part. To pass for a moment into 
 detail in illustration of some of the qualities we have 
 noted : Sir Peter Teazle is a comic character, but 
 there is a mornent of pure tragedy in it when the 
 testy, noble old gentleman discovers his wife hidden 
 behind the screen in the library of Joseph Surface; 
 how grandly Mr. Warren interprets the depth of 
 emotion in the soul which is stirred at that instant ! 
 There never was a keener appreciation of humor than 
 
WILLIAM WARREN. 169 
 
 belongs to Mr. Warren ; but Sir Harcourt Courtly is 
 not a humorous man ; and it is worth long and 
 repeated study to see how seriously he goes through 
 the i:)lay in that part, how far he is from aj^parent con- 
 sciousness of any of the fun going on about him, how 
 saturated with the supreme consciousness of his own 
 sujDeriority which belongs to the character. There 
 have been very few actors who could impart so much 
 meaning to one or two words, — and this with never 
 an indulgence in exaggeration for effect, with the 
 severest and driest of simplicity. In the first scene of 
 Sardou's comedy of " Fernande," one of the lady fre- 
 quenters of a gay gaming-house in Paris, comment- 
 ing upon the scandalous behavior of an acquaintance, 
 remarks parenthetically, " Il^ow, I don't set up for a 
 prude." " Certainly not," says the courteous advocate 
 to whom she is speaking. It is the slightest thing in 
 the world, — a parenthesis within a parenthesis ; but 
 in the utterance of those two words there is a gleam 
 of genius as brilliant, but as indescribable, as a flash of 
 heat-lightning. Take again, as a concluding example, 
 Mr. Warren's performance of Jesse Rural in " Old 
 Heads and Young Hearts " ; how admirable, yet how 
 free from any suspicion of grotesqueness, is the make- 
 up, from the innocent, round, venerable face with its 
 halo of thin white hair, to the threadbare elbow of 
 the country minister's coat-sleeve ; how touching, how 
 unforced, is the simplicity of his bearing and conduct ; 
 how the voice ripples and trembles with the emotion 
 which comes alike from a gentle heart and a pulpit 
 training ; how modestly the actor refrains from press- 
 ing himself upon the attention while the tangled 
 threads of the too ingenious plot are woven together; 
 how far beyond praise is the transition of the final 
 situation from merriment through hysterical laughter 
 8 
 
170 DEAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 to tears; and with what matchless and impressive 
 dignity, — a model for the thousand commonplace 
 ministers of actual life, — is uttered the concluding 
 address of the old clergyman to the audience ! 
 
 Eulogy is not our trade. We aim ever, in these 
 sketches, to give a discriminative view of the leading 
 characteristics of the subjects we discuss. But in 
 treating a genius like Mr. Warren's, so delicate, so 
 brilHant, so true, combined with such artistic con- 
 science, such freedom from conceit, such a respect for 
 itself, forbidding ignoble artifice to heighten its attrac- 
 tion, we care not to repress the enthusiasm with which 
 our tribute finds words. 
 
 THE MENAGERIE. 
 
 Ax imposing procession through the streets, led by 
 elephants in harness, yesterday morning, informed 
 that class of jjeople who do not read the papers that 
 the menagerie had arrived. Good little boys teased 
 their papas to take them, and good papas took their 
 little boys and girls without asking, so that a goodly 
 current of family parties streamed along Harrison 
 Avenue and Newton Street at the appointed hour, 
 passed the side-show tents with their blatant bands 
 and flaring banners, and poured in at the narrow 
 entrance of the big j)aviUon. The crowd was not so 
 large perhaps as it would have been but for our obsti- 
 nate and most un-June-like weather, which has been 
 talked about with increasing emiDhasis these ten days, 
 but still returns raining for railing. The stout canvas 
 shed the drops, however, so that it was quite dry and 
 
THE MENAGERIE. 171 
 
 comfortable inside the tent, and there was no alloy to 
 the enjoyment of the strange sights afforded by the 
 semicircle of cages on wheels. There was the sacred 
 bull with his mysterious hump, his dignified and serene 
 bearing, and his delicately tinted hide. There were 
 leojDards elegantly spotted and edifyingly tame, and a 
 panther a little more wild and so much more inter- 
 esting. There was a polar bear, who had a poorer 
 opinion of the weather than the most inveterate of 
 our native grumblers, and who continually swung his 
 head from side to side in a way i^ainfully suggestive 
 of extreme discontent with his small quarters. There 
 was a rather stupid but very handsome pair of 
 lions ; but the lions of the day were decidedly the ba- 
 bies of this family, which were exceedingly pretty, and 
 were handed out of the cage now and then to be fon- 
 dled by the ladies in passing, according to the 
 promise of the advertisements. Farther on were the 
 dromedaries and camels, the most contented in apj^ear- 
 ance of all the animals ; and the two elephants, so 
 marvellously greedy for cookies and confectionery as 
 to suggest a suspicion that they were in league with 
 the dealers who sold those articles at stands near by, 
 and who were patronized chiefly by children, eager to 
 propitiate the elephants, and interested in their odd 
 method of feeding themseh^es. Then, at the end of 
 the row was the other unique feature of the collection, 
 the rhinoceros, — an unwieldy, thick-hided brute, in a 
 cage, his horn sawed off close to prevent his smashing 
 his i^rison-house to pieces. Scattered among these 
 were hyenas, llamas, a zebra, monkeys, and several of 
 the other animals catalogued with j^rofusion and some- 
 what ingenious iteration in the advertisements, — in 
 fine, a very good collection of its kind, the pleasanter 
 to look upon that all the creatures seemed well and 
 
172 DRAMATIC TOPICS. 
 
 cleanly cared for. There were so many children in 
 the crowd of lookers-on that it seemed quite like an 
 illustrated lesson in natural history; and those who 
 had taken their lessons years ago could not but be 
 edified by the pretty sights outside the rope, the 
 wondering eyes, the little screams of fear, the naive 
 remarks, the exclamations of amazement to be en- 
 countered on every side. Presently the shirt-sleeved 
 orchestra struck up a brisker air than ever ; and there 
 flashed into the ring the approved cavalcade of gentle- 
 men and ladies in Sj^anish costumes, while the tardy 
 comers hurried to the amphitheatre of hard, narrow 
 seats. There followed the same familiar circus pro- 
 gramme which came into A^ogue soon after the days of 
 the Roman emperors, and has known no change, no 
 novelty of invention, for generations past, — all the 
 acts being very well done in their way. The element 
 of novelty, indeed, came in, in the unusual corpulence 
 of one of the clowns, and the rare sacrifice of the tra- 
 ditional dignity of the ring-master, who seemed to 
 snap his whip rather tamely at the outset, and whose 
 lack of spirits was explained when it appeared that his 
 duties required him to mount a stool, top-boots and 
 all, and hold a banner for the bold rider, and when 
 shortly after he himself came out in tights to give a 
 performance of tossing cannon-balls. The managers 
 of this exhibition have much to answer for in thus 
 degrading an office which to youthful minds has long 
 appeared the very ideal of authority and lofty gran- 
 deur. The usual very dull trade in fans, lemonade, 
 prize candy, clowns' song-books, side-show tickets, 
 photographs, and similar wares, was carried on by 
 young men of remarkable self-poise and confidence of 
 manner, who might have been born and bred under 
 the canvas, so thoroughly harmonized did their bear- 
 
THE MENAGERIE. 173 
 
 ing seem with the atmosphere of the place. The jests 
 of the clowns were of com-se very broad, and of a 
 character to seem very funny to people to Avhom the 
 richest humor of Charles Dickens is dry and tasteless ; 
 but it is only justice to say that there was nothing to 
 offend on the score of proj^riety, and nothing in the 
 whole entertainment to prevent the most j^articular 
 papa or the most fastidious mamma from taking their 
 children to receive the practical instruction of the 
 cages, and to enjoy the wild sensation of delight which 
 marks a first acquaintance with the feats of the arena. 
 
III. 
 
 ESSAYS AND SKETCHES 
 
 ON POLITICAL TOPICS. 
 
POLITICAL TOPICS. 
 
 PRIMARY MEETINGS. 
 
 WITH the close of the session of Congress, and 
 the promise of cooler weather implied in the 
 advent of the last month of summer, the actual ^\'ork 
 of the political campaign in the country at large fairly 
 begins. The noisier portion of that work — the flag- 
 raisings and torchlight processions, barbecues and 
 stump speeches — may be expected in its full vigor 
 a little later in the season. But a not less essential 
 part of it, a part of the task of the utmost importance 
 in its bearings and results, already claims the attention 
 of the good citizen ; and it is to be hoj^ed that es- 
 pecial care may be taken this year that it may not be 
 neglected until it is too late for more than futile re- 
 grets and unavailing reproaches at the opportunities 
 so easily lost. We refer to the j^reliminary work of 
 caucuses and j^rimary meetings preceding the party 
 nominations to the various places within the gift of the 
 people at the November election. It is in the little 
 gatherings of the peojDle, during the next few weeks, 
 in the ward-rooms and. school-houses, that the char- 
 acter of the government is decided. It is in these party 
 assemblies that claims and counterclaims are canvassed, 
 and the men are selected who are to rej^resent the 
 people in the issues of the future. In the heat and 
 
 8* L 
 
178 POLITICAL TOPICS. 
 
 excitement of the presidential year these minor posi- 
 tions are more than ever apt to be overlooked by 
 the people, and left to the machinations of schemers, 
 and to become the prey of ambitions men who use 
 the voters of their constituencies but as a stepping- 
 stone for their own selfish uses. When the nomina- 
 tion in the thinly attended and easily managed caucus 
 or convention is once effected, it is commonly too late 
 to repine at its results ; and the sole remedy left, of 
 bolting or scratching the regular ticket is so full 
 of peril to the interests of the country at large that it 
 is only jDroperly to be resorted to in extreme cases, 
 where a rebuke of a charlatan at the hands of the 
 men upon whose votes he has been trading becomes 
 a duty, and the lesson derived from his downfall is 
 worth all it costs. But the present is the time most 
 effectually to provide against the possibility of such 
 mishaps. Especial caution needs to be had in the 
 matter of the congressional nominations in the various 
 districts. The men who are to be chosen now will 
 represent the State during the first half of the presi- 
 dential term of General Grant. The qualifications, 
 the characteristics, the antecedents of every man as- 
 j^iring to an election should be scanned with a view 
 to the duties likely to devolve upon him in that period. 
 New questions will undoubtedly arise, in carrying out 
 to the end the reorganization of the Southern com- 
 munities, in settling the financial points which already 
 assume a shape demanding the clearest wisdom and 
 the highest integrity, and in a score of subjects now 
 hardly spoken of. The prosperity and happiness of 
 the nation will in a great measure depend upon the 
 manner in which these contingencies are provided for 
 now, whether the servants of the people at Washing- 
 ton shall be in accord in the different departments of 
 
PRIMARY MEETINGS. 179 
 
 the government, in accord with the sober juclgment 
 of the people themselves, in accord with the immuta- 
 ble theories of right, honesty, and justice; or whether 
 they are men of overweening personal Avilfulness, 
 likely to be in contest with the executive and with 
 each other, full of jealousies, animosities, and ambi- 
 tions with which the people have nothing to do, and 
 identified with ideas which the mass of the j^eople 
 whom they profess to represent regard with scorn 
 and disgust. In a word, everything depends upon 
 whether or not they are men in whom the peoj^le can 
 implicitly trust, not only in the controversies of the 
 past, but in issues only just rising above the horizon, 
 and in possible emergencies of the future yet unseen. 
 To insure the decision of these questions in such a 
 way as to give occasion to no discontent hereafter, it 
 is not enough that every individual should give an as- 
 sent to these abstract projoositions. Every voter in 
 every district should form an opinion in his own mind, 
 after the most careful reflection, as to the best man 
 to represent the district in the councils of the nation. 
 But, merely formed and left to slumber, this opinion 
 will do no good. He should see to it in every way 
 that his opinion has its full weight in the primary 
 meetings in which alone it can be of value, and do his 
 utmost to impress it upon those who have to register 
 the consolidated opinion of the district. When the 
 individual voter sees to it that his opinion has expres- 
 sion in the preliminary channels which we have in- 
 dicated, there is little danger that the verdict of all 
 the voters in the a2:o;re2;ate will be one in which he 
 cannot readily acquiesce. The danger of republican 
 institutions is, not in the largest action of the intel- 
 ligent masses, but in the sloth and indifierence which 
 makes them mere instruments in the hands of politi- 
 
180 POLITICAL TOPICS. 
 
 cians and wire-pullers. Let every man see to it, not 
 only that his vote tells at the polls, but that his in- 
 fluence is felt in making up the ballot there put into 
 his hands, and the country will make as great a step 
 forward in the composition of a Republican congress 
 as it will accomplish in the triumph of Grant, peace, 
 and honesty over Seymour, revolution, and swindling. 
 
 THE PUOTSHMENT OF JEFFERSON DAVIS. 
 
 The announcement of the sailing of Jefferson Davis 
 for this country is a reminder of the rapidity with 
 which the world moves. It is only twelve years since 
 Mr. Davis was the ablest adviser of a powerful Demo- 
 cratic administration of the national government. It 
 is only eight years since he withdrew from the Senate 
 to become President of the Southern Confederacy. It 
 is a considerable less time since Mr. Gladstone de- 
 clared that he had " founded an empire." Five years 
 ago he sat confident in Richmond, whence army after 
 army had been hurled back, defeated by his troops, 
 and the world listened respectfully to his words of 
 pride and defiance. It is only a little more than four 
 years since the whole nation was filled with laughter 
 over the ludicrous circumstances of his capture. With- 
 in three years people were looking forward eagerly to 
 his trial, reckoning upon the example which was to be 
 held up to awe treasonable thoughts for ages to come, 
 and debating the most proper punishment for his 
 enormous crimes. Doubtless to the worn old man 
 himself, as he paces the deck of the ship which brings 
 him back, all these reminiscences seem near and fa- 
 
THE PUNISHMENT OF JEFFERSON DAVIS. 181 
 
 miliar ; but to the jDublic they are as memories of a 
 bygone era, and his landing will attract less attention 
 than the arrival of a sinewy youngster who has been 
 beaten in a boat-race on the Thames, or the advent 
 of the last prima donna. 
 
 It may be doubted whether this swift and complete 
 insignificance is not a better punishment for the 
 leader of the Confederacy than the sharpest vengeance 
 which could have been devised. ISTo ignominious 
 death, no painful imprisonment, no forced exile, could 
 be more bitter to him than the tolerant contempt 
 which has so quickly followed his downfall. For, 
 whatever may have been the inspiring motive of 
 others of the creators of the Confederacy, Jefferson 
 Davis was actuated by ambition. He had plotted 
 rebellion for years as the instrument of his own per- 
 sonal elevation to a loftier height than the existing 
 political fabric gave room for. He saw a richer emj^ire 
 than Napoleon's within reach of his hand. If he 
 could look back to his failure now from some guarded 
 St. Helena, he could moralize with dignity upon the 
 causes of his defeat. But to come and go without 
 exciting a glance from friend or enemy, to wander 
 about the earth seeking his livelihood, with the con- 
 sciousness of his obscurity ever present to his mind, 
 must gall him as no chains could do. Our own 
 history shows an apt parallel to his case in the last 
 years of Aaron Burr ; and, like Burr, he must contin- 
 ually be confronted with reminders of his offences 
 against his country and against humanity. " Tell the 
 gentleman," said Talleyrand, " that I will receive him 
 at any time; but the portrait of Colonel Hamilton 
 always hangs over my mantel-piece." The passenger 
 from Liverpool may go where he lists, but the facts 
 of Grant in the White House, the negro at the ballot- 
 
182 POLITICAL TOPICS. 
 
 box, tlie South desolated and impoverished, hundreds 
 of acres of graves and thousands of crijjples all over 
 the land, will meet him at every stej^ all the more 
 pointedly that nobody will think it worth while to 
 throw them in his face. 
 
 MR. SPRAGUE AND HIS ORATORY. 
 
 It can no longer be said that the smallest of the 
 States occupies an insignificant position in national 
 politics. The Senate has chosen one of its Rhode 
 Island members to the highest position within its gift, 
 and the other has contrived to make himself the most 
 talked-about man in the country, and at least a nine 
 days' wonder. Unlike the nobleman who awoke one 
 morning and found himself famous, Mr. Sprague seems 
 to have walked into the Senate Chamber one day, 
 after six years of modest obscurity, firmly resolved to 
 make himself notorious. Unlike the animal in sacred 
 history which immortalized itself by speaking once 
 wisely and opportunely, and holding its peace there- 
 after, Mr. Sprague has continued to air his new-found 
 gift in season and out of season, until he bids fair 
 to make himself a byword. His first amazing and 
 amusing speech, ten days ago, came upon the Senate, 
 Rhode Island, and the country like a clap of thunder 
 from a clear sky. But, with rare lack of judgment, 
 the Senator has cheapened his thunder, until it rings 
 upon the ear as tamely as the reverberations of the 
 sheet-iron of the priest Calchas ; and we look for 
 the news that the unquenchable little gentleman from 
 Rhode Island has favored the Senate with a page of 
 
MR. SPRAGUE AND HIS ORATORY. 183 
 
 Macaulay, a chapter of autobiograi)hy, a wail of woe, 
 and a dash of defiance, as a regular seasoning to our 
 breakfasts. 
 
 The ferocity of the orator has increased as the nov- 
 elty of his effusion has waned. No friend or neighbor 
 has been safe from the slash of his broadsword. His 
 career has resembled nothing so much as that of a 
 Malay in that singular demonstration of national 
 fi-enzy which is called " running amuck." The genial 
 and unpretending Senator from Nevada ventured to 
 analyze the torrent of accusations in a good-humored 
 vein of raillery, only to find himself impaled with a 
 savage epithet as " the charlatan of the Senate." Mr. 
 Sumner looked smilingly, perhaps, on the surprising dis- 
 play, — for he certainly said nothing ; and straightway 
 the world was scornfully informed that Mr. Sprague 
 had once been called on to contribute money and in- 
 fluence to aid the Massachusetts gentleman's election. 
 The occupants of the galleries on one day laughed at 
 Mr. Nye's jests ; and their successors a week later were 
 accused of ignorance, of extravagant dress, and of 
 various other offences. The "Providence Journal" 
 endeavored to give a kind explanation of the Sena- 
 tor's folly ; and promptly Mr. Sprague turned his guns 
 of wrath upon his colleague. Mr. Wilson undertook 
 gently to urge that his friend's view of the depravity 
 and corruption of the community took some dark 
 hues from his imagination ; and at once we have the 
 scathing retort that our Senator does not move in 
 society sufficiently elevated to enable him to judge 
 with that accuracy which Mr. Sprague claims for him- 
 self. It is necessary, we are led to infer, to have an 
 alliance by marriage with the head of the judiciary, 
 and to count cotton-mills by scores, workmen by 
 thousands, and money by millions, to understand the 
 
184 POLITICAL TOPICS. 
 
 profligacy and manifold wickedness of which the Amer- 
 ican j^eojole of to-day are capable. It is almost impos- 
 sible to treat these extraordinary outbreaks of Mr. 
 Sprague's seriously. The first seemed like the esca- 
 pade of an hour, the fruit of a bottle of wine too much, 
 or a dinner badly digested. But now they have been 
 prolonged so far that attention cannot be withheld. 
 The problem which they present is not one of easy 
 solution, and to the foreign student of our affairs will 
 seem utterly inexplicable. Here is a man of mature 
 years, high position, and some training in jDublic life, 
 moving, as he is pleased to boast, in the best society 
 which a republic like ours joroduces, who, suddenly, 
 and uj^on no special occasion, shouts forth from his 
 pedestal a lamentation more mournful than that of 
 Jeremiah. His complaints are curiously incongruous : 
 The country is on the verge of ruin. There are too 
 many lawyers in the Senate. The private morals of 
 the people are corru23t. No husband dare turn his 
 back upon his wife. The reign of terror which exists 
 is due to a party whose every measure for the past 
 six years, wise and otherwise, has received the Sena- 
 tor's vote. The manufacturers of New England will 
 soon have to stop their spindles because they are los- 
 ing money. The firm of which the Senator is a mem- 
 ber, to be sure, is coining wealth, but it is only by 
 crushing out its competitors. Ignorance of financial 
 affairs shows itself in the Senate. Worst of all, the 
 President proposes to protect, and eventually to pay, 
 the national debt. The world is hollow; my doll is 
 stuffed with sawdust; and, if you please, I will go 
 into a convent. 
 
 If it is impossible to account for all this except upon a 
 hypothesis which politeness to the well-meaning Sena- 
 tor from Rhode Island forbids us to suggest, the inci- 
 
MR. SPRAGUE AND HIS ORATORY. 185 
 
 dent may perhaps be useful to point a moral which 
 closes so many sermons on the vanity of human 
 wishes. If one were to search the country through 
 for a man who should fill the common ideal of all the 
 requisites of happiness and content, there could hardly 
 be found a more striking illustration than a gentleman 
 who, with youth, has the political honors usually 
 reached only in age ; who possesses gi-eat wealth, and 
 yet is fi'eed from temptation to indolence by the calls 
 of a vast business which gives a livelihood to thou- 
 sands; who has the key to every circle of society; 
 who can look back upon an honorable record in the 
 day of national triaL The novelist could not invent 
 a situation seemingly so blessed. Yet no one can look 
 into the pages of the " Globe " for the last few days 
 without having it put before him that the possessor 
 of all these things is the most wretched of men. Dis- 
 appointment and discontent show themselves in every 
 paragraph he utters. His hand is against every man. 
 Having exhausted the tamer pleasures of the world, 
 he courts the luxury of a conspicuous martyrdom like 
 that of Simeon Stylites. Like Samson, he would jduII 
 down the edifice of his party organization upon his 
 own head. Happily for the nation, the Senator from 
 Rhode Island, though he has Samson's blindness, and 
 wields one of Samson's most effective weapons, has 
 not Samson's strength. The fabric will stand in spite 
 of him; and there is yet time for such a measure of 
 wisdom to come with age that he may laugh with his 
 children over the fantastic tricks of his youth in the 
 Senate. 
 
186 POLITICAL TOPICS. 
 
 MR. ADAMS'S LETTER. 
 
 Mr. John Quincy Adams steps upon the Demo- 
 cratic platform gingerly, and with manifest repug- 
 nance. He finds it necessary to take exception to so 
 many of its planks that the framework which remains 
 under his feet has hardly the solidity of a skeleton. 
 He expressly disclaims the financial theories which his 
 party has espoused. But he comforts himself with 
 the thought that the issue involved in this question 
 of national honesty or national swindling is only " im- 
 portant"; while the other subjects involved in the 
 campaign are so "vital" as to overshadow and dwarf 
 any such trifling matters as the danger of repudiation 
 and bankruptcy. Following his remarkable letter of 
 acceptance a little further, however, we find that he 
 is compelled yet again to step aside from the path 
 marked out by the leaders of his party. " The Demo- 
 cratic party in success," he says, "may subvert the 
 organic law." In fact, by its jplatform and its nomi- 
 nation for the vice-presidency, it has pledged itself to 
 defy all law, and enter upon a new revolution. Mr. 
 Adams is only able to intimate that whatever is done 
 will be due to the corrupting influences of the dread- 
 ful Radicals on the Democratic reverence for the Con- 
 stitution. "We may dread^'' he continues, with af- 
 fecting italics, "lest the Democrats should do this 
 thing ; but we do certainly Jcnow that the Republican 
 party has already done it." He sees " at least a 
 chance, a last chance, of salvation," in the possibil- 
 ity that Semmes and Cobb and Vallandigham and 
 Seymour may yet retain a reverence for the Constitu- 
 tion, unimpaired by the horrid example of Grant and 
 Colfax and Fessenden and the rest, in treading it un- 
 der foot. 
 
ME. ADAMS'S LETTER. 187 
 
 Then Mr. Adams, having thrown behind him nine 
 tenths of the distinctive principles upon which the 
 Democratic party is making the campaign, having re- 
 pudiated its repudiation and cast off its Blair pro- 
 gramme, finds scope for his powers by going in, like 
 the sick man in the story, " with a vengeance on that 
 one chance." He finds himself at ease again in the 
 policy of attack. He repeats all the stereotyped de- 
 nunciations of the Republican party. He talks non- 
 sense, of which a man like him should be ashamed, 
 about the bugbear of " negro domination." He pre- 
 tends that the white leaders of the South would have 
 been willing to secure the negro in his civil rights, 
 and give him political jDrivileges " as he grew fit to 
 use them wisely," if Ave had extended to them what 
 he in remarkable rhetoric calls "the right hand of 
 oblivion of the jDast and reconciliation in the future." 
 He has the assurance to say that the Republican party 
 makes a^^proval of impeachment a test of party fel- 
 lowship, when impeachment was defeated, and the 
 President remains in office, solely by the votes of men 
 among the most eminent and trusted of Republican 
 leaders, and among the most active in support of the 
 Republican ticket. He goes beyond the land of the 
 living to quote from that favorite Democratic text- 
 book the words which irresponsible rumor assigns to 
 Thaddeus Stevens. He even remembers the local 
 question of the liquor laws, and professes to " sup- 
 pose " that a re-enactment of the old statute will be a 
 result of the success of the party which has pointedly 
 abstained fi*om allying itself with the friends of the 
 rejected prohibitory policy. 
 
 It is impossible to read such a letter as that of Mr. 
 Adams without perceiving the difficulty with which 
 he brings himself to the task of ratifying his alliance 
 
188 POLITICAL TOPICS. 
 
 with a party controlled by the counsels which pre- 
 vailed in the New York Convention. His difficulty 
 is that of thousands of other men who have not the 
 inducements that stimulate him to surmount it. Prom- 
 inent in the public eye, a candidate at the head of the 
 State ticket, the task of returning to the fold of a 
 party which, with all its mistakes, now stands for 
 honesty, for nationality, for justice, and for peace, in 
 opposition to fraud, to rebellion, to oppression, and to 
 anarchy, was a far greater one for him than for the 
 private voter, who has but to look at the field through 
 no spectacles of selfish regard for consistency. But 
 both aid in their several ways the cause of the Re- 
 publican party, — the one through the simple vote for 
 Grant, and the other by the singular mixture of apol- 
 ogy and argument with which he adheres to the 
 standard of Seymour. 
 
IV. 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
LETTERS 
 
 FROM A WANDERmG CORRESPONDENT. 
 
 INLAND JOURNEYINGS. 
 
 The Pleasures of Carriage Tours. — Their Increasing Popularity. — 
 The Lions of Barre. — The Rocking Stone and its History. — A Cen- 
 tenarian and his Son. — Cheese Factories. 
 
 Barre, September 11, 1867. 
 
 AFTER "Berwick" and "Munroe" and "Pres- 
 cott " and "Blotter " and the rest have furnished, 
 in their various vacation-letters,' almost a comi^lete 
 guide-book to the regions convenient for summer tour- 
 ists from Boston, it might seem impossible for another 
 con-espondent of your joaper to write of summer travel- 
 ling without trespassing upon their preempted territory. 
 But I remember, in the "Daily Advertiser" of last sum- 
 mer, a series of very chainning articles extolling the neg- 
 lected advantages of a kind of travel which went out 
 when railroads came in, but which presents joys and 
 comforts that those who use the railroad routes, and 
 only stop at the railroad stations, know nothing of. 
 These essays set forth the delights of wandering about 
 the rural districts in family parties, with a horse or two 
 as the motive power, and the charms of the consequent 
 independence of action, the discovery of pleasant 
 scenes and notable things unknown to the swift- 
 going public, the acquaintance with rustic inns, and 
 so forth. One paper was devoted to each of the New 
 
192 LETTERS. 
 
 England States, and enumerated a few of the natural 
 attractions and historic spots of each, which all but 
 the sensible few have forgotten. Remembering the 
 theories set forth in these essays, I say, it occurs to 
 me that even the multitude of your correspondents 
 following the beaten tracks of travel may not have 
 exhausted the capabilities of the land, and that your 
 readers may welcome an epistle or two with no loftier 
 aim than to catalogue some of the experiences of 
 wanderings far away from the sound of the locomotive 
 whistle or the puffing of the steamboat, — exjDeriences 
 unique in themselves, perhaps, but to be paralleled by 
 others quite as notable in every town or cluster of 
 towns in our incomparable New England. 
 
 And since I have indulged myself already in so long 
 a preface, I will add by way of introduction that the 
 mode of travel thus recommended by the Daily last 
 year is certainly growing in favor. I presume there is 
 no visible falling off in the crowds that go the regular 
 rounds, and get rid of their greenbacks at the White 
 Mountains and Lake George, and their unfamiliar 
 silver at Montreal and Quebec. But there is certainly 
 an increase in the number of the stragglers who have 
 abandoned routine, and seek pleasure in buggies be- 
 hind horses in whom bottom and steadiness are more 
 requisite than speed ; with one suit each for the trip, one 
 valise to hold all the necessaries of the toilet, — along 
 the country roads where Nature is most easily wooed. 
 This is a natural halting-place for these sensible pil- 
 grims ; and there is hardly a day that I do not see 
 several parties of this kind, composed either of one 
 couple, one couple and a baby, or two couj^les, with 
 a span quite as often as a single horse, di'iving up to 
 the Massasoit House here for a dinner or a lodging, 
 and bound, perhaps for Wachusett or Monadnock, 
 
INLAND JOURNEYINGS. 193 
 
 perhaps for a ride through the Connecticut "Valley, 
 or perhaps for a taste of the Coldbrook Springs, of 
 which I wrote you some time ago. 
 
 Doubtless, were these tourists to ask some staid cit- 
 izen who has spent a lifetime here what attractions 
 Barre holds out to induce a day's pause in a ride 
 whose chief charm is the freedom w^hich it gives for 
 such pauses, he would think it little worth mentioning. 
 Custom brings blindness in such matters. But those 
 whose experience dates no firther back than a single 
 summer's absence from the city are better authorities, 
 and can tell of numberless delicious drives through 
 roads all thick with grass, and shaded by an arch of 
 foliage uninterrupted for a mile ; of points command- 
 ing views of pond and forest and village and distant 
 mountain, worthy of any painter in your studios ; of 
 a glen with precipitous sides, mysterious caves, and a 
 cascade falling more than a hundred feet over rocky 
 stairs at the bottom of the ravine, — just the place for 
 Indian legends and picnics; and so on of many things 
 which can be appreciated better by those who see 
 them than by those who can only read of them in 
 print. But we have more, special and peculiar lions 
 than these, worthy of a stranger's notice, and, so far 
 as I know, never yet celebrated in type for the infor- 
 mation of dwellers afar off. 
 
 In the northern part of this town of Barre is a 
 natural curiosity of the first order, mentioned, perhaps, 
 in some forgotten old books of New England antiqui- 
 ties, and called indiscriminately Cradle Rock and 
 Rocking Stone, in common parlance and on the local 
 maps. It is certainly entitled to the former name ; 
 perched on a high ledge which lifts it above the neigh- 
 boring trees, passengers along more than one of the 
 roads in the vicinity may note its close resemblance 
 9 M 
 
194 LETTERS. 
 
 to a cradle, — a cradle, too, of the old-fashioned sort, 
 which may be supposed to date back to the time of 
 Noah, since which this gigantic model has stood here 
 to be wondered at by succeeding generations. 
 
 One rock forms the body of the cradle, and uj^on 
 one end of this, high up out of human reach, is balanced 
 the other lesser rock which supplies the top of the 
 cradle. How the huge mass got up so high, and why 
 it was left there, is a question which must remain 
 unanswered, unless Professor Agassiz, provoked by 
 my unscientific description, comes up here and solves 
 the problem by a glacial explanation. I have never 
 visited the rock with a tape-measure, and cannot give 
 you its dimensions with any pretence to accuracy; but 
 it is a prodigious mass of granite, and by its singular 
 formation quite awe-inspiring to the beholder who 
 looks up at it from the base. Tradition says that it 
 used to deserve literally its popular title of rocking- 
 stone, being swayed by the wind or the hand in a 
 gentle motion such as might have rocked some giant 
 antediluvian to sleep ; but that certain Puritan Yan- 
 dals, thinking anything which could rock might be 
 tipped over, and bent, perhaps, on destroying what 
 might be a witness to some infidel scientific theory of 
 creation, hitched all the oxen in town to the stone, 
 and urged them with goad and shout to pull it over. 
 The grim old phenomenon resisted all their hauling 
 and prying ; but, possibly in grief at their irreverence, 
 has never rocked since. 
 
 It is natural to turn from this old landmark, on 
 whose sides a dozen centuries leave hardly a trace of 
 increased age, to another venerable object of more 
 immediate human interest but a few miles away. In 
 a pleasant farm-house in another part of Barre lives a 
 gentleman born when Samuel Johnson was editing 
 
INLAND JOUKNEYINGS. 195 
 
 Shakespeare, when Joseph Warren was studjdng medi- 
 cine, before James Otis was prominent in public life, 
 before George Washington had married the Widow 
 Custis, fom'teen years before the Declaration of Inde- 
 pendence, — whose one-himdred-and-fifth birthday oc- 
 curs this very week. Since Mr. PijDer became Avhat 
 Mrs. Partington would call a centurion, his house has 
 been visited every summer by scores of the visitors 
 here and at the neighboring watering-place of Cold- 
 brook, all cordially welcomed ; and he has been for- 
 mally recognized as one of the lions of the place, and 
 introduced to innumerable people from far and near ; 
 so I may be j^ardoned for what would otherwise seem 
 an intrusion into private life in referring to him here. 
 His hair is, of course, thin and snow-white, and his 
 beard, long and flowing in some of his photographs, 
 has been abbreviated and thinned out by the scissors 
 of ladies, to whom the old gentleman never refuses 
 the coveted keepsake. His cheek has still a ruddi- 
 ness retained from the far, far distant youth, and 
 his countenance does not show more marks of age 
 than may be seen in some men of not much more than 
 half his years. He has kept his bed of late, however, 
 being comfortably arranged by a quaint invention of 
 his son, so that on the turning of a crank he is brought 
 up into a sitting posture to receive the visitors whose 
 reception is now the only occupation of his life. His 
 hearing and sight are good, or were when I last saw 
 him, and he talks pleasantly with those who take his 
 hand of acquaintance with their grandfathers, who 
 were born very likely after he himself was a grand- 
 father. I think Mr. Piper was a seaman during the 
 Revolution; and I believe no older survivor than 
 he yet lives in New England. His birthday, since he 
 turned the great corner of the three figures which so 
 
196 LETTERS. 
 
 few can reach, has been a festival to be celebrated by 
 a large and constantly increasing circle of his descend- 
 ants. Four generations live here in his house and the 
 one opposite; and others of his posterity are scattered 
 far and wide over the earth. 
 
 But the moments, in which something of solemnity 
 inevitably mingles, spent in this old gentleman's room, 
 do not include all the interest which is conveyed to 
 the residents of this vicinity by the mention of " going 
 to Mr. Piper's." The son of the venerable relic of the 
 eighteenth century, whose seventy-odd years seem like 
 yonth beside his father's life, is a man of exceeding 
 ingenuity, for whom the jack-knife has possibilities 
 unknown to the great multitude of whittling Yankee 
 boyhood. The leisure of the farmer's winter evenings 
 has enabled him to produce something more than 
 the wooden chain which is the standard wonder of the 
 country cattle-show; and his broad parlor displays 
 more curiosities than I can recount for you here. A 
 home-made hand-organ, Avith puj^pets, whose inde- 
 scribable comicality consists in their sobriety of mien 
 and motion, dancing a stately quadrille ; a baby- 
 wagon which plays "Wait for the Wagon," as it is 
 trundled to and fro on the floor; a cradle with similar 
 musical properties ; a pair of tables inlaid, by immense 
 labor, with a wooden mosaic representation of the 
 mansions respectively of P. T. Barnum and James 
 Gordon Bennett ; brackets designed and ornamented 
 also with inlaid work, in an angular style, reminding 
 one of Chinese art, and having the rare merit of entire 
 originality, being planned and executed without the 
 slightest knowledge of similar articles in the great 
 world to which the railroad station is a gateway, — all 
 these things may be seen and admired, and some of 
 them purchased, in the modest farm-house of the 
 Pipers. 
 
INLAND JOUENEYINGS. 197 
 
 I meant to have wi'itten you something of the 
 cheese-factories which in the last few years have 
 sprung up so plentifully in this neighborhood, and to 
 a great extent have revolutionized the agriculture of 
 this region, relieving the housewives of that great, 
 wearing, life-destroying labor of individual cheese- 
 making hitherto the common practice. Most stran- 
 gers who pass through here go to see these yet novel 
 institutions, with their huge, sweet vats of milk, their 
 curious machinery, their long, odorous rooms in which 
 the cheeses get dry enough for market, the less pleas- 
 antly odorous but necessary pig-sty, supported by the 
 refuse matter of the manufacture. But I have other 
 regions and matters of interest in view, and can afford 
 to give but one letter to Barre and its notabilities. 
 
 FIEST DAY OF THE JOURNEY. 
 
 Barre to Greenfield. — The First Stage and the First Halt. — Foot- 
 prints of a Balloon. — A Hermit in a Wilderness. — A Traveller's 
 Observations. — Entering the Connecticut Valley. 
 
 Greenfield, September, 186T. 
 Tired perhaps in some measure by the enthusiasm 
 for indejDendent carriage journeys expressed in my 
 own letter lately sent you, I had no sooner posted 
 that epistle than I set about the simple preparations 
 needed for a four days' tour in the Connecticut Val- 
 ley. The little bag was packed, the carriage well 
 greased, the map studied, just in time for a start 
 simultaneously with the first glimj^se of sunny weather 
 after a fortnight or so of alternation of doubtfully 
 rainy days with days whose rain left no room for 
 doubt. We were off at a sensibly but not fanatically 
 early hour in the morning, — nine o'clock. Our route 
 
198 LETTERS. 
 
 led first, after leaving Barre, through the neighboring 
 town of Petersham, its familiar aspect altered by the 
 transformation of its hotel into a more imposing struc- 
 ture for use as a seminary. As I rode through the 
 village, the old nonsensical rhyme rang pertinaciously 
 through my head : — 
 
 " Barre for beauty, Petersham for pride, 
 If it had n't been for codfish, Dana would have died." 
 
 And I wondered, but all in vain, what circumstances 
 in far distant times could have suggested or justified 
 these laconic generalizations of the traits of a neigh- 
 borhood. But the new sights of a road untraversed 
 in less extended rides, leading to New Salem, drove 
 off these profitless speculations. This whole region 
 is one whose j)rosperity is in the past ; whose glory is 
 in tradition rather than in hope ; whose people esteem 
 it in that unkindest kind of fondness summed up in 
 Webster's terse phrase, "a good place to emigrate 
 from." The tendency of the day and place might be 
 judged from the number of entirely deserted bouses 
 we passed ; not many, indeed, but noticed because in 
 brisker Barre, whose thrift is in the present, and in 
 all the towns a little lower down on the map, such 
 things are entirely unknown. The rocky, hilly, thick- 
 ly Avooded farms were carefully cultivated, indeed, and 
 the scattered farmers ai^parently prosperous in a small 
 way ; but the absence of the mowing-machines, horse- 
 rakes, and tedders, now so universally used elsewhere, 
 was conspicuous for miles. The dwellings, too, were 
 small, judged by the standard of our starting-point ; 
 but their low walls were shaded in almost every in- 
 stance by fine groves of trees, which the good taste 
 of the oriojinal settler had left standino; for shade and 
 ornament in spite of the inclination, always strong in 
 the pioneer, to chop down every tree which could re- 
 
INLAND JOURNEYINGS. 199 
 
 mind him of the supremacy of the forest. Thus the 
 hmiiblest houses have an air of comfort and hixury 
 in the possession of venerable trees, which the richest 
 must lack for generations in a region entirely denuded 
 of the primeval growth by the undiscriminating axe- 
 man. 
 
 Another feature worth noticing in visiting this, one 
 of the few sj)ots in New England w^here neither agri- 
 culture nor manufactures seem to flourish, is the excel- 
 lence of the roads, ke^tt up, in the most sparsely popu- 
 lated localities, by the people themselves, through the 
 purely democratic agency of town-meetings. The 
 school-house appears at every cross-road ; and in every 
 way the contrast to a Southern country of no less 
 wealth and jDopulation, but uneducated, lazy, and 
 poorly organized inhabitants, is most j^lainly manifest. 
 
 Our first halt for dinner was made, after a drive of 
 thirteen miles, at a rural hotel of the most emi^hati- 
 cally rustic character, where the landlord must be 
 summoned from his momng in a distant field to put 
 up the horse, and the landlady herself cooks the re- 
 past in the intervals of entertaining her guests, — a 
 jolly little inn, indeed, with a diminutive post-office 
 in its public room, and almost half a mile from any 
 other house. It is the very spot made memorable by 
 the first landing of the great balloon Hyperion, last 
 summer ; and the field in which the monster descended 
 still bears the marks of trampling feet from the scores 
 of people who came from all the country round to see 
 the strange visitor. Our hostess gave in reply to our 
 questions a graphic account of the extraordinary ex- 
 perience, evidently still fi-esh in the home-talk of all 
 that region, and told how the half-dozen wet but hila- 
 rious gentlemen, coming into the house early in the 
 morning, were taken naturally for jocose fishermen, 
 
200 LETTERS. 
 
 and their story of having " come in a balloon, ma'am," 
 was received with scornful disbelief, as badinage, per- 
 haps funny enough for once, but stale after repetition. 
 Im23robability had to be accepted at last, however, as 
 fact ; and the balloon with its inevitable journalist 
 went up again later in the day, giving the inhabitants 
 of quiet New Salem a treat not to be enjoyed there 
 once in a century, all at the expense of the uncon- 
 scious tax-payers of far-away Boston. 
 
 It might be thought that residence up there in any 
 fashion would be seclusion enough for any reasonable 
 hermit; but there is one insatiable lover of solitude, 
 whose house we passed in going through New Salem, 
 who not only shuts himself up from all communion 
 with the neighbors, but even leans great planks against 
 his windows to j^revent any passers-by from glancing 
 at the loneliness in which he lives upon his income, 
 barred out from all mankind. 
 
 Leaving the hospitable inn which had invigorated 
 ourselves and our horse for the long journey of the 
 latter part of the day, we clambered the high hill upon 
 which the village of New Salem is perched, and thence 
 obtained a view of a very wide expanse of country, 
 which I might describe to you at length, were not 
 Mount Holyoke one of the chief objective points of 
 our expedition. For a long distance, the road west- 
 ward is cut through the woods, with neither neighbor- 
 ing houses nor distant prosi3ects to enliven the jour- 
 ney. We passed the entrance to a rough meadow- 
 path leading to a mineral spring in the northern part 
 of the town of Shutesbury, which, a generation ago, 
 was the object of pilgrimages of anxious invalids, and 
 still has a high reputation for curative powers. There 
 is only a single house at the spring (now ambitiously 
 christened Mount Mineral), and this is crowded by 
 
INLAND JOURNEYINGS. 201 
 
 six or seven boarders. We should have driven to this 
 notable spot, and given you an account of the spring 
 and its visitors ; but the State constable has extended 
 his desolating hand to this inland region ; the hotel at 
 Montague is closed, because it is not profitable to keep 
 it open without the privilege of liquor-selling ; and in 
 order to get through to Greenfield in comfortable 
 season, all temptations to delay must be resisted. 
 
 The ride from Lock's Villao-e throuo^h Monta2:ue to 
 Greenfield is more delightful than I can tell, including 
 as it does, a gi-adual entrance to the Connecticut Val- 
 ley, with the accompanying entire change in the aspect 
 of the country. In place of rocky pastures, one-story 
 houses, and large tracts of rough woodland, we came 
 upon an open country, fertile meadows, and the stately 
 domiciles of well-to-do farmers. All the implements 
 for labor-saving in husbandry which ingenuity has in- 
 vented seemed in use on every farm. As we ap- 
 proached the river, the tobacco-culture, as utterly un- 
 known as that of rice or cotton in the towns left behind 
 in the morning, greeted us on all sides ; and every bam 
 w^as perforated with the long slits, making its sides 
 mere lattice-work, left open for drying the leaves just 
 gathered. The shrill steam-whistle and ugly, glaring 
 signs of the railroad-crossing told us that we were 
 nearer the convenience of civilization than when we 
 started ; and, crossing the Connecticut by a toll-bridge, 
 we drove into Greenfield before sunset, to find at our 
 hotel here the unwonted luxury of gas-burners and 
 other amenities of city life hardly to be looked for in 
 a rural ride like this. Thirty-six miles, accomplished 
 before you have got comfortably seated in a railroad- 
 car, is no small achievement in the most comfort- 
 able of carriages. It includes hundreds of little dis- 
 coveries and delights which evaporate on the pen if 
 9* 
 
202 LETTERS. 
 
 one seeks to record them at the journey's end, and it 
 hidudes also some fatigue which prevents any further 
 elaboration of narrative which might otherwise be 
 attempted here. 
 
 SECOND DAY OF THE JOURNEY. 
 
 South Deerfield, September, 1867. 
 
 In leaving Greenfield this morning, we drove about 
 the streets of that pleasant, bustling town, and saw some 
 of its fine residences, and its spacious, handsome jail, 
 in the middle of a great lawn, which some weary city 
 folk misrht almost covet as a summer retreat, so cool 
 and sweet and shady is its outward aspect. The 
 barred windows were many, and we were left to sur- 
 mise in vain which of them was the scene of the recent 
 romance of the jail, — for Greenfield has a romance, 
 and I should like to tell you all about it if the comj^ass 
 of this letter afforded room for the narrative. A 
 young, pretty, and rather brilliant woman, riding 
 about the country and obtaining money by altered 
 checks on country banks; an arrest and escape; a 
 recapture and tedious imprisonment ; a trial and elo- 
 quent speech to the judge, hinting at high connections, 
 a genius for sculpture, encouragement from Hiram 
 Powers, and a wild desire to go to Italy stimulating to 
 sudden crime ; the discovery, following the transfer of 
 the prisoner to serve out her light sentence elsewhere, 
 that the steel spring of her hoop-skirt had furnished a 
 saw which had nearly severed the bars of her cell here : 
 with these hints your readers may fill out the story 
 to suit themselves. There is material enough for a 
 novel in the facts. 
 
 I tried to buy a guide-book to the river region at 
 
INLAND JOUENEYINGS. 203 
 
 Greenfield, where one would think the demand for 
 them would be constant ; but the bookseller had only- 
 seen such a work in the hands of the newsboys on the 
 cars, and recommended me to board a train to obtain 
 one. After all, I am glad I did not get it, for the 
 pleasantest j^art of such a ride as this is the unexpect- 
 edness of its discoveries, and the general sense of ex- 
 ploration which accompanies a wanderer where con- 
 stant inquiries and study of the guide-boards are 
 needed to find the way. 
 
 A detour for a visit of friendship, with which the 
 public has notliing to do, made our direct progress 
 rather brief to-day; but the distance of seven or eight 
 miles traversed in reaching this village is exceedingly 
 pleasant, and worth j^assing over slowly. The Deerfield 
 River is crossed by a toll-bridge near Greenfield, and 
 thence the road runs close beside the stream, as level 
 as a floor, and almost as hard. On the right are 
 meadows, whose brilliant green has not yet begun to 
 feel the sobering touch of autumn, and from which the 
 farmers are gathering second crops of hay almost equal 
 to the first growth in the less fertile region from which 
 we came. On the left are very gentle and modest 
 hills, and fields generally just stripped of their tobacco- 
 leaves. 
 
 After only two miles we passed through the village 
 of Deerfield, certainly entitled to the distinction of 
 being the loveliest in New England from the vener- 
 able grandeur of the elms which make an uninter- 
 rupted arch of green over the whole length of its long 
 single street. Every house has its share of these 
 noble old trees, rarely less than ten or fifteen feet in 
 girth, and all seemingly in the very prime of life, at a 
 century and a half Wc did not see a store or shop 
 of any kind in the whole serene, placid village ; and 
 
204 LETTERS. 
 
 its air of age was not marred by any dwellings of 
 notable newness of architecture. At the centre the 
 street widens into a common, at one corner of which 
 a group, perha2:>s from the pretty hotel near by, were 
 playing croquet, and in which stands the new soldiers' 
 monument, dedicated, as your columns have already 
 chronicled, but a fortnight or so ago. It is of brown 
 freestone, graceful in design and remarkably imposing 
 in effect. The statue of a soldier on the summit of 
 the column is particularly good, — the pensive though 
 dignified bearing of the figure suggesting that its 
 thoughts are of the dead whose names are carved 
 beneath. These, classified in companies, occupy two 
 sides of the monument ; the other two are occupied by 
 a simply eloquent inscription setting forth the purpose 
 of the monument, and another stating that its site is 
 that of the old fort in which the settlers of Deerfield, 
 the ancestors of these Union soldiers, almost two hun- 
 dred years ago had such desperate struggles with the 
 Indians. 
 
 Entering this village of South Deerfield five or six 
 miles further down, we crossed a bridge of four or five 
 planks' width only, and soon came upon a simple 
 marble monument, erected thirty years ago, and 
 closely shaded by a little grove, which states that the 
 stream just passed is the Bloody Brook, which appears 
 in all histories of pioneer times, and that upon that 
 very spot, in the month of September, 1675, a party 
 of soldiers escorting teams from Deerfield to Pladley, 
 were ambuscaded by seven hundred Indians, and 
 nearly all killed. Ca23tain Lothrop commanded the 
 company, which contained, according to "a cotempo- 
 rary historian," as quoted on the monument, " the 
 flower of the young men of the county of Essex." 
 The savages were loath to give up this lovely valley, 
 
INLAND JOUENEYINGS. 205 
 
 the most precious of their broad possessions, and took 
 every means to harass and discom-age the intruders 
 into their domain here ; and, once driven from these 
 strongholds, they have never made so sturdy and 
 defiant a resistance since. The battle, or rather 
 slaughter, of Bloody Brook is commemorated, not 
 only by the monument I have spoken of, and by 
 a stone slab near by which marks the burial- 
 place of the victims of the ambush, but also by an 
 ancient oil-painting, about eight feet by six, which 
 covers the wall of the entry-way of the rustic hotel 
 where I am quartered. Age has effaced nearly all the 
 picture, except a few dim figures of naked red men 
 and blue-coated Puritans just visible through the 
 cracks in the canvas in the foregi-ound, and a com- 
 paratively recent inscription giving the facts of the 
 massacre, painted in black letters ujDon the faded sky 
 of the original artist. 
 
 South Deerfield might be esteemed a charming vil- 
 lage but for the comparison inevitably made with the 
 older elms and statelier mansions of the elder settle- 
 ment just left behind. It has a store or two, even a 
 barber's shop, and a railroad station ; but the inn at 
 which we have paused for the night is of the most 
 primitive rural order, with many quaint peculiarities, 
 of which more anon. I note among the exceptional 
 traits of the inhabitants that they get their Boston 
 news and Massachusetts intelligence generally fi^-om 
 the New York Herald ; and, as might be expected of 
 such benighted descendants of the pilgrims, two of 
 them beside me are discussing the convention at 
 Worcester, with the idea firmly entertained by both 
 that the " P. L. L." resolution of Mr. A. O. Allen was 
 introduced by the attorney-general of the Common- 
 wealth. Such is fame. 
 
206 LETTERS. 
 
 THIRD DAY OF THE JOURNEY. 
 
 Amherst, September, 1867. 
 Whe^t we entered South Deerfield, the bold crest 
 of Sugar Loaf Mountam, with a Uttle house perched 
 on the very brmk of its most precipitous side, loomed 
 up sharply in the east, and was decidedly the most 
 prominent feature of the landscape. When we drove 
 away this morning it was invisible, and we should not 
 have known that any such elevation was in the neigh- 
 borhood. These fogs are the chronic weakness of 
 these Connecticut Valley towns, so lovely in situation 
 and general characteristics, otherwise faultless in 
 summer and autumn climate. We greeted the thick, 
 chokino' mist which enshrouded the first few miles 
 of our journey this morning as a token that the day 
 would not be permanently marred by rain, and waited 
 patiently for its lifting, which came, as the old resi- 
 dents of the region had j)redicted, before ten o'clock. 
 The road leading down the bank of the river to 
 Northampton differed in some respects from any we 
 had yet seen. Level, narrow, and sometimes sandy, 
 it led straight through the meadows without any 
 intervening fences, — none of which, indeed, could be 
 seen for miles around from some points of the route. 
 This feature made the ride suggestive of prairie 
 travelling. The fields among which we passed were 
 most of them devoted to the culture of broom-corn, 
 standing at this season tall and slender, with a more 
 graceful stateliness than the ordinary corn, and wav- 
 ing luxuriant brown tassels like an army with banners. 
 The Connecticut ran so quietly and so nearly on our 
 own level on our left, that we rarely caught a glimpse 
 of it; and we seemed to be threading a broad, uninter- 
 rupted expanse of clover, tobacco, and cornfields. 
 
INLAND JOURNEYINGS. 207 
 
 Hatfield, through the length of which we passed, is 
 almost as venerable as Deerfield, built in the same 
 style along one broad, elm-shaded street, without one 
 store or shop of any kind to interrupt the serenity of 
 its quiet. The trees are not quite so old as those of 
 Deerfield, and the street is longer ; I should think at 
 least half a mile from end to end. We should hardly 
 have known, from any glimpse of inhabitants, that its 
 big, comfortable old mansions were tenanted at all; 
 but everything about them was the perfection of neat- 
 ness and order, and it was evident that the dwellers 
 on these grand estates were not far away. Some New 
 England Irving must be in training somewhere to 
 celebrate as it deserves the complete rest of this 
 eastern Sleepy Hollow. 
 
 We reached I^Torthampton before eleven, and found 
 in its brick rows and bustling streets the stores where 
 all the poj^ulation of the unbusiness-like yet populous 
 towns through which we passed do their purchasing 
 of the few articles not raised on their broad, versatile 
 farms. Had I been a reader of "Norwood," I pre- 
 sume I should have explored all the streets of the 
 town with j^articular zest ; but I have not followed up 
 Mr. Beecher's story in its serial issue ; and, to tell the 
 truth, the place had a savor of the city about it quite 
 abhorrent to the barbarian tastes which my wander- 
 ing habits of late have fostered. So I pushed hastily 
 through, noting in the transit one or two of those 
 dashing spans, elegant barouches, liveried coachmen, 
 and gayly dressed children which one sees in such 
 numbers at Ne^svi^ort and Saratoga, showing that my 
 route here intersected one of the fiivored retreats of 
 fashion and wealth fi'om the metropolis. The road to 
 the river-bank was like that before reaching North- 
 ampton, fenceless, through level meadows ; and a few 
 
208 LETTERS. 
 
 rods to the right of it, had we known of its existence, 
 we might have seen the largest tree in Western 
 Massachusetts, — an elm, still youthful and vigorous, 
 thirty-one feet in girth. But no guide-post points the 
 traveller to the giant tree, and we got only a distant 
 view of it from the top of Mount Holyoke. 
 
 The ferry by which visitors to the mountain from 
 Northampton cross the Connecticut at this point, 
 called the Hockanum, deserves a separate paragraph. 
 No wharf or slip marks the point of departure, but 
 the road becomes more and more sandy as it broadens 
 at the river-bank, and the boat rests her bow upon 
 this soft and convenient landing. The little craft — its 
 deck perhaps broad enough for two carriages, and 
 with absolutely no barrier to prevent a nervous horse 
 from walking off into the stream — is propelled by pad- 
 dles turned by a little steam-engine hardly larger than 
 a cooking-stove. One man acts as ticket-seller, cap- 
 tain, engineer, fireman, pilot, and crew. There is no 
 rudder, but a long paddle at either end, with which 
 this solitary Charon, stepj^ing away from the engine 
 for a minute or two, directs the course of the steamer. 
 At one terminus he pumps up water from the river to 
 fill the little boiler ; at the other he gathers an armful 
 of wood to supply the fire. On the trip made for our 
 sole benefit, he got off his course, in his manifold 
 duties, and had to put back to the middle of the river 
 to make a fresh landing. For so much labor and 
 machinery I expected surely to pay a corresponding 
 price, and was slightly surprised to be made poorer 
 by the ride only in the sum of thirteen cents. 
 
 Mount Holyoke rises abruptly from the river-bank 
 almost a thousand feet. The first half of the ascent 
 is accomplished by a winding carriage-road, well kept, 
 but quite too steep for comfort, and so hard that I 
 
INLAND JOURNEYINGS. 209 
 
 thought my empty carriage, a heavy one, a sufficient 
 load for my horse, and led him up by easy stages. 
 This part of the road is soon to be made easier by a 
 wooden railway running to the foot of the mountain. 
 It appears to be very nearly completed, and the car is 
 ready in advance of the track. But at present one 
 must trust his own horseflesh for the first half of the 
 way, leaving his steed at a stable at the foot of the 
 grand staircase. This is a covered way, six hundred 
 feet long, accomplishing a perpendicular ascent of three 
 hundred and sixty-five feet, enclosing both a stair- 
 way of five hundred steps and a railway traversed by 
 one little car with seats for four persons. This ve- 
 hicle, in which nervous people take their places with 
 considerable dread, runs, of course, on ropes, and is 
 drawn up by horse-power. Steam was formerly used, 
 the engine being at the top ; but a windlass, turned 
 by four horses at the foot, now takes its place. The 
 change makes the motion irregular, every touch of 
 the whip and every pause of a tired horse being per- 
 ceptible in the car, and the frequent pauses constantly 
 suggesting some trouble below. The covering of the 
 railway, making the progress hke that through a tun- 
 nel, which is an improvement of the present year, 
 takes away from the frightfulness of the trip, which 
 must have seemed very much like ballooning under 
 the old open system. The ascent is made in five 
 minutes, — a short time to think of, but a long one in 
 experience, in that sort of travel. The car of course 
 goes down by its own weight, regulated by brakes at 
 the top, and reached the foot in our case in a minute 
 and a half. There has been no accident since last 
 year, so the railway is very j^opular, and I saw no one 
 choose the more laborious method of the stairs. There 
 is a sort of breathlessness and suspense about the 
 
210 LETTERS. 
 
 upward journey which makes the arrivals an object of 
 constant curiosity to those above, and one emerges into 
 the upper air with an odd sense of inspection under 
 trying circumstances by the occupants of a new planet. 
 
 The view from the hotel at the summit (into the 
 very centre of which you are dropped out from the 
 railway) is enough to take one's breath away after it 
 is recovered from the novel journey. No pen could do 
 justice to it, and mine certainly will not attempt the 
 task. It is superior to the spectacle offered from many 
 higher mountains, because this stands in the midst of 
 so broad a plain, in which there are so many spots of 
 unusual beauty. The Connecticut seems reluctant to 
 pass through this section, and indulges itself in bends 
 which treble and quadrnple the distance accomplished. 
 Northampton seems directly beneath the sj^ectator, 
 though fully three miles away ; and one favorite 
 achievement of visitors is to tell the time on its 
 steeple by the aid of the big telescope. Of these 
 glasses of various sizes there are many at the Prospect 
 House, besides spectacles of green and red and yel- 
 low hues, that turn the landscape into different kinds 
 of unnatural brilliancy. There are also swings, bowl- 
 ing alleys, miniature bowling alleys, and a great vari- 
 ety of toys ; and it is a notable instance of the effect 
 of mountain scenery upon the average human being, 
 that the great majority of visitors devote half an horn- 
 to these recreations to every five minutes bestowed 
 on the landscape. Most of them, I presume, would 
 not think of ^olaying parlor bowls or looking through 
 the slits in a whirling cyhnder, on the ordinary level ; 
 but the magnificent view from Mount Holyoke is too 
 grand to be enjoyed long at a time, and sends peojDle 
 to these juvenile occupations for relief. 
 
 The Prospect House is, I think, unique of its kind, 
 
INLAND JOURNEYINGS. 211 
 
 and is certainly a model for similar elevated establish- 
 ments. The ground floor is so arranged as to be all 
 thrown open to the view in fine weather, the sides of 
 the room being hoisted up out of the way. When 
 this might be too breezy for comfort, they are let 
 down, and little circular windows give glimpses of the 
 prospect. There is entire freedom, and independence 
 for visitors, the only arbitrary charge being seventy- ,. 
 five cents each for the use of the car or steps ; and | 
 parties bringing their own refreshments are welcomed, 
 and aided to picnic in the neighboring groves. Those 
 who dine at the house are received in turn, according 
 to the precedence of their orders, in a little dining- 
 room accommodating twenty-five, where is constantly 
 renewed a collation, all cold, except the tea and cofiee, 
 but abundant, and of excellent neatness and simplicity, 
 to which the appetite natural to the region adds a 
 sauce which an emperor might envy. The second 
 story provides lodgings for those who wish to see the 
 glories of sunset and sunrise on the mountain ; but we 
 did not try the experiment. In these days of lofty 
 prices on low ground, it is worth mentioning that the 
 charge for each item — each meal, each lodging, the 
 entertainment of each horse — is fixed with a jjleasant 
 uniformity at fifty cents. 
 
 Taking into account the fatigue of my horse, to 
 which fell all the labor with none of the delights, of 
 ascending and descending the mountain, I drove only 
 to this neighboring town of Amherst this afternoon, 
 making an early halt. A very slight detour gave us 
 a sight of old Hadley Street, always a place of interest 
 to me as the scene of the most romantic interest in 
 early American history, — the sudden appearance of 
 the excited regicide to lead the terrified citizens, who 
 took him for an angel from heaven, against the raid- 
 
212 LETTERS. 
 
 ing savages who were despoiling their homes, — and 
 now doubly interesting as the " Oxbow Village," which 
 is the scene of most of the events of " The Guardian 
 Angel." It fairly rivals, and in some respects excels, 
 even Deerfield in beauty. The elms are not quite so 
 large, and, being more widely separated, do not form 
 an arch ; but the central space is a smooth green com- 
 mon, nnmarred either by fences or by encroaching 
 wheel- tracks, and broad enough for the parades of the 
 greatest militia gatherings of ante-war training-days. 
 The row of trees lining the roadway on each side of 
 this grand avenue is double, the inner ones being 
 fine old elms, and those nearest the houses of younger 
 growth. The mansions are nearly all crowned with 
 the aristocracy of age, and have a sweet dignity of 
 their own, unknown to newer and more pretentious 
 houses of the pepper-box pattern or the Mansard roof 
 I looked in vain for "the hang-bird's nest" of the 
 Professor's narrative, the slow, leisurely movement of 
 which seems delightfully appropriate to this locality. 
 But I saw Byles Gridley. He had his spectacles on 
 his forehead, and a huge book, the title of which I 
 seemed to guess, in his hand ; and he looked with a 
 not unkindly gaze at my carriage as I drove by the 
 door at which he stood. 
 
 FOUKTH DAY OF THE JOURNEY. 
 
 Home Again, September, 1867. 
 Mount Holyoke took up so much space in my 
 last letter that I had not a line to give to Amherst, into 
 which we drove just too late in the afternoon to have 
 an inside inspection of its college buildings. The vil- 
 lage itself is not particularly attractive to a stranger's 
 
INLAND JOURNEYINGS. 213 
 
 eye fresh from the river towns, its common being nar- 
 row, hilly, and irregular, its trees comparatively young, 
 and its 23rincipal buildings commonj)lace, — though it 
 has one elegant church, and quite a number of fine 
 residences of the modern tyi^e. The lion of the place 
 is, of course, the College Hill, crowned, not only by the 
 institution buildings, but by a noble grove, just now 
 marred by the deposit of a quantity of granite for 
 some new edifice in contemplation. In climbing this 
 eminence we met one of the Japanese students who 
 are obtaining a Yankee education here, arrayed, not 
 in the petticoat, flowing sleeves, and waterfall of his 
 nation, as revealed to us by the jugglers last winter, 
 but in civilized garments of the unpretentious and 
 comfortable order. After passing this Oriental gentle- 
 man, with his books under his arm, and seemingly all 
 bent on study, it made an odd antithesis to find the 
 American students all engaged in athletic feats, gain- 
 ing back slowly by gymnastics the physical force 
 which a sedentary generation has sacrificed. The 
 gymnasium is open to visitors, and apparently a popu- 
 lar resort with the townspeople at the exercising hour, 
 for we found the little gallery well filled with lookers- 
 on. The students were all in a convenient and rather 
 pretty uniform, and as we entered were just con- 
 cluding a sort of half-military, half-saltatory calisthenic 
 exercise, under the leadership of an instructor. After 
 this succeeded an interval of disorganized exercise, 
 half fun and frolic ; and some more adept of the young 
 men displayed skill in trapeze swinging and leaping 
 from a spring-board that would not have been dis- 
 dained by a professional performer. The rivalry of 
 classes would occasionally peep out ; and once, two 
 youths of difierent years getting hold of the ends of a 
 strap strong enough for pulling, they were speedily 
 
214 LETTEES. 
 
 re-enforced, in response to cries of " Seven ! " "Eight ! " 
 by nearly all in the room on one side or the other, the 
 remoter ones clinging and pulling by each other's 
 waists or feet, and a sphited contest of several minutes 
 ensued, in which victory wavered very doubtfully, and 
 the spectators caught the excitement of the students, 
 until at last the cause of contention and emblem of 
 triumiDh was borne off by the stronger party. 
 
 To-day's ride, traversing Belchertown, Ware, and 
 Hardwick, left behind the tobacco barns, the gently 
 rolling fields, and the still unchanged foliage, and 
 brought us back into the region of cheese-factories, of 
 long hills, of browned pastures, and woods already 
 hanging out the banners of red and yellow on the trees 
 that serve as the pioneer scouts of autumn. Compara- 
 tively speaking, the route was a dull one, and had few 
 excitements beyond the always pleasurable sensation 
 of getting home again ; so, with your leave, I will pass 
 it over with no more minute summary, and conclude 
 this farewell letter with a few general results and hints 
 to those who may take similar modest excursions to 
 that here recorded. 
 
 In choosing a horse for such a pleasure journey, 
 evenness, steadiness, and endurance are better quali- 
 ties than speed. One wants a horse to go well the 
 last part of the day, when he himself is tired, and longs 
 for the comforts of his inn ; to look calmly upon pass- 
 ing locomotives, and mowing machines, and ingenious 
 scarecrows ; to stand patiently while one inquires the 
 way at a farm-house, explores an attractive cemetery, 
 or rifles a blackberry-bush ; and there are few regions, 
 if the route be well selected, which it is desirable to 
 pass over at a racer's pace. 
 
 For similar reasons the carriage should be comfort-^ 
 able rather than elegant, easy to get into and out of, 
 
INLAND JOURNEYINGS. 215 
 
 with conveniences for opening wide on a pleasant day, 
 and amj^le protection on a cold or rainy one, and room 
 for stowing baggage out of the way of the occupant's 
 feet. With these qualifications, every pound of weight 
 saved in the construction of the vehicle is an addition 
 to the comfort of the horse, and hence of the passen- 
 gers. 
 
 Baggage taken on such a trip must perforce be 
 slight, and should be of as few articles as possible. A 
 large shawl, in addition to other outer garments, is a 
 sensible provision. A book or a pack of cards for a 
 dull evening or a rainy day in a rural inn will be very 
 sure to come into play. 
 
 As to these same rural inns, it is not best to place 
 too much dependence upon them as affording tastes of 
 the comforts of country living. I, in my innocence, 
 supposed that these village hotels, in the midst of a 
 land flowing with milk and honey, would make a 
 specialty of those viands easy to obtain, and not 
 always found in city houses. But the advantages of 
 those simple things which alone would furnish such an 
 admirable table — the eggs, the cream, the vegetables, 
 the maple syrup — are all ignored by the country land- 
 lords. In all my ramble, in this season of abundant 
 vegetation, I saw hardly a tomato, an ear of corn, or 
 anything beyond the indispensable jDotato, on a hotel 
 table ; and in other kinds of provision an equal pov- 
 erty was apparent; while dependence was placed 
 upon the commonplace articles of a third-rate city 
 table, cooked in a style several centuries behind M. 
 Blot's standard. This makes less difference than might 
 be supposed in a jovirney like mine, because the appe- 
 tite imparted by the long rides and constant change 
 of air takes all fastidiousness from the palate and makes 
 all victual welcome. But it is worth noting that, in a 
 
216 LETTERS. 
 
 region of such illimitable opportunities, the public 
 houses take so little pains to make the cuisine attrac- 
 tive. 
 
 Other than this, the most remarkable feature about 
 the country hotels, as I have seen them, is the absence 
 of Irish " help." Those who think the old Yankee 
 stock is being crowded out by foreign immigration 
 should sojourn in the towns through which I have just 
 passed, where the man who grooms the horse, the girl 
 who passes the food and she who cooks it, and the 
 chambermaid, if the inn boasts so many attendants, 
 are all youthful natives of the neighborhood, serving 
 in this way their apprenticeship to life, and waiting 
 without impatience the " opening " or the husband to 
 introduce them to another sphere of usefulness. The 
 proverbial repugnance of young women of American 
 birth to "housework" seems not to have penetrated 
 so far inland ; and hence the evil of " servant-gal-ism " 
 is unknown. The same remarks apply, so far as I can 
 judge from a mere ride through the country, to private 
 dwellings as to hotels ; and I sincerely trust that the 
 revelation thus made will not stimulate such a rush of 
 imported servant-girls to the happy region as to de- 
 moralize labor there, and introduce the popular idea 
 that the kitchen is a degrading place for an American 
 woman. 
 
 It is so rare that a journalist travels without the 
 traditional privileges of his profession, that I may im- 
 prove the opportunity to state for the guidance of 
 those readers who may be temj^ted into an emulation 
 of our carriage tour, that the cheapness of this mode 
 of travelling corresponds with its enjoyableness. Two 
 persons may make the trip I have sketched, occupying 
 four or five days, at a total expense of less than twenty- 
 five dollars. This, of course, supposes the tourist to be 
 
A RAMBLE THROUGH PETERSBURG. 217 
 
 in possession of a team of his own, and includes all 
 hotel, stable, and ordinary incidental expenses. 
 
 Most peoj^le have a mental corner of some kind for 
 statistics. We satisfied our craving in that line by a 
 count of the bridges crossed each day ; and the aggre- 
 gate number would perhaps suq^rise any one not pre- 
 pared for the result by experiment. It was sixty-four. 
 
 Wachusett. 
 
 A RAMBLE THROUGH PETERSBURG. 
 
 City Point, April 3, 1865. 
 
 YoTiR coiTespondent spent the night in the pleasant 
 confidence that Petersburg, at least, would be in our 
 hands before morning. Sleeping close by our line of 
 works, he dozed to the sound of picket-firing during the 
 first hours of the night, and was awakened at about 
 3 A. M. by a heavy exj^losion which appeared to come 
 from the magazine of one of the batteries on the rebel 
 left.. At this time the whole horizon in the direction 
 of Petersburg was illumined by a dull red glare, the 
 light of a dozen fires kindled by the departing enemy 
 in difi:erent parts of the city. Still the unceasing 
 picket-shots told us that the Rebels had not yet left 
 the trenches in our front. 
 
 With daybreak came the whisper, running through 
 the camps like lightning, that Petersburg had been 
 evacuated, and that the troops of the Ninth Corps 
 were already in the city. A moment's breathless 
 silence confirmed the rumor, for we Avould hear from 
 among the spires the notes of Union bands, playing 
 joyfully the grand old round of national airs, from 
 "America," "Yankee Doodle," and "The Star Span- 
 
 10 
 
218 LETTERS. 
 
 gled Banner," to the more recent favorite, " Glory, 
 Hallelujah," "Rally Round the Flag," and '• The Year 
 of Jubilo." The glorious news was true. The obsti- 
 nate Rebel stronghold, which had resisted every effort 
 of assault and siege for so many weary months, had at 
 last succumbed to the brilliant strategy and splendid 
 iighting of the Union officers and soldiers. Men 
 laughed and sung and danced with joy at the victory, 
 which seemed perhaps more precious to those who have 
 aided in the long siege, and could personally appre- 
 ciate its difficulties and trials and doubts, than to 
 you at home. Officers of all ranks and men of all 
 characters gave full vent to their enthusiasm ; for 
 miles the line of our camps was noisy with continuous 
 cheers ; the military bands, stationed at intervals, all 
 struck up joyful and j^atriotic melodies ; and your cor- 
 respondent shouldered his haversack, and set out in 
 light marching order for the Cockade City. Passing 
 through our line of earthworks, no longer swarming 
 with their garrisons, and crossing the trench just 
 beyond, which sheltered our outer pickets, I found 
 myself in the Rebel rifle-pits. A devious covered way 
 led me to their abatis. Their manner of constructing 
 this defence is very different from that adopted by the 
 Union engineers. Our system is very simple, consist- 
 ing of stout poles, two inches in diameter, and ten or 
 fifteen feet long, planted firmxly in the earth and in- 
 clining outward at an angle with the ground of 
 about thirty degrees. The outer ends are sharpened, 
 and beneath them, lying on the ground, are placed the 
 bristling boughs and tops of evergreen trees. The 
 poles are set very close together, and it seems as if it 
 must be an impossibility for an enemy to break through 
 them without a long pause, and the aid of axes. The 
 abatis on the Rebel defences is most unlike this in 
 
A RAMBLE THROUGH PETERSBURG. 219 
 
 appearance and principle. It resembles somewhat a 
 long row of saw-horses, set u]) together endwise, with 
 the upper ends of the outer limbs sharpened to a 
 point, — and I think of no terms in which I can more 
 clearly describe it. Each one of these saw-horses is 
 distinct in itself, and as they are not very deeply im- 
 bedded in the ground, and may be easily pushed 
 around by force inside, they afford no obstacle to the 
 egress of a column on a sortie, although they are for- 
 midable interruptions to the advance of an attacking 
 party from without. 
 
 Some predecessor in the journey had kindly opened 
 a gap in the Rebel line of abatis, and I hurried along 
 into the Rebel fortifications. Here were ample evi- 
 dences that the departure of the Rebels, which seemed 
 to us so gradual and deliberate, must have been 
 effected in the greatest haste. ISTot only were the 
 heavy guns standing in the embrasures, and the maga- 
 zine packed full with ammunition, the scarcity of which 
 in the Rebel camps would surely have prompted its 
 removal, if it were possible, but the tents, so dear to 
 the soldiers' comfort, and so easily transported, were 
 all left standing. The log, canvas, and brick quarters 
 appeared very comfortable, and about as pleasant 
 abodes as those in which the Union soldiers have 
 spent the winter. Inside the Rebel cabins and tents 
 were scattered, profusely and confusedly, blankets, 
 clothing, books and letters, muskets and rifles in great 
 numbers, thousands of cartridges, equij^ments of every 
 kind, intrenching tools, cooking utensils, official orders, 
 rolls, receipts, etc., and a multitude of other articles 
 of all descriptions. I saw no effort to take any care 
 of all this property by the commanders of our forces. 
 Scores of negroes from Petersburg, male and female, 
 were collecting what suited their needs among the 
 
220 LETTERS. 
 
 heaps, and gathering together huge bundles, which 
 they carried home on their heads. I might have 
 picked up trophies enough to stock a small museum; 
 but, anticipating still more interesting sights and 
 worthier relics further on, I j^ushed on without much 
 delay towards Petersburg. 
 
 It is about a mile from the main Rebel line on the 
 east to the city. The country is quite pleasant, un- 
 dulating, and traversed by numberless little winding 
 creeks. There are very few trees left in this vicinity, 
 the needs of the camp-fire having jDroved fatal to the 
 forest. The grass is green and already quite high, 
 and the peach and aj^ple trees are in full bloom. Not 
 a cannon or musket-shot was to be heard in any direc- 
 tion, and the only sound was in the jubilant strains of 
 the Union musicians in Petersburg. The conquered 
 city seemed to accej^t its fate very quietly, as far as 
 could be seen from a distance, and its graceful group of 
 spires pointed heavenward through the mist as serenely 
 as if war were a thing unknown. On the left rose Cem- 
 etery Hill, a long ridge covered thickly with monu- 
 ments, those erected before the war of marble, and 
 tliose put up since 1861 of painted wood; many of 
 both classes shattered and sj^lintered by the relentless 
 shells which have no respect for the living or the dead. 
 On the right, a corps of a thousand or so of laborers 
 in the employ of the government were already hard 
 at work putting in repair the railroad running to City 
 Point. Altogether it was as pleasant and as cheerful 
 a landscape as one might wish to gaze ujDon in an 
 April day. 
 
 Entering Petersburg at the poorer quarter of the 
 town, I at first met none but soldiers of the Ninth 
 Corps, who were everywhere, and negroes. The blacks 
 one meets in a newly captured Rebel town are very 
 
A RAMBLE THROUGH PETERSBURG. 221 
 
 different beings from those who wear the national 
 uniform, or are employed in noncombatant capacities 
 in the service of the United States. The latter fully 
 realizes that all men are free and equal. His carriage 
 is a constant declaration of independence. He holds 
 his head erect, and walks off jauntily about his busi- 
 ness or pleasure, taking his own time and route, yet 
 never behindhand, nor out of the way when wanted. 
 He never bows to any passer, unless it be a personal 
 acquaintance. With the negro just released fromRebel 
 rule, the contrary is the case. He bows obsequiously 
 to every passer with the old habits of slavery too 
 strong to be shaken off in an hour, but with a lurking 
 smile of satisfaction on his face which seems to say 
 that a salute to the delivering Yankee is a very differ- 
 ent matter from a bow to the oppressing Johnny (as 
 even the colored population learned to call the Rebels 
 before the town had been an hour in our hands). The 
 negroes in Petersburg wear motley and outlandish 
 garments, giving them the most grotesque appearance 
 imaginable. They hang their heads like school-boys 
 called up for i^unishment, and sidle and shuffle in 
 their gait, evidently because the manner is habitual 
 with them. The lesson of freedom, however, is quick- 
 ly learned, and in a few days they will have acquired 
 much of the dignity of manhood, and carry them- 
 selves as citizens, and not as cattle. 
 
 Pushing on, with the churches for a landmark, I 
 soon reached the principal street of the town, and 
 found there white Rebel citizens plentiful enough. All 
 the stores were closed, but around every doorway 
 stood groups of men in gray clothing, sometimes chat- 
 ting with the Union soldiers, who by this time — for 
 it was now nine o'clock — were as thick as bees on 
 every sidewalk, and more frequently standing apart in 
 
222 LETTERS. 
 
 sullen knots, talking only witli each other, and staring 
 in wonder at the cavalry patrols who were constantly 
 galloping at full speed through the paved streets on 
 mysterious missions, each man with clatter and im- 
 portance enough for a whole squadron. 
 
 If the anonymous potentate who guides the course 
 of fashion wishes to get ideas really ingenious and 
 original in regard to male apparel, which shall relieve 
 his inventive powers frorn. further labor for the next 
 five years, let him take an early trip to Petersburg, 
 before the presence of commonplace Union garments 
 has leavened the lumj^. Surely, never since the days 
 of Robinson Crusoe did any human being venture to 
 array himself in daylight in such guise as do nearly 
 every one of these proud Petersburgians. IsTo words 
 can do justice to the grotesqueness of these men's 
 attire ; no pen unskilled in the long obsolete technical 
 epithets of the tailorism of twenty years ago should 
 ever attempt to describe it. The extraordinary char- 
 acter of the costumes of some of the younger men, 
 who apparently aspire to be dandies, is most laugh- 
 able. Yet the whole matter has its mournful side, 
 hinted at when some citizen gazes sadly at the dusty 
 top-boots of a Union cavalry-man dashing past, with 
 the muttered remark that "them would have been 
 worth a thousand dollars here yesterday"; or notes 
 your glance at his own sleazy gray coat, and informs 
 you that he paid twelve hundred dollars for it in 
 Pichmond. From wiiat observations I could make 
 during my brief stay in Petersburg, I should say that 
 no dweller in that city, rich or poor, has purchased a 
 hat since the secession of South Carolina; and that at 
 that date most of them had been for several months 
 w^earing out their old ones for the sake of economy. 
 
 The raiment of the negroes is a parody, amounting 
 
A RAMBLE THROUGH PETERSBURG. 223 
 
 to a broad caricature upon what is itself supremely- 
 grotesque, upon the dress of their masters. Some of 
 the elder colored men are so singularly draped that 
 you expect every moment that the one or two remain- 
 ing buttons will give way, and the whole fluttering 
 mass of rags and streamers will fly to the winds in 
 confusion. The ladies of Petersburg, only a few of 
 whom v<^ntured out to-day, have survived the ordeals 
 of the Rebellion, in the matter of dress, much more 
 successfully than their lords. ±»Iost of them dress 
 plainly and simj^ly, and very many in black. It has 
 been impossible to keep up with the fashion as to 
 bonnets, — and an unfashionable bonnet is an absurd- 
 ity; so the fair daughters of Petersburg, with femi- 
 nine tact, have discarded bonnets altogether, and wear 
 instead a dark scoop hat, which I am not milliner 
 enough to describe more definitely, which was in style 
 three or four summers ago, but which still frames 
 gracefully and becomingly a pretty face. 
 
 I am compelled to say that there is very little loyal 
 sentiment among the white residents of Petersburg. 
 Perhaps there is not a city in the whole South more 
 thoroughly imbued with Rebel doctrines, and more 
 outspoken in its avowals, under all circumstances, than 
 this venerable town on the Appomattox. Some of 
 the citizens were not unwilhng to talk with the in- 
 vaders on national afiairs, but did not hesitate to avow 
 their firm adherence to the cause of the Rebellion 
 their hatred for the Union and everything therewith 
 connected, and their determination to fight out the 
 contest until the Confederacy should achieve its inde- 
 pendence. It should be remembered that these men 
 were all exempts, and have already lost all their prop- 
 erty, so that they risk nothing by the continuance of 
 the war. Many of the soldiers of General Lee's vet- 
 
224 LETTERS. 
 
 eran army speak very differently. I wish that I had 
 time to recount to you fully some of the conversation 
 of the citizens of Petersburg, exhibiting as they did 
 the most radical Rebel feelings of any community in 
 the South. I must relinquish the attemjot, however, 
 or resume it in a future letter. I should not omit to 
 mention that the negroes, of both sexes and all ages, 
 received our forces with the most cordial welcome, 
 and seemed wild with delight that the Yankees had 
 come at last. 
 
 With a journalist's instinct, I made my way to the 
 office of the "Petersburg Express," the last Rebel num- 
 ber of which was issued on Saturday morning. I 
 found Major R. E. Eden, of the 87th Wisconsin, assist- 
 ed by Lieutenant Robert Farrell, of the 1st Wisconsin, 
 busily preparing Union editorials for a new sheet to 
 be started in the same office to-morrow morning. A 
 solitary printer of the old establishment remained, 
 and seemed nothing loath to show the new-comers the 
 arrangements of the office. The mechanical conven- 
 iences are very good, both tjioe and press being in 
 fair condition. The editorial room was a remarkable 
 place in veiy many resj^ects. It seemed to have been 
 conducted for many years on the principle of destroy- 
 ing nothing, and putting nothing in order. When 
 the Rebel editors took their departure, they had no 
 time to take anything away with them, and seemed to 
 have contented themselves with stirring up the accu- 
 mulated rubbish in their sanctum in such a manner as 
 to make confusion worse confounded. It would take a 
 week of constant labor to collect and arrange the liter- 
 ary treasures of this office. In one pile of exchanges I 
 noticed the "Boston Daily Advertiser," dated, I believe, 
 as long ago as 1858. The walls were adorned with a 
 great number and variety of pictures, among the more 
 
RICHMOND. — THE EFFECTS OF THE FIRE. 225 
 
 remarkable of which were an unmistakable woodcut 
 portrait of General M'Clellan, published in a Rebel 
 weekly as a likeness of General N. Buford Forest, 
 and a rough pencil caricature of the capture of our 
 Massachusetts General, M'Laughlin, in Fort Stead- 
 man, sans culotte. The walls of the "Express" office 
 bore, like most of the other buildings in Petersburg, 
 numerous marks of the terrible doses of shell to which 
 the city has been treated in the last ten months. I 
 have not by any means exhausted my notes of what 
 I saw and recorded as worth telling you about in 
 Petersburg; but the mail is closing, and so must I. 
 
 rich3io:n^d. 
 
 the effects of the fire. sexthients of the 
 
 citize:n^s. 
 
 The Hotels. — The Newspapers. — Rebel Relics. — Capitol Square. — 
 The Provost-Marshal's Office. — President Lincoln. — The Libby 
 Prison. 
 
 Richmond, Va., April 5, 1865. 
 
 " How long will it take me to go to Richmond ? " 
 asked an eager officer at City Point of a veteran brig- 
 adier holding command there, soon after we got the 
 good news. 
 
 " I can 't say how long it will take you^'' was the 
 answer : " it has taken Tne three years and eleven 
 months." 
 
 It took your correspondent about a day. It was 
 not so simple a matter to go from City Point to Rich- 
 mond immediately after the Rebel capital fell into 
 Union hands as your readers may imagine, or as your 
 correspondent thought, when he received, wandering 
 10* o 
 
226 LETTERS. 
 
 through Petersburg, the news of the occupation of 
 Richmond, and hurried back to the base of operations 
 to go thence to the more important point. The 
 distance, which by map and scale is twenty miles, is 
 nearly doubled by the twists and bends of the river. 
 Bridges all burned, the stream filled with obstructions 
 and torpedoes, no transportation to be found, the ac- 
 complishment of the journey to Richmond was no 
 simple problem. At first, oflacials having the matter 
 in charge thought the eligible route was to be found 
 in the railroad via Petersburg ; but this idea was soon 
 abandoned. At last, however, the many obstacles 
 were overcome or circumvented by a variety of means 
 not necessary to recount, and your correspondent 
 found himself entering Richmond at the Rockets, 
 *a few hours after the advent of the President of the 
 United States. 
 
 The story at City Point, told by those who pro- 
 fessed to have gone into the city with the advance on 
 Monday morning, was that only a small portion 
 of the city was burned by the retreating Rebels. 
 The same statement had been telegraphed North. I 
 soon found its falsity. Soon after reaching Main 
 Street, the traveller enters the burned district, extend- 
 ing on the right to the James River, and on the left 
 to the streets on the ridge of the hill. The area 
 burned over extends up Main to Fifteenth Street, 
 including almost the whole business portion of the 
 town, in both wholesale and retail departments of 
 trade, and a very large number of private dwellings, 
 mostly of the poorer class of the population. In 
 the district where the flames obtained sway they took 
 everything, leaving no occasional buildings which 
 from any cause were saved. With a single exception 
 everything within the broad boundaries of the burned 
 
BICHMOND. — THE EFFECTS OF THE FIRE. 227 
 
 district is a mass of ruins, still hot and smouldering. 
 In other parts of the city single burned buildings are 
 quite frequent, — the fragments of shells exploding in 
 the arsenals having carried conflagration with them 
 to distant localities. 
 
 The extent of the destruction of this fearful fire 
 will perhaps be better aj^preciated if I say that it is 
 as if incendiaries had burned State Street Block and 
 all the immense warehouses on Commercial, Broad, 
 India, and Federal Streets, and a brisk ocean breeze 
 had carried the flames irresistibly into the heart of 
 the city. The Custom House here is situated much 
 as in Boston, and similarly is of granite, and fire-proof. 
 It is the one solitary building yet standing in the 
 burned district, having passed through the terrible 
 ordeal of Monday almost unscathed. Fancy, if you' 
 can, Devonshire Street, and all between Broad and 
 Washington Streets, both sides of Washington Street, 
 from State to Summer, many buildings on Tremont 
 Street, all of Fort Hill, and half the North End, one 
 grand waste of ashes ; burn all the banks and insur- 
 ance offices, all but two of the newspaper offices, and 
 then, — remembering that Richmond, at best, is only 
 one third the size of Boston, — fancy what is left. If 
 your imagination is a good one, you have from this 
 a tolerable idea of the results of the great fire. 
 
 It was nearly midnight last night w^hen I arrived in 
 Richmond. At first I met numerous negroes, and 
 strolling squads of soldiers, black and white, more 
 jolly than victory alone could make them. Occasion- 
 ally a sentry j^aced the pavement in front of some 
 property that the provost authorities had thought worth 
 guarding. But as I entered the burned district, no 
 more even of these were encountered. All was soli- 
 tude. The moon gave a picturesque, and the sullen 
 
228 LETTERS. 
 
 flames a weird and supernatural, light to tlie scene. 
 As far as the eye could reach in every direction were 
 only ruins, irregular piles of brick, thin fragments of 
 walls yet standing, sometimes a single chimney or 
 pillar alone remaining upright of a large block ; and 
 even as I looked, perhaps one of these would topple 
 over into the street, already piled thickly with fallen 
 bricks. Here and there the tall granite front of some 
 warehouse still stood firm, all the rest of the buildiug 
 destroyed, and the moon shining with beautiful effect 
 through the sashless windows of the ruin. 
 
 The passer's feet constantly tripped in the fallen 
 telegraph wire, or the hose w^hich the swift sj^read of 
 the flames had compelled the firemen to abandon ; 
 sometimes his face or throat felt the effects of a sud- 
 den gust of smoke or puff of flame from the embers 
 among which he picked his way. It was decidedly not 
 a comfortable journey ; yet it was as decidedly a 
 pleasant one, and perhaps the very manner which 
 one would select for his entrance into a capital where 
 treason had made its throne and striven its best to 
 destroy the national life. Almost the first building 
 which one finds standing entire and uninjured, after 
 traversing the modern GomoiTah, is the Spottswood 
 Hotel. This house only very narrowly escaped de- 
 struction, being close by an arsenal, the shells from 
 which kindled many buildings, even beyond the hotel. 
 A lull in the breeze at a lucky moment saved the 
 Spottswood, and I found it last night with doors open, 
 receiving and welcoming as heartily guests in blue 
 and gold as for four years past customers in Rebel 
 motley. Rather a sudden fall in price was that in 
 the tariff of the Spottswood, — from a hundred and 
 fifty dollars a day on Sunday to four dollars a day on 
 Monday. The house weathered the storm bravely, 
 
RICHMOND. — THE EFFECTS OF THE FIRE. 229 
 
 and is now enjoying richly the comforts of a calm, — 
 for already every room is taken and the tables are 
 crowded. A serious disadvantage is the want of gas, 
 which was shut off on Monday, on account of the 
 fire, from the lower part of the city. Candles are 
 four dollars each, and very scarce at that, and the 
 clerk cuts off for each guest his inch of tallow very 
 gingerly. Neither siege nor capture has taken from 
 the hotel the quiet elegance which characterized it 
 before the war. The furniture is still good, after four 
 years of hard usage without a chance to replenish 
 the stock from Northern workshops. The rooms are 
 j^leasant, as of old ; the beds excellent, and plentifully 
 supplied with superb blankets of ancient woof. The 
 attendance is promj^t and efficient. The victuals are, 
 of course, not what they would be in a Northern 
 hotel, — for Richmond is nearly at starvation point, 
 cut off long ago from Union supplies, and now from 
 Rebel supplies also. Still the most is made, by skilful 
 cookery, of the materials at hand, and the visitor who 
 has been faring for some weeks upon military active 
 campaign rations finds his dinner at the Spottswood 
 almost a feast. The same proprietor, clerks, and 
 employees manage the affairs of the house as under 
 Rebel rule. Already there is a gi-eedy host of appli- 
 cants presenting their claims to have this or that 
 hotel assigned them by military edict, but I doubt 
 whether their avarice will be gratified. 
 
 A walk through the portion of Richmond which 
 survives the fire shows very many features of interest. 
 One is doubly convinced of the fact that the Rebellion 
 is no more, and that no dreams of even its ghost need 
 disturb the slumber of any Union man again. Here, 
 in its capital and chief city, in less than forty-eight 
 hours of loyal occupation, every essential trace of the 
 
230 LETTERS. 
 
 Rebellion is vanished as if by magic. Perhaps the 
 most tangible vestige of the late Confederacy is in 
 the swarms of leaves of whitish-brown paper, blown 
 in one's face by every wind, whirling in little circles 
 in the breeze at every corner, carpeting every gutter, 
 far and near. These are the scattered archives of the 
 Southern Confederacy, upset, perhaps, in the haste of 
 packing by some Rebel official, distributed over the 
 city by Union soldiers searching through armfuls of 
 the stuff for valuable autographs or curious documents. 
 One must examine the mass long now before finding 
 aught worth saving. Invoices, ordnance returns, re- 
 ceipts, requisitions, pay-rolls, transportation orders, 
 dry and formal matters all ; after a few glances one 
 puts his foot on the rustling heaps in contempt, and 
 passes on. 
 
 The citizens, although the story of their enthusiasm 
 in greeting our men is doubtless fabulous, seem to 
 have accepted the condition of things with the sensi- 
 ble determination to make the best of it. We surely 
 cannot expect of a man who for four years has lived 
 in the shadow of Jefferson Davis, and read nothing 
 but the issues of the Richmond press, that he could 
 cheer for Union, Lincoln, and emancipation at a day's 
 notice. If he does so, he is probably insincere, and 
 not to be trusted with anything. If he submits to 
 the fortune which Providence and war have brought 
 him cheerfully and with common-sense, aiming to re- 
 spect and obey the powers that be, it is all we can 
 expect, and may in time be made the foundation of 
 something much better. The citizens of Richmond, 
 although they have suffered ten times the loss of their 
 neighbors of Petersburg, wear easily and not ungra- 
 ciously the yoke under which the people of the Cock- 
 ade City chafe most bitterly. The women make calls 
 
EICHMOND. — SENTIMENTS OF THE CITIZENS. 231 
 
 upon each other as usual, chat about the exciting 
 scenes of Monday, and devise measures for the relief 
 of those left without shelter or food. The men do not 
 go about their business, for few of them have any place 
 of business left. They sit quietly in theu' houses, or 
 converse in groujDS about the doors, or go to look at the 
 Yankee uniforms and listen to the Yankee bands. 
 They talk fi-eely with the soldiers, speak frankly of 
 the parties in the war as "Union" and "Kebel," 
 and, in short, conduct themselves precisely as if their 
 city had been in our hands a year instead of a day. 
 
 The people of Richmond dress much better than 
 do the inhabitants of Petersburg. This has apparently 
 been the show city of the Rebellion, which has gath- 
 ered the richest fruits of blockade-running, and profited 
 by them to the utmost. The ladies have no hoops 
 nor bonnets, and dress chiefly in black, but not shab- 
 bily. Many wear mantillas and capes of silk and sat- 
 in of the style of 1860, evidently carefully guarded 
 and repaired since then, and kej^t as the very best 
 garment for state occasions only. The men are gen- 
 erally arrayed in Southern gray fabrics, although some 
 venerable prominent citizens are resplendent in broad- 
 cloth suits, the gloss and the fashion of which both 
 show them to be quite fresh from the hands of a Eu- 
 ropean or Northern tailor. 
 
 The only stores open are those of the apothecaries. 
 I visited one, the shelves of wliich were well filled 
 with most of the articles of a druggist's assortment. 
 The proprietor informed me that before the fall of 
 Wilmington he had managed to keep his stock uni- 
 formly full. Since that event his only reliance was 
 the smuggling carried on across the Lower Potomac, 
 the trafiic by that means, he said, being immense. 
 Some particular articles — as, for instance, sponges — 
 are not to be obtained in Richmond at any price. 
 
232 LETTEES. 
 
 Kichmond is a beautiful city. I think there is none 
 in tiie South, and very few in the whole Union, where 
 the dwellings of the richest class are built with more 
 elegance, richness, and good taste. Of course, nothing 
 in the way of construction has been done during the 
 war ; but all the upper j^art of the city has been care- 
 fully kept in repair, and some of the palatial resi- 
 dences of the aristocratic Virginians are as regal in 
 their appearance, surroundings, appointments, and fur- 
 niture as any in Fifth Avenue or Mount Vernon Street. 
 They are not set together too closely for comfort, and 
 in their lawns and yards are many fine specimens of 
 ornamental gardening. The long summer with which 
 the city is blessed has fairly begun ; and while it is yet 
 raw and chilly in Boston, and damp and muddy in 
 New York, the citizens and the captors of Richmond 
 are dwelling in a wealth of blossom and verdure, and 
 enjoying the most delightful weather which it ever 
 entered into the heart of man to conceive of. 
 
 Of course, the centre of interest for both military 
 and civil visitors is at Capitol Square. Here is that 
 grand monument to the greatest Virginian in history, 
 in itself worth a pilgrimage to see. The spirited bronze 
 equestrian statue of Washington by Crawford is the 
 pride of Richmond, as a work of art ; and to-day both 
 horse and rider seem to be inspired with the conscious- 
 ness that from their lofty eminence they look on a 
 Virginia at last redeemed, purified of the presence of 
 armed traitors, washed in an ocean of j^atriot blood 
 clean of the sins which have stained her escutcheon, 
 and ready once more to take her place as an equal in 
 the nation which this her greatest son founded and so 
 dearly loved. On the lesser pedestals of the monu- 
 ment Patrick Henry and Thomas Jefferson seem using 
 all the arts of fervid eloquence and brilliant j^hiloso- 
 
RICHMOND. — SENTIMENTS OF THE CITIZENS. 233 
 
 phy to persuade their recreant descendants to return 
 once more to the doctrines they taught so well, of the 
 sacredness of human rights, and the grandeur of a 
 united nationality. 
 
 From the summit of the Capitol, used as such by 
 both State and Rebel governments, wave to-day the 
 stars and stripes. The steps are thronged with peo- 
 ple, — soldiers, black and white, officers of every grade, 
 citizens of every class, crowding, on all sorts of busi- 
 ness, to the office here established of the j^rovost- 
 marshal. On the lower floor of the building is the 
 room used by the Rebel House of Rej^resentatives. 
 Soldiers are sitting in the Speaker's chair, poking their 
 bayonets into the members' desks, searching every- 
 where for relics worth carrying North when their ser- 
 vice is ended by the return of peace. A small adjoin- 
 ing chamber, occupied by the House committee on 
 military affiairs, is almost knee deep with papers. 
 Autographs of Jefierson Davis and his ministers may 
 be picked up by the score. Here are the official re- 
 ports of Rebel generals of the campaigns, Eastern 
 and Western, of 1862, in a systematically arranged 
 manuscrij^t, ready for the printer. Here is the journal 
 of the secret sessions of the Rebel Congress during 
 the period when the bill arming the slaves was under 
 debate. It is the third day of Union occupation ; but 
 no measures have been taken to guard or preserve 
 these documents ; and next week they will be scattered 
 far and wide over the North, beyond the possibility 
 of being gathered together again for use or examina- 
 tion. 
 
 In the rotunda of the Capitol is a statue of "Wash- 
 ington, in marble, seemingly very faithful to the sub- 
 ject, with a quaint inscription on the j^edestal showing, 
 among other things, that the statue was erected in 
 
234 LETTERS. 
 
 1788, during the life of the Father of his Country, 
 and before the adoption of the Federal Constitution. 
 In the chamber occupied by the House of Delegates 
 of Virginia are one or two large portraits of State 
 heroes. I am told that a picture of General Lee hung 
 here last week, and that the Rebels took it with them 
 in their retreat. It is certainly gone; but it seems 
 more likely that it has found refuge in the private 
 house of some of Lee's friends in Richmond. 
 
 In the second story of the Capitol is the State 
 Library of Virginia. The room is a very fine one, 
 and the collection of books exceedingly valuable. 
 They number nearly as many, I should think, as those 
 in the Boston Athenseum. In the small room oppo- 
 site, a little while ago the chamber of the Confederate 
 Senate, sits in Mr. R. M. T. Hunter's chair the act- 
 ing provost-marshal of Richmond, Lieutenant-Colonel 
 Fred L. Manning, of the Army of the James. A 
 motley crowd, numbered by hundreds, throng the 
 door, and are let in a few at a time by a sentinel. 
 The Colonel attends to their cases at the rate of about 
 six a minute. 
 
 There are few more interesting places than the 
 provost-marshal's office of a lately captured city. Let 
 us listen a moment to what these people have to 
 say: — 
 
 " There 's a lot of soldiers taking away my fish, 
 and I don't want to sell the fish at all ; and they give 
 me this, they say is greenbacks " [holding out an ad- 
 vertisement of Plantation Bitters, printed in the guise 
 of a bank-note]. " Corporal, take a file of men, and 
 arrest these plunderers that this man will show you." 
 
 " I am a soldier in the Rebel army, sir, and wish to 
 give myself up." " Sergeant, put this man with the 
 others." 
 
RICHMOND. — SENTIMENTS OF THE CITIZENS. 235 
 
 " I came into the city last Sunday, sir, and have n't 
 been able to get home again." " Can't help it, sir ; 
 strict orders that no citizen leaves the city to-day. 
 To-morrow, perhaps, you may go." 
 
 " My husband is very sick, eight miles down the 
 river, sir, and I want to go down to-night." " Cer- 
 tainly, madam : here is your pass." 
 
 " Does a newspaper correspondent need a pass to 
 go back to City Point ? " " Yes, sir : here it is." 
 
 "A couple of soldiers have taken a lot of jewelry 
 from my shop." " When was it ? " " Tuesday morn- 
 ing." " Can't go back so far, sir : you should have 
 been here yesterday." 
 
 And so on, for fifteen hours of the day. But here 
 is a man of a different stamp, — a small, well-formed 
 fellow, with a pale skin, full yellow beard, and long, 
 light hair. He has Union trousers and a blue blouse 
 on, but does not look like an ordinary soldier ; nor is 
 he. This is Captain S. S. Grosvenor, of Kingston, 
 Canada. Three years ago he engaged in the secret 
 service of the United States government, for which 
 his tastes and talents fitted him. After much exciting 
 and valuable service, in May, 1864, he fell into the 
 hands of the Rebels. They put him at first for six 
 months in the penitentiary ; then transferred him to 
 one of the vilest dungeons of Castle Thunder. The 
 prisoners in this place were taken out at about mid- 
 night on Sunday, and marched away, under guard, to 
 the Danville station. By this time the gutters of the 
 city were running with whiskey. A sentinel stopped 
 a moment, to scoop up some in his cup, and Grosve- 
 nor, seizing the second of opportunity, ran for his life. 
 He succeeded in making his escape, concealed him- 
 self during the night, and in the morning no man in 
 Richmond welcomed the Union troops with a heartier 
 
236 LETTERS. 
 
 greeting. Captain Grosvenor tells strange stories of 
 the Unionism which has been hidden in Richmond, — 
 of aid and comfort given him in his prison by friends 
 without ; of elaborate attempts to escape, almost ac- 
 complished ; of files and saws slipped into his hands, 
 even by the sentinel appointed to guard him. The 
 garments he wears were given him by Union soldiers, 
 who found him almost destitute. He is going to 
 "Washington, and has some valuable information for 
 the government. 
 
 Leaving the Capitol, we find a band playing exqui- 
 sitely in the square in front of the governor's house, 
 which is now the head-quarters of General Charles 
 Devens, of Massachusetts, who sits on its piazza, listen- 
 ing to the music of Union airs, and smiles as he thinks 
 of the place and its associations. Well has he, and 
 well have all these gallant men in blue coats, earned 
 tlie right to take their ease in Richmond. With the 
 first Massachusetts men, in Ajiril, 1861, the major 
 hastened to the defence of the national capital ; shall 
 not the general rejoice, in April, 1865, as he rests in 
 the captured capital of the exploded Rebellion, where 
 also he and his command were with the first to set 
 their feet ? 
 
 We have seen all we shall of the archives of the 
 Confederacy in our visit to the Caj^itol. All else was 
 burned in Monday morning's fire, — the Post-Ofiice, 
 War and Navy Departments, etc. The mansion of 
 Jefferson Davis, a stately and comfortable-looking 
 edifice, still stands on Marshal Street, and is occupied 
 by Major-General Weitzel as his head-quarters. There 
 also to-day is President Lincoln. The visit of the 
 President to Richmond has been one of the most 
 remarkable incidents of the war. Remaining at City 
 Point long after the time originally set for his return, 
 
RICHMOND. — SENTBIENTS OF THE CITIZENS. 237 
 
 he has been most intensely interested in the progress 
 of the grand struggle. All General Grant's despatches 
 from the front were sent directly on board Mr. Lin- 
 coln's steamer, River Queen, and the President was thus 
 enabled to watch CA^ery movement of the campaign 
 in detail. When General Grant informed him of the 
 success of Sheridan on Sunday night, and the proposed 
 general movement forward the next morning, it is 
 understood that the President himself directed Ad- 
 miral Porter to give the aid of the navy by shelling 
 vigorously the Rebel batteries which could be reached 
 from the Aj^pomattox. When Petersburg fell into 
 our hands, the President visited the town during 
 Monday; but his main anxiety was to enter Rich- 
 mond. I have already detailed the difficulties of the 
 trip ; but difficulties and dangers were alike thrust 
 aside with vigor, and on Tuesday morning the Presi- 
 dent went up the river. He went a part of the way in 
 his own steamer, and the rest on Admiral Porter's 
 flag-ship Malvern, passing the doubtful spots, from 
 whose depths are still extracted enormous torj)edoes, 
 without interruption. 
 
 The arrival of the President in the city, as described 
 to me here, must have been a curious spectacle. The 
 party landed at the Rockets. There was no expecta- 
 tion of the visit, or preparation for it in Richmond. 
 The wharf was deserted, and a carriage was out of the 
 question. So the President had nothing left but to 
 walk into town, a distance of about a mile. The pro- 
 cession was not large, consisting of Mr. Lincoln, his 
 son Tadj who accompanies him everywhere, and Ad- 
 miral Porter, one or two other military and naval offi- 
 cers, and an enterprising newspaper correspondent, 
 whom the crowd undoubtedly took to be Vice-Presi- 
 dent Johnson. Mr. Lincoln was soon recognized, but 
 
238 LETTERS. 
 
 no assassin's pistol was raised against him. Every- 
 body seemed curious to see the President. Loud 
 shouts told all what was the sensation of the day, and 
 the n-owd of black. and white, men and women, soon 
 grew to enormous dimensions. Shouting, yelling, 
 screaming, pushing, and rushing to get a glimpse, the 
 singular procession moved on to the house of Jeff 
 Davis, which the President entered in triumph. The 
 inhabitants were greatly astonished at the prompt 
 appearance of the President, as they did not know of 
 his presence at City Point, and inferred that he had 
 come from Washington by some mysteriously swift 
 conveyance, expressly to visit Richmond. 
 
 Probably no Yankee will ever include this city in 
 his pleasure tour in the future without visiting the 
 Libby Prison. That famous structure is to-day a de- 
 lightful specimen of poetic justice. The dingy old 
 tobacco warehouse is there, with its barred windows, 
 looking thoroughly commonplace, as it never could 
 have looked otherwise. But inside the bars are no 
 longer unhappy Union officers, starved and outraged 
 in every way. Blue-coated sentinels pace around the 
 walls, and the windows frame the sallow faces of gray- 
 coated prisoners who last week marched with Lee. 
 
 There is no attempt at retribution. The prisoners 
 are not crowded ; they are fed with smoking coffee and 
 crisp hard-tack ; and when a Richmond damsel comes 
 to comfort her imprisoned sweetheart, he comes to 
 the door or window, and the interview is undisturbed. 
 IJnion gentlemen have been shot for showing their faces 
 at these bars ; but still, the tables are turned, and no 
 Northern man can gaze at the Libby Prison to-day 
 without a grim smile of satisfaction at the change. 
 
 Only one Richmond pajoer survives the revolution 
 ol the week. " The Whig," never very cordial in its 
 
RICHMOND. — SENTIMENTS OF THE CITIZENS. 239 
 
 support of Jefferson Davis and his policy, appeared 
 on Tuesday evening as a Union jiaj^er, the absence of 
 the gas making the issue of a morning paper impossi- 
 ble. The former proj^rietor continues to manage the 
 office, and one of the sub-editors gives his assistance 
 in making up the paper. If the loyalty of neither of 
 these gentlemen is yet very warm or very vigorous, 
 or anything more than the Unionism of expediency, it 
 is at least a fair specimen of the best Union senti- 
 ment to be found in the South, and is capable of being 
 developed into something much better in good time. 
 The two papers thus far published have been confined 
 mainly to the publication of military orders and the 
 narration of local incidents of the week. This even- 
 ing's issue announces that hoj^es are entertained of 
 securing the services in the editorial department of 
 " one of the most brilliant and vigorous writers in 
 Virginia," alluding, it is surmised on the streets here, 
 to the venerable John Minor Botts. " The Whig " is 
 printed on a very dingy little half-sheet, has no new 
 advertisements, and copies the war news of Northern 
 papers a week old, mistakes, false reports, and all. 
 
 The Richmond Theatre has been closed for a few 
 days, but reopens to-night with the manager, Mr. R. 
 D'Orsay Ogden, and company, who have occupied it 
 for several months past. The play is to be " Don 
 Ccesar de Bazan," and President Lincoln and a large 
 number of other distinguished personages, including 
 even General Grant, fighting fifty miles away on the 
 Danville road, " have been invited to attend." 
 
 One does not meet many famous people in Rich- 
 mond, except the party which has come in this week. 
 Mrs. General Lee, who is an invalid, is li™g quietly 
 in her husband's house on the hill. Mr. E. A. Pollard, 
 who has some friends in Boston, and is slightly famous 
 
240 LETTERS. 
 
 as the only Rebel who has thought it worth while to 
 attempt a history of the war, swaggers with much 
 pomp and bluster about the halls of the Spottswood. 
 I met Colonel Lincoln, of the Massachusetts 34th, in 
 the Capitol. He was prevented by serious illness 
 from accompanying his regiment to the left, and 
 marched from hospital to Richmond with the advance 
 of General Weitzel's force. 
 
 I have not been able as yet to give a very close 
 examination to the fortifications of Richmond, the 
 inner line of which is about six miles from the centre 
 of the city. It is evident to the most casual observer 
 that they are very strong, very elaborately constructed, 
 and very hastily abandoned. The Rebels planted their 
 forts very thickly with torpedoes, marking their posi- 
 tion with little flags for the guidance and safety of 
 their own men. These useful signals the Rebel rear- 
 guard were too panic-stricken or too stupid to remove, 
 so that they still remain, and serve as warnings to our 
 men, by the aid of which all danger from explosions 
 is very easily avoided. 
 
 The James River, between Varina Landing and 
 Richmond, a distance of about ten miles, is a very in- 
 teresting and somewhat exciting stream to sail over. 
 At the Rockets lie a half-dozen of Admiral Porter's 
 gun-boats, officers and men eagerly taking their turns 
 of leave of absence to enjoy the sights and pleasures 
 of the shore. Then one comes to the Rebel rams and 
 gun-boats, lying sunk in the streamj and forming most 
 formidable chains of obstructions, which have been 
 sufficiently removed by our naval force to allow the 
 passage of a steamer. Everywhere are torpedoes. 
 Many, including some most formidable ones, have al- 
 ready been removed. Others still remain, their where- 
 abouts marked to the pilot by buoys placed where 
 
RICHMOND. — SENTIMENTS OF THE CITIZENS. 241 
 
 our drag-nets have found torpedoes, and bearing little 
 red flags to indicate the danger lurking beneath them. 
 With all these safeguards, the voyage seems still a 
 perilous one, for the boat often barely grazes on each 
 side between two of these torpedo-signals, and her 
 keel often grates harshly over some sunken iron-clad, 
 not quite high enough to interrupt her course. The 
 Rebels succeeded in destroying all the Richmond steam- 
 ers except one, the flag-of-truce boat, William Allison. 
 This boat was sent down the river on Sunday night 
 with the last load of prisoners for exchange. Return- 
 ing, the captain saw the fires lighting the sky over 
 Richmond, and very prudently paused, spent the night 
 in the stream, and in the morning reported himself 
 and his vessel to the Union authorities. Both have 
 ever since been kept busy in the employ of the 
 national government. 
 
 About half-way between Richmond and Varina, on 
 the right bank of the stream, is Fort Darling, extend- 
 ing for a front of about two miles, and perhaps the 
 strongest defensive work which either side has erected 
 during the present war. In the Revolution there was 
 a little redoubt here bearing the name of Fort Dar- 
 ling, and the skilful engineers who constructed the 
 new work here for the Rebels in 1861 perpetuated the 
 singular name. Close under the bluff here are now 
 lying the Chippewa, and a number of other Union 
 gun-boats, and several monitors of one and two tur- 
 rets each. Parties of officers and seamen in boats 
 are still busy investigating the secrets hidden in the 
 depths of the river, and clearing the channel for the 
 use either of war or commerce. 
 
 Perhaps it is not yet too late to give you a concise 
 account of what I have been able to gather from all 
 sources here in regard to the evacuation and cap- 
 11 p 
 
242 LETTERS. 
 
 ture of the city. I cannot think with many that the 
 abandonment of Richmond and Petersburg was a 
 deliberate act, decided upon as necessary several 
 months ago, and prepared for gradually and carefully 
 by Davis and Lee. I see every evidence of haste in 
 determining upon and in executing the act, and am 
 forced to the conclusion that Lee looked to find in 
 the present campaign the victory which he has so 
 often won before. Knowing the superior force of our 
 armies, he must have relied upon his almost impreg- 
 nable position, brilliant and audacious strategy, and 
 desperate fighting, to shake ofi" Grant's grip upon 
 Petersburg, and hold out through another summer. 
 
 The attack upon Steadman on March 25 — one of 
 the most splendid achievements of the whole war — 
 would, if its early success had been kept up an hour 
 longer, have completely cut our army in two, and 
 have raised the siege of Petersburg. Close upon the 
 failure, which came so near being a triumph of this 
 scheme to astonish the world, came Grant's extension 
 of his line to the left. That Lee hoped to win victory 
 out of the seeming attenuation of our force by this 
 movement seems proved by the vigor and persistency 
 with which he defended, during Thursday and Friday 
 and Saturday, every portion of his line, strengthening 
 his defence at every opportunity by energetic and 
 dashing attacks. Still there was no movement for 
 the evacuation of his position. Ammunition and ar- 
 tillery was moved to the front, and not to the rear, 
 and Rebel generals, soldiers, and citizens gained con- 
 fidence with every day of indecisive battle. 
 
 The tide turned on Saturday night, when the vic- 
 tory of the Five Forks was won. The possession of 
 the Southside Railroad by our troops made Petersburg 
 untenable. That Grant understood this was made 
 
RICHMOND. — SENTIMENTS OF THE CITIZENS. 243 
 
 evident by the tremendous cannonade opened all 
 along that long line at midnight on Saturday. Then, 
 as it seems to me, Lee determined upon the evacua- 
 tion, which was made absolutely comj^ulsory by the 
 victory of our forces on the left. The fighting on 
 Sunday was only to cover the Rebel retreat. Every- 
 tliino; was done in haste. The tobacco in Petersburo; 
 w^as set on fire on Sunday morning ; but the destruc- 
 tion was not made thorough, and enough was left to 
 fill the pipe of every Union soldier who passed through 
 the city for a month to come. The inhabitants did 
 not believe in the evacuation, and went to bed, even 
 on Sunday night, feeling secure and confident in the 
 ability of Lee to defend the position. ^N^othing was 
 taken from the forts; guns, muskets, papers, tents, 
 everything was abandoned, as if the greatest haste 
 must have prevailed in the last moments. 
 
 In Richmond there was no unusual excitement on 
 Sunday morning. Mr. Jefierson Davis was at church, 
 his family being absent from the city. There is no 
 truth in the story that he had sold his furniture. To 
 Mr. Davis, at his devotions, entered an orderly with 
 a despatch from General Lee. The Rebel President 
 did not attempt to conceal his agitation, but left the 
 church immediately, as did other leading citizens. 
 Still there was no general alarm, no universal knowl- 
 edge of the prosj^ects of the day. Mr. Davis spent 
 the afternoon at his own house, and left in the early 
 evening by the Danville Railroad. He took little 
 with him more than his j^rivate pa^^ers, and the furni- 
 ture of his house is as if he had never left it. Little 
 efibrt can have been made either to destroy or carry 
 away the archives of the ruined government ; and, as 
 I have already said, even the most important papers, 
 abandoned by both parties as worthless, are blowing 
 
244 LETTERS. 
 
 about the gutters. During the afternoon the fact that 
 the Rebel officials were leaving became noised abroad ; 
 and those who were not disposed to remain in the 
 city under Yankee rule made every effort to get 
 away. Sums which the people here call " astound- 
 ing," of "ten or fifteen dollars in gold or Federal 
 currency," were offered for vehicles and horses to 
 convey the fugitives. The banks were opened in 
 spite of the day, and directors and depositors busied 
 themselves in getting away their specie. 
 
 With sunset came the head of the Rebel columns 
 under Ewell, marching in from the forts and through 
 the city toward the west. 'Then and from that it was 
 that the great mass of the population of Richmond 
 knew that the city was to be given up. It was a 
 night of horror and confusion. A committee of 
 citizens, appointed at a secret session of the Common 
 Council, undertook the destruction of all the liquor in 
 the city. Casks and bottles were smashed by the 
 thousand; the gutters ran with wine and whiskey, 
 and the very air was filled with the fumes of alcohol. 
 The Rebel soldiers, as they passed, filled their cups and 
 canteens from the rivulets ; many seemed to become 
 drunk merely from the smell of the liquor ; and the 
 last stragglers, wild with intoxication, outraged and 
 pillaged everywhere like a swarm of demons. 
 
 Before General Ewell departed, he ordered the 
 burning of the tobacco warehouses on the river-bank. 
 Appealing citizens assured him that the only result of 
 the fire, with the fresh breeze blowing from the south, 
 would be the utter destruction of the city; but the 
 brutal old soldier only laughed and swore at their 
 remonstrances, and reiterated his orders. The flames 
 spread, as was predicted. The two steam-engines 
 and two or three hand-machines, worked feebly 
 
RICHMOND. — SENTIMENTS OF THE CITIZENS. 245 
 
 amid the universal excitement, were of little avail 
 against a conflagration extending over scores of acres. 
 In an hour, hundreds of the jDoorer families of Rich- 
 mond were wandering through the streets without 
 shelter, carrying huge bundles of clothing or furniture, 
 which to lose sight of was to lose forever. As the 
 flames spread, and it became evident that they could 
 not be saved, the stores were thrown open, and the 
 poor people who had houses left rolled away to them 
 barrels of flour and pork enough to provide them for 
 months. Plunder was the watchword of the night. 
 The grocer entered the bm'ning store of his neighbor, 
 and loaded his arms with clothing, only to meet the 
 tailor coming out of his own door with his pockets full 
 of cofiee and sugar. It was a night which no one in 
 Richmond will ever be likely to forget. 
 
 When daybreak came, the last Rebel soldier had 
 left the city on the west, and with daybreak entered 
 on the east the Union cavalry-men. As far as I 
 can learn, a detachment of the Fourth Massachusetts 
 Cavalry, under Major Stevens, first made their aip- 
 pearance in the city. The firemen, their heads filled 
 with horrible stories of the barbarous Yankees, left their 
 engines and fled. The Union troopers galloped after, 
 brought them back to their duty, and aided them in 
 extinguishing the flames. The breeze died away soon 
 after sunrise, and the fire was at last providentially 
 checked, after having burnt over the immense area 
 which I have already described. 
 
 General Weitzel had full information as to the tor- 
 pedoes with which the Rebel forts were strewn, and 
 was too prudent to lead his men on such gi'ound in 
 the darkness. As soon as it was light, our column 
 moved forward. The precious Rebel system of flags 
 enabled us, by moving slowly and cautiously in single 
 
246 LETTERS. 
 
 file, to cross the dangerous limits without accident ; 
 and then the army marched at full speed for the 
 city. The column, headed by a division of white 
 troops commanded by General Devens, of Massachu- 
 setts, reached Richmond at about eight o'clock. Tlie 
 colored troops of the Twenty-fifth Corps followed in 
 close order. General "Weitzel established his head- 
 quarters in the mansion vacated by Jeff" Davis, and the 
 IJnion occupation of the Rebel capital was complete. 
 
 ASSASSINATION OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN. 
 
 THE TERRIBLE SCENE IN FOEd's THEATRE. 
 
 Washington, Sunday ]\Iorning, April 16. 
 
 Before these lines can reach you by mail, our 
 telegraphic despatches will have informed you of all 
 the additional particulars which to-day or to-morrow 
 may bring out in relation to the event which is the 
 only topic of which men can speak or think in Wash- 
 ington or in the country this morning. The only pur- 
 pose of this letter is to note down some stray fiicts 
 of minor importance connected with the conspiracy 
 which culminated on Friday night, which are to be 
 gathered amid the constant buzz of rumor, gossip, 
 canards, and s|)eculations here upon the engrossing 
 theme. 
 
 After the first phase of the terrible events which 
 have thrown us into mourning has been discussed, — 
 the dire and incalculable calamity to the nation, the 
 shock given to the dawning hopes of immediate peace 
 and reconstruction, the possible and probable result 
 
ASSASSINATION OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN. 247 
 
 upon future events, — thought and conversation nat- 
 urally revert to the wretched murderer ; and the 
 question is asked repeatedly, "What motive could 
 have prompted John Wilkes Booth to the commis- 
 sion of this foul and most dastardly crime ? " If there 
 were a possible or conceivable doubt as to the identity 
 of the person who shot Abraham Lincoln, the essen- 
 tial improbability of such a man's proving the assassin 
 would exculpate him in the minds of many. But 
 there can be no shadow of a doubt that it was actually 
 he; and so again we wonder and ask one another, 
 " What prompted him to do this thing ? " 
 
 Only two exj^lanations of this consummate folly 
 combined with consummate villany have been sug- 
 gested. One points to the advertisements which have 
 appeared in Rebel papers, offering enormous sums for 
 the assassination of Union leaders, and says no motive 
 but cupidity could have prompted such a conspiracy. 
 Another, w4th far more apparent probability, as it 
 seems to me, suggests that Booth was a malignant 
 Rebel in soul and spirit, putting more heart into his 
 copperheadism than other Northern men of similar 
 sentiments ; that he had all along felt and expressed 
 a confidence that the South would succeed ; that he 
 was finally convinced by the events of the last few 
 weeks that the end of the Rebellion was approaching 
 and inevitable ; that in his blind and fi-antic rage and 
 fury at seeing the scheme of the seccessionists bafiled, 
 he resolved upon and executed this enormous and yet 
 most useless crime simply as revenge. That he could 
 secure accomplices for such a purpose seems as im- 
 probable as that he himself should be induced to 
 embark in a scheme of murder by a bribe, however 
 monstrous, — and so, in this hour of excitement, spec- 
 ulation halts, and loses itself in perplexity. 
 
248 LETTERS. 
 
 The brief and momentous scene whicli closed the 
 entertainment at Ford's Theatre will never be forgot- 
 ten by any one of the thousand or more who saw it. 
 The play, with which all were familiar, was progress- 
 ing smoothly to its climax. The good acting of Miss 
 Keene in part made up for the faults of most of the 
 other artists ; the house was crowded ; and the evident 
 enjoyment of the party in the "state-box " added to 
 the zest with which the mass of the audience entered 
 into the sj^irit of the performance. 
 
 The scene was a front flat. There was only one 
 character uj^on the stage, Lord Dundreary. Sud- 
 denly one of those stuj^id conundrums which we all 
 know by heart was interrupted by the sharp rejDort of 
 a pistol. The audience had time to wonder what 
 new incident of the play was thus heralded, when 
 there came another and stranger interruption. A dark, 
 lithe form vaulted over the railing of the President's 
 box, which was canopied with the American flag. As 
 the intruder struck the stage, he fell forward, but soon 
 gathered himself up, and turned, erect, in full view of 
 the audience. With singular audacity the assassin 
 stood there long enough to photograph himself for- 
 ever even in the -minds of those among the throng 
 who had never seen him before. They saw a slim, 
 tall, gi'aceful figure, elegantly clad, waving a dagger 
 w^ith a gesture which none but a tragedian by profes- 
 sion would have made ; a classic face, pale as marble, 
 lighted Tij) by two gleaming eyes, — which had made 
 crowds shudder often in past days when Gloster 
 struggled with death in mimic frenzy, — and sur- 
 mounted by waves of curling, jet-black hair. The 
 assassin, with calmness which could only come of care- 
 ful premeditation, uttered the words, " Sic semper 
 tyrannis ! " in tones so sharp and clear that every per- 
 
ASSASSINATION OF PEESIDENT LINCOLN. 249 
 
 son in the theatre heard them. He said somethinor 
 more ; but in that second of time Mrs. Lincoln had 
 screamed in horror, the unusual occurrences had cre- 
 ated an excitement, the audience had begun to rise, 
 and no one heard the words distinctly. Booth, who 
 had already heard his name jDronounced by a score of 
 lips, waited for no further bravado, but rushed across 
 the stage, by Dundreary, by Florence Trenchard at 
 the wing, rudely pushing Miss Keene out of his way, 
 down the long passage behind the scenes, thrusting 
 his knife at a man who seemed to interrupt his flight, 
 and out by the stage door into the darkness. All was 
 instantly confusion in front. Both before and behind 
 the scenes every one knew that the President had 
 been shot. Actors rushed upon the stage, and the 
 audience into the orchestra. Mr. Lincoln had sunk 
 down without a groan or a struggle. Mrs. Lincoln 
 had fainted after her first shriek. Major Rathborn 
 was stunned by a stab which Booth's knife had given 
 him before the shot was fired ; Miss Harris was bewil- 
 dered by the sudden occurrence of she knew not what. 
 The audience surged to and fro in frantic excitement. 
 Some attempted to climb up the supports and into 
 the box. Then came those clear and distinct tones, 
 never forgotten by any who have heard them, of Laura 
 Keene, first in the theatre to understand and appre- 
 ciate the emergency: "Keep quiet in your seats, — 
 give him air ! " Li another moment certain gentlemen 
 found presence of mind to order the throng to leave 
 the theatre. The gas was turned down. The crowd, 
 animated at last by an imjDulse, pushed for the outer 
 doors. Laura Keene ran around to the scene of the 
 murder, and in another moment the bleeding head of 
 the dying President lay in the lap of the actress, as 
 she endeavored to force a restorative within his pallid 
 11* 
 
250 LETTERS. 
 
 Ii23s. The auditorium was soon empty. Laura Keene's 
 benefit was over ; and thus closed the evening at Ford's 
 Theatre, which had begun so pleasantly with a comedy, 
 in the most terrible tragedy the world ever saw. 
 
 A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 
 
 On the morning of the first day of June, we heard 
 that a force of Fenians had crossed the Niagara at 
 Buffalo, and taken a small earthwork called Fort 
 Erie. During the day, despatches came in announ- 
 cing excitement among the Irish population generally, 
 and indications of a general movement for the inva- 
 sion of Canada among the faction of the Fenians 
 adhering to Roberts and Sweeney. Our sagacious 
 managing editor soon made up his mind that the New 
 England Fenians would make St. Albans a ren- 
 dezvous ; at four o'clock I received my orders to hasten 
 there at once, and observe events : the business office 
 supplied me with a roll of greenbacks for expenses, 
 and a bunch of free passes for railroad travel covering 
 the whole region between Detroit and Portland ; and 
 at half-past five I had left the railroad station bound 
 northward. 
 
 My previous knowledge of Fenianism had given 
 me the impression that it was little more than a 
 swindling scheme for suiDjoorting idle Irish adven- 
 turers by contributions from the j^ockets of working 
 men and women, who thought they were giving to 
 their country. But this journey was to be made 
 simply as an impartial observer, for the benefit of the 
 newspaper-reading public; and I began it by throw- 
 
A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 251 
 
 ing aside all prejudices and previously conceived 
 opinions on the subject to receive my attention, and 
 by forming the determination to mingle no argument 
 with the simple narrative of what I saw. Writing 
 now for a different public, I shall proceed upon pre- 
 cisely the same principle, stating only facts as I saw 
 them, and leaving readers to make their own infer- 
 ences and arguments. 
 
 I found, upon inquiry of the conductor, that there 
 was no party of Fenians upon our train, although 
 about three hundred had been taken up the night be- 
 fore, and it was said that a battalion of about the 
 same strength was on its way by another route, and 
 likely to join us at a point near our destination, and 
 that tickets had been bought for six hundred for the 
 following night, — the majority preferring to close up 
 their peaceful labors on Saturday afternoon, and begin 
 their fillibustering enterprise with a new week. So I 
 wrote a brief despatch with these few facts, mainly to 
 show our readers that a correspondent was already on 
 his way to the front, put it on the wires at the office 
 in the station at Concord, New Hampshire, and in 
 due time exchanged my seat for a narroAV, but not un- 
 comfortable berth, and slept the sleep of the weary 
 while traversing the State of Vermont at the rate of 
 thirty miles an hour. 
 
 We were to arrive at St. Albans at six, so I arose 
 at five. I learned soon after that several car-loads of 
 Fenians had indeed been attached to our train during 
 the small hours ; and, desirous to take the earliest op- 
 2)ortunity of inspecting the men whose doings I was 
 to watch, I passed through one or two cars, and soon 
 found myself among them. The three cars they oc- 
 cupied were not crowded, the men taking their ease 
 on two or three seats each. They were commonplace 
 
252 LETTERS. 
 
 young Irishmen cnongli, nearly all between eighteen 
 and twenty-five years old, evidently from the machine- 
 shops of the cities rather than the firms of the rural 
 districts, — somewhat sulky, as most men are after 
 riding all night on hard seats, but not quarrelsome. 
 The most surj^rising element in their manner, to 
 my mind, was the general reticence, and absence of 
 that flurry and tendency to braggadocio, so common 
 among new recruits. A glance at their garments, 
 however, was enough to show that those who had not 
 seen actual fighting service were few among them, — 
 each wearing an overcoat with cape and brass buttons, 
 and dark blue blouse, sky-blue trousers, or having 
 some other simple remnant of the uniform discarded 
 on his discharge from the Union army a year ago. 
 There were plenty of army knapsacks and haversacks, 
 but no visible weapons of any kind ; nor was there 
 any badge or rank to distinguish the officers fi'om the 
 rest of the men. 
 
 In due time the train paused at the station of St. 
 Albans. Just as we began to slacken speed, we passed, 
 stationary on a side track, a long train of baggage- 
 cars filled with United States regulars from one of the 
 forts in Boston harbor. They had started early in the 
 day, on the first receipt of the news of probable 
 trouble on the frontier ; had arrived soon after mid- 
 night, and were just beginning to stir out of their 
 straw, and getting out of their cars in dense clusters, 
 like a swarm of bees. The platform of the station 
 was covered with men, and to a stranger it was not 
 easy to say which were on their way to the machine- 
 shops of the village, and had stopped out of curiosity, 
 and which were yesterday's arrivals of Fenians. I 
 noted that those of my fellow-travellers who seemed 
 by their bearing to be superior in rank to the mass, 
 
A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 253 
 
 were holding whispering conferences with men who 
 met them on the platform, and who seemed to be giv- 
 ing: orders and information. The train trundled on 
 for Montreal; and, declining the vociferous solicita- 
 tions of the carriage-drivers, each of whom offered 
 " a free ride " as an inducement to j^atronize his par- 
 ticular hotel, I strolled to the centre of the village, 
 determined to discover the best inn before committing 
 myself to the mercies of any. Soon after leaving the 
 station, I met men, evidently Fenians, bearing between 
 them heavy baskets of smoking loaves, purchased at 
 the baker's to provide a breakfast for the hungry re- 
 inforcements. 
 
 It Avould be difficult to imagine a more charming 
 village than that which had steadily become cele- 
 brated as the scene of one of the most audacious raids 
 of the late war, and was destined to be the centre of 
 interest during the Fenian campaign. About a level 
 common, shaded with sturdy hedges, and its green 
 expanse brilliant with yellow dandelions, clustered 
 three or four churches, an academy, a court-house, — 
 all plain and modest brick and wooden buildings, — 
 a dozen shops for the sale of boots and shoes, dry- 
 goods and groceries, the dwellings of the wealthier 
 citizens, and one building which it was not difficult to 
 see was the hotel. 
 
 My character of correspondent being known, I was 
 introduced before, during, and after breakfast, to quite 
 a number of gentlemen as " officers of the Fenian 
 army," all of whom proved more or less confidential 
 as to the less obvious features of the existing state of 
 affairs, and the probabilities of the future. I soon 
 found, however, that much of the information so pro- 
 fusely volunteered by these gentlemen was untrust- 
 worthy, and intended to deceive rather than to en- 
 
254 LETTERS. 
 
 lighten the public. The first whose acquaintance I 
 made was introduced as Colonel Brown, an Irishman 
 of education, a lawyer in Charlestown, Massachusetts, 
 in small practice ; he had served successively as private 
 soldier and captain in the Union army during the late 
 war ; he held the position of lieutenant-colonel and 
 inspector-general in the Fenian army ; and he was in- 
 trusted with the all-important duties of getting the 
 arms and ammunition of war into the hands of men. 
 
 Colonel Brown was such a man as I might have ex- 
 pected to find organizing and leading this exceptional 
 invasion ; but not so another gentleman who obtained 
 an introduction to me soon after for the purpose of 
 asking me to keep his name out of print. I never men- 
 tioned him in my correspondence from the field, and 
 
 here will designate him as Colonel R , the mihtary 
 
 title being his by right of gallant and honorable service 
 in the army of the Potomac, at the head of a regiment 
 from my own State. I knew him by repute at home 
 both as gentleman and soldier, and found it hard to 
 account for his presence at the Fenian headquarters. 
 An American by birth and parentage, of one of the old 
 Massachusetts families, with a brilliant record, and for- 
 tune of his own, and a family to share the stain of the 
 ignominious failure which seemed certain even at the 
 outset, it appeared that he had everything to lose 
 and nothing to gain by joining in such a movement. 
 His own conversation gave little clew to the mystery ; 
 he simply remarked that he was at St. Alban's as an 
 observer, ready, if an actual campaign should ensue, to 
 give his aid to the weakest side, but anxious to avoid 
 the ridicule of his friends if the afiair should turn out 
 Si mere ^fiasco, like that of a few months before at East- 
 port, and therefore desirous to keep his name out of 
 the i^apers. I soon learned that he held a commission 
 
A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 255 
 
 from the Fenian Senate, and shared in the councils of 
 war of the leaders at St. Albans; and it was not long 
 before he threw off all disguise, and spoke freely of 
 " our enterprise " and " my regiment." The only ex- 
 planation of his share in the scheme which my obser- 
 vation can suggest is, that his experience of fighting 
 in Virginia had so infatuated him with the exciting 
 joys of a martial life, that he was ready to join even a 
 wild fiUibustering project for the sake of renewing the 
 pleasures of hardship, adventure, combat, and com- 
 mand. 
 
 Although I was not then introduced to him, I had 
 frequent opportunities of seeing the commander of the 
 Fenian right wing, General Spear, who had apartments 
 at a neighboring and inferior hotel. He was a man 
 of fifty, with the bearing of a veteran soldier and the 
 manners of a kindly gentleman, tall, stout, with gray 
 hair which had been red, weather-beaten features, and 
 mustache and imperial of a military cut. He had 
 
 appeared, with Brown, R , and a few others, at the 
 
 village inns the day before, simultaneously with the 
 arrival by the train from Boston of the first battalion 
 of Fenians. When visited officially by the municipal 
 authorities, he had jocosely remarked that he was 
 " travelling for his health," but to private callers had 
 not hesitated to avow himself in his true character. 
 
 Of course I acquainted myself as rapidly as possible 
 with the state of affairs, — visited the local newspaper 
 office ; talked with leading citizens, prominent Feni- 
 ans, and United States officials ; heard some entertain- 
 ing reminiscences of the St. Albans Riot of 1864, of 
 which the citizens were fond of talking ; and obtained 
 all accessible facts as to the history of the Fenian 
 invasion thus far. These were simply that the fore- 
 man of the gas-works had been receiving for several 
 
256 LETTEES. 
 
 clays, by express, packages which, as he was known to 
 be a Fenian, were now deemed to contain arms ; that 
 on the morning before, simultaneously with the cross- 
 ing at Buffalo, two or three hundred Fenians had ar- 
 rived in town ; that during the afternoon these had 
 quietly departed, as was supposed, to Fairfield, an 
 Irish settlement about five miles to the eastward, where 
 shelter and food were given them by the inhabitants; 
 that the ofiicers remained at the hotels, spending 
 money freely, and appearing to have their pockets full ; 
 and that the train on which I arrived had brought 
 several cases of muskets and sabres, which were 
 promptly seized by the United States officials on the 
 watch for them, and sent back by the next train to 
 Burlington, greatly to the disgust of the Fenians, who 
 were consulting the village lawyers as to the possibility 
 of regaining their weapons by civil process. I heard 
 also that the United States regulars who arrived just 
 before me proceeded soon after to the frontier at 
 Swanton, where the railroad crosses the boundary, 
 leaving only a small company for guard duty at St. 
 Albans. 
 
 Precisely at noon, the train from Montreal bound 
 for Boston passed through. I noticed General Spear 
 and Colonel Brown in close conversation at the sta- 
 tion, and observed that the latter officer wrote a hasty 
 note on a leaf torn from his pocket-book, which he 
 gave to a young Fenian, whom I took for an orderly, 
 but learned later to be a major, and who took passage 
 in the train southward. 
 
 At six I was at the station, and mingling with 
 the motley crowd of curious citizens, shabby Fe- 
 nians, busy employes of the line, bustling United 
 States officials, grim soldiers guarding piles of confis- 
 cated arms, and waiting travellers, which filled the 
 
A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 257 
 
 platform. I chatted as we waited, pacing up and 
 down with the Fenian Colonel Brown ; and conld not 
 help noticing a tendency on his part to linger and de- 
 lay at the southern end of the platform, from which 
 the expected train might first be seen. At length the 
 harsh whistle gave warning of its approach ; and we 
 stood — Colonel Brown, another correspondent, and I 
 — at the lower end of the platform, as the locomotive 
 came in sight around a curve about half a mile dis- 
 tant. From the baggage-car there tumbled, suddenly, 
 while the train was yet going at full speed, a long 
 brown object. 
 
 " A man killed ! " exclaimed my fellow-journalist. 
 " Not a bit of it," responded Brown, as another long 
 box and a plump bale followed the first, and a dozen 
 men leaped, regardless of risk to life and limb, from 
 the cars, and hurried away the baggage which had 
 been thrown overboard. There was no mystery about 
 this to us who saw it. The messenger sent south by 
 the down train had borne warning of the vigilance 
 of the United States ofiicials, and a hint to the up- 
 ward-bound Fenians as to how to evade it, which had 
 been skilfully acted upon. 
 
 " I wish to Heaven there were five hundred muskets 
 instead of those two boxes!" said Colonel Brown, 
 under his breath, as he clapped his hands with delight 
 that his orders had been obeyed so shrewdly; and 
 then I knew that even the small force yet assembled 
 was not provided with arms, and that I should not 
 miss a forward movement by a two days' stay in 
 Montreal. The train came to a stop at the station ; 
 the honest old marshal proceeded to search the freight- 
 cars for articles contraband of war ; a hundred Fe- 
 nians or so left the cars, and mingled with the crowd, 
 on the platform. 
 
 Q 
 
258 LETTERS. 
 
 I passed at Swanton the white tents just pitched 
 of the battalion of United States regulars ; passed 
 Rouse's Point just as the sun was setting on one of 
 the loveliest lakes in the world ; passed at St. John's — 
 there it was too dark to see them — the camps of the 
 Canadian volunteers, who flocked to the station to hear 
 the news, and were garrulous with absurd stories of the 
 numbers and bloodthirstiness of the Fenians cross- 
 ing the border ; passed with deafening and long pro- 
 tracted rumble through the blacker darkness of the Vic- 
 toria Bridge ; passed, as I wearily threaded the streets 
 of Montreal soon after midnight, dozens of newsboys 
 still selling extras of the morning papers with con- 
 fused news from Ridgeway of the battle of the morn- 
 ing; passed little knots of people standing in door- 
 ways, regardless of the hour, to compare opinions as 
 to the invasion ; and made my way with tired haste 
 to the bedroom assigned me at the principal inn of 
 the city, St. Lawrence Hall. 
 
 I have said that there was very great excitement in 
 Montreal. There was nothing like panic there, how- 
 ever ; or perhaps I arrived too late for that, for every 
 successive despatch which came in from the west on 
 Sunday brought new assurance that the invaders had 
 lost their foothold on the Niagara frontier, and the 
 opinion hourly gained ground that the danger was 
 entirely at an end. There seemed to be great una- 
 nimity of enthusiasm in rallying to the common defence, 
 and the only Fenian demonstration I saw during the 
 day was made by two crazy-looking Irishmen, who 
 growled out their sympathies audibly, and were only 
 saved from summary vengeance at the popular hands 
 by the interposition of the joolice, who hustled them 
 off to jail. The volunteer companies which came out 
 on parade were finely drilled, and made an excellent 
 
A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 259 
 
 appearance in their bright, clean nnifoi-ms. Monday 
 brought no fresh news from any quarter ; the excite- 
 ment died away into dulness ; a drenching rain pre- 
 vented any sight-seeing expedition ; and at length I 
 determined to return to St. Albans, to see whether 
 my sanguine Fenian friends had indeed abandoned all 
 hope on the failure of their first body, and begun to 
 scatter for home. I left Montreal at three, caught a 
 glimpse in passing of the wet but cheerful militiamen 
 in bivouac at St. John's, and arrived at St. Albans 
 again at about seven o'clock. 
 
 The excitement there was very far from being over, 
 and the village presented an animated scene worth tak- 
 ing a long ride to see. The force of regulars had been 
 very largely increased, so that their encampment now 
 quite covered the common ; and a fine brass band ac- 
 companied the battalion, and was playing popular airs 
 to a large assembly of citizens, soldiers, and Fenians. 
 " The Wearing of the Green " appeared to be espe- 
 cially in favor with the mixed audience, and was ap- 
 plauded to the echo. Fellow-correspondents who had 
 remained in the town informed me that several bat- 
 talions of Fenians had arrived since my departure, 
 that the number now at Fairfield was estimated at 
 from one to two thousand, that no special incident 
 had yet occurred, and that a movement of some kind 
 was to be made that very night. 
 
 I soon ascertained that the movement was simply a 
 transfer of the hungry Fenians from Fairfield, which 
 they had entirely eaten out, to a point called East 
 Highgate, nearer the border. I learned also that dis- 
 content and impatience had begun to appear among 
 the men, and that a council of war had been held at 
 one of the St. Albans hotels, at which the abandon- 
 ment of the entei-prise had been discussed, but its 
 
260 LETTERS. 
 
 prosecution to tlie bitter end decided upon. The next 
 day, however, seemed to be one of great uncertainty. 
 It was generally stated that General Spear purposed 
 to go out to the bivouac with his officers, and make 
 an immediate movement into Canada. Finding that 
 he had engaged horses and wagons to convey him to 
 the border, I also engaged a team with the intent to 
 accompany the invasion ; but hour after hour passed 
 away without a departure, and it became evident that 
 somebody or something was still waited for. 
 
 I improved the time by conversing with Fenian 
 officers, who grew communicative as the hour for ac- 
 tion drew near. They told me that the plan of the 
 campaign contemplated a simultaneous movement 
 upon Canada at several points, by an army — well 
 organized, drilled, armed, and fully supplied with am- 
 munition — of fifty thousand men. The right wing, 
 under General Spear, moving from St. Albans, was 
 to consist of thirteen thousand. The immediate ob- 
 jective point was Montreal; the ultimate object, 
 the possession of the whole of Canada. Fenian offi- 
 cers had traversed the whole country within two 
 months, most accurate and minute plans and charts 
 had been made, soundings of all rivers had been re- 
 corded, secret organizations throughout Canada were 
 ready to respond to the first call from the proper 
 quarter. Reliance was to be made ui^on the country 
 for horses and for supplies. The full number of men 
 were ready for the fray; money was plenty in the 
 treasury ; arms and ammunition had been purchased. 
 Only a few weapons had been sent to the frontier in 
 advance, no interference on the part of the national 
 authorities with the transportation being looked for ; 
 and so the prompt action of the officials, in seizing 
 arms at the first sound of trouble, had thrown every- 
 
A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 261 
 
 thing into confusion. IN'o amount of strategy had 
 been able to bring through any considerable amount 
 of arms ; the movement of men had consequently been 
 stopped, and the men already arrived were clamor- 
 ous for action. It was imj^ossible to feed them on 
 American soil ; and a movement into Canada, for only 
 a short distance, was probable, on the ground that the 
 men would be safer from molestation there, more con- 
 tented, and could supj^ly themselves with food with- 
 out the trouble of j^aying for it. No movement of 
 more than a few miles would be made until arms, 
 ammunition, and reinforcements came up. 
 
 This, and much more than this, was told me by 
 Fenian officers ; but I have only set down here what 
 was said in all sincerity, and what I believe to be 
 trustworthy. Tuesday, as I have said, had no spe- 
 cial excitement. Every train brought Fenians, regu- 
 lar soldiers, newspaper correspondents, and Montreal 
 papers with " reliable accounts from St. Albans " to 
 the effect that the force near there consisted of five 
 thousand well-armed men. Officers of Sweeney's staff 
 began to arrive singly and in coujdIcs, among them 
 Lieutenant-Colonel Tresilyan, an accomplished engi- 
 neer officer, who marched to the sea with Sherman; 
 Colonel Rundell, chief of ordnance, who served, I be- 
 lieve, with John Morgan, the confederate raider ; and 
 other men of military experience and rejDutation, whose 
 presence on such an errand it was hard to explain on 
 any consistent theory. 
 
 By the evening train from the westward came the 
 arch fillibuster. General Sweeney himself, and at once 
 the excitement began to rise again. The commander 
 stopped at the Weldon House, and his every movement 
 between his chamber and the dining-room Avas watched 
 by curious throngs. Sweeney had the air, features, 
 
262 LETTEES. 
 
 and dress of a revolutionary conspirator, — a tall, grave 
 man, with long, black hair, speculative eyes, dignified 
 and reserved, and wearing an army hat and a coat 
 covered with frogs and cording. Plis room was the 
 scene of a protracted council of war during the evening. 
 
 The next morning, Wednesday, June 6, it was 
 evident that something was to be done. Fenian offi- 
 cers bustled to and fro between the hotels with unu- 
 sual activity; and, as the day wore on, many of them 
 discarded the rather shabby black and gray garments 
 they had worn hitherto, and appeared in bright blue 
 coats and waistcoats with brass buttons, — the relics 
 of their service in the South. Teams were again 
 engaged at the stables to convey the officers to the 
 
 line ; and my friend Colonel R informing me that 
 
 a movement this time was certain, he and I jointly 
 secured a horse and covered carriage, and, joacking 
 under the seat his pistols, his luggage, and a bundle 
 of sandwiches for our mutual refreshment, set out at 
 about three o'clock in what we both pronounced the 
 most comfortable manner, for a warlike expedition, in 
 our experience. 
 
 As we hurried to overtake the army, passing small 
 squads of cheerful Fenians moving up, and about equal 
 numbers of disconsolate Fenians moving down, a sav- 
 age storm, such as only mountain regions know, burst 
 over our heads. The roads were execrable ; we were 
 constantly fording torrents ; our carriage was no pro- 
 tection ; and we were soon both wet to the skin. 
 Every house, barn, and shed sheltered scores of Fe- 
 nians, who had been driven from the road by the rain 
 to the nearest cover. Determined to reach headquar- 
 ters before coming to a halt, we in^ged our cowering 
 horse through the drenching storm for more than an 
 hour, the number of forlorn invaders whom we passed 
 
A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 263 
 
 growing greater with every mile we rode. At last we 
 reached the village of Franklin, fourteen miles north- 
 east of St. Albans, two miles south of the Canadian 
 border, twelve miles east of the railroad. Here, at a 
 little rustic hotel. General Mahan had established the 
 headquarters of the Irish Republic for the night ; and 
 here we consigned our reeking horse to the care of 
 the stable-boy, and did our best to make ourselves 
 comfortable in spite of our soaked condition. 
 
 Brigadier-General John W. Mahan, commanding, 
 for the present, the invading column, was a round, 
 florid little Irishman, perhaps thirty years old, with 
 tightly curling black hair, smooth, rosy cheeks, and 
 a crisp little mustache. He had served as major in a 
 Massachusetts Irish regiment, and owed his commis- 
 sion there and his present high position, not to any 
 military ability, but to a certain taking way with the 
 lower classes, — a gift of blarney, which commanded 
 the affections of his countrymen in Boston, gave him 
 much influence in an Irish ward, and elected him 
 twice to the Legislature. He was a regular speaker 
 at Democratic mass-meetings where the Hibernian ele- 
 ment was to be won over, and prominent in the move- 
 ment for making eight hours a legal day's work. In his 
 present place he was liked by most of the men, and 
 held in hearty contempt by many of the officers, who 
 considered a local politician out of place commanding 
 cultivated veteran soldiers. He had more enthusiasm 
 for " the cause " than any of them, however, and re- 
 tained it longer. 
 
 About one half the Fenians who were swarming 
 about Franklin, and wdio began, as the rain ceased, to 
 come out of their covers, were armed, some with mus- 
 kets with long, gleaming bayonets, others with breech- 
 loading carbines, some with sabres only, some with 
 
264 LETTEES. 
 
 revolvers only. The officers very generally carried re- 
 volvers at their waists. The spirits of the men rose 
 visibly as they came near the Canada border and 
 were permitted to brandish their weaijons oj^enly, and 
 the prevailing tone among them was that of cheerful- 
 ness; while the officers, though they strove to keep 
 merry countenances, became more and more despond- 
 ent as they saw the lack of arms, and as the state- 
 ment circulated that not more than one or two pounds 
 of ammunition per man had yet been provided. 
 
 I visited the village stores to procure some ink for 
 the evening's writing ; and, chatting with the assem- 
 bled townsmen, found they did not extend to the 
 Fenians the sympathy I had noted at St. Albans. 
 They said they were connected, by every tie of family, 
 business, and social relationship, with their neighbors 
 over the border; they knew that trouble would follow 
 this wild and foolish invasion ; and they wondered 
 that the government was about to permit these men 
 to march through their streets, boldly displaying 
 their weapons, and avowing their intentions to make 
 war upon a friendly people. 
 
 By prompt action Colonel R had secured a 
 
 room, the landlord's own apartment, for our joint 
 lodging; and he being anxious to sleep, and I to 
 write, we ensconced ourselves in it quite early. We 
 had one visitor during the evening, who deserves 
 special mention, — a bit of romance flashing in upon 
 the prosaic absurdity of the Fenian campaign like a 
 
 comet. Colonel R introduced him as Colonel 
 
 Contri, commanding the cavalry in the advance, and 
 I remember having heard of him as a foreign officer 
 who served under Stewart and Ashby, as leader of a 
 regiment in the war of Secession. He was a small, 
 lithe fellow, of graceful movements, and handsome 
 
A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 265 
 
 Italian face, with pathetic, liquid eyes and pale com- 
 plexion. His taste for the picturesque was manifest 
 in his costume, which consisted of enormous jack-boots 
 reaching to his hips, loose gray velveteen trousers, a 
 braided hussar's jacket of dark blue, a jaunty fatigue 
 cap, a green sash as a Fenian badge, and a belt brist- 
 ling with two large revolvers and a clanking sabre. 
 In appearance the brigand of the poets, his record is 
 brimful of adventure and revolution. He cannot be 
 more than twenty-eight years old, yet he has fought 
 with Garibaldi in half-a-dozen campaigns, and held a 
 responsible position in the army which liberated Sicily 
 in 1859; he galloped and fought all over Virginia, 
 on the losing side, between 1861 and 1865; he was at 
 the head of the advance-guard of this most forlorn 
 of forlorn hopes, the Irish Republican army; and I 
 presume at this writing he is hastening across the 
 Atlantic to aid his old leader in liberating Venetia. 
 Carefully closing the door behind him, he inquired 
 
 of R •:' 
 
 " Tell me truly, — I make all sorts of stories for my 
 men, of course, — tell me truly, how are matters 
 going at the west ? " 
 
 He was given a brief account of the results of 
 the affair at Fort Erie ; remarked that he very 
 much thought this invasion would come to a like 
 conclusion ; casually stated that he was " cleared out," 
 having expended his last fifty dollars the previous day 
 to obtain a ration for his regiment, which was ready to 
 mutiny from starvation ; seated himself at my table to 
 scribble a note to his sweetheart or wife ; and dashed 
 me off, as he wrote, in j^iquant broken English, the 
 history of the campaign of 1859, when Garabaldi rode 
 a mule, and the rest of the officers of the army made 
 their marches on foot. 
 
 12 
 
266 LETTERS. 
 
 Knowing my character of correspondent, Colonel 
 Contri gave me the latest news from the front. " My 
 regiment is in some ferns about half a mile from the 
 frontier : we wait for orders. I have sent one lieutenant 
 and six men across the boundary with these orders : to 
 observe the country; to send one man back, if anything 
 happens, to tell me ; and to come back in the morning, 
 all mounted, and with one best horse for myself. 
 
 Thus the invasion of Canada began. The Colonel, 
 disdaining to avail himself of the comforts of the hotel, 
 clattered down the stairs, and trudged through the 
 mud back to his own men ; and looking out to light 
 him down, I saw the corners of the passage-ways filled 
 with straw to accommodate snoring Fenians, and soon 
 after sought slumber myself. 
 
 I expected an immediate order for a general move- 
 ment into Canada, but none came ; and I was informed 
 that General Spear's arrival was waited for. During 
 the delay, men who had sj^ent the night in the barns 
 south of the village were constantly passing through 
 to join the Fenian main body, a short distance north. 
 At about nine o'clock a double wagon from the St. 
 Albans livery-stable drove up, bringing General Spear 
 and several staff ofiicers, all wearing side arms. Gen- 
 eral Spear had bruised a finger, and bathed it with 
 liniment while he stayed at the hotel, but gave the 
 order at once, upon his arrival, for the " right wing," 
 composing his command, to move " forward into the 
 enemy's country." A staff ofiicer stated, in answer to 
 my inquiries, that there was nothing new at St. Al- 
 bans ; and that the party had left there before day- 
 break, and had been delayed by frequent halts to 
 cheer on the loiterers by the way. General Spear 
 seemed very uneasy during the half-hour spent at 
 Franklin, and dejectedly said, "Let us get into Canada : 
 
A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 267 
 
 then I shall be comfortable." Just as the teams for 
 the conveyance of the generals were brought to the 
 door, the glitter of bayonets became visible, a few 
 hundred yards distant on the road to the southward ; 
 a rumor was started of the coming of United States 
 troops to intercept the movement ; Generals Spear and 
 Mahan drove off at a rapid pace to the border ; and 
 
 Colonel R ran to our room, and hammered at the 
 
 door for admission to get rid of his criminating pistols. 
 I was not there, however; and before I could be found 
 the new-comers had proved to be an unusually well 
 armed party of Fenians, and the first 2:)anic had sub- 
 sided. 
 
 About half an hour after the departure of the com- 
 manders, our horse was harnessed, and Colonel R ■ 
 
 and I again started with our faces to the northward. 
 A guide-post a short distance beyond Franklin bore 
 the single word, " Canada," and seemed to be ac- 
 cepted by ofiicers and men as a cheering omen. The 
 road was full of Fenians, an increasing proportion 
 of them armed as we got nearer the front. There 
 were also many citizens of Vermont, actuated only 
 by curiosity, going on foot and in carts to the border 
 to see the crossing. The whole, albeit, seemed so 
 exquisitely absurd, and our own method of convey- 
 ance — going to war in a covered carriage — so appro- 
 priately incongruous, that the spirits of my companion 
 were raised by the contemplation, and we laughed 
 and jested over the ludicrous aspect of affairs right 
 merrily. By a barn, a hundred yards south of the 
 boundary, were grouped around some pots and kettles 
 the hundred men, with a dozen carbines, who con- 
 stituted Colonel R 's cavalry regiment. The 
 
 officer in command explained, in answer to the 
 Colonel's inquiry, that some sheep had been captured 
 
268 LETTERS. 
 
 just across the line, and bronght back to this point 
 
 to be cooked and eaten. Colonel R ordered his 
 
 men to hurry forward as soon as their meal was fin- 
 ished, and secure horses from the Canadian farmers as 
 soon as possible. And then we left them, and drove 
 into Canada. 
 
 About an old, deserted mill were clustered half-a- 
 dozen small farm-houses, barns, and sheds. Close in 
 front of one building, in the centre of the settle- 
 ment, was jolanted in the earth an iron post, originally 
 upright, but wrested by the frosts of many winters 
 several degrees from the perpendicular, and inscribed, 
 " Washington Treaty, 1815." This was all that 
 marked the dividing line betw^een two countries. 
 South of this were halted the Vermont spectators, 
 and the wagons which had brought the generals of 
 the invading force from St. Albans, — the drivers 
 having received instructions from the stable-keepers 
 on no account to cross the line. At the line the road 
 was guarded, for what purpose I know not, by an 
 armed picket of Fenians. The Irish army, which I 
 now saw for the first time in its entirety, w^as filing 
 ofi* the road into the meadows and orchards on either 
 side, and going into bivouac. The different regiments 
 marched each as a distinct body, in close column. I 
 estimated the whole number at between one thousand 
 and twelve hundred men, about half of them armed. 
 A detachment were carrying on their shoulders across 
 the boundary and up " to the front," about half a mile 
 further on, the w^ooden boxes containing ammunition 
 which had been secreted near by. Before a small 
 house, about ten rods north of the line, floated a green 
 flag ; and to this, confident that the presence of a 
 Fenian in my company would insure the safety of my 
 horse, I drove the only team which crossed from Ver- 
 mont into Canada during the Fenian invasion. 
 
A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 269 
 
 The house proved to be Colonel Contri's head- 
 quarters ; the flag, that of his regiment, gilded with 
 the harp and sun-burst, the motto " Va3 Victis," and 
 the information that it was a gift " from the ladies " 
 (meaning the Irish servant-girls) " of Maiden, Massa- 
 chusetts." Contri himself was busy disengaging a 
 horse — a great improvement on his first capture — 
 from the buggy of an astonished rustic, who had sup- 
 posed himself to be the owner of it, and saddling and 
 bridling the steed for his own riding. The horse was 
 quite as much bewildered as his owner, and kicked 
 and plunged, when j^ressed by a kind of harness to 
 which he was unused, in a way which would have un- 
 seated any but an accomplished rider. The Colonel, 
 however, soon obtained the mastery, and, shouting 
 to me that he had taken one prisoner, galloped off to 
 resume his place at the head of the advance. 
 
 The 23risoner proved to be a gray-headed old citizen, 
 who had been found wearing a military overcoat, and 
 so taken into custody. He was guarded very closely 
 by a heavily armed and self-important sentry, but 
 retained his coolness, and informed me that the gar- 
 ment which had got him into trouble was a coat 
 which had been discarded by a Canadian militiaman 
 of the force which two days before had retired from 
 St. Armand, leaving this vicinity empty of troops for a 
 distance of twenty miles. The residents in the house 
 were also taking events with wonderful composure, 
 and busy cooking dinner for their visitors. 
 
 The general head-quarters, I was told, were in a 
 red house plainly visible, about half a mile north of 
 
 the frontier. I left my horse with Colonel R , 
 
 and visited this point on foot, meeting on the way an 
 enthusiastic Fenian, who announced to his comrades 
 that a reward of one hundred dollars had been offered 
 
270 LETTERS. 
 
 to the captor of the first of the enemy's flags. At 
 head-quarters — where also the inhabitants were busy 
 cooking dinner for their guests — sat Generals Spear 
 and Mahan, amid a heap of flags, field-glasses, maj^s, 
 pistols, whiskey-flasks, sabres, and other military sur- 
 roundings. General Mahan wished me to say to the 
 2)ublic that " the army was in Canada, and the word 
 was Montreal." General Spear informed me that 
 scouting parties, with the half-dozen horses captured 
 thus far, were scouring the country for more horses, 
 and that he should in a short time resume the north- 
 ward march, and sent a message to Colonel Brown, 
 urging the hurrying forward of arms, shot, and am- 
 munition ; while a Hibernian stafi* oflicer took me 
 aside, and told me, confidentially, that he was the 
 person who had oflered the reward just mentioned, 
 and that he wished his name and rank given correctly 
 in the papers. 
 
 Feeling sure that events were over for the day, I 
 delayed no longer in Canada, but returned to my 
 
 team, bade farewell to Colonel R , and drove as 
 
 rapidly as possible back to St. Albans to send my 
 despatches. 
 
 The twenty-four hours during which I had been 
 absent had wrought a great change at the base of 
 supplies. Fenians were invisible, and Fenian sym- 
 pathizers beginning to change their tone very notably. 
 I soon learned that at midnight a file of United States 
 soldiers had arrested General Sweeney, in his room at 
 the Weldon House, where he still remained, with his 
 adjutant, in close military custody; that a similar de- 
 scent had been made upon General Spear's room at 
 the Tremont House, that oflicer only escaping by way 
 of the roof, and injuring his hand while clambering 
 down; that the number of regular troops on the 
 
A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 271 
 
 green had been increased by new arrivals ; and that 
 the President had issued a proclamation, posted all 
 about St. Albans, directing the rigid enforcement of 
 the neutrality laws. 
 
 While writing my despatches at the telegraph 
 office, I observed a number of Fenian officers and 
 men taking their places in a very quiet and unobtru- 
 sive manner in the train bound south, and knew that 
 the rats had already begun to quit the sinking ship. 
 Among the departures were two of the ablest officers 
 of Sweeney's staff, Americans and experienced soldiers 
 both, whom I had seen at Franklin in the morning. 
 They could not be going south with orders fi*om their 
 commander ; for at the door of his room was posted a 
 strong guard of regulars, with orders to permit neither 
 egress nor ingTess, nor communication of any kind 
 with the prisoner. 
 
 The next day I did not go the front, but remained 
 at St. Albans, relying upon receiving the news by the 
 arrivals of every hour or two. The United States Com- 
 missioner from Burlington arrived during the morning, 
 and an examination of General Sweeney took place, at 
 which representatives of the press were not admitted. 
 We were informed at its close that the General's bail 
 had been fixed at twenty thousand dollars ; that he 
 had telegraphed to Roberts at ISTew York (not being 
 aware of that person's arrest) to send up bondsmen ; 
 and that until their arrival he would be held, as 
 before, in strict military custody. The United States 
 Marshal received a despatch from a deputy at Bur- 
 lington, announcing the discovery there of a car-load 
 of ammunition, and replied by telegraph, ordering its 
 immediate seizure. The forenoon had no other in- 
 cidents. 
 
 The news which reached us from the army across the 
 
272 LETTERS. 
 
 border confirmed my expectation that there would be 
 little worth recording there. Each successive arrival 
 reported that head-quarters remained where I had 
 left them, in the Eckles House, within gunshot of the 
 boundary; that foraging parties, sent out without 
 organization or system, were ravaging the country, 
 stealing all they could lay their hands on ; that one 
 of these parties had fired a few shots at a mounted 
 picket at Frelisburgh, about four miles in the in- 
 terior ; that they had found a flag in the custom-house 
 there, and hung it before head-quarters "the green 
 above the red ; " and that the men were losing their 
 confidence in the campaign, and beginning to return 
 in couples and squads. 
 
 Later in the afternoon Colonel Brown returned 
 from a visit to the front, and boldly hung from his 
 window in the Tremont House, for public inspection, 
 a large red flag, with the red cross of St. George in 
 the corner. Calling on him to obtain the news, I 
 assured him that such foolish bravado would result in 
 his immediate arrest; and the trophy was immediately 
 pulled into the room. Several Irishmen who were 
 there begged pieces of it, which were torn oflT and 
 given them. Brown spoke cheerfully of the aspect 
 of affairs, and said, so far fi-om its being difficult to 
 communicate with Sweeney, he himself had spent 
 half an hour with him the night before. He had 
 passed the sleeping officer of the guard and the 
 wakeful but sympathizing sentries without difficulty, 
 had borne his chief the latest news, and had received 
 from him advice and money. The officer awoke when 
 he left the room, but proved to be an old friend, and 
 said nothing about the matter. 
 
 Soon after this, on my way to the telegraph office, 
 I met a correspondent of a Canadian newspaper, — the 
 
A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 273 
 
 only one at St. Albans, — who introduced himself, and 
 begged to share my conveyance to the front next day. 
 We fraternized at once, as jom-nalists on such missions 
 will, and I promised to carry him to the line and 
 across the line, presenting him to the Fenian com- 
 manders if necessary, under an assumed name, as the 
 delegate of a New York j^aper. He invited me to 
 his room at the Weldon House ; and I was surprised, 
 on reaching the apartment, to find that it was, not only 
 next door to the quarters of General Sweeney, still 
 rigidly guarded by a platoon of soldiers, but that an 
 orifice, intended originally for the 2:)assage of a stove- 
 pipe, pierced the partition wall between the two 
 rooms. It was close to the ceiling, and we could hear 
 through it only a low murmur of voices, evidently 
 those of General Sweeney and Colonel Meehan, his 
 fellow-prisoner and adjutant-general. I arranged with 
 my Canadian comrade for an early departure for the 
 field the next morning, and promised to call on 
 Colonel Brown for something in the nature of a 
 safeguard, to insure us from the loss of our horse 
 at the hands of strolling Fenians. When we left the 
 room I observed that my friend did not lock his door, 
 and was informed that he had never been j^rovided 
 with a key. 
 
 When I called at the room where, two hours before, 
 I had left Colonel Brown at the Tremont House, the 
 Hibernian inmates informed me that they knew noth- 
 ing at all of his whereabouts ; but when I stated my 
 errand, assuring them confidentially that it was " all 
 right," and insisting firmly that I must see him, one 
 of them went off for instructions, and, returning, con- 
 ducted me to a little room in an obscure corner of the 
 house, where the Colonel was in hiding from the ex- 
 pected officers of the law. He was writing by the 
 
 12* R 
 
274 LETTERS. 
 
 flaring light of a little fluid lamp a note which, when 
 completed, he read aloud to me. I took, of course, 
 no notes ; but as nearly as I can remember the epistle 
 ran as follows : ■ — 
 
 " St. Albans, June 8. 
 " General Speae : I find matters here dark in- 
 deed. The ammunition upon which we depended 
 so much has been seized to-day at Burlington. The 
 men who have deserted are sent home free by the 
 United States government, on signing a pledge to 
 abandon Fenianism forever. It is now impossible 
 to communicate with General Sweeney, as the guard 
 over him has been doubled, and nothing can be done 
 with the ofiicers. It seems to me that there must be 
 brains enough in this movement to devise an honor- 
 able and brilliant mode of leaving Canada, if, indeed, 
 nothing better remains. In whatever is decided upon 
 by yourself, you will find a faithful and devoted as- 
 sistant in 
 
 "John H. Beown." 
 
 "I can communicate with General Sweeney," said 
 I, when the reading was concluded. " Write whatever 
 you wish to say to him, and I will answer for the im- 
 mediate delivery of the letter." 
 
 Colonel Brown wished an explanation of the means 
 at my disposal, which I gave him ; on reflection, he 
 said he would send nothing to the prisoner that night, 
 as he had only gloomy tidings to tell ; but while he 
 wrote the pass which was the object of my call, a 
 messenger entered, who, it seemed, had previously 
 been intrusted with a letter or report to Sweeney 
 fi-om Spear. He had endeavored to get this into the 
 hands of the former by the agency of the sympathiz- 
 ing servant-girls who carried him his meals, but had 
 
A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 275 
 
 been unable to accomplish it, owing to tbe vigilance 
 of the guard ; and so the document was given to me. 
 The i:)aper which was given me as a safeguard may- 
 have some interest to the reader. I have preserved it 
 as a relic, and here it is : — 
 
 " St. Albans, June 8, 1866. 
 " Soldiers of the T. R. A. Avill not molest the 
 bearer, as he is a friend, — this order subject to the 
 action of the provost-marshal. 
 
 «J. H. Brown^, 
 
 Lieut. -Col., 3d Cav., T. R. A." 
 
 The delivery of my packet was a very simple mat- 
 ter. I exchanged a greeting with the guard as I 
 entered the empty room of my Canadian Mend ; 
 lighted the gas ; clambered on the mantel-shelf; 
 threw the letter through the stovepipe hole; heard 
 it fall upon the floor ; wondered what Avould be my 
 fortune if one of the officers in charge of Sweeney 
 should happen to be in the room at the moment ; 
 heard one of the prisoners read the document aloud 
 to the other ; waited long enough to see that no an- 
 swer was to be looked for; and then found my new 
 acquaintance down stairs, and jested with him over 
 the aid and comfort which his room had enabled me 
 to give to the enemy. 
 
 We were awakened soon after sunrise on the morn- 
 ing of Saturday for our expedition across the border ; 
 and, notwithstanding the persuasions of a demoral- 
 ized Fenian colonel, who had arrived during the night, 
 and proclaimed that the whole enterprise was aban- 
 doned, and the army of invasion following close at 
 his heels, we set off at about seven o'clock. Our 
 equipage consisted of a stout pair of horses, an open 
 wagon with seats for four, and a driver sent from 
 
276 LETTERS. 
 
 the stable with secret orders not to venture across 
 the border. 
 
 "We amused ourselves on the road by counting the 
 straggling Fenians, without arms, whom we met going 
 southward. There were about a hundred and fifty of 
 them, beside an uncountable crowd estimated to num- 
 ber as many more, who swarmed about the village of 
 East Highgate. On inquiry we found that this party 
 comprised the regiment commanded by the officer 
 who had reached St. Albans the night before, and that 
 they were constantly debating whether to follow their 
 colonel to the rear, or to choose a new commander 
 and return to the front. 
 
 As we neared the boundary, it became evident that 
 the story of a general retreat had been only prema- 
 ture. We met officers and men, armed and unarmed, 
 alike pushing sullenly to the southward. One party 
 had four or five good horses, which they led along, 
 and vainly strove to sell at any price to the citizens 
 along the road. Many of the men had bound about 
 their bodies blankets and quilts, evidently the spoil of 
 rustic households on the Canada side. Just upon the 
 brow of the hill which overlooked the village on the 
 line, we encountered a large group of men, all well 
 armed, and, plodding along in the midst of them, 
 Colonel Contri, his dress and equipments as pictur- 
 esque as ever, but his dashing manner all gone, and 
 his handsome eyes filled with tears. 
 
 As he recognized me, he came up, and grasped my 
 hand ; and when I asked the news, replied in a broken 
 voice : — 
 
 " I cannot tell you — what has happened. I — 
 think — I — am — crazy." 
 
 Then he beckoned me aside, and inquired, every 
 word a victory over a sob : — 
 
A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 277 
 
 " Do yoii think I will be arrested when I go through 
 St. Albans ? I will leave my arms, and go very 
 quietly, but I have only my uniform to wear." 
 
 I gave him the best advice in my power, and then, 
 leaving the driver in charge of the wagon in a yard by 
 the roadside, my companion and I hurried forward on 
 foot to see the evacuation. It was going on, indeed. 
 A dense, disorderly crowd filled the road between the 
 boundary and head-quarters, all moving towards the 
 American side, and the men firing ofi" their pieces at 
 random in a reckless manner, which put in peril the 
 lives of themselves and the lookers-on. A beautiful 
 cream-colored colt, made frantic by the noise of the 
 musketry, was galloj^ing about, and twice I saw deadly 
 muzzles presented at his head, and his life only saved 
 by the interference of Fenian ofiicers. 
 
 A little in advance of one group came General 
 Spear, his sword borne over his shoulder, trudging 
 wearily, and covered with dust. He, too, was almost 
 in tears, and his utterance trembled with emotion as 
 he said, in response to our greeting : — 
 
 " Gentlemen, this is my rear-guard. We have had 
 no arms, no ammunition, no reinforcements. My men 
 refused to stay with me longer, but I cannot blame 
 them." 
 
 General Mahan came after, with his green flag 
 wrapped in a newspaper under his arm, breathing 
 oaths against the government which had interfered 
 and spoiled the campaign. He gave us a rapid 
 history of events — continued skirmishing at Frelis- 
 burg, the capture of three more flags there, de- 
 spair following the news of the seizure at Burlington, 
 intelligence of the approach of British troops in 
 force, a council of war, the men ready to mutiny, 
 a retreat at last decided upon. 
 
278 LETTERS. 
 
 "We are not going to give it up yet," said the Gen- 
 eral : " we are going to keep our arms, and join the 
 army at Malone " ; and many of the men re-echoed 
 his determination. There was less despondency 
 among the retreating body than I expected to see. 
 Some shouted " Eastport " and " Bull Run " as they 
 crossed the line ; others swore bitterly that they never 
 again would fight for the United States government ; 
 while many sang " The Irish Volunteer," or whistled 
 "The Wearing of the Green," as they marched, to 
 keep up the spirits of their fellows. 
 
 The confidential stafi* officer who had offered the 
 reward for the flag informed me that he had paid the 
 amount stipulated to his friend, Colonel Tresilyan, 
 who hoisted the captured banner before head-quarters. 
 I perceived at once that this was a trick to avoid a 
 payment which could hardly have been expected as 
 circumstances had turned out. The egotistic aide 
 also wished me to understand that he purposed to see 
 every man safely across the boundary, and to be him- 
 self the last to leave Canadian soil, and again remarked 
 that he desired to see his name and rank given cor- 
 rectly in print. 
 
 In return for his news, we offered General Mahan a 
 seat in our wagon, which he gladly accepted; and so 
 we rode slowly along, parting the crowd of Fenians on 
 foot, until we overtook the head-quarters of the right 
 Aving. This consisted of a group of officers sitting on 
 the grass by the roadside. General Spear being the 
 central figure. Our passenger proposed to change 
 places wath his superior officer, and General Spear 
 heavily climbed into the wagon. The staff" officers, 
 whose orderlies seemed to have deserted them in the 
 hour of need, thrust upon us the luggage with which 
 they were loaded down, consisting of carpet-bags, 
 
A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 279 
 
 sabres, and overcoats, with the request to carry it to 
 Franklin for them. After we had j^roceeded some 
 distance, I discovered in the mass a home-made bed- 
 comforter, which evidently did not accompany the 
 Fenians into Canada, though they brought it out with 
 them. I suggested that we were not bound by any 
 law of courtesy to assist in the transportation of such 
 booty as this ; and the diiver and I tossed it over- 
 board while General Spear was talking. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said he, slowly and sadly, as we 
 trotted over the rough road, my comi^anion doing his 
 duty under difficulties, by taking the words down in 
 shorthand between the jolts, " this is the severest blow 
 of my life. I gave up, to go into this enterprise, my 
 commission in the regular army, — one of the best 
 positions that a man could desire, — and now it has 
 proved a failure. I lay no blame at the door of Gen- 
 eral Sweeney. I believe him to be faithful, a gentle- 
 man and a soldier. But the head-centres of the States 
 have not kept their promises. I was to have for this 
 right wing twenty-one regiments of infantry and five 
 of cavalry, each five hundred strong, making twenty- 
 six thousand men ; and with half this force, properly 
 armed, I could have swept through Canada, taking 
 every fort. I am still ready to give my all to the 
 cause if future efforts are to be made." 
 
 Just here the speaker was interrupted by a buggy 
 approaching from the southward, driven by Colonel 
 Livingstone, commanding the detachment of United 
 States regulars which had been stationed at Swanton, 
 on the border. In obedience to a sign from the Ameri- 
 can officer, the Fenian officer left our wagon, taking 
 his sword with him, and murmuring, " At least I am a 
 gentleman, and shall behave like a gentleman." The 
 two held a long conversation together, sitting apart 
 
280 . LETTERS. 
 
 on the grass, while we waited patiently for results. 
 Meanwhile General Mahan and the rest passed by, 
 looking askance at the epaulettes of the United States 
 officer, but unmolested by him. At length we resumed 
 our journey to Franklin, General Spear and Colonel 
 Livingstone riding down together. At the stopping- 
 place, I asked the former if he was under arrest, and 
 he replied that he was not, but had given his word of 
 honor to report to the commander at St. Albans. 
 
 I found Franklin in the midst of its last excitement, 
 probably, for the present century at least. Crowds of 
 Fenians swarmed about every building in the village. 
 In one the last surgeon was extracting the ball from 
 the back of the only man wounded in the random 
 firing of the retreat. Fenians and villagers were 
 driving a brisk trade in guns, sabres, and bayonets, 
 which were readily sold by the returning invaders at 
 the most absurdly low prices. Silver forks and 
 spoons, bed-clothing, Canadian money, and other 
 commodities, evidently unlawfully obtained, were 
 also freely offered ; but these were regarded sus- 
 piciously by the Franklin people, and found few pur- 
 chasers. Noticing an unusual crowd in one portion 
 of the village, I found it was Colonel Contri's regi- 
 ment taking leave of its commander. The Italian's 
 eyes poured forth tears copiously as he embraced each 
 of his men in succession, and some of the less demon- 
 strative Irish were crying, while all shouted in dis- 
 cordant tumult, " He is the best officer in this army." 
 " He has not lain drunk about the hotels ; he has 
 stayed with his men." " Good by, Colonel, darling," 
 and so forth. Ten minutes after I met the Colonel 
 in the inn, his face still bathed in tears, and he in- 
 quired, " Did you see my jDarting with my regi- 
 ment ? " in a manner which suggested that, if I had 
 
A WEEK WITH THE FENIANS. 281 
 
 not observed the scene, he was quite willing to go 
 through it again for my edification. 
 
 I returned to St. Albans at once, and remained 
 there two days longer. I saw and chronicled there 
 the arrival of General Meade ; the departure, by 
 special trains, of the Fenian army, — each man paroled 
 to abandon the unlawful enterprise, and the passage 
 of each paid by the government ; the release upon 
 parole of Generals Sweeney and Spear ; the excite- 
 ment springing from false stories, set on foot by 
 Fenians, that the British troops had invaded Ameri- 
 can territory in their pursuit of stragglers. I need 
 not go into these matters in detail ; and so the story 
 of the invasion of Canada is complete. 
 
V. 
 
 STORIES. 
 
STORIES 
 
 A FRESHMAN'S ROMANCE. 
 
 A BOSTON" STORY. 
 
 FRED inNGSTON is in his Senior year. He 
 looks back upon the callow days of his Freshman 
 era as he might look at a portrait of himself bald- 
 headed and in long clothes, and considers himself 
 a least a hundred years older in wisdom than at the 
 time of the romance which followed his enterinsj 
 college. Indeed, he has advanced quite as rapidly in 
 many kinds of knowledge which do not appear in the 
 pamphlet catalogues as in the regular studies of his 
 course, and carries himself in all kinds of society Avith 
 the graceful serenity of a man of the world. Enthu- 
 siasm is an unknown emotion to him, and his heart 
 does not quicken its beats more than once a year, 
 when he greets the annual victory on the Quinsiga- 
 mond course with the " 'rah, 'rah, 'rah " of his uni- 
 versity. He criticises the points of a woman with 
 languid indifference, and looks out a field for flirta- 
 tion during the lazy weeks that follow class-day as 
 regularly as he chooses the cloth for his summer suit, 
 and with the same delicate and fastidious taste. But 
 I am not sure that he is a better fellow, or even 
 that he holds himself in higher esteem, than when, 
 fresh from the New Hampshire valleys where his 
 
286 STORIES. 
 
 boyhood had been spent, he plunged with a hearty- 
 delight, that did not disdain to show itself, into the 
 multitude of new experiences to which his proximity 
 to a great city introduced him. 
 
 That he did not get into serious mischief in those 
 wild, jolly days was not due so much to the protec- 
 tion and advice of the cousin, two or three classes 
 ahead of him, who had consented to take the lad as 
 a room-mate and look out for him, as to Fred's 
 own hard Yankee sense, and the thoroughly grounded 
 principles of the essentials of morality which he owed 
 to the teachings of his mother. In fact, Chester 
 Bennett was less a mentor than a tormentor to the 
 youngster. He snubbed and patronized Kingston, as 
 he felt in the humor; lent him no aid against the 
 hazing invasions which made the first years at Cam- 
 bridge a period of misery; and generally treated the 
 boy in such a fashion as to teach him the virtue of 
 self-reliance. It was in an exceptional freak of good- 
 nature, therefore, that he invited the Freshman to 
 accompany him to the Winthrop Lyceum, on the 
 evening from which dates the beginning of Fred 
 Kingston's first romance, with Bessie Grey, comedi- 
 enne^ as its heroine. 
 
 Kingston was crude enough in such matters as not 
 to enjoy the tragedy with which the programme began, 
 and ?2m/ enough to say so. The star actor, whose every 
 tone and gesture was applauded to the echo, seemed 
 to him a mere stentorian mangier of Shakespeare, 
 whose art deserved no commendation, because it did 
 not pattern after nature. To be sure, he himself, as 
 his companion argued to him, had never seen anybody 
 under the harrowing circumstances which surrounded 
 the hero of the play, and therefore should not pretend 
 to superior knowledge ; but Fred stoutly maintained 
 
A FEESHMAN'S ROMANCE. 287 
 
 that common-sense only was needed to perceive that 
 a youth passionately in love with a maiden remark- 
 ably ready to jump into his arms would not express 
 his emotion by capering about the stage, and running 
 up and down the gamut in his inflections, as did the 
 stalwart Romeo whom they saw and heard. As to 
 the lady of the balcony, Kingston declared that it 
 was an outrage upon all taste for any Juliet to thrust 
 herself in the -plsLce of a fellow's ideal with a row of 
 false curls plastered down to her eyebrows, and a 
 palpable circle of dark paint under her eyes. In this 
 Bennett to some extent agreed with him, though he 
 urged in extenuation that the actress was old enough 
 to be Juliet's grandmother, and that she had been cast 
 in Lady Macbeth the night before, and had identified 
 herself with the character so completely that its se- 
 pulchral tones yet lingered in her voice. Thus the 
 evening passed rather tamely, though the younger 
 student found some relief in laughing at the extrav- 
 agances of Peter and the Apothecary with a boyish 
 glee which made the impassive Senior uneasy, and 
 caused some of the still more blase theatre-goers 
 to look at the youngster with envy. At last the 
 green curtain fell, a long row of slaughtered dramatis 
 perso7iCB scrambling to theu' feet before it had fairly 
 touched the stage. 
 
 "Well, old fellow, shall we go, or stay for the 
 farce, and run our chance of hitting the last car ? " 
 said Bennett, consulting his watch, and yawning with 
 a relish. 
 
 " I 'm not particular," said Kingston. " Shall we 
 snap up for it ? " 
 
 It was the fashion that week in one or two sets at 
 Cambridge to decide all doubtful matters, important 
 or trivial, by the toss of a coin j so one of the young 
 
288 STORIES. 
 
 men held his hat, crown upward, while the other fil- 
 lipped a cent, and in obedience to its decision they 
 remained ; and so Fred Kingston saw Bessie Grey. 
 
 He was laughing with his accustomed heartiness 
 over the clever acting of the i^oj^ular comedian, when, 
 in resi3onse to that gentleman's frantic ring, the cham- 
 bermaid of the " Fig and Trumpeter " emerged from 
 the canvas door of that hostelry ; and Fred Kings- 
 ton's laugh stopped half finished in his throat, never 
 to be comi3leted till he was able to resume it with a 
 a smile at himself months after. A slight ripple of 
 applause greeted the actress as she entered, and 
 Chester Bennett whispered : — 
 
 " Bessie Grey. She is getting to be something of a 
 favorite." 
 
 Fred, if he heard the remark, made no reply. He 
 ran his fingers through his yellow curls, as he always 
 did in those days when moved, and levelled his op- 
 era-glass at the apparition which had taken his breath 
 away. 
 
 It was a demure yet piquant little damsel, seemingly 
 no further advanced in her teens than the freshman 
 himself, modestly dressed as the sister he had left in 
 his rural home, with none of the artificial charms to 
 which his brief acquaintance with the stage had 
 already accustomed him, but with a witchery such as 
 he had never met in mimic or in actual life. Eyes 
 which danced as naturally as her feet, veiled by long 
 lashes needing no circle of paint to heighten their 
 brilliant effect, and lips pouting Avith sauciness and 
 wit,, but yet wonderfully suggestive of innocence and 
 purity, were, perhaps, the souhrette's most beautiful 
 features. But there was no inharmonious element to 
 mar the symmetrical curves of her face ; and in coun- 
 tenance and figure and bearing there was a nameless 
 
A FRESHMAN'S ROMANCE. 289 
 
 fascination which set this young fellow's heart thump- 
 ing against his waistcoat till he was fain to press his 
 hand upon the place to keep it quiet. Fred watched 
 her with thirsty eyes as she twinkled about the stage, 
 listened with hungry ears to her birdlike share in the 
 dialogue, and to her clear tones as she sung the simple 
 ballad, " Five o'clock in the morning," which a greater 
 songstress had made popular, but which sounded now 
 a hundred-fold more thrilling to Fred Kingston's ears 
 than when he had heard Parepa sing it the week before. 
 He wiped his swimming eyes as "the old, old story was 
 told again " ; and in short, long before the climax of 
 the farce was reached, and the hasty hundred hurried 
 from their seats " to be out before the crowd," the 
 lad was deeply in love with a girl whom he had nev- 
 er seen before, and of whom he knew nothing more 
 than her lovely face, her dainty hand, her sweet voice, 
 and her name — possibly assumed — -on a play-bill. 
 
 " By Jove ! " he broke out, when the glare of the 
 street lamps and the cool air of the night had dis- 
 pelled the trance which had bound him. " She is the 
 most beautiful woman I ever saw." 
 
 " You are not ass enough to mean that white- 
 washed old Juliet!" cried Chester Bennett, — who 
 never used a smooth word when a rough one would 
 answer his puii^ose as well. 
 
 " Pshaw ! " said Kingston. " Of course I can mean 
 nobody but Miss Grey." 
 
 " Miss Grey ? O, you mean Bessie Grey, in the 
 farce. Yes, she is pretty enough, seen across the 
 footlights. But did you notice how horribly she 
 flatted in that song ? " 
 
 " Chess Bennett, I would not have such a musical 
 ear as you have for an interest in Oakham," said the 
 younger collegian. " You would find discords in the 
 13 s 
 
290 STORIES. 
 
 music of the spheres. But tell me if you know any- 
 thing about this Bessie Grey." 
 
 " To be sure I do, — all about her," replied Bennett, 
 who never confessed ignorance, except to a professor. 
 " She has only been here this season, but has played a 
 year or two in New York. She lives with her mother, 
 like most actresses, and supports the old woman and 
 a little shaver of a brother on what she makes at the 
 Lyceum. She makes great play with her eyes, and 
 has a pretty foot ; but she has not learned to act yet ; 
 and as to singing, the management ought not to let 
 her attempt it." 
 
 " I did not ask you for criticism," said Fred, a little 
 sulkily; and then, as they sauntered about the square 
 waiting for the car, he began again in an off-hand 
 manner very jDOorly assumed, — 
 
 "I wonder how a fellow goes to work when he 
 wants to get acquainted with an actress off the 
 stage." 
 
 " Nothing is easier," said his comrade. " They have 
 a benefit every once in a while. Bessie Grey, for in- 
 stance, is underlined on the bill for a benefit next 
 week, after this star engagement is over. Then the 
 fellows call at their house, or boarding-house, and 
 the girl is dressed up to the nines, and the callers 
 buy tickets, and pay a big extra bonus for the sake of 
 getting them in that way." 
 
 " Is that really so. Chess, or are you chafiing 
 again ? " 
 
 " Word and honor, my boy. In fact, I tried it my- 
 self once, in my first year, for the lark of the thing. 
 Called in heavy style on that delicate creature who 
 played Juliet to-night. Gave her five dollars for an 
 orchestra chair, to see her in ' The Octoroon.' " 
 
 Further conversation was interrupted by the arrival 
 
A FRESHMAN'S ROMANCE. 291 
 
 of the car, and the rush to secure places. Several 
 scores of the young men's fellow-collegians had been 
 in town at the different theatres, and so our friends 
 considered themselves lucky to obtain one or two 
 square inches each of standing-room on the plat- 
 forms, where the students thrust their elbows into 
 each other's ribs, and woke the sleepers of the Port 
 with their chorus of " Rolling Home," as the crowded 
 vehicle rumbled throuo-h. 
 
 Chester Bennett's snores were soon rising and fill- 
 ing with such a regularity of rhythm and profundity 
 of bass as would have delighted his waking ears ; but 
 his chum sought slumber in vain, for the first time 
 in his life, and mused of the eyes and eyelashes which 
 had bewitched him, for hours and hours of sweet un- 
 .rest. At last his thoughts dissolved into dreams, still 
 of the same beautiful face; but it seemed hardly a 
 moment's interval before the clanging of the prayer- 
 bell awoke him, and he caught himself murmuring, — 
 
 " And the old, old story was told again, 
 At five o'clock in the morning." 
 
 Xext week seemed a long way off to Fred Kings- 
 ton ; but the interval would give him time to perfect a 
 j^lan which at first thought seemed too audacious for 
 his courage. He could have joined readily enough in 
 an expedition to visit the worn and unattractive lead- 
 ing lady of the AYinthrop Lyceum ; but to invade the 
 privacy of the lovely and modest little maiden of the 
 after-piece, seemed to involve something of a sacrilege. 
 He revolved all day in his mind the question what he 
 should say and how he should bear himself at the crit- 
 ical moment of finding himself face to face with such 
 a creature; and his recitation in Livy was the most 
 imperfect since he had entered college. 
 
 The lad went to the theatre again that evening, 
 
292 STOEIES. 
 
 though, as the programme was a repetition of the 
 last, he thought it would be useless to ask Bennett 
 to accompany him. He bought a little bouquet, 
 which he selected as carefully from the stock of 
 flowers on the shop-counter as if his life depended 
 on the choice. But when the after-piece began, and 
 the assembly was laughing at the jests of the come- 
 dian, he thought it might embarrass the lively little 
 creature who danced in at her cue, to receive an 
 untimely offering ; he thought he was too far from 
 the stage to toss the gift gracefully; he thought 
 the flowers, as he peeped at them under his coat, 
 had withered in the close air of the theatre; he 
 thought a thousand things which made him hesi- 
 tate, until the curtain fell, and the opportunity had 
 gone ; and then he carried his flowers away with 
 him, and dropped them tenderly ofl" the bridge as 
 he walked home. 
 
 As his second glimpse of his vision of enchantment 
 had wrought no diminution in the depth of his feel- 
 ings, Fred Kingston summoned up a stouter courage 
 next day. As he brooded to himself over his new, 
 strange thoughts, the lines sung themselves over and 
 over again in his mind: — 
 
 *' He either fears his fate too much, 
 Or liis deserts too small, 
 That dares not put it to the touch, 
 To gain or lose it all." 
 
 So he tightened up his nerves to the achievement 
 of throwing a bouquet to an actress who had received 
 such a tribute before a hundred times in her profes- 
 sional career, as he might have done to charge upon a 
 hostile battery. He missed a recitation to run in town 
 in the morning and secure a seat suitable for his ex- 
 ploit ; and his head was filled all day with the thoughts 
 of what he intended to do. 
 
A FRESHMAN'S ROMANCE. 293 
 
 " I say," he broke out to his chum, in the afternoon, 
 "why is it that the newspapers all give long criti- 
 cisms to the star actor, at the Winthrop, and none of 
 them have a word to throw at the performances of the 
 stock company ? " 
 
 Chester Bennett illuminated the subject with a flood 
 of wisdom, as usual : " The explanation is very sim- 
 ple. The criticisms in the paj^ers amount to nothing 
 as criticisms. They are bought and paid for with the 
 advertisements. While this star is here, they are 
 written by his agent and runner, and the critics are 
 glad enough to put them in, and save writing any of 
 them themselves, for a small consideration." 
 
 " Are you sure that is so, Chess ? I used to wi'ite 
 a paragraph about our academy exhibitions at home, 
 and the ' Clarion ' would print it ; but I supposed 
 city papers were different." 
 
 " Of course I am sure of it," said Bennett. " A friend 
 of mine is on the ' Evening Asteroid,' and he told me 
 how it is manag-ed." 
 
 Then Bennett plunged into his work, and Kingston 
 tried to give his attention to his book, while new pro- 
 jects of methods of testifying his adoration for Bessie 
 Grey thrust themselves distractingly upon his im- 
 agination. 
 
 Promptly, when the overture began, Fred was in his 
 place in the theatre, his fragrant little offering hidden 
 beneath his coat. The play was "Richelieu," and 
 Bessie Grey was cast for Frangois, — the bills said, for 
 the first time. The tragedian coughed and hummed 
 through the opening lines of the second scene, in the 
 conventional style ; but one spectator gave little 
 heed to him, but waited, all expectation, for the cue 
 for the entrance of the cardinal's page. He hardly 
 recognized his idol at first, in her flaxen wig and male 
 
294 STOEIES. 
 
 attire of black velvet; but before she spoke a throb at 
 his heart told him it Avas she, and, half rising from his 
 seat, he tossed his bouquet with an aim which inspira- 
 tion seemed to render dexterous, so that it fell at 
 Bessie Grey's feet. 
 
 The single line which the actress had to deliver 
 paused on her lips at the unexpected interruption ; the 
 frowning tragedian frowned more fiercely than ever ; 
 and the actor who played Joseph turned sharply 
 round and peered into the audience as if to see whence 
 the flowers had come. But the delay was only that 
 of an instant ; Frangois picked up the flowers with a 
 glance toward the giver, and the merest suggestion of 
 a bow in his direction ; and in a moment more the 
 message was delivered, and the messenger vanished to 
 usher in the mature and aquiline Julie de Morteraar. 
 Fred Kingston's pulse beat again ; but he was made 
 uneasy by the sinister glances of the priestly Joseph, 
 who seemed to take his tribute as a personal of- 
 fence. Presently he caught a glimpse of the lithe, 
 graceful form of Miss Grey at the wing at the 
 opposite side of the stage, apparently scrutinizing 
 the audience in his neighborhood ; and he exulted in 
 the thought that she was thinking of him already, 
 though she did not know him. He thought it possible 
 she might wear his flowers, or one of them, in the 
 later scenes ; but when she did not, he solaced himself 
 Avith the thought that such an ornament would be 
 absurd in Frangois, the embryo Capuchin, and gave 
 himself up to the enjoyment of the new revelations 
 of her beauty and grace which the evening's part 
 exhibited. 
 
 Bessie Grey was not to appear in the after-piece ; so 
 when the drama was ended the young fellow, in al- 
 most a delirium of delicious j)assion, left the theatre. 
 
A FRESHMAN'S ROMANCE. 295 
 
 He sought the cool ah' and comparative sechision of 
 the Common to cool his brain, and after j^acing up and 
 doAvn one of its paths for a while, he betook himself to 
 the reading-room of the nearest hotel, to carry out the 
 second part of the programme which he had mapped 
 out for himself He had provided paper in his pocket ; 
 he had studied closely for a few days past the amuse- 
 ment columns of some of the newspapers ; he was 
 naturally a quick writer, and his subject carried its 
 inspiration with it. In half an hour or so, and after one 
 or two false beginnings had been crumpled up and 
 torn to pieces, he achieved something which satisfied 
 him. It ran in this way : — 
 
 " The imj^ersonation of Francois by Miss Bessie 
 Grey was, as we are informed by the programme, 
 the lady's first assumption of the j^art. It was a 
 triumphant success in every particular, and elicited 
 the warmest enthusiasm of the audience. The lady's 
 beauty shone out brilliantly through her masculine 
 disguise, and her rendering of the difiicult character 
 was marked by rare excellence, thorough study, and 
 dramatic power. Miss Grey fairly shared the honors 
 of the evening with the tragedian himself, and we 
 congratulate her warmly on the impression made 
 upon the public." 
 
 Ejngston thought of adding a line of stern criticism 
 of the performance of Joseph by Mr. Fletcher, to whom 
 he had taken a great aversion ; but he reflected that 
 there might be some unforeseen difiiculty in obtain- 
 ing the publication of censure, and decided that it 
 was best to let his eulogy stand alone. He folded 
 the document carefully, and strode boldly through the 
 now almost deserted streets to the office of the 
 "Daily Disseminator." He did not care to go to 
 the "Asteroid," lest Bennett's friend might cany 
 
296 STOEIES. 
 
 the story of what he had done to his chum's ears ; 
 and he never doubted that all the papers were alike, 
 and that Bennett's theory in regard to them was 
 strictly correct. So he clambered up the long flights 
 of dirty stairs to the editorial rooms, and confidently 
 entered. 
 
 The narrow room was hot with burning gas. Half 
 a dozen gentlemen in their shirt-sleeves sat writing at 
 desks and tables, and cutting u]) sheets of tissue-paper 
 manuscript with long scissors. The rumble of the 
 press in the basement gave the floor a tremor beneath 
 the visitor's feet. 
 
 " Is the dramatic critic in ? " said he, after a mo- 
 ment's hesitation. 
 
 The scribbler nearest pointed with his left hand to 
 a figure in the corner, while his right hand kept gal- 
 loping over long strips of yellowish brown paper. 
 Kingston approached the personage thus designated, 
 who had tipped his chair back against the wall, and 
 was refreshing himself with an apple and a mug of 
 steaming cofiee. 
 
 " Do you notice the theatres, sir, for the ' Dissem- 
 inator'?" 
 
 " I have that pleasure," said the gentleman, rather 
 loftily. 
 
 " I should like," said Fred, drawing up his chair so 
 near that he could assume a confidential tone, "to 
 have you print this, or something like it, in your 
 notice to-morrow morning of the ^performance at the 
 Lyceum." 
 
 The journalist took the manuscript, and seemed to 
 read it at a single glance. Then he looked at Fred 
 more carefully than he had done before, and with 
 rather a queer expression in his eyes. 
 
 " Were you sent here by anybody with this ? " 
 
A FRESHMAN'S ROMANCE. 297 
 
 " O no, sir," said Kingston. " It is nobody's mat- 
 ter but my own. I shall be very happy to make it 
 right, of course, on your own terms " ; and the lad felt 
 for his pocket-book. 
 
 " You are quite mistaken, sir," said the critic, Avith 
 a fantastic flourish of his pewter mug. " This is the 
 office of the ' Daily Disseminator.' Our praise is un- 
 bought, as our censure is unterrified. May I ask if I 
 have not seen you at Old Cambridge ? " 
 
 " It is quite possible, sir," said the Freshman, a little 
 puzzled ; " but I cannot remember haAing met vou be- 
 fore." 
 
 " Very likely," replied the other ; " I never forget a 
 face, and I am rarely mistaken in a student of Har- 
 vard College. As to your discriminating notice of 
 Miss Grey, it may need to be modified somewhat to 
 make it harmonize with my own article; but I will 
 see that something is said." 
 
 Kingston was dimly conscious of being quizzed, 
 but there was nothing he could resent; and as the 
 writer took up his pen and seemed to consider the in- 
 terview ended, he murmured some rather vague 
 thanks, and withdrew. As he reached the first land- 
 ing he heard a burst of laughter ; and pausing in- 
 voluntarily for a moment, his quick ear detected his 
 own sentences of jDanegp-ic read aloud with a rat- 
 tling fire of comments from several voices. Cha- 
 grined at his evident blunder, and attributing it to 
 Bennett's advice, he hurried away ; and it was not till 
 he reached the bridge that the soothing influence of a 
 charmino' imasce came between his heart and his mor- 
 tification. 
 
 Even this did not wholly eradicate the impression 
 which his visit to the newspaper office had made ; for 
 he hastened out into the Square before breakfast in 
 
 13* 
 
298 STOEIES. 
 
 the morning to purchase a copy of the ' Disseminator.' 
 There was a long analysis of tlie ti-aits of the star's 
 j^erformance, as usual ; and at the foot of it Kingston's 
 eye fell upon this paragrah : — 
 
 " Miss Elizabeth Grey (for so we presume she was 
 christened) made a moderately successful first attemjjt 
 at playing Frangois. This little lady is becoming a 
 pet of the juvenile class in the audiences at the Win- 
 throp, and some of her admirers were quite la\ish in 
 their applause; but a mat urer judgment finds much 
 crudity and inexperience in her acting, and only care- 
 ful study and assiduous labor can win her real success 
 in that career to which, from her transfer from farce to 
 serious drama, she seems to asi^ire." 
 
 To some temperaments a blow like this might have 
 had a sting in it ; but Fred Kingston was at an age 
 and at a stage of passion which tossed such things off 
 very easily. He saw only virulent malignity in the 
 words of the critic, probably pensioned by some rival 
 actress to decry the rising genius of the stage ; and, 
 without stopping to brood over the matter, he set 
 about thinking in what other way he could serve the 
 object of his adoration, and give vent to the feelings 
 of his heart. He must have been musing over it in 
 the night-watches ; for it was an amazingly short time 
 after he had shut himself up in his room before he was 
 pacing up and down, running his fingers through his 
 hair, and murmuring, with a careful solicitude for feet 
 and rhythm, the following lines : — 
 
 " Fly over the footlights, my gift, and drop down 
 At the feet of the maid that 's the pet of the town, 
 And when she bends o'er you, some violet say — 
 There's a note snugly hidden, for Miss Bessie Grey. 
 
 " One may pee on the stage hosts of beautiful girls, 
 And, bewitched by their eyes and ensnared by their curls, 
 
A FRESHMAN'S ROMANCE. 299 
 
 He may think from the skies they are seraphs astray ; 
 But they 're none of them angels, save pure Bessie Grey. 
 
 *' All the rest are composed of the commonplace stuff, 
 And for aught that I know are good creatures enough; 
 But there 's one has been touched by a heavenly raj', 
 And she can be no one but bright Bessie Grey. 
 
 " There 's not one that is worthy with lier to compare, 
 Not one half so modest, so graceful, so fair. 
 And whether she 's pensive, or whether she 's gay, 
 She's equally charming, is sweet Bessie Grey. 
 
 " With her dark waving hair o'er a brow white as snow, 
 With her cheeks where the pink blushes dart to and fro, 
 With her eyes which the soul that 's beneath them betray, 
 There is no one can choor^e but adore Bessie Grey." 
 
 " The ending is a little abnipt," thought Fred, after 
 he had read this production over five or six times, 
 "but it looks all the more passionate and sincere." 
 Then he dashed out and purchased the daintiest and 
 glossiest paper in the bookstore, on which to copy 
 his stanzas, ajDpendiug his name to them in full ; and 
 what with a trip in town to secure an eligible seat 
 again, and the selection of flowers Avorthy to accom- 
 pany such a missive, there was very little of the day 
 left for the business which had brought him from New 
 Hampshire to Cambridge. But college honors seemed 
 comparatively worthless things to the Freshman at 
 that time ; and any complaints of his conscience were 
 easily drowned by the thumj^ings of his heart. 
 
 The play of the evening was a repetition of that of 
 the night before, and Fred's experience had few new 
 features. He waited till the second act before tossing 
 his bouquet ; but Richelieu and Joseph were both on 
 the stage as before, and seemed to like his modest 
 nosegay no better than at first. Indeed, Joseph 
 started to pick it up, but Francois stooped for it too 
 quickly for him. Kingston had tied his note carefully 
 
300 STORIES. 
 
 beneath the flowers, so that its presence should not 
 be discovered till the actress inspected them at her 
 leisure. He remained till the curtain fell, applauding 
 Francois faithfully when the co-operation of any of her 
 other admirers gave him an excuse, and occasionally, 
 not to seem odd, joining in the applause which greeted 
 the hoarse grunts and coughs of the tragedian. Fred 
 fancied Bessie Grey's eyes turned in his direction more 
 than once ; and in her girlish stride in manly boots 
 and doublet, her little hand gleaming through a lace 
 ruffle, her struggle for the precious packet in the rude 
 arms of De Beringhen, he found new food for the 
 passion which had taken possession of him, and new 
 material for dreams, in one of which he saw the little 
 actress, in her jaunty page's costume, standing on the 
 piazza of his house at home, declaiming the lines he 
 had written in the morning. 
 
 There are lads, and perhaps there were some then 
 at Harvard who likewise fancied themselves in love 
 with Bessie Grey, who would be satisfied with the 
 solace found in frequent visits to the theatre and a 
 fusillade of boquets. But Fred Kingston was of 
 another sort. He must keep moving, from one step 
 to another, or his love would have torn him to j^ieces; 
 or at least so it seemed to him. So a day or two 
 after, when he thought the time of the promised bene- 
 fit was near enough to justify the purchase of tickets, 
 he rung the bell of the quiet house in which, as he 
 had learned after much inquiry, the popular souhrette 
 of the Winthrop Lyceum had lodgings. 
 
 The waiting-maid scrutinized him doubtfully, and 
 inclined to the ojjinion that Miss Grey was not in, but 
 consented, upon solicitation, to take the visitor's card 
 up and see. The apparent unexpectedness of such a 
 caller made Fred begin to expect a rebuff, and he was 
 
A FRESHMAN'S ROMANCE. 301 
 
 agreeably surprised when the servant came back with 
 " Would you please to walk up, sir ? " He was 
 ushered up several flights of stairs, and left standing 
 at a door at which he knocked with tremulous and 
 eager fingers. 
 
 The trim little lady who responded to his knock 
 was the same Miss Grey who had fascinated him 
 across the footlights, and yet diflTerent. Her manner 
 was remarkably subdued, but her bearing had an ease 
 and confidence about it in contrast with the young 
 ladies of Kingston's acquaintance in private life. Her 
 voice was low and gentle, and it seemed imjDOssible 
 that it could ever be made to fill the huge cavern of 
 the theatre. Her dress had nothing coquettish about 
 it, and was to the last degree plain, cheap, and service- 
 able. Her hand, which glittered with rings when on 
 the stage, even when playing a chambermaid, was now 
 unadorned, except with a thimble. Her hair, though 
 no art could conceal its unusual heaviness and quan- 
 tity, Avas twisted up almost contemptuously behind 
 her head. But Fred's eyes, as they observed with a 
 glance this absence of all adventitious aids to beauty, 
 rejoiced also in the discovery that the woman was as 
 lovely as the actress had been. The marvellous eyes, 
 the matchless lashes, the pure complexion, the ravish- 
 ing smile, had gained nothing from the gaslight or 
 the paint-brush ; and if he had loved her at a distance, 
 he loved her tenfold more on close inspection. 
 
 " Come in, sir. Mr. Kingston, this is my mother." 
 
 The personage thus introduced was a plump, com- 
 fortable old lady witli a silky mustache, who sat sew- 
 ing by the window, and only half rose at the intro- 
 duction, glancing at the young man rather searchingly 
 through gold-bowed spectacles. 
 
 One or two commonplace remarks of an unusually 
 
302 STORIES. 
 
 commonplace cliaracter gave Fred Kingston time to 
 observe first, that his flowers were set in a vase on the 
 mantel, and second, that the room was a small one, 
 undoubtedly doing duty as a chamber, — though the 
 bedstead ivas disguised as an imposing bookcase with 
 glass doors, — and that it was strewn with the imple- 
 ments and materials of dressmaking. Pie was about 
 to refer to his errand of purchasing tickets, when Miss 
 Grey spoke : — 
 
 " I dare say you may not know, Mr. Kingston, that 
 it is quite against the rule for me to receive a gentle- 
 man caller ; but I will tell you why I have made an 
 exception in your case." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said the youth, quite confused. 
 " I thought — I was told — could not I get some 
 places for your benefit ? " 
 
 " O, dear, no, indeed. You will find them at the 
 box-ofiice. Ma does not approve of girls peddling 
 their tickets out themselves, and I quite agree with her." 
 
 " That is something Lizzie has never done since she 
 took to the stage," put in the old lady, " and never 
 will." 
 
 Fred must have looked a little puzzled at the name, 
 for Miss Grey explained : — 
 
 " Lizzie is my own family pet name. There were 
 two or three Lizzies at the theatre where I came out, 
 so the manager thought it best to take another. But 
 nobody calls me Bessie except the public." 
 
 This trifling confidence put the Freshman a little 
 more at his ease; but still he stammered over his 
 apology for having misunderstood about calling, and 
 fumbled with his hat. 
 
 " Now don't apologize, Mr. Kingston," said the 
 young lady, who had laid aside her work, and was sit- 
 ting, her chin resting on her hand, in an attitude at 
 
A FRESHMAN'S ROMANCE. 303 
 
 once statuesque and bewitching. "I am sincerely 
 glad you are here, because I have two things to say to 
 you. You won't be offended?" 
 
 "O Miss Grey!" 
 
 " You can hardly be vexed with the first one. It is 
 simply to thank you for your elegant j^oetry." 
 
 Fred blushed deeply. The young lady noticed it, 
 but remained quite composed, and went on, ex23ressing 
 her delight by a pretty gesture. 
 
 "I think it is perfectly superb. Do you know, I 
 never had any poetry before, though I have had loads 
 of bouquets, of course. And then this brought in my 
 name so pat, I was sure it was written on purjDOse for 
 me." 
 
 Kingston began to rally a little. 
 
 " I never had a disposition to write poetry to any one 
 else." 
 
 " I 'm sure I thank you for it with all my heart, and 
 I shall always keep it. ISTow I am afraid you will be 
 vexed with me if I say what I was going to." 
 
 " I hardly think I could look you in the face and be 
 vexed with anything from your lips. Miss Grey." 
 
 " I only want to ask you, if you should ever give 
 me a bouquet again, — which I dare say you never 
 will, — to give it in one of my own pieces, — the farces, 
 or where I am first lady, — and not in the tragedy. 
 Star actors never like to have any attention paid to 
 any of the stock ; and this one has complained to the 
 manager, and, to tell you the truth, I was threatened 
 with a fine if it ever happened again." 
 
 " A fine ! " said Kingston, puzzled. 
 
 "Yes, out of my salary. I dare say you never 
 heard that theatres had such things, but it is a part of 
 the system. I cannot afford to pay many, so I was 
 wondering how to ask you the favor; and if your 
 
304 STORIES. 
 
 card had not come up just now, you might have got a 
 note from me through the mail. You are studying at 
 Cambridge, are you not ? " 
 
 Fred admitted it, and murmured some suggestion 
 of departure. 
 
 " Now I shall be sure you are put out with me, if 
 you do not sit and chat a moment, and say you forgive 
 me for such an awkward request. 
 
 " It is I who should ask your forgiveness for such 
 an awkward blunder. I am rather a new hand at the 
 theatre, and knew no better. In fact, I thought you 
 deserved some sign of the appreciation of your act- 
 ing much more than the star." 
 
 Miss Grey arose, and swept him a stately courtesy, 
 in the manner of Mrs. Kemble. 
 
 "If only the manager had your taste, and would 
 show it by sharing the house with me ; or the ' Daily 
 Disseminator,' which has just deigned to notice me for 
 the first time, when I have been here more than two 
 months." 
 
 Kingston blushed again, but his hostess did not 
 notice it. She hesitated a moment, and then said : — 
 
 " I wish I could show in some way a little gratitude 
 for your compliment and for your lovely poetry. I 
 will tell you what I will do, Mr. Kingston, if you will 
 promise not to lisp a word about it. I will play you 
 a solo. I have been positively suffering for a critic ; 
 for it is a great secret at the theatre, yet ; and mother 
 always throws cold water when I try anything new." 
 
 While she spoke the young lady had flitted into a 
 closet, and produced therefrom a delicate little banjo. 
 
 " You see," she said, as she tuned the strings, " it 
 is for the new burlesque next Christmas. All the 
 girls are already practising new songs in private, and 
 I have taken a notion to steal a march on them, 
 
A FRESHMAN'S ROxAIANCE. 305 
 
 and do my own accompaniment. Such things take 
 with the pubHc." 
 
 Then in a moment she threw off the young lady, 
 and became the actress. She seated herself on a low 
 chair, and managed her instrument like a master. 
 She sang one of the oldest and most hackneyed of the 
 negro melodies, with a richness of voice, a plaintive 
 sweetness of expression which filled Fred's eyes with 
 involuntary tears, and brought his whole being into 
 sympathy with the sad, wild song. Her mother 
 stitched steadily away at the window, but once or 
 twice she wiped her glasses. Then, without an 
 instant's pause or warning, the young artist dashed 
 into one of the j^oj^ular comic songs of the day, — a 
 silly, nonsensical affair in itself, but which Bessie 
 Grey's humorous power, command of the eccentricities 
 of facial expression and gesture, and skill with her 
 instrument made irresistibly laughable. As soon as 
 the shock of the transition from pathos was over, 
 Kingston found himself laughing with the uncon- 
 trollable glee of a child. He held his aching sides, as 
 the singer went on in apparent unconsciousness of the 
 effect produced. The old lady at the window had 
 recovered her impassibility, and stitched on through 
 the fun with the gravitj of an automaton. 
 
 " There, Mr. Kingston," said Miss Grey, dropping 
 her banjo and resuming her dignity in the same in- 
 stant ; " now you can judge what we have to contend 
 with. Imagine trying the effect of a new idea in bur- 
 lesque, day after day, on a listener like this." The 
 girl patted her mother's cheek as she spoke, and the 
 old lady vouchsafed a smile in acknowledgment of 
 her daughter's tenderness which she had not given 
 to her absurdity. 
 
 Kingston was vigorously applauding, and recovering 
 from his fit of laughter by slow degrees. 
 
306 STOEIES. 
 
 " Do you row in any of the boat-clubs ? " said Miss 
 Grey, with abrupt earnestness. 
 
 " O yes," replied Fred, recovering his composure at 
 a question which seemed to betoken a personal inter- 
 est. " I was fond of it before I left home, and so I 
 have a place in the class crew." 
 
 " Do you know, I would give the world to learn to 
 row?" 
 
 " Do you know, I would give the world to teach 
 you?" 
 
 Fred had risen, hat in hand, to go ; but something 
 in the expression of the face of the little lady made 
 him continue : — 
 
 " I could give you a lesson very easily, if you would 
 really like it." 
 
 " I am afraid it could not be managed. I should 
 hardly care to meet your fellow-students on the 
 Charles." 
 
 " Of course I should not propose such a thing. I 
 should arrange it in this way. Take an excursion 
 down the harbor. The boats are none of them 
 taken off yet. I will engage a skiff and oars before- 
 hand, and in an hour or two you will learn to row as 
 well as you play the banjo. But you must have a 
 broad-brimmed hat to protect your complexion." 
 
 Bessie Grey clapped her hands with pleasure. " Ma, 
 dear, do you hear ? " she cried. " Mr. Kingston has in- 
 vited us to a sail down the bay, and he is to teach me 
 to row, which you know I have been dying to learn. 
 When will we go ? " 
 
 The old lady rubbed her glasses again, and looked 
 at her daughter carefully. Then she returned to her 
 sewing, having said nothing at all. 
 
 " To be sure," said the daughter, " it all depends on 
 my engagements. Tuesday there is to be no rehearsal, 
 
A FEESHMAN'S EOMANCE. 307 
 
 and we shall be back in ample time for the evening. 
 Mr. Kingston, I shall owe you more than I can tell 
 you. It shall be Tuesday. If you will call on Mon- 
 day, or send us a note, to tell us time and place, ma 
 and I will be ready as prompt as pins. And now 
 good by." 
 
 Tuesday, Fred remembered, as he regained the 
 street, would be particularly inconvenient for him; but 
 what college duty should thrust itself in the way of 
 such an en2:ao:ement as he had made ? He seemed to 
 walk on air as he returned to the suburb of study and 
 literature, — or rather, since even that element was too 
 prosaic, to float on the piuk clouds of sunset. He was 
 too innocent, too modest a fellow to look upon the 
 sudden favor which had been shown him as some of 
 his classmates would have done in his place. His 
 vanity was not a whit exalted by it, for his love left 
 no room for such a passion in his heart ; and he saw 
 much for admiration in the manner in which the 
 modest and prudent girl had interpreted his invitation 
 to include her mother. To be sure, his imagination 
 had not counted upon the presence of that hirsute, 
 observing, reticent old lady, in its picture of the de- 
 lights of a sail in the harbor ; but he saw at once that 
 it was proper and necessary. 
 
 Making up for neglect in his studies, attending the 
 benefit with the finest bouquet of a dozen which cele- 
 brated that occasion, and completing his arrangements 
 for the harbor excursion, kept the Freshman busy 
 the next few days. His new experiences seemed to 
 make him rapidly grow more mature and manly ; and 
 he kept his own counsel, and asked no advice of his 
 chum. But Chester Bennett, with all his bluntness, 
 was sharp enough upon occasion. It did not take the 
 ingenuity of a detective, indeed, to see the way I^ngs- 
 
'308 STORIES. 
 
 ton's thoughts constantly tended. One morning, after 
 watching his friend awhile as he sat musing in his 
 " studying chair," Bennett broke out : — 
 
 " I say, young one, you are ailing. You think it is 
 none of my business, I dare say ; but I know a prescrip- 
 tion that will do you good." 
 
 Fred only blushed, and plunged into Horace. 
 
 " That is, the first hundred pages of ' Pendennis.' 
 Leave it alone, if you like ; but if you read and profit 
 by it, some day you will thank me for the suggestion." 
 
 Fred offered no rej^ly ; but his curiosity was aroused, 
 and in the afternoon he had borrowed the book and 
 was skimming over its pages with eager interest. 
 Presently he hurled the volume at his chum's broad 
 back. 
 
 " Confound you, Bennett ! " said he, irritated out of 
 his reserve : " if you think that applies to me you are 
 greatly mistaken. This woman is old and stupid and 
 ignorant, and Irish to boot. She can hardly write, 
 and acts by rote, without a spark of genius. This Pen 
 is a conceited fool, and the comparison is abominable." 
 
 " Pray, how do you know the age of the siren of the 
 Winthrop ? " said Bennett, amused at the tempest he 
 had raised. 
 
 " She is six months younger than I am," rejoined 
 Kingston. " I have seen her birthday stated in the 
 answers to corresj^ondents in the ' Clipper.' " 
 
 " If you are so far gone as to accept the ' Clipper ' 
 as an authentic substitute for a family Bible, I have 
 nothing to say," said Bennett. "It will pass off" in 
 time, like the measles." 
 
 Kingston snatched his hat and dashed out, as the 
 only way to resist a temptation to give physical vent 
 to his anger. As he cooled off" in the open air, he 
 comforted himself with comparisons of bright, clever, 
 
A FRESHMAN'S ROMANCE. 309 
 
 ardent, witty Bessie Grey with the heavy, stolid, ma- 
 ture and mercenary heroine of Pendennis's romance, 
 and with thoughts of how little either the novelist or 
 his cousin knew of the actual feelings of a man's heart. 
 
 Tuesday morning saw a party of three embarked 
 on a clean, shaded deck of the Rose Standish: a* 
 young girl, quietly yet bewitchingly dressed, full of 
 enjoyment of the sea-breeze, the picturesque sights of 
 the wharf, and all the incidents of the little voyage, 
 and not afraid to let her pleasure be manifest in cease- 
 less chatter and notes of admiration ; a lad, luxuriating 
 with a quieter rapture in what seemed to hhn the 
 happiest day of his life; and an old lady knitting 
 away for dear life, rarely vouchsafing a glance to the 
 many sights of the harbor, but keeping her eyes open 
 to all the movements of the pair under her charge. 
 Now and then a passenger gave a second look at the 
 bright face of the actress, and whispered her name to a 
 companion ; whereupon Bessie Grey droj^jDed her veil, 
 and seemed for a moment to make an eftbrt to pre- 
 serve a quieter demeanor. But the inspiration of the 
 bracing air and the dancing water was too strong for 
 such resolutions; and she threw off her mask and her 
 restraint together, and braved curious eyes and gossip- 
 ing tongues. 
 
 "Now these impertinent starers will annoy us no 
 longer," said Kingston, as they left the steamer at the 
 first stoj^ping-place. 
 
 " If you had been stared at as much as I have, you 
 would not mind it," replied Bessie Grey. "It is the 
 way I earn my living." 
 
 " Here is my boat, according to contract, all clean 
 and ready," said the collegian, looking over the edge 
 of the pier. " She 's a clumsy tub compared with the 
 shell we use on the river." 
 
310 STOEIES. 
 
 " Bless your heart, Lizzie, I never will venture into 
 a thing like that," cried the old lady, in terror evi- 
 dently sincere. " See how it rocks and tosses now." 
 
 " That is only the swell from the wheels of the 
 steamer, I assure you," said Kingston. " When she 
 gets out of the way, the water Avill be as smooth as 
 glass." 
 
 " It is very well for young people to talk," replied 
 the old lady, with great firmness. " But I shall not 
 trust myself on such a cockle-shell. I am always sea- 
 sick ; and I declare I can feel some qualms already, 
 standing here." 
 
 Fred looked dismayed ; but his energetic little com- 
 panion seemed equal to the contingency. 
 
 " You will do as you like, ma, of course ; but I have 
 not come all this way to learn to row, to give it up 
 before I have touched an oar. You will just have 
 to sit still on shore and knit, and keep watch of us to 
 give the alarm if we capsize, and we will kee]) within 
 sight." 
 
 "But I can't sit. here," said the mother, looking 
 dolefully at the rough planks of the pier, the lobster 
 traps lying in the hot sun, and the ice and vegetables 
 which the boat had brought down from the city to 
 the sojourners at the little watering-place. 
 
 " I have a very pleasant place for you close by," said 
 Kingston, by no means displeased at the modification 
 in the programme. " You can sit at your ease on the 
 covered veranda of the hotel. It is cool and comfort- 
 able, and commands a delightful view of the bay." 
 
 This arrangement was promptly carried out. The 
 young people escorted Mrs. Grey to her observatory, 
 where she looked with frigid dignity upon a group of 
 fashionable dowagers of her own age, who returned 
 her glances with equal chilliness. The boat was 
 
A FRESHMAN'S ROMANCE. 311 
 
 brought to meet them, at Fred's order, by the amphib- 
 ious youth of whom he had hired it ; and presently a 
 few strokes with his vigorous arms shot the Uttle skiff 
 with its load of beauty and love out into the open 
 water. The fair passenger waved her handkerchief 
 to the watcher on shore, and the signal was acknowl- 
 edged by a flourish of the tii^pet upon which the old 
 lady's needles were engaged. 
 
 If Kingston thought they had come out for senti- 
 ment or for flirtation, he was disappointed ; for the 
 young lady had come to take a lesson in rowing, and 
 showed that she meant to go vigorously about it. 
 Fred himself being of an active disposition, accus- 
 tomed to devote himself with energy to whatever task 
 he had in hand, this earnest conduct of the little actress 
 was far from disagreeable to him, and he threw him- 
 self into the business of the hour with an enthusiasm 
 equal to the ardor of his pupil. Interest and natural 
 quickness made Miss Grey an apt scholar, and her 
 progress was rapid. Though light, she was by no 
 means weak, and she pulled stoutly and bravely, now 
 with one oar, now with two, as her cavalier guided the 
 boat up and down the sheltered cove, never quite out 
 of sight of the j^iazza Avhich was the mother's watch- 
 tower. Now and then she "caught a crab"; once 
 she dropped her oar overboard ; but she laughed mer- 
 rily at her own errors, which grew fewer and fewer as 
 she became familiar with the boat and the water. She 
 was in the most gracious and charming humor ; and it 
 was a time of rare enjoyment for Fred I^ngston. If 
 his companion was disposed to take a practical view 
 of things, and give him no opportunity to exjoress his 
 emotions, the magnetisni of her presence was in itself 
 a luxury ; he could not help touching her hand now 
 and then, in his capacity of instructor ; and the mere 
 
312 STORIES. 
 
 consciousness that they were alone together was in 
 itself a feast of delight. 
 
 So the afternoon wore away. Before Kingston ran his 
 boat on the beach, he was able to inform Miss Grey, Avith 
 the sincerity of a waterman and none of the exaggera- 
 tion of a lover, that there were few ladies who could row 
 as well as she. The matron on the piazza welcomed 
 them back placidly, and seemed to have gained by her 
 quiet sojourn on the shore quite as good an appetite 
 as their prolonged exertions had given the rowers for 
 the repast of chowder and chicken which followed. 
 Then they all strolled lazily over the pebbles, skipping 
 stones over the water, and seeking with little success 
 for curious shells. When the white paddle-wheels of 
 the steamer came in sight, they hurried to the landing 
 to be ready for her arrival. As they steamed wp the 
 harbor, a gorgeous sunset gilded the masts and chim- 
 neys of the city, and tinged with a rosy flush the 
 white wakes of the tug-boats darting to and fro all 
 around them. Bessie Grey was too tired to exhibit 
 the exhilaration of the morning, and said little ; so 
 Fred was left to his own thoughts, which harmonized 
 with the evening ; and all the loveliness of the scene 
 was impressed upon his memory with a vividness 
 which keeps its minutest details there yet. He left 
 the ladies at their lodgings, and tried to fancy that the 
 joressure with which he accompanied his parting shake 
 of Bessie's hand was returned ever so slightly. He 
 dropped in at the theatre a few hours later, before 
 leaving town, as had become his habitual custom. 
 His arms and shoulders were tired, and he was glad 
 to find a vacant chair ; and he marvelled with a new 
 admiration at the sprightliness and freshness with 
 which the slender girl who had striven so valiantly at 
 the oars with him now carried off a merry part in the 
 
A FRESHMAN'S EOMANCE. 313 
 
 farce. She danced about the stage as lightly as ever, 
 and her infectious gayety kindled a light in hundreds 
 of dull, weary faces in the audience. 
 
 That glimpse, which told him how distinct fi*om the 
 life of the actress was the life of the woman, was almost 
 the last bright spot in Fred Kjngston's romance. 
 
 He found at his room that night a despatch from 
 home which summoned him to the bedside of his 
 mother. He spent a fortnight in the old homestead, 
 and returned with a light, happy heart ; for the invalid 
 had recovered in spite of the forebodings of a different 
 result, and the relief from anxiety sent his thoughts 
 Avith an added zest to the new joy which his acquaint- 
 ance with the actress had brought him. 
 
 His chum was absent wdien he reached his room ; 
 and Fred was glad of it presently, though at first he 
 regretted that Bennett's deep voice was not ready to 
 welcome him back. A little heap of letters had accu- 
 mulated on his desk, and he seized upon one addressed 
 in a strange, feminine hand, with a presentiment of 
 something evil in store for him. As he tore open the 
 envelope, some printed slips dropped out. He j^aused 
 to pick up the only one which had fallen within reach, 
 and read it before beginning the letter itself. It was 
 marked in pencil, " From the ' Daily Disseminator,' " 
 and ran in this way : — 
 
 " The Winthrop Lyceum brought out last evening 
 the new sensational play, ' The Lightkeeper's Daugh- 
 ter.' The piece is like others of its class, a conglom- 
 eration of trashy dialogue and absurd incidents, set 
 off by costly scenery and intricate mechanical con- 
 trivances. It would hardly have made a hit but for 
 the very^ remarkable performance of the part of the 
 heroine by Miss Grey. The acting of this lady 
 throughout was much better than any effort of hers 
 
 14 
 
314 STOEIES. 
 
 which we have before seen. But the great feature of 
 her assumption was her rowing, in the great storm 
 scene, where the lightkeeper's daughter rescues the 
 hero of the j^lay from drowning. Miss Grey is evi- 
 dently no novice with the oars; and her skilful 
 management of her boat brought down the house in 
 thunders of applause, which quite drowned the re- 
 sounding sheet-iron of the property room. We con- 
 gratulate the lady upon that evident close study of 
 detail which is the first requisite of success as an 
 artist." 
 
 lOngston read the extract twice ; then turned to 
 the letter itself: — 
 
 "Dear Mr. Kingston": The very high praise I 
 have won from a critic usually rather difficult to 
 please inspires me with a desire to thank you once 
 more for the instructions from you which contributed 
 so much to my success. I was in despair of ever be- 
 ing able to row either gracefully or naturally across 
 the stage, until your generous ofier gave me an oppor- 
 tunity to ' study a detail," which, as you will see, was 
 essential to my success in the new i3iece. 
 
 "As I am writing, I enclose you another newspaper 
 slip, which I presume you may have seen before this. 
 As we have ' no cards,' there is no more ceremonious 
 way of conveying the important intelligence. I dare 
 say you remember his caj)ital performance of Joseph 
 in ' Kichelieu.' 
 
 "With renewed thanks, in which ma joins me, for 
 our delightful day down the harbor, I am 
 
 "Yours sincerely, 
 
 "'Bessie Grey.'" 
 
 Fred found the last half of the letter an enigma, 
 but he more than suspected a terrible solution. He 
 
A freshman's romance. 315 
 
 groped under his desk for the little scrap which had 
 floated there. His eyes, could hardly distinguish the 
 letters : — 
 
 " We learn that, previous to the performance at the 
 Winthrop on Saturday night, tlie charming souhrette 
 of the establishment. Miss Grey, and the talented 'old 
 man,' Mr. Fletcher, were joined in matrimony. Mr. 
 Fletcher's j^rofessional designation is merely a techni- 
 cal one, as he is himself quite young, though the pub- 
 lic knows him only under gray hairs and painted 
 wrinkles. The haj^py j)air have little leisure to cele- 
 brate the honeymoon, for the bride must be ready on 
 Monday night to ply her vigorous oars as the maid of 
 the lighthouse, to rescue the handsome hero whom her 
 husband, as the hoary wrecker, has thrust beneath the 
 canvas billows." 
 
 I shall not undertake to analyze or to depict the 
 pang which struck Fred Kingston's heart as he read 
 the words which the writer had penned so airily. He 
 flung himself on the bed, and covered his head with 
 the pillow; and if he sobbed as he had done when a 
 child over a smaller grief, there was no one there to 
 betray his weakness. Chester Bennett opened the 
 door a little later, and after one glance stepped back, 
 and muttered, "Poor fellow! He has come from a 
 sad and broken home, I dare say. He will bear it 
 better alone for a while." So the youth passed through 
 his dark hour undisturbed. When Bennett came back 
 again Kingston was gone, tramping grimly through 
 the fallen leaves miles away. At last they did meet ; 
 and though the Senior learned that he had been wrong 
 in his first surmise, there was something in his chum's 
 flice which deterred him from j^ressing any inquiry as 
 to the real nature of what had befallen him. Fred 
 Kingston's face gained that day a hardness and cool- 
 
316 STOEIES. 
 
 ness of expression which it has never lost ; but the bit- 
 terness of the experience which caused the change has 
 passed away, and he looks back on his first, brief ro- 
 mance with little more emotion than upon the other 
 incidents of his Freshman year. 
 
 THE BLUE RIVER BANK ROBBERY. 
 
 I. 
 
 " It is not of the least use to argue the question, 
 father. Tell me plainly, yes or no, and I will bother 
 you no more about it." 
 
 " I cannot indulge you in this, Harry. Indeed, you 
 should believe me when I say we cannot afford it." 
 
 Mr. Houghton leaned his head heavily on his hands 
 ag he spoke, and seemed to deprecate the displeasure 
 of his handsome, impatient son. 
 
 " Very well, sir," said the youth of nineteen, his 
 hand quivering, as he rose, with the anger he seemed 
 striving to keep out of his words and tones. " I hope 
 you will never be sorry for the trifle you have refused 
 me to-night. I shall make the trip to Lake George 
 next Aveek, nevertheless, if I have to sell my grand- 
 father's watch and chain to get the money." 
 
 A half-groan came from the hidden face of Foster 
 Houghton, and a reproachful " O Harry ! " from his 
 mother, whose eyes had been filling with tears as she 
 sat silent through the stormy interview. But the boy 
 was angry, and in earnest, and he twisted the chain in 
 his waistcoat to give emphasis to the threat. Then as 
 he took his cloak and cap from the closet he contin- 
 ued : — 
 
THE BLUE RIVER BANK ROBBERY. 317 
 
 " Yoli need not sit up for me, or leave the door un- 
 locked ; I am going to Tinborough with the fellows 
 to the strawberry party, and as there will be a dance, 
 and the nights are short, I shall wait for daylight to 
 come home, if I do not stop and catch a nap at the 
 Valley House before starting." 
 
 " Who is going from Elmfield ? " inquired the 
 father, more from a desire to show an interest and win 
 the boy from his moodiness than any real curiosity. 
 
 " ISTearly everybody of my set," said Harry, with 
 something of studied coldness ; " Arthur Brooks and 
 Tom Boxham and Frank Pettengill, — and Harrison 
 Fry, if you want the whole list." 
 
 His father turned sharply away, but the mother 
 spoke appealingly : — 
 
 " If you would cut off your intimacy with Harrison 
 Fry, now and forever, I think there are very few 
 things your father would refuse you. I have seen his 
 evil influence over you ever since he came back from 
 the city. He was a bad boy, and will be a bad man." 
 
 " Like myself and other wicked people," said the 
 boy, looking at his watch, " Harry Fry is not half so 
 black as he is painted. But I am not as intimate with 
 him as you fancy ; and as to father, I don't think his 
 treatment of me to-night gives him a claim to inter- 
 fere with my friendships." 
 
 Henry Houghton shot his shaft deliberately, for he 
 knew his father's sensitive nature, in which it would 
 rankle cruelly ; and in a moment he was off, bounding 
 through the low, open window, and running with fleet 
 steps down the gravel sidewalk tow^ard the common. 
 
 The family circle thus divided was that of the 
 cashier of the Blue River National Bank of Elmfield. 
 Foster Houghton was a man past middle age, and 
 older than his years in appearance and in heart. He 
 
318 STORIES. 
 
 had petted his only son in his childhood enough to 
 spoil most boys, and now made the balance even by 
 repressing the exuberance of his youth with a sharp- 
 ness sometimes no more than just, sometimes queru- 
 lous and unreasonable. The boy's grandfjither, old 
 Peleg Houghton, who died a year before at ninety and 
 over, had almost worshipped Harry, and, on his death- 
 bed, had presented his own superb Frodsham watch 
 to the lad ; and both father and mother knew he must 
 be deeply moved to speak so lightly at parting with it. 
 
 " I fear Henry is getting in a very bad way," said 
 Mr. Houghton, gloomily, after a pause in which the 
 sharper click of his wife's needles told that her 
 thoughts were busy. " He goes to the other church 
 too often to begin with. He smokes, after I have 
 repeatedly told him how the habit hurt me in my 
 boyhood, and what a fight I had to break it off. He 
 is altogether too much in Harrison Fry's company. 
 He has been twice before to Tinborough, driving 
 home across country in the gray of the morning. 
 And this project of going alone to Lake George on a 
 week's trip is positively ridiculous." 
 
 " Very likely you are the best judge, my dear," said 
 Mrs. Houghton. She always began in that way when 
 she meant to prove him otherwise. " I fully agree 
 with you about that reckless young Fry. But as to 
 Harry's going to the brown church, and his visits to 
 Tinborough, I think the same cause is at the bottom 
 of both. Grace Chamberlain has been singing in the 
 choir over there this spring, and now she is visiting 
 her aunt at Tinborough. And as to that, she is going 
 with her aunt's family to Lake George to sj^end July, 
 and I suppose they have expressed a wish to meet him 
 there. Grace Chamberlain is a very pretty girl ; and 
 Harry is like what you were at his age." 
 
THE BLUE RIVER BANK ROBBERY. 319 
 
 " Bless my soul, Mary," said the cashier, " then why 
 did n't the boy tell me what he was driving at ? 
 Chasing across the country after a pretty face is fool- 
 ish enough, at his age, but it is not so bad as going 
 to a watering-place merely for the fashion of it, like 
 some rich old nabob or j^rofessional dandy. If Harry 
 had told me he wanted to dangle after Grace Chamber- 
 lain, instead of talking in that desperate way about 
 the watch, I might have received it differently. There 
 is a charm on the chain with my mother's hair, that I 
 would n't have go out of the fimily for a fortune." 
 
 Just here the door-bell rang, as if a powerful, ner- 
 vous hand were at the knob. Mr. Houghton answered 
 the ring, for their one domestic had been called away 
 by a message from a sick sister, and the mistress of the 
 house was " getting along alone " for a day. So 
 when her quick ear told her the visitor was one to see 
 her husband on business, she quitted the room to set 
 away the milk, and lock up the rear doors of the house 
 for the night. 
 
 The caller was Mr. Silas Bixby. He would have 
 been a shaqi man in Elmfield estimation who could 
 predict the object of one of Silas Bixby's calls, 
 though there were few doors in the village at which 
 his face was not frequently seen. He was the con- 
 stable, but he was also the superintendent of the Sun- 
 day school, and the assessor of internal revenue in 
 the district, to say nothing of his being the agent of 
 two or three sewing-machine firms, and one life-in- 
 surance company, and the correspondent of the Tin- 
 borough " Trumpet." He owned a farm, and managed 
 it at odd hours. He gave some of his winter evenings 
 to keeping a writing-school, with which he sometimes 
 profitably combined a singing-school, with lucrative 
 concerts at the end of the term. He was a clerk of 
 
320 STORIES. 
 
 the fire company, and never had been absent from a 
 fire, though some of his manifold duties kept him 
 riding through the neighboring towns in his light gig 
 a great deal of the time. He had raised a company and 
 commanded it, in the nine months' army of '62. He 
 kej)t a little bookstore in one corner of the village 
 quadrangle, and managed a very small circulating 
 library, with the aid of the oldest of his ten children ; 
 and he was equal j^artner in the new factory enteri^rise 
 at the Falls. So Mr. Houghton did not venture to 
 guess on what errand Mr. Bixby came to see him, and 
 showed him to a chair in the twilighted sitting-room, 
 with a face composed to decline a request to discount 
 a note, or to join with interest in a conversation on 
 the Sunday school, or to listen to a rejiort on the new 
 fire-engine fund, wdth equal ease and alacrity. 
 
 Mr. Bixby looked about to him to see that nobody 
 was in hearing. " You '11 excuse me, I know, 'Squire, if 
 I shut the windows, hot* as it is " ; and before his host 
 could rise to anticipate him he had suited the action 
 to the word. "It's detective business. It's a big 
 thing. It's a mighty big thing. Do you know I told 
 you, Mr. Houghton, the first of the week, that there 
 was dangerous characters about town, and asked you 
 to keep your eyes open at the bank. Will you bear 
 witness of that?" 
 
 " I remember it very well, Mr. Bixby, and also that 
 there has not been a single person in the bank since 
 that day, other than our own townspeople and 
 friends." 
 
 " That is just it," said Silas Bixby, twisting his 
 whiskers reflectively : " they have got some accom- 
 plice who knows the neighborhood, and whom we 
 don't suspect. But we shall catch him with the rest. 
 The fact is, Mr. Houghton, the Blue River National 
 
THE BLUE EIVER BANK ROBBERY. 321 
 
 Bank is to be robbed to-night. The plot is laid, and 
 I have got every thread of it in my hand." 
 
 Foster Hono-hton was one of a class in the villaofe 
 who were habitually incredulous as to Silas Bixby's 
 achievements, as announced by himself; but there was 
 a positiveness and assurance about the constable's 
 manner which carried conviction with it, and he did 
 not conceal the shock which the news gave him. 
 
 " Just you keep very cool, sir, and I '11 tell you the 
 whole story in very few words, for I have got one or 
 two things to do before I catch the burglars, and I 
 have promised to look into Parson Pettengill's barn 
 and doctor his sick horse. There are two men in the 
 job, beside somebody in the village here that is work- 
 ing with them secretly. You need n't ask me how I 
 managed to overhear their plans, for I sha' n't tell ; 
 you will read it all in the Tinborough ' Trumpet ' of 
 the day after to-morrow. They are regular New 
 York cracksmen, and they have been stopping at the 
 hotel at the Falls, pretending to be looking at the 
 water-power. They come here on purpose to clean 
 out the Blue River Bank." 
 
 " Do they mean to blow open the safe ? " inquired 
 Mr. Houghton, who was pacing the room. 
 
 "Just have patience, 'Squire," said Silas Bixby. "I 
 thought it best to prepare you, and so led you up kind 
 o' gradual. They have got false keys to your house 
 door and your bedroom door. They are going to 
 come in at midnight or an hour after, and gag you 
 and your wife, and force you at the mouth of the re- 
 volver to go over to the bank and open the combina- 
 tion lock. Your help, they say, has gone oft"; and they 
 seemed not to be afraid of Henry." 
 
 " Henry has gone to Tinborough," said Mr. Hough- . 
 ton, mechanically. 
 
 14* u 
 
322 STOEIES. 
 
 "I presume tliey knew that too, then," said the 
 constable. " They calculate on forty thousand dol- 
 lars in the safe, government bonds and all. Their 
 team is to be ready on the Tinborough road, and they 
 mean to catch the owl train. You they calculate to 
 leave, tied hand and foot, on the bank floor, till you 
 are found there in the morning." 
 
 Foster Houghton stoj^ped in his rapid walk up and 
 down the little room, and took his boots from the 
 closet. 
 
 " Fair play, 'Squire," said Bixby, laying a hand on 
 the cashier's arm as he sat down and kicked off his 
 slippers. " I 've told you the whole story, when I 
 might have carried out my plan without telling a 
 word. Now what are you going to do ? " 
 
 " Going to order a stout bolt jout on my front door 
 at once, and to deposit the bank keys in the safe at 
 Felton's store." 
 
 " You will think better of it if you will just sit still 
 and hear me through," replied the visitor. "Don't 
 you see that will just show our hand to the gang who 
 are on the watch, and they will only leave Elmfield 
 and rob some other bank and make their fortunes ? 
 Moreover, the plot never would be believed in the 
 village, and such a way of meeting it would make no 
 sensation at all in print. ISTo, Mr. Houghton, you are 
 cashier of the bank, and it is your business to jDrotect 
 the property. I am constable at Elmfield, and it is 
 my duty to capture the burglars. I propose to do it 
 in such a way that the whole State shall ring with 
 my brilliant management of the matter, and yours, 
 too, of course, so far as your part goes. The pro- 
 gramme is all complete, and you have only to fall 
 in." 
 
 " Well, Mr. Bixby," said the elder gentleman, again 
 
THE BLUE EIVER BANK ROBBERY. 323 
 
 surrendering to his companion's sujoerior force and 
 determination of character ; " and what is the pro- 
 gramme ? " 
 
 "As far as you are concerned, simply to remain 
 passive " said the rm-al constable. " You are to show 
 no knowledge of expecting the visit, and after a proper 
 display of reluctance you are to go with the burglars, 
 with your keys in your hand. If I were to arrest the 
 rascals now, I should have nothing to charge them 
 with, and could only frighten them out of town. 
 When the bank is entered, the crime is complete. I 
 shall be on the watch, with two strong fellows I have 
 secured to help me, — men who served in my com- 
 pany, stout, afraid of nothing, and not smart enough 
 to claim the whole credit when the job is done. 
 When you are fairly inside the bank we shall pop out 
 from behind the bowling-alley, guard the door, flash 
 our lanterns in their faces, and overpower them at 
 once. It sounds very short now ; but it will easily 
 fill a column in the city papers." 
 
 *' Mr. Bixby," said Foster Houghton, with a good 
 deal of deliberate emj^hasis, " I have always thought 
 you a man of sense. I think so now. Do you sujd- 
 pose I am going to stand quietly by and see a couple 
 of rufiians tie a gag in the mouth of my wife, at her 
 age, when I know and can prevent it beforehand ? " 
 
 " No, sir, I expect no such thing," said Bixby, not 
 at all embarrassed. " I expected like as not you would 
 bring up some such objection, so I have provided for 
 it in advance. John Fletcher's little girl is very sick ; 
 they have gone the rounds of all the folks on our 
 street, taking turas watching there ; to-night they 
 came to me and said, ' Bixby, can't you find us some- 
 body to watch ? ' and I said I knew just the one that 
 would be glad to help a neighbor. So I will deliver 
 
324 STORIES. 
 
 the message to Mrs. Houghton, and you need n't have 
 a mite of anxiety about her, up there as safe and com- 
 fortable as if she were twenty miles away." 
 
 While her husband yet hesitated Mrs. Houghton 
 re-entered the room ; and Bixby, quick to secure an 
 advantage, was ready at the moment with his petition. 
 
 "Good evening, Mrs. Houghton, Been waiting 
 very patient for you to come in. I called to see if 
 you felt able and willing to set up to-night along with 
 John Fletcher's little girl. The child don't get any 
 better ; and Mrs. Fletcher, she 's just about sick abed 
 herself, with care and worry." 
 
 " You know I am always ready to help a neighbor 
 in such trouble," said the lady, graciously, with the 
 prompt acquiescence which people in the country give 
 to such calls. " And now I think of it, Mr. Bixby, I 
 have another call to make on your street. I think I 
 will walk up with you, and so get around to Fletcher's 
 at nine o'clock. My husband has several letters to 
 write, so he will not miss me." 
 
 Foster Houghton sat in a sort of maze while fate 
 thus arranged affairs for him, though they tended to 
 a consummation which was far from welcome to his 
 mind. His wife went out for her smelling-salts, her 
 spectacles, and her heavy shawl ; and Bixby snatched 
 the brief opportunity. 
 
 "I have told you everything, 'Squire, that you need 
 to know. Keep your mind easy and your head cool, 
 and the whole thing may be done as easy as turning 
 your hand over. Remember it is the only way to save 
 the bank, and catch the men that may have robbed a 
 dozen banks. Do not stir out of the house again this 
 evening, or you will excite suspicion and ruin the 
 game. Between twelve and two you may expect 
 your company ; and rely upon me in hiding close to 
 
THE BLUE RIVER BANK ROBBERY. 325 
 
 the bank. Mum is the word." For Mrs. Houghton 
 was descending the stairs. 
 
 " Come in again when you come back, Bixby ; can't 
 you? " said the cashier, still loath to close so hasty and 
 so singular a bargain. 
 
 " Kot for the world," replied the constable. " It 
 would expose our hand at once, and spoil the trick. 
 Now, IVIrs. Houghton, I 'm raally proud to be the beau 
 to such a sprightly young belle." 
 
 And so, with a word of farewell, they were off, and 
 Foster Houghton sat alone in the house with his 
 secret. 
 
 He was not a coward, but a man of peace by tem- 
 perament and training, and the enterprise in which 
 he had been enlisted was both foreign and distasteful 
 to him. How many incidents might occur, not set 
 down in Bixby's 2:)rogramme, to make the night's 
 work both dangerous and disagreeable ! His very 
 loneliness made the prospect seem doubly unpleasant. 
 A dozen times, as he sat musing over it, he put forth 
 his hand for his boots with intent to go out and frus- 
 trate the robbery in his own way, regardless of Bixby's 
 schemes of capture and glory. As many times he fell 
 back in his easy-chair, thinking now that he was bound 
 in honor by his tacit agreement with the constable, 
 and again that the whole story was nothing but the 
 fruit of the officers fertile imagination, and that only 
 the inventor should make himself ridiculous by his 
 credulity. Now he wished his wife were at home to 
 make the waiting moments pass more quickly ; then 
 that Harry were there to give the aid of his daring 
 and the stimulus of his boyish enthusiasm in the 
 strange emergency. And sometimes the old man's 
 thoughts wandered, in spite of the excitement of the 
 hour, to his boy, dancing away the night at Tin- 
 
o 
 
 26 STORIES. 
 
 borousjh. He recalled his anxieties over his son's 
 dissipations, his associates, his growing recklessness of 
 manner, his extravagant tastes, the look of hard de- 
 fiance in his face but an hour or two before. His 
 heart yearned over the lad in spite of his wild ways, 
 like David's over Absalom, and he resolved to try the 
 mother's method, and imagine excuses, and replace 
 harshness with indulgence, hereafter. The village 
 bell clanged out from the steeple close by, and Foster 
 Houghton clropi3ed the thread of his revery with a 
 start, and went back to the robbery again. Clearly 
 he was getting too nervous. He must do something 
 to shake it off. 
 
 " I '11 get Harry's revolver," he thought, with little 
 purpose what he should do with it ; and he took the 
 lamj^, and went up stairs to the boy's empty room. 
 The drawers were thrown open in a confusion which 
 offended the cashier's neat prejudices acquired in the 
 profession. He knew where the pistol was kept, but 
 its box was empty; and he exclaimed under his 
 breath, — 
 
 " That is a boy all over. He goes to Tinborough 
 to dance and eat strawberries, and he carries a pistol, 
 loaded I dare say to the muzzle. It is ten to one he 
 will shoot himself or his sweetheart before the even- 
 ing is over." 
 
 As Mr. Houghton fumbled over the bureau his hand 
 encountered a covered flask. Even his unaccustomed 
 nose was able to recognize its contents as whiskey; 
 and his regret at such a discovery in his son's room 
 was lost in the joy with which he hailed a stimulant 
 so greatly needed to put his nerves in condition for 
 the events to come. Perhaps he forgot how long it 
 was since he had called in such a re-enforcement ; per- 
 haps his hand shook ; perhaps he thought the occasion 
 
THE BLUE EIVER BANK ROBBERY. 327 
 
 required a large dose. He took a hearty one; and 
 when he was down stairs again the difficulties in the 
 way of bagging the burglars vanished fi-om his mind. 
 He was a young man once more, and entered into the 
 romance of Bixby's j^lot, he said to himself, as enthu- 
 siastically as Harry would have done. He paced the 
 room with an elastic stride very different from the ner- 
 vous, wavering step with which he had heard the news. 
 Bixby and himself, he thought, would be enough to 
 overjDower any three burglars. Then his head was 
 heavy, and he felt drowsy. To be in proper condition 
 for the emergency, he reflected, he needed all the 
 sleep he could get. The resolve was one to be exe- 
 cuted as promjDtly as formed ; and a few minutes later 
 the cashier had locked the door, fastened the lower 
 windows, and was snugly in bed. 
 
 A gentle tinkle of the door-bell aroused him again be- 
 fore, as it seemed to him, he had fairly closed his eyes. 
 " The robbers at last ! " he thought ; and then he re- 
 buked himself for the absurdity of supposing that a 
 burglar would announce his coming by the door-bell. 
 " It is Bixby, of course," he said to himself, " come to 
 own he was a fool and the story all nonsense." But 
 he paused before he turned the key, and said in his 
 fiercest tone, " Who is there ? " 
 
 "It is only me, Foster," said the sweet, familiar 
 voice of his wife, without ; and when he had admitted 
 her she told him, in her quick way, that after she had 
 watched with the child an hour or two, a professional 
 nurse who had been sent for a week before had arrived 
 unexpectedly, and that she had been glad to give up 
 her vigil and come home. 
 
 Foster Houghton rarely did anything without think- 
 ing twice about it, if not more ; so it came about that, 
 while he balanced in his mind the 2^ros and cons as to 
 
328 STORIES. 
 
 revealing to his wife the secret which Bixby had con- 
 fided to him, and thus giving her a fright in advance 
 for what might prove to be a false alarm after all, the 
 tired lady went sound asleep ; and thus the scale was 
 turned in favor of reticence. Perhaps the husband's 
 continued drowsiness contributed to the resolve also ; 
 for his eyelids still drooped with strange obstinacy, 
 and an influence more powerful than even the apjore- 
 hension of danger transformed his terrors into dreams 
 again. 
 
 II. 
 
 One, two, rang out from the belfrey on the breath- 
 less June night, already heavy with the rising fog 
 from the river. Foster Houghton found himself broad 
 awake as he counted the strokes ; but even while he 
 thought it was the clock that had disturbed him, he 
 felt a cold, hard ring of steel against his temple, and 
 saw through the darkness a man by his bedside. 
 
 " Not one word, or you will never ntter another." 
 
 He noted the voice even in the whirl of the mo- 
 ment, and knew that it was strange to him. He 
 turned towards his wife, and saw that there was a 
 man by her side also, with revolver aimed ; felt, rather 
 than saw, that she had waked when he did, and was 
 waiting, self-j^ossessed, for whatever was to come. As 
 the darkness yielded to his eyes, he was aware of a 
 third figure, standing at the window. 
 
 " Perfect quiet, remember, and we will tell you what 
 is to be done," said the same voice, cool, firm, with an 
 utterance entirely distinct yet hardly louder than a 
 whisper. " You have nothing to fear if you obey or- 
 ders. A knife is ready for the heart of each of you if 
 you disobey. The lady has simply to lie still ; as she 
 
THE BLUE RIVER BANK ROBBERY. 329 
 
 will be bound to the bed and her mouth stopped, 
 that will be easy ; and the gag is very gentle and will 
 not hurt if she does not resist. Mr. Houghton will 
 rise, put on his trousers, and go with us to the bank, 
 always in range of this pistol and in reach of this 
 blade. The keys are already in my pocket. Number 
 Three, will you scratch a match that I may helj) the 
 gentleman to his clothes." 
 
 The figure in the window stepped noiselessly for- 
 ward at the summons. As the blue flame lighted the 
 room Foster Houghton observed that his visitors were 
 all masked with black silk, through which a narrow 
 slit permitted vision. He noticed that their feet were 
 shod with listing, so thick that a step made no audible 
 sound uj^on the straw carpet. He noticed that long, 
 thin, black cloaks covered their forms to the ankles, 
 so that no details of clothing could be noted to iden- 
 tify them. And while he observed these things, not 
 venturing to stir until the threatening muzzle was 
 withdrawn from his face, he felt his hand tightly 
 clutched by the fingers of his wife beneath the cover- 
 lid. 
 
 Years of familiar association had made him apt at 
 interpreting his ^\afe's thoughts and feelings, without 
 the aid of the spoken word. Either by some peculiar 
 expression in the grasp itself, or by that subtle mag- 
 netism which we know exists among the unknown 
 forces, he felt that there was something more than the 
 natural terror of the moment, more than the courage 
 of a heart ever braver than his own, more than sym- 
 pathy for his own supposed dismay, in his wife's 
 snatch at his hand. More alarmed, at the instant, by 
 the shock thus given him than by the more i:)alpable 
 danger, he turned his head towards his wife again, and 
 in her eyes and in the direction they gave to his saw 
 all that she had seen. 
 
330 STORIES. 
 
 The masked figure in the centre of the room, in 
 producing a match, had unwittingly thrown back one 
 side of its cloak. By the sickly flame just turning to 
 white, Foster Houghton saw, thus revealed, the twisted 
 chain he had played with in his OAvn boyhood, the 
 golden crescent with his mother's hair, the massive 
 key with its seal, just as he had seen them on his 
 boy's breast at sunset. In an instant more a taper 
 was lighted; the curtain of the cloak was drawn 
 together again. But the secret it had exposed was 
 impressed ujDon two hearts, as if they had been seared 
 with iron. As a drowning man thinks of the crowded 
 events of a lifetime, Foster Houghton thought, in that 
 moment of supreme agony, of a dozen links of cir- 
 cumstantial evidence, — the boy's baffled desire for 
 money, his angry words, his evil associates, his miss- 
 ing revolver, his deliberate explanation of a night- 
 long absence, his intimate knowledge of the affairs of 
 the bank, except the secret combination of the lock 
 which he had often teased for in vain. Two things 
 were stamped upon his brain together; and he was 
 thankful that his wife could know the horror of but 
 one of them. 
 
 His own son was engaged in a plot to rob the bank, 
 by threats of assassination against those who gave 
 him life. 
 
 He himself was irrevocably enlisted in a plot to 
 capture the robbers, and so to bring his boy to infamy 
 and a punishment worse than death. 
 
 The discovery compels a pause in the narrative. 
 It made none in the actual progress of events. The 
 man who had spoken motioned the cashier to rise, 
 and assisted his trembling hands in covering his limbs 
 with one or two articles of clothing. The one on 
 the opposite side of the bed, moving quickly and 
 
THE BLUE RIVER BANK ROBBERY. 331 
 
 deftly as a sailor, bound Mrs. Houghton where she 
 lay, without a touch of rudeness or indignity beyond 
 what his task made necessary. A knotted hand- 
 kerchief from his pocket was tied across her mouth. 
 The third figure stood at the window, either to keep 
 a watch without or to avoid seeing what took place 
 within; but Foster Houghton's eyes could discern 
 no tremor, no sign of remorse or hesitation, in its 
 bearing. 
 
 " Now, cashier," said the one voice which alone had 
 been heard since the stroke of the clock, " you will 
 have to consider yourself ready, for we have no time 
 to spare. I feel sure you know what is healthy for 
 you, but still I will tie this rope round your wrist 
 to save you from any dangerous temptation to try a 
 side street. Number Two, you will go below, and see 
 that the coast is clear." 
 
 With one more look at his wife's eyes, in which he 
 saw outraged motherly affection where the strangers 
 saw only fright and pain, Foster Houghton suffered 
 himself to be led from the room. One of the robbers 
 had preceded him ; one held him tightly by the wrist; 
 one, the one whose presence gave the scene its treble 
 terror, remained only long enough to extinguish the 
 taper and to lock the door. The outer door was fas- 
 tened behind them also ; and then the noiseless little 
 procession (for the cashier had been permitted to put 
 on his stockings only) filed along the gravel walk, 
 through the pitchy blackness which a mist gives to a 
 moonless night, towards the solitary brick building 
 occupied by the Blue River National Bank. 
 
 They passed the school-house where Foster Hough- 
 ton had carried his boy a dozen years before with a 
 bright new j^rimer clutched in frightened little fingers; 
 then the desolate old mansion of his own father, 
 
332 STORIES. 
 
 where the lad had been petted and worshi23ped as 
 fervently as at home ; a little farther on, the church, 
 where the baby had been baptized, and where the 
 youth had chafed beneath distasteful sermons, — its 
 white steeple lost in the upper darkness ; and, a few 
 paces beyond, the academy, within whose walls the 
 cashier had listened with such pride to Harry's elo- 
 quent declamation of "The Return of Regulus to 
 Carthage" on the last Commencement day. He 
 thought of these things as he 2)assed, though so 
 many other thoughts surged in his mind; and he 
 wondered if another heart beside his own was beset 
 with such reminiscences on the silent journey. 
 
 Before they had reached the bank the man who had 
 gone in advance rejoined them. 
 
 " It is all serene," he said, in a low tone, but with 
 a coarser voice and utterance than his confederate's ; 
 "nothing more than a cat stirring. I have unhitched 
 the mare, and we should be off in fifteen minutes." 
 
 " All right, Number Two," said the leader. " The 
 swag will be in the buggy in less time. Cashier, you 
 are a man of prudence, I know. If you work that 
 combination skilfully and promptly, not a hair of 
 your head shall be harmed. If you make a blunder 
 that costs us a minute, not only will this knife be at 
 home in your heart, but we shall stop on our way 
 back and set your cottage on fire. Our retreat will 
 be covered ; and you know the consequences there be- 
 fore the alarm will rouse anybody. I have sworn to 
 do it." 
 
 Foster Houghton fancied he saw a shudder in the 
 slighter figure beside him ; but it might have been a 
 l^uff of wind across the.long drapery. 
 
 " O, blow the threats ! " said Number Two. " The 
 man values his life, and he is going to open the safe 
 
THE BLUE RIVER BANK ROBBERY. 333 
 
 quicker tlian he ever did before. Open the door, 
 young one, and let 's be about it." 
 
 The robber who had not yet opened his lips, 
 and whose every motion the cashier still watched 
 stealthily, stepped forward to the bank door ; and as 
 he drew a key from under his cloak the prisoner 
 caught another glimpse of the chain he could have 
 sworn to among a thousand. 
 
 The door swung open. The cashier's heart was in 
 his throat. He had not heard a sound of Bixby ; but 
 he knew 'the village constable too well to fear, or 
 hope, that he might have given up the chase. All 
 four entered the building ; but before the door could 
 be closed behind them there was a shout, a cry of 
 dismay, a rush of heavy feet, a flash of light in a 
 lantern which gleamed but a moment before it was 
 extinguished, the confused sound of blows and oaths, 
 and the breaking of glass, punctuated by the sharp 
 report of a pistol. Foster Houghton could never 
 give a clearer account of a terrible minute in which 
 his consciousness seemed partly benumbed. He took 
 no part in the struggle, but seemed to be pushed out- 
 side the door; and there, as the tumult within began 
 to diminish, Silas Bixby came hurriedly to him, drag- 
 ging a masked figure by the shoulder. 
 
 " Houghton, you must help a little. We have got 
 the better of 'em, and my men are holding the two 
 big fellows down. But the fight is not out of them 
 yet, and you must hold this little one three minutes 
 while I help to tie their hands. Just hold this pistol 
 to his head, and he will rest very easy." 
 
 Even while he sj^oke Bixby was inside the door 
 again, and the gleam of light which followed showed 
 that he had recovered his lantern and meant to do his 
 work thoroughly. 
 
334 STOEIES. 
 
 Foster Houghton's left hand had been guided to the 
 collar of his cai^tive, and the revolver liad been thrust 
 into his right. There was no question of the com- 
 posure of the robber now. He panted and sobbed 
 and shook, and made no effort to tear himself from 
 the feeble grasjo that confined him. 
 
 If the cashier had been irresolute all his life, he did 
 not waver for an instant now. He did not query 
 within himself what was his duty, or what was pru- 
 dent, or what his wife would advise, or what the bank 
 directors would tliink. 
 
 " Harry," he whispered, hoarsely, his lips close to 
 the mask, " I know you." 
 
 The shrinking figure gave one great sob. Foster 
 Houghton went right on without pausing. 
 
 "Bixby does not know you, and there is time to 
 escape yet. I shall fire this pistol in the air. Run 
 for your life to your horse there, and push on to Tin- 
 borough. You can catch the train. May God for- 
 give you." 
 
 The figure caught the hand which had released its 
 hold as the words were spoken and kissed it. Then, 
 turning back, as if upon a sudden impulse, the robber 
 murmured something which could not be understood, 
 and thrust into the cashier's hand a mass of chilly 
 metal which his intuition rather than his touch recog- 
 nized as Peleg Houghton's watch and chain. He had 
 presence of mind enough to conceal it in his pocket, 
 and then he fired his pistol, and he heard the sound 
 of flying feet and rattling wheels as Silas Bixby ac- 
 costed liim. 
 
 "What in thunder! did he wriggle away from ye? 
 why did n't you sing out sooner?" 
 
 "I think I am getting faint. In Heaven's name 
 go quick to my house and release my wife, and tell 
 
THE BLUE EIVER BANK BOBBERY. 335 
 
 her all is safe. The fright of these shots will kill 
 her." 
 
 Foster Houghton sunk in a swoon even as he 
 spoke, and only the quick arm of Silas Bixby saved 
 him from a fall on the stone steps. 
 
 " See here, boys," said he. " If you have got those 
 fellows tied up tight, one of you take 'Squire Hough- 
 ton and bring him to, and I '11 go over to his house 
 and untie his wife, before I start after that pesky little 
 rascal that has got away. If I had 'a' suj^posed he 
 would dare to risk the pistol I should have hung on 
 to him myself Mike, you just keep your revolver 
 cocked, and if either of those men more than winks, 
 shoot him where he lies." 
 
 Having thus disposed of his forces, and provided 
 for the guard of the prisoners and the restoration of 
 the disabled, the commander was off at a run. Half 
 Elmfield seemed to have been awakened by the shots, 
 and he was met by a half-dozen lightly clad men and 
 boys whom he sent on this errand and that, — to open 
 the lock-up under the engine-house, to harness horses 
 for the pursuit, — vouchsafing only very curt replies to 
 their eager questions as to what had haiDpened. He 
 was exasperated on arriving at Foster Houghton's 
 dwellino; to find the door locked and the windows 
 fastened. So he raised a stentorian shout of, " It 's 
 — all — right — Mrs. — Houghton ! Robbers — caught 
 — and — nobody — hurt " ; separating his words 
 carefully to insure being understood ; and then scud 
 at full sj^eed back toward the bank again. He met 
 half-way an excited, talkative little gi'ouj^, the central 
 figure of which was the cashier of the bank, restored 
 to life, but still white as death, and supported by 
 friendly hands. Assured that Houghton himself was 
 now able to release his wife, Bixby ran on to the 
 
336 STORIES. 
 
 green, and in five minutes more was settled in his gig, 
 and urging his cheerful little bay Morgan over the 
 road to Tinborough, mentally putting into form his 
 narrative for the " Trumjoet " as he went. 
 
 III. 
 
 Thus it came about that it was Foster Houghton 
 himself who unloosed his wife's bonds, — bending his 
 gray head, as he did so, to print a kiss of sorrow and 
 sympathy on her wrinkled cheek, and leaving a tear 
 there. 
 
 " He has escaped," he said, " and is on the road to 
 the station." 
 
 " Will he not be overtaken ? " 
 
 " I think not. He has a fair start, and knows what 
 is at stake ; and the train passes through before day- 
 light." 
 
 Then the woman's heart, which had borne her 
 bravely up so far, gave way, and she broke into 
 terrible sobs ; and the husband who would comfort 
 her was himself overcome by the common grief, and 
 could not sjDeak a word. Silently they suffered to- 
 gether, pressing hands, until the entering light of 
 dawn reminded them that even this day had duties 
 and perhaps new phases of sorrow. They could hear 
 the quick steps of passers evidently fall of excitement 
 over the event of the night, and talking all together. 
 They could not be long left undisturbed. As they 
 dressed, Foster Houghton — unable or reluctant to 
 describe in any detail the scene at the bank, as his 
 wife was to ask him about it — suddenly encoun- 
 tered in his pocket the watch, entangled in its chain. 
 
 " He gave me this, and a kiss," he said, every word 
 
THE BLUE RIVER BANK ROBBERY. 337 
 
 a sob ; and Mary Houghton pressed it to her heart. 
 Then, as a quick step sounded on the j^orch, she has- 
 tily thrust it into a drawer. 
 
 " What sliall we say ? " she asked. 
 
 " I do not know. Heaven will direct us for the 
 best," he replied. 
 
 The step did not pause for ceremony, but came in 
 and up the stairs as if on some pressing errand. Then 
 the door opened, and Harry Houghton ran in, — his 
 curls wet with the fog of the morning, his cheeks rosy 
 as from a rapid ride, his eyes dancing with excite- 
 ment. 
 
 His father and mother stood speechless and bewil- 
 dered, filled with a new alarm. But the boy was too 
 busy with his own thoughts to observe his recej^tion. 
 Thick and fast came his words, questions Avaiting for 
 no answers, and narrative never pausing for comment. 
 
 " What is this Bixby shouted to me when I met him 
 about robbers ? And what is there such a crowd at 
 the bank about ? Did I come sooner than you ex- 
 pected me ? We had a glorious time at Tinborough, 
 you know, and when we were through dancing I de- 
 cided to drive home at once. And a few miles out I 
 met Silas in his gig driving like mad, and he shouted 
 at me till he was out of hearing, but I could not catch 
 one word in a dozen. But before anything else, I want 
 to beg your pardon for my roughness last night. I am 
 old enough to know better, but I was angry when I 
 spoke ; and I have been thoroughly ashamed of my- 
 self ever since. You will forgive and forget, fathei', 
 won't you ? — Hallo, I did n't suppose you felt so badly 
 about it, mother darling." 
 
 Mary Houghton was clasping her son's neck, crying 
 as she had not cried that night. But the cashier, 
 slower in seeing his way, as usual, stood passing 
 
 \0 V 
 
338 STORIES. 
 
 his hand across his brows for a moment. Then he 
 spoke : — 
 
 " Henry, where is yom- grandfather's watch?" 
 
 " There, did you miss it so quickly ? I meant to 
 get it back before you discovered it was gone. I will 
 have it after breakfist. The fact is, I was not myself 
 Avhen I left the house last night, with temper, and 
 Plarrison Fry offered me two hundred dollars for it, 
 to be paid next week, and in my temper I let him 
 take it to bind the bargain. I was crazy for money, 
 and I sold him my pistol too. I regretted about the 
 watch before I had fairly quit the village; but he 
 broke his engagement and did not go with us to Tin- 
 borough after all ; so I have had no chance to get it 
 back again till now." 
 
 " Harrison Fry ! " exclaimed Foster Houghton ; and 
 his hands clasped and his lips moved in thankful 
 prayer. 
 
 " But if you don't tell me what is all this excitement 
 in the village, I shall run out and find out for myself," 
 cried the boy, impatiently. " You never would stand 
 here asking me questions about trifles, if the bank had 
 been broken open in the night." 
 
 Foster Houghton j^ut his hands on his boy's shoul- 
 ders and kissed him, as he had not done since his son's 
 childhood. Then he took from its hiding-place the 
 Avatch and hung it on Harry's neck, his manifest 
 emotion checking the expression of the lad's aston- 
 ishment. 
 
 " There is much to tell you, Harry," he said, " and 
 perhaps you will think I have to ask your forgiveness 
 rather than you mine. But my heart is too full for a 
 word till after prayers. Let us go down." 
 
 Then the three went down the stairs, the mother 
 clinging to the boy's hand, which she had never relin- 
 
THE BLUE EIVER BANK EOBBERY. 339 
 
 quished since her first embrace. Foster Houghton 
 took the massive Bible, as was his daily custom, and 
 read the chaj^ter upon which rested the mark left the 
 morning before ; but his voice choked and his eyes 
 filled again when he came to the lines : — 
 
 " For this my son was dead and is alive again ; he 
 was lost and is found." 
 
 Silas Bixby galloped into Tinborough two minutes 
 late for the owl train ; and the fugitive was too sharp 
 to be caught by the detectives who were j^ut on the 
 watch for him by telegraphic messages. In a few 
 hours all Elmfield had discovered that Harrison Fry 
 was missing, and had made up its mind that he was 
 the escaped confederate in the burglary. The Bhie 
 River National Bank offered a reward for him, but 
 he has never yet been found. The zealous consta- 
 ble found compensation for the loss of one prisoner 
 in the discovery that the other two were a couple 
 of the most skilful and slippery of the metropolitan 
 cracksmen, known among other aliases as Gentle- 
 man Graves and Toffey Ben. Silas Bixby's cour- 
 age and discretion received due tribute from counsel, 
 press, and public during the trial that ensued the 
 next month in the Tinborough court-house; and 
 by some influence it was so managed that Mrs. 
 Houghton was not called to the stand, nor was 
 Foster Houghton closely questioned in regard to 
 the manner in which the third robber had escaped 
 from his custody on the steps of the bank. 
 
 Harry Houghton went to Lake George that sum- 
 mer, starting a day after the departure of Grace 
 Chamberlain; but this year they go together, and 
 the programme of the tour includes Niagara and 
 Quebec. 
 
340 STOEIES. 
 
 OUR BREAKFAST AT THE ASTOR. 
 
 The newspapers have had a report lately that the 
 Astor House was to go the way of all things down 
 town, in New York, and be converted into profitable 
 but uncomfortable stores. I believe they have con- 
 tradicted the rumor since, and given the delightful, 
 homelike, Bostonish old hostelry at least three years 
 more of life; but I shall still act upon my original im- 
 pulse, conceived wdien I first heard the painful story, 
 and relieve my conscience of a weight it has carried 
 altogether too long, by unburdening myself of a certain 
 incident in the secret history of the steady old inn, for 
 the benefit of all concerned and the rest of mankind. 
 
 It was in the winter of 1862-63, and I was engaged 
 as army correspondent on a Boston paper of enter- 
 prise, vivacity, and entire respectability combined. If 
 this description leaves any curious reader in the dark 
 as to the identity of the paper, he will have to turn 
 back to the files in the Athenaeum, and see which 
 it was that had the lead in a brilliant though sad 
 account of the battle of Fredericksburg, — for it was 
 with that very account in manuscript nearly com- 
 plete in my pocket that I was travelling post-haste 
 through !N"ew York, on the occasion wdiich I am about 
 to describe. 
 
 I have intimated that I beat all the other newspaper 
 men in the field on this occasion ; and the details of 
 how I did it might form materials for another story, 
 for there is no room for them in this. After confused, 
 bewildering hours, I hardly know how many, of des- 
 perate fighting, beginning in high hopes and ending in 
 darkest desj^air, and on my jDart of rapid writing, page 
 
OUR BREAKFAST AT THE ASTOR. 341 
 
 after page of my note-book filling up with the diary of 
 the moments on which hung the fate of the army and of 
 the war, as I sat on the stej^s of the Phillips House and 
 gazed across the river with my glass between each 
 sentence, — at last came the decision for retreat. My 
 good fortune consisted in hearing of this climax of ill- 
 fortune a little in advance of any of the other eager 
 but weary journalists who were sleeping near me at 
 the moment. It did not take long to map out my 
 plans ; and then came a night ride across that dread- 
 ful sea of fathomless mud to Acquia Creek, the horrors 
 of which I could not describe if I would, but at the 
 close of which I sold my horse to a Yankee sutler near 
 the wharf for a cup of coffee, five dollars, and a rubber 
 blanket. Perhaps some notion of the ordeal of the 
 ride may be obtained from that fact; for he was a 
 good steed in the beginning, and I owed him gratitude 
 for many hard rides successfully accomj^lished before, 
 on the Peninsula and in the Valley of Virginia. He 
 never did the newspaper which paid for and the 
 rider who trusted him a better service than his last ; 
 for just as I swallowed the scalding, milkless, black cof- 
 fee which restored my own strength, and just as he sank 
 steaming in the yellow puddle which fronted the sut- 
 ler's tent, I learned that a hospital transport with some 
 of the wounded of the first day's fighting was at that 
 moment leaving the wharf for Washington. 
 
 A quick run brought me on board a minute before 
 the plank was withdrawn ; but it took a large share of 
 the money I had about me to persuade a Pennsylvania 
 Dutchman, who happened to be sergeant of the guard, 
 that I was not an able-bodied, demoralized straggler 
 from the front, but one of those unrecognized gentry 
 who conquered a right to go into all forbidden places 
 by the mystic word "Press," or when that failed, as 
 
342 STORIES. 
 
 now, by the talismanic greenback. During the day 
 which followed, we sj^ed up the Potomac — a groan- 
 ing, writhing cargo of agony, borne np by patriotism, 
 tended by an agent of the Sanitary Commission and 
 myself, and alternately mutilated and neglected by a 
 drunken surgeon who swore at our interference as he 
 staggered from a drink in the captain's cabin to a mur- 
 der on the noisome, crowded deck. Doing what I 
 could, I still found time to attend to the duties of my 
 own profession, and made up a clear, tei^se, and graphic 
 account of the events on the Rappahannock for tele- 
 graphing, besides obtaining the name, regiment, and 
 condition of every wounded and dead man on board 
 the steamer. It was late in the afternoon, and in that 
 drizzly December day already quite dark, when our 
 slow steamer touched the Sixth Street wharf in Wash- 
 ington. I calculated the time before the departure of 
 the ISTew York train to a fraction of a minute, and 
 found I had none to spare, — so broke my rule in re- 
 gard to Washington hackmen, and in a minute or less 
 from the landing had chartered a carriage with a 
 costly proviso that no other occuj^ant was to be waited 
 for, and was trundling through the mud toward the 
 Avenue. 
 
 I was lucky enough to find our resident Washington 
 correspondent in his office, or " bureau," as the boys 
 were absurd enough to call it in their despatches ; and 
 he was keen enough to comprehend the situation in a 
 moment, to inform me that by the difference between 
 army time and Washington clocks I had fifteen min- 
 utes less than I supposed, to take my precious despatch 
 of exclusive intelligence for the telegraph wires with 
 less than a dozen words of explanation, and to send 
 me off to the railroad station at the full speed of my 
 carriage, after a halt fabulously brief. His cool alacrity, 
 
OUR BREAKFAST AT THE ASTOR. 343 
 
 unperturbed either by newspaper victories or national 
 defeats, quite took away my breath ; and it was not 
 till we turned the corner near the station that I re- 
 membered that one of the two things I had to say 
 to him was, to request the loan of enough money to 
 make me sure of having sufficient to get home with, as 
 my hasty departure from Falmouth and the unexpected 
 draft at the landing had reduced my immediate re- 
 sources to a very low ebb. 
 
 My memory came quite too late to 'turn back, how- 
 ever ; and as we arrived at the station I paid my driver 
 his quickly earned five dollars with more of a sigh 
 than I had ever wasted over the expenditure of office 
 money before. I had but three fives and some small 
 change left ; and as I recalled the price of a Boston 
 ticket, it needed no long process in mental arithmetic 
 to convince me that, hungry as I was, my twenty-four 
 hours' journey must be made on very short commons. 
 Poverty sharpens the wits ; and this temporary im- 
 poverishment sharpened mine, as I ran to the ticket- 
 office, to such an extent that I bought a ticket to 'New 
 York only, instead of for the whole journey, remember- 
 ing that the price of the through ticket included 
 seventy-five cents for a coach-ride through New York, 
 while the distance might be traversed by a street-car 
 for one tenth of the sum. I jumped on board the 
 starting train not a moment too soon ; and my first 
 act after finding a seat was to make a thorough survey 
 of the financial situation. 
 
 Six dollars were first thrust resolutely out of the 
 way, in an inner compartment of my wallet, for my 
 fare to Boston ; and the balance which remained for 
 the purchase of commissary supplies, after several 
 countings over of the fractional currency, — then 
 rather a novelty, and fresh and new from the press, — 
 
344 STORIES. 
 
 amounted to precisely ninety-five cents. Any wild 
 desire which might have existed to expend the 
 whole in the luxmy of a berth in a sleeping-car was 
 crushed by the remembrance that the j^rice was one 
 dollar ; and I solaced myself with the thought that I 
 was tired enough to sleep soundly and comfortably 
 anywhere. There was a refreshment saloon attached 
 to the night train at that time ; but as I knew from old 
 experience that the smallest viand on its counter would 
 exhaust my entire resources, I resolved to insult my 
 hunger with an apple, and then smother it in sleep, 
 and so reserve the bulk of my fortune for the next 
 day, when my aj)petite would be more peremptory 
 and could be more economically satisfied. So I 
 supped stoically on the mealy fruit which the basket 
 of a passing vender supplied, and easily put myself 
 to sleep with variations on a formula something 
 like this : — 
 
 Apple 05 
 
 Horse-car fare in New York . . . .06 
 
 Newspaper . . . . . . . 05 
 
 Breakfast (coffee, boiled eggs, and buckwheat 
 
 cakes) 30 
 
 Dinner at Springfield, (baked beans and ale) 45 
 
 Margin for accidents and contingent expenses . 04 
 
 95 
 
 My very neat and symmetrical j)lan was not des- 
 tined to be carried out beyond the first item : for as 
 I opened my eyes in the ferry-boat at Jersey City (I 
 had contrived, in some mysterious way, to efiTect a 
 change of cars then necessary at Philadelphia without 
 awakening to consciousness, beyond that of an un- 
 usually hideous dream) my slow-returning senses 
 were jogged by a vision of charming Sallie Burton of 
 
OUR BREAKFAST AT THE ASTOR. 345 
 
 Boston, sitting on the opj^osite side of the cabin, 
 Avrapped up to her eyes in shawls and furs, yet look- 
 ing as lovely as ever, and — though she must have 
 travelled all night in the same train with myself — 
 as fi-esh and blooming as when I bade her good by 
 the previous summer on the piazza of the Rock- 
 land House. 
 
 She saw me almost as soon as I discovered her, and 
 the genuine joy and tenderness that mingled in the 
 tones of her startled little cry, " O Robert ! " as it 
 blended with my " By Jove ! Sallie," made me feel 
 as if it were the news of a glorious victory instead of 
 that of a tragic defeat that I was carrying home to 
 Boston. I had been wooing the dear girl furiously in 
 those halcyon days at Cohasset, and had just begun to 
 dare to hope of winning her, when the order came 
 from the office sending me post-haste at an hour's 
 notice to join McClellan on the Chickahominy. I had 
 dallied with my fate ever since, dreading to risk my 
 future happiness on a letter, and forcing myself to be 
 content with the sweet dreams of Sallie's face which 
 came to me night after night as I shared the soldier's 
 bivouac, and strove with every nerve to gain that pro- 
 motion and distinction which should give me a better 
 title to ask her for heart and hand when the day 
 should come. Xow, her sudden appearance at the 
 very moment when I seemed to have got so near the 
 goal, the evident emotion with which she met nie so 
 unexpectedly, seemed like a taste of Paradise. 
 
 But the cabin of a ferry-boat is hardly the place for 
 outward manifestations of ecstatic sentiment, and I 
 dare say our fellow-voyagers across the bay overheard 
 our conversation without discovering that either of us 
 was different from ordinary mortals. In the words of 
 somebody or other in one of Mother Goose's dramas, 
 15* 
 
346 STORIES. 
 
 it was " How do yoii do, and how do you do, and how 
 do you do agam," and then it was : — 
 
 " But how in the name of wonder came you here, 
 and where did you come from ? " 
 
 " Why, I have been to Washington to see the open- 
 ing of Congress and visit my cousins, and am on my 
 way home. But how came you here . " 
 
 My own story need not be recap) ulated ; but its 
 main fact, that I was bound to Boston, and on the same 
 train with the young lady herself, elicited an " O, 
 how nice," that was the sweetest music and most ex- 
 quisite poetry to my ears. Of cours^, I took posses- 
 sion of the satchel, waterproof, chtoks, ticket, and 
 other imj^edimenta of my fair fellow-traveller at once, 
 with the air of a regularly appointed guardian. A 
 glance at the long series of couj^ons which formed the 
 ticket, however, reminded me that of course Miss 
 Burton was ticketed through to Boston, and that her 
 natural means of crossing the metropolis was by the 
 lumbering coach which stood before us as we quitted 
 the ferry-boat, and into which an unsavory Irish 
 woman, with half a dozen whimpering children, was 
 already crowding her way. 
 
 "O Sallie," said I, with a sudden inspiration, 
 whether of good or evil I have never yet quite de- 
 cided, " let us not ride in that disagreeable thing. 
 We can easily walk to Broadway and take a car, and 
 then we can stoj) and take breakfast at some better 
 place than those horrible restaurants near the depot." 
 
 " Certainly, I would just as lief, if you think it 
 would be pleasanter, Mr. Delton," said she, without a 
 moment's hesitation. "I sup^oose there is plenty of 
 time, and I am sure I am hungry." 
 
 I believe Sallie thought I was moody and offended 
 during that walk through Courtlandt Street, because 
 
OUR BREAKFAST AT THE ASTOR. 347 
 
 she had called- me by my suniame ; but I hardly 
 noticed the lap-^e, for the memory of the state of my 
 pocket, forgott( n in the sound sleej) and sudden sur- 
 prise, just then struck me, as it were, between the 
 eyes ; and no.ie of the mental arithmetic I could 
 muster could (^^'eate a satisfactory example with the 
 materials I had'at command. Six more cents out of 
 my ninety, foi a double car-fare, left only seventy- 
 eight for the day's provision for two people, putting 
 the longed-for newspaper out of the question as an 
 unjustifiable luxury ; and though such a sum might 
 be an abundar-^ce in Pekin, with my knowledge of 
 New York rectaurants and railway dining-rooms I 
 could not contrive a practicable way of making the 
 two ends meet. 
 
 Some matter-of-fact reader may growl that of course 
 the young lady had money enough, and that all I had 
 to do was to borrow a few dollars of her for a day, and 
 be at once relieved of all anxiety. But I think those 
 who have been in the j^eculiar condition of mind and 
 heart that I was in then, feeling, as I did, that a most 
 momentous crisis was very near at hand, will admit 
 that such a course of procedure was quite out of the 
 question. I was not sure enough of my fate to A^eri- 
 ture any risks, however slight ; and the risk implied 
 to my mind, in confiding to the being who held my 
 happiness in her hands that I was two hundred miles 
 from home with only ninety cents in available funds, 
 would have been flital to all my hopes of success. 
 
 No ; the exigency of the hour demanded a concep- 
 tion and execution almost Napoleonic ; and by the 
 time we had reached Broadway I was ready for the 
 test. 
 
 " I think, Sallie," said I, as cool as I 'had seen Gen- 
 eral Burnside forty-eight hours before on the hill over- 
 
348 STORIES. 
 
 looking Fredericksburg, — "I think, on the whole, we 
 had better breakfast at the Astor House. It is quite 
 near, very comfortable, and you will have a chance to 
 get thoroughly warmed before taking the horse-car." 
 
 Sallie called me by my Christian name again as she 
 assented joyfully to the proposal, and the conversation 
 glided off into a track w^here I need not follow it. 
 The sun was hardly up, I remember, and none of the 
 shops in that part of Broadway would take down 
 their shutters for an hour or more. The newsmen 
 rushing by with damp bundles of papers, and the 
 hacks driving to and from the early boats and trains, 
 were about the only occupants of the street ; and 
 S^allie thought it very different from the Broadway 
 she had known in her visits to New York, and worth 
 being out at that unearthly hour to see as a novelty. 
 At length we reached Vesey Street, and as we turned 
 the corner I think my heart beat faster than it had 
 ever done in any of the perilous positions of my war 
 experience. Suppose the door of the ladies' entrance 
 should be locked at this early period of the day ; or 
 suppose we should be met at the head of the stairs by 
 a polite waiter ! In either case I think I should rather 
 have been in even General Burnside's boots than 
 mine that morning. But no untoward incident over- 
 threw my scheme at its beginning ; we entered, ran 
 up the stairs, and, without meeting an inquisitive eye, 
 crossed the hall into the little reception-room, where 
 a jolly fire already burned in the grate, and gave an 
 opportunity for Sallie to doff her overshoes and warm 
 her pretty feet in the most enchanting way imaginable. 
 
 Of course I left her, ostensibly to report myself at 
 the office ; and of course I did not go near the office, 
 but made a hasty toilet in the wash-room, including ren- 
 ovation to the extent of a clean paper collar from the 
 
OUR BREAKFAST AT THE ASTOR. 349 
 
 recesses of one of my pockets. I needed the splash 
 of the cold water to dispel the nervousness which kept 
 creei^ing over me when I thought of the dangers of 
 my position and the immensity of the interests at 
 stake. I think I would have given a slice of my 
 reputation to have met any of my newspaper friends 
 in the familiar lobby, with five dollars in his pocket ; 
 but journalists are not abroad so late in the morning 
 as half-past six, and no such means of relief was to be 
 hoped for. I would have pawned my watch willingly, 
 or sold it for one tenth its value with absolute pleas- 
 ure; but neither my uncle nor the jewellers open their 
 doors till eight, at least. We had time enough, but 
 none to spare ; so I braced myself with bold resolu- 
 tion, assumed as much of the air of an established 
 guest as possible, and sauntered back to the reception- 
 room, where Sallie was waiting in the firelight, lean- 
 ing her head on her hand, and in the prettiest attitude 
 of fitigue and meditation in the world. She donned 
 again her outer garments briskly, I shouldered over- 
 coat and minor luggage, and we marched, she as 
 innocent as a lark and as gay, and I weighed down 
 with apprehension and suspense, into the cosey little 
 breakfast-room. 
 
 Nobody stepped up to question my right there : 
 the waiter designated a table for us as a matter of 
 course, and evidently took us, as I meant he should, 
 for guests of yesterday, compelled to an early break- 
 fast on account of departure in the morning train. 
 There was one such party in the room already, eating, 
 bonneted and shawled, and with nervous glances at 
 the clock. The fires glowed in the two grates with a 
 cheerful lustre, and the screens before them, serving 
 also as heaters for the rolls and plates, reminded me 
 of the tin-kitchens of my boyhood's days. We had a 
 
350 STOEIES. 
 
 table to ourselves in one corner. Sallie clai^ped her 
 hands joyously, and said it was splendid ; and we 
 combined to order such a breakfast as might have 
 suggested to the waiter that we were just from a 
 journey, and not just starting out. I remember I 
 sent the waiter off with a bit of currency to buy me a 
 morning's " Herald," quite as much to add an air of 
 luxury to our repast as to reassure myself that no 
 New York news23aper man had stolen a march upon 
 me by a balloon or aerial telegraph with an account 
 of the battle. There was only a half-column of sen- 
 sational headings and a few confused lines of con- 
 tradictory statements vaguely shadowing forth the 
 defeat. My newspaper triumph was certain, and with 
 it I felt assured of a promotion and an established 
 reputation in my profession which would give me the 
 right to ask Sallie the question to which I fancied her 
 eyes had already said yes. 
 
 It was a most bewitching breakfast. With youth 
 and health and love and novelty to season our viands, 
 there was no sickly sentimentalism about our apj^e- 
 tites. Mine had the added stimulus of the remem- 
 brance of six months' campaign fare in Virginia and 
 Maryland; but I think we both enjoyed the feast 
 about alike, and shared each other's steaks, cutlets, 
 omelets, chicken-wings, and successive plates of smok- 
 ing, luscious cakes, in a merry mood of rivalry and 
 comparison. True, to me it had some of the elements 
 of Macbeth's feast : as a step resounded in the corri- 
 dor I fancied my Banquo in the shape of the gentle- 
 manly clerk, coming to ask me to " call at the office 
 and register " ; like the Egyptian, I had a grinning 
 skull at my banquet in the ebony waiter who might 
 ask me at any moment for the number of my room ; 
 and when the closet door opened I conjured up a 
 
OUR BREAKFAST AT THE ASTOR. 351 
 
 skeleton in the shape of a curt detective who might 
 take me off to the Tombs as a new edition of Jeremy 
 Diddler, with my delayed despatch in my pocket, and 
 Sallie in tears of wrath. With such thoughts con- 
 stantly popping up, the words of adoration, of en- 
 treaty, which kej^t rising to my lij^s as I looked across 
 the table at the dainty form opposite, had to be reso- 
 lutely repressed ; for should any of these interruptions 
 occur, I thought how speedily would the tenderness 
 that danced in Sallie's eyes turn to flashing scorn, how 
 dark would be the prospect otherwise so bright before 
 me. 
 
 But the meal, with all its delights and all its ter- 
 rors, came to an end at last ; we had still more than 
 half an hour to reach the New Haven station ; and I 
 breathed a sigh of relief as the waiter heljDcd me on 
 with my overcoat as obsequiously as if I had been Mr. 
 Astor himself, with a check for a million in my pocket 
 in place of that wretched ninety cents. I would have 
 given him half my cash as a fee, in my joy, but that I 
 feared to exj^ose the emptiness of my pocket-book. 
 We passed down the stairs unmolested as we had 
 come up, followed by the hona fide departing guests 
 who had breakfasted near us, and who had a carriage 
 waiting for them at the door. We made our way to 
 the horse-car, which, at that early hour for up-town 
 travel, we had nearly to ourselves, and an-ived at 
 Twenty-seventh Street in ample time for the eight 
 o'clock Boston train. 
 
 It may be imagined that with the weight of my 
 rash experiment off my mind and Sallie's pretty head 
 occasionally resting on my shoulder, with the horrors 
 of the defeat growing dim and the consciousness that 
 I had distanced all the press of tlie East in speed that 
 morning and should beat them all in minuteness and 
 
352 STORIES. 
 
 accuracy of detail the next, I soon recovered my nat- 
 ural spirits. I saw no longer any reason for delaying 
 my own attack upon the fortress I had besieged so 
 long. I opened my first parallel at Bridgport, began 
 the assault in earnest at New Haven, carried the cita- 
 del long before we reached Hartford, and fired a salute 
 of victory in the next tunnel. We mutually celebrated 
 the triumj^h in another way at Sj^ringfield, where a 
 judicious expenditure of my remaining seventy cents 
 procured a lunch of wholesome ISTew England viands 
 quite as liberal in quantity as our hearty breakfiist had 
 left us an aj^petite for. But it was not till long after 
 that, that I told Sallie the secret history of our Astor 
 House feast, and how, when I gave her up temporarily 
 to her father in the depot that happy night, I walked 
 to the ofiice with hardly money enough to jingle in 
 my pocket. 
 
 Of course, in the happy years that have followed, I 
 have felt an occasional twinge of honorable remorse 
 as I thought of the contemptible way in which I had 
 swindled the Astor House. I did indeed contemplate 
 explaining the whole afiair at the ofiice when I next 
 j^assed through New York ; but when I came to the 
 test, the stately severity of the clerk's manner quite 
 froze me with dismay at the thought of such a confes- 
 sion to such a man, and I only asked him to give me 
 the key of my room. So absurd an idea as sending 
 the amount of which I had defrauded the establish- 
 ment in an anonymous letter, as people are constantly 
 sending such missives to the Treasury De2:)artment, 
 was not to be thought of I strove to make such 
 reparation as I could by always staying at the house 
 when I visited New York, — never again with empty 
 pockets ; but then, I have reflected that the thorough 
 comfort and homelike atmosphere of the place would 
 
OUR MAID. 353 
 
 have inclnced this choice in any other circmnstances ; 
 and so I have decided to ease my conscience by a sort 
 of public confession, and have therefore put faithfully 
 down in black and white the whole story of the first 
 time my wife and I ever breakfasted together at the 
 Astor. 
 
 OUR MAID: HOW WE LOST AKD HOW 
 WE FOUND HER. 
 
 A FEW SCENES FKOM A HOUSEHOLD DEAMA. 
 
 I. 
 
 FiDuciA and I had been married six months. We 
 had been keeping house five months and a half. The 
 difierence of time represented the wedding trip we 
 had taken to Montreal and Quebec. The whole six 
 months had been but one long honeymoon. Not a 
 cloud from any quarter had disturbed the serenity of 
 our home-life ; and I had fairly made uj) my mind that 
 the stories my friends had told me of the worries 
 and annoyances of city housekeeping were all bug- 
 bears, invented for timorous bachelors. My surprise, 
 therefore, was the greater when, coming home one 
 afternoon tired from the labors of the office and the 
 encounters of the court-room, Fiducia met me at the 
 door — not exactly in tears, but with lips very firmly 
 closed and eyes very resolutely kept from winking to 
 prevent such a demonstration — with the startling in- 
 fonnation that Ellen had left us. Now, Ellen had 
 been the strong point of our establishment. She had 
 been bequeathed to us by a friend about starting for 
 
 w 
 
354 STORIES. 
 
 Europe, in whose family she had served for several 
 years, and from whom she had the heartiest recom- 
 mendations. She had fulfilled the requirements made 
 of a girl-of-all-work to our entire satisfaction, and we 
 already, in our experience, considered her a permanent 
 member of the family. But on this memorable day, 
 Fiducia said, she had been offered the position of 
 second girl, with her own sister as associate servant, in 
 a fimily rich enough to keep several attendants, on the 
 condition of accej^ting it at once ; and, having no incon- 
 venient scruples on points of honor to embarrass her 
 action, she had thrown to the winds all such trifles as 
 an agreement to give a month's warning, and had 
 already departed. Even while we spoke the express- 
 man came down stairs with her trunk, — a monstrous 
 affiiir of the Saratoga model, Avhich quite threw Fidu- 
 cia's modest little ^portmanteau into the shade. My 
 wife had comj^leted the cooking of dinner, which the 
 departed damsel had left half done ; and as our wrath 
 diminished under the influence of the j^udding made as 
 she had liked it in her childhood, we discussed more 
 composedly the catastrophe and its remedy. 
 
 "After all," said I, "it would not be so bad if it 
 were not for this case that takes every second of my 
 time this week. Girls are plentier here than in the 
 country, and if none advertises to-night in the " Tran- 
 script," perhaps we can find one at the nearest intelli- 
 gence ofiice, when we can get time to go there." 
 
 So we cheered up and made light of it; though 
 Fiducia's flushed face and weary eyes, the results of 
 her experiments over the unfamiliar range, made me 
 resolve not to accept her assurance that she would not 
 much mind doing the work herself for a few days. 
 
 When the sharp ring of the carrier at the door-bell 
 announced the arrival of the " Transcript," we both 
 
OUR MAID. 355 
 
 waited a minute or so for Ellen to bring the sprightly 
 sheet in as usual; and then the reaction from our 
 hapj^y forgetfulness made us turn, as soon as we opened 
 the sheet, to its long column of " Situations Wanted." 
 
 But there was not a maid for us in the " Transcrij^t." 
 There were four applicants for that delightfully named 
 position of " j^arlor girl " in a small, genteel family ; 
 three who would serve as chambermaids, and as many 
 to take care of children ; one fastidious person who was 
 willing to assume the charge of " a very quiet infmt " ; 
 and several advertisers who wanted places for two in- 
 separable sisters in the same house. There were 
 plenty of people, apparently in the same plight as 
 ourselves, seeking for servants of all classes and de- 
 scrii^tions. Bat not a single girl in the city, it seemed, 
 was so desirous of a place to do general housework in 
 a very small family as to give publicity to her wishes 
 through the newspaper. 
 
 " Now, don't bother your poor, tired head about the 
 matter another minute," said Fiducia, as we reached 
 the foot of the catalogue. " Smoke your pipe and 
 digest your dinner is peace, and I will attend to it 
 in the morning." 
 
 " But, my dear," said I, " you would be sure to get 
 taken in at an intelligence office." 
 
 "I have too good a judgment of faces for that," 
 protested the confident little woman. " And, more- 
 over, I have not lived six months in Boston for 
 nothing." 
 
 Indeed, I needed all my nerves and all my thoughts 
 for my case then pending, — fancying, as every young- 
 lawyer does, that my whole professional reputation 
 and the success of my career depended upon my win- 
 ning it. So I dismissed the kitchen from my mind, 
 and proceeded, according to the unj^rofessional habit 
 
356 STORIES. 
 
 which the duration of my honeymoon had fastened 
 upon me, to make all the intricacies of the suit clearer 
 in my own mind by exj^laining them minutely to 
 Fiducia. She gave such attention as one never gets 
 from a juryman ; and some of her keen questions and 
 apt suggestions were worth gold eagles to me, and 
 the hints they gave were employed to great advantage 
 next day in the cross-examinations of uncandid wit- 
 nesses. 
 
 II. 
 
 The trial engrossed all my thoughts daring the next 
 day ; and it was not till I came in sight of my own 
 door that I thought, with a mental growl at my own 
 lack of sympathy, of the perplexities that must, during 
 the same time, have been besetting Fiducia. But I 
 was reassured when that lady met ray eyes in the bay- 
 window, busily stitching away at the slippers which 
 were to suprise me on Christmas day, and when I 
 caught a glimpse of a calico-clad form through the 
 window of the basement story. 
 
 "It is all right again, Dick," said Fiducia, as she 
 met me with "No Thoroughfare" held in her hand in 
 a manner quite to defy suspicion. " I have hired a 
 girl from the intelligence office for the same wages 
 we gave Ellen; and so far I think she's a perfect 
 wonder." 
 
 " Where was her last place, and why did she leave 
 it ? " said I. 
 
 Fiducia's first reply was a look of surprise. " I am 
 sure, I don't know. Ought I to have found out, 
 Dick?" 
 
 " Of course you asked for her references," said I, 
 never doubting that she had done so. 
 
OUR MAID. 357 
 
 " Indeed, I did nothiDg of the kind," replJfed Fiducia. 
 " I never slionld have thought of such a question ; " 
 and then, noticing the look of doubt which I could 
 not keep from my face, "just hear what my experience 
 was, and you will wonder I had wits enough left to 
 ask any questions at all." 
 
 So we sat down comfortably in the parlor, and, 
 as I changed my boots for the worn-out slippers which 
 my landlady's daughter worked for me in my bache- 
 lor days, and the decay of which I always thought 
 Fiducia looked u23on with complacency, she told me 
 her story. 
 
 She had gone over to the intelligence office, the 
 whereabouts of which she had learned from the news- 
 paper, as soon as the breakfast dishes were disposed 
 of. She had waited a few moments in hesitation at 
 the long row of staring girls who confronted her when 
 the pert young woman in charge had overwhelmed 
 her with the inquiry, " What kind of a situation she 
 wanted." After this trifling misunderstanding had 
 been recovered from (not apologized for), she had 
 been j^resented to a tall, straj^ping young woman, not 
 many months from Ireland, who had proceeded to 
 catechize her: "Had she changed girls often" ; "Did 
 she give her girl a pleasant room " ; " Was the girl 
 expected to wash the windows"; "Did she expect a 
 warm dinner cooked on Sunday " ; and so on, till at 
 last an indignant negative to one of this exacting 
 dignitary's essential conditions had brought the con- 
 clusive "Then I think your house won't suit me, 
 ma'am." Another and another had come up for ex- 
 amination with substantially the same results; until 
 Fiducia had begun to think all the dreadful stories her 
 friend had told her of intelligence offices were true. 
 But at last she had been 2:>resented to a young woman 
 
358 STORIES. 
 
 whose simplicity and good manners seemed like an 
 oasis in a desert of impudence. This remarkable being 
 had asked no questions, and had answered many satis- 
 factorily, as to her ability to cook, even in the mys- 
 teries of cake-baking, her willingness to do all the 
 household work of our little family, her content with 
 the i^rivileges of absence two evenings a week, her 
 acceptance of the weekly wages we had formerly paid. 
 Fiducia seemed to have been fairly fascinated, and — 
 till I broke the spell by the inquiry I have recorded — 
 had not reflected upon the fact that she had not learned 
 from her new maid a single thing about her antecedents 
 and personal history, except that her name was Mary 
 Mitchell. 
 
 " O, well," said I at last, " perhaps it is as safe to 
 rely on your shrewd instinct in the matter. All 
 Ellen's florid recommendations did not prevent her 
 from leaving us in the lurch at a moment's warning." 
 
 " I am sure, I think, from what I have seen, she will 
 prove to be a treasure, Dick," rejoined Fiducia; " only 
 since I came home I have had some misgivings lest 
 she might be dangerously charming." 
 
 This implied fear of my susceptibility was met, as 
 it was made, with a laugh ; and we went to dinner. 
 
 Certainly our new servitor was not one of the com- 
 mon run of kitchen maids. If her name had not dis- 
 l^elled the association of Hibernian origin which in- 
 evitably comes up in this connection, her presence 
 would have driven it away. Tall and lithe, with a 
 white arm and a little hand, a pale face and an ex- 
 pression of dignified reserve, it needed all the plain 
 calico gown, the brown hair ruthlessly drawn back 
 and rolled into an unbecoming knot, the thorough 
 respectfulness of demeanor, to suggest the servant-girl 
 at all. But the dinner and the manner of its serving 
 
OUR MAID. 359 
 
 proved her experienced and accomplished in the duties 
 of her position, and so dispelled all donbts. I might 
 as well turn this story at once into a supplement to 
 Thackeray's "Memorials of Gormandizing," as to at- 
 tempt to convey a conception of the subtle and mar- 
 vellous art with which Mary Mitchell j^rovided for 
 our breakfasts and dinners, then and afterwards, while 
 slie remained with us. The halibut was browned as 
 daintily as a hungry soldier might see it in a dream ; 
 the beef was cooked just to the j^oint where not 
 one cook in ten thousand is quick enough to leave 
 off; the sauce to the pudding was a new delight; 
 and with all these material excellences there Avas a 
 mysterious something in the very setting of the table, 
 in the method with which Mary with noiseless move- 
 ment and no unseemly haste changed the dishes as 
 we passed from one course to another, that seemed to 
 impart a new dignity, almost a new j^oetry, to the 
 little city dining-room. But Fiducia says I always 
 get beyond my depth in rapture when I try to de- 
 scribe Mary Mitchell's cookery; and were I to con- 
 tinue for a column or two, much must still be left to 
 the imagination. 
 
 The best of it was that the genius which stood her 
 in such good stead at the range accompanied her 
 through the rest of her wide range of duties. Says 
 old George Herbert, — 
 
 " A servant with this clause 
 Makes drudgery divine ; 
 Who sweeps a room as for thy laws 
 ]\Iakes that and the action fine." 
 
 Mary Mitchell not only swept a room with the thor- 
 oughness of an acute conscience; she made the silver 
 shine with a brilliancy that brought back memories 
 of the new glitter of the array of gifts upon our 
 
360 STORIES. 
 
 wedding-day ; she gave my shirt-front such a miracu- 
 lous polish that I began to feel the dandy pride of 
 bachelorhood. And when little Fred Greenleaf of 
 Beacon Street came to call on us, she ojoened the door 
 to him and showed him up stairs in such a serene 
 way that Fred raved about her for full fifteen minutes, 
 and I began to think of him in the character of King 
 Cophetua. 
 
 The long and short of it was that, having fairly dis- 
 covered such an unexpected jewel in the mire of an 
 intelligence office, and recognizing some mystery about 
 our new acquisition which we could not make up our 
 minds to violently fathom, Fiducia and I decided not 
 to intrude upon the dignified reserve of our new 
 housemaid by putting that neglected question about 
 references and former services, but to trust to time 
 and the unrestrained intercourse of daily life to reveal 
 all that was needed. And when day after day passed 
 until a week had gone by, and we were as much in 
 the dark as ever (my wife testifying to a certain un- 
 expressed but unmistakable unwillingness of Mary to 
 follow the lead of any conversation tending to her own 
 affairs), any misgivings we might have had were lulled 
 to sleejD by the entire propriety of her behavior, the 
 honesty of her face, and her manifest ability to per- 
 form all the services we might require. And if Fi- 
 ducia suggested that the refinement and cultivation 
 which, unobtrusive as she was, could not but be seen 
 in our housemaid's manner and language, were incon- 
 sistent with her position in life, I received it with the 
 incredulity of a legally trained mind, and explained 
 all by referring it to the influence of some former 
 mistress, or the beginning of a new Utopian era in 
 " servantgalism." I found my bread really toasted 
 and positively hot, my buckwheat cakes light as 
 
OUR MAID. 361 
 
 air, and cooked to perfection; and I revelled too 
 heartily in the novelty to disturb myself with won- 
 derings which in themselves were absurd; for figs 
 might sooner grow on thistle stalks than romance 
 could be expected to blossom in an intelligence 
 office. 
 
 Perhaps I should mention that there was one occa- 
 sion when Mary Mitchell seemed about to lapse into 
 one of the chronic failings of her class. It was at 
 dinner. In continuation of my habit of confiding to 
 my wife the incidents of my" professional life, I read 
 to her, in the course of the dessert, a letter which I 
 had received at the office. It was from the Hon. 
 David TVentworth, the rich cotton manuflicturer and 
 local magnate of Tothersex County in New Hamp- 
 shire. He had been a client of the firm for half a 
 century ; and now that my partner was dead he con- 
 tinued the relation, although thus far I had never 
 seen him. 
 
 Thus he wrote : — 
 
 " Wentworth^tlle, December 17. 
 
 " Sir : I enclose a note which I wish you to ad- 
 dress properly and hand to the most eminent j^rivate 
 detective in your city. As I have directed him to 
 apply to you for your professional aid if it be neces- 
 sary, I will state that the commission relates to the 
 discovery of my daughter, who has wilfully and T\dth- 
 out my consent left her home, for the purpose, as I 
 believe, of meeting and marrying a certain lieutenant 
 in the navy, named Barlow. I have reason to believe 
 that the marriage has not yet taken place, as, soon 
 after my daughter's flight, a letter arrived addressed 
 to her, stating that the writer had been suddenly 
 ordered to Washington, and asking her to defer her 
 departure. If, therefore, the detective agent whom 
 16 
 
362 STORIES. 
 
 you may select sliall discover her place of conceal- 
 ment in time the affair may be prevented. But if this 
 is not accomi3lished, I shall have immediate occasion 
 for my will, which is placed with other papers in the 
 safe of your firm. You will, therefore, please forward 
 the document to me immediately ; and if you have 
 any occasion to communicate with me in the course 
 of the search, use the telegraph freely, and if neces- 
 sary I can myself go to Boston at any moment. I 
 have given out that my daughter is visiting her aunt 
 in Chicago, and remain at home to prevent any 
 awakening of scandal. 
 
 " I have described the young lady, and given all the 
 clews I have as to her probable places of refuge in the 
 letter enclosed. 
 
 " Your ob'd't servant, 
 
 "David Wentwoeth." 
 
 " The old fellow," I explained to my wife as I read, 
 " has written as stiffly as if he were directing me to 
 foreclose a mortgage ; but I can see the feeling, and 
 passion too, in his handwriting. His fingers must 
 have trembled amazingly in making some of these 
 words. I promj^tly delivered the enclosure, which 
 was sealed, to James Seek ; and if the runaway is to 
 be caught, he will catch her." 
 
 It was during this very dinner that Mary Mitchell, 
 coming in, in her calm way, with the teapot, — a very 
 quaint and pretty little bit of Wedgewood ware which 
 my bride and I had selected on the first day of our 
 housekeeping, — found it too hot for her hands, and 
 dropped it before she reached the table. We prized 
 it foolishly ; and I know I should have said something 
 sharp, but that I saw the cloud gathering on Fiducia's 
 brow 5 and a similar sight, I suppose, kept her from 
 
OUR MAID. 363 
 
 any rebuke. Mary looked thoroughly frightened, and 
 grew fairly white as she swept uj) the j^ieces of the 
 perished nose ; and when Fiducia reported after din- 
 ner that she had been having a little cry over her 
 accident in the kitchen, we were both glad that 
 neither of us had contributed to a regret which went 
 quite deep enough for the trifle that caused it. We 
 almost forgot the spoiling of our cherished set an hour 
 afterwards, as we talked over the flimily trouble that 
 had come upon old Mr. Wentworth in spite of his 
 wealth. And I do not know which of us was the 
 most surprised the next day when Mary Mitchell — 
 who had asked an hour's leave of absence for the first 
 time, in the morning — came in at the projoer stage 
 of the dinner with a new teapot, the precise counter- 
 part of our ruined beauty, which we had thought un- 
 matchable in the city. She did it as serenely as she 
 did everything, as if it were the most usual thing in 
 the world for a kitchen-maid to repair the results of 
 her carelessness ; and we neither of us seemed at the 
 moment to have words to exclaim upon the phenom- 
 enon before she had left the room. 
 
 " I declare," said Fiducia, as she si2:)ped and luxuri- 
 ated in the delicate aroma which Mary seemed to j^re- 
 serve so much better than any one else, " I think we 
 have been harboring Cinderella, sent out in disgrace 
 for staying too late at the ball ; and her fairy god- 
 mother is helping her to perform miracles to amaze 
 us." 
 
 " At least, my dear," said I, merrily, " there are some 
 fashionable people too wise to try to put their feet 
 into her little slipj^ers." And in due time I had my 
 ears boxed for the impertinence, and was compelled to 
 take back the insinuation, Avhich, I am bound to say, 
 in my wife's case at least, was unfounded. 
 
364 STORIES. 
 
 III. 
 
 Another week passed away, its o ice hours dotted 
 with calls from James Seek to re ort no j^rogress 
 in his inquiries among hotels and loarding-houses, 
 and letters from the millionnaire o ^'^entworthville 
 full of increasing petulance and i ite directions 
 about the new will I was framing him; and its 
 home hours enlivened by constant n 'scoveries of 
 the capabilities of our reticent cook u ly of ethe- 
 
 real and flaky joie-crust. After dinner one day, 
 
 as I smoked my pipe in the bay-w^ ^ saw our 
 
 maid in her gray walking-suit leave ^ house by the 
 area door, and walk in the direction < f " down town." 
 She trod the sidewalk so genteelly that I watched her 
 as she went, — Fiducia looking over my shoulder, — 
 and saw her pass uj^ the steps of No. 20, where 
 my friend. Dr. Forceps, plies his dr- adful but neces- 
 sary steel ; saw her run down again Ave minutes later, 
 and disapjDcar round the corner. 
 
 Now, these circumstances were very trifling in them- 
 selves ; but I thought for a time I should have to tes- 
 tify to them on the witness-stand. For Mary Mitchell 
 never came back ! 
 
 Of course it was some time before her absence 
 began to disturb us. The evening wore away. Fred 
 Greenleaf called, and jocularly expressed his diappoint- 
 ment because I opened the door to him with my own 
 hands ; and it was not till bedtime drew near that we 
 indulged in any wonder that a member of our family 
 should be out so late. We set the chessmen to while 
 away the minutes of waiting till we should hear her 
 ring; and it was not till "checkmate," pronounced 
 after a very intricate struggle, released our attention 
 to seek the clock-face, that I exclaimed : — 
 
OUR MAID. 365 
 
 " Upon my w rd, Fidncia, we must count the spoons, 
 and examine yoir jewel-box." 
 
 " That is just like you, Dick, — suspicious of rascality 
 the very first mi* , ate, like a — lawyer as you are. With 
 such a face as M' ry Mitchell's, I wonder you can think 
 of such a thing. 1 
 
 Neverthelessj'rre went over the list of our silver, and 
 checked off art)\ le after article. I^ot one thino^ was 
 missing. The 1^'^ tie jewel-case had lost nothing. The 
 wardrobe was undisturbed. All in the kitchen was in 
 perfect order,— r^jven the fire built in the range in 
 readiness for theimatch, the dining-room table set for 
 breakfast. ^ 
 
 " Of course, laiever for an instant doubted the girl's 
 honesty," said Ji, as we completed our tour of in- 
 spection. " The thing is clear enough. She has 
 found some sick friend at the West End or South 
 Boston, and stained to watch with her." 
 
 " Then she never will do it again without coming 
 home to ask lea e," said incredulous Fiducia, jiursing 
 up her lips ; and so, for the night, we dismissed the 
 subject, though not the perplexity it occasioned, and 
 reluctantly locked up the house. 
 
 I opened the door in the morning half expecting to 
 see Mary Mitchell waiting on the steps with her apol- 
 ogy all ready. But there was nothing there save the 
 can left by the milkman. The kitchen was cold and 
 dreary in spite of its neatness. 
 
 Notwithstanding all the confidence I expressed and 
 felt, I looked again in the plate-closet ; but no burglar 
 had been admitted by false keys or otherwise, and the 
 little carven goat slept on the cover of the butter-dish 
 as usual. Fiducia was for setting about preparing 
 breakfast at once ; but I could not wait for a begin- 
 ning to be made de novo, with the fire unkindled, and 
 
366 STORIES. 
 
 suggested a trip to Parker's instead. Naturally our 
 vanished maid took a large place in our thoughts and 
 conversation. We stopped at No. 20, on the way- 
 down, to make the only inquiry which, in our entire 
 and (as I now saw) inexcusable ignorance as to Mary 
 Mitchell's friends and acquaintances, seemed possible. 
 
 "Certainly, I remember the caller," said Dr. For- 
 ceps, "and recognized, her as your new maid. She 
 simply asked if I could spare her five minutes at once 
 to appease an aching tooth. I had a long job on hand, 
 and asked her to aj^point an hour to-morrow ; but she 
 said she would try another dentist." 
 
 I explained the circumstances of her disappearance; 
 but the doctor's wisdom gave us no light. 
 
 " She has got tired of you and gone in search of 
 another place. I was served just so by an Irish girl 
 Avhen I was young and raw at keej^ing house." 
 
 " But did your girl run away Avith two weeks' 
 wages due her?" said I, seeing no amusement in my 
 friend's joke. 
 
 " That alters the case," admitted the doctor. " I 
 think you will see her back again before the day is 
 out." 
 
 " She shall never come back to stay without a full 
 ex23lanation," said Fiducia, firmly, as we waited for the 
 car ; and I admitted that the affair would look very 
 dark, were the missing maid any maid but Mary 
 Mitchell ; and that I could suggest no plausible expla- 
 nation of the mystery. 
 
 Dr. Forceps had invited us to dine with his family 
 in default of Mary's return during the morning ; so 
 Fiducia, though she returned home as soon as we had 
 breakfasted, to be on the spot when the truant should 
 appear, did not touch a match to the frowning range, 
 and got along very easily after my office-boy had been 
 
OUR MAID. 367 
 
 Tip to hurl the heavy shovelfuls of coal into the fur- 
 nace. I returned at the usual hour, feeling sure that 
 an explanation of the whole story would be ready for 
 me at the door. But there was none ; and Fiducia, 
 waiting and wondering alone, had grown very ner- 
 vous. 
 
 " There is just one theory I can present," said I, as 
 the dinner at Dr. Forceps's pleasant board was over ; 
 " only one theory consistent with Mary Mitchell's 
 modesty, sobriety, honesty, and apparent high char- 
 acter." 
 
 " What is that, pray ? " said my wife. 
 
 "She was in search of a dentist," said I. "She 
 may have fallen into the hands of one unskilful, or a 
 scoundrel, have taken ether, and have been unable to 
 get home." 
 
 " By George ! " said the Doctor, springing up with 
 a fiery energy unusual even with him ; " you may be 
 right. There are some great quacks and greater 
 villains who hang on the outskirts of the profession. 
 I have heard of just such a case." 
 
 The fervor of the Doctor inspired me with con- 
 tagious belief in a theory which I had thrown out 
 merely as a wild conjecture. 
 
 " But, having once harbored such a suspicion, what 
 is one to do about it ?" said L 
 
 " Put it in the hands of the police," said the Doctor; 
 " they could make inquiries at the office of every den- 
 tist in Boston in two hours." 
 
 " I am afraid your estimate is based on your knowl- 
 edge of the police system of Paris," I replied. " I 
 have not so strong a fiith. And, after all, I think the 
 girl would come quietly home to laugh at our excite- 
 ment before the search was half over." 
 
 " Then you put less trust in Mary Mitchell than I 
 
368 STORIES. 
 
 do," said Fiducia, stoutly. "I cannot believe she 
 would absent herself in this way, without leaving a 
 word of explanation behind her, if she were able to 
 come home." 
 
 "Good heavens!" exploded the Doctor, to whom 
 the evening paper had just been brought in, " listen 
 to this." And he read aloud the paragraph, which I 
 shortly afterward cut out, and have still preserved in 
 my pocket-book as a memento of the day: — 
 
 "A woman who gave her name, as nearly as it 
 could be understood, as Mary Mifflin, was found by 
 officer Harris in Temple Place last evening, in a state 
 of utter stupor, produced by intoxication. On recov- 
 ering her senses in the cell at the station-house, she 
 twice attempted to strangle herself She was brought 
 up in the Municipal Court this morning, and was sent 
 to the Island for thirty days." 
 
 " And what do you make of that ? " said I. " I 
 would believe anything sooner than that the Mary 
 Mitchell who has lived in my house would ever be 
 drunk in the street." 
 
 " Don't you see, don't you see ! " said the impetuous 
 Doctor, running his fingers through his hair, and 
 pacing up and down the room in a fever of excite- 
 ment. " It is as plain as a pike-staff. Mary Mitchell 
 goes to a dentist, — so much we know for certain. 
 She is drugged, stupefied, — turned out at last in the 
 street. She is picked up by a policeman who cannot 
 tell ether from alcohol ; registered by a sergeant who 
 hears her broken utterance with his elbows ; she is an 
 honest girl of no little refinement and breeding; find- 
 ing herself in a cell, fancying herself disgraced forever, 
 her brain still topsy-turvy, she tries to strangle her- 
 self with her garter. Why, man, I've known a 
 woman do the same thing in coming out from the 
 
OUE MAID. 369 
 
 effects of ether, after only iDiilling a tooth for her. 
 She is j^ut through the mill of the court in the morn- 
 ing with twenty drunkards and vagrants, and by this 
 time she is on the Island." 
 
 " I must say you seem to me to have hatched up a 
 very ingenious cock-and-bull story," said I, trying to 
 reassure Fiducia, who was trembling and pallid with 
 horror. 
 
 " Suggest a more reasonable hypothesis of the girl's 
 absence yourself," said the Doctor. 
 
 " That challenge is too much for me," I rejoined. 
 " At least, I will sift your theory without a moment's 
 delay. For anything I know, I am the nearest ap- 
 proach to a friend the poor girl has in the city, and 
 it is my duty to investigate the case. I will go down 
 town to the station-house at once." 
 
 " I will go mth you," exclaimed the warm-hearted, 
 hot-headed little doctor. 
 
 So we arranged that Mrs. Forceps and the girls 
 should go over and sit with Fiducia, to keep her 
 company in our absence; and the Doctor and I sallied 
 forth on the wildest night of the season, — horse-cars 
 all taken off, snow-ploughs just giving up the contest, — 
 for the walk down town. The fierceness of the storm 
 seemed to contribute to the horrible apparitions he 
 had conjured up ; and by the time we reached the 
 streets, not altogether lonely, we had both become 
 about convinced in our own minds that Mary Mitchell 
 had passed through terrors we dared not picture, and 
 was at that moment going crazy in her cell at Deer 
 Island. 
 
 The lieutenant in charge was urbane, as he always 
 is, and ready to do all in his power for us. But neither 
 his information nor that to be derived from the regis- 
 ter was much more definite than the newspaper para- 
 16* X 
 
370 STORIES. 
 
 graph : " Mary Mifflin," was the entry, in the broad, 
 subdivided page of the ledger, — " color, white ; age, 
 twenty-five; height, five feet four inches; born in 
 Maine ; hair, dark ; ofience, drunkenness ; cell, No. 7 ; 
 officer, Harris ; remarks, tried to hang herself in the 
 night ; sentence, thirty days." That was all the book 
 told us. If the doctor's theory was tenable, it might 
 be our Mary Mitchell, for anything in the dry, soul- 
 less catalogue to contradict it. But the police officer 
 did not look at the theory with much favor. 
 
 " What did she get from you, sir ? " he had said, 
 when we began our inquiries. 
 
 " She took nothing at all," I explained ; " she is 
 merely missing, not a thief." 
 
 " O, well, sir," said he, losing his interest some- 
 what ; " if you 've lost nothing, better let it alone. 
 If a girl will run away and get drunk, better give her 
 up as a bad lot, and try another." 
 
 " But if this is my girl," I remonstrated, " she has 
 not got drunk at all. I suspect she was stupefied 
 with ether, and turned out in the street." 
 
 The officer gave a long look at us, as nearly ap- 
 proaching to wonder as the countenance of a veteran 
 policeman is capable of assuming, and then turned to 
 attend to a miserable remnant of humanity who had 
 come in out of the storm to seek the hospitality of his 
 cheerless cells. 
 
 " Do you know whether this woman offered any 
 explanation, any defence, when she was brought up 
 in the court this morning?" inquired Forcej^s, when 
 the almoner of the city's bounty was again at leisure. 
 
 " O, for the matter of that, probably not," said the 
 officer. " Most of them just sit still in the dock, and 
 if they say nothing it is taken for granted that they 
 have nothing to say, and they are sent off" at the rate 
 of four a minute." 
 
OUR MAID. 371 
 
 " When can I get down to the Island ? " said I. 
 
 " You can go in the morning, of course, sir,'' said 
 he ; " but if you '11 take my advice, you will not trouble 
 3"ourself about it. This woman must have been an 
 old stager, or she would never have tried the garter 
 business." 
 
 " Will you tell me what time the boat leaves ? " said 
 I, a little impatient ; for this man did not know Mary 
 Mitchell, and I considered his advice an intrusion upon 
 the ardor of our crusade in her behalf 
 
 " The steamer Avill sail at nine o'clock, sir," replied 
 the officer, all dignified frigidity at once. " You will 
 need a j^ass to go down. Here it is." 
 
 He gave me a little card, the blanks of which he 
 had filled up, and Dr. Forceps and I battled our way 
 home again. 
 
 lY. 
 
 The next morning my enthusiasm had a little cooled 
 down, and I had begun to think respectfully of the 
 police instinct, even in a matter of which the police- 
 man might be said to know nothing. But Fiducia 
 was at once ardent and logical, and pointed out that 
 I had no proof that all might not have happened as 
 Dr. Forceps's rapid imagination had pictured it. So I 
 started earty, despatched the breakfast of toast and 
 eggs we had prej^ared on the fire, which at last we 
 had lighted, and had just time to run into the office 
 for my letters before going to the wharf At the of. 
 fice I found James Seek waiting to see me. 
 
 "Well, 'Squire," said he, with that rusticity which 
 he has never w^orn ofi*, and which I think he affects as 
 a desirable trait in his profession ; " I reckon I have 
 got track of that missing girl at last." 
 
372 STORIES. 
 
 " You don't mean to say you have been looking for 
 her, too," said I, startled. 
 
 " But I fear she is married and out of the old gen- 
 tleman's reach," continued the detective. 
 
 " O, pshaw ! you mean Miss Wentworth," said I. 
 "I have not an instant to spare, — back by noon at 
 latest"; and I rushed through the snowy streets to 
 the wharf, and arrived just in time. 
 
 Peoj^le who have been in the habit of taking dog- 
 day excursions in the Rose Standish, or the venerable 
 wheelbarrow that trundles to Nahant, can form little 
 conception of the trip to Deer Island in December. 
 If I had been going dowm as a convicted pickpocket, 
 I should have gloated over a long term, if it had spared 
 me the thought of coming back in winter. But as the 
 whole expedition terminated in a blind alley, I will 
 not weary the reader by a narrative of its terrors. 
 Suffice it to say that I never fully sympathized with 
 Dr. Kane until that day. I disembarked at last, and 
 pushed my inquiries as guardedly as I could. After 
 some formalities had been gone through with, Mary 
 Mifflin was ushered into the little office, where I sat 
 thawing my ear and shaking my tingling fingers. A 
 great, hulking, coarse, blowsy wench, in whose history 
 drunkenness might have been passed over as a com- 
 paratively trifling weakness, she was no more like the 
 delicate damsel I sought than Claudius to King Ham- 
 let. She came in all eagerness and curiosity ; which, 
 when she discovered that I had nothing to say but 
 that I had made a mistake, changed into a scorn she 
 was amply able to exjjress. 
 
 " Did you want to adopt me, sonny ? " she cried, in 
 great glee, " or did you see me in the court and fall in 
 love with me ? Come, get wp a petition and pardou 
 me out, and I '11 come and keep house for ye." 
 
OUE MAID. 373 
 
 I know not how long the laughing superintendent 
 might have permitted the wretch to go on ; for I saw 
 the boat about to start on her return trip, and made a 
 hasty departure, not to be left behind. If the trip 
 down the harbor was a taste of Nova Zembla, the 
 journey back again, with my Quixotic mission and 
 and its ending to reflect ujDon, was a positive glimpse 
 of the North Pole. I stamped up and down the nar- 
 row deck full of wrath at the simplicity of Forceps, as 
 if I had not shared it; and it was not till we had 
 thrown our hawser to the wharf that my indignation 
 had subsided enough to permit the recurring wonder, 
 "Where was Mary Mitchell, then, all this time?" 
 Even then, my personal sufierings seemed to over- 
 come my feelings of interest on her account. I for- 
 got even to notice that Seek did not keep the implied 
 appointment of my parting words to him ; and when 
 I reached home at dinner-time I was grinding my 
 teeth with disgust at the ridiculous story I had to tell 
 Fiducia, whom I pictured waiting in breathless anxi- 
 ety for the result of my mission of rescue. 
 
 Y. 
 
 What was my surprise, therefore, to find that usu- 
 ally staid little lady fairly dancing with delight, which 
 sparkled in her eyes and twinkled in her lips. 
 
 " What do you think I have found, Dick, — and in 
 the flour-barrel all this time ? " 
 
 " Don't keep me in suspense," I exclaimed, snatch- 
 ing her hand ; for at the moment an absurb image of 
 some mangled remains stored in our prosaic pantry, as 
 the climax to a homd tragedy, or some new version 
 of the old story of Ginevra in her oaken chest, flashed 
 across my mind. 
 
374 STORIES. 
 
 " Why, a note from her, to be sure," cried Fiducia, 
 talking at lightning speed. " She tliought the first 
 thing we should do when the housework fell on our 
 hands was to open the flour-barrel, so she j^inned it 
 in there; and we, lazy children that we are, have 
 never cooked so much as a biscuit till to-day. But 
 who do you guess she is, Dick ? " 
 
 " I have been guessing on her conundrums too 
 long," said I, almost savagely. " Tell me what apol- 
 ogy the baggage made for deserting us." 
 
 " The baggage is a runaway heiress, my love. Read 
 that!" 
 
 So, with a brain almost dazed, I read it : — 
 
 " Dear Madaim : Do not imagine I should ever 
 have left you so clandestinely, but that I heard your 
 husband read the letter from my father, which showed 
 they were acquainted. I feared by telling you (as I 
 had before that intended to do when the time came), 
 to betray all. When you find this to-night I shall be 
 George Barlow's vnfe ; and my unhind father can do 
 nothing more wdiich I shall fear. I long to see you 
 with the mash oif, to explain how I was compelled to 
 deceive you, and to thank you for many hindnesses 
 while I hid from my pursuers as your maid. If you 
 can forgive the deceit I have imwillingly practised, 
 we shall be happy to see your husband and yourself 
 any time this week at the Revere House. 
 
 "Mary Mitchell Wentworth." 
 
 " By Jove ! " was all I could say. 
 
 " But why do you look so solemn over it, Dick ? " 
 said Fiducia. " I am sure I think it is splendid. I 
 never heard of so much spirit in my life." 
 
 " You forget old David Wentworth," said I. "What 
 will he say when he knows I have hid his daughter in 
 
OUR MAID. 375 
 
 my kitchen all the time he has been scouring the city 
 for her Avith detectives ? " 
 
 "Never mind him," said Fiducia, tartly. "What 
 should we have done if my father had set his face 
 against you in that obstinate style ? " 
 
 " At least you could never have rivalled Miss Went- 
 worth as a cook, if you had been forced to such an 
 expedient," said I. 
 
 " How do you know that, Mr. Scej^tic ? " replied my 
 wife. " Come and partake of the chicken I have fricas- 
 seed for you, and say that again if you dare. I want 
 you to go with me this very night to call on Mr. and 
 Mrs. George Barlow. See, here is the marriage in 
 this evening's paper." 
 
 So go we did ; and the bride received us as sweetly, 
 and withal as simply, as she had received our visitors 
 in my little entry. Fred Greenleaf came in while we 
 were there. Barlow was an old chum of his, and his 
 congratulations became doubly hearty when he found 
 out who was his friend's wife and how she had been 
 won. We heard the odd story a dozen times in dif- 
 ferent words ; but as the reader has guessed its pur- 
 port already, it need not be rehearsed here in detail. 
 The fugitive heiress had learned of her lover's neces- 
 sary absence only when it was too late to return home 
 without humiliation. She knew the prompt measures 
 her stern old father would set on foot for her discov- 
 ery, so she resolved to seek complete concealment 
 through the medium of an intelligence office. As 
 soon as Barlow had been able to get released from 
 the order which summoned him to the capital, he had 
 returned, and she had joined him half an hour before 
 they were married. A skilful and veteran dentist, a 
 few blocks from the office of Dr. Forceps, had relieved 
 her, on the way, of one of those persistent pains which 
 
376 STOEIES. 
 
 will disturb the happiest hour of human existence. 
 Her departure from us had been made after the 
 French fashion, as has been explained, only because 
 she had discovered in me one of the very "blood- 
 hounds of the law " from whom she was hiding. I 
 never should have told her — but Fiducia did — how 
 I looked for her among the guests of the city in the 
 mansion by the sea, when I might have found her in 
 the very apartments which the municipal hospitality 
 assigns to such visitors as General Sheridan and the 
 Prince of Wales. I felt almost rewarded for my freez- 
 ing journey by the smile with which Mrs. George Bar- 
 low thanked me for the solicitude I felt for her who 
 had been so few days my housemaid. 
 
 The bride and bridegroom insisted upon our 
 taking our Christmas dinner with them next day, 
 especially as there was no cook at home to pre- 
 pare our own feast. Fred Greenleaf was of the 
 party ; and I bore an invitation to Dr. Forceps, — a 
 slight acknowledgment of the zeal which prompted 
 his night expedition with me, — which family and 
 professional calls prevented his accepting. The table 
 was spread in the young couple's own apartments; 
 and Mrs. Barlow presided with a queenly grace in 
 which I could see the same noble simplicity of manner 
 that had seemed so admirable in our housemaid. 
 After all, it is the same great quality of womanliness 
 which is the highest attribute of a woman in every 
 station of life. There was but one shade over the 
 jollity of the banquet, in the thought of the sad, fierce 
 old millionnaire in his angry loneliness at Wentworth- 
 ville. But I am glad to say that even that shadow 
 passed away with the coming of the summer. The 
 old gentleman accepted the inevitable, as such fathers 
 in fact and fiction usually do; discovered many 
 
MARRYING A PICKPOCKET. 377 
 
 good points in his son-in-law ; burned the new will, 
 and sent the other document back to slumber in my 
 safe in Court Street. So far from bearing us any 
 malice for our innocent share in the success of his 
 daughter's escapade, he has invited us to take our 
 Christmas dinner this year, with Mary and George, at 
 his family mansion in Wentworthville, 
 
 MARRYING A PICKPOCKET. 
 
 Ralph will persist — most mischievously, as I say 
 — in telling the children all sorts of nonsensical 
 stories about it ; never the simple truth, but always 
 some absurd fable or other, full of extravagance, 
 which only stimulates their curiosity. N"o sooner is 
 he out of the house than Edgar or Belle, or both to- 
 gether, will march up to me with the gravest of little 
 faces, and the solemn inquiry, " Did you really pick 
 somebody's pocket, mamma?" or, "Did papa really 
 find you in the old ugly Black Maria wagon ? " and 
 of course they are not old enough to understand the 
 actual story, or to remember it rightly if I were to tell 
 them a dozen times over. So I think, as I have thought 
 many times before, that I will write it all down just as 
 it happened, " nothing extenuate," as Mr. Booth says 
 at the theatre ; and then the dear boy and girl will 
 never get a wrong fancy in their heads ; for I might 
 lose in time the vivid remembrance of every incident 
 of it which I have now ; and as to Ralph, I think he 
 has made so many fenciful additions from time to 
 time, all in fun, that he might almost begin to believe 
 some of them were true. 
 
378 STOEIES. 
 
 We read almost every day in the newspapers of 
 worthy old ladies and gentlemen, who, at threescore 
 and ten, take their first ride by railroad, after living 
 all their lives within hearing of the locomotive whistle, 
 or who die without ever having tried the experiment, 
 or even seeing a train of cars. So I suppose it is not 
 altogether incredible, and perhaps not so very discredit- 
 able, that I, Mary Gilman, had grown to be a woman 
 at the foot of a mountain from whose summit the 
 dome of Boston State House can be seen in a clear 
 day, and yet had never taken a nearer view of it, nor, 
 indeed, set foot in any city whatever. I had no busi- 
 ness to take me from home; journeys for pleasure 
 were rare with the hard-working residents of our 
 neighborhood, busy as they were through the summer, 
 and snow-bound in winter ; and my mother had al- 
 ways said, " Another time, child," when I had teased 
 to be allowed to go with Uncle John on his quarterly 
 trips to replenish the stock of his little store. Now 
 I was alone in the world ; my mourning clothes were 
 almost worn out; the school term was over, and the 
 money for teaching ten weeks — thirty dollars — was 
 in my pocket ; and I had answered an advertisement in 
 the " Journal," and secured a position as an assistant, 
 at a much better salary, in a high school in a large 
 manufacturing town in Maine. To get there I must 
 pass through Boston ; and I had studied myself into 
 a headache over a railroad guide, and had ascertained 
 that, by taking an early morning train, I could reach 
 that city in time to leave it at noon on an eastward 
 train, and be at my destination before dark. 
 
 So I had all my worldly goods in my trunk twenty- 
 four hours in advance ; spent the last day in bidding 
 good by to old family friends, as well as to the little 
 people to whose education I had devoted my last 
 
MAEEYING A PICKPOCKET. 379 
 
 year, and the pleasant households with which I had 
 boarded in raj^id succession during the last term ; and 
 in the gray winter morning I took my seat in the 
 "jumper," which replaced the lumbering stage-coach 
 of summer, and was driven across the creaking snow 
 to the station. I was not sorry that there was not a 
 person I knew waiting there for the same train ; for I 
 was old-flishioned enough in those days to like to 
 enjoy first sensations alone, and I felt quite in the 
 mood of a daring discoverer at the thought of making 
 my way to Boston and through it on my own re- 
 sponsibility. 
 
 " I suj^pose I have plenty of time to take the 12.20 
 train from the Maine station?" said I, when the ur- 
 bane conductor vouchsafed me ten seconds or so of his 
 precious time, to take the ticket I held in readiness 
 for him. 
 
 " 12.20 train taken off, ma'am," said he; "change of 
 time last week." 
 
 I almost felt my courage taking Aving at this first 
 obstacle to the easy programme I had marked out ; 
 but I retained enough of it to snatch at this hurried 
 official the next time he passed me, with the query 
 when the next train would start for Portland. 
 
 " 2.45, ma'am," said he, as placidly as before. 
 
 After a brisk resort to the mental arithmetic which 
 had lately filled so large a share in my daily life, I felt 
 reassured. Two hours and a half lost would still 
 carry me to my destination in season to find the com- 
 mittee-man who had secured my boarding-place for 
 me, before he would be likely to be inaccessible. Two 
 hours and a half in Boston would give scope for an 
 amount of agreeable exploration and adventure I had 
 not dared to hope for. I had read in some philo- 
 sophical newspaper paragraph that the first requisite 
 
380 STOEIES. 
 
 of a good traveller is coolness; so I rose above the 
 condition of worrying, and amused myself with a 
 study of the faces and manners of my fellow-pas- 
 sengers. 
 
 In the seat before me was a happy young mother 
 with her baby, which, notwithstanding the early hour 
 at which it must have been taken from its cradle, 
 never once intruded its voice upon the attention of 
 its elders, but slept and smiled with wonderful amia- 
 bihty. Behind me were a couple on easy flirtation 
 terms, who took no pains to keej^ their conversation 
 from my ears, and varied the tedium of the trip by 
 the excitement of a bet of a pair of gloves as to 
 whether the baby in front of them was a boy or a girl. 
 Across the aisle was an old lady, who, I was pleased to 
 perceive, asked the reticent conductor more questions 
 than I did, and always had an inquiry ready to inter- 
 cept his every transit through the car. And so the com- 
 plement was made up of all the inevitable characters 
 — so new to me in those days — whom my subsequent 
 travelling experiences have taught me to look for in 
 every railway journey. 
 
 About half an hour before noon we arrived at the 
 Boston station, and my heart had thrilled at the re- 
 cognition of the plain shaft on Bunker Hill as we 
 passed over the water to reach the city. I suffered 
 myself to be captured by a hackman, and taken across 
 the town to Haymarket Square, for the sake of get- 
 ting my trunk there ; and I can remember to this day 
 how strange looked the high brick walls, the brilliant 
 shop-windows, the hurrying crowds that have since 
 become such familiar objects, as I j^eered, half sick 
 with loneliness but excited with the novelty of the 
 scene, from the windows of the carriage. I think 
 it all appeared more wonderful to me then, fresh 
 
MAEEYING A PICKPOCKET. 381 
 
 from the country as I was, than a glimpse of Jecldo 
 or Pekin woukl now. Even the people seemed like 
 foreigners, as they rushed along with inexplicable haste 
 close beside me ; and the signs fm^nished reading as 
 interesting as a novel. 
 
 This taste of the sights of the city, I suppose, 
 made the quiet of the Maine station particularly 
 tedious to me. I could not check my trunk until 
 half an hour before the train would leave ; but I 
 could leave it with entire safety in the baggage-room, 
 my hackman told me, and I myself saw him deposit it 
 there, and noted the spot. I ate my lunch — a sand- 
 wich and a slice of sponge-cake — in the waiting-room ; 
 and as I read the inscription, " Beware of Pickpockets," 
 which hung by the ticket-office window, I remember 
 mentally congratulating myself that I had put all my 
 store of money, except enough for the needs of the 
 journey, safely in my trunk. Ralph has told me since 
 that that was the beginning of my follies, and the 
 fruitful source of all my woes ; but I thought at the 
 time it was a remarkable piece of womanly prudence. 
 At least, it relieved me of my anxiety, as I resolved 
 to spend the two hours at my command in rambling 
 about the city ; and I set forth with a stout heart and 
 eager anticipations of pleasure. 
 
 I paused, however, at the threshold, and looked 
 upon the noisy tumult of the square, thinking whether 
 I had any special point to aim at. I knew but one per- 
 son in the city, — a Mr. Churchill, who had paid a 
 hunting and fishing visit to our village in the summer, 
 had extended his stay far beyond his original purpose, 
 had visited my little school, and had left his photo- 
 graph in my keeping when he came, in a merry mood, 
 to say good by. Decidedly, I should like to see Mr. 
 Churchill ; but, decidedly, I would not go to his offi-ce 
 
382 STORIES. 
 
 to call upon him. Perhaps I might meet him. I had 
 noted the windows of Washington Street, as I rode 
 through, as offering the most positive attractions ; so 
 I determined to go there for my walk, and, if I saw 
 Court Street by the w^ay, to look up and down the 
 walls for the strip of board which Mr. Churchill had 
 told me indicated his office there. 
 
 A burly policemna gave me the right direction, Avith 
 a courtesy and clearness which made me set down a 
 mental credit-mark very near the maximmn standard 
 of a hundred, as I used to grade my pupils at school, 
 for the w^hole class to which he belonged. By dint of 
 long waiting at the crossings till a wide gap should ap- 
 pear in the endless processions of teams, and frequent 
 questions when I found myself getting astray in the 
 confusing labyrinths of a part of the city in which 
 now, as a resident, I often get puzzled, I made my way 
 to Washington Street, and speedily plunged into the 
 delights of bookstore windows and millinery windows 
 with an enjoyment only interrupted by inspections of 
 my watch about once in ten minutes, in my nervous 
 fear lest I should overstay my limit. I walked around 
 the Old State House, and fixed, by a combined effort 
 of memory and imagination, upon the very spot which 
 must have been stained by the blood of the Boston 
 Massacre, so familiar to my mind from frequent listening 
 to parrot-like recitations of its history as coldly told in 
 the school-books. I stopped a full minute to look at Mr. 
 Whipple's revolving-sun, — now only a memory of the 
 past, — until people trod on my skirts, and the express- 
 men stopped to smile at my curiosity, as they trundled 
 their bundles and boxes in and out of the office close by. 
 Every little incident of that hour is photographed upon 
 my mind, as the trifles often are that go before a great 
 calamity or a serious fright j but it is not worth while 
 
MARRYING A PICKPOCKET. 383 
 
 to recall them all here. I saw Mr. Churchill's gilt sign 
 under a window on Court Street ; but I did not see 
 his bright face under any one of the countless black 
 hats which swei3t by me as I strolled u]) the street. 
 At last it was one o'clock, and I thought at the next 
 corner I would turn back, and so have plenty of time 
 to reach the station. 
 
 The window at which I had paused as I made this 
 resolution was the most florid and the most persistent 
 in its appeals to the public that I had seen. Its con- 
 tents clamored for attention, with great placards in 
 staring letters, "A Few More Left — only Seventy- 
 five Cents," and equally alluring inscriptions, attached 
 to yellow chains and lockets which, in my innocence, 
 I should have fancied to be of the finest gold, had 
 they thus not proclaimed their own baseness. Vases 
 that looked like porcelain, statuettes that looked like 
 bronze, chessmen that looked like ivory, trumpeted 
 forth their inferior material by similar ostentatious 
 announcements of cheapness. Strings of beads and 
 toy tea-sets, cases of soap and packs of j^laying-cards, 
 babies' rattles and old folks' spectacles, mingled in 
 the heterogeneous assortment ; and little boys on the 
 sidewalk thrust handbills into my fingers, to assure 
 me that the entire stock was to be sold ofi* at an 
 alarming sacrifice on account of removal. But it was 
 none of those temptations which led me on to my fate 
 and made me enter the shop. It was a paj^er doll that 
 hung in the window, with her wardrobe beside her, all 
 in a single sheet, ready for the cutting out, — just 
 what would fill with unbounded delight the soul of 
 little Susy Whiting, the one member of my deserted 
 flock who had actually been moved to tears at the 
 news of my going away. My heart seemed to be 
 turned anew towards Susy by the chilly, unsympa^ 
 
384 STORIES. 
 
 thizing rush of the throng which swept past me ; and 
 when I thought how easily this addition to her scanty- 
 family of rag-babies could be sent to her in a letter, I 
 hurried in to secure it. 
 
 The shop was so crowded — with women almost ex- 
 clusively — that I made my way to the counter with 
 difficulty; and I clutched my pocket-book tightly as 
 the sight of a policeman at the door reminded me of 
 the caution posted at the railroad station. The young 
 women behind the counter were busy as bees, and 
 I waited patiently fully five minutes for my turn. 
 
 A sudden scream startled me ; and the lady stand- 
 ing next me turned round, all flushed and half frantic, 
 with the exclamation : — 
 
 " My money ! O, my money is gone ! " 
 
 The attendant behind the counter, and all the cus- 
 tomers in that part of the shop, crowded around with 
 eager inquiries ; and the policeman was there in an 
 instant, j^utting quick, curt questions. There seemed 
 no prospect of my getting immediate attention for 
 the little purchase I contemplated ; and, thinking at 
 the moment only of the lapse of time and the distance 
 through strange streets to the station, I turned to 
 go without Susy's paper doll, — committing thereby, 
 my acute husband informs me, blunder number two. 
 
 " Please wait a minute, miss," said the blue-coated 
 officer. "The lady has only missed her money a 
 minute ; it may not have got out of the store. Just 
 keep that door shut, will you," — this to another man 
 who had joined him. 
 
 " I assure you, sir," said I, committing I know not 
 how serious an error in my amazement and consterna- 
 tion, " I am on my way to a train." 
 
 "Going to a train, eh?" rejoined the policeman, 
 with a perceptible diminution in the tone of respect 
 
MARRYING A PICKPOCKET. 385 
 
 he had used at first ; " seems to me I have heard just 
 such a story before. Do you thmk you can tell who 
 took it, ma'am ? " 
 
 The lady who had lost the money — rather an 
 elderly j^erson, with sharp, unattractive features — 
 seemed greatly flustered by the incident. 
 
 " O dear, O dear, no such thing ever happened to 
 me before," said she, talking at telegraj^h sjDeed, and at 
 intervals thrusting her hand again and again into the 
 depths of her pocket, as if the thief might have left a 
 glove there, or as if she expected her purse to reai:>i3ear 
 by magic. " I had it but a moment ago. It must have 
 been this woman who stood next me." 
 
 Full of wrath and bewilderment as I was at this 
 abominable accusation, the tears did not come to my 
 eyes as they usually do at moments of excitement. I 
 seemed rather dazed and stunned by the interruj^tion 
 to my sight-seeing, and perhaps I looked calm out- 
 wardly to the group who were scrutinizing my fea- 
 tures as if I w^ere already on exhibition in some 
 rogues' gallery. 
 
 " You will have to be examined, ma'am," said the 
 policeman. " If you will step to the rear of the store, 
 it will only take a second. You will please come 
 also," — to the lady whose loss had occasioned my 
 misfortune, — "I may want to take your name and 
 address." 
 
 " I am entirely willing," said I, quite rejoiced at a 
 suggestion which promised my immediate exculpation ; 
 " only pray do not detain me longer than is ne- 
 cessary." 
 
 But as I moved to follow in the direction indicated, 
 something fell to the floor. It was a morocco pocket- 
 book. Haifa dozen hands hastened to pick it up. 
 
 " You see you have merely dropped your money," 
 
 17 T 
 
386 STOEIES. 
 
 said I to my feminine accuser, already beginning to 
 assume the haughtiness of vindicated innocence. 
 
 " Not a bit of it," said Officer Knox. (I was des- 
 tined to learn his name soon after.) " There is not a 
 cent of money in this wallet. How much is there 
 missing, Mrs. ? " 
 
 "Mrs. James Proctor is my name, and I live in 
 Ames Place. There was sixty dollars in the wallet, 
 and some small silver, and a gold eagle." 
 
 " I shall feel it necessary to take you to the station," 
 said the policeman, addressing me again. " There is 
 no call to search you here. You see, ma'am," turning 
 to Mrs. Proctor again, " it is not probable she has the 
 money on her. They work in pairs, generally, and 
 when this one took your money she passed it directly 
 to her pal, who would make off with it at once. I 
 saw a woman pass out rather hastily, just before you 
 sung out." 
 
 " This is too much," I exclaimed, gathering courage 
 for one desperate effort. "I never saw the woman 
 who went out, but I presume she was the thief She 
 must have dropped the wallet into my skirts. My 
 name is Mary Gilman ; I am a school-teacher from 
 the country, and a stranger here. Your mistake will 
 make me lose my train." 
 
 The officer's face showed no more sign of attention 
 to my remonstrance than did the bright buttons on 
 his coat. 
 
 " Will you be so good as to come to the station in 
 half an hour," said he to Mrs. Proctor. " You will 
 merely have to state the case to the captain of the 
 district." 
 
 " You see it is your duty to the community, ma'am," 
 put in another of the group of ladies who clustered 
 around us : " if you have no chance of getting your 
 
MARRYING A PICKPOCKET. 387 
 
 money back, you should feel obliged to bring the thief 
 to justice for the security of the rest of us." 
 
 Mrs. Proctor wavered. Abstract justice seemed a 
 very trivial thing to her by the side of her sixty 
 dollars. 
 
 " It is by no means certain that the money is gone 
 beyond recovery yet," said Officer Knox, reassuring 
 her. " When this woman is fairly frightened by seeing 
 she is going to be dealt with, she will be very likely to 
 oifer terms, and put you in the way of getting it all 
 back again. It is more often done so than to bring 
 the case into court." 
 
 So to the habit of bargaining with crime, which 
 was rife even then, but which the newspajDers have 
 only lately begun to talk about, I owed the persist- 
 ence of my accuser. 
 
 "I will come there directly," she said to the police- 
 man ; " and if the money is got back," in a whisper, 
 "the gold eagle shall be yours for your energy in 
 assisting me." 
 
 In the midst of the tumult of thoughts and emotions 
 suggested by my dreadful j^redicament, I remember 
 thinking that the real pickj^ocket they took me for 
 was not a whit worse morally than these honest 
 people conspiring for their common advantage. But 
 Mr. Knox, in his imposing uniform, probably cared 
 little for my good or ill opinion. He offered me his 
 arm, with the same politeness which I had seen 
 his comrades of the force showing to the ladies they 
 escorted across the snowy street. "Not that, at 
 least," said I ; " let - me walk before you or behind 
 you ; you need not fear my running away." For I 
 had made up my mind that Officer Knox was too 
 stupid to be reasoned with to advantage. " Surely," 
 thought I, " the captain he speaks of will have pene- 
 
388 STORIES. 
 
 tration enough to see that his captive is not a thief. 
 A word of explanation in an unprejudiced ear will at 
 once release me from this ridiculous dilemma. It 
 must be that, after twenty odd years of staid New 
 England life, I have enough of manifest respectability 
 about me to satisfy a captain of police." So I walked 
 rapidly through the streets, in the direction which my 
 captor indicated, he following close behind me, with 
 an ajoparent unconsciousness of my presence for which 
 I was deeply thankful. He was sufficiently near, at 
 the corner of every intersecting street, to show me 
 that there was no hope of escape by sudden flight, if 
 I had contemplated such a wild manoeuvre; and in 
 the midst of all my crowded thoughts as to the 
 methods to be taken to make my honesty clear, there 
 hummed over and over again in my mind, like the 
 burden of some old song, the words, " Driven like a 
 lamb to the slaughter, — driven hke a lamb to the 
 slaughter." 
 
 "Here we are," in the gruff voice of my guide, in- 
 terrupted my musings, and scattered my half-formed 
 plans and carefully elaborated sentences of exjjlana- 
 tion into chaos again. We ascended a short flight of 
 steps, and entered a room wainscoted to the ceiling, 
 in which a row of staves, caps, and blue coats, hung 
 against the wall, suggested to my distempered fancy 
 the night policemen here suspended to take their rest 
 in seemly erectness and uniformity. Behind a wooden 
 railing sat a tall, burly man with a prodigious length 
 of preternaturally black beard, which he caressed and 
 smoothed, with a fat, white, ringed hand, unceasingly 
 during my whole acquaintance with him. 
 
 "Ah, Knox, what now?" said this personage, look- 
 ing through me at the wall behind, with entire ease 
 and overwhelming dignity. 
 
MARRYING A PICKPOCKET. 389 
 
 "Big thing, Cap," said my policeman, entirely fore- 
 stalling my purj^ose of stating my own case before an 
 unprejudiced mind. " Party caught picking a pocket 
 in a store on my beat. Pal, dressed in black like this 
 one, made off with the plunder before I could lay 
 hands on her. Empty wallet thrown away by this 
 one w^hen I proposed to search her. Lady coming 
 here presently to identify her. Sixty dollars in bills 
 gone, and some small silver." 
 
 " O most discreet schemer," thought I, with all my 
 horror at this succinct statement, " to avoid all men- 
 tion of your promised eagle ! " 
 
 " If you please, sir," I began, when the curtain of 
 beard and mustache parted, ever so slightly, with the 
 question, " Seen her before, Knox ? " 
 
 " Had my eye on her for several days. Cap. Always 
 keej^s her veil down, but know her by her general rig 
 and build. Think she is lately from New York." 
 
 (Ralph says it is a part of the professional police 
 etiquette to have known everybody before. But I 
 thought at the time it was a deliberate lie.) 
 
 " "Will you hear me a moment, sir ? " said I, with a 
 forced calmness that was anything but real, and I 
 presume deceived nobody. " This is all a most silly 
 mistake. I am a school-teacher, never in the city till 
 to-day in my life, and going to Maine this afternoon. 
 I know no more of this robbery than you do." 
 
 "We always take down these things in order, 
 ma'am," said the serene official, opening a huge 
 ledger, and substituting his left hand for his right 
 in the task of stroking his flowing whiskers, while 
 he picked up a stumpy pen. " What is your name ? " 
 
 " Mary Oilman." 
 
 "Age?" 
 
 I told him. 
 
390 STORIES. 
 
 "Where bom?" 
 
 " Massachusetts." 
 
 " Not a person of color, I see," murmured the cap- 
 taiu, as he jotted down something in each of the 
 ruled-off columns. " Charge, picking a pocket, you 
 say. Officer Knox. Comjolainant ? " 
 
 "Mrs. Proctor, of Ames Place," said Mr. Knox, 
 promptly. 
 
 "Now, ma'am, probably it would be pleasanter for 
 you to empty your own pockets," said the superior 
 officer, passing both hands alternately down his sujDcrb 
 cascade of whisker, and gazing lovingly at the scin- 
 tillations of a diamond thus set off to advantage. 
 " You can pass the things right over to this desk ; and 
 if there is anything more you want to say, I '11 hear 
 it." 
 
 I began to detest this man, imperturbable, glassy, 
 self-satisfied as he was, more than I did his blunder- 
 ing, impulsive subordinate. But there was nothing to 
 do but to obey him. I took from my pocket my 
 wallet, my handkerchief, the key to my trunk, with 
 its long, blue ribbon, my little bottle of ammonia. 
 
 " There is very little more to say than I have al- 
 ready told you. I left my home, fifty miles from here, 
 this morning, on my way to Maine, where I have a 
 school engaged. I left my trunk at the station, and 
 was merely taking an hour's walk before the train 
 should leave, when this man pounced upon me. The 
 pocket-book must have been dropped in a fold of my 
 skirt by the thief as she left the store. 
 
 " Have you any friends in Boston ? " 
 
 I hesitated. I need not set down all the reasons 
 why I did not desire, in my present plight, to send a 
 policeman to Mr, Churchill. Had I liked him less, or 
 known him better, I might have done it earlier. But 
 
MARRYING A PICKPOCKET. 391 
 
 I could not yet believe my condition so desperate as 
 to require this remedy. 
 
 " There is nobody whom I wish to disturb about 
 this matter." 
 
 " You will see, Mr. Knox, more and more, the longer 
 you remain in the force," proceeded the captain, most 
 deliberately, — the white hand sailing down the black 
 ripples more luxuriously than ever, — " you will see 
 how incapable these people are of making up a toler- 
 able story. Let them be ever so smart in their reg- 
 ular line of business, their lies are always clumsy." I 
 clutched the railing involuntarily, but the men re- 
 garded me no more than they did their spectral com- 
 rades on the pegs in the wall. " Now, this party has 
 done very well, — very well, indeed. But just look 
 at it. She is on her way to Maine to stay several 
 months, and she has only six dollars in her pocket- 
 book, — barely enough for a ticket. She has left her 
 trunk at the depot, but she has not provided herself 
 with a baggage check. She is out for a walk only, 
 and you catch her a mile from the depot in a crowded 
 store. She hangs fire when I ask for her Boston 
 acquaintance. It seems as if any one ought to have 
 done better, Knox ; but they are all the same. You 
 can put her in No. 9, Knox. Your j^roperty will be 
 quite safe, Mary Oilman, in this drawer." The cap- 
 tain unfolded a copy of the " Herald," which a boy 
 had just brought, and put his polished boots on the 
 railing. 
 
 I am afraid I exhibit myself in the eyes of my chil- 
 dren as having been a girl of very little sj^irit. I did 
 not audibly resent the police captain's very logical and 
 professional analysis of my folly and falsehood. If I 
 thought anything at all in the bewilderment of the 
 hour, it was that dignity on my part would impress 
 
392 STORIES. 
 
 my persecutors more than any display of wrath. But 
 my dignity was thrown away. Officer Knox took 
 down a key from a row of them that hung just inside 
 the railing, and, in obedience to his gesture, I followed 
 him from the room to the door of the cell desi^rnated 
 for me. One glance at its gratings, its chilly floor, its 
 neat, narrow bunk, dispelled all my fastidiousness as 
 to means of rescue. 
 
 "Will you go for me," said I, "to Mr. R H. 
 Churchill's office, in Court Street, and ask him to 
 come to me for a moment ? " 
 
 " Now you begin to talk," replied my custodian. "I 
 am glad you have had the sense to give up that school- 
 teacher story at last. But Churchill has got mostly 
 beyond this branch of business. I haven't seen him 
 in our court for a year or more." 
 
 " If you will speak to him as I ask you, I think he 
 will come to see me." 
 
 " "Well, perhaps, if it is an old client, he will make 
 an exception in your favor and defend the case. Shall 
 I tell him the same name you gave here ? " 
 
 I hesitated as:ain. I saw the honest officer chuckle 
 at my pause for reflection, as a new proof of his own 
 sagacity. But should I present myself to Mr. Churchill 
 in such distorted character as this officer might give 
 me ? It seemed better to tell him the Avhole story 
 myself " You need not give him my name at all," 
 said I: "simply say that a lady w^hom he knows 
 wishes to see him at the station on very pressing busi- 
 ness, — not as a lawyer, but as a friend." 
 
 " Just as you please," said Officer Knox ; and then 
 the door swung into its place, the great key was 
 turned, and I was left alone. There was no window, 
 but a sort of twilight came into the cell through the 
 door. I threw ofi" my bonnet, pressed my hands to my 
 
MARRYING A PICKPOCKET. 393 
 
 brows, and sat on the edge of the little berth to think. 
 If I had a volume at my disposal, I could fill it all in 
 telling what I thought in the few moments I spent in 
 this way. I remembered shutting little Freddy Lee 
 in the wood-closet of the school-room a week before, 
 because I could not find it in my heart to give the 
 slender boy a severer punishment, and how pale he 
 looked when I released him. I tried to remember 
 what sentence was given to picki^ockets, and where 
 was the prison to which they w^ere sent. I wondered 
 whether judges and juries looked at innocent peoj^le 
 through such spectatcles as blinded the eyes of the 
 policemen. I wondered where the guilty woman was 
 with Mrs. Proctor's money. And as memory and con- 
 jecture were thus busy confusing each other in their 
 eagerness, the door oj^ened again, and the hideously 
 familiar face and buttons of the patrol gleamed before 
 my eyes in the passnge-way. 
 
 " Sorry to say Mr. Churchill is not in his office. 
 May not be back to-day ; and his boy says he is going 
 for a visit to the country to-morrow, to be gone a 
 week." 
 
 This news seemed hardly more than a fi-esh drop in 
 the full bucket of my despair. I felt relief rather than 
 additional woe when Officer Knox continued : " Mrs. 
 Proctor is here. She is going away to-morrow, too, 
 and if she is to appear in court it must be this after- 
 noon. So, as the court happens to be in session, I will 
 take you right over, and have this tiling disposed of 
 at once. It can't make any difference to you anyway, 
 as I see." 
 
 " By all means, let us have it over as soon as pos- 
 sible," said I, tying on my bonnet again with trembling 
 fingers. 
 
 " Nothing you want to say to me before you go in, 
 17* 
 
394 STORIES. 
 
 I suppose," said the officer, looking at me tlirougli 
 eyes half closed. 
 
 " Nothing but to thank you for doing my errand." 
 
 " O, very well, I like your pluck," he replied. " You 
 know you won't have another chance to make an 
 advantageous arrangement for getting the money 
 back." 
 
 I said nothing in reply to this further hint ; and the 
 agent of the law stalked below me into the outer room 
 again. I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Proctor leaving it 
 for the court-house. The captain had lighted a cigar ; 
 but the task of watching its fumes left his hands and 
 beard still free for their endearments. He did not 
 once look at me as I stood waiting before him, while 
 Mr. Knox gathered up my possessions from the 
 drawer and thrust them into his own capacious 
 pocket. Then we left the captain, and I never saw 
 him more. 
 
 I could not have told whether my guide and I had 
 walked a mile or two rods when our destination was 
 reached. All was a blur before my eyes. Streets and 
 alleys, stairs and passage-ways, were all alike to my 
 dulled consciousness, until I found myself in a sort of 
 pit, so walled and railed about that I could see nothing 
 but the ceiling overhead ; while I knew from the 
 murmurs which reached my ears that there was a 
 room full of people just outside the barrier, before 
 whom I was destined to appear by ascending a short 
 flight of steps. At the head of these steps stood a 
 man all rags and tatters, volubly explaining to listen- 
 ers outside some charge against himself, but SjDeaking 
 in a brogue so rich that I thought at first he used a 
 foreign tongue. Officer Knox had disappeared, but 
 presently I saw his face over the railing above, and he 
 seemed to whisper to me, " You come next." Then 
 
MARRYING A PICKPOCKET. 395 
 
 the oration of my ragged comrade in misfortune came 
 to a pause, as I thought for want of breath ; but a 
 period was put to it by the announcement in a clear 
 voice, I could not see from whom, "Four months, House 
 of Industry"; and the fellow, his face grinning as if 
 rather pleased than otherwise at his fate, turned and 
 descended the steps to a seat by my side. 
 
 The summons to myself, which I had braced myself 
 to answer bravely, did not follow. There seemed, as 
 well as I could judge from the murmur that reached 
 me, to be some unusual interruption in the proceed- 
 ings of the court. One or two people came and 
 peeped at me curiously over the walls of my den, and 
 disappeared again. Presently I thought I heard my 
 own name, and in a voice that sent a great thrill of 
 delight to my heart. The shrinking horror at the 
 idea of being seen which had before beset me de- 
 parted ; conquered by my own curiosity, I crept 
 cautiously up the steps until I could just see over 
 the wooden barrier at the to2:>. There, talking eagerly 
 with a gray-haired man who occupied the most ele- 
 vated seat in the room, was indeed Mr. Churchill. In 
 his hand was my pocket-book, and the little photo- 
 graph of himself that he had given me, and which had 
 lain hitherto undisturbed in one of the com2:)artments 
 of the wallet. Close by stood Officer Knox, perplexity 
 and chagrin chasing each other over his countenance. 
 Manifestly my champion had arisen, and was fighting 
 my battle in his own way, without having notified me 
 of his interference. As I looked, Mr. Knox stepped 
 gingerly across the room and consulted gloomily with 
 Mrs. Proctor, who sat opposite me. The judge made 
 a gesture of approval, and fell back into his cushioned 
 chair. Mr. Churchill turned towards me, discovered 
 my eyes watching him over the railing, and in a 
 
396 STORIES. 
 
 moment had snapped back the bolt of the little 
 door, descended the steps, and grasped my hands. 
 
 I had no eloquent speech ready for hhn, like the res- 
 cued heroines of the novels. I only said, "O Mr. 
 Churchill!" 
 
 " Not a word, Mary Gilman, till we are out of this 
 hole." 
 
 He opened the door by which I had been ushered in, 
 and while the stentorian voice of some clerk above us 
 declared the court adjourned, he hurried me out, and, 
 putting my arm in his, led me at breathless speed 
 through the building and the street, in at another 
 door and up stairs again, seating me at last in an easy- 
 chair in his office. 
 
 " Tommy," he said, to an urchin disturbed from a 
 luxurious nap by this movement, " go to the post-office 
 and wait until the mail is assorted." 
 
 Tommy was off at the word ; and then Mr. Churchill, 
 pacing up and down the room as he spoke, relieved 
 his mind in his fashion. 
 
 " Upon my word, Miss Gilman, this is a charming 
 scrape I find you in. Don't speak a word. You 
 must be half frightened to death by your adven- 
 ture. Let me tell you how I discovered you, while 
 you cool down, and then you can tell me what I do 
 not already know of your story. Most accidental 
 thing in the world that I happened into that court- 
 room. Have n't been inside the door before for 
 a year. I sauntered in, casually took up some 
 prisoner's property on the desk, and was amazed 
 by the discovery of your name in the pocket-book, 
 and this most flattering portrait to assure me it 
 was no other Mary Gilman but yourself that owned 
 it. Of course, my first thought was that your 
 pocket had been picked. But when I went with my 
 
MARRYING A PICKPOCKET. 397 
 
 inquiries to the policeman, I found that, by some in- 
 credibly stupid blunder, he had arrested yourself in 
 the place of some cunning thief I thought it not 
 worth while to disturb you until I had relieved you of 
 all embarrassment ; and by giving my personal assur- 
 ance of your entire superiority to any such suspicion, 
 I obtained a reprimand for Mr. Policeman, and your 
 immediate release on his withdrawal of the charge 
 against you." 
 
 At this moment there was a knock at the door, and 
 Officer Knox appeared. His haughty aspect had 
 vanished, and he seemed like the convicted thief in 
 the presence of his judge. 
 
 " Beg pardon, sir," he began, " I merely brought 
 Miss Oilman's key and things, that were left on the 
 court-room table. I hope. Miss, that you will not 
 bear malice against me for this unlucky mistake. We 
 have to be very suspicious in our line, and to doubt 
 appearances ; and that old woman was so sure it was 
 you. She says now she remembers her pocket was 
 on the other side, and that it was the woman who 
 went out before she spoke that stood next her on the 
 right." 
 
 " Well, well, sir," said Mr. Churchill, almost fiercely, 
 " bother us no more about it." 
 
 The forgiveness I was about to ofier to the contrite 
 officer was prevented by his abruj)t departure upon 
 this admonition. 
 
 " If it were not for the loss of my train, I do not 
 think I should regret the whole affiiir very deeply," 
 said I. "It will be something to laugh about for a 
 lifetime, when I have got over the shock of fright and 
 annoyance." 
 
 " What train have you lost, pray, and where are 
 you bound ? " inquired Mr. Churchill. 
 
398 STORIES. 
 
 I told him as succinctly as I could of my destina- 
 tion, and the plan and purpose of my journey. 
 
 " By Jupiter ! Miss Gilman, you have time enough 
 for the train yet. It is only twenty minutes of three 
 and we can get to the station in four minutes. Will 
 you try it ? " 
 
 Of course I was ready, though unable at first to be- 
 lieve that events which had seemed so long had really 
 passed so quickly. We went through the streets at a 
 pace I never had ventured upon in the country, but not 
 much faster than the city habit. Mr. Churchill found 
 and checked my trunk, while I secured a seat on the 
 train. I noticed that he did not accept my words of 
 inadequate gratitude and good by as final ; but I did 
 not suspect that he was to accompany me, till he took 
 the seat by my side as the cars left the station. 
 
 " You are too kind, Mr. Churchill," said I : " you 
 must not undertake this journey on my account, es- 
 pecially if, as I heard from your office when I sent to 
 you, you are going to-morrow into the country." 
 
 " I have given up that trip," replied the gentleman, 
 very placidly. " Since I decided to make it the rural 
 districts have lost their charm for me." 
 
 I am not going to set down all the conversation of 
 that railway ride for my children to read, and perhaps 
 I may as well stop here as anywhere. Mr. Churchill 
 escorted me to my journey's end, and returned to 
 Boston by the night train. The story I proposed to 
 tell is told ; and the children know just how much 
 and how little their father means when he tells them 
 jocosely about marrying a pickpocket. They are both 
 too sensible to allow it to prejudice them against the 
 sagacity of policemen in general ; for they both re- 
 member how when Edgar tumbled into the Frog 
 .Pond last summer, and Belle could do nothing but 
 
MARKYING A PICKPOCKET. 399 
 
 scream, Officer Knox, now a veteran and most efficient 
 member of the force, popped up most opportunely to 
 the rescue ; and they have not forgotten what a whistle 
 of delight he gave when the dripping boy — whom he 
 had wrapped in his own coat — told him he was to be 
 carried to his father's, Mr. Ralph Churchill's, on the 
 other side of the Public Garden. Mr. Knox took that 
 occasion to renew his apologies, interrupted ten years 
 before, for a blunder made when he was new to his 
 work ; and I learned from him then that Mrs. Proctor 
 never recovered her money. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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