Recollections of a Lifetime, by Samuel Griswold Goodrich (New York & Auburn: Miller, Orton & Mulligan, 1856)

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LETTER XLIV.

London Thirty Years Ago--Its Great Increase--George IV.--Ascot Races-- The Duke of Wellington--Jacob Perkins and the Steam-gun--The Duke of Sussex--Duke of York--Hounslow Heath--Parliament--Canning--Mackintosh--Brougham--Palmerston--House of Lords--Lord Eldon--Rhio Rhio--Catalani--Signorina Garcia--Edward Irving--Byron's Coffin.

My dear C******

It is said that Mr. Webster remarked, while in London, that his constant and predominant feeling, was that of wonder at its enormous extent: fourteen thousand streets, two hundred thousand houses, fifteen hundred places of public worship, three millions of human beings--all crowded within the space of seven miles square!

Yet London, when I first knew it, was not what it is now. Its population has at least doubled since 1824. At that time Charing Cross was a filthy, triangular thoroughfare, a stand for hackney-coaches, a grand panorama of showbills pasted over the surrounding walls, with the king's mews in the immediate vicinity: this whole area is now the site of Trafalgar-Square--one of the most imposing combinations of magnificent architecture and tasteful embellishments in the world. This is an index of other and similar changes that hare taken place all over the city. London has been nearly as much improved as New York within the last thirty years. I know a portion of it,

nearly a mile square, now covered with which consisted of open fields when I first visited the city. At the present day, London not only surpasses in its extent, its wealth, its accumulations of all that belongs to art--the richness of its merchandises, the extent of its commerce, the vastness of its influence--all the cities that now exist, but all that the world has before known. What were Nineveh, or Babylon, or Borne--even if they had an equal population--when their relations were confined to the quarter of a single hemisphere, and their knowledge did not embrace the telescope, the mariner's compass, the steam-engine, nor the telegraph--neither railroads nor the printing-press;--what were they in comparison with the metropolis of a kingdom, whose colonies now belt the world, and whose influence, reaching every state and nation under the sun, extends to the thousand millions of mankind!

But what of London in 1824? King George IV. was then on the throne, and though he was shy of showing himself in public, I chanced to see him several times, and once to advantage--at Ascot Races. This was a royal course, and brought together an immense crowd of the nobility and gentry, as well as an abundant gathering of gamblers and blacklegs. For more than an hour his majesty stood in the pavilion, surrounded by the Duke of Wellington, the Duke of York, the Marquis of Anglesea, and other persons, of note. He was a large, over-fat man, of

a rather sour and discontented countenance. All the arts of the toilet could not disguise the wrinkles of age, and the marks Of dissipation and dilapidation. His lips were sharp, his eye grayish-blue, his wig chestnut-brown. His cheeks hung down pendulously, and his whole face seemed pallid, bloated, and flabby. His coat was a blue surtout, buttoned tight over the breast; his cravat, a huge black stock, scarcely sufficient to conceal his enormous, undulating jowl. On his left breast was a glittering star. He wore a common hat, the brim a little broader than the fashion. But for the star and the respect paid to him, he might have passed as only an overdressed and rather sour old rake. I noticed that his coat set very close and smooth, and was told that he was trussed and braced by stays, to keep his flesh in place and shape. It was said to be the labor of at least two hours to prepare him for a public exhibition, like the present. He was a dandy to the last. The wrinkles of his coat, after it was on, were cut out by the tailor, and carefully drawn up with the needle. He had the gout, and walked badly. I imagine there were few among the thousands gathered to the spectacle, who were really less happy than his majesty--the monarch of the three kingdoms.

I not only saw the Duke of Wellington on this, but on many subsequent occasions. I think the portraits give a false idea of his personal appearance. He was really a rather small, thin, insignificant look-

ing man, unless you saw him on horseback. His profile was indeed fine, on account of his high Roman nose, but his front face was meager, and the expression cold, almost mean. His legs were too short, a defect which disappeared when he was in the saddle. He then seemed rather stately, and in a military dress, riding always with inimitable ease, he sustained the image, of the great general. At other times, I never could discover in his appearance any thing but the features and aspect of an ordinary, and certainly not prepossessing, old man. I say this with great respect for his character, which, as a personification of solid sense, indomitable purpose, steady loyalty, and unflinching devotion to a sense of public duty, I conceive to be one of the finest in British history.

At this period, our countryman, Jacob Perkins, was astonishing London with his steam-gun. He was certainly a man of extraordinary genius, and was the originator of numerous useful inventions. At the time of which I write, he fancied that he had discovered a new mode of generating steam, by which he was not only to save a vast amount of fuel, but to obtain a marvelous increase of power. So confident was he of success, that he told me he felt certain of being able, in a few months, to go from London to Liverpool, with the steam produced by a gallon of oil. Such was his fertility of invention, that while pursuing one discovery, others came into his mind,

seizing upon his attention, kept him in a whirl of experiments, in which many things were begun and comparatively nothing completed.

Though the steam-gun never reached any practical result, it was for some time the admiration of London. I was present at an exhibition of its wonderful performances in the presence of the Duke of Sussex, the king's youngest brother, and the Duke of Wellington, with other persons of note. The general purpose of the machine was to discharge bullets by steam, instead of gunpowder, and with great rapidity--at least a hundred a minute, The balls were put in a sort of tunnel, and by working a crank back and forth, they were let into the chamber of the barrel--one by one--and expelled by the steam. The noise of each explosion was like that of a musket, and when the discharges were rapid, there was a ripping uproar, quite shocking to tender nerves. The balls--carried about a hundred feet across the smithy--struck upon an iron target, and were flattened to the thickness of a shilling piece.*

The whole performance was, indeed quite formidable, and the Duke of Sussex--who was an enormous, red-faced man--seemed greatly excited. I stood close by, and when the bullets flew pretty thick and the discharge came to its climax, I heard him say to the Duke of Wellington, in an under-tone--"Wonderful, wonderful--d-----d wonderful; wonderful, wonderful--d----d wonderful; wonderful, wonderful--d-----d wonderful!" and so he went on, without variation. It was in fact, save the profanity, a very good commentary upon the performance.

Having thus spoken of the Duke of Sussex, I must say a few words of his brother, the Duke of York, whom I had seen, dressed in a green frock-coat and white pantaloons, at Ascot. He was there interested in the race for he had entered a famous courser by the name of Moses, for one of the prizes. Some person reflected upon him, for this, inasmuch, as among other titles, he held that of bishop.* His ready reply was, that he was devoted to Moses and the profits. Despite his disgrace in the Flanders campaign, and his notorious profligacy, both as a gambler and a roué, he was still a favorite among the British people. There was about him a certain native honorableness and goodness of heart, which survived, even in the midst of his debaucheries. English loyalty has the faculty of seeing the small virtues of its princes through the magnifying power of the telescope; their vices are dwindled into comparative insignificance by being observed with the instrument reversed. And besides, the Duke of York was now heir-apparent to the throne, and thus stood next the king himself.

I saw him not only at Ascot, but on other occasions--especially in a review of the first, regiment of foot-guards, at Hyde Park, and again at a review of four thousand horse-guards, at Hounslow Heath. The foot-guards were grenadiers, and their

caps were of enormous height. The duke himself wore the same kind of cap, with a red coat of course. Like all his brothers, he was a large man, and of full habit, though not up to the dimensions of the Duke of Sussex. He had a red, John Bull face, without expression, save that of good feeding. The Duke of Wellington, at this time, was among the spectators. He was now in military dress, on a fine chestnut-colored horse. His motions were quick, and frequently seemed to indicate impatience. His general aspect was highly martial. Several ladies as well as gentlemen on horseback, were admitted to the review and within the circle of the gentries stationed to exclude the crowd. I obtained admission for a crown--five shillings, I mean--for I had learned that in England cash is quite as mighty as in America. The privileged group of fair ladies and brave men, gathered upon a grassy knoll, to observe the evolutions of the soldiers, presented an assemblage such as the aristocracy of England alone can furnish. Those who imagine that this is an effeminate generation, should learn that both the men and women, belonging to the British nobility, taken together, are without doubt the finest race in the world. One thing is certain, these ladies could stand fire--for, although the horses leaped and pranced at the discharges of the troops, their fair riders seemed as much at ease as if upon their own feet. Their horsemanship was indeed admirable, and suggested

those habits of exercise and training, to which their full rounded forms and blooming countenances gave ample testimony.

The review at Hounslow Heath, some eight miles from London--and at the present day nearly covered with buildings--comprised seven regiments of cavalry, including the first and second of the horse-guards. The latter were no doubt the finest troops of the kind in the world--all the horses being large and black, and finely groomed. The caparisons were of the most splendid description, and the men picked for the purpose. All the officers were men of rank, or at least of good family.

The performances consisted of various marches and countermarches--sometimes slow and sometimes quick--across the extended plain. The evolutions of the flying-artillery excited universal admiration. When the whole body--about four thousand horse--rushed in a furious gallop over the ground, the clash of arms, the thunder of hoofs, the universal shudder of the earth--all together created more thrilling emotions in the mind than any other military parade I ever beheld. I have seen eighty thousand infantry in the field, but they did not impress my imagination as forcibly as these few regiments of cavalry at Hounslow Heath. One incident gave painful effect to the spectacle. As the whole body were sweeping across the field, a single trooper was pitched from his horse and fell to the ground. A hundred hoofs

passed over him, and trampled him into the sod. On swept the gallant host, as heedless of their fallen companion, as if only a feather had dropped from one of their caps. The conflict of cavalry in real battle, must be the most fearful exhibition which the dread drama of war can furnish. On this occasion both the king and the Duke of York were present, so that it was one of universal interest. About fifty ladies on horseback rode back and forth over the field, on the flanks of the troops, imitating their evolutions.

You have no doubt heard enough of Parliament; but I shall venture to make a few extracts from my note-book respecting it, inasmuch as these present slight sketches of persons of eminence who have now passed from the scene. I have been often at the House of Commons, but I shall now only speak of a debate in July, 1824, upon the petition, I believe, of the city of London, for a recognition of the independence of some of the South American States. Canning was then secretary of foreign affairs, and took the brunt of the battle made upon the ministry. Sir James Mackintosh led, and Brougham followed him on the same side.

I shall not attempt to give you a sketch of the speeches: a mere description of the appearance and manner of the prominent orators will suffice. Sir James--then nearly sixty years old--was a man rather above the ordinary size, and with a fine, philanthropic face. His accent was decidedly Scotch, and his voice shrill and dry. He spoke slowly, often hes-

itated, and was entirely destitute of what we call eloquence. There was no easy flow of sentences, no gush of feeling, no apparent attempt to address the heart or the imagination. His speech was a rigid lecture, rather abstract and philosophical, evidently addressed to the stern intellect of stern men. He had a good deal of gesture, and once or twice was boisterous in tone and manner. His matter was logical, and occasionally he illustrated his propositions by historical facts, happily narrated. On the whole, he made the impression upon my mind that he was a very philosophical, but not very practical, statesman.

Brougham, as you know, is one of the ugliest men in the three kingdoms. His nose is long, and the nostrils, slightly retreating, seem to look at you--sometimes to mock you. The mouth is hooked downward at either corner; the brow is rolled in folds, like the hide of a rhinoceros. And yet, strange to say, this odd composition of odd features makes up a face of rather agreeable, and certainly very effective expression. His figure is a little above the common size, and at the time I speak of, was thin and wiry--a characteristic which time has since kindly converted into a moderate degree of portliness. He had abundance of words, as well as ideas. In his speech on the occasion I describe, he piled thought upon thought, laced sentence within sentence, mingled satire and philosophy, fact and argument, history and anecdote, as if he had been a cornucopia, and

was anxious to disburden himself of its abundance. In all this there were several hard hits, and Canning evidently felt them. As he rose to reply, I took careful note of his appearance, for he was then, I imagine, the most conspicuous of the British statesmen. He was a handsome man, with a bald, shining pate, and a figure slightly stooping in the shoulders. His face was round, his eye large and full, his lips a little voluptuous--the whole bearing a lively and refined expression. In other respects his appearance was not remarkable. His voice was musical, and he spoke with more ease and fluency than most other orators of the House of Commons; yet even he hesitated, paused, and repeated his words, not only in the beginning, but sometimes in the very midst of his argument. He, however, riveted the attention of the members, and his keen observations frequently brought out the ejaculation of "hear, hear," from both sidea of the house. Brougham and Mackintosh watched him with vigilant attention, now giving nods of assent, and now signs of disapprobation.

The difference between the manner of speaking in the British Parliament and the American Congress, has frequently been the subject of remark. There is certainly great heaviness, and a kind of habitual hesitation, in nearly all English public speakers, strikingly in contrast to the easy and rapid fluency, so common with us. I have heard not only the famous men just mentioned in the British Parliament,

but Peel, Palmerstan, O'Connell, and others, and all of them would have been considered dull speakers--so far as mere manner is concerned--here in the United States. I could never perceive in any of them an approach to the. easy and melodious flow of Everett, the melting earnestness of Clay, or the majestic thunderings of Webster.

On the occasion I am describing, Sir Francis Burdett*--then a man of notoriety, but now almost wholly forgotten--made a short speech. He was a tall, slender person, with a singularly prominent forehead, the rest of his face being comparatively thin and insignificant. He was rather dandily dressed, and diddled from right to left as he was speaking, in a very curious fashion. His voice was small, but penetrating. His attacks upon the ministry were very direct, but he evidently excited no great attention. It

to me astonishing that he should ever have been a popular leader, for his whole appearance was that of the affected and supercilious aristocrat. The populace have very often been made the dupes of men whose hearts were full of despotism, and who, in flattering the masses, only sought the means of gratifying their unprincipled love of power. Every careful observer has seen examples of this hollow and base democracy, and one might easily suspect Sir Francis Burdett to have been one of them.

Of course I visited the House of Lords--paying two shillings and sixpence for admittance. The bishops wore their surplices; a few of the lords had stars upon the breast, but most of them were without any badge whatever. The general aspect of the assembly was eminently grave and dignified. Eldon was the chancellor--a large, heavy, iron-looking man--the personification of bigoted conservatism. He was so opposed to reforms, that he shed tears when the punishment of death was abolished for stealing five shillings in a dwelling-house! When I saw him, his head was covered with the official wig: his face sufficed, however, to satisfy any one that his obstinacy of character was innate.

While I was here, a committee from the House of Commons was announced; they had brought up a message to the Lords. The chancellor, taking the seals in his hands, approached the committee, bowing three times, and they doing the same. Then

they separated, each moving backward, and bowing. To persons used to such a ceremony, this might be sublime; to me, it was ludicrous--and all the more so on account of the ponderous starchness of the chief performer in the solemn farce. There was a somewhat animated debate while I was present, in which Lords Liverpool, Lauderdale, Harrowby, and Grey participated; yet nothing was said or done by either that would justify particular notice at this late day.

A great event happened in the musical world while I was in London--the appearance of Catalani at the Italian opera, after several years of absence. The play was Le Nozze di Figaro. I had never before seen an opera, and could not, even by the enchantments of music, have my habits of thought and my common sense so completely overturned and bewitched, as to see the whole business of life--intrigue, courtship, marriage, cursing, shaving, preaching, praying, loving, hating--done by singing instead of talking, and yet feel that it was all right and proper. It requires both a musical ear and early training, fully to appreciate and feel the opera--which aims at a union of all the arts of rhetoric, poetry, and music, enforced by scenic representations, and the intense enthusiasm of congregated and sympathetic masses. Even when educated to it, the English, as well as the Americans, have too practical a nature and are too much grooved with business habits, to give themselves up to it, as is done in Italy, and in some other parts of the continent.

Madame Catalani was a large, handsome woman, a little masculine, and past forty. She was not only a very clever actress, but was deemed to have every musical merit--volume, compass, clearness of ton , surpassing powers of execution. Her whole style was dramatic, bending even the music to the sentiments of the character and the song. Some of her displays were almost terrific, her voice drowning the whole soul in a flood of passion. I could appreciate, unlettered as I was in the arts of the opera, her amazing powers--though to say the truth, I was quite as much astonished as pleased. Pasta and Garcia--both of whom I afterwards heard--gave me infinitely greater pleasure, chiefly because their voices possessed that melody of tone which excites sympathy in every heart--even the most untutored. Madame Catalani gave the opera a sort of epic grandeur--an almost tragic vehemence of expression; Pasta and Garcia rendered it the interpretation of those soft and tender emotions which haunt the soul, and for the expression of which trod seems to have given music to mankind. It was, no doubt, a great thing to hear the greatest cantatrice of the age, but my remembrance of Madame Catalani is that of a prodigy, rather than an enchantress. On the occasion I am describing, she sang, by request, Rule Britannia, between the acts, which drew forth immense applause, in which I heartily joined--not that I liked the words, but that I felt the music.

It was about this time that a great attraction was announced at one of the theatres--nothing less than the king and queen of the Sandwich Islands, who had graciously condescended to honor the performance with their presence. They had come to visit England, and pay their homage to George the Fourth; hence the government deemed it necessary to receive them with hospitality, and pay them such attentions as were due to their rank and royal blood. The king's name was Tamehamaha, but he had also the sub-title or surname of Rhio-Rhio--which, being interpreted, meant Dog of Dogs. Canning's wit got the better of his reverence, and so he profanely suggested that, if his majesty was Dog of Dogs, what must the queen be? However, there was an old man about the court who had acquired the title of Poodle, and he was selected as a fit person to attend upon their majesties. They had their lodgings at the Adelphi Hotel, and might be seen at all hours of the day, looking at the puppet-shows in the street with intense delight. Of all the institutions of Great Britain, Punch and Judy evidently made the strongest and most favorable impression upon the royal party.

They were, I believe, received at a private interview by the king at Windsor; every thing calculated to gratify them was done. I saw them, at the theatre, dressed in a European costume, with the addition of some barbarous finery. The king was an enormous man--six feet, three or four inches; the queen

was short, but otherwise of ample dimensions. Besides these persons, the party comprised five or six other members of the king's household. They had all large, round, flat faces, of a coarse, though good-humored expression. Their complexion was a ruddy brown, not very unlike that of the American Indians; their general aspect, however, was very different, and entirely destitute of that mysterious, ruminating air which characterizes our children of the forest. They looked with a kind of vacant wonder at the play, evidently not comprehending it; the farce, on the contrary, seemed greatly to delight them. It is sad to relate that this amiable couple never returned to their country; both died in England--victims either to the climate, or the change in their habits of living.*

One or two items more, and this chapter shall be closed. Among the prominent objects of interest in London at this period was Edward Irving, then preaching at the Caledonian Chapel, Cross-street, Hatton Gardens. He was now in the full flush of his fame, and such was the eagerness to hear him that it was difficult to get admission. People of all ranks, literary men, philosophers, statesmen, noblemen, persons of the highest name and influence, with a full and diversified representation of the fair sex, crowded to his church. I was so fortunate as to get a seat in the pew of a friend, a privilege which I appreciated all the more, when I counted twenty coroneted coaches standing at the door--some of those who came in them, not being able to obtain even an entrance into the building. The interior was crowded to excess; the alleys were full, and even fine ladies seemed happy to get seats upon the pulpit stairway. Persons of the highest title were scattered here and there, and cabinet ministers were squeezed in with the mass of common humanity.

Mr. Irving's appearance was very remarkable. He was over six feet in height, very broad-shouldered, violently cross-eyed, with long black hair hanging in heavy, twisted ringlets down upon his shoulders. His complexion was pallid yet swarthy, the whole

expression of his face--half sinister and half sanctified--creating in the mind of the beholder a painful doubt whether he was a great saint or a great sinner. He wore a black-silk gown, of rich material and ample, graceful folds. His hair was sedulously parted so as to display one corner of his forehead, which a white hand and a very pure linen handkerchief frequently wiped, yet so daintily as not to disturb the love-locks that inclosed it.

There was a strange mixture of saintliness and dandyism, in the whole appearance of this man. His prayer was affected--strange, quaint, peculiar, in its phraseology--yet solemn and striking. His reading of the psalm was peculiar, and a fancy or feeling crossed my mind that I had heard something like it, but certainly not in a church. There was a vague mingling in my imagination of the theatre and the house of worship: of foot-lights, a stage, a gorgeous throng of spectators--an orchestra and a troop of players--and side by side with these--there seemed to come a psalm and a text and a preacher. I was in fact seeking to trace out a resemblance between this strange parson and some star of Drury Lane or Covent Garden. Suddenly I found the clew: Edward Trying in the pulpit was imitating Edmund Kean upon the stage! And he succeeded admirably--his tall and commanding person giving him an immense advantage over the little, insignificant, yet inspired actor. He had the tones of the latter--his gestures, his looks, even, as I had often

seen him in Richard the Third and Shylock. He had evidently taken lessons of the renowned tragedian, but whether in public or private, is not for me to say. The text was Genesis iii. 17, 18. I will extract from my notes, for your entertainment, a rough sketch of the discourse.

"This malediction--'Cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life; thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth, to thee: and thou shalt eat the herb of the field'--this was the charter under which man held his existence till the birth of Christ, when the benediction--'Peace on earth and good-will to man,' was pronounced. Since that time, these two principles and powers--the malediction and the benediction--have been at strife. To trace some of the consequences of this conflict is our present business.

"Moses discriminates between the two natures of man, by first stating the creation of his "body as the completion of one distinct part or portion of his nature, and then the Creator breathing into him a living soul, or more literally the spirit of lives, thus completing the other portion of his being.

"I can not but pause a moment to note the striking coincidence between the statement of Hoses and the result of philosophic speculation, which now makes the same discrimination; the study of the structure of the body, or physiology, being one branch of science, and the study of the mind or spi-

rit, called metaphysics, being another. The French school, some time since, blended the whole nature of man in one physical organization, and Helvetia found in the sensibility of the fingers, all the rudiments--the entire foundation--of the moral and intellectual faculties of man. This crept into English philosophy, until the immortal mind was degraded into a mere tool of the body: the crumbling, earthy tenement alone was regarded, while the godlike inhabitant was made its servant and its slave.

"Let us do justice to the truth! The spirit consists of three parts: the understanding, which discourseth of sensible ideas and powers--the basis of what is called knowledge; the reason, which discourseth of insensible objects and insensible ideas, and has relation to principles and abstract science; and conscience, which discourseth of duty, and hath regard to the relations between man and man, and also between man and his Maker.

"Now the proper vocation of the body is to minister to the spirit in this threefold character.

"Yet, I grieve to say it--the conduct of mankind reverses this system: it is the faculties of the spirit, debased from their high mission, which are everywhere made subservient to the body. I am loth to pain and disgust you with pictures in evidence of this, but every speculation should be supported by fact. I beg you therefore to consider the state of things in this city--the Babylon around us. Divest

yourselves of that magic influence which is exercised by the term--people; of that morbid fashion of seeing in low vice and humble misery, only matter for mirth and song; of that cruel taste which haunts the dark and dismal courts and lanes and labyrinths of labor, of want and wretchedness, for subjects for the pencil and the stage. Stand all aloof from the sad jollity with which unthinking men survey such scenes. Wrap the mantle of immortality about thee and go forth, and in the scales of eternity, weigh the things thou seest!

"In the gray of the morning, you hear beneath your casement the heavy tread of the laborer plodding to his toil. This gradually increases, till one pervading volume of sound shakes every part of the city. Go forth and study the scene--the producers of this mighty uproar--the wagoner plodding by the side of his heavy wain, the porter staggering beneath his burden, the scavenger picking and prowling among the offal--the hundreds, the thousands, pouring along in a tide, and bent on their various labors. Survey them as they pass, and how fearfully is the heart smitten with the fact that these are reversing the true order of human destiny: not one among them is subjecting the body to the mind--all are subjecting the mind to the body--all are submitting themselves to the Malediction of the outcasts of Eden, as if the Benediction of the gospel had never been pronounced. Prom the gray dawn to the deep night, these beings,

to whom is offered the bread of immortal life are occupied with the poor thought of gaining a few crusts to feed the mortal body!

"If we turn to the higher classes, the picture is equally dark, and perhaps even more discouraging. Whatever we may here find of spiritual culture or intellectual tastes, we still see that the cares, the passions, the desires of the body, though they may often be disguised and refined, still master the soul. The being, whose imagination is capable of reaching the stars, and whose, power of faith might carry him it the throne of God and the companionship of angels and just men made perfect--those whose ample means raise them above the groveling necessities of life--still cling to this earthly footstool, still think only of the pleasures of this fleeting animal existence. Whatever there may be of soul, in their pursuits, is a subjugation of it to the senses. A subtle epicureanism pervades the whole atmosphere they breathe. Pleasure, ambition, pride, the desire of honor, of wealth, of name, fame--all hopes, all fears--center in the little narrow kingdom of these poor five senses. These which were given only as windows from which the soul might look out upon immortality, are used, as doors and avenues by which the soul passes into its prison-house of earthly enjoyments. Thus the gifted, the rich, the exalted, the favorites of fortune--are, after all, forgetful of the bread of life, and while pampering the body with oil are

starving the soul with shriveled husks and unsatisfying straw.

"How hard, how disheartening is the steep ascent of duty, which calls upon us to contend with a world thus embattled against the truth. And yet, as soldiers of the cross, we may not ground our arms. If we can not do all we would, let us at least accomplish, what we may. To-day, I ask you here to join me, not in the impossible, but the possible. If the poor reject the bread of life, it is perhaps not altogether by choice: the heavy sin of Dives, who, being rich and able to choose, preferred a sensual life, is not laid upon their souls--the groveling necessities of Lazarus have subdued them, crushed them, mastered them. It is through ignorance, through peculiar temptations, through the cares "and, needs of life, that they thus go astray. The mother, uncertain of bread, alike for herself and her offspring--the father, anxious lest he shall not have a shelter for those whom God has given him--how can these think of aught but the immediate pressing cares of the body? How can these slaves of mortality put on immortality? Let Christianity kneel, mourning and penitent, at the throne of grace, and confessing that these things are so, rouse itself, and say they shall be so no longer. I see around me the great, the powerful: let them speak, and the work is done. Let us carry Comfort to the poor, and as that enters one door, the Gospel with its glad tidings, will come in at the other. Each may do something.

None are too high, none too humble, to assist in this glorious work. The rich, the proud, the strong, in the confidence of their strength, may reject even the bread of life; the poor will welcome it. Relieve the famished body from its suffering for the want of daily bread, and the soul, delivered from its Humiliation, will ascend to the throne of grace, and God will bless it, and he will bless you also who have ministered to; the good work."

This is a mere outline of the discourse, and only gives an idea of its general drift and argument. The phraseology--which was rich, flowing, redundant, and abounding in illustration, and seemed to me carefully modeled after that of Jeremy Taylor--I did not attempt to preserve. In spite of the evident affectation, the solemn dandyism, the dramatic artifices of the performer--for, after all, I could only consider the preacher as an actor--the sermon was very impressive. Some of the pictures presented to the imagination were startling, and once or twice it seemed, as if the whole audience was heaving and swelling; with intense emotion, like a sea rolling beneath th& impulses of a tempest. The power of the thought, aided by the deep, sympathetic voice of the speaker, and still further enforced by his portentous figure and emphatic action, overrode all drawbacks, and carried the whole heart and imagination along upon its rushing tide. Considered as a display of oratorical art, it was certainly equal to any thing I have

ever heard from the pulpit; yet it did not appeal to me calculated to have any permanent effect in enforcing Christian truth upon the conscience. The preacher seemed too much a player, and too little an apostle; the afterthought was, that the whole effect was the result of stage trick, and not of sober truth.

The character and career of Edward Irving present a strange series of incongruities. He was born in Scotland in 1792; he became a preacher, and acquired speedy notoriety, as much by his peculiarities as his merits. He attracted the attention of Dr. Chalmers, and through his influence was for a time assistant minister in the parish of St. John's, at Glasgow. From this place he was called to the Caledonian Chapel, where I heard him. His fame continued to increase; and having published a volume of discourses, under the quaint title, "For the Oracles of God, four Orations; for Judgment to come, an Argument in nine Parts"--three large editions of the work wfire sold in the space of six months. Where-ever he preached, crowds of eager listeners flocked to hear him. His eccentricities increased with his fame. He drew out his discourses to an enormous length, and on several occasions protracted the services to four hours! He soon became mystical, and took to studying unfulfilled prophecy, as the true key to the interpretation of the scriptures. From this extravagance, he passed to the doctrine that Christians, by the power of faith can attain to the working of mira-

cles and speaking with unknown tongues, as in the primitive ages. Such at last were his vagaries, that he was cut off from communion with the Scottish Church; in consequence, he became the founder of a sect which continues to the present time in England, bearing the title of Irvingites. Worn out with anxiety and incessant labors, he died at Glasgow, while on a journey for his health, in 1834, at the early age of forty-two.

The history of this extraordinary man teaches us various important lessons. It shows us that genius, even though it be allied to sincerity, is easily led, astray by flattery and personal vanity; that eccentricity naturally ends in extravagance; that fanaticism is not superior to the use of artifice and affectation, even when they invade the pulpit and assume the badge of the preacher of the gospel; in short, that a man of great gifts, if so be he is not controlled by common sense--if he do not conform his conduct to that every-day but safe regulator, called propriety--is very apt to become a misguiding and bewildering light to his fellow-men, just in proportion as his abilities may surpass those of other persons. A large observation of mankind has satisfied me that a great man, even though he be a preacher, if he despises the suggestions of good sense, decency, congruity, usually becomes a great curse. Nearly all the religious vagaries which have led the world astray, have originated with, individuals of this character. A large portion

of the infidelity of mankind has its origin in the foibles of those who are set up as the great lights of Christianity.

One more event I must notice--the arrival in London of the mortal remains of Lord Byron, and their lying in state previous to interment. His body had been preserved in spirits, and was thus brought from Greece, attended by five persons of his lordship's suite. Having been transferred to the coffin, it was exhibited at the house of Sir Edward Knatchball, No. 20 Great George-street, on Friday and Saturday, the 9th and 10th of July, 1824. It caused a profound sensation, and such were the crowds that rushed to behold the spectacle, that it was necessary to defend the coffin with a stout wooden railing. When I arrived at the place the lid was closed; I was told, however, that the countenance, though the finer lines had collapsed, was so little changed as to be easily recognized by his acquaintances. The general muscular form of the body was perfectly preserved.

The aspect of the scene, even as I witnessed it, was altogether very impressive. The coffin was covered with a pall, enriched by escutcheons wrought in gold. On the top was a lid, set round with black plumes. Upon it were these words--

"GEORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON.

Born in London 22d January, 1788:

Died at Missolonghi, April 19th, 1824."

-----

Byron's Coffin. Vol 2, p. 250.

At the head of the coffin was an urn containing the ashes of his brain and heart--this being also covered with a rich pall, wrought with figures in gold. The windows were closed, and the darkened room was feebly illumined by numerous wax-tapers.

And this was all that remained of Byron! What a lesson upon the pride of genius, the vanity of rank, the fatuity of fame--all leveled in the dust, and despite the garnished pall and magnificent coffin, their possessor was bound to pass through the same process of corruption as the body of a common beggar. And the soul--the soul?

Ah, what questions rose in my mind as I stood beside that coffin! Where art thou, Byron? What art thou? I have never seen thee--I have never known thee, face to face: yet hast thou often spoken to me, and in words that can never die! Thou art not dead--that were impossible: speak to me, then! Tell me--for such as thou might break the seal of the grave--what art thou?--where art thou? Whisper in my ear the dread secret of the tomb! Thou art silent--even thou. How fearful, how terrible is that spell which holds lips like thine--Childe Harold, Manfred, Cain--in the bondage of perpetual stillness! This, indeed, is death!

LETTER XIV.

Return to America--Removed to Boston--Literary position of Boston--Prominent literary characters--The Press--The Pulpit--the Bar--New York now the literary metropolis--My publication of various works--The Legendary--N. P. Willis--The era of Annuals--The Token--The artists engaged in it--The authors--Its termination.

My dear C******

Having made a hurried trip to Paris and back to London, I departed for Liverpool, and thence embarked for the United States, arriving there in October, 1824. I remained at Hartford till October, 1826, as already stated, and then removed to Boston, with the intention of publishing original works, and at the same time of trying my land at authorship--the latter part of my plan, however, known only to myself.

At that time, Boston was notoriously the literary metropolis of the Union--the admitted Athens of America. Edward Everett had established the North American Review,* and though he had now just left the editorial chair, his spirit dwelt in it, and his fame lingered around it. Rich'd H. Dana, Edw'd T. Channing, Jared Sparks, George Bancroft, and others, were among the rising lights of the literary horizon. The

newspaper press presented the witty and caustic Galaxy, edited by Buckingham; the dignified and scholarly Daily Advertiser, conducted by Nathan Hale;* and the frank, sensible, manly Centinel, under the editorial patriarch--Benjamin Russell. Channing was in the pulpit and Webster at the forum. Society was strongly impressed with literary tastes; genius was respected and cherished: a man, in those days, who had achieved a literary fame, was at least equal to a president of a bank, or a treasurer of a manufacturing company. The pulpit shone bright and far, with the light of scholarship radiated from the names of Beecher, Greenwood, Pierpont, Lowell, Palfry, Doane, Stone, Frothingham, Gannett: the bar also reflected the glory of letters through H. G. Otis, Charles Jackson, William Prescott, Benjamin Gorham, Willard Philips, James T. Austin, among tha older members, and Charles G. Loring, Charles P. Curtis, Richard Fletcher, Theophilus Parsons, Franklin Dexter, J. Quincy, jr., Edward G. Loring, Benj. R. Curtis, among the younger. The day had not yet come when it was glory enough for a college professor to marry a hundred thousand dollars of stocks, or when it was, the chief end of a lawyer to become

the attorney of an insurance company, or a bank, or a manufacturing corporation. Corporations, without souls, had not yet become the masters and moulders of the soul of society. Books with a Boston imprint had a prestige equal to a certificate of good paper, good print, good binding, and good matter. And while such was the state of things at Boston, how was it at New York? Why, all this time the Harpers, who till recently had been mere printers in Dover-street, had scarcely entered upon their career as publishers,* and the Appletons,† Putnam, Derby, the Masons, and other shining lights in the trade of New York at the present time, were either unborn, or in the nursery, or at school.

What a revolution do these simple items suggest--wrought in the space of thirty years! The scepter has departed from Judah: New York is now the

acknowledged metropolis of American literature, as well as of art and commerce. Nevertheless, if we look at Boston literature at the present time, as reflected in the publishing lists of Messrs. Little, Brown & Co., Ticknor & Fields, Philips, Sampson & Co., Croaker & Brewster, Gould & Lincoln, we shall see that the light of other days has not degenerated. Is it not augmented, indeed--for since the period I speak of, Prescott, Longfellow, Hawthorne, Whipple, Holmes, Lowell, Hillard, have joined the Boston constellation of letters?

It can not be interesting to you to know in detail my business operations in Boston at this period. It will be sufficient to say, that among other works I published an edition of the novels of Charles Brockden Brown, with a life of the author, furnished by his widow, she having a share of the edition. I also published an edition of Hannah More's works, and also of Mrs. Opie's works--these being, I believe, the first complete collections of the writings of these several authors. In 1827 I published Sketches by N. P. Willis, his first adventure in responsible authorship. The next year I issued the Common-place Book of Prose, the first work of the now celebrated Dr. Cheever. This was speedily followed by the Common-place Book of Poetry and Studies in Poetry, by the same author.*

In 1828, I published a first, and soon after a second, volume of the Legendary, designed as a periodical, and to consist of original pieces in prose and verse, principally illustrative of American history, scenery, and manners.* This was edited by N. P. Wlllis, and was, I believe, his first editorial engagement. Among

the contributors I find the names of Halleck, Crosby, Lunt, W. G. Clark, H. Pickering, J. O. Rockwell, Miss Sedgewick, Miss Francis, Mrs. Sigourney, Willis, Pierpont, Cutter, I. M'Lellan, Jr., J. W. Miller, and other popular writers of that day. It was kindly treated by the press, which generously published

without charge, the best pieces in full, saving the reading million the trouble of buying the book and paying for the chaff, which was naturally found with the wheat. Despite this courtesy, the work proved a miserable failure. The time had not come for such a publication: at the present day, with the present

accessories, and the present public spirit, I doubt not that such an enterprise would be eminently successful. I believe I have already alluded to the Age of Annuals*--the first work of the kind, entitled the Forget-me-not, having been issued by the Ackermans of London, in the winter of 1823, while I was in that city. It was successfully imitated by Carey & Lea, at Philadelphia, in a work entitled the Atlantic Souvenir, and which was sustained with great spirit for several years. In 1828 I commenced and published the first volume of the Token, and which I continued for fifteen years, editing it myself, with the exception of the volume for 1829, which came out under the auspices of Mr. Willis. In 1836 the Atlantic Souvenir ceased, and after that time, by arrangement with the publishers, its title was added to that of the Token.

The success of this species of publication, stimulated new enterprises of the kind, and a rage for them spread over Europe and America. The efforts ofthe first artists and the first writers were at length drawn into them, and for nearly twenty years every autumn produced an abundant harvest of Diadems, Bijous, Pearls, Gems, Amethysts, Opals, Amaranths, Bouquets, Hyacinths, Amulets, Talismans, Forget-me-nots, Remember-me's, &c.* Under these seductive titles, they became messengers of love, tokens of friendship, signs and symbols of affection, and luxury and refinement; and thus they stole alike into the palace and the cottage, the library, the parlor, and the boudoir. The public taste grew by feeding on these

luscious gifts, and soon craved even more gorgeous works of the kind, whence came Heath's Book of Beauty, Lady Blessington's Flowers of Loveliness, Bulwer's Pilgrims of the Rhine, Butler's Leaflets of Memory, Christmas among the Poets, and many others of similar design and execution. Many of the engravings of these works cost five hundred dollars each, and many a piece of poetry, fifty dollar a page. In several of these works the generous public spent fifty thousand dollars a year!

At last the race of Annuals drew near the end of its career, yet not without having produced a certain revolution in the public taste. Their existence had sprung, at least in part, from steel-engraving, which had been discovered and introduced by our countryman, Jacob Perkins. This enabled the artist to produce works of more exquisite delicacy than had ever before been achieved; steel also gave the large number of impressions which the extensive sales of the Annuals demanded, and which could not have been obtained from copper. These charming works scattered the very gems of art far and wide, making the reading mass familiar with the finest specimens of engraving, and not only cultivating an appetite for this species of luxury, but in fact exalting the general standard of taste all over the civilized world. And thus, though the Annuals, by name, have perished, they left a strong necessity in the public mind for books enriched by all the embellishments of art.

Hence we have such works as the Women of the Bible, Women of the New Testament, the Republican Court, by Dr. Griswold, together with rich illustrated editions of Byron, Rogers, Thomson, Cowper, Campbell, and others, including our own poets--Bryant, Halleck, Sigourney, Longfellow, Reed, &c. Wood-engraving has, meanwhile, risen into a fine art, and lent its potent aid in making books one of the chief luxuries of society, from the nursery to the parlor.

In comparison with these splendid works, the Token was a very modest affair. The first year I offered prizes for the best pieces in prose and poetry. The highest for prose was awarded to the author of "Some Passages in the Life of an Old Maid." A mysterious man, in a mysterious way, presented himself for the money, and, giving due evidence of his authority to receive it, it was paid to him, but who the author really was, never transpired, though I had, and still have, my confident guess upon the subject.* Even the subsequent volumes, though they obtained favor in their day, did not approach the splendor of the modern works of a similar kind. Nevertheless, some of the embellishments, by John Cheney,†

Ellis, Smilie, Andrews, Hatch, Kelly, Danforth, Durand, and Jewett, engraved from the designs of Allston, Leslie, Newton, Cole, Inman, Fisher, Doughty, Chapman, Weir, Brown, Alexander, and Healey, were very clever, even compared with the finest works of art at the present day.

The literary contributions were, I believe, equal, on the whole, to any of the Annuals, American or European. Here were inserted some of the earliest productions of Willis, Hawthorne, Miss Francis, now Mrs. Child, Miss Sedgewick, Mrs. Hale, Pierpont, Greenwood, and Longfellow. Several of these first made acquaintance with the public through the pages of this work. It is a curious fact that the latter, Longfellow, wrote prose, and at that period had shown neither a strong bias nor a particular talent for poetry.

The Token was continued annually till 1842, when it finally ceased. The day of Annuals had, indeed, passed before this was given up, and the last

two or three years, it had only lingered out a poor and fading existence. As a matter of business, it scarcely paid its expenses, and was a serious drawback upon my time and resources for fifteen years--a punishment no doubt fairly due to an obstinate pride which made me reluctant to allow a work to die in my hands, with which my name and feelings had become somewhat identified.

---+---

LETTER XLVI.

The Contributors to the Token--N. P. Willis--N. Hawthorne-- Miss Francis--Mr. Greenwood--Mr. Pierpont--Charles Sprague--Mrs. Sigourney--Miss Sedgwick--Mrs. Osgood, and others--Quarrels between Authors and Publishers--Anecdotes--The Publishers' Festival.

My dear C******

As to the contributors for the Token, you may expect me to say a few words more. The most prominent writer for it was N. P. Willis; his articles were the most read, the most admired, the most abused, and the most advantageous to the work. I published his first book, and his two first editorial engagements were with me; hence the early portion of his literary career fell under my special notice.

He had begun to write verses very early, and while in college, before he was eighteen, he had acquired an extended reputation, under the signature of Roy. In

1827, when he was just twenty years old, I published his volume entitled "Sketches." It brought out quite a shower of criticism, in which praise and blame were about equally dispensed: at the same time the work sold with a readiness quite unusual for a book of poetry at that period. It is not calculated to establish the infallibility of critics, to look over these notices at the present day: many of the pieces which were doubly damned have now taken their place among the acknowledged gems of our literature, and others, which excited praise at the time, have faded from the public remembrance.

One thing is certain--everybody thought Willis worth criticising.* He has been, I suspect, more writ-

ten about than any other literary man m our history. Some of the attacks upon him proceeded, no doubt, from a conviction that he was a man of extraordinary gifts, and yet of extraordinary affectations, and the lash was applied in kindness, as that of a schoolmaster to a loved pupil's back; some of them were dictated by envy, for we have had no other example of literary success so early, so general, and so flattering. That Mr. Willis made mistakes in literature and life--at the outset--may be admitted by his best

friends; for it must be remembered that before he was five-and-twenty, he was more read than any other American poet of his time; and besides, being possessed of an easy and captivating address, he became the pet of society, and especially of the fairer portion of it. Since that period, his life, on the whole, has been one of serious, useful, and successful labor. His reputation as a poet has hardly advanced, and probably the public generally regard some of his early verses as his best. As an essayist, however, he

stands in the first rank, distinguished for a keen sagacity in analyzing society, a fine perception of the beauties of nature, an extraordinary talent for endowing trifles with interest and meaning. As a traveler, he is among the most entertaining, sagacious, and instructive. It is within rny knowledge, that Mr. Webster was an admiring reader of his itinerary sketches.

His style is certainly peculiar--and is deemed affected, tending to an excess of refinement, and displaying an undue hankering for grace and melody--sometimes sacrificing sense to sound. This might once have been a just criticism, but the candid reader of his works now before the public, will deem it hypercritical. His style is suited to his thought; it is flexible, graceful, musical, and is adapted to the playful wit, the spicy sentiment, the dramatic tableaux, the artistic paintings of sea, earth, and sky, of which they are the vehicle. In the seeming exhaustlessness of his resources, in his prolonged freshness, in his constantly increasing strength, Mr. Willis has refuted all the early prophets who regarded him only as a precocity, destined to shine a few brief years, and fade away.

As to his personal character, I need only say that from the beginning, he has had a larger circle of steadfast friends than almost any man within my knowledge. There has been something in his works which has made the fair sex, generally, alike his lite-

rary and personal admirers. For so many favors, he has given the world an ample return; for, with all his imputed literary faults--some real and some imaginary--I regard him as having contributed more to the amusement of society than almost any other of our living authors.*

It is not easy to conceive of a stronger contrast than is presented by comparing Nathaniel Hawthorne with N. P. Willis. The former was for a time ona of the principal writers for the Token, and his admirable sketches were published side by side with those of the latter. Yet it is curious to remark that every thing Willis wrote attracted immediate attention, and excited ready praise, while the productions of Hawthorne were almost entirely unnoticed.

The personal appearance and demeanor of these two gifted young men, at the early period of which I speak, was also in striking contrast. Willis was slender, his hair sunny and silken, his cheek ruddy, his aspect cheerful and confident. He met society with a ready and welcome hand, and was received readily and with welcome. Hawthorne, on the contrary, was of a rather sturdy form, his hair dark and

bushy, his eye steel-gray, his brow thick, his mouth sarcastic, his complexion stony, his whole aspect cold, moody, distrustful. He stood aloof, and surveyed the world from shy and sheltered positions.

There was a corresponding difference in the writings of these two persons. Willis was all sunshine and summer, the other chill, dark, and wintry; the one was full of love and hope, the other of doubt and distrust; the one sought the open daylight--sunshine, flowers, music, and found them everywhere--the other plunged into the dim caverns of the mind, and studied the grisly specters of jealousy, remorse, despair. It is, perhaps, neither a subject of surprise nor regret, that the larger portion of the world is so happily constituted as to have been more ready to flirt with the gay muse of the one, than to descend into: the spiritual charnel-house, and assist at the psychological dissections of the other.

I had seen some anonymous publication which seemed to me to indicate extraordinary powers. I inquired of the publishers as to the writer, and through them a correspondence ensued between me and "N. Hawthorne." This name I considered a disguise, and it was not till after many letters had passed, that I met the author, and found it to be a true title, representing a very substantial personage. At this period he was unsettled as to his views; he had tried his hand in literature, and considered himself to have met with a fatal rebuff from the reading

world. His mind vacillated between various projects, verging, I think, toward a mercantile profession. I combated his despondence, and assured Mm of triumph, if he would persevere in a literary career.

He wrote numerous articles, which appeared in the Token; occasionally an astute critic seemed to see through them, and to discover the soul that wag in them; but in general they passed without notice. Such articles as Sights from a Steeple, Sketches beneath an Umbrella, the Wives of the Dead, the Prophetic Pictures, now universally acknowledged to be productions of extraordinary depth, meaning, and power, extorted hardly a word of either praise or blame, while columns were given to pieces since totally forgotten. I felt annoyed, almost angry indeed, at this. I wrote several articles in the papers, directing attention to these productions, and finding no echo of my views, I recollect to have asked John Pickering* to read some of them, and give me his opinion of them. He did as I requested; his answer was that they displayed a wonderful beauty of style, with a kind of double vision, a sort of second sight, which revealed, beyond the outward forms of life and being, a sort of spirit world, somewhat as a

lake reflects the earth around it and the sky above it: yet he deemed them too mystical to be popular. He was right, no doubt, at that period, but, ere long, a portion of mankind, a large portion of the reading world, obtained a new sense--how or where or whence, is not easily determined--which led them to study the mystical, to dive beneath and beyond the senses, and to discern, gather, and cherish gems and pearls of price in the hidden depths of the seal. Hawthorne was, in fact, a kind of Wordsworth in prose--less kindly, less genial toward mankind, but deeper and more philosophical. His fate was similar: at first he was neglected, at last he had worshipers.

In 1837, I recommended Mr. Hawthorne to publish a volume, comprising his various pieces, which had appeared in the Token and elsewhere. He consented, but as I had ceased to be a publisher, it was difficult to find any one who would undertake to bring out the work. I applied to the agent of the Stationers' Company,* but he refused, until at last I

relinquished my copyrights on such of the tales as I had published, to Mr. Hawthorne, and joined a friend of his in a bond to indemnify them against loss; and thus the work was published by the Stationers' Company, under the title of Twice Told Tales, and for the author's benefit. It was deemed a failure for more than a year, when a breeze seemed to rise and fill its sails, and with it the author was carried on to fame and fortune.

Among the most successful of the writers for the Token was Miss Francis, now Mrs. Child. I have not seen her for many years, but I have many pleasant remembrances of her lively conversation, her saucy wit, her strong good sense, and her most agreeable person and presence. To Rev. F. W. P. Greenwood--the author of "Niagara" and the "Sea"--articles which are still admired by all tasteful readers--I was indebted not only for some of the best contributions, but for excellent counsel and advice in my literary affairs. He was a man of fine genius, gentle manners, and apostolic dignity of life and character.

To Mr. Pierpont, I was indebted for encouragement and sympathy in my whole career, and for some of the best poems which appeared in the work I am noticing. I remember once to have met him, and to have

asked him to give me a contribution for the Token. He stopped and said, reflectingly, "I had a dream not long ago, which I have thought to put into verse. I will try, and if I am successful you shall have it." A few days after he gave me the lines, now in all the gem books, beginning--

"Was it the chime of a tiny bell,
     That came so sweet to my dreaming ear--
Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell,
     That he winds on the beach so mellow and clear,
When the winds and the waves lie together asleep,
And the moon and the fairy are watching the deep--
She dispensing her silvery light,
And he his notes, as silvery quite,
While the boatman listens and ships his oar,
To catch the music that comes from the shore?
     Hark! the notes on my ear that play,
     Are set to words; as they float, they say,
     'Passing away, passing away!'"

Charles Sprague wrote for me but little, yet that was of diamond worth. Next to Willis, Mrs. Sigourney was my most successful and liberal contributor; to her I am indebted for a large part of the success of my editorial labors in the matter now referred to. To Miss Sedgwick, also, the Token owes a large share of its credit with the public. Grenville Mellen--a true poet, and a most kind, gentle spirit, doomed early to "pass away"--was a favorite in my pages, and to me a devoted friend. To B. B. Thacher--also among the good and the departed; to Mrs. Osgood,

gifted and gone; to John Neale, A. H. Everett, Bishop Doane, Mr. Longfellow, Caleb Cushing; to the two Sargents--Epes and John, though masked as Charles Sherry or the modest letter E.; to Miss Gould, Miss Leslie, H. T. Tuckerman, O. W. Holmes, Orville Dewey, J. T. Fields, T. S. Fay, G. C. Verplanck--to all these and to many others, I owe the kind remembrance which belongs to good deeds, kindly and graciously bestowed.

It is not to be supposed that in a long career, both as bookseller and editor, I should have escaped altogether the annoyances and vexations which naturally attach to these vocations. The relation of author and publisher is generally regarded as that of the cat and the dog, both greedy of the bone, and inherently jealous of each other. The authors have hitherto written the accounts of the wrangles between these two parties, and the publishers have been traditionally gibeted as a set of mean, mercenary wretches, coining the heart's blood of genius for their own selfish profits. Great minds, even in modern times, have not been above this historical prejudice. The poet Campbell is said to have been an admirer of Napoleon because he shot a bookseller.

Nevertheless, speaking from my own experience, I suspect, if the truth were told, that, even in cases where, the world has been taught to bestow all its sympathy in behalf of the author, it would appear that while there were claws on one side there were

on the other. My belief is, that where have been quarrels, there have generally been mutual provocations. I know of nothing more vexatious, more wearisome, more calculated to beget impatience, than the egotisms, the exactions, the unreasonablenesses of authors, in cases I have witnessed.*

That there may be examples of meanness, stupidity, and selfishness, in publishers, is indisputable. But in general, I am satisfied that an author who will do justice to a publisher, will have justice in return.

In judging of publishers, one thing should be considered, and that is, that two-thirds of the original works issued by them, are unprofitable. An eminent London publisher once told me that he calculated that out of ten publications, four involved a positive, and often a heavy, loss; three barely paid the cost of paper, print, and advertising; and three paid a profit. Nothing is more common than for a publisher to pay money to an author, every farthing of which is lost. Self-preservation, therefore, compels the publisher to look carefully to his operations. One thing is certain--he is generally the very best judge as to the value of a book, in a marketable point of view: if he rejects it, it is solely because he thinks it will not pay, not because he despises genius.

Happily, at the present day, the relations between these two parties--authors and publishers--are on a better footing than in former times: the late Festival*

in New York, given by the publishers to the authors, was a happy testimonial to the prevailing feeling that both are partners in the fellowship of literature, and that mutual good offices will best contribute to mutual prosperity. Indeed, a great change has taken place in the relative positions of the two classes. Nothing is now more marketable than good writing--at least in this country--whatever may be its form--poetry or prose, fact or fiction, reason or romance. Starving, neglected, abused genius, is a myth of bygone times. If an author is poorly paid, it is because he writes poorly. I do not think, indeed, that authors are adequately paid, for authorship does not stand on a level with other professions as to pecuniary recompense, but it is certain that a clever, industrious, and judicious writer may make his talent the means of living.*