Recollections of a Lifetime, by Samuel Griswold Goodrich (New York & Auburn: Miller, Orton & Mulligan, 1856); volume 2

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[Goodrich’s notes for this volume]

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The Hartford Convention—Its Origin—Testimony of Noah Webster—Oath of Roger M. Sherman—Gathering of the Convention—Doings of Democracy thereupon—Physiognomy of the Convention—Sketches of some of the Members—Colonel Jessup—Democracy in the Streets—Report of the Convention—Reception of the Doings of the Convention by Madison and his Party—Its Effect and Example—Comparison of the Hartford Convention, with the Nullifiers—The Union, forever … 9

LETTER XXXII.

The Count Value—Lessons in French, and a Translation of René—Severe Retribution for Imprudence—The End of the Pocket-book Factory—Napoleon returns to Paris and upsets my Affairs—Divers Experiences and Selections upon Dancing—Visit to New York—Oliver Wolcott and Archibald Gracie—Ballston and Saratoga—Dr. Payson and the three Rowdies—Illness and Death of my Uncle—Partnership with George Sheldon—His Illness and Death … 61

LETTER XXXIII.

The Famine of 1816 and 1817—Panic in New England—Migrations to Ohio—T’other Side of Ohio—Toleration—Downfall of Federalism—Oliver Wolcott and the Democracy—Connecticut upset—The new Constitution—Gov. Smith and Gov. Wolcott—Litchfield—Uriah Tracy—Frederick Wolcott—Tapping Reeve—Col. Talmadge—James Gould—J. W. Huntington—The Litchfield Centennial Celebration … 78

LETTER XXXIV.

Stephen R. Bradley—My Pursuit of the Vocation of Bookseller and Publisher—Scott’s Poems—General Enthusiasm—Byron’s Poems—Their Reception—The Waverley Novels—Their amazing Popularity—I publish an Edition of them—Literary Club at Hartford—J. M. Wainwright, Isaac Toucey, William L. Stone, &c.—The Round Table—Ori-

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ginal American Works—State of Opinion as to American Literature—Publication of Trumbull’s Poems—Books for Education—Rev. C. A. Goodrich—Dr. Comstock—Woodbridge’s Geography … 90

LETTER XXXV.

Sketches of the “Hartford Wits”—Dr. Hopkins—Trumbull, author of McFingal—David Humphries—Dr. Strong—Theodore Dwight—Thomas H. Gallaudet—Daniel Wadsworth—Dr. Coggswell—Mrs. Sigourney … 114

LETTER XXXVI.

Dr. Percival—His early Life—His Father’s attempt to cure his Shyness—College Life—His First Love—His Medical Experience—His Poetical Career—An awkward Position—The Saddle on his own Back—Cooper and Percival at the City Hotel—Publication of his Poems at New York—The Edition in England—Other Literary Avocations—His Station at West Point—His great Learning—Assistance of Dr. Webster in his Dictionary—State Geologist in Connecticut—In Wisconsin—His Death—Estimate of his Character … 121

LETTER XXXVII.

A few Wayside Notes—The Poet Brainard—His first Introduction—Ripley’s Tavern—Aunt Lucy—The little back-parlor—Brainard’s Office—Anecdote—The Devil’s Dun—The Lines on Niagara—Other Poems—One that is on the Sea—The Sea-bird’s Song—Publication of Brainard’s Poems—General Remarks—His Death … 141

LETTER XXXVIII.

My first Voyage across the Atlantic—England—London—My Tour on the Continent—Return to England—Visit to Barley Wood—Hannah More—Inquiries as to Books for Education—Ireland—Dublin—The Giant’s Causeway—Scotland—Scenery of the Lady of the Lake—Glasgow—Edinburgh … 161

LETTER XXXIX.

Edinburgh—The Court of Sessions—Cranstoun, Cockburn, Moncrief—Lockhart—Jeffrey—Sir Walter Scott … 170

LETTER XL.

Preparations for a Ride—Mr. Jeffrey in a Rough-and-tumble—A Glance at Edinburgh from the Braid Hills—A Shower—The Maids of the Mist—Durable Impressions … 177

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LETTER XLI.

William Blackwood—The Magazine—A Dinner at Blackwood’s—James Ballantyne—Lord Byron and Lady Caroline Lamb—The General Assembly of Scotland—Dr. Chalmers … 184

LETTER XLII.

A Dinner at Lockhart’s—Conversation about Byron—Mrs. Lockhart—Irving—Professor Ticknor—Music—The Pibroch and Miss Edgeworth—Anecdotes of the Indians—Southey and Second Sight—Cooper’s Pioneers—The Pilot—Paul Janes—Brockden Brown—Burns—Tricks of the Press—Charles Scott—The Welsh Parson—The Italian Base-viol Player—Personal Appearance of Sir Walter—Departure for London—Again in Edinburgh in 1832—Last Moments of Sir Walter—The Sympathy of Nature … 195

LETTER XLIII.

Journey to London—Remarks on, England, as it appears to the American Traveler—The Climate—The Landscape—Jealousies between the English and Americans—Plan for securing Peace … 210

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 … 222

LETTER XLV.

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 … 252

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 … 264

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LETTER XLVII.

The First of the Parley Books—Its Reception—Various Publications—Threatening Attack of Illness—Voyage to Europe—Consultation of Physicians at Paris—Sir Benj. Brodie, of London—Abercrombie, of Edinburgh—Return to America—Residence in the Country—Prosecution of my Literary Labors—Footing up the Account—Annoyances of Authorship—Letter to the New York Daily Times … 279

LETTER XLVIII.

Republication of Parley’s Tales in London—Mr. Tegg’s operations—Imitated by other publishers—Peter Parley Martin—Letter to Mr. Darton—An edition of the false Parleys in America—The consequences … 292

LETTER XLIX.

Objections to the Parley Books—My theory as to books for children—Attempt in England to revive the old nursery books—Mr. Felix Summerly—Hallowell’s Nursery Rhymes of England—Dialogue between Timothy and his mother—Mother Goose—The Toad’s Story—Books of instruction … 308

LETTER L.

Journey to the South—Anecdotes—Reception at New Orleans … 322

LETTER LI.

Retrospection—Confessions—The mice among my papers—A reckoning with the past … 333

LETTER LII.

Speech at St. Albans—Lecture upon Ireland, and the Irish—The Broad-street Riot—Burning the Charlestown Convent—My Political Career—A. H. Everett—The Fifteen Gallon Jug—The Harrison Campaign of 1840—Hard Cider and Log Cabins—Universal Bankruptcy—Election of Harrison—His Death—Consequences—Anecdotes—The Small Tail Movement—A Model Candidate—William, Cpp, or Shingling a Barn … 339

LETTER LIII.

International copyright—Mr. Dickens’ s Mission—His failure and his revenge—The Boston Convention—Inquiry into the basis of copyright—Founded in absolute justice—What is property?—Grounds upon

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which government protects property—History of copyright—Present state of copyright law—Policy the oasis of local copyright law—International Copyright demanded by justice—Scheme for International Copyright with Great Britain—Reasons for it … 355

LETTER LIV.

Statistics of the Book Trade—Its Extension—The Relative Increase of American literature, as compared with British Literature … 379

LETTER LV.

Recollections of Washington—The House of Representatives—Missouri Compromise—Clay, Randolph, and Lowndes—The Senate—Rufus King—William Pinkney—Mr. Macon—Judge Marshall—Election of J. Q. Adams—President Monroe—Meeting of Adams and Jackson—Jackson’s Administration—Clay—Calhoun—Webster—Anecdotes … 393

LETTER LVI.

London and Paris compared—Paris thirty years ago—Louis XVIII.—The Parisians—Garden of the Tuileries—Washington Irving—Mr. Warden, the American Consul—Société Philomatique—Baron Larrey—Geoffroy St. Hilaire—The Institute—Arago—Lamarck—Gay-Lussac—Cuvier—Lacroix—Laplace—Laennec—Dupuytren—Talma—Mademoiselle Mars … 437

LETTER LVII.

Death of Louis XVIII.—Charles X.—The “Three Glorious Days”—Louis Philippe—The Revolution of February, 1848 … 449

LETTER LVIII.

Events which immediately followed the Revolution—Scenes in the streets of Paris—Anxiety of Strangers—Proceedings of the Americans—Address to the Provisional Government—Reply of M. Arago—Procession in the streets—Inauguration of the Republic—Funeral of the Victims—Presentation of Flags—Conspiracy of the 15th of May—Insurrection of June—Adoption of the Constitution—Louis Napoleon President … 471

LETTER LIX.

The Duties of a Consul—Pursuit of a missing Family—Paying for Experience … 480

LETTER LX.

Character of the French Republic—Its Contrast with the American, Republic—Aspect of the Government in France—Louis Napoleon’s ambitious Designs—He Flatters the Army—Spreads Humors of Socialist Plots—Divisions in the National Assembly—A Levee at the Elysée—The Coup d’Etat—Character of this Act—Napoleon’s Government—Feelings of the People … 489

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LETTER LXI.

Meeting in Paris to commemorate the Death of Clay and Webster—Termination of my Consular Duties—Character of the French Nation—The Black-coat Circular … 504

LETTER LXII.

Visit to Italy—Florence—Rome—Naples … 521

LETTER LXIII.

Leave-taking—Improvement everywhere—In Science—Geology, Chemistry, Agriculture, Manufactures, Astronomy, navigation, the Domestic Arts—Anthracite Coal—Traveling—Painting—Daguerreotypes—The Electric Telegraph—Moral Progress—In Foreign Countries: in the United States … 530

APPENDIX … 537

INDEX … 554

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The Hartford Convention—Its Origin—Testimony of Noah Webster—Oath of Roger M. Sherman—Gathering of the Convention—Doings of Democracy thereupon—Physiognomy of the Convention—Sketches of some of the Members—Colonel Jessup—Democracy in the Streets—Report of the Convention—Reception of the Doings of the Convention by Madison and his Party—Its Effect and Example—Comparison of the Hartford Convention, with the Nullifiers—The Union, forever.

My dear C******

I come now to the “Hartford Convention.” Methinks I hear you remark, with an aspect of dismay—are you not venturing into deep water in treating of such a subject, generally regarded as an historical abyss, in which much may be lost and nothing can be gained?

Well, my friend, suppose you do ask this—is it really a good reason why I should not tell what I have seen, what I know, what I believe, in relation to it? The Hartford Convention was in my time: my uncle, Chauncey Goodrich, was one of its prominent members. I was then living with him;* I saw all the

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persons constituting that famous body, at his house; the image and superscription of the most distinguished individuals are fresh in my recollection. I remember the hue and aspect of the political atmosphere, then and there. Why should I not tell these things? You may, perhaps, entertain the common notion that the Hartford Convention was a congregation of conspirators—traitors—and I shall invite you to abandon this delusion. It may not be pleasant to hear your cherished opinions controverted: it is always a little disagreeable to receive truth, which requires us to sacrifice something of our self-esteem, by giving up errors which have become part of our mental constitution, But certainly you will not silence me on any such narrow ground as this. The time has come when one may speak freely on this subject, and surely without offense. Forty years have passed since the gathering of that far-famed body. Every member of it is dead. I will not insist that you shall say nothing of them which is not good ; but I claim the privilege of saying of them what I know to be true. I am sure you will listen to me patiently, if not approvingly.

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You may perhaps suppose that there is but one opinion in the country as to the character of that assembly; but let me observe that there are two opinions upon the subject, and if one is unfavorable, the other is diametrically opposite. In New England, the memories of those who constituted the Convention are held in reverence and esteem, by the great body of their fellow-citizens, including a large majority of those whose opinions are of weight and value, and this has been so from the beginning.

I have said that they are now all gathered to their fathers. As they have gone down, one by one, to their last resting-place, public opinion has pronounced sentence upon their lives and characters. I ask your attention to the historical fact, that in every instance, this has been a eulogy—not for talent only, but the higher virtues of humanity. Of the twenty-six members who constituted the Convention, every one has passed to an honored grave. The members of the Hartford Convention were, in effect, chosen by the people, at a time of great trouble and alarm, for the purpose of devising the ways and means to avert threatening—impending evils. All felt the necessity of selecting persons of the highest wisdom, prudence, and virtue, and never was a choice more happily made. Most of these men were indeed of that altitude of talent, piety, dignity, and patriotism, which partisan pigmies naturally hate, by the inherent antipathy of littleness to greatness, and of vice to virtue; but in New England,

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the enlightened generation among whom they lived, estimated them according to their true merits. These never believed them to be conspirators; they knew, indeed, the fact to be otherwise. Even the blinding influence of party spirit has never made the better class of democrats in New England believe that the Convention meditated treason. As to the mass of the people, they held and still hold that the Hartford Convention was one of the ablest and wisest assemblies ever convened in the country.

I am aware, however, that the prevailing opinion in the United States at large has been, and perhaps still is, the reverse of this. Out of New England, democracy is the dominant party. The war was a democratic measure, and the Convention was the work of the federalists, who opposed the war. It is, doubtless, too much to expect that party spirit will, exercise candor toward those who brave and baffle it—at least during the conflict. There were many reasons why the Convention was an unpardonable sin in the eyes of democracy: it was opposition to the war, and that itself was treason: the war was attended with defeat, disaster, disgrace, and to turn retribution from the heads of the war-makers, it was considered politic to charge every miscarriage to the war opposers. In short, it was deemed the best way for self-preservation, by the democratic leaders, to sink the federalists in undying infamy. Hence they persisted in denouncing the Convention as an assembly

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of conspirators. It is admitted that there was no overt act of treason, but it is maintained that there was treason in their hearts, the development of which was only prevented by the return of peace, and the indignant rebuke of public sentiment.

The foundation of this tenacious calumny is doubtless to be traced to John Quincy Adams, who, having lost the confidence of his political associates—the federalists of Massachusetts—and not being elected to a second term as Senator of the United States, speedily changed his politics, and made a disclosure, real or pretended, to Jefferson, in 1808,* to the effect that the federalists of the North—taking advantage of the uneasiness of the people on account of the distresses imposed upon them by the embargo—were meditating a separation from the Union, and an alliance with Great Britain—of all things the most likely to obtain democratic belief, and to excite democratic horror.

Here was the germ of that clinging scandal against New England, which has been perpetuated for forty years. It certainly had a respectable voucher at the beginning, but its utter want of foundation has long since been proved. For about twenty years, however, the libel was permitted—in secret and of course without contradiction—to ferment and expand and work itself over the minds of Jefferson and his associates.

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It had created such an impression, that Madison—when President—had only to be told by an unaccredited foreigner, that he had the secret of a federal plot for disunion in Massachusetts, and he at once bought it, and paid fifty thousand dollars for it out of the public treasury.* No doubt he really expected to find that he had a rope round the necks of half the federalists in New England. He soon discovered, however, that the biter was bit. John Henry duped the President, who seized the hook, because it was baited with suspicions, the seeds of which John Q. Adams had furnished some years before.

It was not till the year 1828, when that person was a candidate for the presidency a second time, that the whole facts in regard to this calumny were developed. He was then called seriously to account,† and such

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was the effect, that from that time he was silent. In vain did he attempt to furnish evidence of a plausible foundation for his story. He referred to various witnesses, but it was pointedly remarked that all, save one,* were dead. Yet these even seemed to rise up

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and speak from their very graves. Sons, brothers, relatives, associates—including some of the first men in the United States—indignantly denied, in behalf of those for whom they had a right to speak, the imputations thus cast upon them. No fair-minded man can read the discussion now, and fail to see that Mr. Adams either invented his story—which, however, is by no means to be presumed—or that, according to the peculiar structure of his mind, having become hostile to the federal leaders in Massachusetts, he really thought he saw evidences of mischief in events which, fairly viewed, furnished not the slightest ground even for suspicion.

Thus, as I think, this foundation, this beginning of the idea that the Hartford Convention originated in treasonable designs on the part of its members, is shown to be absolutely groundless. Not one particle of evidence, calculated to satisfy an honest inquirer after truth, has ever been adduced to sustain the charge. The investigation has been in the highest degree inquisitorial: it was deemed vital to the interests of the democratic party to prove, to establish this allegation of treason. Public documents, newspaper articles, private correspondence, personal

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intercourse—all have been subjected to the rack and the thumb-screw. The question has been pushed to the conscience of an individual member of the Convention, and he has been called to testify, on oath, as to the origin and intentions of that assembly. Its journal, declared to contain every act, every motion, every suggestion, that took place, has been published; and now—after forty years of discussion, thus urged by hostile parties—sober history is compelled to say, that not a public document, not a private letter, not a speech, not an act, secret or open, has been brought to light, which proves, or tends to prove, the treasonable origin of the Hartford Convention!

The charge of treason is a serious one: so far as it may have a just foundation, it is fatal to personal character: it is a stain upon the State to which it attaches: it is a discredit to human natures especially in a country like ours, and in a case like that which we are discussing. It should therefore not be made—surely it should not be maintained—unless upon positive, undeniable proof. It should not rest for its defense upon partisan malice, or that inherent littleness which teaches base minds to accept suspicion as conclusive evidence of what they believe, only because it coincides with their evil thoughts. While, therefore, there seems to be no proof of the alleged treasonable origin of the Hartford Convention—I am able to do more than can-

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dor demands, and I here present you with direct testimony from a source that will not be impugned or discredited, showing that the said Convention originated with the people and from the circumstances of the times, and not with conspirators, and that its objects were just, proper, patriotic. I shall hereafter call upon you to admit, that the proceedings of the Convention were in accordance with this its lawful and laudable origin.

I now ask your candid attention to the following statement, made some years after the Convention, by Noah Webster*—a man perhaps as universally

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known and esteemed as any other in our history. He testifies to facts within his own knowledge, and surely no one will deny that, to this extent, he is a competent and credible witness.

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Such is the testimony—direct, positive, documentary—of Noah Webster, as to the origin of the Hartford Convention.* This, be it remembered, is evidence furnished by one outside of that assembly: let me now present you with the testimony of Roger Minot Sherman—a member of that body, and a worthy bearer of one of the most honored names in American history.

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Here is the testimony of a great and good man—a member of the Convention—under oath. Who will venture to gainsay it? Certainly no individual who feels the claims of truth, and appreciates the requisitions of logic, unless he is armed with proofs, clear, indisputable, demonstrative; he must bring facts sufficient to destroy the direct testimony of such men as Noah Webster and Roger M. Sherman, and, indeed, a cloud of other witnesses of equal weight and responsibility.

It seems to me that every candid mind, upon these statements, will be constrained to admit that the Convention thus originated in public necessity, and not in treason; I think the additional evidence I am about to present will satisfy you that their proceedings were in harmony with the wise and worthy motives that brought the members together.

If you look into certain partisan histories of the times, you might be led to suppose that on the day of the gathering of the Convention at Hartford—the 15th of December, 1814:—the heavens and the earth were clothed in black; that the public mind was filled with universal gloom; that the bells—tremulous with horror—tolled in funereal chimes; that the flag of the country everywhere was at half-mast; and that the whole American army marched with muffled drums and inverted arms, and all this in token of the quaking terror of the public mind, at the ominous gathering of a committee of some two dozen mild, respect-

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able, gray-haired old gentlemen, mostly appointed by the legislatures of Massachusetts, Connecticut, and Rhode Island, to investigate and report upon the state of public affairs! Such, I recollect, was the picture of Hartford, that was circulated over the country by the democratic papers* remote from the

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scene of action. The whole is very well reflected in the inspired pages of Charles Jared Ingersoll,* who may be considered as the Jeremiah of democracy, for this period of our history. He seems to have regarded himself as specially raised up to prophesy against New England. “The sin of Judah”—that is, of federalism—he has written “with a pen of iron,” though not “with the point of a diamond.”

Now I perfectly well remember the day of the gathering of the Convention.† There was in the city

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a small squad of United States recruits—I think some two dozen in number. These, assisted no doubt by others, ran up the American flag at their rendezvous, with, the British flag at half-mast, beneath it. They also—these two dozen, more or less—marched through the streets with reversed arms and muffled drums. A few persons, I believe, got hold of the bell-rope of the Baptist meeting-house, and rang a funereal chime. All this—chiefly the work of the rabble—was the scoff of the great body of the people; nevertheless, it was reported in the democratic papers abroad, as if some black and mighty portent had signalized the arrival of the Convention. The simple truth was, that the six and twenty gray-haired men—legislators, senators, judges—honored for long years of service—came quietly into town, and were welcomed by the mass of the citizens, according to their standing and their mission, with respect, esteem, and confidence.

Let us take a sketch of what followed from the prophet Jared: “On the 15th of December, 1814, with excited sentiments of apprehension, mingled approval and derision, the inhabitants of Hartford awaited the nefandous Convention, which takes its bad name from that quiet town.” “One of their number, Chauncey Goodrich, was mayor of Hartford, by whose arrangements the Convention was disposed of

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in the retirement of the second story of an isolated stone building, in which the little State Senate or Council sat, when, in rotation, Hartford was the seat of government. Locking themselves up stairs, there, in awfully obscure concealment, for three weeks, twice every day, except Sunday, Christmas and New Year’s-day, they were continually in conclave,” &c.

What an accumulation of horrors! Tell me, my dear C…., does not your hair bristle at the grisly picture? It indeed sounds like a tale of the Inquisition. What a pity it is to spoil it! And yet, this infernal Rembrandt coloring—this violent contrast of light and shade—is wholly imaginary. The Convention met in the council-chamber of the State-house, which the gazetteers tell us—and tell us truly—is a very handsome building. It is in the center of the city, and the most prominent edifice in the place. The room in which they met is still the senate-chamber, and is neither isolated nor obscure: on the contrary, it is one of the best and most conspicuous rooms in the building: at the time, it was probably the finest public hall in the State.*

It is true that the Convention sat with closed doors, as probably every similar convention, had done be-

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fore. The State Council—in whose room the Convention met—had furnished this example from time immemorial. The General Assembly of Connecticut had always done the same, at periods of difficulty and danger. The Convention that framed the Constitution of the United States had done likewise. The Continental Congress did the same, through the whole period of the war of the Revolution. A great part of the executive business of the United States Senate is now done in secret session, and is never known to the public. The archives of the State Department, at Washington, are under the lock and key of the Executive. The legislature of every State has the capacity to hold secret sessions, and nobody questions their right to exercise it according to their discretion. Both houses of Congress discussed, resolved upon, and voted the war of 1812, in secret session! And yet, what was useful, proper, and of good re-

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port in all other similar bodies, was “nefandous” in the Hartford Convention! So saith Jared, the historian, whose account seems to consist largely of the prejudices and exaggerations of the democratic papers of that day—raked together in one undigested heap. As such it is amusing—nay, instructive—but alas, how is history degraded, when such a mass of incongruities assumes its sacred name!

I have told you that I was at this time living with my uncle, Chauncey Goodrich—then a member of the Convention. His house, of course, became the frequent rendezvous of the other members, and here I often saw them. On one occasion, in the evening, they all met at his bouse, by invitation—the only instance in which they partook of any similar festivity. At this time, the other persons present, so far as I recollect, were William Coleman,* editor of the

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New York Evening Post, Theodore Dwight, secretary of the Convention, my cousin, Elizur Goodrich, now of Hartford, and myself. The majority of the members were aged men, and marked not only with the gravity of years, but of the positions which they held in society—for some of them had been governors, some senators, some judges. I do not recollect ever to have seen an assemblage of more true dignity in aspect, manner, and speech. They were dressed, on the evening in question, somewhat in the ancient costume—black coats, black silk waistcoats, black breeches, black silk stockings, black shoes. I wonder that this universal black has not been put into the indictment against them! Perhaps the silvery-whiteness of their heads—for the majority were past fifty, several past sixty—may have pleaded in extenuation of this sinister complexion of their dress. The most imposing man among them, in personal appearance, was George Cabot,* the president. He was over six feet in height, broad-shouldered, and of a manly step. His hair was white—for he was past sixty—his eye blue, his complexion slightly florid. He seemed to me like Washington—as if the great man,

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as painted by Stuart, had walked out of the canvas, and lived and breathed among us. He was, in fact, Washingtonian in his whole air and bearing, as was proper for one who was Washington’s friend, and who had drunk deep at the same fountain—that of the Revolution—of the spirit of truth, honor, and patriotism. In aspect and general appearance, he was strikingly dignified, and such was the effect of his presence, that in a crowded room, and amid other men of mark—when you once became conscious that he was there, you could hardly forget it. You seemed always to see him—as the traveler in Switzerland sees Mont Blanc towering above other mountains around him, wherever he may be. And yet he was easy and gracious in his manners, his countenance wearing a cairn but radiant cheerfulness, especially when he spoke. He was celebrated for his conversational powers, and I often remarked that when he began to converse, all eyes and ears turned toward him, as if eager to catch the music of his voice and the light of his mind. He came to my uncle’s almost every morning before the meeting of the Convention, and I have never felt more the power of goodness and greatness, than in witnessing the intercourse between these two men.

The next person as to prominence, in the Massachusetts delegation, was Harrison Gray Otis,* then in

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the zenith of his years and his fame. He had a name honorable by tradition, and a position—social as well as political—due to his great wealth, his eminent talents, and his various accomplishments. He was doubtless the most conspicuous political character in New England—for the sun of Webster was but just rising in the horizon. He was deemed ambitious, and hence was regarded by the democrats as the arch instigator of the traitorous Convention. Such, an opinion, however, shows the greatest ignorance of his character and the actual state of things. Mr. Otis was a far-seeing politician, and knew there was no treason in the hearts of the people of New England: he stood at the highest point to which ambition could lead him, and any step in that direction must be downward. Besides, he was of the cautious, not the dashing school of statesmanship, as well by constitution as training. To suppose him a plotter of treason, is to divest him of all his attributes—inherent and conventional. It is, furthermore, historical and beyond dispute, that he was averse to the Convention. By his influence, it was delayed, long after it was proposed and almost clamored for by the

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people. He objected to being a member of it, and only yielded at last, that he might use his influence to secure to it a safe and tranquilizing direction. At the very opening of the Convention, he signalized himself by proposing the safe and discreet measures which were finally adopted. Hence, he always felt, with a keen sense of injustice, the imputation which long hung about him, as being the leader in a treasonable enterprise.

The impression he made on my mind upon the occasion I am describing, was deep and lasting. He had not the lofty Washingtonian dignity of George Cabot, nor the grave suavity of Chauncey Goodrich; he was, in fact, of quite a different type—easy, polished, courtly—passing from one individual to another, and carrying a line of light from countenance to countenance, either by his playful wit or gracious personal allusions. He seemed to know everybody, and to be able to say to each precisely the most appropriate thing that could be said. He was one of the handsomest men of his time; his features being classically cut, and still full of movement and expression. To me—who had seen little of society beyond Connecticut, and accustomed therefore to the rather staid manners of public men—Mr. Otis was an object of strange, yet admiring curiosity. I knew him well, some years after and when I was more conversant with the world, and he still seemed to me a very high example of the finished gentleman of the assiduous and

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courtly school. He lowered himself, no doubt, in the public estimation by his somewhat restive and querulous—though masterly and conclusive—vindications of the Convention; while all the other members, conscious of rectitude, scorned to put themselves in. the attitude of defense. We may forgive what seemed a weakness in Mr. Otis, while we must pay homage to that dignity in his associates, which would not stoop to ask in life, the justice which they knew posterity must render them, in their graves.

Of the other members of the Massachusetts delegation, I have less distinct personal reminiscences. Mr. Prescott, father of the historian,* and Mr. Longfellow,† father of the poet—worthy, by their talents, their virtues, and their position, of such descendants—I only remember as two grave, respectable old gentlemen, seeming, by a magic I did not then comprehend, to extort from all around them peculiar

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marks of deference and respect. Since I have known their history, I have ascertained the secret.*

One of the oldest, and in some respects the most re-

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markable member of the Convention, was Mr. West,* of New Hampshire. I recollect him distinctly, partly because of his saintly appearance, and partly because of the terms of affection and respect in which my uncle spoke of him. He, too, was often at our house,

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and seldom have I seen a man who commanded such ready love and admiration. He was then sixty-eight years old: his form tall but slender, his hair white, long, and flowing, his countenance serene, his voice full of feeling and melody. His appearance indicated the finest moral texture; but when his mind was turned to a subject of interest, his brow flashed with tokens of that high intellectual power which distinguished him. His character and his position were well displayed in a single passage of his history: “He was chosen a member of Congress under the old Confederation; a member of the convention which framed the Constitution of his adopted State, and a member of Congress under the Constitution; he was appointed Attorney-general and Judge of Probate, and yet all these offices he refused, owing to his aversion to public life, and his sincere, unambitious love of domestic peace and tranquillity.” His great abilities, however, were not hidden in a napkin., He devoted himself to the practice of the law, which he pursued with eminent success, for the space of thirty years. It was in the evening of his days that he accepted his first prominent public station, and that was as member of the Hartford Convention. This he did, under a conviction that it was a period of great difficulty and danger, and he felt that duty called upon him to sacrifice his private comfort to public exigencies. Who will

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believe that man to have been a conspirator, or that the people who designated him for this place were traitors?

As to the Connecticut members of the Convention, I could easily gather up pages of eulogy. There are, indeed, few such men now; I am afraid that in this age of demagogism, there are few who can comprehend them. I shall, however, present you with brief delineations of their lives and characters from the sober records of the historian.

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This is the verdict—not of the apologist, not of the partisan—but of the historian, in a sober review of the past, with all the light which time has thrown

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upon the lives of those whom he thus characterizes.*

And now, my dear C…., let me ask you to look at the Hartford Convention, through these Connecticut delegates—all grave and reverend seigniors—one of them sixty-nine years of age, and having been governor of the State; one of them, at the time, chief-justice of the State; another a judge of the Superior Court; two of them grown gray in the Senate of the United States: all past fifty, all distinguished for prudence, caution, sobriety; all of the Washington school in politics, morals, manners, religion. Look at these men, and then tell me if there was treason, conspiracy, dismemberment of the Union, either in their hearts, or the hearts of the people who elected them? If there be any thing holy in truth, any thing sacred in justice, degrade not the one, desecrate not the other, by calling these men traitors! Say rather that their presence in the Hartford Convention is proof—clear, conclusive, undeniable, in the utter absence of all evidence to the contrary—that it was an assembly of patriots, chosen by a patriotic people, wisely seeking the best good of the country. If this be not so, then there is no value in a good name, no ground for faith in human virtue. Treason is the highest crime against society: is there not something shocking to the universal sense of decency in char-

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ging this upon men thus signalized for their virtues? Such perverse logic would make Judas a saint, and the eleven true disciples, betrayers.

But I must leave discussion, and proceed with my narrative. As the Convention sat with closed doors, the world without, despite their eager curiosity, were kept in general ignorance as to their proceedings. There was a rumor, however, that Mr. Otis opened the debate, and was followed, first by Chauncey Goodrich and then by Nathaniel Smith—the latter making one of those masterly speeches for which he was renowned, and which shook even this assembly of great men with emotions of surprise and admiration. The first day’s debate was said to have brought all minds to a general agreement as to the course to be adopted—that of mild and healing measures, calculated to appease the irritated minds of their constituents, to admonish the national government of the general feeling of danger and grievance, and thus to save the country from an example either of popular outbreak or organized resistance to the laws. Subsequent events showed that these rumors were well founded.

While such was the course of things in the Convention, some curious scenes transpired without and around it. I cannot do better, in order to give you an idea of these, than to transcribe part of a letter, which I recently received from a friend in Hartford, to whom I had written for some details, to refresh and confirm my own recollections. This was hastily

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written, and with no idea of its publication; but it is, nevertheless, graphic, and coming from an old democrat, will be received as good authority for the facts it presents, even by the contemners of the Convention and its federal supporters.

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This sketch gives a clear insight into the state of popular feeling at this period, in Hartford, which has been the theme of much discussion and gross misrepresentation. It is obvious that, had there been no other reason for it, the danger of intrusion and interruption from the irritated United States recruits, led by incendiary officers and encouraged by reckless mischief-makers, rendered it a matter of prudence for the Convention to sit with closed doors. The State court had been braved and insulted, and the far more

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obnoxious Convention would doubtless have experienced still more emphatic demonstrations of rudeness. Had the sessions been open, a guard of a hundred men would scarcely have protected them from interruption, perhaps violence.

It is creditable to all parties that Col. Jesup was sent thither: it showed a disposition on the part of the administration to afford no ground of offense; it proved that the citizens—the federalists—sought no quarrel, and would interpose no difficulties to the government troops or their officers in the lawful discharge of their duties. It showed, moreover, that they could appreciate gentlemanly qualities, and were ready to bestow honor on a gallant soldier who had fought and bled in battle for the country, even although they disapproved of the war.

As to Colonel Jesup*—Brigadier-general Jesup now—I must say a few words. At the time I speak of, he was some thirty years old. He had recently come from the northern frontier, where he had won laurels by the side of Scott, Miller, Brown, Ripley, and other gallant soldiers. He was of modest demeanor, pleasing address, and gentlemanly tastes: it was no disparagement to his agreeable appearance that he

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had his arm in a sling—a touching testimonial of his merits brought from the field of battle. He was the complete antipode of the J. L. Smiths and Joseph Cuttings who had preceded him, and who thought it a part of their democratic duty to be conspicuously vulgar. He did not seek to promote democracy by rendering it disgusting to all who held opposite opinions. He mingled in amicable intercourse with the citizens; sought interviews with the leading inhabitants—with the mayor of the city, and the governor of the state when he chanced to be on a visit there. I know he took counsel with my uncle and became acquainted with members of the Convention, and thus found means not only to smooth away the difficulties which had been engendered by his rude and reckless predecessors in the military command of that station, but gained correct information as to the actual state of things.

It was perfectly well understood, at this time, that he was not only a military officer, but that he was the diplomatic agent of the government at Washington, and communicated his observations to the Executive. He was not, for this reason, either shunned or depreciated. It is evident, from his letters sent almost daily to Madison—and the substance of which has transpired, at least in part—that the real intentions of the Convention were penetrated by him almost from the beginning. It is evident that he never found the lightest proof of treasonable intentions on the part

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of that assembly.* It has been reported that he intends publishing his personal memoirs, and that in these he will give some interesting revelations respecting the Convention: I trust he will fulfill his design, and I am equally confident that his report will be in unison with the views I have here presented. As a matter of principle—regarding it from his point of view—he will doubtless condemn that

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assembly, but as to matters of fact, I am certain he will never furnish the slightest support to the charge of treason, either secret or open.

But I must draw this long letter to a close. The result of the Hartford Convention is well known. After a session of three weeks, it terminated its labors, and, in perfect conformity with public expectation and public sentiment at the North, it issued an address, full of loyalty to the Constitution, recommending patience to the people, and while admitting their grievances, still only suggesting peaceable and constitutional remedies. The authors of this document knew well the community for which it was intended: their purpose was to allay anxiety, to appease irritation, to draw off in harmless channels the lightning of public indignation. They therefore pointed out modes of relief, in the direction of peace, and not in the direction of civil war. They were federalists, as were the people who supported them; they belonged to that party who founded the Constitution, in opposition to the democracy.* Leaving it for democracy, which opposed the Constitution in its cradle, to fur-

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nish the first examples of Nullification, Disunion, Secession—with a discretion and a patriotism which does them infinite credit—they found the means of removing the cloud from the minds of their constituents, and yet without in any degree shaking the pillars of the Union, which was their ark of the covenant of national honor and glory and prosperity.

It is said Mr. Madison laughed when he heard the result: it is very likely, for he had really feared that the Convention meditated treason; he perhaps felt a little uneasy in his conscience, from a conviction that his administration had afforded serious grounds for discontent. He, as well as those who shared his views, were no doubt relieved, when they found the cloud had passed. Some of the democratic editors satisfied themselves with squibs, and some found relief in railing. Those especially who had insisted that the Convention was a band of traitors, seemed to feel personally affronted that it did not fulfill their evil prophecies. There is perhaps no greater offense to a partisan who has predicted evil of his adversary, than for the latter to do what is right, and thus turn the railer into ridicule. At all events, so bitter was the disappointment of the fanatical portion of the democrats, on the occasion in question, that they sought relief in declaring that if the Convention did not act treason, they at least felt it! Perhaps in consideration of their disappointment, we may pass over this obliquity as one of those frailties of hu-

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man nature, which time teaches us to forget and forgive.

As to the general effect of the course adopted by the Convention, no reasonable man can deny that it was eminently salutary. It immediately appeased the irritation and anxiety of the public mind in New England; it taught the people the propriety of calm and prudent measures in times of difficulty and danger; and more than all, it set an example worthy of being followed for all future time, by holding the Constitution of the United States as sacred, and by recommending the people to seek remedies for their grievances by legal and not by revolutionary means. “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall see God.” I know of no similar benediction upon the promoters of civil war.

And now I have done. The treaty of Ghent speedily came to smooth the ruffled waters. Monroe succeeded to Madison, and an era of good feeling seemed to dawn upon the country. It is true the promised millennium was not fully realized: the dying flurries of the old federal party, under the harpooning of triumphant democracy, caused some froth upon the sea of politics. Connecticut passed through the spasms of Toleration, in which that hard old federalist, Oliver Wolcott, became the candidate of democracy, and overturned the Charter of Charles II., and with it all his early political associations—public and personal. It was a strange dance, and with a

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curious arrangement of partners. Similar movements took place in other parts of the country—the result of which was, a new crystallization of parties, in which, the terras federalist and democrat lost their original signification. I have before adverted to this fact, and have stated that—in application to present parties—they are little more than names to discriminate between conservatives and radicals.

I have thus deemed it due to truth, in giving my recollections of the war, to give them frankly and fearlessly. Believing the old federalists—especially those of Connecticut, for with them my acquaintance was personal—to have been honest and patriotic, as I knew them to be virtuous and wise, so I have said, and given my reasons for the faith that is in me. While doing them this justice, I do not affirm that in all things their measures were right. I contend, however, that they were true men, and, on the whole, have left memories behind them which, every dictate of virtue and patriotism teaches us to cherish. By the side of their opponents—and the very best of them—they may claim at least equal respect. As time advances and the mists of party are cleared from the horizon, I doubt not their images will be seen and recognized by all, as rising higher and higher among the nobler monuments of our history. One truth will stand—they were of those who reared the glorious fabric of the Union, and under all circumstances taught the peo-

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ple to regard it as sacred. Before any man presumes to call them traitors, let him see that his own hands are equally pure, his own spirit equally exalted.

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LETTER XXXII.

The Count Value—Lessons in French, and a Translation of René—Severe Retribution for Imprudence—The End of the Pocket-book Factory—Napoleon returns to Paris and upsets my Affairs—Divers Experiences and Selections upon Dancing—Visit to New York—Oliver Wolcott and Archibald Gracie—Ballston and Saratoga—Dr. Payson and the three Rowdies—Illness and Death of my Uncle—Partnership with George Sheldon—His Illness and Death.

My Dear C******

I must now go back and take up a few dropped stitches in my narrative. I have told you that my apprenticeship terminated in the summer of 1814. Previous to that time, I had made some advances in the study of the French language under M. Value, or, to give him his title, the Count Value. This person had spent his early life in Paris, but he afterward migrated to St. Domingo, where he owned a large estate. In the insurrection of 1794, he escaped only with his life. With admirable cheerfulness and serenity, he devoted himself to teaching French and dancing, as means of support. He settled for a time at New Haven, where, at the age of seventy, he was captivated and captured by a tall, red-haired schoolmistress of twenty. She accounted to me, for

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her success, by stating that, at the time, she was called the “Rose of Sharon”—she being a native of a town in Litchfield county bearing the latter name.

The Count finally established himself at Hartford, and I became one of his pupils. I pursued my studies with considerable assiduity, and to practice myself in French, I translated Chateaubriand’s René. One of my friends had just established a newspaper at Middletown, and my translation was published there. About this time my health was feeble, and my eyes became seriously affected in consequence of my night studies. Unaware of the danger, I persevered, and thus laid the foundation of a nervous weakness and irritability of my eyes, which has since been to me a rock ahead in the whole voyage of life. From that time, I have never been able to read or write, but with pain. As if by a kind of fatality, I seemed to be afterward drawn into a literary career, for which I was doubly disqualified—first, by an imperfect education, and next, by defective eyesight. Oh! what penalties have I paid for thus persisting in a course which seems to have been forbidden to me by Providence. After a long and laborious life, I feel, a profound consciousness that I have done nothing well; at the same time, days, months, nay years, have I struggled with the constant apprehension that I should terminate my career in blindness! How little do we know, especially in the outset of our existence, what is before us! It is indeed well that we

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do not know, for the prospect would often overwhelm us.

In the autumn of 1814, as already stated, I established, in company with a friend, a pocket-book factory at Hartford; but the peace put a speedy termination to that enterprise. We got out of it with a small loss, and my kind-hearted partner pocketed this, “for he had money, and I had none.” He forgave me, and would have done the same, had the defalcation been more considerable—for he was a true friend.

Early in the following spring. I made an arrangement to go to Paris as a clerk in a branch of the importing house of Richards, Taylor & Wilder, of New York. About a month after, the news came that Bonaparte had suddenly returned from Elba, and as business was prostrated by that event, my engagement failed. For nearly a year, my health continued indifferent, and my eyes in such a state that I was incapable of undertaking any serious business. I spent my time partly at Berlin,* with my parents, and partly at Hart-

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ford. I read a little, and practiced my French, with Value and his scholars. I also felt the need of disciplining my hands and feet, which about these days seemed to me to have acquired a most absurd development—giving me an awful feeling of embarrassment when I entered into company. I therefore took lessons in dancing, and whether I profited by it or not, as to manners, I am persuaded that this portion of my education was highly beneficial to me in other points of view.

As many good people have a prejudice against dancing, I am disposed to write down my experience on the subject. In the winter, our good old teacher had weekly cotillion parties, for the purpose of practicing his scholars. The young men invited the young ladies, and took them to these gatherings, and after the exercises, conducted them home again. I know this will sound strange to those who only understand metropolitan manners at the present day; but let me tell you that I never knew an instance, in my own experience or observation, in which the strictest propriety was departed from. These parties took

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place in the evening: they began at eight o’clock, and continued till ten or eleven—sometimes till twelve. The company consisted entirely of young persons—from fifteen to twenty years of age: they included the children of the respectable inhabitants, with a number of young ladies from the boarding-schools. Some of these I have since seen the wives of bishops, senators, and governors of States—filling indeed the first stations to which the sex can aspire in this country.

I have had enough experience of the world to know that such things could not be in the great cities of Europe or America—perhaps nowhere out of New England. The division of society into castes in monarchical countries, no doubt involves the necessity of keeping young ladies jealously aloof from companionship with the other sex, because they might entangle themselves in engagements which would defeat the system of building up families and estates by politic marriages. In this state of society, it might be found dangerous for young persons of opposite sexes to be left even casually together, for a spirit of intrigue is always indigenous under a system of restraint and espionage. But however this may be, I am satisfied that these Hartford parties, under the auspices of our amiable and respectable old teacher, were every way refining and elevating: not only did they impart ease of manner, but, as I think, purity of sentiment. The earlier emotions of youth are delicate,

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modest, conservative; and if acquaintance with life be made at this period, these stamp their refinements upon the feelings, and form a safe, conservative basis of future habits of thought and conduct. I do not mean to favor latitudinarianism of manners; I do not, indeed, say that this system can be adopted in large cities, but I believe that dancing parties, consisting of young persons of both sexes, under proper guidance—as, for instance, under the eye of parents, either in a public hall, or by the domestic fireside—have a refining influence, beneficial alike to manners and morals. I believe that even public assemblies for dancing, regulated by the presence of good people, are eminently useful.

I have been in Catholic countries, where the system is to keep girls in cloisters, or schools resembling them, till they are taken out by their parents or guardians to be married; and it is precisely in these countries, where education is the most jealous, and discipline the most rigorous, that intrigue is the great game of life—especially with the upper classes—of both sexes. I have seen society where Puritan ideas prevailed, and where religious people held dancing to be a device of the devil; and here I have often found that practices, secret or open, quite as exceptionable as dancing, were current in society. If in the earlier ages of our New England history, a hard, self-denying system was profitable, it is not so in the present state of society. We are created with social

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feelings, which demand indulgence. No system of religion, no code or contrivance of state policy, has been able to get over this fact. We can not kill the voice of God and nature in the soul: we can only regulate it, and by using common sense and the lights of religion, give it a safe and beneficent development. Is it not time for society to cast off prejudice, and to be governed by truth and experience? It must be remembered that what is condemned by the good and wise, often thereby becomes evil, though in itself it may be beneficial. Has not this wrong been done among us? It seems to me that good people, pious people, may at least inquire whether it may not be well for them to take under their patronage, that branch of education which proposes at once to perfect the manners and refine the sentiments of youth. It is not to dictate, but to aid in this inquiry, that I give you with some minuteness my observations on this subject; hence I offer you my testimony to the fact that in the course of three winters, during which I attended these cotillion parties at Hartford, I never saw or heard of an instance of impropriety in word or deed.

Let me further suggest that there is a principle here which it is important to recognize and appreciate. These young people were brought together at a period when their emotions were still sheltered in the folds of that sensitive and shrinking modesty, designed to protect them at the period of their first adventure

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into mixed society. This modesty is to the heart of youth, like the envelope in which nature enshrines the choicest products of the vegetable kingdom, till they are ripened and prepared for the harvest. This shrinking delicacy of feeling is conservative; to this, license is offensive, and if suggested, is repelled. If young people associate together at this period—under the restraints which necessarily exist in an assembly such, as I am contemplating—habits of delicacy, in thought and manner, are likely to be established. A person who has been thus trained, seems to me armed, in some degree at least, against those coarse seductions which, degrade, and at last destroy, so many young persons of both, sexes. To young men, an early familiarity with the refined portion of the gentler sex, placing them at ease in their society and making this a sort of necessity to them, I conceive to be one of the greatest safeguards to their morals and manners in after life. And as a preparation for this—as an introduction, an inducement to this—I conceive that the art of dancing, practiced by young people of both, sexes, together, is to be commended.

I am aware that I am treading upon delicate ground. You may share the idea entertained by many good, pious people, that dancing is always degrading and vicious in its tendencies. This, however, I think, arises from considering it in its abuses. I am not contending for juvenile balls, as a pursuit fit to absorb the whole thought and attention. Remember,

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I am speaking of dancing as a part of education—to be conducted with propriety—in order to train young people of both sexes to habits of easy and delicate intercourse. As to the practice of dancing, afterward, this must be regulated by the judgment of parents. One custom may be proper in one place, and not in another. In this country, our habits are different from those of others: in Asia, where woman is designed for the harem, and in Europe, where she is trained to be the make-weight of a bargain, jealousy becomes the sentinel of society; in the United States, woman is comparatively free, and here confidence must be the guardian of society. I am inclined to think, in this respect, our system has the advantage, provided it be not abused by license on the one hand, nor bigotry on the other.

In respect to the case I am describing in my early experience, in which, the young gentlemen conducted the young ladies to and from the dancing hall—the confidence of parents, thus reposed in their children, fortified and recommended by the purer suggestions of the heart—appealed to motives of honor, and was usually responded to by scrupulous rectitude of demeanor. If you doubt the justice of this philosophy, I ask your attention to the fact that, at this day—forty years subsequent to the period to which I refer—in this very city of Hartford, with a population of twenty thousand people, women, young and old, of all classes, walk the streets till midnight, with as

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much sense of security and propriety, as at noonday! Where will you find higher evidence of a refined state of society than this?

In the spring of 1815 I paid a visit to New York, and having letters of introduction to Oliver Wolcott and Archibald Gracie, I called on these gentlemen. Mr. Wolcott lived in Pine-street, nearly opposite where the custom-house is now, and at a short distance was John Wells, an eminent lawyer of that day. But a considerable number of the higher aristocracy was gathered toward the lower part of the city, the Battery being pretty nearly the focus of fashion. Streets now desecrated by the odor of tar and turpentine, were then filled with the flush and the fair. Nath’l Prime lived at No. 1 Broadway; Mr. Gracie in the Octagon House, corner of Bridge and State streets. Near by was his son-in-law, Charles King, now president of Columbia College, and his son, Wm. Gracie, who had married the second daughter of Oliver Wolcott. In this quarter, also, were Wm. Bayard, Gen. Morton, Matthew Clarkson, J. B. Coles, Moses Rogers, &c., all eminent citizens.

My lodgings were at the City Hotel, situated on the western side of Broadway, between Thames and Cedar streets—the space being now occupied by warehouses. It was then the Astor House of New York, being kept by a model landlord, whose name was Jennings, with a model barkeeper by the name of Willard. The latter was said never to sleep—night or day—for at all hours he was at his post, and never

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forgot a customer, even after an absence of twenty years.

It was late in the spring, and Mr. Gracie called for me and took me to his country-seat, occupying a little promontory on the western side of Hurlgate—a charming spot, now cut up into some thirty city lots. Contiguous to it, toward the city, were the summer residences of J. J. Astor, Nathaniel Prime, and Wm. Rhinelander; on the other side were the seats of Commodore Chauncey, Joshua Jones, and others.

Here I spent a fortnight very agreeably. Mr. Gracie was at this period distinguished alike on account of his wealth, his intelligence, and his amiable and honorable character. Never have I witnessed any thing more charming—more affectionate, dignified, and graceful—than the intercourse of the family with one another. The sons and daughters, most of them happily connected in marriage—as they gathered here—seemed, to my unpracticed imagination, to constitute a sort of dynasty, something like the romance of the middle ages. Not many years after, Mr. Gracie lost his entire fortune by the vicissitudes of commerce, but his character was beyond the reach of accident. He is still remembered with affectionate respect by all those whose memories reach back to the times in which he flourished, and when it might be said, without disparagement to any other man, that he was the first merchant in New York.

I must not omit to mention two other celebrities

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whom. I saw during this visit to New York. You must recollect I was on my travels, and so, as in duty bound, I sought to see the lions. Of course 1 went to the court-house, and there I saw two remarkable men—Judge Kent, and Thomas Addis Emmet—the first, chancellor of the State of New York, and the latter one of the most eminent lawyers in the city, perhaps in the United States.

Judge Kent* I had seen before, at my uncle’s house. He had been educated at Yale College, was my father’s classmate, and formed an early acquaintance with our family, resulting in a friendly intercourse which was maintained throughout his whole life. It would be difficult now to point to a man so universally honored and esteemed. To the most extensive learning, he added a winning simplicity of manners and transparent truthfulness of character. All this was written in his countenance, at once irresistible by its beaming intelligence, and its not less impressive benevolence. The greatness and goodness of his character shone full in his face.

I remember perfectly well the scene, when I saw Emmet† and the judge together. The former was

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arguing a case, but there were only half a dozen persons present, and it was rather a conversation than a plea. Emmet was a somewhat short but very athletic man, with large, rosy cheeks, an enormous mouth, and full, expressive eyes. His Irish brogue, rich and sonorous, rolled from his lips like a cataract of music. Kent listened, but frequently changed position, and often broke into the argument with a question, which sometimes resulted in a dialogue. His whole manner was easy, familiar, and very different from the statue-like dignity of other judges I had seen. The whole spectacle left on my mind the impression that two great men were rather consulting together, than that one was attempting to win from the other an opinion to suit an interested client. I recollect to have seen, listening to this discussion, a large, florid, handsome man, with a dark, eloquent eye; I inquired his name, and was told that it was John Wells, the renowned lawyer, already mentioned.

As I thus saw the lions of the town, I also heard the thunderers of the pulpit. On one occasion I listened to a discourse from Dr. J. B. Romeyn*—a tall, thin, eloquent man—I think in Cedar-street. He was celebrated in his day; and, if I understood him cor-

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rectly, he maintained the doctrine of election in such rigor as to declare that if he knew who the elect were, he would preach only to them, inasmuch as it would be useless to preach to other persons!

In a new church in Murray-street, I heard Dr. Mason,* then regarded as the Boanerges of the city. Instead of a pulpit—which serves as a sort of shelter and defense for the preacher—he had only a little railing along the edge of the platform on which he stood, so as to show his large and handsome person, almost down to his shoe-buckles. He preached without notes, and moved freely about, sometimes speaking in a colloquial manner, and then suddenly pouring out sentence after sentence, glowing with lightning and echoing with thunder. The effect of these outbursts was sometimes very startling. The doctor was not only very imposing in his person, but his voice was of prodigious volume and compass. He was sometimes adventurous in his speech, occasionally passing off a joke, and not unfrequently

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verging on what might seem profane, but for the solemnity of his manner. When I heard him, in speaking of some recent Unitarian point of faith, he said, “This is damnable doctrine—I say it is damnable doctrine!”—the deep, guttural emphasis giving to the repetition a thrilling effect.

Early in the ensuing summer, my uncle, Chauncey Goodrich, being in bad health, paid a visit to Saratoga* and Ballston for the benefit of the waters, and I accompanied him. We soon returned, however, for

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it was now apparent that he had a disease of the heart, which was rapidly tending to a fatal result. Experiencing great suffering at intervals, he gradually yielded to the progress of his malady, and at last, on the 18th of August, 1815—while walking the room, and engaged in cheerful conversation—he faltered, sank into a chair, and instantly expired. “His death,” says the historian, “was a shock to the whole community. Party distinctions were forgotten, under a sense of the general calamity; and in the simple but expressive language which was used at his funeral, ‘all united in a tribute of respect to the man who had so long been dear to us, and done us so much good.’ ” To me, the loss was irreparable—leaving, however, in my heart a feeling of gratitude that I had witnessed an example of the highest intellectual power united with the greatest moral excellence—and that, too, in one whose relationship to me enforced and commended its teachings to my special observance. Alas, how little have I done in life that is worthy of such inspiration!

Not long after this, my friend George Sheldon having established himself as a bookseller and publisher, he invited me to become his partner—and this I did, early in the year 1816. We pursued the business for nearly two years, during which time we published, among other works, Scott’s Family Bible, in five volumes quarto—a considerable enterprise for that period, in a place like Hartford. In the autumn of

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1817 I had gone to Berlin, for the purpose of making a short excursion for the benefit of my health, when a messenger came from Hartford, saying that my partner was very ill, and wished me to return. I immediately complied, and on entering the room of my friend, I found him in a high fever, his mind already wandering in painful dreams. As I came to his bedside he said—“Oh, take away these horrid knives; they cut me to the heart!” I stooped over him and said—

“There are no knives here; you are only dreaming.”

“Oh, is it you?” said he. “I am glad you have come. Do stay with me, and speak to me, so as to keep off these dreadful fancies.”

I did stay by him for four days and nights—but his doom was sealed. His mind continued in a state of wild delirium till a few minutes before his death. I stood gazing at his face, when a sudden change came over him: the agitated and disturbed look of insanity had passed—a quiet pallor had come over his countenance, leaving it calm and peaceful. He opened his eyes, and, as if waking from sleep, looked on me with an aspect of recognition. His lips moved, and he pronounced the name of his wife; she came, with all the feelings of youth and love—aye, and of hope, too, in her heart. She bent over him: he raised his feeble and emaciated arms and clasped her to his heart: he gave her one kiss, and passed to another life!

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LETTER XXXIII.

The Famine of 1816 and 1817—Panic in New England—Migrations to Ohio—T’other Side of Ohio—Toleration—Downfall of Federalism—Oliver Wolcott and the Democracy—Connecticut upset—The new Constitution—Gov. Smith and Gov. Wolcott—Litchfield—Uriah Tracy—Frederick Wolcott—Tapping Reeve—Col. Talmadge—James Gould—J. W. Huntington—The Litchfield Centennial Celebration.

My dear C******

I must now ask your attention to several topics having no connection, except unity of time and place: the cold seasons of 1816 and 1817, and the consequent flood of emigration from New England to the West; the political revolution in Connecticut, which was wrought in the magic name of Toleration, and one or two items of my personal experience.

The summer of 1816 was probably the coldest that has been known here, in this century. In New England—from Connecticut to Maine—there were severe frosts in every month. The crop of Indian corn was almost entirely cut off: of potatoes, hay, oats, &c., there was not probably more than half the usual supply. The means of averting the effects of such a calamity—now afforded by railroads, steam navigation, canals, and other facilities of intercommunication—did not then exist. The following winter was severe, and the ensuing spring backward. At this time I made a journey into New Hampshire, pass-

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ing along the Connecticut river, in the region of Hanover. It was then June, and the hills were almost as barren as in November. I saw a man at Orford, who had been forty miles for a half bushel of Indian corn, and paid two dollars for it!

Along the seaboard it was not difficult to obtain a supply of food, save only that every article was dear. In the interior it was otherwise: the cattle died for want of fodder, and many of the inhabitants came near perishing from starvation. The desolating effects of the war still lingered over the country, and at last a kind of despair seized upon some of the people. In the pressure of adversity, many persons lost their judgment, and thousands feared or felt that New England was destined, henceforth, to become a part of the frigid zone. At the same time, Ohio—with its rich soil, its mild climate, its inviting prairies—was opened fully upon the alarmed and anxious vision. As was natural under the circumstances, a sort of stampede took place from cold, desolate, worn-out New England, to this land of promise.

I remember very well the tide of emigration through Connecticut, on its way to the West, during the summer of 1817. Some persons went in covered wagons—frequently a family consisting of father, mother, and nine small children, with one at the breast—some on foot and some crowded together under the cover, with kettles, gridirons, feather-beds, crockery, and the family Bible. Watts’ Psalms and Hymns, and Webster’s

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Spelling-book—the lares and penates of the household. Others started in ox-carts, and trudged on at the rate of ten miles a day. In several instances I saw families on foot—the father and boys taking turns in dragging along an improvised hand-wagon, loaded with the wreck of the household goods—occasionally giving the mother and baby a ride. Many of these persons were in a state of poverty, and begged their way as they went. Some died before they reached the expected Canaan; many perished after their arrival, from fatigue and privation; and others, from the fever and ague, which was then certain to attack the new settlers.

It was, I think, in 1818, that I published a small tract, entitled “T’other side of Ohio”—that is, the other view, in contrast to the popular notion that it was the paradise of the world. It was written by Dr. Hand—a talented young physician of Berlin—who had made a visit to the West about these days. It consisted mainly of vivid but painful pictures of the accidents and incidents attending this wholesale migration. The roads over the Alleghanies, between Philadelphia and Pittsburg, were then rude, steep, and dangerous, and some of the more precipitous slopes were consequently strewn with the carcases of wagons, carts, horses, oxen, which had made shipwreck in their perilous descents. The scenes on the road—of families gathered at night in miserable sheds, called taverns—mothers frying, children cry-

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ing, fathers swearing—were a mingled comedy and tragedy of errors. Even when they arrived in their new homes—along the banks of the Muskingum or the Scioto—frequently the whole family—father, mother, children—speedily exchanged the fresh complexion and elastic step of their first abodes, for the sunken cheek and languid movement, which marks the victim of intermittent fever.

The instances of home-sickness, described by this vivid sketcher, were touching. Not even the captive Israelites, who hung their harps upon the willows along the banks of the Euphrates, wept more bitter tears, or looked back with more longing to their native homes, than did these exiles from New England—mourning the land they had left, with its roads, schools, meeting-houses—its hope, health, and happiness! Two incidents, related by the traveler, I must mention—though I do it from recollection, as I have not a copy of the work. He was one day riding in the woods, apart from the settlements, when he met a youth, some eighteen years of age, in a hunting-frock, and with a fowling-piece in his hand. The two fell into conversation.

“Where are you from?” said the youth, at last.

“From Connecticut,” was the reply.

“That is near the old Bay State?”

“Yes.”

“And have you been there?”

“To Massachusetts? Yes, many a time.”

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“Let me take your hand, stranger. My mother was from the Bay State, and brought me here when I was an infant. I have heard her speak of it. Oh, it must be a lovely land! I wish I could see a meeting-house and a school-house, for she is always talking about them. And the sea—the sea—oh, if I could see that! Did you ever see it, stranger?”

“Yes, often.”

“What, the real, salt sea—the ocean—with the ships upon it?”

“Yes.”

“Well”—said the youth, scarcely able to suppress his emotion—“if I could see the old Bay State and the ocean, I should be willing then to die!”

In another instance the traveler met—somewhere in the valley of the Scioto—a man from Hartford, by the name of Bull. He was a severe democrat, and feeling sorely oppressed with the idea that he was no better off in Connecticut under federalism than the Hebrews in Egypt, joined the throng and migrated to Ohio. He was a man of substance, but his wealth was of little avail in a new country, where all the comforts and luxuries of civilization were unknown.

“When I left Connecticut,” said he, “I was wretched from thinking of the sins of federalism. After I had got across Byram river, which divides that State from New York, I knelt down and thanked the Lord for that he had brought me and mine out of such a priest-ridden land. But I’ve been well punished,

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and I’m now preparing to return; when I again cross Byram river, I shall thank God that he has permitted me to get back again!”

Mr. Bull did return, and what he hardly anticipated had taken place in his absence: the federal dynasty had passed away, and democracy was reigning in its stead! This was effected by a union of all the dissenting sects—Episcopalians, Methodists, Baptists—co-operating with the democrats to overthrow the old and established order of things. Up to this period, Connecticut had no other constitution than the colonial charter granted by Charles II. This was a meager instrument, but long usage had supplied its deficiencies, and the State had, practically, all the functions of a complete political organization. It had begun in Puritanism, and even now, as I have elsewhere stated—notwithstanding gradual modifications—the old Congregational orthodoxy still held many privileges, some traditionary and some statutory. Yale College—an institution of the highest literary standing—had been from the beginning, in its influence, a religious seminary in the hands of the Congregational clergy. The State had not only chartered it, but had endowed and patronized it. And besides, the statute-book continued to give preference to this sect, compelling all persons to pay taxes to it, unless they should declare their adhesion to some other persuasion.

All this was incompatible with ideas and interests

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that had now sprung up in the community. The Episcopalians had become a large and powerful body, and though they were generally federalists, they now clamored—as an offset to the endowments of Yale College—for a sum of money to lay the foundation of a “Bishops’ Fund.” The Methodists and Baptists had discovered that the preference given to orthodoxy, was a union of Church and State, and that the whole administration was but the dark and damning machinery of privileged priestcraft. To all these sources of discontent, the democracy added the hostility which it had ever felt toward federalism—now intensely embittered by the aggravations of the war and the Hartford Convention.

It was clear that the doom of federalism was at hand, even in Connecticut. Many things had conspired to overthrow it in other parts of the country. Jefferson had saddled it, in the popular mind, with a tendency to monarchy and a partiality for England—a burden which it was hard to bear—especially near the revolutionary period, when the hearts of the people still beat with gratitude to France and aggravated hostility to Great Britain. John Adams, the candidate of the federalists, gave great strength to this charge by his conduct, and having thus nearly broken down his supporters, did what he could to complete their destruction, by at last going over to the enemy. John Quincy Adams followed in the footsteps of his father. Washington was early withdrawn from the scene of

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action: Hamilton was shot: Burr proved treacherous and infamous. The pillars of federalism were shaken and at the same time two mighty instruments were at work for its final overthrow. The great body of the people had got possession of suffrage, and insisted, with increasing vehemence, upon the removal of every impediment to its universality. The conservatives, in such a contest, were sure to be at last overwhelmed, and this issue was not long delayed. One thing more—the foreign element in our population, augmenting every year, was almost wholly democratic. Democracy in Europe is the watchword of popular liberty; the word is in all modern languages, the idea in all existing masses. This name was now assumed by the radical or republican party, and to its standard, as a matter of course, the great body of the European immigrants—little instructed in our history or our institutions—spontaneously flocked, by the force of instinct and prepossession. And still further—as I have before intimated, nearly all foreigners hate England, and in this respect they found a ready and active sympathy with the democratic party—the federalists being of course charged with the damning sin of love for that country and its institutions.

To these and other general influences, which had shattered the federal party in the Southern and Middle States, was now added, in Connecticut, the local difficulties founded in sectarian discontent. But it is probable that a revolution could not have been speed-

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ily consummated, but for an adventitious incident. Oliver Wolcott, who had been one of Washington’s cabinet, and of the strictest sect of federalism, had resided some years in New York, where he had acquired a handsome fortune by commercial pursuits. For a number of years he had taken no part in politics, though I believe he had rather given support to the war. No doubt he disapproved of the course of the federalists, for I remember that shortly before the Hartford Convention he was at my uncle’s house—the two being brothers-in-law—as I have before stated. In allusion to the coming assembly, I recollect to have heard him say, interrogatively—

“Well, brother Goodrich, I hope you are not about to breed any mischief?”

“Sir,” said my uncle, somewhat rebukingly, “you know me too well to make it necessary to ask that question!”

I recollect at a later period, when he was governor of Connecticut, to have heard him speak reproachfully of both political parties in New York. Said he—

“After living a dozen years in that State, I don’t pretend to comprehend their politics. It is a labyrinth of wheels within wheels, and is understood only by the managers. Why, these leaders of the opposite parties, who—in the papers and before the world—seem ready to tear each other’s eyes out, will meet some rainy night in a dark entry, and agree, whichever way the election goes, they will share the spoils together!”

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At all events, about this time Oliver Wolcott removed to Litchfield, his native place, and in 1817 was nominated for governor by the malcontents of all parties, rallying under the name of Toleration. To show the violent nature of the fusion which united such contradictory elements into one homogeneous mass, it may be well to quote here an extract from a Connecticut democratic organ—the American Mercury. This paper, with others, had charged Oliver Wolcott with burning down the War and Treasury Departments at Philadelphia, in order to cover up the iniquities he had committed while Secretary of War. The following was its language, Feb. 3, 1801:

A short time after this—February 26—the same paper copies from the Philadelphia Aurora an article, of which the following are extracts:

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Such were the opinions—at least such were the representations—of the leading democratic organs, respecting Oliver Wolcott, the federalist, in 1801. In 1817, he was the champion of the democratic party in Connecticut, and the idol of the American Mercury! What transformations are equal to those which the history of political parties, for the short space of twenty years, brings to our view?

It is needless to tell you in detail what immediately followed. The struggle was one of the most violent that was ever witnessed in Connecticut. It was curious as well as violent—for we saw fighting side by side, shoulder to shoulder, democracy, Methodism,

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Episcopacy, Pedobaptism, Universalism, radicalism, infidelity—all united for the overthrow of federalism, and orthodoxy; and Oliver Wolcott was the leader in this onset! The election took place in April, 1817 and the federalists were routed, according to the established phrase, “horse, foot, and dragoons.” John Cotton Smith,* the most popular man in the State,

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was defeated: federalism was in the dust, toleration was triumphant!

I remember that at that time, William L. Stone was editor of the Connecticut Mirror. Nearly the whole paper, immediately preceding the election, was filled with pungent matter. I think I filled a column or two myself. The feelings of the federalists were very much wrought up, but after it was all over, they took it good-naturedly. A new Constitution for the State—1818—and a very good one, was the first fruit of the revolution. Wolcott continued governor for ten years, and taking a moderate course, in the end, satisfied reasonable men of both parties. He was no radical, and inasmuch as a political change in Connecticut was inevitable, it is probable that no better man could have been found, to lead the people through the emergency.*

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During the period in which Oliver Wolcott was governor, I was several times at Litchfield, and often at his house. My sister, Mrs. Cooke, had married his brother, Frederick Wolcott, living in the old family

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mansion near by, and as I have intimated, my uncle, Chauncey Goodrich, had married his sister—thus making a double connection in the family. Uriah Tracy,* one of the most distinguished men in the

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history of Connecticut, had been dead for several years, but others of great eminence were still living—giving to Litchfield a remarkable prominence in the State. Among these were Tapping Reeve,* at one time chief-justice of Connecticut, and founder of the law school, which was long the first institution of the kind in the United States; Colonel Talmadge, distinguished as a gallant officer in the Revolution, and a manly, eloquent debater in Congress; James Gould, a learned judge, au elegant scholar, and successor of Reeve in the law school; Jabez W. Huntington—law lecturer, judge, senator—and distinguished in all these eminent stations; Lyman Beecher,† an able theolo-

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gian and eloquent preacher, and even now more widely known through his talented family, than his own genius. Litchfield Hill was in fact not only one of the most elevated features in the physical conforma[tion] of Connecticut, but one of the focal points of literature and civilization. You will readily suppose that my visits here were among the most interesting events of my early life.

In August, 1851, there was at Litchfield a gathering of distinguished natives of the county, convened to celebrate its organization, which had taken place a century before. Appropriate addresses were made by Judge Church, Dr. Bushnell, F. A. Tallmadge, D. S. Dickinson, George W. Holley, George Gould, Henry Dutton, and other persons of distinction. Among

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the performances was a poem by Rev. J. Pierpont,* alike illustrative of the local history of Litchfield and the manners and character of New England.

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I think it may be safely said that there are few counties in the United States, which could furnish either such a poet or such materials for poetry, as this.

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It has not only produced the eminent men already noticed, but it has been the birthplace of thirteen United States senators, twenty-two representatives

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in Congress from the State of New York, alone, fifteen judges of the supreme courts of other States, nine presidents of colleges, and eighteen professors of colleges!

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LETTER XXXIV.

Stephen R. Bradley—My Pursuit of the Vocation of Bookseller and Publisher—Scott’s Poems—General Enthusiasm—Byron’s Poems—Their Reception—The Waverley Novels—Their amazing Popularity—I publish an Edition of them—Literary Club at Hartford—J. M. Wainwright, Isaac Toucey, William L. Stone, &c.—The Round Table—Original American Works—State of Opinion as to American Literature—Publication of Trumbull’s Poems—Books for Education—Rev. C. A. Goodrich—Dr. Comstock—Woodbridge’s Geography.

My dear C******

Early in the year 1818 I was married to the daughter of Stephen Rowe Bradley,* of Westminster, Vermont. Thus established in life, I pursued the business of bookseller and publisher at Hartford for

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four years. My vocation gave me the command of books, but I was able to read but little, my eyes continuing to be so weak that I could hardly do justice to my affairs. By snatches, however, I dipped into a good many books, and acquired a considerable knowledge of authors and their works.

During the period in which Scott had been enchanting the world with his poetry—that is, from 1805 to 1815—I had shared in the general intoxication. The Lady of the Lake delighted me beyond expression, and even now, it seems to me the most pleasing and perfect of metrical romances. These productions seized powerfully upon the popular mind, partly on account of the romance of their revelations, and partly also because of the pellucidity of the style and the easy flow of the versification. Everybody could read and comprehend them. One of my younger sisters committed the whole of the Lady of the Lake to memory, and was accustomed of an evening to sit at her sewing, while she recited it to an admiring circle of listeners. All young poets were inoculated with the octa-syllabic verse, and news-

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papers, magazines, and even volumes, teemed with imitations and variations inspired by the “Wizard Harp of the North.” Not only did Scott* himself continue to pour out volume after volume, but others produced set

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poems, in his style, some of them so close in their imitation, as to be supposed the works of Scott himself, trying the effect of a disguise. At last, however, the market was overstocked, and the general appetite began to pall with a surfeit, when one of those sudden changes took place in the public taste, which resemble the convulsions of nature—as a whirlwind or a tempest in the tropics—by which a monsoon, having blown steadily from one point in the compass, for six months, is made to turn about and blow as steadily in the opposite direction.

It was just at the point in which the octa-syllabic plethora began to revolt the public taste, that Byron produced his first canto of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. In London, the effect was sudden, and the youthful poet who went to bed a common man, woke up in the morning and found himself famous. This

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ready appreciation there, arose in a great degree from the fact that the author was a man of fashion and a lord. In this country, these adventitious attributes were less readily felt, and therefore the reception of the new poem was more hesitating and distrustful. For some time, only a few persons seemed to comprehend it, and many who read it, scarcely knew whether to be delighted or shocked. As it gradually made its way in the public mind, it was against a strong current both, of taste and principle.

The public eye and ear—imbued with the genius of Scott—had become adjusted to his sensuous painting of external objects, set in rhymes resonant as those of the nursery books. His poems were, in fact, lyrical romances, with something of epic dignity of thought and incident, presented in all the simplicity of ballad versification. A person with tastes and habits formed upon the reading of these productions, opening upon Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, was likely to feel himself—amid the long-drawn stanzas and the deep, mystic meditations—in somewhat of a labyrinth. Scott’s poems were, moreover, elevating in their moral tone, and indeed the popular literature of the day—having generally purified itself from the poisons infused into it by the spirit of the French Revolution—was alike conservative in manners and morals. Campbell’s Pleasures of Hope and Rogers’ Pleasures of Memory, were favorite poems from 1800 to 1815; and during the same period,

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Thaddeus of Warsaw, the Scottish Chiefs, the Pastor’s Fireside, by Jane Porter; Sandford and Merton, by Day; Belinda, Leonora, Patronage, by Miss Edgeworth; and Cœlebs in Search of a Wife, by Hannah More—were types of the popular taste in tales and romances. It was therefore a fearful plunge from this elevated moral tone in literature, into the daring if not blasphemous skepticisms of the new poet.

The power of his productions, however, could not be resisted: he had, in fact—in delineating his own moody and morbid emotions—seemed to open a new mine of poetry in the soul; at least, he was the first to disclose it to the popular mind. By degrees, the public eye—admitted to these gloomy, cavernous regions of thought—became adjusted to their dim and dusky atmosphere, and saw, or seemed to see, a majestic spirit beckoning them deeper and deeper into its labyrinths. Thus, what was at first revolting, came at last to be a fascination. Having yielded to the enchanter, the young and the old, the grave and the gay, gave themselves up to the sorceries of the poet-wizard. The struggle over, the new-born love was ardent and profound, in proportion as it had dallied or resisted at the beginning. The very magnitude of the change—in passing from Scott’s romantic ballads to Byron’s metaphysical trances—when at last it was sanctioned by fashion, seemed to confirm and sanctify the revolution. Thus in about

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five or six years after the appearance of the first canto of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage—the others having speedily followed—the whole poetic world had become Byronic. Aspiring young rhymers now affected the Spenserian stanza, misanthropy, and skepticism. As Byron advanced in his career of profligacy, and reflected his shameless debaucheries in Don Juan, Beppo, and other similar effusions, the public—seduced, bewildered, enchanted—still followed him, and condescended to bring down their morals and their manners to his degraded and degrading standard.

The secret of the power thus exercised lay in various elements. In England, the aristocratic rank of Byron added greatly to his influence over the public mind, and this was at last reflected in America. With little real feeling of nature, he had, however, an imagination of flame, and an amazing gift of poetic expression. The great fascination, however—that which, creates an agonizing interest in his principal poems—is the constant idea presented to the reader that, under the disguise of his fictitious heroes, he is unconsciously depicting his own sad, despairing emotions. We always feel—whether in perusing Childe Harold, or Manfred, or Cain, or any of his more elaborate works—as if we were listening to the moans of Prometheus struggling with the vultures, or of Ixion toiling at his wheel. We could not, if we would, refuse our pity for such suffering, even in a demon; how deep, then, must be our sympathy,

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when this is spoken to us in the thrilling tones of humanity, using as its vehicle all the music and melody of the highest lyrical art!

In vain, therefore, was it that the moralist resisted the diffusion of Byron’s poems over the country. The pulpit opened its thunders against them—teachers warned their pupils, parents their children. I remember, even as late as 1820, that some booksellers refused to sell them, regarding them as infidel publications. About this time a publisher of Hartford, on this ground, declined being concerned in stereotyping an edition of them. It was all in vain. Byron could no more be kept at bay, than the cholera. His works have had their march over the world, and their victims have been probably not less numerous than those of that scourge of the nations. Byron may be, in fact, considered as having opened the gates to that tide of infidelity and licentiousness which sometimes came out boldly, as in the poems of Shelly, and more disguisedly in various other works, which converted Paul Clifford and Dick Turpin into popular heroes. He lowered the standard of public taste, and prepared a portion of the people of England and America to receive with favor the blunt sensualities of Paul de Kock, and the subtle infiltrations of deism by Madame George Sand. Happily, society has in its bosom the elements of conservatism, and at the present day the flood of license has subsided, or is subsiding. Byron is still read, but his immoralities, his atheism, have lost their relish, and

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are now deemed offenses and blemishes, and at the same time the public taste is directing itself in favor of a purer and more exalted moral tone in every species of literature. Longfellow, Bryant, and Tennyson are the exponents of the public taste in poetry, and Hawthorne, Dickens, Thackeray, in romance. All the varied forms of light reading are taking a corresponding tone of respect for morals and religion.

Scott speedily appreciated the eclipse to which his poetical career was doomed by the rising genius of Byron. He now turned his attention to prose fiction, and in July, 1814, completed and published Waverley, which had been begun some eight or ten years before. It produced no sudden emotion in the literary world. It was considered a clever performance—nothing more. I recollect to have heard it criticised by some veteran novel-readers of that day, because its leading character, Waverley, was only a respectable, commonplace person, and not a perfect hero, according to the old standards of romance. Guy Mannering came out the next year, and was received with a certain degree of eagerness. The Antiquary, Black Dwarf, Old Mortality, Rob Roy, and the Heart of Mid-Lothian, followed in quick succession. I suspect that never, in any age, have the productions of any author created in the world so wide and deep an enthusiasm. This emotion reached its height upon the appearance of Ivanhoe in 1819, which, I think, proved the most popular of these marvelous productions.

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At this period, although there was a good deal of mystery as to their authorship, the public generally referred them to Scott.* He was called the “Great Unknown”—a title which served to create even an adventitious interest in his career. The appearance of a new tale from his pen, caused a greater sensation in the United States than did some of the battles of Napoleon, which decided the fate of thrones and empires. Everybody read these works; everybody—the refined and the simple—shared in the delightful trances which seemed to transport them to remote ages and distant climes, and made them live and breathe in the presence of the stern Covenanters of Scotland, the gallant bowmen of Sherwood Forest, or even the Crusaders in Palestine, where Cœur de Lion and Saladin were seen struggling for the mastery! I can testify to my own share in this intoxication. I was not able, on account of my eyes, to read these works myself, but I found friends to read

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them to me. To one good old maid—Heaven bless her!—I was indebted for the perusal of no less than seven of these tales.

Of course, there were many editions of these works in the United States, and among others, I published an edition, I think in eight volumes, octavo—including those which had appeared at that time. About this period—that is, in 1819—I was one of a literary club, of which J. M. Wainwright,* Isaac Toucey, William L. Stone, Jonathan Law, S. H. Huntington, and others, were members. The first meeting was at my house, and I composed a poem for the occasion,

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entitled “A Vision”—afterward published, with other poems, in 1836. I also published three or four numbers of a small work entitled the “Round Table,” the articles of which were written by different members of the club.

About this time I began to think of trying to bring out original American works. It must be remembered that I am speaking of a period prior to 1820. At that date, Bryant, Irving, and Cooper—the founders of our modern literature—a trinity of genius in poetry, essay, and romance—had but just commenced their literary career. Neither of them had acquired a positive reputation. Halleck, Percival, Brainard, Longfellow, Willis, were at school—at least, all were unknown. The general impression was that we had not, and could not have, a literature. It was the precise point at which Sidney Smith had uttered that bitter taunt in the Edinburgh Review—“Who reads an American book?” It proved to be that “darkest hour just before the dawn.” The successful booksellers of the country—Carey, Small, Thomas, Warner, of Philadelphia; Campbell, Duyckinck, Reed, Kirk & Mercein, Whiting & Watson, of New York; Beers & Howe, of New Haven; O. D.

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Cooke, of Hartford; West & Richardson, Cummings & Hilliard, R. P. & C. Williams, S. T. Armstrong, of Boston—were for the most part the mere reproducers and sellers of English books. It was positively injurious to the commercial credit of a bookseller to undertake American works, unless they might be Morse’s Geographies, classical books, school-books, Watts’ Psalms and Hymns, or something of that class.

Nevertheless, about this time I published an edition of Trumbull’s poems, in two volumes, octavo, and paid him a thousand dollars, and a hundred copies of the work, for the copyright. I was seriously counseled against this by several booksellers—and, in fact, Trumbull had sought a publisher, in vain, for several years previous. There was an association of designers and engravers at Hartford, called the “Graphic Company,”* and as I desired to patronize the liberal arts there, I employed them to execute the embellishments. For so considerable an enterprise, I took the precaution to get a subscription, in which I was tolerably successful. The work was at last produced, but it did not come up to the public expectation, or the patriotic zeal had cooled, and more than half the subscribers declined taking the work.

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I did not press it, but putting a good face upon the affair, I let it pass, and—while the public supposed I had made money by my enterprise, and even the author looked askance at me in the jealous apprehension that I had made too good a bargain out of him—I quietly pocketed a loss of about a thousand dollars. This was my first serious adventure in patronizing American literature.

About the same period I turned my attention to books for education and books for children, being strongly impressed with the idea that there was here a large field for improvement. I wrote, myself, a small arithmetic, and half a dozen toy-books, and published them, though I have never before confessed their authorship. I also employed several persons to write school histories, and educational manuals of chemistry, natural philosophy, &c., upon plans which I prescribed—all of which I published; but none of these were very successful at that time. Some of them, passing into other hands, are now among the most popular and profitable school-books in the country.*

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William C. Woodbridge, one of the teachers of the Deaf and Dumb Asylum, at this time projected a school geography, in which I assisted him—mostly in preparing the details of the work for the press, and in the mechanical department. When an edition of it was finally ready—after long and anxious labor, both on his part and mine—the state of my health compelled me to relinquish it. This work acquired great popularity, and became the starting-point of a new era in school geographies, both in this country and in England.

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LETTER XXXV.

Sketches of the “Hartford Wits”—Dr. Hopkins—Trumbull, author of McFingal—David Humphries—Dr. Strong—Theodore Dwight—Thomas H. Gallaudet—Daniel Wadsworth—Dr. Coggswell—Mrs. Sigourney.

My dear C******

In order to complete the panorama of my life at Hartford, I must give you a brief sketch, of some of the persons whom I knew there, and who had become conspicuous by their words or works. I have already said that Hopkins,* who in point of genius stood at the head of the noted literary fraternity of “Hartford Wits,” was not living when I went to reside at that place. Trumbull, the author of McFingal, was still living, and I knew him well. He was at that time an old man, and—always small of stature—was now bent, emaciated, and tottering with a cane. His features were finely cut, and he must have been

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handsome in his younger days. His eye was keen and bright, his nose slightly aquiline, his mouth arching downward at the corners, expressive of sarcastic humor. There was something about him that at once bespoke the man of letters, the poet, and the satirist.*

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Dr. Strong was the minister of the Middle Brick Church—the principal Congregational church in the city. He was now near threescore and ten—large, infirm, and shuffling along as if afflicted with gout in the feet. His life and character had been marked with eccentricities—with worldliness, wit, and social aptitudes. Nevertheless, he was an eloquent and devout preacher; it was said of him that when in the pulpit, it seemed that he ought never to leave it, and when out of it, that he ought never to go into it. All his levity, however, had passed when I knew him. He was indeed fast approaching that bourne whence no traveler returns. With all his early

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faults, he had a very strong hold of the affections and confidence of his people. His face was remarkably expressive, his eye keen, his lips firm, his nose arched, and his long, thick, gray hair turned back and rolled in waves upon his shoulders. I am not sure that his reputation as a man of wit and worldly taste, now that these were cast aside, did not deepen the impression made by his preaching at this period. I am certain that I have never heard discourses more impressive, more calculated to subdue the pride of the heart, and turn it to religious submission, than these. He was considered a man of remarkable sagacity, especially in penetrating the motives of mankind, and he was at the same time esteemed by his clerical brethren as a very able divine. He published two volumes of sermons, but they furnish little evidence of the genius which was imputed to him. His reputation is now merely traditional, but it is impossible not to perceive that, with such eccentricities, he must have been a man of remarkable qualities, inasmuch as he gathered into his congregation the first minds in the city, and left a name which still seems a bond of union and strength to the church over which he presided.*

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Theodore Dwight, a younger brother of Dr. Dwight, was born at Northampton, in 1764. His early life was spent upon the farm, and at that period when the wolf, wild-cat, and Indian were occasionally seen in the forest—furnishing him with ample materials for interesting descriptions of adventure in after-

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time. When nearly twenty, he injured his wrist, and being disqualified for the labors of a farmer, he turned his attention to study, and finally selected the profession of the law. He established himself at Hartford,* and rose to eminence in his profession. He had, however, a strong bias toward literature, and

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wrote verses and political essays. Such was the reputation he soon acquired, that he was selected by Wolcott, Hamilton, and others, to preside over the Evening Post, established in 1801. This offer was declined, and William Coleman filled the place. Mr. Dwight was elected a member of the State Coun-

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cil, and in 1806, a member of Congress. Soon after he established the Connecticut Mirror, and from that time followed the career of an editor. He was secretary of the Hartford Convention in 1814. In 1815, he removed to Albany, and conducted the Albany Daily Advertiser: in 1817, he

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established the Daily Advertiser in New York, of which he was the chief editor till 1836, when he removed to Hartford. He afterward returned to New York, where he died, in 1846.

Among the Hartford notables was Daniel Wadsworth, son of Col. Jeremiah Wadsworth, who had

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been a distinguished member of Congress. He had traveled in Europe, and was not only a man of large wealth, but he had a taste for literature and art. His wife was daughter of the second Governor Trumbull, and a very excellent example of the refined and dignified lady of the olden time. She had been at Phil-

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adelphia when her father was member of Congress, and recited many interesting anecdotes of Washington and Hamilton, and other great men, whom she had there seen. I was often at the house, and here frequently saw her brother, Col. Trumbull, the artist, with his European wife, about whom there was an impenetrable mystery. She was a beautiful woman, and of elegant manners: her features are well preserved in her husband’s portrait of her, in the Trumbull Gallery, at Yale College. It was rumored that she was the daughter of an English earl, but her name and lineage were never divulged.*

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It was, I believe, through Mr. Wadsworth’s influence that Miss Huntly, now Mrs. Sigourney, was induced to leave her home in Norwich, and make Hartford her residence. This occurred about the year 1814. Noiselessly and gracefully she glided into our young social circle, and ere long was its presiding genius. I shall not write her history, nor dilate upon her literary career—for who does not know them both by heart? Yet I may note her influence in this new relation—a part of which fell upon myself. Mingling in the gayeties of our social gatherings, and in no respect clouding their festivity, she led us all toward intellectual pursuits and amusements. We had even a literary cotery under her inspiration, its first meetings being held at Mr. Wadsworth’s. I believe one of my earliest attempts at composition was made here. The ripples thus begun, extended, over the whole surface of our young society, producing a lasting and refining effect. It could not but be beneficial thus to mingle in intercourse with one who has the angelic faculty of seeing poetry in all things, and good everywhere. Few persons living have exercised a wider influence than Mrs. Sigourney; no one that I now know, can look back upon a long and earnest career of such unblemished beneficence.

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In the immediate vicinity of Mr. Wadsworth, lived Dr. Coggeswell, a renowned surgeon and excellent physician. He was, withal, a man of refined tastes, and exceedingly easy and gracious address. In early life he had been associated with the “Hartford wits” and occasionally wrote verses, though more frequently of the sentimental than the satirical kind. His daughter, Alice, was deaf and dumb, if we speak of the ear and the lip; yet her soul heard and spoke in her eyes and her countenance. She excited universal interest by her sweetness of character, manners, and appearance; she was, in truth, an eloquent and persuasive lecturer upon the language, and beauty, and immortality of the soul—that lives above and beyond the senses.

Mr. Gallaudet, the founder of the Deaf and Dumb Asylum at Hartford, was a person of very diminutive stature, with a smooth, placid physiognomy—irradiated, however, by a remarkably large, expressive eye, rolling at you over his spectacles. Of a frail and feeble constitution, and a mind of no great compass, he still possessed two faculties which rendered his career glorious. He had a clearness and precision in his perceptions, which rendered his mental operations almost as exact and certain as the movements of mechanism. It was this which enabled him to master the elements of the art of teaching the deaf and dumb, and to carry that art—in its uses as well as its philosophy—greatly beyond its condition when

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he entered upon it. This principle in the head was impelled to action by another in the heart—a deep conviction that it was his duty to be useful to his fellow-men. It is pleasing to observe how wide and ample a field may be harvested by a good man, even though he may not be a giant or a genius!

I must here tell you an anecdote still fresh in my recollection. When President Monroe made his tour through the New-England States, in the summer of 1817, the asylum was a novelty, and naturally enough was the pride of the good citizens of Hartford. Of course, the President was invited to see the performances of the new institution. He was scarcely out of his carriage, and delivered from the noise and confusion of his reception—for all the world turned out to see him—before he was hurried down to the place where the school was then kept.

A high central platform was prepared, like a throne, for the great man, and here he took his seat. Around were the spectators; on one side was Mr. Gallaudet, and Mr. Clerc, the well-known deaf and dumb professor from the school of the Abbé Sicard, in Paris. Mr. Gallaudet was a man of admirable address, and all being ready, he said to the President, in his smooth, seductive way—

“If your Excellency will be so kind as to ask some question, I will repeat it to Mr. Clerc on my fingers, and he will write an answer on the slate, to show the manner and facility of conversation by signs.”

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The President, who was exceedingly jaded by his journey, looked obfuscated; but he changed the position of his legs, showing a consciousness of the question, and then fell into a very brown study. Everybody expected something profound—equal to the occasion, and worthy of the chief magistrate of the greatest nation, on the face of the globe. We waited a long time, every minute seeming an hour, through our impatience. At last it became awkward, and Mr. Gallaudet insinuated—

“If your Excellency will be so kind as to ask some question, I will repeat it on my fingers to Mr. Clerc, and he will write an answer on the slate, to show the manner and facility of conversing by signs.”

The President again changed the position of his legs, and again meditated. We all supposed he was at the very bottom of the abyss of philosophy, hunting up some most profound and startling interrogation. Expectation was on tiptoe; every eye was leveled at the oracular lips, about to utter the amazing proposition. Still, he only meditated. A long time passed, and the impatience became agonizing. Again Mr. Gallaudet, seeming to fear that the great man was going to sleep, roused him by repeating his request. The President at last seemed conscious; his eye twinkled, his lips moved, sounds issued from his mouth—

“Ask him—how old he is!”—was the profound suggestion.

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LETTER XXXVI.

Dr. Percival—His early Life—His Father’s attempt to cure his Shyness—College Life—His First Love—His Medical Experience—His Poetical Career—An awkward Position—The Saddle on his own Back—Cooper and Percival at the City Hotel—Publication of his Poems at New York—The Edition in England—Other Literary Avocations—His Station at West Point—His great Learning—Assistance of Dr. Webster in his Dictionary—State Geologist in Connecticut—In Wisconsin—His Death—Estimate of his Character.

My dear C******

I am glad to find, by your recent letter, that you approve of my hasty sketches of the men I have seen and known—even though they are not all of that general celebrity which creates, in advance, an interest in their behalf. No doubt the portrait of a man, whose renown has filled our ears, is more gratifying than one which merely presents the lineaments of an unknown, unheard-of individual. Yet every picture which is life-like—which possesses an obvious verisimilitude—is pleasing, especially if it seems to represent a type of some class of men, which we have seen in life. It is mainly upon this principle that the fictitious heroes and heroines of romance, interest us as deeply as even the celebrities of history. As I describe things I have seen, 1 hope my delineations may have so much seeming truth as to amuse you, even though they possess only that interest which attaches to all true pictures of humanity. I say this, not as an in-

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troduction, especially suited to this chapter, for I am now going to speak of names that are familiar to you: I make these reflections upon your letter, only as a precaution against any criticisms you may offer upon the less pretentious miniatures scattered through these pages.

The news comes, even while I write, that Percival, the poet, is dead! Yes—one by one, those I have known and cherished, are falling around me. Few of my early acquaintances are left, and I am but a lingerer among the graves of early friendship and love!

James Gates Percival was a native of Berlin,* the residence of my family, and I knew him well. His father was a physician—a man of ability, and of resolute and energetic character. His mother was by nature of a susceptible and delicate organization, and she seems to have imparted to her son these qualities, with a tendency to excessive mental development. He early manifested a morbid shyness and shrinking sensitiveness, which his father sought to cure by harsh measures. On one occasion he put the child behind him on horseback, and rode into the thickest of a sham fight, during a regimental muster. The result was, that the boy was almost thrown into convulsions.

Dr. Percival died when James was still young, and

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after a time his mother married a respectable farmer of the village by the name of Porter. The young Percival made extraordinary progress in his studies, but was little understood by those around him. He entered college at the age of sixteen, and speedily attracted attention by his acquisitions and his compositions. At this period he was often at my father’s house, in Berlin, and being subject to paroxysms of great depression of spirits, he deeply excited the interest of my mother. Although, on the whole, he pursued his education with avidity and ambition, yet he often wandered forth in lonesome places, nursing a moody melancholy, and at one period, he actually contemplated suicide. From this he was diverted—mainly, I believe, by my mother’s timely counsel and other kindly offices.

About this time he was frequently in the society of a beautiful and accomplished young lady of the neighborhood; he botanized with her in the fields, and poetized with her in the library, and at last he thought himself in love. Months thus ran pleasantly on, when one day he made up his mind to give her a delicate hint of his condition. He did so, I believe, in verse. The young lady replied in plain prose, that she was engaged, and was speedily to be married! The poet came to the conclusion that this was a deceitful world, and wrote Byronic verses. In 1820 he published a volume of poems, including the first part of his Prometheus.

Having studied medicine, he went to South Caro-

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lina the same year, and established himself at Charleston, as a physician. He told me afterward, that, at the end of some months, he had one patient, afflicted with sore lips. He prescribed a dose of salts, gratis, and this was a pretty fair example of his practice.

“I had got my name up for writing verses,” said he, “and found myself ruined.”

“How so?” said I.

“When a person is really ill, he will not send for a poet to cure him,” was his answer.

Having little else before him, he directed his attention to literature, and published the first number of his Clio, 1822. Soon after, he returned to the North, and produced some miscellanies in prose and verse. At this period, he had excited a deep interest in the public mind, as well by his writings as his somewhat eccentric life and manners. The melancholy which pervaded his poetry, with fugitive pieces of great feeling and tenderness, together with a certain wildness in his air and manner, rendered him an object of general curiosity, and in many cases of deep sympathy. Of all this he seemed unconscious, and walked the world like one who neither accepted nor desired its friendship.

In the spring of 1823, I was walking up Broadway in New York, and met him. I had been intimate with him for several previous years, having often seen him at my father’s house; but I now observed, that on seeing me, he turned aside, and evidently

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sought to avoid me. This was what I expected for such was his habit of shrinking shyness, that it embarrassed him to meet even an old friend. I put myself in his way, and, after a few words of recognition perceiving something more than usually downcast in his appearance, I asked him what was the occasion of it. At first he denied that any thing had happened, but at length, with some reluctance, he told me he had been making a tour to the North, and was out of money. His trunk was consequently detained on board the packet in which he had come down from Albany!

Percival had some patrimony, and though his means were narrow, they might have been sufficient for his comfort, with good management. But common sense—in the economy of life—was, unhappily, not one of his endowments. When he was about fifteen years old, his friends gave him fifty dollars, mounted him on a horse, and told him to ride till he had spent half his money, and then turn about and come home—thinking him competent to fulfill this simple programme. He rode on for two or three days, when he found that the horse’s back was sadly galled. Shocked at what seemed an inhumanity—for his feelings were exquisitely tender—he resolved immediately to return. He would not mount the animal, for this would but aggravate its misery; so he set out on foot, and led the creature behind him. The saddle, however, still irritated the wound, and Percival, taking it from the

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animal’s back, threw it over his own shoulder, and thus trudged home. I was familiar with this and other similar anecdotes. Thus knowing his imbecility in the common affairs of life, it did not surprise me to find him now without money, and in a state of complete bewilderment as to what should be done.

I gave him ten dollars, which he received and put into his pocket, making no reply—for such was his undemonstrative habit and manner. I asked him to dine with me the next day at the City Hotel, to which he agreed. I invited Mr. Cooper—the novelist—to meet him, and he came. It is not easy to conceive of two persons more strongly contrasting with each other. As they sat side by side at the table, I noted the difference. Mr. Cooper was in person solid, robust, athletic: in voice, manly; in manner, earnest, emphatic, almost dictatorial—with something of self-assertion, bordering on egotism. The first effect was unpleasant, indeed repulsive, but there shone through all this a heartiness, a frankness, which excited confidence, respect, and at last affection.

Percival, on the contrary, was tall and thin, his chest sunken, his limbs long and feeble, his hair silken and sandy, his complexion light and feminine, his eye large and spectral, his whole air startled, his attitudes shy and shrinking, his voice abashed and whispering. Mr. Cooper ate like a man of excellent appetite and vigorous digestion: Percival scarce seemed to know that he was at the table. Cooper took his

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wine as if his lip appreciated it: Percival swallowed his, evidently without knowing or caring whether it was wine or water. Yet these two men conversed pleasantly together. After a time Percival was drawn out, and the stores of his mind were poured forth as from a cornucopia. I could see Cooper’s gray eye dilate with delight and surprise.

I had a design in bringing these two men together, and this was to have a handsome edition of Percival’s poems published for his benefit, and under such influences as to make it profitable to him. The matter was talked over between us, and before we parted, it was all arranged. I at once drew up a prospectus, and had it printed. I wrote a contract between Percival and the publisher, Charles Wiley, and had it duly signed. Mr. Cooper took the prospectus in hand, and aided by the powerful assistance of Mr. Bronson, Percival’s college classmate, the subscription was actively pushed. The fairest ladies of New York gave a helping hand, and before I left the city, three hundred subscribers were secured. Provision had also been made for Percival’s immediate comfort; lodgings were furnished, and he was forthwith to prepare the copy for the promised volume. I returned to Hartford, but in a fortnight, got a letter asking me if I knew what had become of our poet? Some weeks passed, during which time he was among the missing. At last it was discovered that he had been annoyed by a fiddling Frenchman, near his

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room, and had fled to New Haven. There he had entered into another contract for the publication of his poems!

It required some weeks to disentangle the affair from all these difficulties. At last, however, after many delays and annoyances, the copy was furnished, and the book printed. At that time I was on the point of going to Europe. I delayed a fortnight to get a perfect copy, so that I might take it with me—in order to secure its publication in England, for Percival’s benefit. At last I departed, having obtained the unbound sheets of a single copy. I sailed from New York in the packet ship Canada—Percival accompanying me in the steamboat Nautilus, from Whitehall, to the vessel, which lay out in the stream. I believe he regarded me as one of his best friends, but as we shook hands, and I bade him farewell, he said coldly, “Good-by”—his pale and spectral countenance showing not a ray of emotion.

Soon after reaching London, however, I received a copy of the New York Commercial Advertiser, dated Nov. 17, 1823, in which I read the following—there being a small “P.” in ink, at the bottom. I copy it from the file of the New York Spectator of Nov. 17, 1823—then edited by W. L. Stone. [Transcriber’s note: The poem seems to have appeared in the Spectator’s evening edition of 17 November 1823 and was reprinted in the 18 November 1823 issue on page 3.]

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I knew Percival too well to feel hurt at his cool good-by—nevertheless, it was a pleasure to have this evidence of his feeling and his friendship. On reaching London, I made a contract with John Miller for

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the publication of the poems in two volumes 12mo—half the profits to go to the author. I also wrote for it a brief biographical notice. A very handsome edition soon appeared, and attracted some attention, but excited no enthusiasm in London. On the whole, the publication was a failure. The edition, of one thousand copies was not sold, but I subsequently induced Miller to send to Percival one hundred copies, as his share of the proceeds. This was all he ever received from the English edition.

After my return to America, I frequently met Percival, but never under circumstances which renewed our intimacy. Indeed, by this time he had become confirmed in his habits of abstraction in life and manner, which rendered it difficult to enter into his thoughts or feelings. He even seemed misanthropical, and repelled, as an offense, every thing that jealousy could suspect to be either interested or intended as a gratuity or a favor. There were many persons ready—nay desirous—to render him efficient service, but they did not know how to approach him.

In 1824 he was appointed assistant surgeon in the United States army, and professor of chemistry in the Military Academy at West Point. This station he soon abandoned, being disgusted, as he told me, with one part of his duty—which was to examine recruits, by inspection of their persons, and ascertaining their weight, height, &c. About this time he was employed and liberally paid by Mr. Samuel Walker,

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of Boston, in editing an extensive edition of “Elegant Extracts,” both in verse and in prose; and afterward in editing Malte Brun’s large Geography, adding thereto numerous useful notes. About this period he was also engaged in assisting Dr. Webster, in preparing his quarto dictionary. In 1836, he received from Connecticut a government appointment to assist in a geological survey of the State. He entered upon this duty, and his report was published in 1842. In 1852, he received a similar appointment for the State of Wisconsin, and made his first report in 1855. He was still engaged in this duty, when his career was suddenly terminated by death, which took place at Hazelgreen, in the State of Wisconsin, May, 1856.

With all the knowledge I possess of Dr. Percival’s life and character, he is still, to me, somewhat of an enigma. That he was a man of powerful imagination and an intellect of great capacity, is manifest: his poems prove the one—his amazing acquisitions, the other. That his understanding was even of larger scope and measure than his fancy, is, I think, apparent, for he not only had a vast range of knowledge—precise and reliably obedient to recollection as the stores of a cyclopedia—yet his powers of combination, his judgment, were of the very first order. This was evinced, not only in his connection with Dr. Webster’s Dictionary, already alluded to, by the nice discrimination he displayed in philological inquiries, and the exactitude with which he rendered

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the shadings of sense and meaning, in giving the definitions of words, but in the larger and grander surreys of geology—the largest and grandest of practical sciences. Such compass and such precision of knowledge—such power of exact as well as vast combination—are indeed marvelous. When we consider him in this aspect, and at the same time remember that thirty years ago he was captivating the world with his imaginative effusions, we have indeed a character of remarkable and almost contradictory elements.

Yet it must be added that, on the whole, his life was a complete shipwreck. He lived to excite admiration and wonder; yet in poverty, in isolation, in a complete solitude of the heart. He had not, I think, a single vice; his life was pure, just, upright. How then did he fail? The truth seems to be, that he was deficient in that sympathy which binds man to man, and hence he was an anomaly in the society among which he dwelt—a note out of tune with the great harmony of life around him. He was a grand intellect, a grand imagination, but without a heart. That he was born with a bosom full of all love and all kindness, we can not doubt; but the golden bowl seems to have been broken, almost at the fountain. By the time he was twenty, he began to stand aloof from his fellow-man. I think he had been deeply injured—nay ruined—by the reading of Byron’s works, at that precise age when his soul was in all

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the sensitive bloom of spring, and its killing frost of atheism, of misanthropy, of pride, and scorn, fell upon it, and converted it into a scene of desolation. The want of a genial circle of appreciation, of love and friendship, around his early life, left this malign influence to deepen his natural shyness into a positive and habitual self-banishment from his fellow-man. Such is the sad interpretation I put upon his career.*

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LETTER XXXVII.

A few Wayside Notes—The Poet Brainard—His first Introduction—Ripley’s Tavern—Aunt Lucy—The little back-parlor—Brainard’s Office—Anecdote—The Devil’s Dun—The Lines on Niagara—Other Poems—One that is on the Sea—The Sea-bird’s Song—Publication of Brainard’s Poems—General Remarks—His Death.

My dear C******

I have told you that in the autumn of 1823 I set out to visit Europe; but a few previous events are needful to bring my narrative to that epoch. In 1821, clouds and darkness began to gather around my path. By a fall from a horse, I was put upon crutches

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for more than a year, and a cane for the rest of my life. Ere long death entered my door, and my home was desolate. I was once more alone—save only that a child was left me, to grow to womanhood, and to die a youthful mother, loving and beloved*—leaving an infant soon to follow her to the tomb. My affairs became embarrassed, my health failed, and my only hope of renovation was in a change of scene.

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But before I give you a sketch of my experience and observations abroad, I must present one portrait more—that of my friend Brainard.* He came to Hartford in February, 1822, to take the editorial charge of the Connecticut Mirror—Mr. Stone, as I have stated, having left it a short time before. He was now twenty-six years old, and had gained some reputation for wit and poetical talent. One day a young man, small in stature, with a curious mixture of ease and awkwardness, of humor and humility, came into my office, and introduced himself as Mr. Brainard. I gave him a hearty welcome, for I had heard very pleasant accounts of him. As was natural, I made a complimentary allusion to his poems,

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which I had seen and admired. A smile, yet shaded with something of melancholy, came over his face, as he replied—

“Don’t expect too much of me; I never succeeded in any thing yet. I never could draw a mug of cider without spilling more than half of it!”

I afterward found that much truth was thus spoken in jest: this was, in point of fact, precisely Brainard’s appreciation of himself. All his life, feeling that he could do something, he still entertained a mournful and disheartening conviction that, on the whole, he was doomed to failure and disappointment. There was sad prophecy in this presentiment—a prophecy which he at once made and fulfilled.

We soon became friends, and at last intimates. I was now boarding at “Ripley’s”—a good old-fashioned tavern, over which presided Major Ripley, respected for revolutionary services, an amiable character, and a long Continental queue. In the administration of the establishment he was ably supported by his daughter, Aunt Lucy—the very genius of tavern courtesy, cookery, and comfort. Here Brainard joined me, and we took our rooms side by side. Thus for more than a year we were together, as intimate as brothers. He was of a childlike disposition, and craved constant sympathy. He soon got into the habit of depending upon me in many things, and at last—especially in dull weather, or when he was sad, or something went wrong with

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him—he crept into my bed, as if it was his right. At that period of gloom in my own fortunes, this was as well a solace to me as to him. After my return from Europe we resumed these relations, and for some months more we were thus together.

Brainard’s life has been frequently written. The sketch of him in Kettell’s “Specimens,” I furnished, soon after his death. Mr. Robbins, of Berlin, wrote a beautiful biographical memoir of him for Hopkins’ edition of his poems, published at Hartford, in 1842. A more elaborate notice of his life, character, and genius, had been given in Whittier’s edition of his “Remains,” 1832. To this just and feeling memoir, by a kindred spirit—one every way qualified to appreciate and to illustrate his subject—I have now nothing to add, except a few personal recollections—such as were derived from my long intercourse and intimacy with him.

Perhaps I cannot do better than to begin at once, and give you a sketch of a single incident, which will reflect light upon many others. The scene opens in Miss Lucy’s little back-parlor—a small, cozy, carpeted room, with two cushioned rocking-chairs, and a bright hickory fire. It is a chill November night, about seven o’clock of a Friday evening. The Mirror—Brainard’s paper—is to appear on the morning of the morrow, it being a weekly sheet, and Saturday its day of publication. The week has thus far passed, and he has not written for it a line. How the days

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have gone he can hardly tell. He has read a little—dipped into Byron, pored over the last Waverley novel, and been to see his friends; at all events, he had got rid of the time. He has not felt competent to bend down to his work, and has put it off till the last moment. To farther delay is possible. He is now not well; he has a cold, and this has taken the shape of a swelling of the tonsils, almost amounting to quinsy, as was usual with him in such attacks.

Miss Lucy, who takes a motherly interest in him, tells him not to go out, and his own inclinations suggest the charms of a quiet evening in the rocking-chair, by a good fire—especially in comparison with going to his comfortless office, and drudging for the inky devils of the press. He lingers till eight, and then suddenly rousing himself, by a desperate effort, throws on his cloak and sallies forth. As was not uncommon, I go with him. A dim fire is kindled in the small Franklin stove in his office, and we sit down. Brainard, as was his wont, especially when he was in trouble, falls into a curious train of reflections, half comic and half serious.

“Would to heaven,” he says, “I were a slave. I think a slave, with a good master, has a good time of it. The responsibility of taking care of himself—the most terrible burden of life—is put on his master’s shoulders. Madame Roland, with a slight alteration, would have uttered a profound truth. She should have said—‘Oh, liberty, liberty, thou art a

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humbug!’ After all, liberty is the greatest possible slavery, for it puts upon a man the responsibility of taking care of himself. If he goes wrong—why he’s damned! If a slave sins, he’s only flogged, and gets over it, and there’s an end of it. Now, if I could only be flogged, and settle the matter that way, I should be perfectly happy. But here comes my tormentor.”

The door is now opened, and a boy with a touseled head and inky countenance, enters, saying curtly—“Copy, Mr. Brainard!”

“Come in fifteen minutes!” says the editor, with a droll mixture of fun and despair.

Brainard makes a few observations, and sits down at his little narrow pine table—hacked along the edges with many a restless penknife. He seems to notice these marks, and pausing a moment, says—

“This table reminds me of one of my brother William’s stories. There was an old man in Groton, who had but one child, and she was a daughter. When she was about eighteen, several young men came to see her. At last she picked out one of them, and desired to marry him. He seemed a fit match enough, but the father positively refused his consent. For a long time he persisted, and would give no reason for his conduct. At last, he took his daughter aside, and said—‘Now, Sarah, I think pretty well of this young man in general, but I’ve observed that he’s given to whittling. There’s no harm in that, but the point

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is this: he whittles and whittles, and never makes nothing! Now I tell you, I’ll never give my only daughter to such a feller as that!’ Whenever Bill told this story, he used to insinuate that this whittling chap, who never made any thing, was me! At any rate, I think it would have suited me, exactly.”

Some time passed in similar talk, when at last Brainard turned suddenly, took up his pen and began to write. I sat apart, and left him to his work. Some twenty minutes passed, when, with a radiant smile on his face, he got up, approached the fire, and taking the candle to light his paper, read as follows:

He had hardly done reading, when the boy came. Brainard handed him the lines—on a small scrap of rather coarse paper—and told him to come again in half an hour. Before this time had elapsed, he had finished, and read me the following stanza:

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These lines having been furnished, Brainard left his office, and we returned to Miss Lucy’s parlor. He seemed utterly unconscious of what he had done. I praised the verses, but he thought I only spoke warmly from friendly interest. The lines went forth, and produced a sensation of delight over the whole country. Almost every exchange paper that came to the office had extracted them: even then he would scarce believe that he had done any thing very clever. And thus, under these precise circumstances, were composed the most suggestive and sublime stanzas upon Niagara, that were ever penned. Brainard had never, as he told me, been within less than five hundred miles of the cataract, nor do I believe, that when he went to the office, he had meditated upon the subject. It was one of those inspirations which come to the poet—and often come like the lightning—in the very midst of clouds and darkness.

You will readily see, from the circumstances I have mentioned, that I knew the history of most of Brainard’s pieces, as they came out, from time to time, in his newspaper. Nearly all of them were occasional

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—that is, suggested by passing events or incidents in the poet’s experience. The exquisite lines beginning,

appeared a few days after he had taken leave of a young lady from Savannah, who had spent a month at our hotel, and had left an impression upon his sensitive heart, which the lines, mournful and touching as they are, only reveal to those who witnessed his emotions. Many were struck off in the extreme exigencies of the devil’s dun—his very claws upon him. In these cases, he doubtless resorted to the treasures of his mind, which seems to have been largely stored with the scenery of his native State, and the legends connected with them. Two elements, in nearly equal proportion, seemed to fill his soul—the humorous and the sublime—and often in such, contiguity, or even mixture, as to heighten the effect of each—this, however, being more noticeable in his conversation than his writings. It was sometimes amazing to watch the operations of his mind—even in moments of familiarity, often starting from some trivial or perhaps ludicrous incident, into a train of the most lofty and sublime thought. I have compared him, in my own mind, to a child playing upon the sea-beach, who by chance picks up and winds a Triton’s shell, or wandering into some cathedral, lays his finger upon the clavier of the organ, and falling upon the key-note of

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his heart, draws from the instrument all its sounding melody.

I trust you will pardon me if I give the history of one or two other poems, connected with, my own observation. I have told you that in the autumn of 1823, I went to Europe, and was absent for a year. On parting with Brainard, we mutually promised to write each other, often. Yet I received not a line from him during my absence. I knew his habits and forgave him—though I was certainly pained by such neglect. On meeting him after my return, I alluded to this. Without saying a word, he went away for a short time: on his return, he put into my hands a copy of the Mirror, which had appeared a few days before, and pointing to the lines—which I extract below—he left me. His reply, thus indicated, was indeed gratifying. You will understand that at the time, Lafayette had just arrived in the country.

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Ought I not to have been satisfied? If you will compare these lines with those by Percival, under

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circumstances not altogether dissimilar, you will have the means of comparing the two poets—the one feeling through the suggestions of his imagination, the other exercising his imagination through the impulse of his feelings. Percival was a poet of the fancy—Brainard, of the heart.

Still one more passing note. The “Sea-Bird’s Song” appears to me one of the most poetical compositions in Brainard’s collection, and the history of it can not be uninteresting. It was written some time after my return from England, and when I was again married and settled at Hartford. He was a frequent—almost daily visitor at our house, and took especial pleasure in hearing my wife sing. He had no skill in music, but, as with most persons of a sentimental turn, his choice always fell upon minors. One evening his ear caught up the old Welsh tune of “Taffy Morgan,” which is, in point of fact, a composition of great power, especially when it is slowly and seriously executed. He was greatly affected by it, and some one suggested that he should compose a song to suit it. I remarked that I had often thought the song of a sea-bird, if treated with ballad simplicity and vigor, might be very effective. He began to ponder, and the next day brought a verse to try its rhythm with the music. This being approved, he went on, and two days after, came with the whole poem, which he slightly altered and adapted upon, hearing it sung. Having said thus much, pardon me

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for reciting the lines, and asking you to get some good ballad-singer to give it to you, in the cadence of the old Welch melody I have mentioned. Thus sung, it is one of the most thrilling compositions I have ever heard.

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Where is there a song of more wild and impressive imagery—exciting more deep and touching emotions, than this?

These stanzas were written in the spring of 1826. The year before I had persuaded Brainard to make a collection of his poems, and have them published. At first his lip curled at the idea, as being too pretentious; he insisted that he had done nothing to justify the publication of a volume. Gradually he began to think of it, and at length—March 14, 1825—I induced him to sign a contract, authorizing me to make arrangements for the work. He set about the preparation, and at length—after much lagging and many lapses—the pieces were selected and arranged. When all was ready, I persuaded him to go to New York with me, to settle the matter with a publisher. I introduced him to Bliss & White, and they readily undertook it, on the terms of joint and equal profits. Thus appeared the little volume, with Bunyan’s quaint rhyme for a motto—

I must note a slight incident which occurred at

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New York, illustrative of Brainard’s character. He was keenly alive to every species of beauty, in nature and art. His appreciation of the beauties of literature amounted to passion. That he had a craving for pathos and sublimity, is manifest from his works; yet he seemed to feel the nicer and more latent touches of wit and humor with a greater intensity of delight, than any other species of literary luxury. He was hence a special admirer of Halleck, and more than once remarked that he should like to see him. I proposed to introduce him; but he was shy of all formal meetings, and seemed indeed to feel that there would be a kind of presumption in his being presented to the leading poet of the great metropolis.

I was therefore obliged to give up the idea of effecting a meeting between these two persons, both natives of Connecticut, and peculiarly fitted to appreciate and admire each other. One morning, however, fortune seemed to favor me. As we entered the bookstore of Messrs. Bliss & White—then on the eastern side of Broadway, near Cedar-street—I saw Halleck at the further end of the room. Incautiously, I told this to Brainard. He eagerly asked me which was the poet, among two or three persons that were standing together. I pointed him out. Brainard took a long and earnest gaze, then turned on his heel, and I could not find him for the rest of the day!

His little volume was very favorably received by the public, and he was universally recognized as a true

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poet. These effusions, however, were regarded rather in the light of promise than fulfillment, and therefore people generally looked forward to the achievement of some greater work. I felt this, and frequently urged him to undertake a serious poem, which might develop his genius and establish his fame. He thought of it, but his habitual inertness mastered him. I returned to the subject, however, and we frequently conversed upon it. At last, he seemed to have resolved on the attempt, and actually wrote a considerable number of stanzas. After a time, however, he gave it up in despair. He told me, frankly, that it was impossible for him to sustain the continuity of thought and consistency of purpose indispensable to such an achievement. What he had actually done was merely an introduction, and was afterward published under the title of “Sketch of an Occurrence on board a Brig.” Whoever has read these lines, can not fail to lament that weakness in the author—constitutional and habitual—which rendered him incompetent to continue a flight so nobly begun.

One anecdote—in addition to those already before the public—and I shall close this sketch. Brainard’s talent for repartee was of the first order. On one occasion, Nathan Smith, an eminent lawyer, was at Ripley’s tavern, in the midst of a circle of judges and lawyers, attending the court. He was an Episcopalian, and at this time was considered by his political adversaries—unjustly, no doubt—as the paid agent of

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that persuasion, now clamoring for a sum of money from the State, to lay the foundation of a “Bishops’ Fund.” He was thus regarded somewhat in the same light as O’Connell, who, while he was the great patriot leader of Irish independence, was at the same time liberally supported by the “rint.” By accident, Brainard came in, and Smith, noticing a little feathery attempt at whiskers down his cheek, rallied him upon it.

“It will never do,” said he; “you can not raise it, Brainard. Come, here’s sixpence—take that, and go to the barber’s and get it shaved off! It will smooth your cheek, and ease your conscience.”

Brainard drew himself up, and said, with great dignity—as Smith held out the sixpence on the point of his forefinger—“No, sir, you had better keep it for the Bishops’ Fund!”

I need not—I must not—prolong this sketch. What I have said, is sufficient to give you an insight into the character of this gifted child of genius. In person he was very short, with large hands and feet, and a walk paddling and awkward. His hair was light-brown, his skin pallid, his eye large and bluish-gray, his lips thick, his forehead smooth, white, and handsome; his brow beautifully arched, and edged with a definite, narrow line. His general appearance was that of a somewhat clumsy boy. His countenance was usually dull, yet with a wonderful power of expression—wit, drollery, seriousness, chasing each other in rapid succession. Its changes were at once

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sudden and marvelous. At one moment he looked stupid and then inspired. His face was like a revolving light—now dull and dark—now radiant, and shedding its beams on all around. His manners were subject to a similar change; usually he seemed uncouth, yet often have I seen him seductively courteous. In short, he was a bundle of contradictions: generally he was ugly, yet sometimes handsome; for the most part he was awkward, yet often graceful; his countenance was ordinarily dull, yet frequently beaming with light.

Thus with a look and appearance of youth—with indeed something of the waywardness and improvidence of boyhood, even when he had reached the full age of manhood—he was still full of noble thoughts and sentiments. In his editorial career—though he was negligent, dilatory, sometimes almost imbecile from a sort of constitutional inertness—still a train of inextinguishable light remains to gleam along his path. Many a busy, toiling editor has filled his daily columns for years, without leaving a living page behind him; while Brainard, with all his failings and irregularities, has left a collection of gems, which loving, and tender, and poetic hearts will wear and cherish to immortality. And among all that he wrote—be it remembered, thus idly, recklessly, as it might seem—there is not a line that, “dying, he could wish to blot.” His love of parents, of home, of kindred, was beautiful indeed; his love of nature, and especially of the

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scenes of his childhood, was the affection of one never weaned from the remembrance of his mother’s breast. He was true in friendship, chivalrous in all that belonged to personal honor. I never heard him utter a malignant thought—I never knew him to pursue an unjust design. At the early age of eight-and-twenty he was admonished that his end was near. With a submissive spirit he resigned himself to his doom, and, in pious, gentle, cheerful faith, he departed on the 26th of September, 1828.

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LETTER XXXVIII.

My first Voyage across the Atlantic—England—London—My Tour on the Continent—Return to England—Visit to Barley Wood—Hannah More—Inquiries as to Books for Education—Ireland—Dublin—The Giant’s Causeway—Scotland—Scenery of the Lady of the Lake—Glasgow—Edinburgh.

My dear C******

It was, as I have already told you, on the 16th of November, 1823, that I set sail in the Canada, Captain Macy, on my first visit to Europe. I have now before me four volumes of notes made during my tour; but be not alarmed—I shall not inflict them upon you. I might, perhaps, have ventured to publish them when they were fresh, but since that period the world has been inundated with tales of travels. I shall therefore only give you a rapid outline of my adventures, and a few sketches of men and things, which may perchance interest you.

Our voyage was—as usual at that season of the year—tempestuous. As we approached the British Islands, we were beset by a regular hurricane. On the 5th of December, the captain kindly informed us that we were almost precisely in the situation of the Albion,* the day before she was wrecked on the rocky

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headland of Kinsale—at the southeast extremity of Ireland—an event which had spread general gloom throughout the United States. As night set in, we were struck with a squall, and with difficulty the vessel was brought round, so as to lie to. The storm was fearful, and the frequent concussions of the waves upon the ship, sounding like reports of artillery, made her reel and stagger like a drunken man. The morning came at last, and the weather was fair, but our deck was swept of its boats, bulwarks, and hen-coops. Our old cow in her hovel, the covering of the steerage, and that of the companion-way, were saved. We had, however, some gratis sea-bathing in our berths—terribly suggestive of the chill temperature of that abyss which might soon be our grave. The next morning we took a pilot, and on the 8th of December entered the dock at Liverpool.

As this was my first experience at sea, I beg you to forgive this brief description. I had suffered fearfully by sea-sickness, and had scarce strength to walk

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ashore. I felt such horror—such disgust of the sea, that I could easily have pledged myself never to venture upon it again. Strange to say, this all passed away like a dream: my strength revived, and even my constitution, shattered by long suffering, seemed to be renovated. With the return of health and spirits, my journey to London seemed like a triumphal march. Though it was December, the landscape was intensely green, while the atmosphere was dark as twilight. The canopy of heaven seemed to have come half way down, as if the sky had actually begun to fall. Yet this was England! Oh, what emotions filled my breast as I looked on Kenilworth, Warwick, and Litchfield, and at last on London!

I remained at the latter place about a month, and then went to Paris. In April I departed, and visiting Switzerland, and a portion of Germany, followed the Rhine to Cologne. Thence I traveled through Flanders and Holland, and taking a sloop at Rotterdam, swung down the Maese, and in May reached London, by way of the Thames.

I soon after departed for Bristol—taking the renowned cathedral at Salisbury and the Druidical ruin of Stonehenge in my way. Having reached that city and seen its sights, I hired a post-coach, and went to Barley-wood—some ten miles distant. Hannah More was still there! The house consisted of a small thatched edifice—half cottage and half villa—tidily kept, and garnished with vines and trellices, giving it a

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cheerful and even tasteful appearance. Its site was on a gentle hill, sloping to the southeast, and commanding a charming view over the undulating country around, including the adjacent village of Wrington, with a wide valley sloping to the Bay of Bristol—the latter sparkling in the distance, and bounded by the Welch mountains, in the far horizon. Behind the house, and on the crown of the hill, was a small copse, threaded with neat gravel walks, and at particular points embellished with objects of interest. In one place there was a little rustic temple, with this motto—Audi Hospes, contemnere opes; in another, there was a stone monument, erected to the memory of Bishop Porteus, who had been a particular friend of the proprietor of the place. A little further on, I found another monument, with this inscription: “To John Locke, born in this village, this monument is erected by Mrs. Montague, and presented to Hannah More.” From this sequestered spot, an artificial opening was cut through the foliage of the trees, giving a view of the very house—about a mile distant—in which Locke was born! In another place was a small temple built, of roots, which might have served for the shrine of some untamed race of Dryads.

Mrs. More was now seventy-nine years of age,* and

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was very infirm, having kept her room for two years. She was small, and wasted away. Her attire was of dark-red bombazine, made loose like a dressing-gown. Her eyes were black and penetrating, her face glowing with cheerfulness, through a lace-work of wrinkles. Her head-dress was a modification of the coiffure of her earlier days—the hair being slightly frizzed, and lightly powdered, yet the whole group of moderate dimensions.

She received me with great cordiality, and learning that I was from Hartford, immediately inquired about Mrs. Sigourney, Mr. Gallaudet, and Alice Coggswell: of the latter she spoke with great interest. She mentioned several Americans who had visited her, and others with whom she had held correspondence. Her mind and feelings were alive to every subject that was suggested. She spoke very freely of her writings and her career. I told her of the interest I had taken, when a child, in the story of the Shepherd of Salisbury Plain, upon which she recounted its history, remarking that the character of the hero was modeled from life, though the incidents were fictitious. Her tract, called “Village Politics, by Will Chip,” was written at the request of the British Ministry,

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and two million copies were sold the first year. She showed me copies of Cœlebs in Search of a Wife—the most successful of her works—in French and German, and a copy of one of her sacred dramas—“Moses in the Bullrushes”—on palm-leaves, in the Cingalese tongue—it having been translated into that language by the missionary school at Ceylon. She showed me also the knife with which the leaf had been prepared, and the scratches made in it to receive the ink. She expressed a warm interest in America, and stated that Wilberforce had always exerted himself to establish and maintain good relations between Great Britain and our country. I suggested to her that in the United States, the general impression—that of the great mass of the people—was that the English were unfriendly to us. She said it was not so. I replied that the Americans all read the English newspapers, and generally, the products of the British press; that feelings of dislike, disgust, animosity, certainly pervaded most of these publications, and it was natural to suppose that these were the reflections of public opinion in Great Britain. At all events, our people regarded them as such, and hence inferred that England was our enemy. She expressed great regret at this state of things, and said all good people should strive to keep peace between the two countries: to all which I warmly assented.

My interview with, this excellent lady was, on the whole, most gratifying. Regarding her as one of the

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greatest benefactors of the age—as, indeed, one of the most remarkable women that had ever lived—I looked upon her not only with veneration but affection. She was one of the chief instruments by which the torrent of vice and licentiousness, emanating from the French Revolution and inundating the British Islands, was checked and driven back: she was even, to a great extent, the permanent reformer of British morals and manners, as well among the high as the humble. And besides, I felt that I owed her a special debt, and my visit to her was almost like a pilgrimage to the shrine of a divinity. When I left America, I had it in mind to render my travels subservient to a desire I had long entertained of making a reform—or at least an improvement—in books for youth. I had made researches in London, France, and Germany, for works that might aid my design. It is true I had little success, for while scientific and classical education was sedulously encouraged on the continent as well as in England, it seemed to be thought, either that popular education was not a subject worthy of attention, or that Dilworth and Mother Goose had done all that could be done. In this interview with the most successful and most efficient teacher of the age, I had the subject still in mind; and discerning by what she had accomplished, the vast field that was open, and actually inviting cultivation, I began from this time to think of attempting to realize the project I had formed. It is true that, in some respects, the

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example I had just contemplated was different from my own scheme. Hannah More had written chiefly for the grown-up masses; I had it in contemplation to begin further back—with the children. Her means, however, seemed adapted to my purpose: her success, to encourage my attempt. She had discovered that truth could be made attractive to simple minds. Fiction was, indeed, often her vehicle, but it was not her end. The great charm of these works which had captivated the million, was their verisimilitude. Was there not, then, a natural relish for truth in all minds, or at least was there not a way of presenting it, which made it even more interesting than romance? Did not children love truth? If so, was it necessary to feed them on fiction? Could not history, natural history, geography, biography, become the elements of juvenile works, in place of fairies and giants, and mere monsters of the imagination? These were the inquiries that from this time filled my mind.

Taking leave of Barley-wood and its interesting occupant, I traversed Wales, and embarking at Holyhead, passed over to Ireland. Having seen Dublin, with the extraordinary contrasts of sumptuousness in some of its streets and edifices, with the fearful squalidness and poverty in others—I passed on to the North. Having taken a wondering view of the Giants’ Causeway, I returned to Belfast, embarked in a steamboat, and went over to Greenock. Thence I proceeded

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toward Dumbarton, and in the early evening, as I approached the town in a small steamer, I actually realized, in the distance before me, the scene of the song—

On the morrow I went to Loch Lomond, crossing the lake in a steamboat; thence on foot to Callender, and spent two days around Loch Katrine, amid the scenery of the Lady of the Lake. With a copy of that poem in my hand, which I had bought of a peasant on the borders of Loch Lomond, I easily traced out the principal landmarks of the story: “Ellen’s Isle,” nearly in the middle of the lake; on the northern shore, “the Silver Strand,” where the maiden met Fitz James; far to the east, Benain, rearing its “forehead fair” to the sky; to the south, the rocky pyramid called “Roderick’s Watch-tower;” and still beyond, the “Goblin’s Cave.” Leaving the lake, I passed through the Trosachs, a wild rocky glen, and the scene of the most startling events in the poem. At last I came to Coilantogle Ford, where the deadly struggle took place between the two heroes of the poem—Roderick and Fitz James. Finally, I went to the borders of Loch Achray—a placid sheet of water—beautiful by nature, but still more enchanting through the delightful associations of poetic art.

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But I must forbear. I have pledged myself not to weary you with descriptions of scenery, and especially with that which is familiar to you in twenty books of travels. Forgive me this instance of weakness, and I will try not to sin again—at least till I get out of Scotland. Having spent two days in this region, of poetry and romance, I left for Glasgow, and at last reached Edinburgh.

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LETTER XXXIX.

Edinburgh—The Court of Sessions—Cranstoun, Cockburn, Moncrief— Lockhart—Jeffrey—Sir Walter Scott.

My dear C******

Think of being in Edinburgh, and Scott, Jeffrey, Chalmers, Dugald Stuart, Lockhart, there! It was then decidedly the literary metropolis of the Three Kingdoms—not through the amount of its productions, but their superiority. The eloquent, sparkling, trenchant Edinburgh Review was the type of Scottish genius; the heavy Quarterly represented London. I had several letters of introduction—among

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them one to Blackwood, another to Constable, another to Miss Y…. The latter proved fortunate. Her father was a Writer to the Signet—an elderly gentleman of excellent position, and exceedingly fond of showing off “Auld Reekie.” Well indeed might he be, for of all the cities I have seen, it is, in many respects, the most interesting. I am told it is gloomy in winter, but now it was the zenith of spring. The twilight did not wholly disappear till twelve, and the dawn was visible at one. If nature, in these high latitudes, falls into a harsh and savage humor in winter, it makes ample amends in summer.

The very day after delivering my letters, Mr. Y…. called on me, and showed me the lions of the town. Many of them, all indeed, were interesting, but I pass them by, and shall only linger a short time at the Court of Sessions, which is the supreme civil court of Scotland. This, with the High Court of Justitiary—the supreme criminal court—forms the College of Justice, and constitutes the supreme judicial system of Scotland. Their sessions are held in the old Parliament House, situated in the center of the Old Town.

We entered a large Gothic hall, opening, as I observed, into various contiguous apartments. Here I saw a considerable number of persons, mostly lawyers and their clients—some sauntering, some meditating—some gathered in groups and conversing together. I noticed that many of the former, and

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more especially the older members of the bar, wore gowns and wigs; others wore gowns only, and still others were in the ordinary dress. I afterward was told that it was wholly at the option of individuals to adopt this costume, or not; in general, it was regarded as going out of fashion. There was a large number of people distributed through the several apartments, and in the grand hall there was a pervading hum of voices which seemed to rise and rumble and die away amid the groinings of the roof above.

Among the persons in this hall, a man some thirty years of age, tall and handsome, dressed in a gown but without the wig, attracted my particular attention. He was walking apart, and there was a certain look of coldness and haughtiness about him. Nevertheless, for some undefinable reason, he excited in me a lively curiosity. I observed that his eye was dark and keen, his hair nearly black, and though cut short, slightly curled. He carried his head erect, its largely developed corners behind, giving him an air of self-appreciation. His features were small, but sharply defined; his lips were close, and slightly disdainful and sarcastic in their expression.

There was a striking combination of energy and elegance in the general aspect of this person; yet over all, I must repeat, there was something also of coldness and pride. Upon his face, expressive of vigor and activity—mental and physical—there was a visible tinge of discontent.

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“Who is that gentleman?” said I, to my guide.

“That large, noble-looking person, with a gown and wig? That is Cranstoun, one of our first lawyers, and the brother-in-law of Dugald Stuart.”

“No: that person beyond and to the left? He is without a wig.”

“Oh, that’s Cockburn—a fiery whig, and one of the keenest fellows we have at the bar.”

“Yes: but I mean that younger person, near the corner.”

“Oh, that small, red-faced, freckled man? Why that’s Moncrief—a very sound lawyer. His father, Sir Harry Moncrief, is one of the most celebrated divines in Scotland.”

“No, no: it is that tall, handsome, proud-looking person, walking by himself.”

“ Oh, I see: that’s Lockhart—Sir Walter Scott’s son-in-law. Would you like to know him?”

“Yes.”

And so I was introduced to a man* who, at that time, was hardly less an object of interest to me than

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Scott himself. Though a lawyer by profession, he devoted himself to literature, and was now in the height of his career. “Peter’s Letters to his Kinsfolk,” “Valerius,” and other works, had given him a prominent rank as a man of talent; and besides, in 1820, he had married the eldest daughter of the “Great Unknown.” My conversation with him was brief at this time, but I afterward became well acquainted with him.

My guide now led me into one of side- rooms, where I saw a judge and jury, and a lawyer addressing them. The latter was a very small man, without gown or wig, apparently forty years of age, though he might be somewhat older. He was of dark complexion, with an eye of intense blackness, and almost painfully piercing expression. His motions were quick and energetic, his voice sharp and penetrating—his general aspect exciting curiosity rather than affection. He was speaking energetically, and, as we approached the bar, my conductor said to me in a whisper—“Jeffrey!”

We paused, and I listened intently. The case in itself seemed dry enough—something, I believe, about a stoppage in transitu. But Jeffrey’s pleading was admirable—clear, progressive, logical. Occasionally, in fixing upon a weak point of his adversary, he displayed a leopard-like spring of energy, altogether startling. He seized upon a certain point in the history of the case, and insisted that the property in question rested

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at that period in the hands of the defendant’s agent, for at least a fortnight. This he claimed to be fatal to his adversary’s plea. Having stated the facts, with a clearness which seemed to prove them, he said, turning with startling quickness upon his antagonist—“Now, I ask my learned brother to tell me, what was the state of the soul during that fortnight?” To a jury of Scotch Presbyterians, familiar with theological metaphysics, this allusion was exceedingly pertinent and effective.

We passed into another room. Three full-wigged judges were seated upon a lofty bench, and beneath them, at a little table in front, was a large man, bent down and writing laboriously. As I approached, I caught a side-view of his face. There was no mistaking him—it was Sir Walter himself!

Was it not curious to see the most renowned personage in the three kingdoms, sitting at the very feet of these men—they the court, and he the clerk? They were indeed all “lords,” and their individual names were suggestive to the ear: one was Robertson, son of the historian of Charles V.; another was Gillies, brother of the renowned Grecian scholar of that name; another, Mackenzie, son of the author of the Man of Feeling. These are high titles—but what were they to the author of Waverley?

Mr. Y…. introduced me to him at once, breaking in upon his occupation with easy familiarity. As he arose from his seat, I was surprised at his robust, vig-

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orous frame. He was very nearly six feet in height, full chested, and of a farmer-like aspect. His complexion seemed to have been originally sandy, but now his hair was gray. He had the rough, freckled, weather-beaten skin of a man who is much in the open air; his eye was small and gray, and peered out keenly and inquisitively from beneath, a heavy brow, edged with something like gray, twisted bristles—the whole expression of his face, however, being exceedingly agreeable. He wore a gown, but no wig. It would have been a sin to have covered up that wonderful head, towering, as we have all seen it in his portraits—the throne of the richest intellect in the world.*

He greeted me kindly—the tone of his voice being hearty, yet with a very decided Scotch accent. I told him I had been to the Highlands. “It is a little too early,” said he; “I always wish my friends to wait till the middle of June, for then the ash is in its glory. Here in the north, summer, as you know, is a laggard. In America it visits you in better season?”

“I am from New England, and our forests are not in full leaf till June.”

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“Yes, your climate there is somewhat like ours. Are you from Boston?”

“I am from Hartford, in Connecticut—of which you have perhaps never heard.”

“My American geography is not very minute; yet Connecticut is a familiar name to my ear. Do you know Mr. Irving?”

“I have never seen him but once.”

“Mr. Cooper?”

“Yes, I know him well.”

“Do you stay long in Edinburgh?”

“A few weeks.”

“We shall meet again, then, and talk these matters over.”

So I had seen the author of Waverley! I leave you to guess my emotions, for I could not describe them.

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LETTER XL.

Preparations for a Ride—Mr. Jeffrey in a Rough-and-tumble—A Glance at Edinburgh from the Braid Hills—A Shower—The Maids of the Mist—Durable Impressions.

My dear C******

I found a note—May 31st—at my hotel, from Miss Y…., inviting me to breakfast. I went at ten, and we had a pleasant chat. She then proposed a ride, and I accepted. She was already in her riding-habit,

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and putting on a hat and collar—both of rather masculine gender, yet not uncomely—we went forth. We were in Queen-street, No. 48; passing along a short distance, we turned a corner to the left, mounted the steps of a fine house, and rang. We entered, and I was introduced to the proprietor, Mrs. Russell. She led us into another room, and there, on the floor, in a romp with her two boys, was a small, dark man. He arose, and behold, it was Francis Jeffrey!* Think of the first lawyer in Scotland—the lawgiver of the great Republic of Letters throughout Christendom—having a rough-and-tumble on the floor, as if he were himself a boy! Let others think as they will—I loved him from that moment; and ever after, as I read his criticisms—cutting and scorching as they often were—I fancied that I could still see a kind and genial spirit shining through them all. At least it is certain that, behind his editorial causticity, there was in private life a fund of gentleness and geniality

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which endeared him to all who enjoyed his intimacy. I was now introduced to him, and he seemed a totally different being from the fierce and fiery gladiator of the legal arena, where I had before seen him. His manners were gentle and gentlemanly—polite to the ladies and gracious to me.

Jeffrey’s house was some two miles from town. His custom was to come to the city on horseback—and Mrs. Russell being his friend, he frequently stopped at her house, leaving his horse in her stable. Some gossiping scandal arose from this intimacy, but it was, of course, not only idle, but absurd. We found Mrs. Russell in a riding-dress, and prepared to accompany us in our excursion. Taking leave of Mr. Jeffrey, we went to the stable, where were nearly a dozen horses, of various kinds and adapted to various uses. Miss Y…. chose a shaggy gray pony, half savage and half pet; Mrs. Russell mounted a long, lean, clean-limbed hunter; and I, at her suggestion, took Mr. Jeffrey’s mare—a bay, rollicking cob, with a gait like a saw-mill—as I found to my cost.

We walked our steeds gently out of town, but on leaving the pavements the ladies struck into a vigorous trot. Up and down the hills we went, the turnpike gates flying open at our approach, the servant behind, paying the tolls. We passed out of the city by Holy Rood, and swept round to the east of Arthur’s seat, leaving Portobello on the left. We rode

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steadily, noting a few objects as we passed, until at last, reaching an elevated mound, we paused, and the ladies directed my attention to the scenes around. We were some two miles south of the town, upon one of the slopes of the Braid Hills. Ah, what a view was before us! The city, a vast, smoking hive, to the north; and to the right, Arthur’s Seat, bald and blue, seeming to rise up and almost peep into its streets and chimneys. Over and beyond all, was the sea. The whole area between the point where we stood and that vast azure line, blending with the sky, was a series of abrupt hills and dimpling valleys, threaded by a network of highways and byways—honeycombed in spots by cities and villages, and elsewhere sprinkled with country-seats.

It is an unrivaled scene of varied beauty and interest. The natural site of Edinburgh is remarkable, consisting of three rocky ledges, steepling over deep ravines. These have all been modified by art; in one place a lake has been dried up, and is now covered with roads, bridges, tenements, gardens, and lawns. The sides of the cliffs are in some instances covered with masses of buildings, the edifices occasionally rising tier upon tier—in one place presenting a line of houses a dozen stories in height! The city is divided by a deep chasm into two distinct parts, the Old Town, dun and smoky, and justifying the popular appellation of “Auld Reekie,” or Old Smoky; the other the New Town, with all the fresh

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architecture and all the rich and elaborate embellishments of a modern city. Nearly from the center of the old town rises the Castle, three hundred and eighty feet above the level of the sea—on one side looking down almost perpendicularly, two hundred feet into the vale beneath—on the other holding communication with the streets by means of a winding pathway. In the new town is Calton Hill, rich with monuments of art and memorials of history, and suggesting to the mind a resemblance to the Acropolis of Athens. From these two commanding positions, the scenes are unrivaled.

But I forget that I have taken you to the Braid Hills. The panorama, from this point, was not only beautiful to the eye, but a rich harvest to the mind. My amiable guides directed my attention to various objects—some far and some near, and all with names familiar to history or song or romance. Yonder mass of dun and dismal ruins was Craigmillar’s Castle, once the residence of Queen Mary. Nearly in the same direction, and not remote, is the cliff, above whose bosky sides peer out the massive ruins of Roslin Castle; further south are glimpses of Dalkeith Palace, the sumptuous seat of the Duke of Buccleugh; there is the busy little village of Lasswade, which takes the name of “Grandercleugh” in the “Tales of my Landlord;” yonder winds the Esk and there the Galawater—both familiar in many a song; and there is the scenery of the “Gentle Shepherd,” presenting

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the very spot where that inimitable colloquy took place between Peggy and her companion, Jenny—

While we were surveying these unrivaled scenes, the rain began to fall in a fine, insinuating mizzle: soon large drops pattered through the fog, and at last there was a drenching shower. I supposed the ladies would seek some shelter: not they—maids of the mist—accustomed to all the humors of this drizzly climate, and of course defying them. They pulled off their green vails, and stuffed them into their saddle-pockets; then chirruping to their steeds, they sped along the road, as if mounted on broomsticks. I was soon wet to the skin, and so, doubtless, were they—if one might suggest such a thing. However, they took to it as ducks to a pond. On we went, the water—accelerated by our speed—spouting in torrents from our stirrups. In all my days, I had never such an adventure. And the coolness with which the ladies took it—that was the most remarkable. Indeed,

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it was provoking—for as they would not accept sympathy, of course they could not give it, though my reeking condition would have touched any other heart than theirs. On we went, till at last coming to the top of a hill, we suddenly cropped out into the sunshine—the shower still scudding along the valley beneath us. We continued our ride, getting once more soaked on our way, and again drying in the sun. At last we reached home, having made a circuit of fifteen miles. Scarcely a word was said of the rain. I saw my mermaid friends to their residences, and was thankful when I got back to the hotel. What with the shower, and a slight cold which ensued—I did not get the trot of Jeffrey’s mare out of my bones for a fortnight. Indeed, long after, during rough weather, when the gust and rain dashed against my window, the beast sometimes visited me in sleep, coming in the shape of a nightmare, carrying me at a furious rate, with two charming witches before, beckoning me on to a race. As a just moral of this adventure—I suggest to all Americans, who ride with Scotch ladies around Edinburgh, not to go forth in their best dress-coat, and pantaloons having no straps beneath the boot.

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LETTER XLI.

William Blackwood—The Magazine—A Dinner at Blackwood’s—James Ballantyne—Lord Byron and Lady Caroline Lamb—The General Assembly of Scotland—Dr. Chalmers.

My dear C******

One or two more selections from my journal, and we will leave Edinburgh. I had delivered my letter of introduction to Blackwood, and he had treated me very kindly. He was, professionally, a mere bookseller and publisher—a plain, short, stocky person, with a large head, bald and flat on the top. He spoke broad Scotch, or rather sang it, for although all spoken language, in every country, has its cadences, in Scotland it is a veritable song. This is more noticeable among the illiterate, and especially the old women. I sometimes thought they were mocking me, so emphatic were their inflexions and modulations. I have since observed similar intonations in other countries, especially in Italy, where the rising and falling of the voice is so marked as to appear like an affectation of musical cadenzas, even in conversation.

Nevertheless, Mr. Blackwood was an exceedingly intelligent and agreeable gentleman. The Magazine* which bears his name, was then in its glory,

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and of course a part of its radiance shone on him. He was a man of excellent judgment, even in literary matters, and his taste, no doubt, contributed largely to the success of the Magazine. He was in familiar intercourse with the celebrities of the day—and a bright constellation they were. He spoke as familiarly of great names—Scott, Lockhart, Hogg, Wilson—sacred to me, as Appleton and Putnam and the Harpers do of Irving, Halleck, and Bryant, or Ticknor &

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Fields of Prescott and Longfellow. Was not that a time to be remembered?

Of course I was gratified at receiving from him a note, inviting me to dine with him the next day. His house was on the south of the old town—nearly two miles distant. The persons present were such, as I should myself have selected: among them Lockhart and James Ballantyne. I sat next the latter, and found him exceedingly agreeable and gentlemanlike. He was a rather large man, handsome, smooth in person and manner, and very well dressed. You will remember that at this time, it was not acknowledged by Scott or his friends that he was the author of the Waverley novels. Perhaps the mystery was even promoted by them, for, no doubt, it added adventitious interest to his works. However, the vail was not closely preserved in the circle of intimacy. Ballantyne said to me, in the course of a conversation which turned upon the popularity of authors, as indicated by the sale of their works—“We have now in course of preparation forty thousand volumes of Scott’s poems and the works of the author of Waverley”—evidently intimating the identity of their authorship.

There was nothing remarkable about our meal: it was like an English dinner, generally—ample, substantial, administered with hospitality, and discussed with relish. There was a certain seriousness and preparation about it, common in Europe, but un-

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common in our country. We rush to the table as if eating was an affair to be dispatched in the shortest possible time: to linger over it would seem to be an indecency. The Englishman, on the contrary, arranges his business for his dinner; he prepares his mind for it; he sets himself to the table, and adjusts his legs beneath, for it; he unfolds his napkin and lays it in his lap, or tucks a corner within his waistcoat, for it; he finally qualifies himself the better to enjoy it, by taking a loving survey of the good things before him and the good friends around him. He begins leisurely, as if feeling that Providence smiles upon him, and he would acknowledge its bounties by prolonging the enjoyment of them. As he proceeds, he spices his gratification by sips of wine, exchanges of compliments with the ladies and convivial chat, right and left, with his neighbors. The host is attentive, the hostess lends a smiling countenance, the servants are ubiquitous, and put your wishes into deeds, without the trouble of your speaking to them.

The first half hour has a certain earnestness about it, apparently occupied in reducing the Malakoffs of beef, Mamelons of mutton, and Redans of poultry—that come one after another. The victory is, at last, substantially won: all that remains is to capture the pies, cakes, tarts, ices, creams, fruits, &c., which is usually done with a running artillery of light wit. Conversation ensues; now and then all listen to some good talker; perhaps a story-teller catches,

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for a time, the attention of the company, and then again all around resolves itself into a joyous and jovial confusion of tongues. An hour is past, and the ladies retire. The gentlemen fill their glasses, and offer them a parting toast; then they drink “The Queen,” and give themselves up to social enjoyment.

And so it was on this occasion—only that we drank the King, instead of the Queen, for George IV. was then upon the throne. Mr. Blackwood was living in a plain but comfortable style, and garnished his entertainment with a plain, simple hospitality—which lost nothing by his occasional interjections of very broad Scotch. It was delightful to see the easy intimacy of the persons present: they frequently called each other by their Christian names—using terms of endearment, which with us would seem affected, perhaps absurd. “Jammy, dear, tak some wine yoursel, and hand it to me!” said Blackwood to Ballantyne, and the latter answered in a similar tone of familiar kindness. The whole intercourse of the company seemed warmed and cheered by these simple, habitual courtesies. Our own manners, I think, under similar circumstances, must appear bald and chilling, in comparison.

Nor was there any thing remarkable in the conversations—save only what related to Byron. The news of his death at Missolonghi, on the 19th of April, had reached Scotland a few weeks before, and produced

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a profound sensation. Even while I was there, the interest in the subject had not subsided. Mr. Lockhart had not known Byron, personally, but he was in London soon after his departure for the continent, and at several subsequent periods, and he gave us many interesting details respecting him. He was frequently at Lady Caroline Lamb’s soirees, where he met the literary celebrities of London, and especially the younger and gayer portion of them. Her ladyship had flirted with the lordly poet in the heyday of his fame, and it was said, condescended to visit him in the guise of a page—her reputation being of that salamander quality, which could pass through such fire and suffer no damage. Her lover proved fickle, and at last ungrateful, and she retaliated in the novel of “Glenarvon”—venting her rage upon him by depicting him as “having an imagination of flame playing around a heart of ice.”

At the time Lockhart thus mingled in Lady Caroline’s circle, Byron was the frequent theme of comment. She had a drawer-full of his letters, and intimate friends were permitted to read them. She had also borrowed of Murray the poet’s manuscript autobiography given to Moore, and had copied some of its passages. This was soon discovered, and she was obliged to suppress them—but still passages of them got into circulation. The work was written in a daring, reckless spirit, setting at defiance all the laws of propriety, and even of decency. One of the chapters

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consisted of a rhyming list of his acquaintances, at the period of his highest fashionable success, in London—dashed off with amazing power—yet in such terms of profanity as to forbid repetition, at least in print. It was obvious, from what was said by Mr. Lockhart and others, that such were the gross personalities, the shameful outrages of decorum, and the general licentiousness of this production, that it was impossible for any respectable publisher to be concerned in giving it to the world. The consignment of it to the flames, by his friends, was as much dictated by regard to their own characters, as to the fame of the author, which was in a certain degree committed to their keeping.

We sat down to dinner at seven, and got up at eleven. After a short conversation with the ladies, we took our departure. As I was getting into my carriage, Mr. Lockhart proposed to me to walk back to town, a distance of a mile and a half. I gladly accepted this proposition, and we had a very interesting conversation. Upon intimacy, Lockhart’s coldness wholly disappeared. He spoke in an easy, rattling way, very much in the manner of the freer portions of Peter’s Letters. The good dinner had doubtless cheered him a little; but not only on this, but other occasions I had evidence of a more genial nature than might have been supposed to exist beneath the haughty armor which he seemed to wear toward the world.

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The next day I went to St. Giles’s Church,* to see the General Assembly, then holding its annual session there. This body consisted of nearly four hundred members, chosen by different parishes, boroughs, and universities. The sessions are attended by a Commissioner appointed by the crown, but he is seated outside of the area assigned to the assembly, and has no vote, and no right of debate. He sits under a pavilion, with the insignia of royalty, and a train of gaily-dressed pages. He opens the sessions in the name of the King, the Head of the Church: the moderator then opens it in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, the only true Head of the Church! It appears, that the Scotch, in bargaining for a union with England, took good care to provide for their religious independence, and this they still jealously preserve: the Irish, on the contrary, were sold out, and treated like a conquered people. The commissioner, at this time, was Lord Morton—who, according to all the accounts I heard, was a disgrace to human nature.

The aspect of the Assembly was similar to that of the House of Commons—though somewhat graver. I observed that the debates were often stormy, with scraping of the floor, laughing aloud, and cries of “hear, hear!” The members were, in fact, quite disorderly, showing at least as little regard for decorum

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as ordinary legislatures. Sir Walter Scott once remarked, in my hearing, that it had never yet been decided how many more than six members could speak at once!

The persons here pointed out to me as celebrities were Dr. Chalmers, the famous pulpit orator, Dr. Cook, the ecclesiastical historian, and Dr. Baird, principal of the University, and caricatured in the print-shops under a rude portrait of his large face, nearly covered with hair, the whole labeled, Principal Beard. The first of these was now at the height of his fame. He had already begun those reforms which, some years later, resulted in a disruption of the Scottish Church. At this period the Assembly was divided into two opposite parties, the Moderate, and the Sound—the former contending for the old doctrine, that presbyteries were bound to receive and accept every qualified preacher, presented by the crown, or others exercising the right of such preferment, and the latter opposing it. The importance of the question lay in the fact that a large number of the places in the Church were in the gift of the crown, and many others in the hands of lay-patrons, and these were frequently bestowed in such a manner as to accumulate two or more benefices in the hands of one person. The great point made by Chalmers was, that one church, one congregation, however small, was enough to occupy and absorb the attention of one minister; and that a plurality of benefices was both corrupting

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to the Church, by making it subservient to patronage, and destructive of the apostolic spirit, which demands the devotion of the whole soul to the work of the ministry.

I had the good fortune to hear Chalmers speak for a few moments, but with great energy and power, so as to give me an idea of his appearance and manner. He was a large man, and as he rose he seemed rather heavy, slow, and awkward. His face was large, its outline being nearly circular. His lips, when closed, were thin, giving a certain sharpness and firmness to his countenance. His forehead was large and expansive, his brow finely arched, his eye gray, and its expression ordinarily heavy. Altogether his appearance, as he first rose to my view, was unpromising. His speech, his articulation, was even worse, at the outset, for he had the Fifeshire dialect—the harshest and most unintelligible in Scotland. He had, however, spoken but a few sentences, when the whole man was transformed. That heaviness which marked his appearance, had wholly passed away. Upon his countenance there was an animated yet lofty expression—firm and fearless, benevolent and winning—while his voice, pouring out a vast flow of thought, had in it a tone at once of love and command, of feeling and of authority, absolutely irresistible. I felt myself borne along in the torrent—compelled, yet lending myself gratefully to the movement. Sentence after sentence fell from his lips, thought accumulated upon thought,

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illustration upon illustration, and yet the listener compassed every conception and treasured every word. There was something in his voice so musical, so touching, that the whole sank into the soul like a hymn. The general effect was aided by his gestures and movements, for though by no means graceful, they harmonized so well with the emotions of the speaker as at once to illustrate and enforce the general tenor of his address.

On another occasion I heard Dr. Chalmers preach, in one of the churches of the city. The crowd was so great, however, that I saw and heard very imperfectly. It seemed to me that he was rather calculated to produce an effect by his oratory, than his writings. He had evidently wonderful powers of amplification: he often started topics apparently barren and unsuggestive, but soon he called around them a crowd of thoughts and associations of the highest interest. The common labors of the minister of the Gospel—entering into the hearts and homes of the rich and the poor; now leading to the stately hall, and now to the squalid dens of vice, poverty, and crime; now to the administration of baptism, and now to the sacrament—this hackneyed routine, by force of his vivid imagination and ardent spirit, presented pictures to the mind and awoke emotions in the heart, quite overwhelming. He seemed, indeed, like a magician, capable of converting even the sand and stones of the desert into images of life and power; but it appeared

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to me that in order to do this, the voice and gesture and presence of the sorcerer, were indispensable. I have never, in reading any thing he has written—noble as are his works—at all realized the emotions produced by the brief, but startling speech I heard from him in the Assembly.

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LETTER XLII.

A Dinner at Lockhart’s—Conversation about Byron—Mrs. Lockhart—Irving—Professor Ticknor—Music—The Pibroch and Miss Edgeworth—Anecdotes of the Indians—Southey and Second Sight—Cooper’s Pioneers—The Pilot—Paul Janes—Brockden Brown—Burns—Tricks of the Press—Charles Scott—The Welsh Parson—The Italian Base-viol Player—Personal Appearance of Sir Walter—Departure for London—Again in Edinburgh in 1832—Last Moments of Sir Walter—The Sympathy of Nature.

My dear C******

I hope you fully comprehend that, in these sketches I am only dipping into my journal here and there, and selecting such memoranda as I think may amuse you. Most of these passages refer to individuals who have now passed to their graves. It is mournful—to me it is suggestive of feelings inexpressibly sad and solemn—to reflect that of the long list of distinguished persons who, at the period I refer to, shed a peculiar glory upon Edinburgh, not one survives. Scott, Lockhart, Jeffrey, Chalmers—these, and others who stood beside them, either shar-

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ing or reflecting the blushing honors of genius and fame, falling around them—all are gone from the high places which they then illumined with their presence. I am speaking only of the dead—yet I remember them, as living, and—though their history, their works, their fame, are familiar to you—it may still interest you to go back and participate in recollections of them—their persons, speech, manner—and thus, in some degree, see them as they were seen, and know them as they were known. I pray you to accept these passages from my journal, as glimpses only of what I saw, and not as pretending at all to a regular account of my travels and observations, at the time referred to.

On Wednesday, June 2, I dined with Mr. Lockhart—25 Northumberland-street. Besides the host and hostess, there were present Sir Walter Scott, his son, Charles Scott, Mr. Blackwood, Mr. Robinson, and three or four other persons. At dinner I sat next Sir Walter—an arrangement made, I believe, in compliment to myself. Every thing went off pleasantly—with the usual ease, hospitality, and heartiness of an English dinner. The house and furniture were plain and handsome—such as were common to people of good condition and good taste.

The meal was discussed with the usual relish, and with the usual garnish of wit and pleasantry. After the ladies had retired, the conversation became general and animated. Byron was the engrossing topic.

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Sir Walter spoke of him with the deepest feeling of admiration and regret. A few weeks before, on the receipt of the news of his death, he had written an obituary notice of him, in which he compared him to the sun, withdrawn from the heavens at the very moment when every telescope was leveled to discover either his glory or his spots. He expressed the opinion that Byron was “dying of home-sickness”—that being his phrase. For a long time he had flouted England, and seemed to glory alike in his exile and his shame. Yet all this time his heart was devoured with “the fiend ennui.” He went to Greece, in the hope of doing some gallant deed that would wipe out his disgrace, and create for him such sympathy in the breasts of his countrymen, as would enable him to return—his “faults forgiven and his sins forgot.”

Lockhart and Blackwood both told stories, and we passed a pleasant half hour. The wine was at last rather low, and our host ordered the servant to bring more. Upon which Scott said—“No, no, Lokert”—such was his pronunciation of his son-in-law’s name—“we have had enough: let us go and see the ladies.” And so we gathered to the parlor.

Mrs. Lockhart was now apparently about two and twenty years old—small in person, and girl-like in manner. Her hair was light-brown, cut short, and curled in her neck and around her face. Her cheeks were blooming, and her countenance fall of cheerfulness. Her address was at once graceful and gracious

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—indicating a lively, appreciative nature and the finest breeding. She had a son, four years old, and at my request, he was brought in. He was a fine boy, “very like his father,” but alas, doomed to an early death.*

Mrs. Lockhart spoke with great interest of Mr. Irving, who had visited the family at Abbotsford. She said that he slept in a room which looked out on the Tweed. In the morning as he came down to breakfast, he was very pale, and being asked the reason, confessed that he had not been able to sleep. The sight of the Tweed from his window, and the consciousness of being at Abbotsford, so filled his imagination—so excited his feelings, as to deprive him of slumber. She also spoke of Professor Ticknor—laying the accent on the last syllable—as having been at Abbotsford, and leaving behind him the most agreeable impressions.

Our lively hostess was requested to give us some music, and instantly complied—the harp being her instrument. She sang Scotch airs, and played several pibrochs—all with taste and feeling. Her range of tunes seemed inexhaustible. Her father sat by, and entered heartily into the performances. He beat time vigorously with his lame leg, and frequently helped out a chorus, the heartiness of his tones making up for some delinquencies in tune and time.

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Often he made remarks upon the songs, and told anecdotes respecting them. When a certain pibroch had been played, he said it reminded him of the first time he ever saw Miss Edgeworth. There had come to Abbotsford, a wild Gaelic peasant from the neighborhood of Staffa, and it was proposed to him to sing a pibroch, common in that region. He had consented, but required the whole party present, to sit in a circle on the floor, while he should sing the song, and perform a certain pantomimic accompaniment, in the center. All was accordingly arranged in the great hall, and the performer had just begun his wild chant, when in walked a tall, stately lady, and announced herself as Miss Edgeworth!

Mrs. Lockhart asked me about the American Indians—expressing great curiosity concerning them, I told the story of one who was tempted to go into the rapids of the Niagara river, just above the Falls, for a bottle of rum. This he took with him, and having swam out to the point agreed upon, he turned back and attempted to regain the land. For a long time the result was doubtful; he struggled powerfully, but in vain. Inch by inch, he receded from the shore, and at last, finding his doom sealed, he raised himself above the water, wrenched the cork from the bottle, and putting the latter to his lips, yielded to the current, and thus went down to his doom.

Mrs. Lockhart made some exclamations of mingled admiration and horror. Sir Walter then said that he

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had read an account of an Indian, who was in a boat, approaching a cataract; by some accident, it was drawn into the current, and the savage saw that his escape was impossible. Upon this he arose, wrapped his robe of skins around him, seated himself erect, and with an air of imperturbable gravity, went over the falls.

“That is sublime,” said Mrs. Lockhart; “as if he were preparing to meet the Great Spirit, and he thought it proper to enter his presence with dignity!”

“The most remarkable thing about the American Indians,” said Blackwood, “is their being able to follow in the trail of their enemies, by their footprints left in the leaves, upon the grass, and even upon the moss of the rocks. The accounts given of this seem hardly credible.”

“I can readily believe it, however,” said Sir Walter. “You must remember that this is a part of their education. I have learned at Abbotsford to discriminate between the hoof-marks of all our neighbors’ horses, and I taught the same thing to Mrs. Lockhart. It is, after all, not so difficult as you might think. Every horse’s foot has some peculiar—either of size, shoeing, or manner of striking the earth. I was once walking with Southey—a mile or more from home—across the fields. At last we came to a bridle-path, leading toward Abbotsford, and here I noticed fresh hoof prints. Of this I said nothing; but pausing and looking up with an inspired expression, I

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said to Southey—‘I have a gift of second sight: we shall have a stranger to dinner!’

“ ‘And what may be his name?’ was the reply.

“ ‘Scott,’ said I.

“ ‘Ah, it is some relation of yours,’ he said; ‘you have invited him, and you would pass off as an example of your Scottish gift of prophecy, a matter previously agreed upon!’

“ ‘Not at all,’ said I. ‘I assure you that till this moment I never thought of such a thing.’

“When we got home, I was told that Mr. Scott, a farmer living some three or four miles distant, and a relative of mine, was waiting to see me. Southey looked astounded. The man remained to dinner, and he was asked if he had given any intimation of his coming. He replied in the negative: that indeed he had no idea of visiting Abbotsford when he left home. After enjoying Southey’s wonder for some time, I told him that I saw the tracks of Mr. Scott’s horse in the bridle-path, and inferring that he was going to Abbotsford, easily foresaw that we should have him to dinner.”

Mrs. Lockhart confirmed her father’s statement, and told how, in walking over the country together, they had often amused themselves in studying the hoof-prints along the roads.

Mr. Lockhart returned to the Indians. “I have lately been reading an exceedingly clever American novel, entitled the Pioneers, by Cooper. His descrip-

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tive power is very great, and I think he has opened a new field of romance, especially in the hunters along the frontiers, who, in their intercourse with savages, have become half savage themselves. That border life is full of incident, adventure, poetry; the character of Leatherstocking is original and striking.”

“I have not seen the Pioneers,” said Scott; “but I have read the Pilot by the same author, which has just been published. It is very clever, and I think it will turn out that his strength lies in depicting sea life and adventure. We really have no good sea-tales, and here is a wide field, open to a man of true genius.”

“But, papa,” said our hostess, “I should think it rather a narrow field. Only a few persons go to sea, and the language of sailors is so technical as to be hardly understood by people generally. It seems to me that sea-tales can never excite the sympathy of the great mass of readers, because they have had no experience of its life and manners.”

“It is no doubt a task of some difficulty,” said Sir Walter, “to bring these home to the hearts of the reading million; nevertheless, to a man of genius for it, the materials are ample and interesting. All our minds are full of associations of danger, of daring, and adventure with the sea and those who have made that element their home. And besides, this book to which I refer—the Pilot—connects its story with the land. It is perhaps more interesting to me,

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because I perfectly well recollect the time when Paul Jones—whose character is somewhat reflected in the hero of the story—came up the Solway in 1778 in the Ranger, though I was then less than ten years old. He kept the whole coast in a state of alarm for some time, and was in fact the great scarecrow of that age and generation.”

“Mr. Cooper is a man of genius,” said Lockhart: “no one can deny that; but it seems to me that Brockden Brown was the most remarkable writer of fiction that America has produced. There is a similarity in his style to that of the Radcliffe school, and in the tone of mind to Godwin’s Caleb Williams; but in his machinery, he is highly original. In his display of the darker passions, he surpasses all his models.”

“That may be true,” said Sir Walter, “but it is neither a wholesome nor a popular species of literature. It is almost wholly ideal; it is not in nature; it is in fact contrary to it. Its scenes, incidents, characters, do not represent life: they are alien to common experience. They do not appeal to a wide circle of sympathy in the hearts of mankind. The chief emotion that it excites is terror or wonder. The suggestive manner of treating every subject, aims at keeping the mind constantly on the rack of uncertainty. This trick of art was long ago exhausted. Brown had wonderful powers, as many of his descriptions show; but I think he was led astray by falling under the influence of bad examples, prevalent at his time.

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Had he written his own thoughts, he would have been, perhaps, immortal: in writing those of others, his fame was of course ephemeral.”

The conversation turned upon Burns. Scott knew him well. He said that Tam O’Shanter was written to please a stonecutter, who had executed a monument for the poet’s father, on condition that he should write him a witch-story, in verse. He stated that Burns was accustomed, in his correspondence, more especially with ladies, to write an elaborate letter, and then send a copy of it to several persons—modifying local and personal passages to suit each individual. He said that of some of these letters, he had three or four copies thus addressed to different persons, and all in the poet’s handwriting.

The tricks of the London newspapers were spoken of, and he mentioned the following instance. A popular preacher there, had caused a church to be built, in which he was to officiate. The time was fixed for its dedication; but two days before this, an article appeared in one of the city prints, describing the building, and speaking well of it, but suggesting that the pillars which supported the gallery were entirely too slight, and it must be exceedingly dangerous for any congregation to assemble there! This of course produced a general alarm, and to appease this, the proprietor found it necessary to have a survey made by an architect. This was done, and the architect declared, that, as the pillars were of iron,

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there was not the slightest danger. The proprietor took this statement to the editor of the paper, and begged him to retract his false and injurious statement. The reply was—

“This is doubtless an important matter to you, but not of the slightest interest to me.”

“But, sir,” was the reply, “you have stated what is not true: will you not correct your own error?”

“Yes, but we must be paid for it.”

“What, for telling the truth?”

“That depends upon circumstances: do you suppose we can tell every truth that everybody desires us to? No, sir; this is a matter of interest to you: you can afford to pay for it. Give us ten guineas, and we will set it all right.”

The proprietor of the church had no other resource, and so he paid the money.

Charles Scott, Sir Walter’s second son, a rosy-cheeked youth of about eighteen, was present. He had recently come from Wales, where he had been under the teaching of a Welch clergyman. This subject being mentioned, Blackwood asked Mr. Robinson—a very sober, clerical-looking gentleman—to give the company a sample of a Welch sermon. Two chairs were placed back to back: Blackwood sat in one—his bald, flat pate for a desk, and the performer mounted the other—taking one of Mrs. Lockhart’s songs for his notes. It seems he was familiar with the Welch language, and an admirable mimic. His performance was

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exceedingly amusing. When he became animated, he slapped the music down on Blackwood’s bald pate, and in capping his climaxes, gave it two or three smart thumps with his fist. Blackwood must have had a substantial skull, or he could not have borne it. At last, even he had enough of it, and when he perceived another climax was coming, he dodged, and the sermon was speedily brought to a close.

Mr. Robinson was then called upon to imitate an Italian player on the bass-viol. He took a pair of tongs for his bow, and a shovel for the viol, and mounting a pair of spectacles on the tip-end of his nose, he began imitating the spluttering of the instrument by his voice. It was inimitably droll. Sir Walter was quite convulsed, and several of the ladies absolutely screamed. As to myself, I had the side-ache for four-and-twenty hours.

And thus passed the evening—till twelve o’clock. I have not told you the half of what is indicated in the notes before me. These specimens will suffice, however, to give you some idea of the manner in which good people unbent in the family circle of Edinburgh, thirty years ago. You will readily suppose that my eye often turned upon the chief figure in this interesting group. I could not for a moment forget his presence, though nothing could be more unpretending and modest than his whole air and bearing.

His features are doubtless impressed upon you by his portraits, for they have all a general resemblance.

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There was in Mr. Lockhart’s parlor, where we were sitting, a copy of Chantry’s bust of him—since repeated a thousand times in plaster. I compared it again and again with the original. Nothing could possibly be better as a likeness. The lofty head, the projecting brows, the keen, peering glance of the eye, the long, thick upper lip, the dumpy nose, the rather small and receding chin—each feature separately homely, yet all combined to form a face of agreeable expression. Its general effect was that of calm dignity; and now, in the presence of children and friends, lighted by genial emotions, it was one of the pleasantest countenances I have ever seen. When standing or walking, his manly form, added to an aspect of benevolence, completed the image—at once exciting affection and commanding respect.

As to his manners, I need only add that they were those of a well-bred English gentleman—quiet, unpretending, absolutely without self-assertion. He appeared to be happy, and desirous of making others so. He was the only person, present, who seemed unconscious that he was the author of Waverley. His intercourse with his daughter, and hers in return, were most charming. She called him “papa,” and he called her “my child,” “my daughter,” “Sophia,” and in the most endearing tone and manner. She seemed quite devoted to him, watching his lips when he was speaking, and seeking in every thing to anticipate and fulfill his wishes. When she was singing,

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his eye dwelt upon her, his ear catching and seeming to relish every tone. Frequently, when she was silent, his eye rested upon her, and the lines came to my mind—

After a stay of about three weeks in Edinburgh, I took a reluctant leave of it, and went to London. Eight years later, September, 1832, I was again there. Scott was on his death-bed, at Abbotsford. Overburdened with the struggle to extricate himself from the wreck of his fortunes, his brain had given way, and the mighty intellect was in ruins. On the morning of the 17th, he woke from a paralytic slumber—his eye clear and calm, every trace of delirium having passed away. Lockhart came to his bedside. “My dear,” he said, “I may have but a moment to speak to you. Be a good man; be virtuous—be religious: be a good man. Nothing else will give you any comfort, when you are called upon to lie here!”

Oh, what a bequest were these words, uttered by the dying lips of the mightiest genius of the age! We may all do well to heed them. Few more words did he speak; he soon fell into a stupor, which, on

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the 21st, became the sleep of death. Thus he expired, all his children around him. “It was a beautiful day,” says his biographer—“so warm that every window was wide open, and so perfectly still that the sound of all others most delicious to his ear, the gentle ripple of the Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctly audible as we knelt around the bed, and his eldest son kissed and closed his eyes!”

The signs and symbols of mourning that spread over Great Britain on account of the death of the great and good man, were like those which commemorate the decease of a sovereign. Bells were tolled, sermons were preached, flags of ships were at half-mast, nearly every newspaper was clothed in black. In Edinburgh, every lip trembled in speaking of the melancholy event.

Two days after this, I departed with my companion for the Highlands. On reaching Stirling, we found it enveloped in the drapery of dark, impenetrable clouds. We passed on to Callender; we proceeded to Loch Katrine. All around seemed to be in mourning. Huge masses of dim vapor rolled around the pinnacle of Benain; the shaggy brows and rocky precipices of Benvenue were all shrouded in gloomy mist. The hoary forests of the Trosachs heaved sad and moaning in the breeze. The surface of the lake was wrinkled with falling spray. All around seemed to wail and weep, as if some calamity had fallen upon nature itself. He who had endowed these scenes with

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immortality, was dead; his body was now being borne to its tomb. While a nation wept, it was meet that the mountain and the lake, the stream and the glen—which his genius had consecrated—should also weep.

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LETTER XLIII.

Journey to London—Remarks on, England, as it appears to the American Traveler—The Climate—The Landscape—Jealousies between the English and Americans—Plan for securing Peace.

My dear C******

Early in June, I set out for London. My route led me through the village of Dalkeith, and the possessions of the Duke of Buccleugh, extending for thirty miles on both sides of the road. We were constantly meeting objects which revived historical or poetic reminiscences. Among these was Cockpen,

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the scene of the celebrated ballad, and as I rode by, the whole romance passed before my mind. I fancied that I could even trace the pathway along which the old laird proceeded upon his courtship, as well as the residence of

“The pennyless lass with a lang pedigree;”

and who was so daft as to reject his offer, although

We crossed the Galawater and the Ettrick, and traveled along the banks of the Tweed—formed by the union of these two streams. We passed Abbots-ford, rising at a little distance on the left—its baronial dignity being lost in the spell of more potent associations. Further on, we saw the Eildon Hills, “cleft in three” by the wondrous wizzard, Michael Scott—as duly chronicled in the Lay of the Last Minstrel. We proceeded along the banks of the Teviot—a small limpid stream, where we observed the barefooted lassies washing, as in the days of Allan Ramsay. We saw Netherby Hall, and a little beyond Cannobie Lea, the scenes of the song of Young Lochinvar. All these, and many more localities of legendary name and fame, were passed in the course of a forenoon’s progress in the stage-coach. Scotland is indeed a charmed land!

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One day’s journey brought me to Carlisle: thence I traveled westward, looking with all due delight upon Wendermere, and Rydal, and Grassmere, and Helvellyn, and Derwentwater, and Skiddau. Then, turning eastward, I traveled over a hilly and picturesque country, to the ancient and renowned city of York. Having lingered, half entranced amid its antiquities, and looked almost with worship upon its cathedral—the most beautiful I have ever seen—I departed, and soon found myself once more in London.

As I shall not return to the subject again, allow me to say a few words as to the impression England makes upon the mind of an American, traveling over its surface. I have visited this country several times within the last thirty years, and I shall group my impressions in one general view. The whole may be summed up in a single sentence, which is, that England is incomparably the most beautiful country in the world! I do not speak of it in winter, when incumbered with fogs; when there is

I take her as I do any other beauty who sits for her portrait—in her best attire; that is, in summer. The sun rises here as high, in June, as it does in America. Vegetation is just about as far advanced. The meadows, the wheat-fields, the orchards, the forests, are in

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their glory. There is one difference, however, between the two countries—the sun in England is not so hot, the air is not so highly perfumed, the buzz of the insects is not so intense. Every thing is more tranquil. With, us, all nature, during summer, appears to be in haste, as if its time was short—as if it feared the corning frost. In England, on the contrary, there seems to be a confidence in the seasons, as if there were time for the ripening harvests; as if the wheat might swell out its fat sides, the hops amplify its many-plaited flowers, the oats multiply and increase its tassels—each and all attaining their perfection at leisure. In the United States, the period of growth of most vegetables is compressed into ten weeks; in Great Britain, it extends to sixteen.

If we select the middle of June as a point of comparison, we shall see that in America there is a spirit, vigor, energy in the climate, as indicated by vegetable and animal life, unknown in Europe. In the former, the pulse of existence beats quicker than in the latter. The air is clearer, the landscape is more distinct, the bloom more vivid, the odors more pungent, the perceptions of the mind even, I doubt not, are more intense. A clover-field in America, in full bloom, is by many shades more ruddy than the same thing in England—its breath, even is sweeter: the music of the bees stealing its honey is of a higher key. A summer forest with us is of a livelier green than in any part of Great Britain; the incense

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breathed upon the heart, morning and evening, is, I think, more full and fragrant. And yet, if we take the summer through, this season is pleasanter in England than with us. It is longer, its excitements are more tranquil, and, being spread over a larger space, the heart has more leisure to appreciate them, than in the haste and hurry of our American climate. There is one fact worthy of notice, which illustrates this peculiarity of the English summer. The trees there are all of a more sturdy, or, as we say, stubbed form and character. The oaks, the elms, the walnuts, beeches, are shorter and thicker, as well in the trunks as the branches, than ours. They have all a stocky, John Bull form and stature. The leaves are thicker, the twigs larger in circumference. I have noticed particularly the recent growths of apple-trees, and they are at once shorter and stouter than in America. This quality in the trees gives a peculiarity to the landscape. The forest is more solid and less graceful than ours. If you will look at an English painting of trees, you notice the fact I state, and perceive the effect it gives, especially to scenes of, which trees constitute a prevailing element. All over Europe, in fact, the leaves of the trees have a less feathery appearance than in America; and in general the forms of the branches are less arching, and, of course, less beautiful. Hence it will be perceived that European pictures of trees differ in this respect from American ones—the foliage in the for-

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mer being more solid, and the sweep of the branches more angular.

But it is in respect to the effects of human art and industry, that the English landscape has the chief advantage over ours. England is an old country, and shows on its face the transforming influences of fifteen centuries of cultivation. It is, with the exception of Belgium, the most thickly-settled country of Europe—nearly three hundred and fifty inhabitants to the square mile, while in the United States we have but seven. Massachusetts, the most thickly-settled State in America, has but one hundred and thirty.

England, therefore, is under a garden-like cultivation; the plowing is straight and even, as if regulated by machinery; the boundaries, of estates consist for the most part of stone mason-work, the intermediate divisions being hedges, neatly trimmed, and forming a beautiful contrast to our stiff stone walls and rail fences. The public roads are nicely wrought, the sides being turfed with neat and convenient footways. The railway stations are beautiful specimens of architecture; the sides of the railways are all sodded over, and often are blooming with patches of cultivated flowers. In looking from the top of a hill over a large extent of country, it is impossible not to feel a glow of delight at the splendor of the scene—the richness of the soil, its careful and skillful cultivation, its green, tidy boundaries checkering the

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scene, its teeming crops, its fat herds, its numberless and full-fleeced sheep.

Nor must the dwellings be overlooked. I pass by the cities and the manufacturing villages, which, in most parts, are visible in every extended landscape—sometimes, as in the region of Manchester, spreading out for miles, and sending up pitchy wreaths of smoke from a thousand tall, tapering chimneys. I am speaking now of the country, and here are such residences as are unknown to us. An English castle would swallow up a dozen of our shingle or brick villas. The adjacent estate often includes a thousand acres—and these, be it remembered, are kept almost as much for ornament as use. Think of a dwelling that might gratify the pride of a prince, surrounded by several square miles of wooded park, and shaven lawn, and winding stream, and swelling hill, and all having been for a hundred, perhaps five hundred years, subjected to every improvement which the highest art could suggest! There is certainly a union of unrivaled beauty and magnificence in the lordly estates of England. We have nothing, in America which at all resembles them.

And then there is every grade of imitation of these high examples, scattered over the whole country. The greater part of the surface of England belongs to wealthy proprietors, and these have alike the desire and the ability to give an aspect of neatness, finish, elegance, not only to their dwellings and the

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immediate grounds, but to their entire estates. The prevailing standard of taste thus leads to a universal beautifying of the surface of the country. Even the cottager feels the influence of this omnipresent spirit; the brown thatch over his dwelling, and the hedge before his door, must be neatly trimmed; the green ivy must clamber up and festoon his windows, and the little yard in front must bloom with roses and lilies, and other gentle flowers, in their season.

And thus cold, foggy England is made the paradise of the earth—at least during this charming month of June, Nature now, in compensation for her ill humor at other seasons, aids in this universal decoration. Through the whole summer—nay, in autumn, and even in winter—the verdure of the English landscape is preserved. Not in July nor August, not even in December, do we here see the grass parched with heat or grown gray in the frost. It is true the leaves of the trees fall, as they do with us, in November—not having first clothed the hills in red and purple and gold as in America, but, as the English poet tells us—

thus, for a time, seeming to prelude the coming winter, with a drapery of mourning woven, of the faded

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glories of summer. Nothing can indeed be more dismal than the aspect of England, when the black, crumpled leaves are falling in the forests—some, yet fluttering on the branches, and others strewn on the ground. But even then the sod retains its living hue, and when at last the leaves have fallen, there is still a universal mantle of verdure over the fields—thus redeeming winter from a portion of its gloom.

So much for the common aspect of England as the traveler passes over it. The seeker for the picturesque may find abundant gratification in Devonshire, Derbyshire, Westmoreland, though Wales and Scotland, and parts of Ireland, are still more renowned for scenic beauty. So far as combinations of nature are concerned, nothing in the world can surpass some of our own scenery—as along the upper waters of the Housatonic and the Connecticut, or among the islands of Lake George, and a thousand other places—but these lack the embellishments of art and the associations of romance or song, which belong to the rival beauties of British landscapes.

You will notice that I confine these remarks to a single topic—the aspect of England, as it meets the eye of an American traveler. The English, with all their egotism, do not appreciate that wonderful display of wealth and refinement, which the surface of their country presents. They do not and can not enjoy the spectacle as an American does, for they are born to it, and have no experience which, teaches

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them to estimate it by common and inferior standards. Having said so much on this subject, I shall not venture to speak of English society—of the lights and shadows of life beneath the myriad roofs of towns and cities. The subject would be too extensive, and besides, it has been abundantly treated by others. I only say, in passing, that the English people are best studied at home. John Bull, out of his own house, is generally a rough customer: here, by his fireside, with wife, children, and friends, he is generous, genial, gentlemanly. There is no hospitality like that of an Englishman, when you have crossed his threshold. Everywhere else he will annoy you. He will poke his elbow into your sides in a crowded thoroughfare; he will rebuff you if, sitting at his side in a locomotive, you ask a question by way of provoking a little conversation; he will get the advantage of you in trade, if he can; he carries at his back a load of prejudices, like that of Christian in Pilgrim’s Progress, and instead of seeking to get rid of them, he is always striving to increase his collection. If he becomes a diplomat, his great business is to meddle in everybody’s affairs; if an editor, he is only happy in proportion as he can. say annoying and irritating things. And yet, catch this same John Bull at home, and his crusty, crocodile armor falls off, and he is the very best fellow in the world—liberal, hearty, sincere—the perfection of a gentleman.

The relations of America to England are a subject

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of great interest to both countries. It would seem that by every dictate of prudence, as well as of propriety, they should remain friends. We are of the same kith and kin, have the same language, the same faith the same moral and social platform, the same, or at least similar institutions. All these ties seem to bind us in the bonds of peace and amity. To this may be added the myriad relations of commercial interest. To do good to each other is virtually to earn and bless our daily bread. And yet we have been twice at war. There is a social war always being waged between us. The presses of England and America seem to conceive that they say their best things when they say their worst, of the two countries. We must not, then, put too much faith in consanguinity. Family quarrels are proverbially the fiercest. It is a mournful truth that the first murder was a fratricide.

What then is to be done? One thing could and should be done, in England. The press there is in the hands of the ruling people. If, as is asserted in England, there is a general feeling of good-will there toward America, that should be made manifest by the common vehicles of public opinion. Certainly this has never yet been done. From the very beginning, the British press has been supercilious, hypercritical, condemnatory of our country, its manners, principles, institutions. Is it possible—so long as this state of things shall continue—for the American people +o believe that the English nation do

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not, in their hearts, cherish hostility toward country?

It may, indeed, be said that the American press is as little conciliatory toward England as that of England toward America. But, certainly, the good example should come from them. They are the older people—the mother country: their journals are more immediately within the control and influence of leading minds and influential men, than ours. And be sides, all that is wanted on our part, to a good under standing, is an assurance, a conviction of good-will, toward us on the other side of the water. Amid all our scolding at England, there is at the bottom of the American heart, a profound respect for her. We care very little what the French, or Dutch, or Germans, or Russians, or Chinese, or Japanese, say or think of us; but if the English say any thing bad of us, we are sure to resent it. Why can not something be done to bring this mischievous war to an end?

And yet how can it be effected? Let me venture upon a suggestion: if the London Times—that mighty personification of John Bull—would always be a gentleman, when he speaks of America, such, would be the influence of this high example, that I should have some hope of seeing, even in my lifetime, a millennial spirit in the intercourse of the two countries.

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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 have 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,

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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

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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-

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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,

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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.*

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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.

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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

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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

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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

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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-

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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

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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 sides 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,

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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

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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

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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.

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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 God 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.

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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

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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.*

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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

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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

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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 Moses 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-

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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

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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. From the gray dawn to the deep night, these beings,

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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

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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.

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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 the 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

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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 were sold in the space of six months. Wherever 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-

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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

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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—

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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!

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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

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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 the 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

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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

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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.*

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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. Willis, and was, I believe, his first editorial engagement. Among

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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

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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

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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.

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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 of the 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

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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.

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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,†

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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

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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.

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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

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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-

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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

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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

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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 my 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-

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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 one 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

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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

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world. His mind vacillated between various projects, verging, I think, toward a mercantile profession. I combated his despondence, and assured him 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 was 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

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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

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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

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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—

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,

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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

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teeth 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.*

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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*

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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.*

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LETTER XLVII.

The First of the Parley Books—Its Reception—Various Publications—Threatening Attack of Illness—Voyage to Europe—Consultation of Physicians at Paris—Sir Benj. Brodie, of London—Abercrombie, of Edinburgh—Return to America—Residence in the Country—Prosecution of my Literary Labors—Footing up the Account—Annoyances of Authorship—Letter to the New York Daily Times.

My dear C******

Though I was busily engaged in publishing various works, I found time to make my long meditated experiment in the writing of books for children. The first attempt was made in 1827, and bore the title of the Tales of Peter Parley about America. No persons but my wife and one of my sisters were admitted to the secret—for in the first place, I hesitated to believe that I was qualified to appear before the public as an author, and in the next place, nursery literature had not then acquired the respect in the eyes of the world it now enjoys. It is since that period, that persons of acknowledged genius—Scott,

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Dickens, Lamartine, Mary Howitt, in Europe, and Abbott, Todd, Gallaudet, Miss Sedgwick, Mrs. Child, and others, in America, have stooped to the composition of books for children and youth.

I published my little book, and let it make its way. It came before the world untrumpeted, and for some months seemed not to attract the slightest attention. Suddenly I began to see notices of it in the papers, all over the country, and in a year from the date of its publication, it had become a favorite. In 1828, I published the Tales of Peter Parley about Europe; in 1829, Parley’s Winter Evening Tales; in 1830, Parley’s Juvenile Tales, and Parley’s Asia, Africa, Sun, Moon, and Stars. About this time the public guessed my secret—it being first discovered and divulged by a woman—Mrs. Sarah J. Hale, to whom, by the way, I am indebted for many kind offices in my literary career—yet I could have wished she had not done me this questionable favor. Though the authorship of the Parley books has been to me a source of some gratification, you will see, in the sequel, that it has also subjected me to endless vexations.

I shall not weary you with a detail of my proceedings at this busy and absorbed period of my life. I had now obtained a humble position in literature, and was successful in such unambitious works as I attempted. I gave myself up almost wholly for about four years—that is, from 1828 to 1832—to author-

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ship, generally writing fourteen hours a day. A part of the time I was entirely unable to read, and could write but little, on account of the weakness of my eyes. In my larger publications, I employed persons to block out work for me; this was read to me, and then I put it into style, generally writing by dictation, my wife being my amanuensis. Thus embarrassed, I still, by dint of incessant toil, produced five or six volumes a year, mostly small, but some of larger compass.

In the midst of these labors—that is, in the spring of 1832—I was suddenly attacked with symptoms, which seemed to indicate a disease of the heart, rapidly advancing to a fatal termination. In the course of a fortnight I was so reduced as not to be able to mount a pair of stairs without help, and a short walk produced palpitations of the heart, which in several instances almost deprived me of consciousness. There seemed no hope but in turning my back upon my business, and seeking a total change of scene and climate. In May I embarked for England, and after a few weeks reached Paris. I here applied to Baron Larroque, who, assisted by L’Herminier—both eminent specialists in diseases of the heart—subjected me to various experiments, but without the slightest advantage. At this period I was obliged to be carried up stairs, and never ventured to walk or ride alone, being constantly subject to nervous spasms, which often brought me to the verge of suffocation.

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Despairing of relief here, I returned to London, and was carefully examined by Sir B. C. Brodie.* He declared that I had no organic disease, that my difficulty was nervous irritability, and that whereas the French physicians had interdicted wine and required me to live on a light vegetable diet, I must feed well upon good roast beef, and take two generous glasses of port with my dinner! Thus encouraged, I passed on to Edinburgh, where I consulted Abercrombie,† then at the height of his fame. He confirmed the views of Dr. Brodie, in the main, and regarding the irregularities of my vital organs as merely functional, still told me that, without shortening my life, they would probably never be wholly removed. He told me of an instance in which a patient of his, who, having been called upon to testify before the committee of the House of Commons, in the trial of Warren Hast-

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ings—from mere embarrassment—had been seized with palpitation of the heart, which, however, continued till his death, many years after. Even this somber view of my case was then a relief. Four and twenty years have passed since that period, and thus far my experience has verified Dr. Abercrombie’s prediction. These nervous attacks pursue me to this day, yet I have become familiar with them, and regarding them only as troublesome visitors, I receive them patiently and bow them out as gently as I can.*

After an absence of six months I returned to Boston, and by the advice of my physician took up my residence in the country. I built a house at Jamaica Plain, four miles from the city, and here I continued for more than twenty years. My health was partially restored, and I resumed my literary labors. It would

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be tedious and unprofitable to you, were I even to enumerate my various works—produced from the beginning, as I have described it—to the present time. I may sum up the whole in a single sentence: I am the author and editor of about one hundred and seventy volumes, and of these seven millions have been sold! If you have the curiosity to trace my literary history more in detail, you can consult the catalogue which I herewith inclose.*

I have said that however the authorship of Parley’s Tales has made me many friends, it has also subjected me to many annoyances. Some of these are noticed in a letter I addressed to the editor of the New York Times in December, 1855, a portion of which I here copy, with slight modifications, as the easiest method of making you comprehend my meaning.

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LETTER XLVIII.

Republication of Parley’s Tales in London—Mr. Tegg’s operations—Imitated by other publishers—Peter Parley Martin—Letter to Mr. Darton—An edition of the false Parleys in America—The consequences.

My dear C******

When I was in London, in 1832, I learned that Mr. Tegg, then a prominent publisher there, had commenced the republication of Parley’s Tales. I called upon him, and found that he had one of them actually in press. The result of our interview was a contract,* in which I engaged to prepare several

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of these works, which he agreed to publish, giving me a small consideration therefor. Four of these works I prepared on the spot, and after my return to America, prepared and forwarded ten others. Some time after, I learned that the books, or at least a portion of them, had been published in London, and were very successful. I wrote to Mr. Tegg several letters on the subject, but could get no reply.

Ten years passed away, and being in pressing need of all that I might fairly claim as my due, I went to London, and asked Mr. Tegg to render me an account of his proceedings, under the contract. I had previously learned, on inquiry, that he had indeed published four or five of the works as we had agreed, but taking advantage of these, which passed readily into extensive circulation, he proceeded to set aside the contract, and to get up a series of publications upon the model of those I had prepared for him, giving them, in the title-pages, the name of Parley, and passing them off upon the public, by every artifice in his power, as the genuine works of that

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author. He had thus published over a dozen volumes, which he was circulating as “Peter Parley’s Library.” The speculation, as I was told, had succeeded admirably, and I was assured that many thousand pounds of profit had been realized thereby.

To my request for an account of his stewardship, Mr. Tegg replied, in general terms, that I was misinformed as to the success of the works in question; that, in fact, they had been a very indifferent speculation; that he found the original works were not adapted to his purpose, and he had consequently got up others; that he had created, by advertising and other means, an interest in these works, and had thus greatly benefited the name and fame of Parley, and, all things considered, he thought he had done more, for me than I had for him; therefore, in his view, if we considered the account balanced, we should not be very far from a fair adjustment.

To this cool answer I made a suitable reply, but without obtaining the slightest satisfaction. The contract I had made was a hasty memorandum, and judicially, perhaps, of no binding effect on him. And besides, I had no money to expend in litigation. A little reflection satisfied me that I was totally at Tegg’s mercy—a fact of which his calm and collected manner assured me he was even more conscious than myself. The discussion was not prolonged. At the second interview he cut the whole matter short, by saying—“Sir, I do not owe you a farthing; neither

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justice nor law require me to pay you any thing. Still, I am an old man, and have seen a good deal of life, and have learned to consider the feelings of others as well as my own. I will pay you four hundred pounds, and we will be quits! If we can not do this, we can do nothing.” In view of the whole case, this was as much as I expected, and so I accepted the proposition. I earnestly remonstrated with Mr. Tegg against the enormity of making me responsible for works I never wrote, but as to all actual claims on the ground of the contract, I gave him a receipt in full, and we parted.

Some years after this Mr. Tegg died, but his establishment passed into the hands of one of his sons, with another person, by whom it is still continued; the false “Parley’s Library” having been recently enlarged by the addition of other counterfeits.* An example so tempting and so successful as that I have described, was sure to be followed by others, and ere long many of the first publishers of juvenile works in London, had employed persons to write books under the name of Peter Parley—every thing being done in the title-pages; prefaces, advertisements, &c., to make the public receive them as genuine works. The extent to which this business was carried, and the position in which it placed me, may be gathered from a letter I addressed to a publishing house in London some two years since, and which was substantially as follows:

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This letter was forwarded from Paris, where I was then residing, some weeks after it was written. Receiving no reply, I addressed a reminder to Mr. Darton, but that also was unanswered. In July, 1855, I returned to New York, and on inquiry, found that sixteen hundred copies of the Parley’s Annual, referred to in the preceding letter, had been sent there, and were actually in the Custom-house!* I could not but con-

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this as a defiance on the part of Mr. Darton, and accordingly I commenced an action against him, as I had told him I should do.

The case is still undecided. It is, perhaps, a question, whether a New York court has jurisdiction in the case, the defendant being a foreigner, but if it has, I trust it will be settled by our courts that an author is entitled to protection in the use and behoof of a name—however it may be fictitious—with which he has become identified in the public mind, and to which he has given a commercial value. This principle has been fully established in this country as well as in England, in application to manufacturers and merchants, and it is not to be supposed that an author shall be denied the same protection.

Now, you can not suppose, from the facts here stated, that these things do not give me great annoyance. But one thing I am bound to say, which is, that I feel no personal hostility to Mr. Darton. He is most amiable man, and I believe would be the last person in the world to do an intentional wrong. In the present case, he has probably yielded to the guidance of other parties, implicated like himself, and is rather fighting their battles than his own.

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LETTER XLIX.

Objections to the Parley Books—My theory as to books for children—Attempt in England to revive the old nursery books—Mr. Felix Summerly—Hallowell’s Nursery Rhymes of England—Dialogue between Timothy and his mother—Mother Goose—The Toad’s Story—Books of instruction.

My dear C******

It is not to be supposed that the annoyances arising from the falsification of the name of Parley, which I have just pointed out, have been the only obstacles which have roughened the current of my literary life. Not only the faults and imperfections of execution in my juvenile works—and no one knows them so well as myself—have been urged against them, but the whole theory on which they are founded has been, often and elaborately impugned.

It is quite true that when I wrote the first half-dozen of Parley’s Tales, I had formed no philosophy upon the subject. I simply used my experience with children in addressing them. I followed no models, I put on no harness of the schools, I pored over no learned examples. I imagined myself on the floor with a group of boys and girls, and I wrote to them as I would have spoken to them. At a later period I had reflected on the subject, and embodied in a few simple lines the leading principle of what seemed to me the true art of teaching children—and that is, to consider that their first ideas are simple and single, and formed

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of images, of things palpable to the senses; and hence that these images are to form the staple of lessons to be communicated to them.

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From this initial point I proceeded to others, and came to the conclusion that in feeding the mind of children with facts, with truth, and with objective truth, we follow the evident philosophy of nature and providence, inasmuch as these had created all children to be ardent lovers of things they could see and hear and feel and know. Thus I sought to teach them history and biography and geography, and all in the way in which nature would teach them—that is, by a large use of the senses, and especially by the eye—the master organ of the body as well as the soul, I selected as subjects for my books, things capable of sensible representation, such as familiar animals, birds, trees, and of these I gave pictures, as a

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starting point. The first line I wrote was, “Here I am; my name is Peter Parley,” and before I went further, gave an engraving representing my hero, as I wished him to be conceived by my pupils. Before I began to talk of a lion, I gave a picture of a lion—my object being, as you will perceive, to have the child start with a distinct image of what I was about to give an account of. Thus I secured his interest in the subject, and thus I was able to lead his understanding forward in the path of knowledge.

These views of course led me in a direction exactly opposite to the old theories in respect to nursery books, in two respects. In the first place, it was thought that education should, at the very threshold, seek to spiritualize the mind, and lift it above sensible ideas, and to teach it to live in the world of imagination. A cow was very well to give milk, but when she got into a book, she must jump over the moon; a little girl going to see her grandmother, was well enough as a matter of fact, but to be suited to the purposes of instruction, she must end her career in being eaten up by a wolf. My plan was, in short, deemed too utilitarian, too materialistic, and hence it was condemned by many persons, and among them the larger portion of those who had formed their tastes upon the old classics, from Homer down to Mother Goose!

This was one objection; another was, that I aimed at making education easy—thus bringing up the

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child in habits of receiving knowledge only as made into pap, and of course putting it out of his power to relish and digest the stronger meat, even when his constitution demanded it. The use of engravings in books for instruction, was deemed a fatal facility, tending to exercise the child in a mere play of the senses, while the understanding was left to indolence and emaciation.

On these grounds, and still others, my little books met with opposition, sometimes even in grave Quarterlies and often in those sanctified publications, entitled Journals of Education. In England, at the period that the name of Parley was most current—both in the genuine as well as the false editions—the feeling against my juvenile works was so strong among the conservatives, that a formal attempt was made to put them down by reviving the old nursery books. In order to do this, a publisher in London reproduced these works, employing the best artists to illustrate them, and bringing them out in all the captivating luxuries of modern typography. A quaint, quiet, scholarly old gentleman, called Mr. Felix Summerly—a dear lover of children—was invented to preside over the enterprise, to rap the knuckles of Peter Parley, and to woo back the erring generation of children to the good old orthodox rhymes and jingles of England.

I need hardly say that this attempt failed of success: after two bankruptcies, the bookseller who conducted the enterprise finally abandoned it. Yet such

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was the reverence at the time for the old favorites of the nursery, that a man by the name of Hallowell* expended a vast amount of patient research and antiquarian lore, in hunting up and setting before the world, the history of these performances, from Hey diddle diddle to

To all this I made no direct reply; I ventured, however, to suggest my views in the following article inserted in Merry’s Museum for August, 1846.

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I trust, my friend, you will not gather from this that I condemn rhymes for children. I know that there is a certain music in them that delights the ear of childhood. Nor am I insensible to the fact that in Mother Goose’s Melodies, there is frequently a sort of humor in the odd jingle of sound and sense. There is, furthermore, in many of them, an historical significance, which may please the profound student who puzzles

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it out; but what I affirm is, that many of these pieces are coarse, vulgar, offensive, and it is precisely these portions that are apt to stick to the minds of children. And besides, if, as is common, such a book is the first that a child becomes acquainted with, it is likely to give him a low idea of the purpose and meaning of books, and to beget a taste for mere jingles.

With these views, I sought to prepare lessons which combined the various elements suited to children—a few of them even including frequent, repetitious rhymes—yet at the same time presenting rational ideas and gentle kindly sentiments. Will you excuse me for giving you one example—my design being to show you how this may be done, and how even a very unpromising subject is capable of being thus made attractive to children.

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These were my ideas in regard to first books—toy books—those which are put into the hands of children, to teach them the art of reading. As to books of amusement and instruction, to follow these, I gave them Parley’s tales of travels, of history, of nature, and art, together with works designed to cultivate a love of truth, charity, piety, and virtue, and I sought to make these so attractive as to displace the bad books, to which I have already alluded—the old monstrosities, Puss in Boots, Jack the Giant-killer, and others of that class.* A principal part

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of my machinery was the character of Peter Parley—a kind-hearted old man, who had seen much of the world—and not presuming to undertake to instruct older people, loved to sit down and tell his stories to children. Beyond these juvenile works, I prepared a graduated series upon the same general plan, reaching up to books for the adult library; and thus I attained one hundred and seventy volumes.

It is true that occasionally I wrote and published, a book, aside from this, my true vocation; thus I edited the Token, and published two or three volumes of poetry. But out of all my works, about a hundred and twenty are professedly juvenile; and forty are for my early readers, advanced to maturity. It is true that I have written openly, avowedly, to attract and to please children; yet it has been my design at the same time to enlarge the circle of knowledge, to invigorate the understanding, to strengthen the moral nerve, to purify and exalt the imagination. Such have been my aims; how far I have succeeded, I must leave to the judgment of others. One thing I may perhaps claim, and that is, my example and my success have led others—of higher gifts than my own—to enter the ample and noble field of juve-

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nile instruction by means of books; many of them have no doubt surpassed me, and others will still follow, surpassing them. I look upon the art of writing for children and youth, advanced as it has been of late years, still as but just begun.

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LETTER L.

Journey to the South—Anecdotes—Reception at New Orleans.

My dear C******

If thus I met with opposition, I had also my success, nay, I must say, my triumphs. My first patrons were the children themselves, then the mothers, and then, of course, the fathers. In the early part of the year 1846, I made a trip from Boston to the South, returning by the way of the Mississippi and the Ohio. I received many a kind welcome under the name of the fictitious hero whom I had made to tell my stories. Sometimes, it is true, I underwent rather sharp cross-questioning, and frequently was made to feel that I held my honors by a rather questionable title. I, who had undertaken to teach truth, was forced to confess that fiction lay at the foundation of my scheme! My innocent young readers, however, did not suspect me: they had taken all I had said as positively true, and I was of course Peter Parley himself.

“Did you really write that book about Africa?”

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said a black-eyed, dark-haired girl of some eight years old, at Mobile.

I replied in the affirmative.

“And did you really get into prison, there?”

“No; I was never in Africa.”

“Never in Africa?”

“Never.”

“Well, then, why did you say you had been there?”

On another occasion, I think at Savannah, a gentleman called upon me, introducing his two grandchildren, who were anxious to see Peter Parley. The girl rushed up to me, and gave me a ringing kiss at once. We were immediately the best friends in the world. The boy, on the contrary, held himself aloof, and ran his eye over me, up and down, from top to toe. He then walked around, surveying me with the most scrutinizing gaze. After this, he sat down, and during the interview, took no further notice of me. At parting, he gave me a keen look, but said not a word. The next day the gentleman called and told me that his grandson, as they were on their way home, said to him—

“Grandfather, I wouldn’t have any thing to do with that man: he ain’t Peter Parley.”

“How do you know that?” said the grandfather.

“Because,” said the boy, “he hasn’t got his foot bound up, and he don’t walk with a crutch!”*

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On my arrival at New Orleans I was kindly received, and had the honors of a public welcome. The proceedings were published in the papers at the time, and I here inclose you a copy of them, which I take from the Boston Courier of March 21st, 1846. You will readily perceive the egotism implied in placing before you such a record as this; but if I chronicle my failures and my trials, must I not, as a faithful scribe, tell you also of my success? If you reply that I might do it in a more modest way than thus to spread the whole proceedings before you, I answer, that in sending you this document, I by no means require you to read it. If you do read it, you will have a right to laugh at my vanity: if not, I trust you will hold your peace.

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LETTER LI.

Retrospection—Confessions—The mice among my papers—A reckoning with the past.

My dear C******

In the three preceding letters I have spoken chiefly of the books I have written for children, and the true design of which was as much to amuse as to instruct them. These comprise the entire series called Parley’s Tales, with many others, bearing Parley’s name. As to works for education—school-books, including readers, histories, geographies, &c., books for popular reading, and a wilderness of prose and poetry, admitting of no classification—I have only to refer you to the catalogue already mentioned. Let me cheer you with, the statement that this is the closing chapter of my literary history. I have little indeed to say, and that is a confession.

In looking at the long list of my publications, in reflecting upon the large numbers that have been sold, I feel far more of humiliation than of triumph. If I have sometimes taken to heart the soothing flatteries of the public, it has ever been speedily succeeded by the conviction that my life has been, on the whole, a series of mistakes, and especially in that portion of it which has been devoted to authorship. I have written too much, and have done nothing really

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well. You need not whisper it to the public, at least until I am gone; but I know, better than any one can tell me, that there is nothing in this long catalogue that will give me a permanent place in literature. A few things may straggle upon the surface for a time, but—like the last leaves of a tree in autumn, forced at last to quit their hold, and cast into the stream—even these will disappear, and my name and all I have done will be forgotten.

A recent event, half ludicrous, and half melancholy, has led me into this train of reflection. On going to Europe in 1851, I sent my books and papers to a friend, to be kept till my return. Among them, was a large box of business documents—letters, accounts, receipts, bills paid, notes liquidated—comprising the transactions of several years, long since passed away. Shortly after my return to New York—some three months ago—in preparing to establish myself and family here, I caused these things to be sent to me. On opening the particular box just mentioned, I found it a complete mass of shavings, shreds, fragments. My friend had put it carefully away in the upper loft of his barn, and there it became converted into a universal mouse-nest! The history of whole generations of the mischievous little rogues was still visible; beds, galleries, play-grounds, birth-places, and even graves, were in a state of excellent preservation. Several wasted and shriveled forms of various sizes—the limbs curled up, the eyes extinct, the

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teeth disclosed, the long, slender tails straight and stiffened—testified to the joys and sorrows of the races that had flourished here.

On exploring this mass of ruins, I discovered here and there a file of letters eaten through, the hollow cavity evidently having been the happy and innocent cradle of childhood, to these destroyers. Sometimes I found a bed lined with paid bills, and sometimes the pathway of a gallery paved with liquidated accounts. What a mass of thoughts, of feelings, cares, anxieties, were thus made the plunder of these thoughtless creatures! In examining the papers, I found, for instance, letters from N. P. Willis, written five and twenty years ago, with only “Dear Sir” at the beginning and “Yours truly” at the end. I found epistles of nearly equal antiquity signed N. Hawthorne, Catharine M. Sedgwick, Maria L. Child, Lydia H. Sigourney, Willis Gaylord Clark, Grenville Mellen, William L. Stone, J. G. C. Brainard—sometimes only the heart eaten out, and sometimes the whole body gone.

For all purposes of record, these papers were destroyed. I was alone, for my family had not yet returned from Europe; it was the beginning of November, and I began to light my fire with these relics. For two whole days I pored over them, buried in the reflections which the reading of the fragments suggested. Absorbed in this dreary occupation, I forgot the world without, and was only conscious of

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bygone scenes which came up in review before me. It was as if I had been in the tomb, and was reckoning with the past. How little was there in all that I was thus called to remember—save of care, and struggle, and anxiety; and how were all the thoughts, and feelings, and experiences, which seemed mountains in their day, leveled down to the merest grains of dust! A note of hand—perchance of a thousand dollars—what a history rose up in recollection as I looked over its scarcely legible fragments: what clouds of anxiety had its approaching day of maturity cast over my mind! How had I been with a trembling heart to some bank-president*—he a god, and I a craven worshiper—making my offering of some other note for a discount, which might deliver me from the wrath to come! With what anxiety have I watched the lips of the oracle—for my fate was in his hands! A simple monosyllable—yes or no—might save or ruin me. What a history was in that bit of paper—and yet it was destined only to serve as stuffing for the beds of vermin! Such are the agonies, the hopes, and fears of the human heart, put into the crucible of time!

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I ought, no doubt, to have smiled at all this—but I confess it made me serious. Nor was it the most humiliating part of my reflections. I have been too familiar with care, conflict, disappointment, to mourn over them very deeply, now that they were passed; the seeming fatuity of such a mass of labors as these papers indicated, compared with their poor results—however it might humble, it could not distress me. But there were many things suggested by these letters, all in rags as they were, that caused positive humiliation. They revived in my mind the vexations, misunderstandings, controversies of other days; and now, reviewed in the calm light of time, I could discover the mistakes of judgment, of temper, of policy, that I had made. I turned back to my letter-book; I reviewed my correspondence—and I came to the conclusion that in almost every difficulty which had arisen in my path, even if others were wrong, I was not altogether right: in most cases, prudence, conciliation, condescension, might have averted these evils. Thus the thorns which had wounded me and others too, as it seemed, had generally sprung up from the seeds I had sown, or had thriven upon the culture my own hands had unwisely, perhaps unwittingly bestowed.

At first I felt disturbed at the ruin which had been wrought in these files of papers. Hesitating and doubtful, I consigned them one by one to the flames. At last the work was complete; all had perished, and

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the feathery ashes had leaped up in the strong draft of the chimney and disappeared forever, I felt a relief at last; I smiled at what had happened; I warmed my chill fingers over the embers; I felt that a load was off my shoulders. “At least”—said I in my heart—“these things are now past; my reckoning is completed, the account is balanced, the responsibilities of those bygone days are liquidated. Let me burden my bosom with them no more!” Alas, how fallacious my calculation! A few months only had passed, when I was called to contend with a formidable claim which came up from the midst of transactions, to which these extinct papers referred, and against which they constituted my defence. As it chanced, I was able to meet and repel it by documents which survived, but the event caused me deep reflection. I could not but remark that, however we may seek to cover our lives with forgetfulness, their records still exist, and these may come up against us when we have no vouchers to meet the charges which are thus presented. Who then will be our helper? “I will think of that—I will think of that!”

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LETTER LII.

Speech at St. Albans—Lecture upon Ireland, and the Irish—The Broad-street Riot—Burning the Charlestown Convent—My Political Career—A. H. Everett—The Fifteen Gallon Jug—The Harrison Campaign of 1840—Hard Cider and Log Cabins—Universal Bankruptcy—Election of Harrison—His Death—Consequences—Anecdotes—The Small Tail Movement—A Model Candidate—William, Cpp, or Shingling a Barn.

My dear C******

The first public speech I ever made was at St. Albans, England, in June, 1832, at a grand celebration of the passage of the Reform Bill,* having accompanied thither Sir Francis Vincent, the represen-

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tative in Parliament of that ancient borough. More than three thousand people, men, women, and children, gathered from the town and the vicinity, were feasted at a long table, set out in the principal street of the place. After this feast there were various sports, such as donkey races, climbing a greased pole, and the like. At six o’clock, about one hundred and fifty of the gentry and leading tradesmen and mechanics, sat down to a dinner, Sir Francis presiding. The President of the United States was toasted, and I was called upon to respond. Entirely taken by surprise, for not a word had been said to me upon the subject, I made a speech. I could never recall what I said: all I remember is a whirl of thoughts and emotions as I rose, occasional cries of “hear! hear!” as I went on, and a generous clapping of hands as

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I wound off. Whether this last was because I really made a good hit, or from another principle—

“The best of Graham’s speeches was his last”—

I am totally unable to say.

My next public appearance was in a lecture at the Tremont Temple, in Boston—my subject being Ireland and the Irish. Although my discourse was written, and pretty well committed to memory, yet for several days before the time appointed for its delivery arrived—when I thought of my engagement, my heart rolled over with a heavy and sinking sensation. When the hour came, I went to the door of the room, but on seeing the throng of persons collected, I felt that my senses were deserting me: turning on my heel, I went out, and going to Smith, the apothecary—fortified myself with some peppermint lozenges. When I got back, the house was waiting with impatience. I was immediately introduced to the audience by Dr. Walter Channing, and stepping upon the platform, began. After the first sentence, I was perfectly at my ease. I need only add that I repeated the same lecture more than forty times.*

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In the autumn of 1836 there was a large evening party at Jamaica Plain, at the house of Mrs. G……., the lady patroness of the village. Among the notables present was Daniel Webster, whom I had frequently seen, but to whom I was now introduced for the first time. He spoke to me of many things, and at last of politics, suggesting that the impending presidential election involved most important questions, and he deemed it the duty of every man to reflect upon the subject, and to exert his influence as his conscience might dictate.

Since my residence in Massachusetts, a period of nearly eight years, I had been engrossed in my business, and had never even cast a vote. Just at this time I was appointed, without any suggestion of my own, one of the delegates to the whig convention to nominate a person to represent us—the Ninth Congressional District—in Congress. This was to take place at Medway, at the upper end of the district. I went accordingly, and on the first ballot, was the highest candidate, save one—Mr. Hastings, of Mendon. I declined of course, and he was unanimously nominated.

The canvass that ensued was a very animated one,

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Mr. Van Buren being the democratic candidate for the presidency. He was considered as the heir-apparent of the policy of Gen. Jackson, and had indeed promised, if elected, to walk in the footsteps of his illustrious predecessor. Without the personal popularity of that remarkable man, he became the target for all the hostility which his measures had excited. He was, however, elected, but to be overwhelmed with a whirlwind of discontent and opposition four years after.

The candidate for Congress in our district in opposition to Mr. Hastings, was Alexander H. Everett, who had been hitherto a conspicuous whig, and who had signalized himself by the ability and the bitterness of his attacks on Gen. Jackson and his administration. He had singled out Mr. Van Buren for especial vehemence of reproach, because, being Secretary of State at the time, Mr. Everett was superseded as Minister to Spain without the customary courtesy of an official note advising him of the appointment of his successor. To the amazement of the public in general and his friends in particular, on the 8th January, 1836, Mr. Everett delivered an oration before the democracy of Salem, in which—ignoring the most prominent portion of his political life—he came out with the warmest eulogies upon Gen. Jackson and his administration! About the first of May, the precise period when it was necessary, in order to render him eligible to Congress in the Ninth District, he took up

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his residence within its precincts, and, as was easily foreseen, was the democratic candidate for Congress. The whig district committee, of which I was one, and Charles Bowen, Mr. Everett’s publisher, another—issued a pamphlet, collating and contrasting Mr. Everett’s two opinions of General Jackson’s policy, and especially of Mr. Van Buren—the one flatly contradicting the other, and, in point of date, being but two or three years apart. This was circulated over the towns of the district. It was a terrible document, and Mr. Everett felt its force. One of them was left at his own door in the general distribution. This he took as a personal insult, and meeting Bowen, knocked him over the head with his umbrella. Bowen clutched him by the throat, and would have strangled him but for the timely interference of a bystander.

I had been among Mr. Everett’s personal friends, but he now made me the object of special attack. A paper, then conducted by B. F. H…., circulated a good deal in the district, and here, under the name of Peter Parley, I was severely lashed, not because I was a candidate for office, but because I was chairman of the whig district committee. I recollect that one day some rather scandalous thing came out against me in the editorial columns of this journal, and feeling very indignant, I went to see the editor. I did not know him personally, but from occasionally reading his paper, I had got the idea that he was a

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very monster of violence and vandalism. He was not at the office, but such was my irritation and impatience that I went to his house. I rang, and a beautiful black-eyed girl, some eight years old, came to the door. I asked if Mr. H. was in? “Mother,” said the child, in a voice of silver, “is father at home?” At this moment another child, and still younger—its bullet-pate all over curls—came to the door. Then a mild and handsome woman came, and to my inquiry she said that her husband was out, but would return in a few moments.

My rage was quelled in an instant. “So,” said I to myself, “these children call that man father, and this woman calls him husband. After all, he can not be such a monster as I have conceived him—with such a home.” I turned on my heel and went away, my ill-humor having totally subsided. Some two years after, I told this anecdote to Mr. H., and we had a good-humored laugh over it. Both of us had learned to discriminate between political controversy and personal animosity.

The attacks made upon me during this canvass had an effect different from what was intended. I was compelled to take an active part in the election, and deeming the success of my party essential to my own defense, I naturally made more vigorous efforts for that object. Mr. Everett was largely defeated, and the whig candidate as largely triumphed. At the same time I was chosen a member of the legislature for Roxbury

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—Jamaica Plain, where I resided, being a parish, of that town. The next year I was a candidate for the senate, in competition with Mr. Everett,* and was elected. In this manner I was forced into politics, and was indebted mainly to opposition for my success.

During the ensuing session of the legislature, the winter of 1837-8, the famous “Fifteen Gallon Law” was passed—that is, a law prohibiting the sale of intoxicating liquors in less quantities than fifteen gallons. The county I represented was largely in favor of the measure, and I voted for it, though I was by no means insensible to the agitation it was certain to produce. I had determined not to be a candidate for

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re-election, and therefore considered myself free to engage in the discussion which preceded the next election, and which, of course, mainly turned upon this law. Among other things, I wrote a little pamphlet, entitled “Five Letters to my Neighbor Smith, touching the Fifteen Gallon Jug”—the main design of which was to persuade the people of Massachusetts to make the experiment, and see whether such a restraint upon the sale of intoxicating drinks would not be beneficial. This was published anonymously, and my intention was to have the authorship remain unknown. It, however, had an enormous sale—a hundred thousand copies—in the course of a few months, and curiosity soon guessed me out.

Now in the village of Jamaica Plain, I had a neighbor, though not by the name of Smith—a rich liquor dealer, who did his business in Boston—a very respectable man, but a vehement opposer of the Fifteen Gallon Law. As the election approached, the citizens of the State were drawn out in two camps, the men of Israel—those in favor of prohibition—on one side, and the Philistines—the men in favor of free liquor—on the other. My neighbor was rather the Goliath of his party—six cubits and a span, and all helmeted in brass—by which I mean that he was the wealthiest, the most respectable, and the most valiant of all the soldiers of the Philistine camp! He insisted that by “My Neighbor Smith,” I meant him, and though I had said nothing disagreeable of that per-

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sonage, but, on the contrary, had drawn his portrait in very amiable colors, he held that it was a malicious personal attack. In vain did I deny the charge, and point to the fact that the residence, character, qualities of my fictitious hero, were inapplicable to him. Anxious, like Mawworm, to be persecuted, he insisted upon it that he was persecuted.

At the county convention, which took place some two months prior to this election, I declined being a candidate. The members present, however, clearly discerning the gathering storm, refused to release me, and I was forced to accept the nomination. The election was to take place on Monday, in November. On the Saturday previous, there was issued in Boston a pamphlet, entitled the “Cracked Jug,” a personal and political attack upon me written with great malice and some ability. It was scattered like snow-flakes all over the county, and was, I suspect, the Sunday reading of all the tipplers and taverners of the county. The bar-room critics esteemed it superior to any thing which had appeared since the letters of Junius, and of course considered me as annihilated.

On Monday, election-day, my family were insulted in the streets of Jamaica Plain, and as I went into the town-hall to cast my vote, I heard abundance of gibes cast at me from beneath lowering beavers. The result was that there was no choice of senators in the county. The election, when the people had thus failed to fill their places, fell upon the legislature, and

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I was chosen. The storm gradually passed away. The fifteen gallon law was repealed, but it nearly overturned the whig party in the State, which, being in the majority, was made responsible for it.* I deemed it necessary to reply to my Neighbor Smith’s Cracked Jug, and he rejoined. What seemed at the time a deadly personal struggle, was ere long forgotten—neither party, I believe, carrying, in his character or his feelings, any of the scars inflicted during the battle. Both had in some sort triumphed—both

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in some sort been beaten—both could, therefore, afford to return, to the amicable relations of village neighborhood.

The presidential, canvass of 1840 presented the most remarkable political spectacle which has ever been witnessed in the United States. Gen. Jackson’s measures in regard to the currency and the tariff resulted in a tempest, which was precipitated upon the administration of his successor—Mr. Van Buren. Bankruptcy* and ruin had swept over the country, involving alike the rich and the poor, in their avalanche of miseries. In the autumn of this year, the whigs nominated William Henry Harrison, as the candidate for the presidency, in opposition to Mr. Van Buren. He

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had held various civil and military trusts, in which he had displayed courage, wisdom, and patriotism. His personal character was eminently winning to the people, being marked with benevolence and simplicity. He had long retired from public life, and for several years had lived as a farmer on the “North Bend” of the Ohio, near Cincinnati. The democrats ridiculed him as drinking hard cider and living in a log cabin. The masses, resenting this as coming from those who—having the government spoils—were rioting in the White House on champagne, took these gibes, and displayed them as their mottoes and symbols upon their banners. They gathered in barns, as was meet for the friends of the farmer of North Bend, using songs and speeches as flails, threshing his enemies with a will. The spirit spread over mountain and valley, and in every part of the country, men were seen leaving their customary employments to assemble in multitudinous conventions. Many of these gatherings numbered twenty thousand persons.

During this animated canvass, I was not a candidate for office, yet I took part in the great movement, and made about a hundred speeches in Massachusetts and Connecticut. Everybody, then, could make a speech,* and everybody could sing a song. Orators

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sprang up like mushrooms, and the gift of tongues was not more universal than the gift of music. Towns, cities, and villages, were enlivened with torch-light processions and with long, bannered phalanxes, shouting for the hero of Tippecanoe! The result of the election was such as might have been anticipated—a most emphatic rebuke by the people of that policy which had spread disaster and ruin over the country—by the election of Harrison, giving him two hundred and thirty-four votes, leaving only sixty for Van Buren! The death of Harrison, however, which took place thirty days after he had en-

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tered upon the duties of his office, with consequent divisions among the leading members of the whig party at Washington, deprived the country of nearly the whole benefit due to a change so emphatically pronounced by the voice of the people.

From this period, I have taken no active part in politics. In reviewing the past—while duly appreciating the honor conferred by the confidence bestowed upon me by the citizens who gave me their suffrages, I still regard my political career as an unprofitable, nay, an unhappy episode, alien to my literary position and pursuits, and every way injurious to my interests and my peace of mind. It gave me painful glimpses into the littleness, the selfishness, the utter charlatanism* of a large portion of those politicians who lead, or seem to lead, the van of parties; and who, pretending to be guided by patriotism, are

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usually only riding issues, principles, platforms, as servile hobbies which may carry them into office. As some compensation for this, it has also led me to a conviction that the great mass of the people are governed by patriotic motives—though even with these I often noted curious instances in which the public interests were forgotten in a desire to achieve some selfish or sinister end.*

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LETTER LIII.

International copyright—Mr. Dickens’ s Mission—His failure and his revenge—The Boston Convention—Inquiry into the basis of copyright—Founded in absolute justice—What is property?—Grounds upon which government protects property—History of copyright—Present state of copyright law—Policy the oasis of local copyright law—International Copyright demanded by justice—Scheme for International Copyright with Great Britain—Reasons for it.

My dear C******

In the winter of 1842, Mr. Charles Dickens arrived in Boston, where he was received with open arms. A complimentary dinner* was got up for him, and fine speeches were made by many of the first citizens, all in a strain of welcome to the distinguished stranger. The ball thus set in motion rolled over the country, and wherever Mr. Dickens went, he was received in a similar manner—that is, with welcome, with feasting, with compliments. I remember

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to have seen him at one of the President’s levees at Washington, there being many distinguished guests present—Washington Irving, the Earl of Carlisle, &c. These were totally neglected, while a crowd of curious and admiring followers, forming a gorgeous train, of fair women and brave men, glittered behind Mr. and Mrs. Dickens. They were, in truth, the observed of all observers.

It appeared in the sequel, that the author of Pickwick had crossed the Atlantic for a double purpose—to write a book, and to obtain international copyright. In the first he succeeded, in the latter he failed. Since that time, however, the subject of international copyright has been a theme of animated discussion in this country, and has even been made a matter of diplomatic conference between Great Britain and the United States. A treaty has been, I believe, actually agreed upon between the agents of the two governments, for the purpose of establishing international copyright, but it has never been consummated; the subject was referred to the Senate, and there it has remained in suspense for the last two years.

You will, no doubt, expect me, in giving my recollections, to say something upon this subject. I could, indeed, hardly pass it over. I beg, however, instead of writing a new essay upon the subject, to copy what I wrote about three years ago, at the request of a senator in Congress, but which was

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never forwarded. With slight modifications, it was as follows:

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Such are the views I had formed three years ago. I was then in Europe; since my return, I am confirmed in them by various considerations, and espe-

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cially by finding that some enlightened publishers, who have hitherto doubted the expediency of international copyright, in view of some such arrangement as is here suggested, are now earnestly in favor of it. Why, then, should we not try it?

One thing is certain—the subject will never rest, until International Copyright is adopted, in some form or other. It is based on the same abstract but still manifest right, by which every laborer claims the use and behoof of the fruits of his toil; admitting that governments may regulate and modify these rights, according to the public good, still they may not altogether annihilate them. I have taken the ground that governments, in local copyright laws, deny the absolute and perpetual claim; they refuse to base their protection on common law; but still one thing is to be considered, and that is, that local copyright everywhere does in fact make some compensation to the author, and thus substantially admits his claim. We, who refuse international copyright, must reflect that so far as we are concerned, we deny all compensation to the foreign author, and thus are manifestly in the wrong.* We may pretend, indeed, that local copy-

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right affords all needful encouragement; but is it fair for us, refusing ourselves to contribute to this, to take to our use and behoof the articles for which we thus refuse to pay—and that against the protest of those whose toil has produced them? Is that honorable—is it fair play?

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LETTER LIV.

Statistics of the Book Trade—Its Extension—The Relative Increase of American literature, as compared with British Literature.

My dear C******

In my last letter I presented to you some suggestions respecting International Copyright. In doing this I have naturally gathered up my recollections of the book trade in the United States for the last forty years, and compared the past with the present. I am so impressed with certain prominent and remarkable results and inferences, that I deem it proper to present them to you. These may be grouped under two general heads:

1. The great extension of the book production in the United States.

2. The large and increasing relative proportion of American works.

Unfortunately we have no official resources for exact statistics upon this subject. The general fact of a vast development in all the branches of industry connected with the press, is palpable to all persons having any knowledge on the subject; but the details upon which this is founded, and the precise degree of increase, are to a considerable extent matters of conjecture. Nevertheless, there are some facts within our reach, and by the grouping of these, we

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may approach, the results we seek, with, a sufficient degree of certainty, for all practical purposes.

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Now, my dear C…., you must remember that the details of these estimates are not founded upon precise official statistics, but are only inferences from general facts tolerably well established. Considering these as estimates merely, they may still be such probable approximations to the truth as to give us a general view of the amount and movement of the book production of the United States. This, of course, leaves out the newspaper and periodical press, which circulates annually six millions of copies, and five hundred millions of separate numbers. I do not dilate upon the fact that we have two hundred colleges, a hundred thousand elementary schools, fifty theological seminaries, twenty law schools, forty medical schools, and that our public and school libraries number five millions of volumes;* yet these are to be taken in connection with the tabular views I have given. Then, I ask, have we not a literature?

I now invite your attention to another topic:

II. The large and increasing proportion of American productions—that is, productions of American mind—in the books published in the United States.

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Now, not insisting upon the precise accuracy of these estimates, but still regarding them as approaches to the truth, we have the basis for some interesting observations.

Though, as an independent nation, we are less than a century old, and though we have been busily engaged in exploring wildernesses, in felling forests, founding States, building cities, opening roads; in laying down railways, in teaching steamboats to traverse the waters before only known to the Indian canoe; in converting lakes and rivers—the largest in the world—into familiar pathways of commerce, and as a consummation of our progress, in netting half a continent with lines of telegraph—still, we have found time, and courage, and heart, to outstrip all that the world has before seen, in the diffusion of knowledge, by means of the periodical press; in the number and excellence of our common schools; in the number, cheapness, and excellence of our books for elementary education.

Though not claiming comparison with the Old World in the multitude of new works of the highest class in literature and science, we have still made a good beginning, and have many readers in the other hemisphere, under the eaves of universities and colleges, which have been founded for centuries.

In the midst of the haste and hurry of life, induced

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by the vast fields of enterprise around us and beckoning us on to the chase—we still find a larger portion of our people devoted to education, and reading, and meditation, and reflection, than is to be met with in any other land; as a corollary of this, we find, relatively, more hands, more purses, more heads and hearts, devoted to the support of literature and the dissemination of knowledge, than in any other country of equal population.

It is also to be observed that, after all that has been said and surmised as to the dependence of American literature upon the British press, that the element of British mind, in the production of American publications, is really but about twenty per cent., and this proportion is rapidly diminishing. Of the new books annually produced in the United States, not more than one-fifth part are either directly or indirectly of foreign origin.

It is, however, to be at the same time admitted and reflected upon, that our deficiency and our dependence lie chiefly in the higher efforts of mind and genius—those which crown a nation’s work, and which confirm a nation’s glory; and it is precisely here that we are now called upon, by every legitimate stimulus, to rouse the emulation, the ambition, the patriotism of our country.* It is, as tributary to such

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a consummation, that I would earnestly urge upon our people, and those whom they have placed in authority, to adopt the modified but still desirable measure of International Copyright, already suggested. Just at present this would be a little against us, that is to say, we should buy more copyrights of the British than they of us; but, at the rate of progress hitherto attained by American literature, before twenty years—probably before ten years—are past, the

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scales will be turned in our favor, and they will buy more copyrights of us than we shall of them. At all events, an immediate and powerful stimulus would be added to authorship, and to some of the trades and professions connected with the production of books in this country, if we could have the British market opened to us on some such plan as is herein proposed. Nearly every new work would be stereotyped, and a set of plates sent to England; and these, in view of the increased sale, and the high and improving standard of taste, abroad, would be got up in a superior manner, in all respects. Let us think well of these things!

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LETTER LV.

Recollections of Washington—The House of Representatives—Missouri Compromise—Clay, Randolph, and Lowndes—The Senate—Rufus King—William Pinkney—Mr. Macon—Judge Marshall—Election of J. Q. Adams—President Monroe—Meeting of Adams and Jackson—Jackson’s Administration—Clay—Calhoun—Webster—Anecdotes.

My dear C******

In the autumn of 1846, I went with my family to Paris, partly for literary purposes, and partly also to give my children advantages of education, which, in consequence of my absorbing cares for a series of years, they had been denied. Here they remained for nearly two years, while I returned home to attend to my affairs, spending the winters, however,

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with them. Leaving my observations upon Paris to be grouped in one general view, I pass on with my narrative.

Toward the close of 1849 I removed to New York, to execute certain literary engagements. These completed, I went, in December, 1850, to Washington, taking my family with me. Here we remained for three months, when, having received the appointment of United States Consul to Paris, I returned to New York, and after due preparation, sailed on the 5th of April, 1851, to enter upon the official duties which thus devolved upon me.

I invite you to return with me to Washington. I had often been there, and had of course seen and observed many of the remarkable men who had figured in the great arena of politics, through a space of thirty years. I shall now gather up and present to you a few reminiscences connected with this, our national metropolis, which still linger in my mind. Avoiding political matters, however, which are duly chronicled in the books, I shall only give sketches of persons and things, less likely to have fallen under your observation.

My first visit to Washington was in the winter of 1819-20. Monroe was then President, and D. D. Tompkins, Vice-president; Marshall was at the head of the Supreme Court; Clay, Speaker of the House of Representatives. In the latter body, the two most noted members, exclusive of the speaker, were Wil-

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liam Lowndes of South Carolina, and John Randolph of Virginia.

At the period of my visit, the clouds were mustering in the horizon for that tempest which not only agitated Congress, but the whole country, in consequence of the application of Missouri for admission into the Union. A few weeks later, the “Compromise of 36° 30´,” was passed by both houses, but the actual admission of the State did not take place till the ensuing session. I was at Washington but one day, and of course could only take a hurried view of the principal objects of interest. I was in the House of Representatives but a single hour. While I was present, there was no direct discussion of the agitating subject which already filled everybody’s mind, but still the excitement flared out occasionally in incidental allusions to it, like puffs of smoke and jets of flame which issue from a house that is on fire within. I recollect that Clay descended from the speaker’s chair, and made a brief speech, thrilling the House by a single passage, in which he spoke of “poor, unheard Missouri”—she being then without a representative in Congress. His tall, tossing form, his long, sweeping gestures, and above all, his musical, yet thrilling tones, made an impression upon me which I can never forget. Some time after, in the course of the debate, a tall man, with a little head and a small, oval countenance like that of a boy prematurely grown old, arose and addressed the chair. He

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paused a moment, and I had time to study his appearance. His hair was jet black, and clubbed in a queue; his eye was black, small, and painfully penetrating. His complexion was a yellowish-brown, bespeaking Indian blood. I knew at once that it must be John Randolph. As he uttered the words, “Mr. Speaker!”—every member turned in his seat, and facing him, gazed as if some portent had suddenly appeared before them. “Mr. Speaker”—said he, in a shrill voice, which, however, pierced every nook and corner of the hall—“I have but one word to say; one word, sir, and that is to state a fact. The measure to which the gentleman has just alluded, originated in a dirty trick!” These were his precise words. The subject to which he referred I did not gather, but the coolness and impudence of the speaker were admirable in their way. I never saw better acting, even in Kean. His look, his manner, his long arm, his elvish fore-finger—like an exclamation-point, punctuating his bitter thought—showed the skill of a master. The effect of the whole was to startle everybody, as if a pistol-shot had rung through the hall.*

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Soon after Lowndes arose, and there was a general movement of the members from the remote parts of the room, toward him. His appearance was remarkable. He was six feet two inches high—slender, bent, emaciated, and evidently of feeble frame. His complexion was sallow and dead, and his face almost without expression. His voice, too, was low and whispering. And yet he was, all things considered, the strong man of the House; strong in his various knowledge, his comprehensive understanding, his pure heart, his upright intentions, and above all, in the confidence these qualities had inspired. Everything he said was listened to as the words of wisdom. It was he who gave utterance to the sentiment that the “office of president was neither to be solicited nor refused.” I was unable to hear what he said, but the stillness around—the intent listening of the entire assembly—

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bore testimony to the estimation in which he was held. I never saw him afterward. About two years later, he died on a voyage to England for the benefit of his health, and thus, in the language of an eminent member of Congress, “were extinguished the brightest hopes of the country, which, by a general movement, were looking to him as the future chief-magistrate of the nation.”

These sketches, I know, are trifles; but as this was my first look at either branch of Congress, and as, moreover, I had a glance at three remarkable men, you will perhaps excuse me for recording my impressions.

In the Senate, the persons who most attracted my attention were Rufus King, of New York, then holding the highest rank in that body for able statesmanship, combined with acknowledged probity and great dignity of person, manner, and character; Harrison Gray Otis, whom I have already described; William Hunter, of Rhode Island, noted for his agreeable presence and his great conversational powers; William Pinkney,* of Maryland, the most dis-

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tinguished lawyer of that era—a large, handsome man, and remarkable for his somewhat foppish dress—wearing, when I saw him, a white waistcoat, and white-top boots; and Mr. Macon, of North Carolina, a solid, farmer-like man, but greatly esteemed for combining a sound patriotism with a consistent political career. On the whole, the general aspect of the Senate was that of high dignity, sobriety, and refinement. There were more persons of that body who had the marks of well-bred gentlemen, in their air, dress, and demeanor, than at the present day. In manners, the Senate has unquestionably degenerated.

During the half hour in which I was present, there was no debate. I went to the hall of the Supreme Court, but the proceedings were without special interest. Among the judges were Marshall and Story, both of whom riveted my attention. The former was now sixty-four years old, and still in the full vigor of his career. He was tall and thin, with a small face, expressive of acuteness and amiability. His personal manner was eminently dignified, yet his brow did not seem to me to indicate the full force of his

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great abilities and lofty moral qualities. I saw him many times afterward, and learned to look with, reverence upon him, as being the best representative of the era and spirit of Washington, which lingered among us.

I pass over several visits which I made at different periods to the capital, and come to the winter of 1825, when J. Q. Adams was elected President by the House of Representatives. I was in the gallery of that body at the time the vote was declared. The result produced no great excitement, for it had been foreseen for some days. The popular sentiment of the country, however, was no doubt overruled by electing to the chief-magistracy the second* of the three candidates eligible to the office, and this was severely avenged four years afterward at the polls. Mr. Adams, with all the patronage of the government, was displaced by his rival, Gen. Jackson, in 1828, by an electoral vote of one hundred and seventy-eight to eighty-three.

But it is not my purpose to load these light letters with the weightier matters of politics. I only give an

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outline of public events, which may serve as frames to the personal tableaux which I wish to present to your view. Let me take you, then, to the President’s levee, the evening of the 2d of February, 1825—in the afternoon of which Adams had triumphed and Jackson had been defeated.

The apartments at the White House were thronged to repletion—for not only did all the world desire to meet and gossip over the events of the day, but this was one of the very last gatherings which would take place under the presidency of Monroe, and which had now continued for eight years. It was the first time that I had been present at a presidential levee, and it was therefore, to me, an event of no ordinary excitement.

The President I had seen before at Hartford, as I have told you; here, in the midst of his court, he seemed to me even more dull, sleepy, and insignificant in personal appearance, than on that occasion. He was under size, his dress plain black, and a little rusty; his neckcloth small, ropy, and carelessly tied; his frill matted; his countenance, wilted with age and study and care. He was almost destitute of forehead, and what he had, was deeply furrowed in two distinct arches over his eyes, which were small, gray, glimmering, and deeply set in large sockets. Altogether, his personal appearance was owlish and ordinary—without dignity, either of form or expression; indeed, I could scarce get over the idea that

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there was a certain look of meanness in his countenance. The lowness of his brow was so remarkable that a person in the room, said to me, in looking at him—“He hasn’t got brains enough to hold his hat on!” His manners, however, which were assiduously courteous, with a sort of habitual diplomatic smile upon his face, in some degree redeemed the natural indifference of his form and features. I gazed with eager curiosity at this individual—seeking, and yet in vain, to discover in his appearance the explanation of the fact that his presidency had been considered as the era of a millennial truce between the great parties whose strife had agitated the country to its foundations; and also of another fact—that he had, like Washington, been elected to the presidency a second time, almost without opposition. I could, however, find no solution of these events in the plain, homely, undemonstrative presence before me. History has indeed given the interpretation—for we know that, despite these traits in his personal appearance, Mr. Monroe possessed a quiet energy of character, combined with a sound and penetrating judgment, great experience, and strong sense, which rendered his administration in some respects eminently successful.

Mrs. Monroe appeared much younger, and was of very agreeable manners and person. During the eight years of her presidency over the sociabilities of the White House, she exercised a genial influence in

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infusing elegance and dignity into the intercourse of the society which came under her sway.

I shall pass over other individuals present, only noting an incident which respects the two persons in the assembly who, most of all others, engrossed the thoughts of the visitors—Mr. Adams the elect, Gen. Jackson the defeated. It chanced in the course of the evening that these two persons, involved in the throng, approached each other from opposite directions, yet without knowing it. Suddenly, as they were almost together, the persons around, seeing what was to happen, by a sort of instinct stepped aside and left them face to face. Mr. Adams was by himself; Gen. Jackson had a large, handsome lady on his arm. They looked at each other for a moment, and then Gen. Jackson moved forward, and reaching out his long arm, said—“How do you do, Mr. Adams? I give you my left hand, for the right, as you see, is devoted to the fair: I hope you are very well, sir.” All this was gallantly and heartily said and done. Mr. Adams took the general’s hand, and said, with chilling coldness—“Very well, sir: I hope Gen. Jackson is well!” It was curious to see the western planter, the Indian fighter, the stern soldier who had written his country’s glory in the blood of the enemy at New Orleans—genial and gracious in the midst of a court, while the old courtier and diplomat was stiff, rigid, cold as a statue! It was all the more remarkable from the fact that, four hours- before, the former

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had been defeated, and the latter was the victor, in a struggle for one of the highest objects of human ambition. The personal character of these two individuals was in fact well expressed in that chance meeting: the gallantry, the frankness, and the heartiness of the one, which captivated all; the coldness, the distance, the self-concentration of the other, which repelled all.*

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I pass over several years, and come to the period when Jackson was President, at which time I was often at Washington. It was a marked epoch, for Webster, Calhoun, and Clay were then in the Senate. It is seldom that three such men appear upon the theater of action at the same time. They were each distinct from the other in person, manners, heart, constitution; they were from different sections of the country, and to some extent reflected the manners, habits, and opinions of these diverse regions. They were all of remarkable personal appearance: Webster of massive form, dark complexion, and thoughtful, solemn countenance; Clay, tall, of rather slight frame, but keen, flexible features, and singular ease and freedom in his attitudes, his walk, and his gestures. Calhoun was also tall, but erect, and rigid in his form—his eye grayish blue, and flashing from beneath a brow at once imperious and scornful. All these men were great actors, not through art, but nature, and gave to the effect of their high intellectual endowments, the added power of commanding personal presence and singularly expressive countenances. They have passed from the stage, and all

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that survives of them belongs to the domain of history. Many of the speeches, now recorded in their books, I heard and remember, with their lofty images still painted in my eye and their thrilling tones still echoing in my ear. Those who never heard them, never saw them, will hereafter read and ponder and admire the glowing words, the mighty thoughts they have left behind; but they can never compass the conceptions which linger in the minds of those who beheld them in the full exercise of their faculties, and playing their several parts on their great theater of life and action—the Senate of the United States.

Calhoun was educated in Connecticut, first graduating at Yale College, and then at the Litchfield law school. I have often heard his classmates speak of him as manifesting great abilities and great ambition, from the beginning. He was particularly noted for his conversational powers, and a cordiality of manners which won the hearts of all. He was deemed frank, hearty, sympathetic. One of his intimates at Yale, told me that about the year 1812 he was elected to Congress. Mr. Calhoun was then a member, and one of the greatest pleasures his classmate anticipated, was in meeting his college friend. He was kindly received, but in the first interview, he discovered that the heart of the now rising politician was gone. He had already given up to ambition what was meant for mankind.

Mr. Calhoun had, however, many friends in New

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England, partly from the favorable impression he made while residing there, and partly also from his conduct during the earlier portion of his public career. He had, indeed, promoted the war of 1812, but in many of his opinions—especially in the support of a navy—he coincided with the North. His administration of the war department from 1817, during the long period of seven years, was singularly successful, and everywhere increased his reputation as a practical statesman. It is a curious circumstance, explained by the facts I have just mentioned, that in the election of 1824, while Jackson was defeated for the presidency, Calhoun was still chosen vice-president, and mainly by northern votes.* Thus far his measures, his policy, had been national; but he soon changed, and frequently shifting his position, lost the confidence of his own party and of the country. For the last fifteen years of his life, “he was like a strong man struggling in a morass: every effort to extricate himself only sinking him deeper and deeper.” He has passed away, leaving abundant evidences of his abilities, but with the sad distinction of having successfully devoted the last years of his life to the establishment of the doctrine in his own State and among many of his admirers, that domestic Slavery is a good and beneficent institution—compatible with the Constitution of the United States, and entitled to pro-

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tection and perpetuity beneath its banner! What a departure is this from the views and opinions of the founders of our National Independence and the Federal Union—Washington, Franklin, Jefferson, and Madison!

Mr. Clay was also a supporter of the war of 1812, and probably was, more than any other individual, responsible for it. During its progress, he was the eloquent defender of the administration, through its struggles and disasters, and was hence the special object of New England hostility. He, however, joined Mr. Adams, in 1825, and having contributed, by his commanding influence, to his election, became his Secretary of State. His policy upon the tariff afterward brought him into harmony with the North, and he was long the favorite candidate of the whigs for the presidency. But he, too, like Calhoun, was a man of “positions,” and with all his abilities—with all his struggles—he slipped between them, and fell, without realizing the great object of his eager ambition—the presidency.*

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The first time I ever saw Mr. Webster was on the 17th of June, 1825, at the laying of the corner-stone of the Bunker Hill Monument. I shall never forget his appearance as he strode across the open area, encircled by some fifty thousand persons—men and women—waiting for the “Orator of the Day,” nor the shout that simultaneously burst forth, as he was recognized, carrying up to the skies the name of “Webster!” “Webster!” “Webster!”

It was one of those lovely days in June, when the

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sun is bright, the air clear, and the breath of nature so sweet and pure as to fill every bosom with a grateful joy in. the mere consciousness of existence. There were present long files of soldiers in their holiday attire; there were many associations, with their mottoed banners; there were lodges and grand lodges, in white aprons and blue scarfs; there were miles of citizens from the towns and the country round about; there were two hundred gray-haired men, remnants of the days of the Revolution; there was among them. a stranger, of great mildness and dignity of appearance, on whom all eyes rested, and when his name was known, the air echoed with the cry—“Welcome, welcome, Lafayette!”* Around all this scene, was a

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rainbow of beauty such as New England alone can furnish.

I have seen many public festivities and ceremonials, but never one, taken all together, of more general interest than this. Every thing was fortunate : all were gratified; but the address was that which seemed uppermost in all minds and hearts. Mr. Webster was in the very zenith of his fame and of his powers. I have looked on many mighty men—King George, the “first gentleman in England;” Sir Astley Cooper, the Apollo of his generation; Peele, O’Connell, Palmerston, Lyndhurst—all nature’s noblemen; I have seen Cuvier, Guizot, Arago, Lamartine—marked in their persons by the genius which have carried their names over the world; I have seen Clay, and Calhoun, and Pinkney, and King, and Dwight, and Daggett, who stand as high examples of personal endowment, in our annals, and yet not one of these approached Mr. Webster in the commanding power of their personal presence. There

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was a grandeur in his form, an intelligence in his deep dark eye, a loftiness in his expansive brow, a significance in his arched lip, altogether beyond those of any other human being I ever saw. And these, on the occasion to which I allude, had their full expression and interpretation.

In general, the oration was serious, full of weighty thought and deep reflection. Occasionally there were flashes of fine imagination, and several passages of deep, overwhelming emotion.* I was near the speaker, and not only heard every word, but I saw every movement of his countenance. When he came to address the few scarred and time-worn veterans—some forty in number—who had shared in the bloody scene which all had now gathered to commemorate, he paused a moment, and, as he uttered the words “Venerable men,” his voice trembled, and I could see a cloud pass over the sea of faces that turned upon the speaker. When at last, alluding to the death of Warren, he said—

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“But ah, Him!—the first great martyr of this great cause. Him, the patriotic victim of his own self-devoting heart. Him, cut off by Providence in the hour of overwhelming anxiety and thick gloom: falling ere he saw the star of his country rise—how shall I struggle with the emotions that stifle the utterance of thy name!” Here the eyes of the veterans around, little accustomed to tears, were filled to the brim, and some of them “sobbed aloud in their fullness of heart.” The orator went on:

“Our poor work may perish, but thine shall endure: this monument may molder away, the solid ground it rests upon may sink down to the level of the sea; but thy memory shall not fail. Wherever among men a heart shall be found that beats to the transports of patriotism and liberty, its aspirations shall claim kindred with thy spirit!”

I have never seen such an effect, from a single passage: a moment before, every bosom bent, every brow was clouded, every eye was dim. Lifted as by inspiration, every breast seemed now to expand, every gaze to turn above, every face to beam with a holy yet exulting enthusiasm. It was the omnipotence of eloquence, which, like the agitated sea, carries a host upon its waves, sinking and swelling with its irresistible undulations.

It was some years subsequent to this that I became personally acquainted with Mr. Webster. From 1836, to the time of his death, I saw him frequently,

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sometimes in public and sometimes in private. I have heard some of his great speeches, as well at Washington as elsewhere, but I must say that his conversation impressed me quite as strongly as his public addresses. I once traveled with him from Washington to Baltimore. During a ride of two hours, he spoke of a great variety of subjects—agriculture, horticulture, physical geography, geology—with a perfectness of knowledge, from the minutest details to the highest philosophy, which amazed me. One thing I particularly remarked, he had no half conceptions, no uncertain knowledge. What he knew, he was sure of. His recollection seemed absolutely perfect. His mind grasped the smallest as well as the greatest things. He spoke of experiments he had made at Marshfield in protecting trees, recently planted, by interposing boards between them and the prevailing winds, observing that these grew nearly twice as rapidly as those which were exposed to the full sweep of the blasts. He spoke of the recent discoveries of geology—which had converted the rocky lamina of the earth, hidden from the beginning, into leaves of a book, in which, we could trace the footprints of the Creator—with perfect knowledge of the subject, and a full appreciation of the sublimity of its revelations.

At Baltimore, while sitting at table after tea, the conversation continued, taking in a great variety of subjects. One of the ladies of our company asked

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Mr. Webster if he chose Marshfield for a residence because it was near the sea.

“Yes, madam,” was the reply.

“And do you love the seashore?”

“Yes, I love it, yet not perhaps as others do. I can not pick up shells and pebbles along the shore. I can never forget the presence of the sea. It seems to speak to me, and beckon to me. When I see the surf come rolling in, like a horse foaming from the battle, I can not stoop down and pick up pebbles. The sea unquestionably presents more grand and exciting pictures and conceptions to the mind, than any other portion of the earth, partly because it is always new to us, and partly, too, because of the majestic movement of its great mass of waters. The mystery of its depths, the history of its devastations, crowd the mind with lofty images.

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I know of few descriptions of nature equal in sublimity to that.”

It is impossible to give any impression of the effect of this passage, recited in low, solemn tones like the bass of an organ, the brow of the speaker seeming to reflect the very scenes it described.

Yet Mr. Webster was not always serious. In the circle of intimate friends he was generally cheerful and sometimes playful, not only relishing wit and repartee, but contributing to it his proper share. I have heard of one occasion in which he kept a full table in a roar for half an hour with his sallies. Many years ago there was a contested election in Mississippi—the seats of two sitting members being claimed by a Mr. Word and the famous orator, S. S. Prentiss.* The two claimants came to Washington,

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and argued their case before the House, but it was dismissed, and they were sent back for a new election. Prentiss, however, had sustained himself with so much ability, that before his departure a few of his whig friends concluded to give him a dinner. This was private, though some thirty persons were present. Late in the evening, when all were warmed with the cheer, Preston, of South Carolina, rose and proposed this sentiment:

“Daniel Webster—a Northern man with Southern principles!”

Mr. Webster, after a moment’s hesitation, said: “Mr. Chairman, I rise in obedience to the flattering call of my good friend from South Carolina: Daniel Webster—a Northern man with Southern principles! Well, sir, I was born in New Hampshire, and therefore I am a northern, man. There is no doubt of that. And if what the people say of us be true, it is equally certain that I am a man of southern principles. “Sir, do I ever leave a heel-tap in my glass? Do I ever pay my debts? Don’t I always prefer

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challenging a man who won’t fight?” And thus he went on in a manner more suitable to the occasion than to these pages—until at last, amid roars of laughter and shouts of applause, he sat down.

The countenance of Mr. Webster was generally solemn, and even severe, especially when he was absorbed in thought: yet when, relaxed with agreeable emotions, it was irresistibly winning. I have heard an anecdote which furnishes a pleasing illustration of this. At the time Mr. Wirt was Attorney-general, Mr. Webster, having some business with him, went to his office. Mr. Wirt was engaged for a few moments at his desk, and asked Mr. Webster to sit down a short time, when he would come to him. Mr. Webster did as requested, and for some moments sat looking moodily into the fire. At length one of Mr. Wirt’s children—a girl of six or eight years old—came in, and thinking it was her father, went to Mr. Webster, and putting her elbows on his knee, looked up in his face. In an instant she started back, shocked at her mistake, and appalled by the dark, moody countenance before her. At the same moment Mr. Webster became aware of her presence. His whole face changed in an instant: a smile came over his face; he put out his hand, and all was so winning, that the child, after hesitating a moment, also smiled, and went back and resumed her confiding position, as if it had indeed been her father.

That Mr. Webster had his faults, we all know;

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but the general soundness of his heart and character, as well as the soundness of his intellect, are demonstrated by his works. These are an indestructible monument, attesting alike his greatness and his goodness. Among all these volumes, so full of thought, so pregnant with instruction, so abounding in knowledge, there is not an impure suggestion, not a mean sentiment, not a malicious sentence. All is patriotic, virtuous, ennobling. And the truths he thus uttered—how are they beautified, adorned, and commended by the purity of the style and the elegance of the diction! In this respect there is a remarkable difference between him and his great rivals, Clay and Calhoun. Mr. Webster’s works abound in passages which convey beautiful sentiments in beautiful language*—gems of

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thought set in golden sentences, fitting them to become the adornments of gifted and tasteful minds, for all future time. With these other orators it is not so: there is an earnest, direct, vigorous logic in Calhoun, which, however, can spare not a sentence to any subsidiary thought; there is a warm, glowing, hearty current of persuasion in Clay, yet he is too ardent in the pursuit of his main design, to pause for

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a moment to gather or scatter flowers by the wayside. In all the works of these two great men, it is not easy to select a page which, may challenge admiration on account of its artistic beauty, or because it enshrines general truth and philosophy, so happily expressed as to enforce them upon the worship of the heart.

Of Mr. Webster’s magnanimity, there are abundant

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evidences. His whole course in the House as well as in the Senate evinced it. He never displayed, because he never felt that littleness of soul, which signalizes itself in envy, and malice, and uncharitableness, Nothing can be finer than the uniform dignity of his conduct through a congressional period of more than twenty years. But there are two instances of his greatness of soul, which have appeared to me remarkable, and especially worthy of being recorded, because they refer to those individuals, Clay and Calhoun, who of all others he might have been supposed to regard with feelings of aversion, if not of hostility.

It is well remembered by all those who are conversant with the history of the times, that Mr. Webster, then acting as Secretary of State in the Tyler Cabinet, thought fit to continue in his place, when the

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other members resigned. This conduct drew upon him attacks from various quarters, and especially from those who were known to take counsel of Mr. Clay. It was manifest, as well from the bitterness as the persistence of the onslaught, that the purpose was to effect Mr. Webster’s destruction as a public man. This object was not accomplished, for it soon appeared to the world that he had been governed by the. highest motives of patriotism, in the course he had adopted, and that he had indeed made it the means of accomplishing a great national benefit—the settling of the irritating and threatening question of the “Maine boundary.” In fact, Mr. Webster rather gained than lost in the confidence of men whose opinions are of value, in spite of this conspiracy which sought to overwhelm him.

In the spring of 1844, Mr. Clay, having been on a trip to the South, came to Washington. He was already indicated by public opinion as the whig candidate for the presidency, and it seemed highly probable that the time had now come for the realization of his known and cherished aspirations, in respect to that high position. He was himself sanguine of success. On the 1st of May he was nominated at Baltimore, by a whig convention, for the office in question, and the next day there was to be a grand rally of young men, to ratify the nomination. It was suggested to Mr. Clay that it was eminently desirable that Mr. Webster should add his influence in behalf

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of the nomination; but he is said to have felt that he neither needed nor desired it. His friends, however, thought otherwise, and a message was dispatched to Mr. Webster, begging him to come on to the convention, already gathering at Baltimore. This reached him while he was dining at the Astor House, in New York. He immediately left the table, and after a brief communion with himself, departed, and arrived in time to join his voice in a powerful speech, to the enthusiasm of the occasion.

A very short period after this, the clouds began to thicken in the political horizon. Mr. Polk had been nominated, and the important State of Pennsylvania was seen to be in danger of giving him her vote. In this emergency, Mr. Webster was besought to go there and address the people at Philadelphia, and in the mining districts, where large masses were congregated. Perfectly well knowing Mr. Clay’s sentiments and conduct toward him, he still went, and made a series of addresses, among the most eloquent that he ever uttered. In the course of these, he had occasion to speak of Mr. Clay. It was a delicate task, therefore, to do justice to his position, as an advocate of Mr. Clay’s candidacy, while at the same time Mr. Clay’s treatment of him was fresh in the public mind. Yet with a tact, which does infinite credit to his good taste, and a magnanimity which equally honors his heart, he spoke of Mr. Clay in the following words:

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We may not only refer to this passage as evidence of Mr. Webster’s magnanimity of soul, but as a high example of gentlemanly dignity—in the very heat of an animated party discussion, not forgetting to render justice even to an adversary.

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In respect to Mr. Calhoun, Mr. Webster displayed similar elevation of mind. It is matter of history that, in the earlier periods of their congressional life, these two men were drawn together by mutual admiration. But party exigences have no respect for private feelings, and accordingly Mr. Calhoun joined the conspiracy, which, in 1832, was formed to crush Mr. Webster; a measure which it was hoped to accomplish through the eloquence of Mr. Hayne, assisted by the united talent of the democratic party, at that time powerfully represented in the Senate. That he escaped, was owing to his own matchless abilities*—for there is hardly an instance on record in which a man, single-handed, has withstood and baffled and punished so formidable a combination. For several years immediately following, Mr. Webster was called into an almost perpetual conflict with Mr. Calhoun—from this point his stern, unflinching adversary. By general consent, others stood aloof, almost in awe of the conflict between these two champions. The struggle furnishes some of the most remarkable passages in our political history. But an event at last

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arrived which was to put an end to the strife. Mr. Calhoun, who had gradually been sinking under a decay of health and constitution, expired at Washington on the 31st of March, 1850. It was then that Mr. Webster rose in the Senate and pronounced upon him a eulogium, in which all his merits were beautifully set forth, without one of the many shadows which truth might have furnished.

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Was there not something grand and at the same time affecting in a scene like this—a great man—all selfish, thought rebuked, all passed bitterness forgot—uttering words like these, over the now prostrate competitor with whom it had been his lot to wrestle through long years of the bitterest party conflict?

But I must draw this chapter to a close; yet my memory is, indeed, full of the images of other men of mark whom I have seen upon the great stage of action at Washington. Among them was William Wirt, an able lawyer, an elegant writer, an accomplished gentleman—and, at the time I knew him, Attorney-general of the United States; Mr. Forsyth, Gen. Jackson’s accomplished Secretary of State, at whose house I remember once to have dined when Mr. Benton, Isaac Hill, John M. Niles,* and others

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were present; “John Taylor of Caroline,” an able Virginian statesman, and the very personification of old-fashioned dignity and courtesy; Albert Gallatin, a dark, swarthy man, with an eye that seemed to penetrate the souls of all who approached him; Henry R. Storrs,* a native of Connecticut, but a representative from New York—one of the ablest debaters of his day; Hayne of South Carolina, the gallant but unsuccessful jouster with Mr. Webster; Burgess of Rhode

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Island—a man of prodigious powers of sarcasm, and who made even John Randolph quail; Silas Wright of New York, ever courteous, ever smiling—a giant in strength, conquering his antagonists with such an air of good-humor as to reconcile them to defeat: these, and still others among the departed, live in my memory, and were there time and occasion, would furnish interesting themes of description and comment. Of those among the living—Crittenden, noted for his close argument and polished sarcasm; Benton of Missouri, who has fought his way through many prejudices, till he has attained the reputation of unrivaled industry, vast acquisitions, and an enlarged statesmanship; Bell of Tennessee, always dignified and commanding respect—these linger in my memory as connected with the senate-chamber, where indeed their chief laurels have been won. In the other house, I have often seen and heard Winthrop, Cushing, Wise, T. Marshall—all brilliant orators, and accustomed to “bring down the House,” when the spirit moved.

In the White House, I have seen Monroe and Adams, and Jackson and Van Buren, and Harrison and Tyler, and Taylor and Fillmore. How many memories rise up at the mention of these names—associated as they are in my mind with the brilliant throngs I have seen at their levees, or with the public events connected with their names, or the whirlpools of party strife which I have seen, fretting and foaming at the periods of their election!

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But I must forbear. A single domestic event claims to be recorded here, and I shall then take leave of Washington. I have told you that I had come hither with my family. Among them was one to whom existence had hitherto been only a bright, unbroken spring. Gifted, beautiful, healthful, happy—loving all and loved by all—he never suggested by his appearance, an idea but of life, and enjoyment, and success, and prosperity. Yet he was suddenly taken from us. We mourned, though remembrances were mingled with our grief which softened, if they could not wholly remove it. His simple virtues, faintly recorded in the following stanzas, are still more indelibly written on our hearts:

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LETTER LVI.

London and Paris compared—Paris thirty years ago—Louis XVIII.—The Parisians—Garden of the Tuileries—Washington Irving—Mr. Warden, the American Consul—Société Philomatique—Baron Larrey—Geoffroy St. Hilaire—The Institute—Arago—Lamarck—Gay-Lussac—Cuvier—Lacroix—Laplace—Laennec—Dupuytren—Talma—Mademoiselle Mars.

My dear C******

About the middle of April, 1851, I arrived in Paris, and soon after took charge of the Consulate there. As you know, I have frequently been in this gay city, and I now propose to gather up my recollections of it, and select therefrom a few items which may fill up the blank that yet remains in my story, and in some degree contribute to your amusement.

I first visited Paris in January, 1824, as I have told you. I had spent a month in London, which is always a rather gloomy place to a stranger, and in winter is peculiarly depressing. The people who have houses there, burrow into them, and lighting their coal fires, make themselves happy; but the wanderer from his country, shut out from these cheerful scenes, and forced into the streets, grimed with dirt and drizzle below and incumbered with bituminous fogs above, feels that he is in a dreary wilderness, where man and nature conspire to make him miserable and melancholy. In most great cities, there is something

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to cheer the new-comer: it is precisely the reverse with London, and particularly at this dismal season. Its finest streets, its most sumptuous squares, even its noble monuments, which are not few, have always a rather dull aspect, and in the pitchy atmosphere of winter, they seem to be in mourning, and communicate their gloom to all around. St. Paul’s, incrusted with soot and dripping with an inky deposit from the persistent fogs; Nelson’s monument, black with coal-smoke, and clammy with the chill death-damp of the season,—all these things—the very ornaments and glories of the city—are positively depressing, and especially to an American, accustomed to the transparent skies, the white snow-drifts, the bracing, cheering atmosphere of his own winter climate.

Paris is the very opposite of London. The latter is an ordinary city, impressed by no distinctive characteristics, except its gloom and its vast extent. It is little more than twenty Liverpools, crowded together, and forming the most populous city in the world. Paris, on the contrary, is marked with prominent and peculiar traits, noticed at once by the most careless observer. On entering the streets, you are struck with the air of ornament and decoration which belongs to the architecture, the effect of which is heightened by the light color of the freestone, the universal building material. The sky is bright, and the people seem to reflect its cheerfulness. The public gar-

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dens and squares, surrounded with monuments of art and teeming with men, women, and children, including abundance of rosy nurses and plump babies, all apparently bent on pleasure, and this, too, in midwinter—are peculiar and striking features of this gay metropolis. To an American who has just left London, his heart heavy with hypochondria, Paris is indeed delightful, and soon restores him to his wonted cheerfulness.

At the time I first arrived here, this city was, however, very different from what it now is. Louis XVIII. was upon the throne, and had occupied it for nine years. During this period he had done almost nothing to repair the state of waste and dilapidation in which the allies had left it. These had taken down the statue of Napoleon on the column of the Place Vendôme, and left its pedestal vacant; the king had followed up the reform and erased the offensive name of the exiled emperor from the public monuments, and put his own, Louis XVIIL., in their place; he had caused a few churches to be repaired, and some pictures of the Virgin to be painted and placed in their niches. But ghastly mounds of rubbish—the wrecks of demolished edifices—scattered heaps of stones at the foot of half-built walls of buildings, destined never to be completed,—these and other unsightly objects were visible on every hand, marking the recent history of Napoleon, overthrown in the midst of his mighty projects, and leaving his name and his

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works to be desecrated alike by a foreign, foe and a more bitter domestic adversary.

The king, Louis XVIII., was a man of good sense and liberal mind, for one of his race; but he was wholly unfit to administer the government. He was a sort of monster of obesity, and, at the time I speak of, having lost the use of his lower limbs, he could not walk, and was trundled about the palace of the Tuileries in a cripple’s go-cart, I have often seen him let down in this, through the arch in the southeastern angle of the palace, into his coach, and returning from his ride, again, taken up, and all this more like a helpless barrel of beef than a sovereign. Had the allies intended to make legitimacy at once odious and ridiculous, they could not better have contrived it than by squatting down this obese, imbecile extinguisher upon the throne of France, as the successor of Napoleon!

The Parisians are, however, a philosophic race: as they could not help themselves, they did not spend their lives like children, in profitless poutings. They had their jokes, and among these, they were accustomed to call Louis Dix-huit, Louis des huîtres—a tolerable pun, which was equivalent to giving him the familiar title of Old Oyster Louis. Deeming it their birthright to have three or four hours of pleasure every day—whoever may be in power—they still frequented the promenades, the Boulevards, and the theaters. When, therefore, I first visited the gardens

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of the Tuileries of a bright Sunday afternoon, and immediately after quitting the “dull fuliginous abyss” of London, the scene seemed to me like enchantment. I find my impressions thus chronicled in my notes:

“Weather fine, bright, and mild; some shrubs still green, and many flowers yet in bloom; jets of fountains playing in the sunshine; too early in the day for a great throng, yet a great many people here; all have a quiet, sauntering look; hundreds of tidy nurses, with bare arms and neat caps on their heads, the children they carry about being richly dressed, their little rosy cheeks imbedded in lace; the ladies tastefully attired, and walking with a peculiar air of grace—very sentimental and modest in their countenances—never look at you, as they do in London; very provoking. There is no Sunday air in the scene, but rather that of a calm pleasure-day; children are rolling hoops; one boy making a dirt pie; two dogs, which have probably been shut up for a week, having a glorious scamper; wild-pigeons cooing above in the tree-tops; sparrows hopping about on the green sod at the foot of the statues of Flora and Diana, and picking up crumbs of bread thrown to them by the children; a number of old men in the sunshine, sheltered by a northern wall, reading newspapers; several nurses there, sunning their babies; palace of the Tuileries of an architecture never seen in America, but still imposing; the Rue de Rivoli on the north,

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superb; the Place Louis Quinze,* fine; the mint and other edifices along the opposite bank of the Seine, beautiful. Wonderful place, this Paris; different from any thing I have seen. It seems devised, in its sky, its edifices, its decorations, its ornaments, for a tasteful and pleasure-loving people. Even I, a wanderer, feel no sense of solitude, of isolation, here. London is repulsive, and seems continually to frown upon the stranger as an outcast; Paris smiles upon him and welcomes him, and makes him feel at home. The genial spirit of the French nation speaks in this, its capital: just as the temper and spirit of John Bull seem to be built into the brick and mortar of the streets of London.

I can not, perhaps, do better than to give you a few more passages from the hasty jottings I made at the time.

“February 6—Washington Irving returned our call. Strikingly mild and amiable; dress—claret coat, rather more pigeon-tailed than the fashion at New York; light waistcoat; tights; ribbed, flesh-colored silk stockings; shoes, polished very bright. This a fashionable dress here. He spoke of many

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things, all in a quiet manner, evidently with a fund of feeling beneath.

“February 14—Went with Mr. Warden* to a meeting of the ‘Société Philomatique,’ composed of members of the Institute; saw Fourier, the famous geometrician and physician; he accompanied Napoleon to Egypt; wears a great brown wig; a dull, clumsy speaker: Thénard, a famous chemist, associated with Gay-Lussac; looks about forty: Larrey; has long black hair parted on the forehead, with an air of gravity and solidity, mingled with simplicity; spoke slowly, but with great clearness. Bonaparte said he was the most honest man he ever knew. He accompanied the expedition to Egypt; is still a distinguished surgeon, and in full practice. Poisson, one of the first mathematicians in Europe; he has a very fine head and splendid eye—seems about forty-eight: Geoffrey St. Hilaire, a zoologist, second only to Cuvier; a bustling, smiling man, of very demonstrative manner; he had two huge fish-bones, which he used for the purpose of illustrating his observations. He was also in the Egyptian expedition, and contributed largely to its scientific results. He seemed about forty-eight, and was listened to with great

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attention. Bose, a celebrated agriculturist, botanist, &c., old, respectable, gentlemanly.

“The proceedings were conducted with order and simplicity, forming a striking contrast to the pompous declamation I heard in London, in the Academy of Arts, upon hatching eggs.

“February 16—Went with Mr. Warden to a meeting of the Institute, held in the Hotel Mazarin: one hundred and fifty members present. Arago, president; he is tall, broad-shouldered, and imposing in appearance, with a dark, swarthy complexion, and a black, piercing eye. Lamarck, the famous writer on natural history—old, infirm, blind—was led in by another member—a distinguished entomologist, whose name I have forgotten; Fontaine, the architect—tall, homely, and aged: Gay-Lussac, a renowned chemist, under forty, active, fiery in debate: Cuvier, rather a large man, red face, eyes small, very near-sighted; eyes near together and oddly appearing and disappearing; features acute, hair gray, long, and careless; he spoke several times, and with great pertinency and effect: Lacroix, the mathematician, old, and looks like a ’76er: Laplace, the most famous living astronomer, tall, thin, and sharp-featured— reminded me of the portraits of Voltaire; he is about seventy-five, feeble, yet has all his mental faculties.

“The principal discussion related to gasometers, the police of Paris having asked the opinion of the Institute as to the safety of certain new kinds, lately

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introduced. The subject excited great interest, and the debate was quite animated. Thénard, Gay-Lussac, Girard, Laplace, Cuvier, and others, engaged in the debate. Nearly all expressed themselves with great ease and even volubility. They were occasionally vehement, and when excited, several spoke at once, and the president was obliged often to ring his bell to preserve order.

“It was strange and striking to see so many old men, just on the borders of the grave, still retaining such ardor for science as to appear at a club like this, and enter with passion into all the questions that came up. Such a spectacle is not to be seen elsewhere, on the earth. The charms of science generally fade to the eye of threescore and ten; few passions except piety and avarice survive threescore. It is evident, in studying this association, that the highest and most ardent exercises of the mind are here stimulated by the desire of glory, which is the reward of success. One thing struck me forcibly in this assembly, and that was the utter absence of all French foppery in dress, among the members. Their attire was plain black, and generally as simple as that of so many New England clergymen.

“In the evening, went to the Théâtre Français, to see Talma in the celebrated tragedy of Sylla, by Jouy. Did not well understand the French, but could see that the acting was very masterly. Had expected a great deal of rant, but was agreeably disappointed. In

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the more passionate parts there was a display of vigor, but at other times the performance was quiet and natural—without any of the stage-exaggeration I am accustomed to. Most of the scenes were such as might actually take place, under the circumstances indicated in the play. Talma is said to resemble Napoleon in person; he certainly looked very much like his portraits. His hair was evidently arranged to favor the idea of resemblance to the emperor. He is a very handsome man, and comes up to my idea of a great actor.

“February 20th—Went to see a new comedy by Casimir Delavigne, “L’Ecole des Vieillards.” Talma and Mademoiselle Mars played the two principal parts. The piece consisted of a succession of rather long dialogues, without any change of scenery. The whole theater had somewhat the quiet elegance of a parlor. There were no noisy disturbers; there was no vulgarity—no boisterous applause. The actors appeared like groups of genteel people, conversing, as we see them in actual life. There was nothing very exciting in the situations, nothing highly romantic in the plot or denouement. The interest of the play consisted in playful wit, sparkling repartee, and light satire upon life and society—represented by the most beautiful acting I have ever seen. Talma is inimitable in the character of a refined but somewhat imbecile man, who has passed the prime of life; and Mademoiselle Mars is, beyond comparison, the most graceful and

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pleasing of actresses. I am struck with the strict propriety, the refinement even of the manners of the audience. The whole entertainment seems, indeed, to be founded upon a very different idea from that of the English stage, which is largely adapted to delight the coarse tastes of the pit. Here the pit—called the parterre—is filled with people of refinement.

“February 21st—Went to the Hospital of La Charité. Saw Laennec, with his pupils, visiting the patients. He makes great use of the stethoscope, which is a wooden tube applied to the body, and put to the ear: by the sound, the state of the lungs and the vital organs is ascertained. It is like a telescope, by which the interior of the body is perceived, only that the ear is used instead of the eye. It is deemed a great improvement, Laennec is the inventor, and has high reputation in the treatment of diseases of the chest. He has learned to ascertain the condition of the lungs by thumping on the breast and back of the patient, and putting the ear to the body at the same time. He is a little man, five feet three inches high, and thin as a shadow. However, he has acute features, and a manner which bespeaks energy and consciousness of power.

“The whole hospital was neat and clean; bedsteads of iron. French medical practice very light; few medicines given; nursing is a great part of the treatment. Laennec’s pupils followed him from patient to patient. He conversed with them in Latin.

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One of the patients was a handsome, black-eyed girl, not very sick. All the young men must apply the stethoscope to her chest; she smiled, and seemed to think it all right.

“Same day, went to the Hotel Dieu, a medical and surgical hospital. Saw Dupuytren and his pupils, visiting the patients. He is a rather large man, of a fine Bonapartean head, but sour, contumelious looks. He holds the very first rank as a surgeon. His operations are surprisingly bold and skillful. Edward C…., of Philadelphia, who is here studying medicine, told me a good anecdote of him. He has a notion that he can instantly detect hydrocephalus in a patient, from the manner in which he carries his head. One day, while he was in the midst of his scholars at the hospital, he saw a common sort of man standing at a distance, among several persons who had come for medical advice. Dupuytren’s eye fell upon him, and he said to his pupils—‘Do you see yonder, that fellow that has his hand to his face, and carries his head almost on his shoulder? Now, take notice: that man has hydrocephalus. Come here, my good fellow!’

“The man thus called, came up. ‘Well,’ said Dupuytren—‘I know what ails you; but come, tell us about it yourself. What is the matter with you?’

“ ‘I’ve got the toothache!’ was the reply.

“ ‘Take that’—said Dupuytren, giving him a box on the ear—‘and go to the proper department and have it pulled out!’ ”

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LETTER LVII.

Death of Louis XVIII.—Charles X.—The “Three Glorious Days”—Louis Philippe—The Revolution of February, 1848.

My dear C******

I was again in Paris in the summer of 1832. Great changes had taken place since 1824: Louis XVIII. was dead; Charles X. had succeeded, and after a brief reign had been driven away by the revolution of the “Three Glorious Days.” Louis Philippe was now on the throne. On the 29th of July, and the two following days, we saw the celebration of the event which had thus changed the dynasty of France. It consisted of a grand fete, in the Champs Elysées, closed by a most imposing military spectacle, in which eighty thousand troops, extending from the Arc de Triomphe to the Place Vendôme, marched before the admiring throng. Louis Philippe was himself on horseback as commander-in-chief, and such was his popularity among the masses that, in many instances, I saw men in blouses rush up and grasp his hand, and insist upon shaking it. Sixteen years after, I saw him hustled into a cab, and flying from the mob for his life—his family scattered, and he but too happy to get safe to England in the disguise of a sailor!

As I have told you, I established my family in

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Paris in 1846; that winter and the following I was also there. I remember that on a certain Monday in February, 1848, I went up to see our countrywoman, the Marchioness Lavalette, to arrange with her about an introduction she had promised me to Gruizot. She was not at home, but as I was coming down the hill from the Place St. George, I met her in her carriage. She asked me to walk back to her house, and I did so. I observed that she was much agitated, and asked her the cause. “We are going to have trouble!” said she. “I have just been to the Chambers: the ministry have determined to stop the meeting of the liberals to-morrow; the proclamation is already being printed.”

“Well, and what then?” said I.

“Another ‘Three Glorious Days!’ ”

To this I replied that I conceived her fears groundless; that Louis Philippe appeared to me strong in the confidence of the people; that he was noted for his prudence and sagacity; that Guizot, his prime minister, was a man of great ability; that the whole cabinet, indeed, were distinguished for their judgment and capacity. The lady shook her head, and rejoined—

“I know Paris better than you do. We are on the eve of an earthquake!”

Soon after this I took my leave. What speedily ensued, may best be told in a letter I addressed to a friend in Boston, and which was as follows:

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LETTER LVIII.

Events which immediately followed the Revolution—Scenes in the streets of Paris—Anxiety of Strangers—Proceedings of the Americans—Address to the Provisional Government—Reply of M. Arago—Procession in the streets—Inauguration of the Republic—Funeral of the Victims—Presentation of Flags—Conspiracy of the 15th of May—Insurrection of June—Adoption of the Constitution—Louis Napoleon President,

My dear C******

It is quite impossible to give you any adequate idea of the state of things in Paris, immediately after the revolution described in my preceding letter. The Provisional Government, at the Hotel de Ville, consisting of persons who had seized the reins of authority which had suddenly fallen from the hands of the now prostrate monarchy, was as yet without real power. Every thing was in a state of paralysis, or disorganization. There was no effective police, no visible authority, no actual government; every man did what seemed good in his own eyes. Boys and blackguards paraded the streets with swords at their side, muskets in their hands, and sashes around their

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waists. Enormous processions of men, sometimes mingled with women, moved along the thoroughfares, singing the Marseillaise and “Mourir pour la Patrie.” It was a general jubilee—and, strange to say, without riot, without violence, without fear. I walked freely abroad in the streets, taking my wife and children with me; we were constantly saluted by men and women offering us tricolored rosettes, which they pinned upon our breasts with the utmost good-humor, expecting, of course, a few sous in return. This state of things continued for some weeks—the people being a law unto themselves, and refraining alike from turbulence, from outrage, and from pillage. It is probable that in no other great city of the world could the masses be let loose from the restraints of government and law, and yet keep themselves within the bounds of order and propriety, as did the Parisians during this remarkable era.

Of course, there was a general feeling of anxiety among all reflecting people in Paris, and especially those whose minds reverted to the first French revolution. This disquietude extended particularly to all foreigners, and they naturally cast about for the means of safety. It was difficult to leave Paris, for some of the railroads were broken up, and all the modes of conveyance were deranged. It was almost impossible to get money for the purposes of travel, and even if one could escape from Paris, more dangerous agitation might exist in the country. The lead-

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ing Americans took counsel together on this subject, and finally concluded to proceed, in procession, to the Provisional Government, and congratulate them upon the revolution.* A message was sent to inquire if this would be acceptable; the answer was favorable, and, indeed, they were desired to hasten the proceeding, as it was thought such, a demonstration might contribute to give support to the trembling authority of the self-elected rulers.

In the preliminary meeting for bringing about the proposed address, I was chosen to preside, and was, also selected as chairman of the committee to draw up the address itself. I had some curious counsel given me by my countrymen, while I was preparing-this document. The Americans looked upon the revolution, not only as the overthrow of monarchy, but as the birth of that liberty which, we are taught to cherish as one of the greatest boons of existence. The example of Paris extended like an electric shock to the adjacent countries. Italy, Austria, Prussia, seemed on the point of emancipating themselves from the yoke which, had bound them for ages. With a generous sympathy, our countrymen wished success to these efforts. The formation of a republican government seems to us so easy, so obvious a work, that

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we suppose every nation which undertakes the task, will of course accomplish it. It was natural, therefore, for an American in Paris to believe that the good time had actually come, and that the people had only to inaugurate and establish it. I had several plans of addresses sent to me founded upon this idea; one a declaration of principles, of seven foolscap pages, drawn up pretty much after the manner of our Declaration of Independence. Conceiving it, however, no time to be magniloquent, I prepared the following brief address, which was adopted:

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All things being duly prepared, the Americans, about two hundred and fifty in number, marched in procession to the Hotel de Ville, the striped bunting and the tricolor waving together in harmony over our heads. The citizens of Paris looked upon us with welcome, and frequently the cry arose—“Vive la Republique Americaine!”*

The Hotel de Ville is one of the most sumptuous palaces in Europe; and here, in the magnificent apartment called the Hall of Reception, we were received by the Provisional Government—all dressed in their uniform of blue, ornamented with gold lace, and rich sashes around the waist. Lamartine was ill, and was not present; Arago presided. I began to read the address, in English, when a tipsy Frenchman, who had squeezed into the hall with the pro-

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cession, came forward and insisted that it should be read in French. He was pacified by being told that it would be read in that language after I had concluded. When the address was finished, M. Arago replied on behalf of the government, in appropriate terms. M. Poussin* then seized the two flags, and waving them together, pronounced an animated discourse, in which he acknowledged with gratitude the sympathy of the Americans in the recent revolution, and expressed the hope that France had now entered upon the long-hoped-for millennial era of equality, fraternity, and liberty.

It is not my design to give you a detailed history of the revolution, but I may sketch a few of the prominent events which followed. For this purpose, I make an extract from an account I have elsewhere given:

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LETTER LIX.

The Duties of a Consul—Pursuit of a missing Family—Paying for Experience.

My dear C******

Let us now come to the period of 1851, when I entered upon the consulate. Of the space during which I was permitted to hold this office, I have no very remarkable personal incidents to relate. The certifying of invoices, and the legalizing of deeds and powers of attorney, are the chief technical duties of the American Consul at Paris.* If he desires to

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enlarge the circle of his operations, however, he can find various ways of doing it, as for instance, in supplying the wants of distressed Poles, Hungarians, Italians, and others, who are martyrs to liberty, and suppose the American heart and purse always open to those who are thus afflicted: in answering questions from notaries, merchants, lawyers, as to the laws of the different American States upon marriage, inheritance,

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and the like; in advising emigrants whether to settle in Iowa, or Illinois, or Missouri, or Texas; in listening to inquiries made by deserted wives as to where their errant husbands may be found, who left France ten or twenty or thirty years ago, and went to America, by which is generally understood St. Domingo or Martinique. A considerable business may be done in lending money to foreigners, who pretend to have been naturalized in the United States, and are therefore entitled to consideration and sympathy, it being of course well understood that money lent to such persons will never be repaid. Some time and cash may also be invested in listening to the stories and contributing to the wants of promising young American artists, who are striving to get to Italy, to pursue their studies—such persons usually being graduates of the London school of artful dodgers. Some waste leisure and a good deal of postage may be disposed of in correspondence with ingenious Americans—inventors and discoverers—as for instance, with a man in Arkansas or Minnesota, who informs you that he has

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contrived a new and infallible method of heating and ventilating European cities, and wishes it brought to the notice of the authorities there, it being deemed the duty of the American Consul to give attention to such matters. These monotonies are occasionally diversified by a letter from some unfortunate fellow-countryman who is detained at Mazas or Clichy, and begs to be extricated; or some couple who wish to be put under the bonds of wedlock, or some enterprising wife, all the way from Tennessee, in chase of a runaway husband, or some inexperienced but indignant youth who has been fleeced by his landlord.

Mixed up with these amusements, there sometimes comes an order from the government at home, to obtain a certain document, or to give information as to some institution, or perhaps to make some investigation. The following copy of a letter to the State Department at Washington describes an instance of the latter:

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Another incident may amuse you. I one day received a number of a Journal published in Paris, entitled “Archives des Hommes du Jour,” that is, Memoirs of Men of the Time, accompanied by a polite note saying that the editors would be happy to insert in their pages a biographical memoir of myself. They had taken the liberty to sketch the beginning of the desired article, but the particular facts of my life they politely begged me to supply.

Supposing this to be one of those applications which are by no means uncommon, I handed to my friend, M. Jules Delbrück, the letter, with two or

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three American books, which contained notices of myself, and asked him to write-the memoir as desired. This he did, and it was duly sent to the editors of the Hommes du Jour. In due time a proof was sent, and at the same time one of the editors, a very smiling gentleman, came and desired to know how many copies of this memoir of myself I should desire! I replied, very innocently, that I should like one or two. The gentleman lifted his eyebrows, and said suggestively—

“Five hundred is the usual number!”

I now for the first time began to suspect a trap, and replied—

“You expect me to take five hundred copies?”

“Every gentleman takes at least that; sometimes a thousand.”

“And you expect me to pay for them?”

“Oui, monsieur!”

“Well, how much do you expect for five hundred copies?”

“A franc each is the usual price; but we will say three hundred and fifty francs for the whole.”

“I understand you now: I furnished the article in question at your request; it was for your benefit, not mine. It is of no advantage to me. If you expected to be paid for it, you should have told me so; you would then have been saved the trouble of pursuing the matter any further.”

The stranger remonstrated, but I firmly refused to

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give him an order for any copies of the publication in question, and supposed I had got rid of the application. A few days afterward, however, I received a long letter from the editors, to which, after some reflection, I sent the following answer:

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LETTER LX.

Character of the French Republic—Its Contrast with the American, Republic—Aspect of the Government in France—Louis Napoleon’s ambitious Designs—He Flatters the Army—Spreads Humors of Socialist Plots—Divisions in the National Assembly—A Levee at the Elysée—The Coup d’Etat—Character of this Act—Napoleon’s Government—Feelings of the People.

My dear C******

From the memoranda furnished In my preceding letter, you will comprehend the duties which devolve upon the American Consul at Paris, and will have glimpses of some of the particular incidents which befell me while I was there in that capacity. I must now give you a rapid sketch of certain public events which transpired at that period, and which will ever be regarded as among the most remarkable in modern history.

I have told you how Louis Napoleon, in consequence of the Revolution of 1848, became President of the Republic. When I arrived in Paris, in April, 1851, he was officiating in that capacity, his residence being the little palace of the Bourbon, situated between the Faubourg St. Honoré and the Champs Elysées. The National Assembly, consisting of seven hundred and fifty members, held their sessions at the building called the Chamber of Deputies.* The

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government had been in operation somewhat over two years.

At this period France was a republic, but you will not understand that its government bore any great resemblance to our own, save in name. The Constitution had indeed been framed by a Convention, called a Constituent Assembly, chosen for that purpose by the people: this had been submitted to them and ratified by them; and furthermore, the members of the executive and legislative departments had all been elected by general suffrage. The government, therefore, rested upon the principle of popular sovereignty, but still, it was without those checks and balances belonging to our system, and to which we attribute its success. Ours is a Federal Republic, a union of States, each a distinct, independent, and sovereign power, save only as to national matters, which are given over to the charge of a General Government. This cantonal arrangement, which is the great bulwark of our liberty, was wholly wanting in the French Constitution. All the powers of government—legislative and executive—for the entire kingdom, were centralized at Paris. There were no safeguards interposed between this supreme, unchecked authority, and the people, and the result showed that this defect was fatal. Our general gov-

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ernment may attempt usurpation, but it will immediately be arrested by the State governments; our general government may go to pieces, but the fabric of State government remains to shelter the people from anarchy. Our legislative department is furthermore divided into two bodies—the House and the Senate, and these operate as checks upon each other. Unhappily, the French system had neither of these provisions, and as the republic had swallowed up despotism, so despotism in turn speedily devoured the republic.

To the casual observer, the external aspect of things was not very different from what it had been under the monarchy of Louis Philippe. It is true that the palace of the Tuileries was vacant; no royal coaches were seen dashing through the avenues; no image and superscription of majesty frowned upon you from the public monuments, which, on the contrary, everywhere proclaimed “liberty, equality, fraternity.” But still, the streets were filled with soldiers as before. Armed sentinels were stationed at the entrances of all the public buildings. The barracks were as usual swarming with soldiers, and large masses of horse and foot were frequently trained at the Champ de Mars and at Satory. Martial reviews and exercises were, indeed, the chief amusement of the metropolis. The President’s house was a palace, and all around it was bristling with bayonets. It was obvious that whatever name the government might bear, military force

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lay at the bottom of it, and if to-day this might be its defense, to-morrow it might also be its overthrow.

It is now ascertained that Louis Napoleon, from the beginning, had his mind fixed upon the restoration of the empire. In accepting the presidency of the republic, and even in swearing fidelity to the Constitution, he considered himself only as mounting the steps of the imperial throne. The French have so long been accustomed to military despotism, that they have no idea of government without it. The people there have not the habit, so universal with us, of obeying the law, through a sense of right; they must always have before them the cannon and the bayonet, to enforce obedience. The framers of the new Constitution, either having no conception of a government unsupported by an army, or having no faith that the French nation would observe laws resting only upon moral obligation, gave to the chief magistrate the actual command of a large body of troops. With a view to prepare them to serve him, in time of need, the President nattered the officers and cajoled the men in various ways, even ordering them in one instance to be served with champagne!

In order to prepare the nation for the revolution which he meditated, Louis Napoleon caused agitating and alarming rumors to be circulated, of a terrible plot, planned by the democrats, republicans, and socialists of France, the object of which was to overturn the whole fabric of society, to destroy religion, to sweep

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away the obligations of marriage, to strip the rich of their property, and make a general distribution of it among the masses. Other conspiracies, having similar designs, were said to exist in all the surrounding countries of Europe, and the time was now near at hand when the fearful explosion would take place, The police of France, subject to the control and direction of the President, were instructed to discover evidences of this infernal plot, and they were so successful, that the public mind was filled with a vague but anxious apprehension that society was reposing upon a volcano, which might soon burst forth and overwhelm the whole country in chaos.

The National Assembly conducted in a manner to favor these deep, sinister schemes of the President. They were divided into four or five factions, and spent their time chiefly in angry disputes and selfish intrigues. A portion of them were monarchists, and though they had acquired their seats by pledges of devotion to the republic, they were now plotting its overthrow, a part being for the restoration of the Orleanists and a part for the Bourbons. Another faction was for Louis Napoleon, and actively promoted his schemes. By the Constitution he was ineligible for a second term, and his friends were seeking the means of overcoming this difficulty, and giving him a re-election, by fair means or foul. The liberals were divided into several shades of opinion, some being republicans, after the model of General Ca-

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vaignac; some being democrats, like Victor Hugo; and some socialists, after the fashion of Pierre Leroux. In such a state of things, there was a vast deal of idle debate, while the substantial interests of the country seemed, if not totally forgotten, at least secondary to the interests of parties, and the passions and prejudices of individuals.

Thus, although France was a republic, it was obvious that the government had fallen into selfish hands, and must perish. Louis Napoleon was only waiting a favorable moment to enter upon his schemes for its destruction. His plans rapidly advanced to maturity. The terror he had excited of a grand socialist convulsion, naturally prepared the people of property to look with favor upon any strong arm that might save them from such a catastrophe; the people at large, even the masses, the friends of the republic, were disgusted at the useless discussions, frothy declamations, and factious intrigues of the Assembly. Louis Napoleon watched his opportunity, and at last, every thing seeming to favor his . scheme, he entered upon it with a degree of boldness which has few parallels in history.

I remember that on a certain Monday evening, the 1st of December, 1852, I was present at the Elysée, and was then first introduced to Louis Napoleon. I found him to be an ordinary-looking person, rather under size, but well formed, having a large nose, rather large fishy eyes, and a dull expression. The

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room was tolerably full, the company consisting, as is usual in such cases, of diplomats, military officers, and court officials, with a sprinkling of citizens in black coats—for hitherto the requisition of a court uniform had not been imposed. This, you will remember, was under the Republic; the rule which raised the black coat to a question of state, grew out of the Empire. Nevertheless, I was forcibly struck by the preponderance of soldiers in the assembly, and I said several times to my companions, that it seemed more like a camp than a palace. The whole scene was dull; the President himself appeared preoccupied, and was not master of his usual urbanity; Gen. Magnan walked from room to room with a ruminating air, occasionally sending his keen glances around, as if searching for something which he could not find. There was no music, no dancing. That gayety which almost always pervades a festive party in Paris, was wholly wanting. There was no ringing laughter, no merry hum of conversation. I noticed all this, but I did not suspect the cause. At eleven o’clock the assembly broke up, and the guests departed. At twelve, the conspirators, gathered for their several tasks, commenced their operations.

About four in the morning, the leading members of the Assembly were seized in their beds, and hurried to prison. Troops were distributed at various points, so as to secure the city. When the light of day came, proclamations were posted at the corners of the

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streets announcing to the citizens that the National Assembly was dissolved, that universal suffrage was decreed, that the Republic was established! Such was the general unpopularity of the Assembly, that the first impression of the people was that of delight at its overthrow. Throughout the first day, the streets of Paris were like a swarming hive, filled with masses of people, yet for the most part in good-humor. The second day they had reflected, and began to frown, but yet there was no general spirit of revolt. A few barricades were attempted, but the operators were easily dispersed. The third day came, and although there was some agitation among the masses, there was evidently no preparation, no combination for general resistance. As late as ten o’clock in the forenoon, I met one of the republicans whom I knew, and asked him what was to be done. His reply was:

“We can do nothing: our leaders are in prison; we are bound hand and foot. I am ready to give my life at the barricades, if with the chance of benefit; but I do not like to throw it away. We can do nothing!”

Soon after this, I perceived heavy columns of troops, some four thousand men, marching through the Rue de la Paix, and then proceeding along the Boulevards toward the Porte St. Denis. These were soon followed by a body of about a thousand horse. I was told that similar bodies were moving to the

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same point through other avenues of the city. In a short time the whole Boulevard, from the Rue de la Paix to the Place de la Bastille, an extent of two miles, was filled with troops. My office was on the Boulevard des Italiens, and was now fronted by a dense body of lancers, each man with his cocked pistol in his hand. Except the murmur of the horses’ hoofs, there was a general stillness over the city. The sidewalks were filled with people, and though there was no visible cause for alarm, there was still a vague apprehension, which cast pallor and gloom upon the faces of all.

Suddenly a few shots were heard in the direction of the Boulevard Montmartre, and then a confused hum, and soon a furious clatter of hoofs. A moment after, the whole body of horse started into a gallop, and rushed by as if in flight; presently they halted, however, wheeled slowly, and gradually moved back, taking up their former position. The men looked keenly at the houses on either side, and pointed their pistols threateningly at all whom they saw at the windows. It afterward appeared, that when the troops had been drawn out in line and stationed along the Boulevard, some half dozen shots were fired into them from the tops of buildings and from windows; this created a sudden panic; the troops ran, and crowding upon others, caused the sudden movement I have described. In a few moments, the heavy, sickening sound of muskets came from

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the Porte St. Denis. Volley succeeded volley, and after some time the people were seen rushing madly along the pavements of the Boulevard as if to escape. The gate of our hotel was now closed, and at the earnest request of the throng that had gathered for shelter in the court of the hotel, I put out the “Stars and Stripes”—the first and last time that I ever deemed it necessary. The dull roar of muskets, with the occasional boom of cannon, continued at intervals for nearly half an hour. Silence at last succeeded, and the people ventured into the streets.

About four in the afternoon, I walked for a mile along the Boulevard. The pavements were strewn with the fragments of shattered windows, broken cornices, and shivered doorways. Many of the buildings, especially those on the southern side of the street, were thickly spattered with bullet-marks, especially around the windows. One edifice was riddled through and through with cannon-shot. Frequent spots of blood stained the sidewalk, and along the Boulevard Montmartre, particularly around the doorways, there were pools like those of the shambles; it being evident that the reckless soldiers* had shot down in heaps the fugitives who, taken by surprise,

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strove to obtain shelter at the entrances of the hotels upon the street. It was a sight to sicken the heart, especially of an American, who is not trained to these scenes of massacre. Toward evening a portion of the troops moved away; the rest remained, and bivouacked in the streets for the night. At ten o’clock, I again visited the scene, and was greatly struck with the long line of watch-fires, whose fitful lights, reflected by dark groups of armed men, only rendered the spectacle more ghastly and gloomy.

Of the whole number killed in Paris during this, the third day of the Coup d’Etat, we have no certain account: it is generally estimated at from one thousand to fifteen hundred. I have told you that the press was silenced, save two or three papers, which told the whole story so as to justify the conduct of Louis Napoleon. These represented that the National Assembly were plotting for his overthrow by violent means, and thus would make it appear that his conduct was not only justifiable as an act of self-preservation, but necessary in view of the public good. It is important to state, however, that although the agents of the usurper seized upon the papers of the suspected members at their own houses, and at a moment of surprise, no sufficient proofs have yet been adduced of the alleged treason of the Assem-

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bly. The apologists of the Coup d’Etat have further declared that the massacre along the Boulevards which I have described, was a measure of stern necessity, in order to repress the insurgent socialists. The fact seems rather to be that it was a cool and calculated slaughter of innocent persons, in order to show the power and spirit of the Dictator, and to strike with paralyzing fear those who should venture to oppose him.

The morning came, and the triumph of the reign of terror was complete. What was enacted in Paris, was imitated all over France. Nearly every department was declared in a state of siege; revolt was punished with death, and doubt or hesitation with imprisonment. Forty thousand persons were hurried to the dungeons, without even the form or pretense of trial. All over the country the press was silenced, as it had been in Paris, save only a few obsequious prints, which published what was dictated to them. These declared that all this bloodshed and violence were the necessary result of the socialist conspiracy, which threatened to overturn society; happily, as they contended, Louis Napoleon, like a beneficent providence, had crushed the monster, and he now asked the people to ratify what he had done, by making him President for ten years. In the midst of agitation, delusion, and panic, the vote was taken, and the usurpation was legalized by a vote of eight millions of suffrages! The nominal Republic, but real Dic-

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tatorship, thus established, was soon made to give way to the Empire; the ambitious plotter reached the imperial throne, and now stands before the world as Napoleon III.!

It is impossible for us Americans to look upon the conduct of the chief actor in this startling drama, but with reprobation. We regard constitutions, ratified by the people, as sacred; we consider oaths to support them as pledges of character, faith, honor, truth—all that belongs to manhood. We look upon blood shed for mere ambition, as murder. The American people must be totally changed in religion, morals, feelings, and political associations, before they could cast their votes for a ruler whose lips were stained with perjury, and whose hands were red with the slaughter of their fellow-citizens. But the French nation is of a different moral constitution; their tastes, experience, souvenirs, are all different. They are accustomed to perfidy on the part of their rulers; violence and crime, wrought for ambition, have stained the paths of every dynasty that has ruled over them for a space of fourteen centuries. France is trained to these things, and hence the public taste, the prevailing sentiments of society, are not greatly shocked at them. The people there do not reckon with a successful usurper as they would with an ordinary man acting in the common business of life; when they see him installed in the Tuileries they forget his treacheries and his massacres—the means

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by which he attained his power—and cry “Vive l’Empereur!” Even the Church now looks upon Louis Napoleon’s conduct with approbation, and burns incense and sings Te Deums in his behalf, as the savior of religion, family, society.

And it must be admitted that, since his acquisition of a throne, Louis Napoleon has conducted the government with ability, and he has certainly been seconded by fortune. He married a lady who, after becoming an empress, shed luster upon her high position by her gentle virtues and’ gracious manners. He engaged in the Eastern War, and has triumphed. He has greatly improved and embellished the capital, and made Paris the most charming city in the world; nowhere else does life seem to flow on so cheerfully and so tranquilly as here. He has gradually softened the rigors of his government—and though some noble spirits still pine in exile,* he has taken frequent ad-

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vantage of opportunity to diminish the number. The people of France, at the present time, appear to be satisfied with the government, and probably a very large majority, could the question be proposed to them, would vote for its continuance.

Beneath this smooth and tranquil surface there may be, and no doubt is, a smouldering fire of discontent, and which will seek the first opportunity to explode. Louis Napoleon rules only by the vigorous and watchful power of despotism, and it is not in the nature of the French people to endure this for a long period of time. The existing empire can hardly be perpetuated beyond the life of him who has created it; indeed, its present strength lies much more in the fear of anarchy, which is certain to follow if that be removed, than from any love for the system itself, or of him who has imposed it upon the country.

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LETTER LXI.

Meeting in Paris to commemorate the Death of Clay and Webster—Termination of my Consular Duties—Character of the French Nation—The Black-coat Circular.

My dear C******

As this chapter must bring me to the end of my residence in Paris, you will permit me to crowd into it a variety of topics, without regard to chronological order or continuity of narrative.

In the autumn of 1852, the news came that Daniel Webster was no more. Under any circumstances, the decease of such a person would cause a deep and pervading emotion, but the manner of Mr. Webster’s death imparted to it a peculiar degree of interest. The closing scene was, in fact, appropriate to his character, his noble person, his gigantic intellect, his great fame. It was remarked by an eminent statesman in England, that Mr. Webster’s was the most sublime death of modern times. The European papers were filled with details of the event. The Americans in Paris, on hearing the tidings, deemed it proper to assemble for the purpose of giving expression to their emotions. As Mr. Clay had died only a few months before, it was resolved at the same time to pay due homage to his memory.

The meeting, consisting of several hundred persons, mostly Americans, was held in the splendid salon of

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the Cercle des Deux Mondes, Boulevard Montmartre. Mr. Rives, our minister, made an eloquent and touching address, delineating the remarkable qualities of these two men, and comparing Mr. Clay to the Mississippi, which spreads its fertilizing waters over the boundless regions of the West, and Mr. Webster to the resistless Niagara, emptying seas at a plunge, and shaking all around with its echoing thunders. Mr. Barnard, our minister to the Court of Berlin, paid a full and hearty tribute to the memory of Mr. Webster; he was followed by Mr. George Wood, of New York, and Franklin Dexter, of Boston, who also made eloquent and feeling addresses. M. Bois Lecompte, former minister of France to the United States, and well acquainted with the two great men whose death we had met to commemorate, closed with a beautiful eulogy upon each.

In the summer of 1853,1 was politely advised from the State Department that President Pierce had appointed my successor in the consulate. Thus, having held the place a little over two years, on the 1st of August, 1853,* I was restored to the privileges of

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private citizen life. As I had various engagements which forbade me immediately to leave France, I hired a small house in Courbevoie, which I made my residence till my departure for America in the summer of 1855.

This naturally brings me to the close of my story,

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so far as it relates to France. Were it pertinent to my design, I should give you some sketches of the French people—of their character and manners, which, in their minuter shadings, are not well appreciated in the United States. We readily comprehend England and the English people, because their language, their institutions, their genius, are similar to our own; but in France we find a different language, a different religion, different institutions—in short, a different civilization. In England, Sunday is a holy day, in France a holiday, and this fact is a sort of index to the difference between these two countries in regard to opinion, society, life. In England, the future exercises a powerful influence over the mind; in France, it is thought best to enjoy the present; England would improve the world, France would embellish it; England founds colonies, plants nations, establishes the useful arts; France refines manners, diffuses the fine arts, and spreads taste and elegance over Christendom. In England the people live in separate buildings, apart from one another, each man claiming that his house is his castle; in France,

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they live congregated in hotels, one family above another, like the different layers of honeycomb in a hive. The Englishman finds his chief happiness at his fireside, the Frenchman in the sympathy of congregated masses. In England, the best points of the people are seen in the domestic circle; in France, in the salon. In all these things, English ideas are germain to our own, and hence we readily understand them, enter into them, appreciate them. As to France, it is otherwise; words there have a different sense, things a different use from that we are accustomed to, and hence, in order to understand the genius of the French nation and to do full justice to it, it is necessary to consider them from their point of view. After all that has been said and done, a work describing French society, manners, and institutions, is still a desideratum. This can not be supplied by the hasty sketches of racing travelers; it must be the work of a laborious and careful student, who unites experience and observation to a large and liberal philosophy, which on the one hand can resist the artifices of taste and the blandishments of luxury, and on the other, appreciate good things, even though they may not bear the patent-mark of his own prepossessions. Of course, you will not expect me to begin such a work in the closing pages of these fugitive letters.*

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I duly received your letter asking my opinion upon the “black-coat question.” Mr. Marcy’s celebrated circular respecting diplomatic and consular costume was not issued, or at least did not reach me, till after I had ceased to exercise the consular functions; nevertheless, as I had some opportunity to form a

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judgment of the measure, I freely give you my impressions upon the subject.

You understand that the State Department, at different periods, has made certain regulations in respect to the diplomatic and consular service, so far even as to prescribe their official dress. The main body of these rules, as they had existed for many years, was drawn up, I believe, by Mr. Livingston, while Secretary of State under Gen. Jackson. The diplomatic dress consisted of a blue coat and blue pantaloons decorated with gold embroidery, and a white waistcoat. It had a general resemblance to the diplomatic costume of other countries, though it was of the simplest form. The consular dress was similar, though the naval button of the United States was prescribed, and the whole costume had a sort of naval air. Diplomats and consuls wore small swords, but no epaulets.

Nevertheless, Mr. Marcy, soon after his accession to the State Department, under President Pierce, issued a circular requiring consuls to give up these costumes altogether; as to diplomats, it was recommended, though not enjoined, that they should appear before

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foreign courts in simple black. This was urged on the ground that plainness of attire was proper to the representatives of a republic, and it was to be regretted that we had ever departed from the simplicity adopted by Dr. Franklin in appearing before the court of Louis XVI.

It would seem that these are very narrow grounds for a departure from the usages of the civilized world, our own government among the number, and in which. Jefferson and Monroe, Adams and Jay, Ellsworth and King, had participated. All these, aye and Dr. Franklin* too, notwithstanding the current notion that he forced his Quaker clothes upon the court of Louis XVI., wore their court costume, simply because custom required it. There is no doubt that they were more respected, and served their country with more effect than they would have done, had they insisted upon shocking the public

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taste by what would have been deemed an indecorum if not an indecency—that is, appearing in common clothes on occasions in which etiquette demanded a special and appropriate attire.

As to the assumption that simplicity of attire is characteristic of republicans, I think there is less of reason in it than of cant. It happens that the particular form of our government excludes all distinctions of rank, and hence the badges which designate these, would be without meaning among us. But with this single exception, we in the United States are as much given to display in dress and equipage as any other people on the globe. We have our military and naval costumes, and these are among the richest in the world: foppery is one of the notorious qualities of all our militia companies. Both our men and women think more of display in dress than those of other nations. When our people get to Europe, they distinguish themselves by going to the height of fashion in all things. At the court introductions in Paris, I always remarked that the Americans—men as well as women—were more sumptuously, and it may be added, more tastefully, attired than most others. Even at the new imperial court of Paris, the American ladies not only stood first in point of beauty, but also in the display of mantles, trains, and diamonds. New Orleans, Virginia, Pennsylvania, New York, Boston, had each its representative, and splendid specimens they were. If the American

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Minister had come to introduce these, his countrywomen, to their imperial majesties, and had claimed the privilege of wearing a black coat because simplicity belongs to republicans, I imagine that every observer would have marked the contrast between the pretense and the performance.

Thus, though we may be republicans, we are in fact a sumptuous people, addicted to display, and exceedingly fond of being in the midst of stars and garters. We think the more of these things, doubtless, for the very reason that they are strange to our manners. Every American who goes to London or Paris, wishes to be introduced at court, and seems to feel that this is his privilege. It is not so with any other nation; no English man or woman, in Paris, asks to be presented at the Tuileries, unless it be a person of high social or official rank.

These being characteristics of our people, and perfectly well understood abroad, Mr. Marcy’s black-coat circular created no little surprise. It was generally regarded as a mere appeal to the lower classes in America, who might be supposed to entertain the sentiments of the sans-culottes, and as such, it was treated with little respect. Nevertheless, had the government prescribed a black dress, for its diplomats, no court in Europe would have made the slightest objection. Such a measure would no doubt have subjected us to criticism, perhaps to ridicule, as a matter of taste; it would have been offensive, inasmuch as it

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would have seemed designed as a rebuke of the manners and customs of older and more refined nations than ourselves. We should have been considered as reading a lecture to European courts, in this wise—“Look at us, republicans, and behold how we despise the trappings of royalty, and the gaud of courts; look at our black coats, and go ye and do likewise!” Nevertheless, it is perfectly well understood in Europe that any government may regulate the costume of its representatives, and had Mr. Marcy’s circular made it obligatory upon the American diplomatic corps to wear black, or white, or red, or any other color, not the slightest exception would have been taken to it by any court in the world.

This, however, was not the course adopted by the government; they merely recommended, they did not prescribe, the black coat. The situation of all our ministers, charges, and secretaries, therefore, at once became extremely awkward.* The diplomatic business

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of all countries is transacted between the ambassador and the ministers, and when these persons meet, there is no ceremony. They come together like merchants or lawyers, in their ordinary dress. All the actual business of a foreign minister may therefore be transacted without any particular costume.

But sovereigns surround themselves with a certain etiquette, and they require all who approach them to conform to this. When Queen Victoria invites persons to visit her, it is of course upon condition that they adopt the usages of the court. No one, whatever his rank or station, can claim exemption from this rule. It must be remembered that on all such occasions, the invitation is considered a compliment, and hence well-bred persons, who take advantage of it, feel constrained, by self-respect and a sense of propriety, scrupulously to regard and fulfill the conditions upon which this invitation is bestowed.

Now, it must be remembered that what is called a court costume, is only required of a minister on occasions of mere ceremony or festivity, when he appears by invitation of the sovereign. If he comes, it is not to transact business, but for amusement. He

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may stay away, and nothing belonging to his diplomatic affairs will suffer. Why, then, if he accepts the invitation, should he not conform to the prescribed usages of the court? It is generally considered evidence of a want of gentlemanly breeding, an act of positive vulgarity, for any person to take advantage of a polite invitation, and refuse to conform. to the conditions imposed by the host. Above all, it would seem that an ambassador, representing a nation before a foreign court, should be scrupulous to observe the known and established rules of decorum.

It must be remembered that propriety of costume—that is, a dress suited to the taste and fashion prevailing where it is worn, is in all civilized countries a matter of decency. It has been so among all refined nations, and from the earliest ages. One of the most solemn of our Saviour’s parables is founded upon a breach of decorum in regard to costume—the appearance of a man at the wedding of the king’s son, without a wedding garment. Similar ideas are just as current among us as elsewhere. If a clergyman were to go into the pulpit dressed in a military coat, it would shock the whole audience, and be considered an insult alike to them and to the clerical profession. If a lady issues cards of invitation to a ball, and a man, who takes advantage of the invitation, comes in a sailor’s roundabout, he would be held as an ill-bred fellow, and as such would be turned out of

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doors. He may plead that he had simply cut off the tail of his coat, and as he considered an artificial appendage of this kind derogatory to a free-born man., his principles forbade him to wear it. The answer is, you are welcome to carry out your principles, but if you accept an invitation given to you out of politeness, it is expected and required that you conform to the known usages and decencies of society.

Now in monarchical countries long usage has established it in the public mind, that to appear at court* without a court costume, would be a species of indecency, an offense against the company present, as well as the parties giving the invitation. We may rail at it as much as we please in this country, yet we can not alter the fact I state.

Taking the matter in this point of view, let us consider the situation of our diplomatic representatives under Mr. Marcy’s circular. Had the black coat been prescribed, as I have said before, there would have been an end of the matter. Our ministers and chargés would have been dressed in black, that is, like the servants of a café, while all around

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them would have appeared in appropriate costumes; and thus, in the midst of an assemblage, consisting of the most exalted rank, the highest refinement, the most distinguished ability—the representative of the United States would either have passed unnoticed as a servant, or been remarked upon as an object of ridicule, perhaps of contempt. That would have been all.

But this condition of things was not vouchsafed to our ministers: if they obeyed the circular, and carried the black coat to court, it was known to be in some degree voluntary, and was so far the more offensive on the part of the individual wearing it. Mr. Sanford, our Chargé at Paris, acting from a just regard to the wishes of his government, tried the experiment under many advantages. He was a young gentleman of good address, and held a respectable position in the higher circles of society connected with the court. He was admitted to the Tuileries in his black suit, but was of course an object of much observation and comment. His character—personal and official—protected him from indignity, either of word or look, but the act was considered offensive as well in the palace as in the various branches of society in connection with it. About this time Louis Napoleon was forming his new imperial court, and seeking to give it every degree of splendor. He had prescribed rich costumes for his officers, military and civil, and had directed that their wives

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should appear in their most splendid attire. All the persons connected with the court entered into this spirit. For the American Chargé to present himself in simple black, at this particular time, looked like rebuke, and was, I believe, regarded in, this light. Had Mr. Sanford continued in his office at Paris, and had he persevered, he would, perhaps, by his amiable personal character and pleasing address, have removed these difficulties, though it is quite as possible that he might have found his situation intolerable, not from open affront, but from those sly yet galling attacks, which the polished habitues of courts know so well how to make, even in the midst of smiles and seeming caresses. As it happened, Mr. Mason soon after arrived in Paris as full minister, and appreciating the result of Mr. Sanford’s experiment, adopted the usual diplomatic costume.

For my own part, I can not see the utility of making ourselves disagreeable, and at the same time jeoparding the real interests of our country, in such a matter as that of the dress of our diplomatic representatives. Our policy should be to cultivate peace with all the world, but it would seem of late that our desire is rather to array all the nations against us. Within the last three years we have lost nearly all our friends in Europe. The Ostend Congress, with its startling doctrines, produced a deep and pervading feeling of reprehension, and the circulars of “Citizen Saunders” created still more lively emotions of irritation

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and resentment.* The character and conduct of several of our consuls and diplomats, in different parts of Europe, together with our Secretary’s well-meant attempts to improve the taste of the European courts in the matter of dress, have all contributed to degrade the American name in foreign countries.

Such are, briefly, my views of Mr. Marcy’s diplomatic circular. It seems to have been ill advised, and though its motive was no doubt good, it must have been adopted without full inquiry into the subject. Had the State Department taken the precaution to address our ministers and consuls on the subject, the answer would have been such as to have prevented the ridicule brought upon the country by this measure. The present state of things is embarrassing to our foreign ministers, and derogatory to the country. The true plan is to adopt some simple and appropriate costume, and make it obligatory. If the black coat is to be preferred, then let it be prescribed, so

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that the responsibility may fall on the government and not on him who wears it. And one thing more: let us be consistent; if republicanism requires simplicity, and black is to be our national color, let the “fuss and feathers” of the army and navy be dismissed, and the general as well as the private soldier appear in “the black coat!”

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LETTER LXII.

Visit to Italy—Florence—Rome—Naples.

My dear C******

In the autumn of 1854 I set out with my family for a brief visit to Italy. With all my wanderings I had never seen this far-famed land, and as I was not likely ever to have another opportunity, I felt it to be a kind of duty to avail myself of a few unappropriated weeks, for that object.

It is not my purpose to give you the details of my travels or my observations. A mere outline must suffice. Embarking in a steamer at Marseilles, we soon reached Genoa. Here we went ashore for a few hours, and then returning to our vessel, proceeded on to Leghorn. Taking the railroad at this place, we wound among the hills, and, having passed Pisa, catching a glimpse of its Leaning Tower, arrived at Florence. In this journey of five days, we had passed from Paris to the center of Italy.

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Florence* is situated in a small but fertile valley, on either side of which rise a great number of precipitous hills; behind these is a succession of still greater elevations, with rocky summits reaching at last to the Apennines on the north, and other ranges on the south and west. A narrow stream, poetically called the “yellow Arno” or “golden Arno,” but in honest phrase, the muddy Arno, flows nearly through the center of the city. This is bordered by stone quays, leaving a space of about three hundred feet in width, sometimes full and sometimes only a bed of gravel, along which winds the stream shrunken into an insignificant rivulet. The Arno is in fact a sort of mountain torrent; its source is nearly five thousand feet above the level of the sea, yet its whole course is but seventy-five miles. The steep acclivities around Florence suddenly empty the rains into its channel, and it often swells in the course of a few hours to inundation; it subsides as speedily, and in summer almost disappears amid the furrows of its sandy bed.

If we were to judge Florence by a modern standard, we might pronounce it a dull, dismal-looking

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place, marred by dilapidation, degraded by tyranny, and occupied by a degenerate people. But when we enter its galleries of art,* when we survey its monuments of architecture, and when we view all these in connection with its history, we speedily discover it to be an inexhaustible mine, alike instructive to the philosopher and the man of taste.

I dare not begin upon the curiosities with which this city is filled: I must leave them to be described by others. The hills around the city are equally interesting, studded as they are with edifices, connected with the names of Michael Angelo, Galileo, Dante, Lorenzo de’ Medici, and others, all full of historical associations or recollections of science and art. At the distance of about five miles is Fiésole, now an insignificant village, situated on the top of a steep hill, rising a thousand feet above the bed of the valley. This you ascend by a winding road, built with immense labor, a portion of it cut in the solid rock. This place was the cradle of Florence, its history reaching back three thousand years, into the thick mists of antiquity.

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Here are Cyclopean walls, constructed by the early inhabitants to protect themselves at a period when all Italy was in the possession of bands of brigands and robbers, and when every town and village was a fortress. From this point you look down upon Florence, which almost seems at your feet; you have also a commanding view of the whole adjacent country. If you inquire the names of places that attract your attention, you will be carried back to periods anterior to the building of Rome. The guide will point you to the track of Hannibal through the marshes of the Arno, then a wilderness without inhabitants, amid which the Carthaginian general lost a number of elephants, and whose tusks are even at this day dug up from their deep beds in the soil. Allow me to give you a somewhat prosy description in rhyme of this wonderful and suggestive place— the best in the world to study early Roman geography and history—which I wrote on the spot, and which has at least the merit of being brief:

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On the twenty-second day of February we entered Rome, and found the peach-trees in blossom. The modern city is in no respect remarkable. Its walls are of some strength, but readily yielded to the attack of the French army in 1849. Its present population is one hundred and seventy-five thousand. All the streets are narrow, and even the far-famed Corso is not over fifty feet wide. In general, the buildings appear to be of modern date, with here and there some grand monument of antiquity peering out from the midst of more recent structures. On the whole, the aspect of this “Queen of the World” is eminently sad, degenerate, and disheartening.

The more imposing relics of antiquity, the Forum, the Palace of the Cæsars, the Coliseum, the Baths of Caracalla, though within the walls, are still on the southern side of the city, and beyond the present center of population. All these are gigantic structures, but mostly of a barbarous character. They show the amazing power and wealth of the emperors who con-

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structed these works, but they also display the actual poverty of art, for there is not one of them that can famish a useful suggestion to even a house-carpenter. The vain and transitory nature of the ideas and institutions which gave birth to these miracles of labor, strikes the reflecting mind with a deep and painful sense of humiliation. The Coliseum, the most sublime monument of accumulated human toil, regarded as to its gigantic proportions, was erected for amusements now held to be alike cruel and revolting; the baths of Caracalla—whole acres covered with mounds of brick—were constructed to minister to fashionable luxuries, which at the present day would be regarded as infamous. In modern times, the same accommodations would be obtained with one-twentieth part of the labor expended upon these establishments. The vanity, the boasting, the ostentation of conquerors, which gave birth to the triumphal arches, would at this day be looked upon with universal contempt. The temples were erected to gods, which have vanished into thin air. The Aqueducts, whose ruins stretch across the gloomy Campagna, looking like long lines of marching mastodons, were erected in ignorance of that familiar fact, visible to any one who looks into a teapot, that water will rise to its level!

The great lesson to be learned at Rome is that of humility. I know not which is most calculated to sink the pride of man, pagan Rome, sublime in the grandeur of its tyranny, its vices, and its falsehoods,

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or Christian Rome, contemptible in its littleness, its tricks, and its artifices, which would disgrace the commonest juggler.

I speak not now of the treasures of art,* collected to repletion in the public and private galleries of this wonderful city. These are endless in extent and variety. Among them are the finest paintings of Raphael, and the best sculptures of Michael Angelo, as well as the Dying Gladiator and the Apollo Belvidere. Here, also, is that rich, gorgeous palace, called St. Peter’s Church. But still, Rome, on the whole, seems to me the most melancholy spot on earth. Here is a city which once contained three or four millions of

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inhabitants, now shrunk and wasted to a population of less than two hundred thousand, and these living upon the mere ruins of the past. The Christian Church is but little better than a collection of bats and owls, nestling in the ruinous structures erected for the gods and goddesses of heathen antiquity.

Nor is this the most appalling fact here presented to the traveler. Around this place is a belt of undulating land called the Campagna, eight or ten miles in width, fertile by nature, and once covered with a busy population; this has become desolate, and is now tenanted only by sheep and cattle. The air is poisoned, and man breathes it at his peril. To sleep in it is death. And this change has come over it while it claims to be the very seat and center of Christianity, the residence of the Successor of the Apostles, the Head of the Catholic Church, the Representative of Christ on earth, the Spiritual Father of a hundred and fifty millions of souls! Is not this mysterious, fearful?

We reached Naples about the first of April. Here the character of the climate and of the people becomes thoroughly Italian. The Bay of Naples can not be too much praised. Not only do the prominent objects—the crescent-shaped city, rising terrace above terrace on the north; Vesuvius, with its double cone in the east, and the islands of Capri and Ischia at the south—form a beautiful boundary to the view, but the water and the sky and the air have all a live-

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liness, a cheerfulness, which calls upon the heart to be gay. The Neapolitan is, in truth, constantly preached to by nature, to sing and dance and be happy. It is impossible for any one to resist this influence of the climate—of the earth and the sea and the air—in this region of enchantment. It appears that the ancient Romans felt and yielded to its force. In the vicinity was Puzzuoli, a renowned watering-place, the hills around being still studded with the vestiges of villas once inhabited by the Roman patricians; near by was Cumæ, long a seat and center of taste and luxury; close at hand was Baiæ, the Baden Baden of fashion in the time of Cicero—its ruins abundantly attesting the luxury as well as the licentiousness of those days. In the mouth of the bay was Capri, chosen by Tiberius as the scene of his imperial orgies, in consideration of its delicious climate and picturesque scenery. The whole region is indeed covered over with monuments of Rome in the day of its glory, testifying to the full appreciation of the beauties of the sky and the climate, on the part of its patrician population.

As to the city of Naples itself I shall not speak; though its people, its institutions, its repositories of art, its Museum of vestiges taken from the buried cities of Pompeii and Herculaneum, would furnish interesting subjects of description. I have only to add that after a stay of a month, I left it with reluctance, and returned to Paris. When I arrived, the

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Great Exposition was on the eve of being opened. I remained till July, and had several opportunities to examine this marvelous array of the world’s art and industry. On the fourth of the same month I departed for the United States, and arriving in New York, found anchorage for myself and family in that city.

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LETTER LXIII.

Leave-taking—Improvement everywhere—In Science—Geology, Chemistry, Agriculture, Manufactures, Astronomy, Navigation, the Domestic Arts—Anthracite Coal—Traveling—Painting—Daguerreotypes—The Electric Telegraph—Moral Progress—In Foreign Countries: in the United States.

My dear C******

I have now come to my farewell. Leave-takings are in general somewhat melancholy, and it is best to make them as brief as possible. Mine shall consist of a single train of thought, and that suggestive of cheerful rather than mournful feelings. Like a traveler approaching the end of his journey, I naturally cast a look backward, and surveying the monuments which rise up in the distance, seek to estimate the nature and tendency of the march of events which I have witnessed, and in which I have participated.

One general remark appears to me applicable to the half century over which my observation has extended, which is, that everywhere there has been improvement. I know of no department of human

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knowledge, no sphere of human inquiry, no race of men, no region of the earth, where there has been retrogradation. On the whole, the age has been alike fruitful in discovery, and the practical, beneficial results of discovery. Science has advanced with giant strides, and it is the distinguishing characteristic of modern science that it is not the mere toy of the philosopher, nor the hidden mystery of the laboratory, but the hard-working servant of the manufactory, the workshop, and the kitchen. Geology not only instructs us in the sublime history of the formation of the earth, but it teaches us to understand its hidden depths, and to trace out and discover its mineral treasures. Chemistry, the science of atoms, teaching us the component parts of matter, as well as the laws of affinity and repulsion, has put us in possession of a vast range of convenient knowledge now in daily and familiar use in the domestic arts. We have even express treatises upon the “Chemistry of Common Life.” Astronomy has not only introduced to us new planets and the sublime phenomena of the depths hitherto beyond our reach, but it has condescended to aid in perfecting the art of navigation, and thus contributed to make the sea the safe and familiar highway of the nations.

We can best appreciate the progress of things around us, by looking at particular facts. Take anthracite coal, for instance, which, when I was a boy, was unknown, or only regarded as a black, shining, useless

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stone; now six millions of tons are annually dug up and distributed. Think of the labor that is performed by this mass of matter, that had slumbered for ages—hidden, senseless, dead, in the bosom of the earth! It now not only cooks our food and warms our houses so as in winter to give us the climate of summer, but the sleeper, waked from its tomb, like a giant impatient of the time he has lost, turns the whizzing wheel of the factory, sends the screaming locomotive on its way, drives the steamboat foaming through the waves. This single mineral now performs, every day, the labor of at least a hundred thousand men!

On every hand are the evidences of improvement. What advances have been made in agriculture—in the analysis of soils, the preparation of manures, the improvement of implements, from the spade to the steam-reaper; in the manufacture of textile fabrics by the inventions of Jacquard and others in weaving, and innumerable devices in spinning; in the working of iron—cutting, melting, molding, rolling, shaping it like dough, whereby it is applied to a thousand new uses; in commerce and navigation, by improved models of ships, improved chronometers, barometers, and quadrants—in chain-pumps and wheel-rudders; in printing, by the use of the power-press, throwing off a hundred thousand impressions instead of two thousand in a day; in the taking of likenesses by the daguerreotype, making the Sun himself the painter of miniatures; in microscopes, which have revealed new

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worlds in the infinity of littleness, as well as in telescopes which have unfolded immeasurable depths of space before hidden from the view. How has traveling been changed, from jolting along at the rate of six miles an hour over rough roads in a stage-coach, to the putting one’s self comfortably to bed in a steamboat and going fifteen miles an hour; or sitting down in a railroad car at New York to read a novel, and before you have finished, to find yourself at Boston! The whole standard of life and comfort has been changed, especially in the cities. The miracles of antiquity are between each thumb and finger now; a friction-match gives us fire and light, the turn of a cock brings us water, bright as from Castalia. We have summer in our houses, even through the rigors of winter. We light our streets by gas, and turn night into day. Steam brings to the temperate zone the fresh fruits of the tropics; ether mitigates the agonies of surgical operations; ice converts even the fires of Sirius into sources of luxury.

These are marvels, yet not the greatest of marvels. Think—instead of dispatching a letter in a mail-bag, with the hope of getting an answer in a month—of sending your thoughts alive along a wire winged with electricity, to New Orleans or Canada, to Charleston or St. Louis, and getting a reply in the course of a few hours! This is the miracle of human inventions, the crowning glory of art, at once the most ingenious, the most gratifying, the most startling of discoveries. I

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know of nothing in the whole range of human contrivances which excites such exulting emotions in the mind of man, as the electric telegraph.* It is giving wings of light to the mind, and here on earth imparting to the soul, some of the anticipated powers which imagination tells us the spirit may exercise in the

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world above! Having achieved so much, who shall dare to set limits to the power of human invention?

And in the moral world, the last fifty years appear to me to have shown an improvement, if not as marked, yet as certain and positive, as in the material world. Everywhere, as I believe, the standard of humanity is more elevated than before. About a century ago, an eminent New England divine, afterward president of Yale College, sent a barrel of rum to Africa by a Rhode Island captain, and got in return a negro boy, whom he held as a slave, and this was not an offence. I know of a distinguished D. D. who was a distiller of New England rum half a century ago, and with no loss of reputation. The rules by which we try candidates for office are much more rigid than formerly. Church discipline among all sects is more severe, while sectarian charity is greatly enlarged. Christian missions are among the established institutions of society; education is everywhere improved and extended. If in some things, with the increase of wealth and luxury, we have degenerated, on the whole there has been an immense

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advance, as well in technical morals as in those large humanities which aim at the good of all mankind.

If we cast our eyes over foreign lands, we shall see a similar if not an equal progress in all that belongs to the comforts and the charities of life. Despotism still reigns over a large part of the world, but its spirit is mitigated, its heart softened. Dungeons and chains are not now the great instruments of government. There is everywhere—more especially in all parts of Christendom—a feeling of responsibility on the part of even kings and princes, to the universal principles of justice and humanity. There is a moral sense, a moral law among mankind, which tyrants dare not set at defiance!

Such has been the tendency of things within the half century which has passed under my observation, If, then, I am an optimist, it is as much from reason and reflection as from sentiment. In looking at the political condition of our country, there are no doubt threatening clouds in the sky, and mutterings of ominous thunders in the distance. I have, however, known such things before; I have seen the country shaken to its center by the fierce collisions of parties, and the open assaults of the spirit of disunion. But these dangers passed away. Within my memory, the States of the Union have been doubled in number, and the territory of the Union has been trebled in extent! This I have seen; and as such has been the past, so may be, and so I trust will be, the future. Farewell!

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My experience, as an author, has been not a little singular, in one respect. While on the other side of the Atlantic my name has been largely used, as a passport to the public, for books I never wrote—attempts have been made in this country to deprive me of the authorship of at least a hundred volumes which I did write. It requires some patience to reflect upon this with equanimity; to see myself, falsely, saddled with the paternity of things which are either stupid, or vulgar, or immoral—or perhaps all together; and then to be deprived, also by falsehood, of the means of effectually throwing them off by appealing to genuine works—which have obtained general favor—through a suspicion cast into the public mind, that I am a mere pretender, and that the real authorship of these works belongs to another person.

This, however, has been, and perhaps is my position, at least with some portion of the public. I have thought it worth while, therefore, to print a catalogue of my genuine works, and also a list of the false ones, issued under my name, with such notes as seem necessary to set the whole matter clearly before the public.

The following list comprises all my works to the best of my recollection.

MISCELLANEOUS

1828 .. 14 .. The Token—A New Year’s and Christmas Present

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1849 … 1 .. A History of All Nations, from the Earliest Period to the Present Time—In which the History of every Nation, Ancient and Modern, is separately given. Large 8vo., 1200 pp.

1840 … 1 .. A Pictorial Geography of the World. Large 8vo., 1000 pp.

1838 … 1 .. Sow Well and Reap Well, or Fireside Education. 12mo.

1845 … 1 .. A Pictorial History of America. 8vo.

1853 … 1 .. Winter Wreath, of Summer Flowers. 8vo. Colored Engravings.

1841 … 1 .. The Outcast, and other Poems. 12mo.

1836 … 1 .. Sketches from a Student’s Window. 12mo.

1851 … 1 .. Poems. 12mo.

1842 … 1 .. Ireland and the Irish. 12mo.

1839 … 1 .. Five Letters to my Neighbor Smith.

1852 … 1 .. Les Etats Unis d’Amérique. 8vo.

1854 … 1 .. The Gem Book of British Poetry. Sq. 8vo.

1857 … 2 .. Recollections of a Lifetime: or, Men and Things I have Seen. In a series of Familiar Letters—Historical, Biographical, Anecdotical, and Descriptive: addressed to a Friend. 12mo. (In press.)

1856 … 1 .. The Picture Play-Book.

SCHOOL BOOKS.

1846 … 1 .. Ancient History, from the Creation to the Fall of Rome. 12mo.

1847 … 1 .. Modern History, from the Fall of Rome to the present time. 12mo.

1846 … 1 .. History of North America—Or, The United States and adjacent Countries. 18mo.

1846 … 1 .. History of South America and the West Indies. 18mo.

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1848 … 1 .. History of Europe. 18mo.

1848 … 1 .. History of Asia. 18mo.

1850 … 1 .. History of Africa. 18mo.

1849 … 1 .. A Comprehensive Geography and History, Ancient and Modern. 4to.

1849 … 1 .. The National Geography. 4to.

1850 … 1 .. A Primer of History, for Beginners at Home and School. 24mo.

1850 … 1 .. A Primer of Geography, for Home and School—With Maps.

1846 … 1 .. A Pictorial History of the United States. 12 mo.

1846 … 1 .. A Pictorial History of England. 12mo.

1846 … 1 .. A Pictorial History of France. 12mo.

1846 … 1 .. A Pictorial History of Greece. 12mo.

1848 … 1 .. A Pictorial History of Rome. 12mo.

1842 … 1 .. A Pictorial Natural History. 12mo.

1842 … 1 .. The Young American,: Or, A Book of Government and Law. 12mo.

1830 … 1 .. The Malte-Brun School Geography. 16mo.

1830 … 1 .. Maps for the same. 4to.

1834 … 1 .. The Child’s Own Book of Geography; or the Western Hemisphere—With Maps. Sq. 12mo. (Out of print.)

1834 … 1 .. The Child’s Own Book of Geography; or the Eastern Hemisphere—With Maps. Square 12mo. (Out of print.)

1846 … 1 .. Goodrich’s First Reader. 18mo.

1846 … 1 .. Goodrich’s Second Reader. 18mo.

1846 … 1 .. Goodrich’s Third Reader. 18mo.

1846 … 1 .. Goodrich’s Fourth Reader. 12mo.

1846 … 1 .. Goodrich’s Fifth Reader. 12mo.

TALES UNDER THE NAME OF PETER PARLEY.

1827 … 1 .. The Tales of Peter Parley about America. Square 16mo.

1828 … 1 .. {The Tales of Peter Parley about} Europe. {Square 16mo.}

1829 … 1 .. Peter Parley’s Winter-Evening Tales. {Square 16mo.}

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1830 … 1 .. Peter Parley’s Juvenile Tales. Square 16mo.

1830 … 1 .. The Tales of Peter Parley about Africa. Square 16mo.

1830 … 1 .. {The Tales of Peter Parley about} Asia. {Square 16mo.}

1830 … 1 .. Peter Parley’s Tales about the Sun, Moon, and Stars. Square 16mo.

1831 … 1 .. Peter Parley’s Tales of the Sea. Square 16mo.

1831 … 1 .. Peter Parley’s Tales about the Islands in the Pacific Ocean. Square 16mo.

1830 … 1 .. Peter Parley’s Method of Telling about Geography. Square 16mo.

1831 … 1 .. Peter Parley’s Tales about the World. Square 16mo. (Out of print.)

1832 … 1 .. Peter Parley’s Tales about New York. Square 16mo. (Out of print.)

1834 … 1 .. Peter Parley’s Tales about Great Britain—Including England, Scotland, and Ireland. Square 16mo. (Out of print.)

1834 … 1 .. Parley’s Picture Book. Square 16mo.

1834 … 1 .. Parley’s Short Stories for Long Nights. Square 16mo.

1836 … 1 .. Peter Parley’s Book of Anecdotes. {Square 16mo.}

1831 … 1 .. Parley’s Tales about Animals. 12mo.

1843 … 1 .. Persevere and Prosper: Or, The Siberian Sable-Hunter. 18mo.

1843 … 1 .. Make the Best of It: Or, Cheerful Cherry, and other Tales. 18mo.

1844 … 1 .. Wit Bought; Or, The Adventures of Robert Merry. 18mo.

1844 … 1 .. What to do, and How to do it: Or, Morals and Manners. 18mo.

1845 … 1 .. A Home in the Sea; Or, The Adventures of Philip Brusque. 18mo.

1845 … 1 .. Right is Might, and other Sketches. 18mo.

1845 … 1 .. A Tale of the Revolution, and other Sketches. 18mo.

1846 … 1 .. Dick Boldhero, or the Wonders of South America. 18mo.

1846 … 1 .. Truth-Finder: Or, Inquisitive Jack. 18mo.

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1850 … 1 .. Take Care of No. 1: Or, The Adventures of Jacob Karl. 18mo.

1846 … 1 .. Tales of Sea and Land.

1835 … 1 .. Every-Day Book. Sq. 16mo. (Out of print.)

1853 … 1 .. Parley’s Present for All Seasons. 12mo.

1854 … 1 .. Parley’s Wanderers by Sea and Land. 12mo.

1854 … 1 .. Parley’s Fagots for the Fireside. 12mo.

1856 … 1 .. Parley’s Balloon Travels of Robert Merry and his Young Friends in various parts of Europe. 12mo.

1856 … 1 .. Parley’s Adventures of Gilbert Goahead. 12mo.

1857 … 1 .. Parley’s Adventures of Billy Bump, all the way from Sundown to California. (In press.)

1857 … 1 .. Parley’s Balloon Travels of Robert Merry and his Young Friends in the Holy Land and other parts of Asia. 12mo. (In press.)

PARLEY’S HISTORICAL COMPENDS.

1837 … 2 .. Peter Parley’s Universal History on the basis of Geography. Large sq. 16mo.

1837 … 1 .. Peter Parley’s Common School History. 12mo.

1831 … 1 .. The First Book of History for Children and Youth. Large sq. 12mo.

1832 … 1 .. The Second Book of History—Designed as a Sequel to the First Book of History. Large sq. 12mo.

1833 … 1 .. The Third Book of History—Designed as a Sequel to the First and Second Books of History. Sq. 12mo.

1832 … 1 .. Parley’s Tales about Ancient Rome, with some account of Modern Italy. Sq. 16mo.

1833 … 1 .. Parley’s Tales about Ancient and Modern Greece. Sq. 16mo.

1853 … 1 .. Histoire des Etats-Unis d’Amérique. Published in Paris and the United States. 12mo.

1853 … 1 .. Petite Histoire Universeile. Published in Paris and the United States. 18mo.

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1844-5 … 1 .. 1. Lives of Famous Men of Modern Times.

1844-5 … 1 .. 2. Lives of Famous Men of Ancient Times.

1844-5 … 1 .. 3. Curiosities of Human Nature.

1844-5 … 1 .. 4. Lives of Benefactors.

1844-5 … 1 .. 5. Lives of Famous American Indians.

1844-5 … 1 .. 6. Lives of Celebrated Women.

HISTORICAL DEPARTMENT.

1844-5 … 1 .. 7. Lights and Shadows of American History.

1844-5 … 1 .. 8. Lights and Shadows of European History.

1844-5 … 1 .. 9. Lights and Shadows of Asiatic History.

1844-5 … 1 .. 10. Lights and Shadows of African History.

1844-5 … 1 .. 11. History of the American Indians.

1844-5 … 1 .. 12. Manners, Customs, and Antiquities of the American Indians.

MISCELLANEOUS.

1844-5 … 1 .. 13. A Glance at the Sciences.

1844-5 … 1 .. 14. Wonders of Geology.

1844-5 … 1 .. 15. Anecdotes of the Animal Kingdom.

1844-5 … 1 .. 16. A Glance at Philosophy.

1844-5 … 1 .. 17. Book of Literature, with Specimens.

1844-5 … 1 .. 18. Enterprise, Industry, and Art of Man.

1844-5 … 1 .. 19. Manners and Customs of Nations.

1844-5 … 1 .. 20. The World and its Inhabitants.

1849 … 1 .. Parley’s Panorama: Or, the Curiosities of Nature and Art, History and Biography. Large 8vo., double columns.

1844 … 1 .. Parley’s Geography for Beginners. Sq. 16mo.

1836 … 1 .. Parley’s Farewell. Large sq. 16mo. (Out of print.)

1833 … 1 .. Parley’s Arithmetic. Sq. 16mo.

1833 … 1 .. Parley’s Spelling-Book. (Out of print.)

1833 … 1 .. Parley’s Book of the United States. Sq. 16mo.

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1854 … 1 .. Géographic Elémentaire.

1854 … 1 .. Elementary Geography. 8vo. With Maps.

1836 … 1 .. Parley’s Present. Small 24mo. (Out of print.)

1834 … 6 .. Parley’s Dictionaries—Of Botany, of Astronomy, of the Bible, of Bible Geography, of History, of Commerce. Six vols., large sq. 16mo.

1832 … 1 .. Three Months at Sea (an English book, with additions and modifications). Sq. 16mo.

1832 … 1 .. The Captive of Nootka Sound. Sq. 16mo.

1832 … 1 .. The Story of Capt. Riley. {Sq. 16mo.}

1832 … 1 .. The Story of La Peyrouse. {Sq. 16mo.}

1833 … 1 .. The Story of Alexander Selkirk. {Sq. 16mo.}

1833 … 1 .. Bible Stories (a London book, with additions). Sq. 16mo.

1833 … 1 .. Parley’s Magazine. Began 1832. Large sq. 12mo.

1841 .. 28 .. Merry’s Museum and Parley’s Magazine. Large sq. 12mo. Commenced 1841.

Remarks.

I thus stand before the public as the author and editor of about one hundred and seventy volumes—one hundred and sixteen bearing the name of Peter Parley. Of all these, about seven millions of volumes have been sold: about three hundred thousand volumes are now sold annually.

A recent writer in the Boston Courier, has affirmed that the late Mr. S. Kettell was the “Veritable Peter Parley”—thereby asserting, in effect, and conveying the impression, that he being the author of

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the Parley Books, I, who have claimed them, am an impostor. He has, moreover, claimed for him, in precise terms, the actual authorship of various works which have appeared under my own proper name. For reasons which will appear hereafter, I deem it necessary to expose this impudent attempt at imposture—absurd and preposterous as it appears, upon its very face.

First, as to the Parley Books—it will probably be sufficient for me to make the following statement. In respect to the thirty-six volumes of Parley’s Tales, in the preceding list, the earlier numbers of which began and gave currency to the entire Parley series, no person except myself ever wrote a single sentence.

As to Parley’s Historical Compends—some nine or ten volumes—I had the assistance of N. Hawthorne, and J. O. Sargent, Esqs., and others; but Mr. Kettell never wrote a line of any one of them!

As to Parley’s Miscellanies—about fifty volumes—I had some assistance from several persons in about a dozen of them, Mr. Kettell wrote a few sketches for five or six volumes of the Cabinet Library, which I adapted to my purpose, and inserted: this is the whole extent of his participation in the entire Parley series—one hundred and sixteen volumes!

He never wrote, planned, conceived, or pretended to be the author, of a single volume, bearing Parley’s name. The pretense thus set up for him, since his death, is as preposterous as it is impudent and false. It would be, indeed, about as reasonable to claim for him the authorship of Don Quixote, or Gil Blas, or Pilgrim’s Progress, as thus to give him the title of the “Veritable Peter Parley.”

The writer above noticed also claims for Mr. Kettell the chief authorship of Merry’s Museum, extending to about thirty volumes—large octavo. This claim is disposed of by the following letter from Rev. S. T. Allen—better qualified than any other person to be a witness in the case.

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Here, then, are eight and twenty volumes of Merry’s Museum, in addition to eighty-eight volumes of Parley’s works, rescued from the claims of this wholesale literary burglar.

Another claim in behalf of Mr. Kettell is, that he was the author of various valuable and important school-books, such as the Pictorial History of the United States, a Pictorial History of Greece, &c., &c., &c. The subjoined letter from Mr. George Savage, of the late firm of Huntington & Savage, and now associated with Mr. J. H. Colton & Co., Map and Geography Publishers in New York, will settle this claim, also.

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Another claim, in behalf of Mr. Kettell, made by this adventurous writer, is, that the History of All Nations—a work of 1200 pages, royal 8vo—which appears under my name—was published, with the exception of a few dry pages, “as it came from Mr. Kettell’s graceful and flowing pen!" In reply, I offer the following letter, to which I invite the special attention of the reader, inasmuch as it not only refutes this audacious pretense, but it explains the nature of my connection with Mr. Kettell, the reason why I employed him, and the nature and extent of the services he rendered me.

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I believe I may now leave this matter to the judgment of the public, with a few brief observations.

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The enormous claims in behalf of Mr. Kettell, set up by the Boston Courier and its anonymous correspondent “Veritas,” have been disposed of as follows:

1. Mr. Kettell never wrote a line of the thirty-six volumes of Parleys’ Tales; never a line of the ten volumes of Parley’s Historical Compends,, expressly and repeatedly claimed for him; and of the fifty volumes of Parley’s Miscellanies, he only wrote a few sketches in half a dozen of them. To pretend, therefore, that he is the “Veritable Peter Parley,” is as gross an imposture, as to call him the “Veritable Author” of Pickwick, or Guy Mannering, or the Spectator.

2. The claim for Mr. Kettell, of the authorship of Merry’s Museum,—thirty volumes—is reduced to the writing of about two hundred pages of indifferent matter, as a correspondent.

3. His claim to the authorship of the History of Greece, History of the United States, Parley’s Geography, the Primer of Geography, National Geography, Comprehensive Geography and History—positively asserted by “Veritas”—is shown to be false, in the beginning, the middle, and the end.

4. The audacious claim of the entire authorship of the History of All Nations, comes to this, that Mr. Kettell was one of four persons who assisted me in the compilation of that work.

5. It appears, inasmuch as my eyes were weak for a series of twenty-five years, rendering it sometimes impossible for me to consult books, that I employed Mr. Kettell to block out several works, according to plans—minutely and carefully prescribed by me—and that the materials thus furnished, were reduced to method, style, and manner by me, so as to suit my own taste; and that the works were published, as thus remodeled, and not as they were written by him. It appears, furthermore, that all this was done, with Mr. Kettell’s full consent, upon written and explicit agreements, and that he never did plan, devise, contrive, or finally prepare any book published under my name, nor was he, nor did he ever claim to be, the author of any book thus published.

6. It is material to state, distinctly, that while “Veritas” claims for Mr. Kettell the entire authorship of over one hundred and twenty volumes of my works, he (Mr. Kettell) never assisted me, in any way or in any degree, in more than twenty volumes, and these only in the manner above indicated—that is, in blocking out works, mostly historical, under my direction, and to be finished by me.

7. I do not mean by this to depreciate Mr. Kettell’s abilities; but inasmuch as these audacious claims, in his behalf, have been perti-

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naciously and impudently urged, it is proper for me, in this formal manner, to reduce them to their true dimensions.

8. While I thus acknowledge the assistance rendered me by Mr. Kettell in my historical compilations, it is proper to state that I had the aid of other persons—some of them, of higher name and fame than he. Among my assistants were N. Hawthorne, E. Sargent, J. O. Sargent, S. P. Holbrook, Esqs., Rev. Royal Robbins, Rev. E. G. Smith, Rev. W. S. Jenks, and others. The claims of “Veritas,” if admitted, would not only rob me of the authorship of a hundred volumes, which I wrote, but would transfer to Mr. Kettell about twenty volumes, to which several other authors contributed, with greater ability than he.

9. I think it may be safely assumed, that in the history of literature, there is not a more impudent attempt at imposture than this, which originated in the Boston Courier. It is easy to comprehend why the author has not dared to give his name to the public, but has continued to make his attacks behind the mask of an anonymous title. That I deem myself called upon thus to notice him, arises from the fact that he derived a certain color of authority from the Editor of the Courier, and from publishing papers and documents belonging to Mr. Kettell’s heirs—though these contributed, in no degree, either to refute the statements here made, or to substantiate any portion of the claims here referred to,

10. Literary history is full of instances in which littleness, allied to malignity, has signalized itself by seeking to deprive authors of their just claims—and while thus doing wrong to then-literary labors, attempting also to degrade them in the eyes of the world, as guilty of appropriating to themselves honors which are not legitimately theirs. It is also a vice of base minds to believe imputations of this sort, without evidence, or even against evidence, when once they have been suggested. I do not think it best, therefore, to leave my name to be thus dealt with by future pretenders, who may desire to emulate this Boston adventurer.

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SPURIOUS PARLEY BOOKS.

AMERICAN COUNTERFEITS AND IMPOSITIONS.

In the United States, the name of Parley has been applied to several works of which I am not the author, though for the most part, from mistake and not from fraudulent designs. The following are among the number:

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1832 … 1 .. Parley’s Washington. 18mo.

1832 … 1 .. Parley’s Columbus. {18mo.}

1832 … 1 .. Parley’s Franklin. {18mo.}

—— … 1 .. Parley’s Miscellanies. 18mo.

—— … 1 .. Parley’s Consul’s Daughter, and other Tales. 18mo.

—— … 1 .. Parley’s Tales of Humor. 18mo.

—— … 1 .. Parley’s Tales of Terror. {18mo.}

—— … 1 .. Parley’s Tales for the Times. 18mo.

—— … 1 .. Parley’s Tales of Adventure. {18mo.}

—— … 1 .. Parley’s Picture Books—12 kinds.

—— … 1 .. The Rose, by Peter Parley.

—— … 1 .. The Bud, by Peter Parley.

—— … 1 .. The Mines of different Countries. By Peter Parley.

—— … 1 .. The Garden, by Peter Parley.

—— … 1 .. The Gift, by Peter Parley.

—— … 1 .. The Flower-Basket, by Peter Parley.

—— … 1 .. Fairy Tales, by Peter Parley.

—— … 1 .. Parley’s Book of Books. Sq. 16mo.

—— … 1 .. Parley’s Pictorial—A book for Home Education and Family Entertainment. 8vo.

—— … 1 .. Parley’s Household Library. 8vo.

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ENGLISH COUNTERFEITS AND IMPOSITIONS.

[The London publishers and authors have made a large business of preparing and publishing Parley books. Some of these are republications, without change, from the genuine American editions—to which I make no objection; some are the genuine works, more or less altered ; and many others are counterfeits, every means being used to pass them off upon the public as by the original author of Parley’s Tales, Among the most notorious of these are the following:

1841 .. 14 .. Peter Parley’s Annual—A Christmas and New Year’s Present. Published by Darton & Co.

1834 … 1 .. Peter Parley’s Royal Victoria Game of the Kings and Queens of England. 18mo. Darton & Co.

1840 … 1 .. Parley’s Book of Gymnastics. Sq. 16mo. Darton & Co.

1846 … 1 .. Parley’s Parting Gift. {Sq. 16mo. Darton & Co.}

1855 … 1 .. Parley’s Book of Industry. {Sq. 16mo. Darton & Co.}

1843 … 1 .. Parley’s Book of Poetry. {Sq. 16mo. Darton & Co.}

1843 … 1 .. Parley’s Ireland. {Sq. 16mo. Darton & Co.}

1853 … 1 .. Parley’s Wonders of Earth, Sea, and Sky. Square 16mo. {Darton & Co.}

1840 … 1 .. Parley’s Odds and Ends. Square 16mo. {Darton & Co.}

1848 … 1 .. Parley’s Peeps at Paris. {Sq. 16mo. Darton & Co.}

1848 … 1 .. Parley’s Prize Book. {Sq. 16mo. Darton & Co.}

1842 … 1 .. Parley’s School Atlas. {Sq. 16mo. Darton & Co.}

1839 … 1 .. Parley’s Canada. {Sq. 16mo. Darton & Co.}

1844 … 1 .. Parley’s China and the Chinese. {Sq. 16mo. Darton & Co.}

1853 … 1 .. Parley’s Child’s Own Atlas. Square. {Darton & Co.}

1845 … 1 .. Parley’s Life and Journey of St. Paul. Square 16mo. Simpkins.

1844 … 1 .. Peter Parley’s Lives of the Twelve Apostles. Sq. 16mo. Bogue.

1838 … 1 .. Peter Parley’s Visit to London during the Coronation. Sq. 16mo. Bogue.

1842 … 1 .. Peter Parley’s Tales of England, Scotland, and Ireland. Sq. 16mo. Tegg.

1841 … 1 .. Peter Parley’s Mythology of Greece and Rome. Sq. 16mo. Tegg.

1842 … 1 .. Peter Parley’s Tales of Greece, Ancient and Modern. Square I6mo. Tegg.

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p. 552

1840 … 1 .. Peter Parley’s Tales of Ancient Rome and Modern Italy. Sq. 16mo. Tegg.

1839 … 1 .. Peter Parley’s Tales about Christmas. Sq. 16mo. Tegg.

1846 … 1 .. Peter Parley’s Shipwrecks. {Sq. 16mo. Tegg.}

1839 … 1 .. Parley’s Plants. {Sq. 16mo. Tegg.}

1837 … 1 .. Parley’s Modern Geography. {Sq. 16mo. Tegg.}

1839 … 1 .. Parley’s Bible Geography. Sq. 16mo. J. S. Hodson.

1839 … 1 .. Parley’s Child’s First Step. Sq. 16mo. Clements.

Since the preceding pages were in type, I have been favored by Messrs. Samson Low, Son & Co., of London, with the proof-sheets of their new “American Catalogue of Books,” in the preface of which are some interesting statistics of the book-trade in the United States. From this I make the following extract:

“It seems to be generally agreed that in the twelve years ending 1842, nearly half the publications issued in the United States were reprints of English books,” &c.

“There are no means of verifying this, but the increase and comparative nationality of the literature during the last five years (1850 to 1855) are very striking, testifying at once by its progressive char-

-----
p. 553

acter to the position, strength, and value of the literature of the country at the present day.

“During 1852, unavoidably including many really published in the preceding six months, we find there were 966 new books and new editions; 312 of which were reprints of English books, and 56 translations from other countries.

“During 1853, 879 new books and new editions, including 298 reprints of English books, and 37 translations.

“During 1854, 765 new books and new editions, of which 277 were reprints of English books, and 41 translations.

“During 1855, 1,092 new books and new editions, including 250 reprints of English books, and 38 translations.

“During the six months to July, 1856, 751 new books and new editions, of which but 102 were reprints of English books, and 26 translations.”

This statement, made with great care from published catalogues, notices, and titles of books, coincides in a remarkable degree with the conclusions at which I had arrived, as will be seen at page 389, vol. ii. According to this catalogue of the Messrs. Low, the proportion of British books in our book production is now about twenty to twenty-five per cent. It is to be remarked, however, that a great many new editions of school-books, and popular works of constant and large sale, are produced, of which no public notice is given, and which, therefore, are not included in their estimate, above quoted. If we allow for those editions, we shall see that my estimate of twenty per cent, for the proportion of British literature in our publications at the present time, is fully sustained. The rapid relative increase of American over British mind in our literature, is equally manifest from both statements.

I have just met with a book recently issued by the London Religious Tract Society, entitled “Memoirs of Old Humphrey,” that is, the late George Mogridge, a well-known writer of religious books and essays, especially for the young, for the last thirty years. By

-----
p. 554

a list of his writings, inserted in this volume, it seems he was the person employed by Mr. Thomas Tegg, to write the counterfeit Parley books, of which I have given an account at page 292, vol. ii.

Until now, the real authorship of these volumes has been kept a secret. Tegg disguised the matter by encouraging the idea that he wrote them himself. It appears by the Memoir, above alluded to, that the real author of this imposition, was a person claiming to be very pious, and now that his fraud is known, he becomes the hero of a religious tract society!

The false books which he wrote, and which have been palmed off upon the public for twenty years, as written by me, were as follows:

Some of these are founded upon genuine books, and some are wholly original; but they are all written with a sedulous attempt to make them pass as by the veritable author of Parley’s Tales. This was the first example of counterfeiting these works, and led to that system of fraud which has caused me so much injury and annoyance.

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[p. 555]

INDEX.

A.

Abd-el-Kadir, ii. 452.

Abercrombie, Dr. John, ii. 282.

Adams, John, i. 119; ii. 92, 510.

Adams, J. Q., i. 274; ii. 13, 30, 185, 400, 403, 404, 408.

Adams, Samuel, i. 162.

Albert, Prince, ii. 340.

Albion, Ship, ii. 161.

Alfred, King, i. 94.

Allen, Etlian, ii. 99.

Allen, Ira, ii. 99.

Allen, John, i. 351.

Allen, J. W., i. 352.

Alsop, Richard, ii. 123.

Ames, Fisher, ii. 38.

Ampére, author, ii. 509.

Andre, i. 518.

Annuals, The, ii. 259.

Appleton, D. & Co., ii. 254, 883.

Appleton, Wm., ii. 278.

Arago, Astronomer, ii. 444, 475.

Arnold, Benedict, i. 469.

Asbury, Rev. Francis, i. 205.

Ashburton, Lord, i. 508.

Astor, John Jacob, ii. 71.

Austin family, i. 870.

B.

Babcock, Elisha, ii. 28.

Bacon, Dr. Leonard, i. 376.

Bacon, Rev. Mr., ii. 118.

Bacon, Rev. Dr. Leonard, ii. 118.

Bailey, Mrs, i. 473.

Bainbridge, Com., i. 454.

Baird, Dr., ii. 192.

Baker, Dr., i. 522.

Baldwin, Granther, i. 82, 284, 522.

Ballantyne, James, ii. 186.

Baltimore Riot, i. 439.

Bancroft, George, ii. 252.

Bangs, ii. 381.

Barley-wood, ii. 163.

Barlow, Joel, i. 274; ii. 18.

Barnard, Henry, i. 541; ii. 381.

Barrott, Odillon, ii. 453, 466, 467.

Bartlett, Rev. J., i. 181, 540.

Bayard, J. A., i. 123.

Bayard, W., ii, 70.

Baylies, Hodijah, ii. 42.

Beddoes, Dr., i. 377.

Beecher, Catherine, ii. 94.

Beecher, Edward, ii. 94.

Beecher, Henry Ward, ii. 94.

Beecher, Lyman, ii. 98.

Benedict, Aunt Delight, i. 34, 224.

Benedict, Deacon John, i. 148, 223, 522.

Benedict, Noah B., i. 378.

Benedict, Rev. Noah, i. 378.

Benton, Thomas H., ii, 430, 431.

Beranger, Author, ii. 509.

Berlin, Conn., ii. 63.

Berlin, Decree of, i. 446.

Bethel Rock, Legend of, i. 381.

Biddle, Com., i. 488.

Bigelow, Timothy, ii. 41.

Bishop, Abraham, i. 122.

Bishop, Deacon Samuel, i. 122.

Bishop, Sarah, Hermitess, i. 292.

-----
p. 556

Blackwood’s Magazine, ii. 184.

Blackwood, William, ii. 184, 196.

Blanc, Louis, ii. 478, 502.

Blatchford, Rev. Dr., i. 180.

Bliss, George, ii. 41.

Bliss & White, ii. 155.

Blue-Lights, i. 481.

Boardman, Elijah, ii. 50, 51.

Bonaparte, Jerome, i. 111.

Bonaparte, Napoleon, i. 260.

Bonaparte, Pauline, i. 113.

Bradley, Col. P., i. 229, 522.

Bradley, Stephen E., i. 448; ii. 99.

Book-Trade, ii. 379.

Bosc, Agriculturist, ii. 444.

Bowen, Charles, ii. 344.

Brodie, Sir B. C., ii. 282.

Bronson, Mr., ii. 135.

Brooks, Rev. C., i. 541.

Brougham, Lord, ii. 232.

Brown, Dr. John, i. 377.

Bryant, W. C., ii. 110, 278.

Buccleugh, Duke of, ii. 181.

Buchanan, J., ii. 514, 520.

Buckingham, J. T., ii. 35, 258.

Buffalo, i. 444.

Bull, Thomas, ii. 52.

Burdett, Sir F., ii. 234.

Burnett, Rev. Dr., i. 177, 539.

Burns, Robert, ii. 204.

Bushell, Dr., ii. 94.

Byron, Lord, i. 154; ii. 101, 105, 188, 197, 250.

C.

Cabot, George, ii. 28, 86.

Calhoun, J. C., i. 514; ii. 405, 406, 420, 427.

Campbell, Lord, ii. 366.

Campbell, Thomas, ii. 275.

Canning, George, ii. 233.

Carey, H. C., ii. 361.

Carlyle, Thomas, ii. 359.

Carter, J. G., i. 144, 540; ii. 381.

Castine, ii. 27.

Catalani, Madame, ii. 286.

Causidiere, ii. 478.

Cavaignac, ii. 478, 502.

Chalmers, Dr., ii. 192, 248.

Champion, Henry, ii. 27.

Champollion, i. 363.

Channing, W. E., ii. 253, 341.

Charles II., King, ii. 364.

Charles IX., King, ii. 366.

Charles X., King, ii. 449.

Chartres, Duks of, ii. 467.

Chase, Bishop, ii. 52.

Chauncey family, i. 369.

Cheever, G. B., ii. 255.

Cheney, John, ii. 262.

Chesapeake, Frigate, i. 275; captured, 456.

Child, Mrs., i. 173.

Chittenden, T., ii. 99.

Clark, Rev. Mr., i. 520.

Clarkson, Matthew, ii. 70.

Clay, Henry, i, 511; ii. 325, 394, 397, 405, 408, 420, 504.

Clayton, J. M., ii. 476.

Clemens, Jeremiah, ii. 483.

Clerc, Laurent, ii. 127.

Cleveland, Rev. Mr., i. 130.

Clifford, J. H., ii. 439.

Cockburn, Mr., ii. 349.

Coggeswell, M. F., ii, 123, 126.

Cohen, M. M., ii. 325.

Cold Friday, i. 393.

Coleman, Henry, ii. 475.

Coleman, William, ii. 85.

Coles, J. B., ii. 70.

Colman, George, ii. 101.

Coleridge, S. T., ii. 101.

Colt, Samuel, i. 534.

Communists, ii. 363.

Conservatives, i. 119.

Convention, Hartford, ii. 9.

Convention, Hartford, Members of, ii. 31.

Cooke, Amos, i. 323, 380.

Cooke, Col. J. P., i. 326.

Cook, Dr., ii. 192.

Copee, J. Fenimore, ii. 110, 134, 201.

Copyright, Laws respecting, ii. 377.

-----
p. 557

Corbin, Mr. P. H. B., ii. 475.

Cotton, History of, i. 365.

Courant, Connecticut, i. 411.

Courbevoie, i. 418.

Courier, Boston, ii. 284, 543.

Cowden, E. C., ii. 475.

Craig, Sir J. H., ii. 14.

Cranstoun, Mr., ii. 173.

Crawford, W. H., ii. 400.

Crittenden, J. J., ii. 431.

Cullen, Dr. William, i, 377.

Cushing, Caleb, ii. 41, 275.

Cutting, Col. Jonas, ii. 50.

Cuvier, Zoologist, ii. 444.

D.

Dallas, George M., ii. 514.

Dana, E. H., ii. 252.

Danbury, i. 323, 327, 395.

Dane, Nathan, ii. 41.

Darton & Co., ii. 286, 296, 307, 551.

Davis, John, ii, 349.

Dearborn, Gen., i. 455.

Decatur, Com., i. 457, 487.

Dekay, Com., i. 374.

Delbruck, M., ii. 481, 484.

Delight, Aunt, i, 34, 224.

Demagogism, i. 120.

Demming, H. C., i. 398.

Democratic Clubs, i. 117.

Dewey, Orville, ii. 275.

Dexter, Franklin, ii. 505.

Dickens, Charles, ii. 355, 359, 378.

Dickinson, D. S., ii. 94.

Domingo, St., ii. 61.

Dow, Lorenzo, i. 200, 205, 206.

Dow, Peggy, i. 208.

Downie, Com., i. 497.

Duchatel, Min., ii. 466.

Duché, Dr., i. 162, 192.

Duck Island, i. 42.

Dudevant, Madame, ii. 509.

Dumas, Alexandre, ii. 509.

Dumas, Adolphe, ii. 509.

Duncan, G. B., ii. 328.

Dupuytren, Surgeon, ii. 448.

Durham, i. 368.

Dutton, Henry, ii. 94.

Dwight, Dr. Timothy, i. 94, 179, 191, 347.

Dwight family, i. 350.

Dwight, Theodore, i. 435, 454.

E.

Echo, Poems, ii, 128.

Eclipse of the sun, 1806, i. 267.

Edgeworth, Miss, ii. 199.

Edinburgh, ii. 170.

Edinburgh Review, ii. 170.

Edwards, Pierpont, i. 186.

Elliot, Rev. Mr., i. 179.

Ellsworth, H. L., ii. 9.

Ellsworth, Mrs., i. 43.

Ellsworth, Oliver, i. 94, 536 ; ii. 510.

Ely, Col. John, i. 16, 466, 538,

Ely, Grandmother, i. 88.

Embargo, i. 446, 499.

Emmett, Thomas Addis, ii. 72.

England, Scenery of, ii. 212.

Episcopacy, i. 189.

Erie, Lake, victory of, i. 456.

Erving, G. W., ii. 475.

Everett, A. H., ii. 348, 346.

Everett, Edward, ii. 252, 278, 349, 417, 483.

Eyre, Col., i. 469.

F.

Famine in New England, ii. 78.

Fay, T. S., ii. 275.

Fields, J. T., ii. 275, 278.

Fillmore, Millard, ii. 382.

Fisher, A. W., ii. 162.

Fisher, Rev. Mr., i. 179.

Fontaine, Architect, ii. 444.

Forsyth, Secretary of State, ii. 429, 430.

Fourier, Geometrician, ii. 443.

Franklin, Benjamin, i. 94, 414; ii. 511.

Fruit Festival, New York, ii. 277.

Fulton, Robert, i. 283.

-----
p. 558

G.

Gallatin, Albert, i, 448, 510.

Gallaudet, Thomas H., i. 202 ; ii 126.

Gay-Lussac, ii. 444.

Genet, French Minister, i. 117.

Geoffroy St. Hilaire, ii. 443.

George IV., ii. 223, 238.

Ghent, treaty of, i. 501; ii. 50.

Giant’s Causeway, ii. 168.

Gibbs, Col. George, i. 360.

Gillies, Judge, ii. 175.

Girardin, Emile, ii, 500.

Girardin, Madame, ii. 509.

Glass, Rev. John, i, 398.

Goddard, Calvin, ii. 26, 46.

Goodrich family, i. 370.

Goodrich, Elizur, D.D., i. 523.

Goodrich, Chauncey, i. 16, 417, 526; ii. 32, 44.

Goodrich, Elizur, LL. D., i. 16, 122, 530.

Goodrich, Rev. Samuel, i. 16, 17, 516, 531.

Goodrich, C. C., i. 533.

Goodrich, Professor C. A., i. 43 ; ii. 384.

Goodrich, Charles A., i. 151, 533 ; ii. 112.

Goodrich, Elizur, Jr., i. 43.

Goodridge, Major, ii. 10.

Goodwin, George, i. 410.

Goodwin, J. M., ii. 53.

Gospellers, i. 195.

Gould, George, ii. 94.

Gould, James, ii. 93.

Gracie, Archibald, ii. 70, 71.

Graham’s Magazine, ii. 382.

Grattan, T. C., ii. 342.

Greenfield Hill, i. 49.

Greenwood, F. W. P., ii. 273.

Gregory, Molly, i. 72.

Grellet, Peter, i. 256.

Griswold, Dr. Rufus W., ii. 262, 382.

Griswold, Fort, i. 468.

Griswold, Roger, i. 461.

Groton, village, i. 466.

Guizot, Minister, ii. 450, 457, 466.

H.

Hale, Nathan, ii. 253.

Hale, S. J., ii. 280.

Halleck, F., ii. 156.

Hamilton, Alexander, i, 275.

Hand, Dr., ii. 80.

Hanson, Alexander, i. 441.

Hardy, Com., i. 457, 469.

Harper, James, ii. 254.

Harper & brothers, ii, 254, 383.

Harrison, Gen., i. 455.

Hartford, City of, i. 436.

Hartford Convention, i. 450.

Hatch, Moses, i. 331.

Haven, Franklin, ii. 336.

Hawes, Dr. Joel, ii. 384.

Hawes, Miss, ii. 385.

Hawkes, W., ii. 475.

Hawley, Deacon Elisha, i. 72, 225, 519.

Hawley, Irad, i. 521.

Hawley, Rev. Thomas, i. 183, 516.

Hawley, Elijah, i. 137.

Hawley, Stiles, i. 521.

Hawley, William, i. 519.

Hawthorne, N., ii. 269.

Hayne, Col, i. 511; ii. 426.

Hazard, Benjamin, ii. 42.

Hennen, Alfred, ii. 325.

Henry III., King, ii. 366.

Henry, John, ii. 14.

Hentz, André, ii. 483.

Herald, New York, ii. 382.

Hildreth, Historian, i. 123, 451.

Hill, Isaac, ii. 429, 430.

Hillhouse, James, ii. 44.

Hinma, R. R. ii. 33.

Holbrook, Josiah, i. 541.

Holley, G. W., ii. 94.

Holmes, O. W., ii. 275.

Hood, Thomas, ii. 302, 357.

Hopkins, Lemuel, i. 435 ; ii. 114.

Hopkinson, Francis, i. 282.

Hubbard, S. D., i. 374.

-----
p. 559

Hudson & Goodwin, i. 410.

Hull, Com., i. 454.

Hull, Gen., i. 453.

Humphries, David, i. 404 ; ii. 116.

Humphries, H., D.D., i. 539.

Hunter, William, ii. 398.

Huntington, J. W., ii. 93.

Huntington, S. H., ii. 109.

I.

Ingersoll, Rev. Jonathan, i. 249, 516.

Ingersoll, Jared, i. 518.

Ingersoll, Jonathan, Judge, i. 254.

Ingersoll, Joseph, i. 250.

Ingersoll, Morse, i. 250.

Ingersoll, Grace, i. 255.

Ingersoll, E. I., i. 254.

Ingersoll, C. J., ii. 31, 56.

International Copyright, ii. 355.

Irving, Rev. Edward, ii. 240.

Irving, Washington, ii. 442.

Izard, Gen., i. 496.

J.

Jackson, Gen., i. 502; ii. 400, 403.

Jackson, Judge, Charles, ii. 15.

Jagger, Beggar, i. 60.

Jay, John, ii. 511.

Jefferson, Thomas, i. 68, 108, 115, 273; ii. 13.

Jeffrey, Francis, ii. 174, 178.

Jenner, Dr., i. 42.

Jennings, Hotel-keeper, ii. 70.

Jesup, Gen., ii. 52, 54.

Johnson, Capt. N., i. 464.

Johnson, Dr. S., i. 272.

Joinville, Princess de, ii. 469.

Jones, Com., i. 454, 488.

Jones, Paul, ii. 203.

Jouy, Author, ii. 445.

K.

Kalewala, Poem of, i. 50.

Kekler, ’Squire Timothy, i. 20, 522

Kent, Judge, ii. 72.

Kettell, Samuel, ii. 284.

Key, F. S., i. 490.

King, Charles, ii. 70.

King, Family of, i. 517.

King, Gen. Joshua, i. 120, 239, 517.

King, Rufus H., i. 147, 247 ; ii. 398.

Knatchball, Sir E., ii. 250.

Knickerbocker Magazine, ii. 382, 383.

Knox, Gen., i. 536.

L.

Lacey, Bookseller, ii. 285.

Lacroix, Mathematician, ii. 444.

Lady of the Lake, ii. 169.

Laennec, Physician, ii. 447.

Lafayette, Gen., ii. 451.

Lamarck, Naturalist, ii. 444.

Lamartine, ii. 467, 502, 509.

Lamb, Lady Caroline, ii. 189.

Laplace, Astronomer, ii. 444.

Larrey, Baron, ii. 448.

Larroque, Baron, Physician, ii. 281.

Law, Jonathan, ii. 109.

Lawrence, Abbott, i. 94, 542.

Lawrence, Amos, i. 542.

Lawrence, Capt., i. 456.

Lawrence, William, i. 542.

Lecompte, Bois, ii. 505.

Ledyard, Col., 1. 468.

Lee, Dr. S. H. P., i. 485.

Lee, Gov. Henry, i. 442.

Leopard, British ship, i. 275.

Lewis, Rev. Dr., i. 176, 539.

Lewis and Clarke’s Expedition, i. 278.

L’herminier, Dr., ii. 281.

Liho-Liho, King, ii. 289.

Lingan, Gen., i. 442.

Livingston, Chancellor, i. 404.

Livingston, Edward, ii. 510.

Loch Katrine, ii. 169, 209.

Locke, John, ii. 164.

Lockhart, J. G., ii. 173, 190, 196, 208.

Lockhart, Mrs., ii. 197.

-----
p. 560

Lockwood, H. N., i. 338.

London, Progress of, ii. 222.

M.

Macdonough, Com., i. 497.

Mackenzie, Judge, ii. 175.

Mackintosh, Sir J., ii. 231.

Macomb, Gen., i. 497.

Macy, Capt., ii. 161.

McGee, Messrs., i. 205.

Madison, James, i. 448, 498; ii. 14, 58.

Mann, Horace, ii. 881.

Manton, Edward, ii. 42.

Maple sugar, i. 68.

Marcy, William H., ii. 509, 513.

Mars, Mademoiselle, ii. 446.

Marsh, Rev. Dr., i. 221, 258.

Marshall, Judge, ii. 327, 394.

Marshall, T., ii. 431.

Martin, Hyacinthe, ii. 479.

Martin, Peter Parley, ii. 285, 298.

Mason, J. M., ii. 74, 118.

Mason, Lowell, ii. 381.

Mead, Jerry, i. 116.

Mead, Rev. Mr., i. 18.

Mead, Whitman, ii. 25.

Mellen, Grenville, ii. 274.

Merchants’ Magazine, ii. 382.

Mercury, American, ii. 30.

Merino sheep, i. 404.

Mery, Author, ii. 509.

Meteor of 1807, i. 277.

Methodism, i. 195.

Milan Decree, i. 446.

Miller, John, ii. 137.

Mirror, Connecticut, ii. 121, 148.

Mitchell, Rev. Mr., i. 179, 539.

Molé, Count, ii. 458, 466.

Moncrief, Sir H., ii. 173.

Monroe, Mrs., ii. 402.

Monroe, President, ii. 127, 401, 402, 511.

Montpensier, Duchess of, ii. 460.

Moore, Thomas, ii. 189.

More, Hannah, i. 172; ii. 163, 168, 255.

Morgan, Capt., ii. 50.

Morgan, Lady, i. 113.

Morse, S. F., ii. 534.

Morton, Lord, ii. 191.

Morton, Marcus, ii. 349.

Mosely, Charles, i. 464.

Murray, Rev. John, i. 189.

N.

Napoleon, Emperor, i. 112.

Napoleon, Louis, i. 113; ii. 489, 503.

Neal, John, ii. 275, 357, 375.

Neale, Joseph C., ii. 359.

Nemours, Duke of, ii. 457, 465, 467.

Newark, i. 455.

New Bedford, ii. 349.

New Haven, i. 339.

New Orleans, ii. 324.

New Orleans, battle of, i. 502.

Nlles, J. M., ii. 429.

Non-importation Act, i. 446.

Norfolk, i. 444.

North American Review, ii. 252.

Noyes, Rev. Mr., i 178.

Nullification, ii. 58.

O.

O’Connell, D., ii. 158.

Ohio, Emigration to, ii. 79.

Olmstead, Deacon N., i. 114, 222, 522.

Olitstead, Lewis, i. 38.

Olmstead, Matthew, i. 265.

Olmstead, Stephen, i. 38.

Olmsted, David, i. 27.

Opie, Mrs., ii. 255.

Orleans, Duchess of, ii. 467.

Osgood, Mrs., ii. 274.

Otis, H. G., ii. 15, 25, 27, 37, 398.

P.

Packenham, Gen., i. 502.

Paine, Thomas, i. 117, 118.

Palmerston, Lord, ii. 234.

-----
p. 561

Panama Mission, ii. 396.

Paris, City of, ii. 438.

Paris, Count de, ii. 467.

Park, Mungo, i. 275.

Parsons, Judge, Theophilus, ii. 88.

Patterson, Miss, i. 111.

Pauline Bonaparte, i. 113.

Payson, Rev. Edward, ii. 75.

Peace, i. 496, 501.

Peel, Sir Robert, ii. 234.

Percival, J. G., ii. 130.

Perkins, Rev. Dr., i. 258.

Perkins, Thomas H., i. 542; ii. 15.

Perkins, Jacob, ii. 225, 226, 261.

Perry, Dr., i. 522.

Perry’s victory, i. 456.

Pierpont, J., ii. 95, 273.

Pickering, John, ii. 271.

Pike, Gen., i. 455.

Pinkney, William, ii. 398.

Plumer, William, ii. 15.

Poisson, Mathematician, ii. 443.

Polk, J. K., President, ii. 424.

Pope Pius VII., i. 113.

Ponsard, Author, ii. 509.

Porter, Jane, ii. 104.

Poussin, G. T., ii. 476.

Prentiss, S. S., ii. 416.

Prescott, William, ii. 15, 40.

Prescott, William II., ii. 381.

Prime, Nathaniel, ii. 70.

Provost, Gen., i. 496.

Proudhon, ii. 363.

Puritans, i. 195.

Putnam, G. P., ii. 278, 883.

R.

Rachel, Actress, ii. 509.

Radicals, i. 119.

Ramsay, Allan, ii. 211.

Randolph, John, i. 440, 448; ii. 45, 396, 897, 431.

Reeve, Tapping, Judge, i. 390; ii 93.

Ressequie, A., i. 516.

Revival, The Great, i. 205.

Revolution, French, of 1848, ii. 451.

Ridgefield, Town of, i. 16, 57, 300, 515.

Riley, Isaac, ii. 63.

Ripley, Rev. Dr., i. 149, 176.

Ristori, Madame, ii. 509.

Rives, William C., ii. 505.

Robbins, Rev. E., ii. 141, 145.

Robertson, Judge, ii. 175.

Rockwell, J. O., ii. 257.

Rogers, John, i. 67.

Roland, Madame, ii. 146.

Rollin, Ledru, ii. 502.

Romeyn, Rev. Dr., ii. 73.

Ross, Gen., i. 490.

Rush, Richard, ii. 473.

Russell, Mrs., ii. 178.

Russell, William, i. 541.

S.

Sand, Madame Georg3, ii. 509.

Sandaman, Robert, i. 398.

Sanford, Ezekiel, i. 141.

Sanford, H. S., ii. 518.

Sargent, E. and J., ii. 275.

Saunders, George, ii. 519.

Sauzet, Deputy, ii. 467.

Scott, Charles, ii. 196.

Scott, Sir Walter, ii. 100, 107, 175, 196, 208.

Seabury, Bishop, i, 132, 190.

Sheldon, George, i. 410; ii. 76.

Sherman, Roger, i. 94.

Sherman, Roger M., ii. 25, 47.

Sigourney, Mrs., ii. 125, 274.

Silliman, Gen., i. 326.

Silliman, Professor, i. 68, 355.

Skellinger, J. J., i. 137.

Small-pox, i. 43.

Smith, Horace, ii. 101.

Smith, J. L., ii. 50.

Smith, James, ii. 101.

Smith, John, ii. 357.

Smith, John Cotton, i. 62, 461, 539; ii. 89.

Smith, Lieutenant, i. 21, 152, 272, 276.

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Smith, Nathan, i. 392; ii. 157.

Smith, Nathaniel, i. 378, 388; ii. 46.

Smith, Rev. Mr., i, 181.

Smith, Sydney, ii. 110.

Smith, Truman, i, 392.

Smithsonian Institute, ii. 371.

Snelling, J., ii. 265.

Soulé, Pierre, ii. 514.

Soult, Marshal, ii. 466.

South Carolina, Nullification, i. 511.

Southern Literary Messenger, ii. 382.

Sothey, Rob., i. 196 ; ii. 101, 200.

Sparks, Jared, ii. 252.

Spotted fever, i. 376.

St. Albans, ii. S39.

Star-spangled Banner, i. 490.

Stationers’ Company, ii. 272.

Stebbins, Samuel, i. 140, 522.

Stone, Wm. L., ii, 90, 136.

Storrs, Henry W., ii. 480.

Story, Judge, ii. 327.

Stowe, Mrs., ii. 94, 385.

Strong, Dr. Nathan, ii. 52, 116.

Summerly, Felix, ii. 312.

Summer, Charles, ii. 278.

Sussex, Duke of, ii. 226.

Swan, Rev. Mr., i. 177, 509.

Swift, Zephaniah, ii. 18, 46.

T.

Talma, Actor, ii. 445.

Talmadge, F. A., 3i.94.

Tamehamaha, King, ii. 238.

Taylor, Bayard, ii. 361.

Taylor, Jeremy, ii. 247.

Tecumseh, i. 455.

Tegg, Thomas, ii. 292.

Terry, Gen. Nathaniel, ii. 28, 46, 51

Thacher, B. B., ii. 274.

Thénard, Chemist, ii. 443.

Thiers, ii. 467.

Thomas, Joshua, ii. 41.

Ticknor, Professor, ii. 198.

Tileston, Mr., ii. 382.

Times, London, [no page #]

Times, New York Daily, ii. 382.

Tisdale, Elkanah, ii. 111.

Todd, Dr., i. 376.

Toleration, ii, 84.

Tompkins, Vice-President, ii. 56, 394.

Toucey, Isaac, ii. 109.

Tracy, Uriah, ii. 18, 92.

Treadwell, John, i. 114; ii. 45.

Tribune, New York, ii. 382.

Trubner & Co., London, ii. 387, 388.

Trumbull, Col. Jona., ii. 115, 124.

Trumbull, John, i. 435; ii. 111, 115.

Tryon, Gen., i. 326.

U.

Unitarianism, i. 188.

V.

Value, Count, ii. 61.

Van Buren, Martin, ii. 343, 481.

Vermont, ii. 99.

Verplanck, G. C., ii. 275.

Victoria, Queen, ii. 340, 515.

Vincent, Sir F., ii. 389.

W.

Wadsworth, Daniel, ii. 122.

Wadsworth family, i. 370.

Wadsworth, Jeremiah, ii. 122.

Wainwright, J. M., ii. 109.

Waite, T. B., i. 541.

Waldo, Daniel, ii. 41.

Walker, Samuel, ii. 188.

War of 1812, i. 438.

Ward, Samuel, ii. 42.

Warden, D. B., Consul, ii. 443.

Warden, Francis, ii. 506.

Warner, Miss, ii. 385.

Washington, President, i. 106, 118.

Waterman, Rev. Mr., i. 181.

Webster, Daniel, i. 94, 95, 508, 510; ii. 10, 222, 327, 342, 400, 405, 409, 414, 504.

Webster, Noah, i. 363; ii. 18, 57, 189, 381.

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p. 563

Wellington, Duke of, ii. 224, 339.

Wells, Dr. S., i. 376.

Wells, John, ii. 70.

West, Benjamin, ii. 42.

Whipple, E. P., ii. 392.

White, Ebenezer, i, 402.

Whitney, Eli, i. 364.

Whittier, J. G., ii. 145.

Wickliffe, E., Jr., ii. 475.

Wilberforce, William, ii. 166.

Wilde, S. S., ii. 41.

Wiley, Charles, ii. 135.

Wilkinson, Gen., i. 455, 496.

Willard, Mrs. Emma, ii. 25.

William IV., King, ii. 339.

Williams, Roger, i. 187.

Willis, N. P., ii. 256, 264.

Winchester, Gen., i. 445.

Winthrop, E. C., ii. 278.

Wirt, William, ii. 418, 429.

Wise, Henry, ii. 404.

Wolcott, Frederick, ii. 91.

Wolcott, M. A., ii. 91.

Wolcott, Oliver, i. 113; ii. 18, 59, 70. 87, 88.

Wood, George, ii. 505.

Woodbridge, W. C., ii 113.

Woodbury, Town of, i. 378.

Wooster, Calvin, i. 206.

Wooster, Gen., i. 327, 398.

Wright, Silas, ii. 431.

Y.

Yabacomb, Mrs., i. 60.

York, Duke of, ii. 228.

END OF VOL. II.