In the Mongolian class, that of the brown man of Gmelin, the head, instead of being round, is almost square; the face is broad and flat, with the parts imperfectly distinguished; the arches of the eye-brows are scarcely to be perceived. The complexion is generally olive, sometimes very slight, and approaching to yellow; but none of this class are known to be fair. The eyes are small and black; the hair, dark and strong, but seldom curled, or in great abundance; and there is little or no beard. This division embraces the tribes that occupy the central, east, north, and south-east parts of Asia; the people of China and Japan, of Thibet, Bootan, and Indo-China, the Finns and Laplanders of Northern Europe, and the Esquimaux on the shores of the Arctic ocean. Climate influences the color of many of this class, those parts of the body protected from the sun being much lighter than those that are uncovered. Dr. Abeel mentions, that when he saw the Chinese boatmen throw off their clothes, for the purpose of entering the water to push along the boats, they appeared,when quite naked, as if dressed in light-colored trowsers.
In the Ethiopic division, that of the black man of Gmelin, the head is narrow and compressed at the sides: the forehead very convex and vaulted; the cheek-bones project forward; the nostrils are wide, the nose spread, and is almost confounded with the cheeks; the lips are thick, particularly the upper one; the lower part of the face projects considerably; and the skull is in general thick and heavy. The iris of the eye, which is deep-seated, and the skin of this class, are black, as well as the hair, which is generally woolly. These characteristics of the Negroes vary less than those of the two former classes, because they are chiefly confined to one climate within the tropics, whereas the Mongolians and Caucasians are spread through every variety of temperature, from the equator to the polar circle. The division comprises the native Africans to the south of the Sahara and Abyssinia, and of course those who have been transported to the West Indies and America, the natives of New Holland, and various tribes scattered through the islands of the Pacific Ocean and the Indian Archipelago. Though, for the reason stated, this class exhibits a great general uniformity, examples are not wanting of beauty of feature, and fine stature and proportions, in several races belonging to this department of mankind.
The American variety, that of the red man of Gmelin, approaches to the Mongolian, but the head is less square; the cheek-bones are prominent, yet not so angular as in the Mongol; the forehead is low, the eyes deep-seated, and the features, viewed in profile, are strongly marked. The skin is red, or of an obscure orange, rusty iron, and copper color, sometimes nearly black, according to climate and circumstances. The native American tribes and nations, excepting the Esquimaux, and the descendants of African and European colonists, belong to this class.
In the Malay class, that of the tawny man of Gmelin, the top of the head is slightly narrowed; the face is less narrow than that of the Negro; the features are generally more prominent; the hair is black, soft, curled, and abundant; the color of the skin is tawny, but sometimes approaching to that of mahogany. The division embraces the principal tribes of the Indian archipelago, and all the islanders of the Pacific excepting those which belong to the Ethiopic variety.
The preceding five great divisions of Blumenbach are reduced by some naturalists to three, who consider the Malay class to be only a sub-variety of the Caucasian, and the American a sub-variety of the Mongolian. Cuvier gives only three distinct, well-marked divisions, the white or Caucasian, the yellow or Mongolian, and the Negro or Ethiopic; at the same time stating that several tribes diverge so remarkably, that they can scarcely be referred to any one of these varieties. In reality, the more extendedarrangement of Blumenbach is but a very imperfect classification of mankind, for not only individuals but whole tribes, incorporated in each particular division, have distinctive characters which separate them from the rest of the class, and some peculiarities of one division are frequently traceable in the others. The Caucasians might be readily divided into a large number of races, each having definite characteristics. This is the case also with the Ethiopic class, for there is nearly as much difference between the New Hollanders and the woolly-headed Africans, included in the same department of the human species, and between a Bosjesmen, a Caffre, and a Negro of Soudan, who are also comprised in the Ethiopic variety, as between a Caucasian, Mongolian, and Malay. It has also occurred, that from the spirit of conquest and peaceful colonization, nations belonging to the divisions of Blumenbach have become commingled, and have produced, by intermarriage, races which cannot be distinctly traced to either the one or the other of the parent classes. The Mongols, for instance, have spread out from central Asia and largely intermixed with the Caucasians, especially toward their western frontiers, while the Caucasians have intruded into every quarter of the globe, and blended themselves with the native inhabitants of the countries they have overrun. The Europeans and Negroes produce Mulattos; Europeans and Mulattos produce Tercerons; Europeans and Tercerons produce Quadroons, in whom the alleged contamination of dark blood is no longer visible, and the Negro character disappears. On the other hand, the offspring of a Mulatto and a Negro, pairing with a Negro, the decided African character appears in the children. Indians and Europeans produce Mestizos; Indians and Negroes produce Zambos; Europeans and Zambos and Indians and Zambos produce respective varieties. It is obvious, therefore, that the preceding divisions of mankind, principally derived from the supposed origin of nations, can only be regarded as extremely general.
Attending exclusively to the form of the human skull, Dr. Prichard discriminates three leading varieties:—The symmetrical or oval form, which is that of the European and western Asiatic nations; the narrow and elongated skull, of which the most strongly marked example is perhaps the cranium of the Negro of the Gold Coast; the broad and square-faced skull of the Mongols afford a fair specimen, and the Esquimaux an exaggerated one.
3. The other principal physical variations observable between different nations refer to theproportion of the limbs, tostature, to thetexture of the skin, and to thecharacter of the hair. Large hands and broad and flat feet are among the peculiarities of the Negro; and in general, the arm below the elbow is more elongated in proportion to the length of the upper arm and the height of the person, than in the case of Europeans. But among the latter, individual examples of the same constructions occur; while among the former, instances of structure after the European type may be found. As it respects stature, the variations are not remarkable in relation to the majority of mankind; but a striking discrepancy appears upon comparing a few isolated tribes. America exhibits the extremes of stature—in the Esquimaux who are generally below five feet, and in the Patagonians who are usually more than six, and frequently as much as seven; but individual specimens of both extremes are observed among the inhabitants of almost every country. Europe has often presented the human form developed in gigantic and dwarfish proportions. The contrasts are striking with reference to the texture of the skin; that of the Negroes and some of the South Sea islanders being always cooler, more soft and velvety than that of the Europeans. Connected probably with varieties of the skin in texture are the various odors which it is well-known belong to different races. “The Peruvian Indians,” says Humbolt, “who in the middle of the night distinguish the different races by their quick sense of smell, haveformed three words to express the odor of the Europeans, the Indian Americans, and the Negro.” The diversities are great and obvious in the character of the hair from that of the Negro, which is short and crisp, and has acquired the name of wool, to the long, flowing, and glossy locks of the Esquimaux, between which there are many gradations.
Precisely parallel varieties are ascertained to arise in the same race of animals. Those of the domestic kind “vary from each other in size much more than individuals the most different in stature among mankind.” The small Welsh cattle compared with the large flocks of the southern counties in England; or the Shetland ponies with the tall-backed mares of Flanders; the bantam breed with the large English fowls, are well known examples. More striking instances are mentioned by naturalists. In the isles of the Celebes, a race of buffaloes is said to exist, which is of the size of a common sheep; and Pennant has described a variety of the horse in Ceylon, not more than thirty inches in height. The swine of Cuba, imported into that island from Europe, have become double the height and magnitude of the stock from which they were derived. The disproportionate arm of the Negro and leg of the Hindoo meet an exact parallel in the swine of Normandy, the hind-quarters of which are so out of keeping with the fore, that the back forms an inclined plane to the head; and as the head itself partakes of the same direction, the snout is but a little removed from the ground. Among domesticated animals, no species afford more striking specimens of modification in structure than the hog tribe. The external forms which the race has assumed surpass in monstrosity the most extraordinary diversities of the human frame. “Swine,” observes Blumenbach, “in some countries have degenerated into races which, in singularity, far exceed every thing that has been found strange in bodily variety among the human race. Swine with solid hoofs were known to the ancients, and large breeds of them are found in Hungary and Sweden. In like manner the European swine first carried by the Spaniards in 1509 to the island of Cuba—at that time celebrated for its pearl-fishery—degenerated into a monstrous race, with toes that were half a span in length.” The texture of the skin of several species of animals is different in a wild and in a domesticated condition; and the character of the hair exhibits analogous variations to that of the tribes of mankind. In the instance of a neglected flock of sheep, the fine wool is soon succeeded by a coarser kind, and the breed approximates to the argali, or wild sheep of Siberia, the original stock, which are covered with hair. The covering of the goat and dog displays the same variety. Thus, the several external distinctions from each other which the nations of men develop, must be admitted to be plainly compatible with their forming a single species, when distinctions of a parallel nature, but more numerous and singular, have arisen within the limits of a species in the inferior animal creation. It may be difficult, nay impossible, to explain the phenomena of external variation—but surely it would be a matter of surprise if it did not exist, considering the variation of external circumstances—artic cold and tropical heat—flowery savannas and arid deserts—civilization and barbarism—liberty and oppression—scantiness of food and an abundant supply—nutritious food and a feebly supporting fare—the feeling of security and the sense of danger.
If the existence of varieties of structure and complexion offers no argument against the common nature and origin of the millions of mankind in the slightest degree valid, their identity as a species is strongly supported by adverting to the general laws of their animal economy. These have reference tothe manner of their birth, the period of gestation, the duration of life, and the casualties in the form of diseases to which they are subject; and, in all these respects, a general coincidence proclaims the unity of the human population of the globe. As to longevity, it is the case indeed that the barbarian tribes are shorter-lived than the cultivated races; but this is owing to the physical hardships under which they suffer, and to ignorance of the appropriate remedies to use under the assailments of sickness, freedom from the former and a knowledge of the latter being possessed by all civilized nations. Facts prove that, in circumstances favorable to extreme longevity, the Europeans, the most polished communities, have no preëminence over the tribes of Africa, among the least advanced in the social scale. Mr. Easton, of Salisbury, gives the following instances of advanced age from the Europeans and Asiatics—
In juxtaposition with this list, we may place the following observation of Humbolt relating to the native Americans: “It is by no means uncommon,” he remarks, “to see at Mexico, in the temperate zone, half-way up the Cordillera, natives—and especially women—reach a hundred years of age. This old age is generally comfortable; for the Mexicans and Peruvian Indians preserve their strength to the last. While I was at Lima, the Indian, Hilario Sari, died at the village of Chiguata, four leagues distant from the town of Arequipa, at the age of one hundred and forty-three. She had been united in marriage for ninety years to an Indian of the name of Andrea Alea Zar, who attained the age of one hundred and seventeen. This old Peruvian went, at the age of one hundred and thirty, a distance of from three to four leagues daily on foot.” Dr. Prichard, from various sources, collected a variety of remarkable instances of Negro longevity, of which the two following are samples—
December 5th, 1830—Died at St. Andrews, Jamaica, the property of Sir Edward Hyde East, Robert Lynch, a negro slave in comfortable circumstances, who perfectly recollected the great earthquake in 1692, and further recollected the person and equipages of the Lieutenant-governor Sir Henry Morgan, whose third and last governorship commenced in 1680; viz.—one hundred and fifty years before. Allowing for this early recollection the age of ten years, this negro must have died at the age of one hundred and sixty.
Died, February 17th, 1823, in the bay of St. John’s, Antigua, a black woman named Statira. She was a slave, and was hired as a day-laborer during the building of the gaol, and was present at the laying of the corner-stone, which ceremony took place one hundred and sixteen years ago. She also stated that she was a young woman grown, when the President Sharp assumed the administration of the island, which was in 1706. Allowing her to be fourteen years old at that time, we must conclude her age to be upward of one hundred and thirty years.
The same authority received from a physician at St. Vincent’s as an answer to his query this statement—
“I have known a great many very old Negroes, whose exact ages could not be ascertained. At the time of the hurricane in 1831, I had a record of the mortality in the whole of my practice from the year 1813, and in every year there were deaths of Negroes computed to be sixty, seventy, or eighty years of age, and upward. My father will be eighty-four years old in May next, and the Negro woman who carried him about as a child is still living, and at the age of ninety-six enjoying good health, upright in figure, and capable of walking several miles.” It may be true that the Negroes regarded in mass exhibit a shorter term of life than the European average; but this is sufficiently explained by the privations of their lot in the colonies to which they have been transported, and by an unfavorable climatic influence and geographical site in their native country. The preceding facts show, that there is no law forbidding the Negro to attain a longevity equal to that of the European, in circumstances friendly to it; while placing the European in subjection to the same amount of toil in the West Indies, or planting him amid the swamps, the luxuriant vegetation, the inundations, and heat of Western Africa, and his term of life in general would not come up to the Negro standard. It appears from the researches of Major Tulloch, as embodied in statistical reports printed by the House of Commons, that neither the Saxon, nor Celtic, nor mixed race, composing the troops of Great Britain, can withstand—even under the most favorable circumstances—the deleterious influence of a tropical climate. It is shown, also, that this result is not to be attributed to intemperance, the besetting vice of all soldiers; for though temperance diminishes the effects of climate, and adds to the chances of the European, it is by no means a permanent security. So far as regards the vast regions of the earth, the most fertile, the richest, the question as to their permanent occupancy by the Saxon and Celt—as Britain, or France, or any other country, is now occupied by its native inhabitants—appears, from these reports, to be answered in the negative. “The Anglo-Saxon is now pushing himself toward the tropical countries; but can the Saxon maintain himself in these countries? It is to be feared not. Experience seems to indicate that neither the Saxon nor Celtic races can maintain themselves, in thestrict sense of the word, within tropical countries. To enable them to do so, they require a slave population of native laborers, or of colored men at least. The instances of Cuba, Brazil, Mexico, and Columbia, where the Spanish and Portuguese seem to be able to maintain their ground, do not bear so directly on the question as many may suppose; for, in the first place, we know not precisely the extent to which these have mingled with the dark and native races; and secondly, the emigrants from Spain and Portugal partook, in all probability, more of the Moor, Pelasgic, and even Arab blood, than of the Celt or Saxon.”
A careful comparison of different tribes leads to the conclusion, that the general phenomena of human life, or those processes which are termed the natural functions, the laws of the animal economy, are remarkably uniform, making allowance for the influence of climates, of modes of living, of localities, and of the accidents which interrupt the natural course. The age of puberty announces itself by corresponding symptoms, and that of advanced life by analogous signs of decrepitude, the decrease of the humors, the loss or decay of sight, and of the other senses, and a change in the color of the hair. All communities of men appear open to the attack of all kinds of disease, though a few haunt particular districts, and of course only prey upon those who are exposed to their invasion. In some cases, it is only the old inhabitants of these neighborhoods that are attacked, as in the instance of theplicapolonica, which afflicts the Sarmatic race on and near the banks of the Vistula, from which the German residents are in a great measure free. But this proves no specific difference between the two, but only shows that, to acquire a predisposition to certain local complaints is a work of time, and will probably appear in new settlers after the lapse of centuries. There is a well-marked variety in the constitution of nations, and in their liability to certain given disorders; but the difference between the torpid American and the irritable European is not greater than the common varieties of constitution which meet us within the bounds of the same family, and which render its different members peculiarly subject to different complaints. The conclusion to which these considerations point—that of the identity of mankind as a species—is strongly supported by the fecundity of the offspring of parents of different races. Hunter and other naturalists have advanced it as a law, that if the offspring of two individual animals belonging to different breeds is found to be capable of procreation, the parent animals—though differing from each other in some particulars—are of the same species; and if the offspring so engendered is sterile, then the races from which it descended are originally distinct. This is a position to which there are many exceptions; but it is undoubtedly true, that the energy of propagation is very defective in the product of a union of different species. Tried by this test, the inference is in favor of a common nature belonging to all mankind; for the mixture of originally far-separated human races has repeatedly resulted in a numerous population, physically equal, and in many instances superior, to either branch of the ancestral stock.
A variety of evidence—psychical and moral, physical and philological—rebukes the ancient boast of Attica, that the Greeks descended from no other stock of men; the first occupants of the country springing out of the soil—an opinion held by the populace, but not the creed of the philosophers. One of the most distinguished anatomists of the day, who cannot be suspected of any prejudice upon the question—Mr. Lawrence—draws this induction from an extensive series of facts and reasonings—“that the human species—like that of the cow, sheep, horse, and pig, and others—issingle; and that all the differences which it exhibits are to be regarded merely as varieties.” In what particular spot the location of the primal pair was situated, and what race now makes the nearest approximation to the original type, are points of some interest, but of no importance, and are now involved in an obscurity which it is impossible to remove. That the primitive man occupied some part of the country traversed by the Tigris and Euphrates appears to be the best supported opinion, as it is the most general; and from thence there is no difficulty in conceiving the diffusion of the race to the remotest habitable districts, in the course of ages. In the infancy of society, an increasing population would speedily outstrip the means of subsistence to be found in a limited district, inducing the necessity of emigration to an unoccupied territory—a proceeding which the natural love of adventure, with the spirit of curiosity and acquisition, so influential in later ages, could not fail to facilitate. Considering the connection of Asia, Africa, and Europe, the approximation of the northern parts of the two great continents, with the contiguity of the islands of Asia to it, we cannot marvel that the races spreading out to these points, should devise means to cross rivers, scale mountains, penetrate into deserts, and navigate the sea. The spur of necessity, the excitement of enterprise, the stimulus of ambition, the occurrence of accident, and sometimes the influence of fear, created by the commission of crime, have all contributed to this result; but perhaps man has more frequently than otherwise become the involuntary occupant of isolated and distant isles. Three inhabitants of Tahiti had their canoe drifted to the island Wateoo, a distance of five hundred and fifty miles; and Malte Brun relates that, in 1696, two canoes, containing thirty persons, were thrown by storms and contrary winds upon one of the Philippines, eight hundred miles from their own islands. Kotzebue also states that, in one of the Caroline isles he became acquainted with Kadu, a native of Ulea. Kadu, with three of his countrymen, left Ulea in a sailing-boat for a day’s excursion, when a violent storm arose, and drove them out of their course. For eight months they drifted about in the open sea, according to their reckoning by the moon, making a knot on a cord at every new moon. Being expert fishermen, they were able to maintain themselves by the produce of the sea; and caught the falling rain insome vessels that were on board. Kadu—being a diver—frequently went down to the bottom, where it is well known that the water is not so salt, taking a cocoanut shell with only a small opening to receive a supply. When these castaways at last drew near to land, every hope and almost every feeling had died within them; but, by the care of the islanders of Aur, they were soon restored to perfect health. Their distance from home, in a direct line, was one thousand five hundred miles.
FROM AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.
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BY ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH.
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Good Friend—dear heart—companion of my youth,Whose soul was honor, and whose words were truth;Methinks I see your smile of quick surprise,As o’er these rhymes you glance your curious eyes.But is it strange, if in an idle hour,I cull these blossoms from the Muses’ bower?Frail though they be, and blown but for a day,The heart’s best language they may best convey;In climes more genial, more adorned than ours,The poet and the lover talk with flowers;Then, though some richer gift were mine, to send,This should be thine, my old familiar friend.If for a while it cheat thee of a care,With fond remembrance of the things that were—Renew a thought, a hope that once was dear,Or hint an adage for a future year,I scarce shall think these lines were vainly writ,Nor quite disown my Muse’s random wit.Time, that has made us boys, and makes as men,Will never, never bring the past again;But wingéd memory half the wish supplies,Which he who bears the scythe and glass denies:He—the grim sexton of our dying years—She—“Old Mortality” of sepulchres—Both lay their fingers where our lives have flown,And touch, in turn, each monumental stone.Recall, my friend, the days when sent to school,We framed our first idea of tyrant rule.Long ere we turned the world’s dark pages o’er,Glued with the vassal’s tears, the martyr’s gore—Knew that a Cæsar passed a Rubicon,Or wrongful Britain laid a Stamp-act on,We drudged in study at another’s will,While the free light fell warm on wood and hill—Wrought with the service of an eye askance,Beneath a master’s rogue-detecting glance:Possessed with fear, lest trick or task might drawThe rod that fell without the forms of law;Possessed with wrath to see our wealth expire—Tops, apples, penknives in the penal fire.How oft the slate, whose sable field should showPlatoons of figures ranked in studied row—Squadrons of sums arrayed in careful lines—Victualled with grocer’s bills of fruits and wines,Betrayed a scene that crowned a day’s disgrace,Before that sternly, sadly smiling face—Trees, houses, elephants, and dogs and men,Where half the Arabian’s science should have been;And only this much learned, of figured lore,That time subtracted—always left a score.But when those long-loved hours were come, that tookFrom those reveréd hands the rod and book,Our, like all vassal hearts, set quickly free,Sought at a bound the largest liberty.Self-exiled then, to meadow stream and wood,We dropped half-read the tale of Robin Hood;Though guiltless of his suits of Lincoln green,Dear, as to him, was every sylvan scene.Shade of old Crusoe, with thy dog and gun,And thy lone isle beneath a southern sun!Shades of the lords that made such rare disportBeneath the oaks of Arden’s rural court!As o’er my little day I cast my view,Contrasting what I know, with what I knew,Your lot no hardship seems: to you were givenThe world of nature and the lights of heaven,What time the sun came flaming from the deep,Bursting the curtained clouds of morning sleep,Or night, majestic, paced the solemn skies,Wrapped in a woof of starry mysteries—All times, all seasons, as they came and went,Soothed with sweet thought the ills of banishment.No rude, unbidden guest invaded there,Nor the harsh din of congregated care;The heart, all ruffled in the haunts of men,Like to a quiet sea became again—Like to the deep reflection of the skies,Its faith-born hopes, and sage moralities.This much, at least, my devious muse would say:Our golden age, my friend, has passed away—Passed, with the careless dress, and elfin looks,That showed our books were trees and running brooks.But something more I would awhile recall,Then let, with lingering hand, the curtain fall.Dear to this heart—O now how passing dear,With the sad change of each dispatchful year!—Seems every waif of hours when life was new,Though home’s small scene contained its little view.Home that, however mean or grand, suppliesA gay kaleidoscope to youthful eyes.Say not, gray Wisdom, that its wonders pass,The mere deceit of beads and broken glass.Here, to thy rugged front, and locks of snow,Thy solemn eye, and beard’s descending flow,I dare avouch, of life’s most pleasing way,The best is gilded with the morning ray.See all our life the coinage of our eye;(O shut thy book—let go philosophy!)In Youth the pennies pass, ’tis no less strangeThat Age and Manhood clink the silver change.Through all estates our joys alike are vain;Then chide not one who turns to youth again.One rainbow vision of youth’s earnest eyesIs worth a stack of staid philosophies.Fields, waters, forests where we roamed of yore,What thronging memories haunt ye evermore:In yonder glen the brook is gliding still,Whose turf-dammed waters turned the mimic mill.Yon wood still woos us to its deep embrace,Whose shadows wrought a summer’s resting place,When from our brows the caps were careless thrown,The hunter’s tackle and the game laid down,As the long daylight, wearing towards a close,Breathed the soft airs of languor and repose.There, stretched at length, we mused, with half shut eye,To the leaf-kissing wind’s light lullaby,That, ever and anon, with murmur deep,Did through the pine’s Æolian organ creep.Tired with the varied travel of the day,The sound of game unheeded passed away—The bursting thunder of a partridge wing—The frolick blue-jay’s nasal caroling—The tawny thrush, that peeped with curious look,A rustic starer, from his leafy nook—The crow, hoarse cawing as we met his eye—The squirrels, bickering on the oaks hard by;Red-liveried elves, who taught their brains to say—“Whene’er the cat doth sleep the mice may play.”No more they feared the gun’s successless skill,Banged with clear malice, and intent to kill,But shelled their nuts with self-complacent air,And chid as, plainly, for invading there.Through loopholes of the intertwisted greenCame the far glimpse of many a sylvan scene—Parts of a smiling vale, a glorious sphere,Warm with the vigorous manhood of the year;Deep-bosomed haunts, where honest-handed toilRenewed the strength that dressed his native soil,While the gray spire, towards the drooping west,With heavenward finger, showed a world of rest.
Good Friend—dear heart—companion of my youth,Whose soul was honor, and whose words were truth;Methinks I see your smile of quick surprise,As o’er these rhymes you glance your curious eyes.But is it strange, if in an idle hour,I cull these blossoms from the Muses’ bower?Frail though they be, and blown but for a day,The heart’s best language they may best convey;In climes more genial, more adorned than ours,The poet and the lover talk with flowers;Then, though some richer gift were mine, to send,This should be thine, my old familiar friend.If for a while it cheat thee of a care,With fond remembrance of the things that were—Renew a thought, a hope that once was dear,Or hint an adage for a future year,I scarce shall think these lines were vainly writ,Nor quite disown my Muse’s random wit.Time, that has made us boys, and makes as men,Will never, never bring the past again;But wingéd memory half the wish supplies,Which he who bears the scythe and glass denies:He—the grim sexton of our dying years—She—“Old Mortality” of sepulchres—Both lay their fingers where our lives have flown,And touch, in turn, each monumental stone.Recall, my friend, the days when sent to school,We framed our first idea of tyrant rule.Long ere we turned the world’s dark pages o’er,Glued with the vassal’s tears, the martyr’s gore—Knew that a Cæsar passed a Rubicon,Or wrongful Britain laid a Stamp-act on,We drudged in study at another’s will,While the free light fell warm on wood and hill—Wrought with the service of an eye askance,Beneath a master’s rogue-detecting glance:Possessed with fear, lest trick or task might drawThe rod that fell without the forms of law;Possessed with wrath to see our wealth expire—Tops, apples, penknives in the penal fire.How oft the slate, whose sable field should showPlatoons of figures ranked in studied row—Squadrons of sums arrayed in careful lines—Victualled with grocer’s bills of fruits and wines,Betrayed a scene that crowned a day’s disgrace,Before that sternly, sadly smiling face—Trees, houses, elephants, and dogs and men,Where half the Arabian’s science should have been;And only this much learned, of figured lore,That time subtracted—always left a score.But when those long-loved hours were come, that tookFrom those reveréd hands the rod and book,Our, like all vassal hearts, set quickly free,Sought at a bound the largest liberty.Self-exiled then, to meadow stream and wood,We dropped half-read the tale of Robin Hood;Though guiltless of his suits of Lincoln green,Dear, as to him, was every sylvan scene.Shade of old Crusoe, with thy dog and gun,And thy lone isle beneath a southern sun!Shades of the lords that made such rare disportBeneath the oaks of Arden’s rural court!As o’er my little day I cast my view,Contrasting what I know, with what I knew,Your lot no hardship seems: to you were givenThe world of nature and the lights of heaven,What time the sun came flaming from the deep,Bursting the curtained clouds of morning sleep,Or night, majestic, paced the solemn skies,Wrapped in a woof of starry mysteries—All times, all seasons, as they came and went,Soothed with sweet thought the ills of banishment.No rude, unbidden guest invaded there,Nor the harsh din of congregated care;The heart, all ruffled in the haunts of men,Like to a quiet sea became again—Like to the deep reflection of the skies,Its faith-born hopes, and sage moralities.This much, at least, my devious muse would say:Our golden age, my friend, has passed away—Passed, with the careless dress, and elfin looks,That showed our books were trees and running brooks.But something more I would awhile recall,Then let, with lingering hand, the curtain fall.Dear to this heart—O now how passing dear,With the sad change of each dispatchful year!—Seems every waif of hours when life was new,Though home’s small scene contained its little view.Home that, however mean or grand, suppliesA gay kaleidoscope to youthful eyes.Say not, gray Wisdom, that its wonders pass,The mere deceit of beads and broken glass.Here, to thy rugged front, and locks of snow,Thy solemn eye, and beard’s descending flow,I dare avouch, of life’s most pleasing way,The best is gilded with the morning ray.See all our life the coinage of our eye;(O shut thy book—let go philosophy!)In Youth the pennies pass, ’tis no less strangeThat Age and Manhood clink the silver change.Through all estates our joys alike are vain;Then chide not one who turns to youth again.One rainbow vision of youth’s earnest eyesIs worth a stack of staid philosophies.Fields, waters, forests where we roamed of yore,What thronging memories haunt ye evermore:In yonder glen the brook is gliding still,Whose turf-dammed waters turned the mimic mill.Yon wood still woos us to its deep embrace,Whose shadows wrought a summer’s resting place,When from our brows the caps were careless thrown,The hunter’s tackle and the game laid down,As the long daylight, wearing towards a close,Breathed the soft airs of languor and repose.There, stretched at length, we mused, with half shut eye,To the leaf-kissing wind’s light lullaby,That, ever and anon, with murmur deep,Did through the pine’s Æolian organ creep.Tired with the varied travel of the day,The sound of game unheeded passed away—The bursting thunder of a partridge wing—The frolick blue-jay’s nasal caroling—The tawny thrush, that peeped with curious look,A rustic starer, from his leafy nook—The crow, hoarse cawing as we met his eye—The squirrels, bickering on the oaks hard by;Red-liveried elves, who taught their brains to say—“Whene’er the cat doth sleep the mice may play.”No more they feared the gun’s successless skill,Banged with clear malice, and intent to kill,But shelled their nuts with self-complacent air,And chid as, plainly, for invading there.Through loopholes of the intertwisted greenCame the far glimpse of many a sylvan scene—Parts of a smiling vale, a glorious sphere,Warm with the vigorous manhood of the year;Deep-bosomed haunts, where honest-handed toilRenewed the strength that dressed his native soil,While the gray spire, towards the drooping west,With heavenward finger, showed a world of rest.
Good Friend—dear heart—companion of my youth,
Whose soul was honor, and whose words were truth;
Methinks I see your smile of quick surprise,
As o’er these rhymes you glance your curious eyes.
But is it strange, if in an idle hour,
I cull these blossoms from the Muses’ bower?
Frail though they be, and blown but for a day,
The heart’s best language they may best convey;
In climes more genial, more adorned than ours,
The poet and the lover talk with flowers;
Then, though some richer gift were mine, to send,
This should be thine, my old familiar friend.
If for a while it cheat thee of a care,
With fond remembrance of the things that were—
Renew a thought, a hope that once was dear,
Or hint an adage for a future year,
I scarce shall think these lines were vainly writ,
Nor quite disown my Muse’s random wit.
Time, that has made us boys, and makes as men,
Will never, never bring the past again;
But wingéd memory half the wish supplies,
Which he who bears the scythe and glass denies:
He—the grim sexton of our dying years—
She—“Old Mortality” of sepulchres—
Both lay their fingers where our lives have flown,
And touch, in turn, each monumental stone.
Recall, my friend, the days when sent to school,
We framed our first idea of tyrant rule.
Long ere we turned the world’s dark pages o’er,
Glued with the vassal’s tears, the martyr’s gore—
Knew that a Cæsar passed a Rubicon,
Or wrongful Britain laid a Stamp-act on,
We drudged in study at another’s will,
While the free light fell warm on wood and hill—
Wrought with the service of an eye askance,
Beneath a master’s rogue-detecting glance:
Possessed with fear, lest trick or task might draw
The rod that fell without the forms of law;
Possessed with wrath to see our wealth expire—
Tops, apples, penknives in the penal fire.
How oft the slate, whose sable field should show
Platoons of figures ranked in studied row—
Squadrons of sums arrayed in careful lines—
Victualled with grocer’s bills of fruits and wines,
Betrayed a scene that crowned a day’s disgrace,
Before that sternly, sadly smiling face—
Trees, houses, elephants, and dogs and men,
Where half the Arabian’s science should have been;
And only this much learned, of figured lore,
That time subtracted—always left a score.
But when those long-loved hours were come, that took
From those reveréd hands the rod and book,
Our, like all vassal hearts, set quickly free,
Sought at a bound the largest liberty.
Self-exiled then, to meadow stream and wood,
We dropped half-read the tale of Robin Hood;
Though guiltless of his suits of Lincoln green,
Dear, as to him, was every sylvan scene.
Shade of old Crusoe, with thy dog and gun,
And thy lone isle beneath a southern sun!
Shades of the lords that made such rare disport
Beneath the oaks of Arden’s rural court!
As o’er my little day I cast my view,
Contrasting what I know, with what I knew,
Your lot no hardship seems: to you were given
The world of nature and the lights of heaven,
What time the sun came flaming from the deep,
Bursting the curtained clouds of morning sleep,
Or night, majestic, paced the solemn skies,
Wrapped in a woof of starry mysteries—
All times, all seasons, as they came and went,
Soothed with sweet thought the ills of banishment.
No rude, unbidden guest invaded there,
Nor the harsh din of congregated care;
The heart, all ruffled in the haunts of men,
Like to a quiet sea became again—
Like to the deep reflection of the skies,
Its faith-born hopes, and sage moralities.
This much, at least, my devious muse would say:
Our golden age, my friend, has passed away—
Passed, with the careless dress, and elfin looks,
That showed our books were trees and running brooks.
But something more I would awhile recall,
Then let, with lingering hand, the curtain fall.
Dear to this heart—O now how passing dear,
With the sad change of each dispatchful year!—
Seems every waif of hours when life was new,
Though home’s small scene contained its little view.
Home that, however mean or grand, supplies
A gay kaleidoscope to youthful eyes.
Say not, gray Wisdom, that its wonders pass,
The mere deceit of beads and broken glass.
Here, to thy rugged front, and locks of snow,
Thy solemn eye, and beard’s descending flow,
I dare avouch, of life’s most pleasing way,
The best is gilded with the morning ray.
See all our life the coinage of our eye;
(O shut thy book—let go philosophy!)
In Youth the pennies pass, ’tis no less strange
That Age and Manhood clink the silver change.
Through all estates our joys alike are vain;
Then chide not one who turns to youth again.
One rainbow vision of youth’s earnest eyes
Is worth a stack of staid philosophies.
Fields, waters, forests where we roamed of yore,
What thronging memories haunt ye evermore:
In yonder glen the brook is gliding still,
Whose turf-dammed waters turned the mimic mill.
Yon wood still woos us to its deep embrace,
Whose shadows wrought a summer’s resting place,
When from our brows the caps were careless thrown,
The hunter’s tackle and the game laid down,
As the long daylight, wearing towards a close,
Breathed the soft airs of languor and repose.
There, stretched at length, we mused, with half shut eye,
To the leaf-kissing wind’s light lullaby,
That, ever and anon, with murmur deep,
Did through the pine’s Æolian organ creep.
Tired with the varied travel of the day,
The sound of game unheeded passed away—
The bursting thunder of a partridge wing—
The frolick blue-jay’s nasal caroling—
The tawny thrush, that peeped with curious look,
A rustic starer, from his leafy nook—
The crow, hoarse cawing as we met his eye—
The squirrels, bickering on the oaks hard by;
Red-liveried elves, who taught their brains to say—
“Whene’er the cat doth sleep the mice may play.”
No more they feared the gun’s successless skill,
Banged with clear malice, and intent to kill,
But shelled their nuts with self-complacent air,
And chid as, plainly, for invading there.
Through loopholes of the intertwisted green
Came the far glimpse of many a sylvan scene—
Parts of a smiling vale, a glorious sphere,
Warm with the vigorous manhood of the year;
Deep-bosomed haunts, where honest-handed toil
Renewed the strength that dressed his native soil,
While the gray spire, towards the drooping west,
With heavenward finger, showed a world of rest.
———
BY MARIE DELAMAIE.
———
Oh, would I were a child again!A child with spirit free,Singing glad songs of merrimentBeneath the hawthorn tree,Watching the many-colored cloudsPursue their course on high,Trying to count the silver starsThat gem the evening sky,Weaving, beside bright sparkling streams,A wreath of sunny flowers,Or reading wondrous fairy tales,In green, sequestered bowers.The lights, the sounds of Nature thenMy happy hours beguiled;Would I could feel their power again—Oh, would I were a child!I chose my sprightly playmates thenFor simplicity and mirth,I cared not for the loftyOr the great ones of the earth;Rich in the love of cherished friends,I asked no monied store,Save to relieve the beggar’s wants,That wandered to my door.I wrote my artless verses thenWithout effort, toil, or aim,And read them to a list’ning group,Without a hope of fame;By worldly views, ambitious dreams,My thoughts were undefiled;Would I were now as free from care—Oh, would I were a child!Yet soon my youthful heart beganTo spurn a life like this,I deemed the far-off glittering worldA fairy land of bliss;I left my playmates to their sportsAnd castles built in air;I dreamed of scenes through which I movedA lady, proud and fair,And, while my short and simple tasksWith careless haste I conned,I longed to study learned loreMy feeble powers beyond—Like Rassalas around meThe Happy Valley smiled,Yet I longed to leave its limitsAnd cease to be a child.The magic circle of the worldI now have stood within,Yet I turn from its frivolity,I tremble at its sin.And Knowledge! my long cherished hope,The object of my love,She still eludes my eager quest,Still soars my grasp above;I add from her bright treasuryNew jewels to my store,Yet miserable, I murmurThat I cannot grasp in more,Before me seem exhaustless heapsOf mental riches piled,Yet still, in learning’s brightest gifts,I feel myself a child.Oh foolish, oh repining heart,Thus willfully to castVain wishes to the Future,Fond longings to the Past!Panting to overleap the boundsOf childhood’s simple track,Anxious to ’scape from woman’s caresAnd trace the journey back;Should I not rather be contentTo pass from youth to ageStriving to do my appointed workIn life’s short pilgrimage?Then let me school my rebel heart,And calm my fancies wild,And be in meek, submissive loveIndeed a little child.
Oh, would I were a child again!A child with spirit free,Singing glad songs of merrimentBeneath the hawthorn tree,Watching the many-colored cloudsPursue their course on high,Trying to count the silver starsThat gem the evening sky,Weaving, beside bright sparkling streams,A wreath of sunny flowers,Or reading wondrous fairy tales,In green, sequestered bowers.The lights, the sounds of Nature thenMy happy hours beguiled;Would I could feel their power again—Oh, would I were a child!I chose my sprightly playmates thenFor simplicity and mirth,I cared not for the loftyOr the great ones of the earth;Rich in the love of cherished friends,I asked no monied store,Save to relieve the beggar’s wants,That wandered to my door.I wrote my artless verses thenWithout effort, toil, or aim,And read them to a list’ning group,Without a hope of fame;By worldly views, ambitious dreams,My thoughts were undefiled;Would I were now as free from care—Oh, would I were a child!Yet soon my youthful heart beganTo spurn a life like this,I deemed the far-off glittering worldA fairy land of bliss;I left my playmates to their sportsAnd castles built in air;I dreamed of scenes through which I movedA lady, proud and fair,And, while my short and simple tasksWith careless haste I conned,I longed to study learned loreMy feeble powers beyond—Like Rassalas around meThe Happy Valley smiled,Yet I longed to leave its limitsAnd cease to be a child.The magic circle of the worldI now have stood within,Yet I turn from its frivolity,I tremble at its sin.And Knowledge! my long cherished hope,The object of my love,She still eludes my eager quest,Still soars my grasp above;I add from her bright treasuryNew jewels to my store,Yet miserable, I murmurThat I cannot grasp in more,Before me seem exhaustless heapsOf mental riches piled,Yet still, in learning’s brightest gifts,I feel myself a child.Oh foolish, oh repining heart,Thus willfully to castVain wishes to the Future,Fond longings to the Past!Panting to overleap the boundsOf childhood’s simple track,Anxious to ’scape from woman’s caresAnd trace the journey back;Should I not rather be contentTo pass from youth to ageStriving to do my appointed workIn life’s short pilgrimage?Then let me school my rebel heart,And calm my fancies wild,And be in meek, submissive loveIndeed a little child.
Oh, would I were a child again!
A child with spirit free,
Singing glad songs of merriment
Beneath the hawthorn tree,
Watching the many-colored clouds
Pursue their course on high,
Trying to count the silver stars
That gem the evening sky,
Weaving, beside bright sparkling streams,
A wreath of sunny flowers,
Or reading wondrous fairy tales,
In green, sequestered bowers.
The lights, the sounds of Nature then
My happy hours beguiled;
Would I could feel their power again—
Oh, would I were a child!
I chose my sprightly playmates then
For simplicity and mirth,
I cared not for the lofty
Or the great ones of the earth;
Rich in the love of cherished friends,
I asked no monied store,
Save to relieve the beggar’s wants,
That wandered to my door.
I wrote my artless verses then
Without effort, toil, or aim,
And read them to a list’ning group,
Without a hope of fame;
By worldly views, ambitious dreams,
My thoughts were undefiled;
Would I were now as free from care—
Oh, would I were a child!
Yet soon my youthful heart began
To spurn a life like this,
I deemed the far-off glittering world
A fairy land of bliss;
I left my playmates to their sports
And castles built in air;
I dreamed of scenes through which I moved
A lady, proud and fair,
And, while my short and simple tasks
With careless haste I conned,
I longed to study learned lore
My feeble powers beyond—
Like Rassalas around me
The Happy Valley smiled,
Yet I longed to leave its limits
And cease to be a child.
The magic circle of the world
I now have stood within,
Yet I turn from its frivolity,
I tremble at its sin.
And Knowledge! my long cherished hope,
The object of my love,
She still eludes my eager quest,
Still soars my grasp above;
I add from her bright treasury
New jewels to my store,
Yet miserable, I murmur
That I cannot grasp in more,
Before me seem exhaustless heaps
Of mental riches piled,
Yet still, in learning’s brightest gifts,
I feel myself a child.
Oh foolish, oh repining heart,
Thus willfully to cast
Vain wishes to the Future,
Fond longings to the Past!
Panting to overleap the bounds
Of childhood’s simple track,
Anxious to ’scape from woman’s cares
And trace the journey back;
Should I not rather be content
To pass from youth to age
Striving to do my appointed work
In life’s short pilgrimage?
Then let me school my rebel heart,
And calm my fancies wild,
And be in meek, submissive love
Indeed a little child.
A NIGHT IN THE DISSECTING-ROOM.
———
BY MRS. LOUISE PIATT.
———
Fatherly, motherly,Sisterly, brotherlyFeelings had changed:Love by harsh evidenceThrown from its eminence,Even God’s providenceSeeming estranged.Bridge of Sighs.
Fatherly, motherly,Sisterly, brotherlyFeelings had changed:Love by harsh evidenceThrown from its eminence,Even God’s providenceSeeming estranged.Bridge of Sighs.
Fatherly, motherly,
Sisterly, brotherly
Feelings had changed:
Love by harsh evidence
Thrown from its eminence,
Even God’s providence
Seeming estranged.Bridge of Sighs.
Medical students are merry fellows. This is one of the settled convictions of the world. Any one who dare assert that medical students are not lively, reckless youths, would be considered very ignorant, or devoid of truth. And the world in a received opinion is right for once. The majority of them, bred at home, the sons of wealthy parents, are sent to large cities, to pass in crowds the season of lecture; and, being suddenly removed beyond restraint, and countenanced by each other, it is little wonder they break into youthful extravagance, that too often ends in habits of sin and misery. The short passage between the hospital and dissecting-room rings with laughter, and the wild exuberance of youth blooms like a flower, rich and rank among graves. The hotel in which I have passed the winter, is in the neighborhood of a medical college, and my two little rooms look down upon the street along which troups of students pass laughing and chatting—in their queer dresses, made up of sacks, blouses, and caps. From time to time, as my health would permit, I have, reminded by these youths, given the history of a medical student, who came from the same sunny plains upon which I passed three of my happiest years. I give it here much curtailed, and only regret that facts cannot be made more entertaining.
The scenery of the U-na-ka plains is exceedingly beautiful and peculiar. Yet one traveling from early morn till even, over roads level as a railway, may at last become wearied with a sameness of quiet beauty that seems to be without end. But to see the specimens preserved in Frankenstein’s sketches, is to have a life-pension in pictured loveliness. The green sward, cropped close by huge droves of cattle, stretches out for miles and miles, dotted by groves of bur-oak, interlacing their gnarled boughs, upon which the bright green foliage hangs denser than that of any other species of American tree, or threaded by silvery rivulets that glide slowly along between flowery banks, as if they seemed loath to leave the paradise they adorn, or broken by little wood-covered mounds that swell up like islands in a flowery sea; or one sees a little lake calmly mirroring the quiet heavens above, like a beautiful nun in a cloistered convent. No rocks, no distant mountains melting in the hazy noon—no wide seas or sweeping rivers—no swelling uplands, yet in their own, quiet way the U-na-ka plains are as beautiful as they.
As the Frankensteins selected knots of still beauty to immortalize on canvas, so the Hon. William Fletcher selected a scene of exceeding beauty in the midst of which to place his home, and gratify his taste for retirement, where he could look the fairest nature in the face. A dreamy, indolent man of fine intellect, he had struggled for years at the bar with various success, when, through the influence of some friends, he was elevated to the bench, and shortly after, a near relative dying, left him an immense fortune. The judge gave up his judgeship, presented his fine library to a nephew, and, with wife and only child, retired to his U-na-ka farm, to settle down over books and dreams for the remainder of his useless life. He would have certainly accomplished this sleepy purpose, but for the only child—a boy—who acted upon the Hon. Mr. Fletcher like a corn, with the difference that love, not hate, made the young development of himself exceedingly troublesome.
The younger Fletcher, humored by the indolent father and fond mother, had every whim gratified, every wish anticipated. When the educated selfishness proposed breaking his neck by riding a colt that seemed unmanageable, the proposition was acceded to by the foolish parents amid earnest protestations, prayers, and loud lamentations. From the time he fell from the table, in a fit of indigestion, having gorged himself with plum-cake, to his nineteenth year, when he discharged a load of small shot from his double-barrel Manton into the back of John, the coachman, and cost his father a large sum to keep his heir out of jail, Dudley Fletcher had his own way—and a bad way it was. Yet Dudley was popular. He had plenty of money, and no care for it. His selfishness was ignorant thoughtlessness, for he did many generous acts—if they cost him little trouble. His hand went to and from his well-filled purse quite easily—and he flung his father’s money from him like a lord.
When in his nineteenth year, one pair of sparkling black eyes at least saw Dudley dash by upon his blood mare without dislike. These eyes belonged to a little girl, the daughter of one of the Hon. Fletcher’s tenants; and however beautiful the orbs were, the setting was in keeping. A prettier specimen of Heaven’s choicest handiwork never peeped out in hill and woodland. Upon the mostexclusive carpets she would have been a distinguished feature, so delicate, graceful and beautiful was she; but in the U-na-ka wilds, she looked like a water-lily turning up its pure, pale face from a marshy pool. Dudley, just at the age when youths, like creepers, stretch out their arms to cling to something, saw and loved the little cottager—the tenant’s daughter. Dudley had ever been gratified with all he sighed for, and, of course, saw no obstacle in the path to obtain what he so earnestly admired. He waded in to pluck the lily, never seeing the slime and earth that might cling to him in the act. To do the youth justice, however, he was as sincere and honest in his hopes, as thoughtless, selfish youths ever are. He paled apace—his appetite came like country cousins, unexpectedly; he read much poetry, and wandered about at unseasonable hours. His fond, good mother, said the private tutor kept Dudley too close at his books. The Hon. Fletcher said the boy had the dyspepsia—the tutor hinted the truth, but no one listened.
How the youth prospered in his wooing, the tutor himself soon had striking proof. This private pedagogue was a large, dirty man, who wore his hair standing on end, and kept his nails in mourning. Somewhat indignant at not being heard when he suggested the real cause of Dudley’s trouble, this mortal made himself a committee of one, to investigate and report. By close watching he discovered that his pupil was in the habit of stealing out at a late hour of the night to stroll past the cottage, whistling as he went a popular melody. By closer observations he discovered that soon after this performance, a white little fairy flitted by and disappeared in the willow grove, that fringed the brook. Ah! ha! thought the tutor, we will have occular proof. He gave himself up to a few days’ hard thinking, which resulted in a plot. One dark night, shortly after he had the Hon. Fletcher and his hopeful closeted in deep discourse, while the mother sat with her knitting close by, throwing in a few maternal remarks upon Dudley’s ill-health and close application, the redoubtable tutor wrapped himself comfortably in the idea of a successful trick, and stalked past the cottage and whistled, well as he was able, the popular melody. Then he stole into the willow grove. The night, as I have said, was dark and stormy. The heavens, veiled by heavy clouds, gave no light, and the willows swung to and fro in the fitful winds that swept through them. The tutor listened—he heard a quick, light step, and turned. Alas! no loving arms were clasped around his neck, no gentle words were whispered in his ears, but, in their place, a cudgel fell upon his nose, breaking down that important feature. The blow knocked the tutor down, but recovering, with a wild cry of murder, he fled—his speed greatly increased by a shower of thumps that for awhile rained upon his back. He reached the house, and, with a face like Banquo’s, rushed through the library, frightening the Hon. Fletcher, wife, and son terribly.
The next morning the elder Mr. Fletcher was wondering what confounded scrape that fool tutor had been in. Thomas Wickley, the father of the pretty Mary, entered his apartment. He came in, as justly indignant fathers always do upon the stage, and told his story very much as Reynolds or Coleman would have had him.
“You say my son has been paying improper attention to your daughter?”
“I do.”
“And that you beat him for it?”
“Yes—and I guess he carries the marks this morning, for I made them last night.”
The Hon. Fletcher opened wide his blue eyes, and then burst into a roar of laughter. Wickley looked at the unseasonable merriment sullen and indignant. The Hon. Fletcher smoothed his wrinkled front immediately.
“Excuse me, sir; my merriment is out of place. I feel deeply for you—but I can soon convince you of a slight mistake.”
“No you can’t,” was the rude response.
“Yes, I think I can; and let me assure you, I give no countenance to such things. If you wish, they shall be married, or this fellow must quit my house. Wait one moment, I have sent for my son.”
“Judge Fletcher, you are an honest man, if you are rich,” began Wickley, when he was interrupted by the entrance of Dudley. The young man started when he saw the visitor; but his face was as smooth as youth and soap could make.
“You say you beat my son last night—he did not leave the house: You say you beat him—he certainly does not look in that plight.”
The man stared, evidently puzzled; but fumbling at his pocket, he pulled out a bundle of letters, and spread them before his honor.
“I don’t know who I did beat last night. I did beat some one, that’s a fact. But maybe you’d tell me who writ them?”
The judge took the first papers. It was Dudley’s writing, and, at arm’s length, looked frightfully like poetry. He examined it closely, and found a lyric of seventeen verses, of an amorous, mystic character. The reader must not think me romancing if I give as specimens a few lines of the best. Men in love will spin out just such gossamer threads, that, floating in the merry sunlight of youth, look very beautiful. A steady member of the bar, who, I doubt not, is at this moment in his dull, grim office, pouring over musty law books, looking as if the jingle of a rhyme would be as annoying as a poor client, did, once upon a time, address volumes of verse to me, until he found that I was in a fair mood to label all as “rejected addresses,” when he suddenly took to special pleading with eminent success. To poor Dudley’s poetry.