CHAPTER XXI.

"Some feelings are to mortals given,With less of earth in them than heaven:And if there be a human tearFrom passion's dross refined and clear,A tear so limpid and so meekIt would not stain an angel's cheek:'Tis that which pious fathers shedUpon a duteous daughter's head!"

Eight years later, when I was again in London, Scott was on his death-bed at Abbotsford. Overburdened with the struggle to extricate himself from the wreck ofhis 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!"

These were almost the last words he spoke; he soon fell into a stupor, which became the sleep of death. So he died, with 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!"

EN ROUTE FOR LONDON—"THE LAIRD O'COCKPEN"—LOCALITIES OF LEGENDARY FAME—DIFFERENCE OF ENGLISH AND AMERICAN SCENERY.

Early in June I set out for London. My route led me through the village of Dalkeith, and the possessions of the Duke of Buccleuch, which extended for thirty miles on both sides of the road. We were constantly meeting objects which revived historical or poetic reminiscences. Among these was Cockpen, 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 penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree;"

who was so daft as to reject his offer, although

"His wig was well powthered and as gude as new;His waistcoat was red, and his coat it was blue;A ring on his finger, a sword and cocked hat—And wha could refuse the laird wi' a' that?"

We crossed the Galawater and the Ettrick, and travelled along the banks of the Tweed. We passed Abbotsford on our left; and further on saw the Eildon Hills, "cleft in three" by the wondrous wizard, 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 barefooted lassies were washing, as in the days of Allan Ramsay. We saw Netherby Hall, and a little beyond Cannobie Lea, the scenes of the song Young Lochinvar. All these, and many more localities of legendary fame, were passed in the course of a forenoon's progress in the stage-coach.

One day's journey brought me to Carlisle: thence I travelled through the lake district, looking with delight upon Windermere, Rydal, Grassmere, Helvellyn, Derwentwater, and Skiddaw. Then turning eastward, I passed 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, I must say a few words as to the impression England makes upon the mind of an American traveller. 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 encumbered with fogs; when there is

"No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon,No dusk, no dawn—no proper time of day;No sky, no earthly view, no distance looking blue;No road, no street, no t'other side the way!"

I take her, as I do any other beauty who sits for herportrait, 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 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. Everything 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 coming 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 hop amplify its many-plaited flowers, the oats multiply and increase their 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. The air is clearer, the landscape is more distinct, the bloom more vivid, the odors more pungent. 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 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, beingspread 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,stubbedform and character. The oaks, the elms, the walnuts, beeches, are shorter and thicker, as well in the trunks as the branches, than ours. 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 former 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 influences of fifteen centuries of cultivation. It is, with the exception of Belgium, the most thickly-settled country of Europe.

It is under a garden-like cultivation; the ploughing is straight and even, as if regulated by machinery; the boundaries of estates consist, for the most part, of stonemason-work, the intermediate divisions being hedges, neatly trimmed, and forming a beautiful contrast to our stiff stone walls and rail fences. 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 skilful cultivation, its green, tidy boundaries chequering the 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 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 wood 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 unrivalled 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, and elegance,not only to their dwellings and the 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.

So much for the common aspect of England as the traveller passes over it. The seeker after the picturesque may find abundant gratification in Devonshire, Derbyshire, Westmoreland, though Wales and Scotland, and parts of Ireland, are still more renowned for their 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.

I confine these remarks to a single topic, the aspect of England as it meets the eye of an American traveller. The English do not and cannot enjoy the spectacle as an American does; for they are born to it, and have no experience which teaches 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 the best studied at home. John Bull, out of his ownhouse, 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 railway-carriage, you ask a question by way of provoking a little conversation: he carries at his back a load of prejudices, like the bundle of Christian in the 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.

LONDON AGAIN—JACOB PERKINS AND HIS STEAM-GUN—DUKES OF WELLINGTON, SUSSEX, AND YORK—BRITISH LADIES AT A REVIEW—HOUSE OF COMMONS AND ITS ORATORS—CATALANI—DISTINGUISHED FOREIGNERS—EDWARD IRVING COMPARED TO EDMUND KEAN—BYRON LYING IN STATE.

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 show-bills pasted over the surrounding walls, with the King's Mews in the immediate vicinity: this whole area is now the site of Trafalgar Square. This is an index of other and similar changes that have taken place all over the city. At the present day, London not only surpasses in its extent, its wealth, its accumulations of all that belongs to art, the extent of its commerce, the vastness of its influence, all the cities that now exist, but all that the world has before known.

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. 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. But for the star on his left breast, and the respect paid to him, he might have passed as only an over-dressed and rather sour old rake. I noticed thathis coat sat very close and smooth, and was told that he was trussed and braced by stays. It was said to be the labor of at least two hours to prepare him for a public exhibition. 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 saw the Duke of Wellington not only 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-looking man, unless you saw him on horseback. 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 anything 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 marvellous increase of power. So confident was he of success, that he told me he felt certain of being able, in a few months, to gofrom 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, and, 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 Duke of Wellington, and other persons of note. The 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 forward, they were let into the chamber of the barrel one by one, and expelled by the steam. The noise of each explosion was like that of a musket; and when the discharges were rapid, there was a ripping uproar, quite shocking to tender nerves. The balls—carried about a hundred feet across the smithy—struck upon an iron target, and were flattened to the thickness of a shilling piece.

The whole performance was indeed quite formidable, and the Duke of Sussex seemed greatly excited. I stood close to him; 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—wonderful! wonderful, wonderful—wonderful! wonderful, wonderful—wonderful!" and so he went on, without variation. It was, in fact, a very good commentary upon the performance.

Having spoken of the Duke of Sussex, I must say a few words of his brother, the Duke of York, whom Ihad seen at Ascot. He was there interested in the race, for he had entered a horse by the name of Moses, for one of the prizes. Some person reflected upon him for this. His ready reply was, that he was devoted toMoses and the profits. Despite his disgrace in the Flanders campaign, and his notorious profligacy, he was still a favorite among the British people. There was about him a certain native honorableness and goodness of heart, which always existed, even in the midst of his worst career.

I saw the Duke on another occasion, at a cavalry review on Hounslow Heath. The Duke of Wellington was among the spectators. He was now in military dress, and mounted on a fine chestnut-colored horse. His motions were quick, and frequently seemed to indicate impatience. Several ladies and gentlemen on horseback were admitted to the review, and within the circle of the sentries stationed to exclude the crowd. I obtained admission by paying five shillings; for I learned that in England money is quite as mighty as in America. The privileged group of fair ladies and brave men, gathered upon a grassy knoll to observe the evolutions of the soldiers, presented an assemblage such as the aristocracy of England alone can furnish. Those who imagine that this is an effeminate generation, should learn that both the men and women belonging to the British nobility, taken together, are without doubt the finest race in the world. One thing is certain, these ladies could stand fire; for although the horses leaped and pranced at the discharges of the troops, their fair riders seemed as much at ease as if upon their own feet. Their horsemanship was indeed admirable, and suggested those habits of exercise and training, to which their full rounded forms and blooming countenances gave ample testimony.

The performances consisted of various marches and counter-marches—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 my mind, than any other military parade I ever beheld. I have seen eighty thousand infantry in the field; but they did not impress my imagination as forcibly as these few regiments of cavalry at Hounslow Heath. One incident gave painful effect to the spectacle. As the whole body were sweeping across the field, a single trooper was pitched from his horse and fell to the ground. A hundred hoofs passed over him, and trampled him into the sod. On swept the gallant host, as heedless of their fallen companion as if only a feather had dropped from 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 off universal interest. About fifty ladies on horseback rode back and forth over the field, on the flanks of the troops, imitating their evolutions.

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 hesitated, 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's face and figure are familiar to every one; and making allowance for added years, there is little change in his appearance since the time of which I speak. He had abundance of words, as well as ideas. In his speech on the occasion I describe, he piled thought upon thought, laced sentence within sentence, mingled satire and philosophy, fact and argument, history and anecdote, as if he had been a cornucopia, and was anxious to disburden himself of his 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 head, and a figure slightly stooping in the shoulders. His face was round, his eyelarge 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 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.

Of course, I visited the House of Lords, paying two shillings and sixpence for admittance. The general aspect of the assembly was eminently grave and dignified. Lord Eldon was the Chancellor—a large, heavy, iron-looking man—the personification of bigoted Conservatism. He was so opposed to reforms, that he shed tears when the punishment of death was abolished for stealing five shillings in a dwelling-house! When I saw him, his head was covered with the official wig: his face sufficed, however, to satisfy any one that his obstinacy of character was innate.

While I was here, a Committee from the House of Commons was announced; they had brought up a message to the Lords. The Chancellor, taking the seals in his hands, approached the Committee, bowing three times, and they doing the same. Then they separated, each moving backward, and bowing. To persons used to such a ceremony, this might be sublime; to me it was ludicrous: and all the more so, on account of the ponderous starchness of the chief performer in the solemn farce.There was a somewhat animated debate while I was present, in which Lords Liverpool, Lauderdale, Harrowby and Grey participated; yet nothing was said or done 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 opera wasLe 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.

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 tone, surpassing powers of execution. Her whole style was dramatic; bending even the music to the sentiments of the character and the song. I could appreciate, uninstructed as I was, 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 interpreter of those soft and tender emotions, for the expression of which God seems to have given musicto mankind. It was, no doubt, a great thing to hear the greatest cantatrice of the age; but I remember Madame Catalani as a prodigy, rather than as an enchantress. On the occasion I am describing, she sang, by request, "Rule Britannia" between the acts; which drew forth immense applause, in which I heartily joined: not that I liked the words, but that I felt the music.

It was about this time that a great attraction was announced at one of the theatres; nothing less than the King and Queen of the Sandwich Islands, who had graciously condescended to honor the performance with their presence. They had come to visit England, and pay their homage to George the Fourth; hence the Government deemed it necessary to receive them with hospitality, and pay them such attentions as were due to their rank and royal blood. The king's name was Kamehamaha; 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 a 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 streets 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: everything calculated to gratify them was done. I saw them at the theatre, dressed in a European costume, with the addition ofsome barbarous finery. The king was an enormous man—six feet three or four inches; the queen was short, but otherwise of ample dimensions. Besides these persons, the party comprised five or six other members of the king's household. They had all large, round, flat faces, of a coarse, though good-humored expression. Their complexion was a ruddy brown, not very unlike the American Indians; their general aspect, however, was very different. 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 to the change in their habits of living.

Among the prominent objects of interest in London at this period was Edward Irving, then preaching at the Caledonian Chapel, Cross Street, Hatton Garden. 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 aisles 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. Hewas over six feet in height, very broad-shouldered, with long, black hair hanging in heavy, twisted ringlets down upon his shoulders. His complexion was pallid, yet swarthy; the whole expression of his face, owing chiefly to an unfortunate squint, was half-sinister and half-sanctified, creating in the minds of the beholder a painful doubt whether he was a great saint or a great sinner.

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 crossed my mind that I had heard something like it, but certainly not in a church. I was seeking to trace out a resemblance between this strange parson and some star of Drury Lane or Covent Garden. Suddenly I found the clue: Edward Irving in the pulpit was imitating Edmund Kean upon the stage! And he succeeded admirably—his tall and commanding person giving him an immense advantage over the little, insignificant, yet inspired actor. He had the tones of the latter, his gestures, his looks even, as I had often seen him in Richard the Third and Shylock. He had evidently taken lessons of the renowned tragedian, but whether in public or private is not for me to say.

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. The phraseology was rich, flowing, redundant, abounding in illustration, and seemed to me carefully modelled after that of Jeremy Taylor. 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. Considered as a display of oratorical art, it was certainly equal to anything I have ever heard from the pulpit; yet it did not appear 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 after-thought 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 miracles, 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 asect 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.

One more event I must notice—the arrival in London of the 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 lay in state at the house of Sir Edward Knatchbull, where 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 recognised by his acquaintances. The general muscular form of the body was perfectly preserved.

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

"GEORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON.Born in London, 22d January, 1788.Died at Missolonghi, April 19th, 1824."

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 levelled in the dust, and, despite the garnished pall and magnificent coffin, their possessor bound to pass through the same process of corruption as the body of a common beggar!

RETURN TO THE UNITED STATES—BOSTON AND ITS WORTHIES—BUSINESS OPERATIONS—ACKERMANN'S "FORGET-ME-NOT" THE PARENT OF ALL OTHER ANNUALS—THE AMERICAN SPECIES—THEIR DECLINE.

Having made a hurried excursion 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, and then removed to Boston, with the intention of publishing original works, and at the same time of trying my hand at authorship—the latter part of my plan, however, known only to myself.

At that time Boston was recognized as 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. R. H. Dana, Edward T. Channing, George Bancroft, and others, were among the rising lights of the literary horizon. Society was strongly impressed with literary tastes, and genius was respected and cherished. The day had not yet come when it was glory enough for a college professor to marry a hundred thousand dollars of stocks, or when it was the chief end of a lawyer to become the attorney of an insurance company, or a bank,or a manufacturing corporation. A Boston imprint on a book was equal to a certificate of good paper, good print, good binding, and good matter. And while such was the state of things at Boston, at New York the Harpers, who till recently had been mere printers in Dover street, had scarcely entered upon their career as publishers; and the other shining lights in the trade, 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 sceptre has departed from Judah: New York is now the acknowledged metropolis of American literature, as well as of art and commerce. Nevertheless, if we look at Boston literature at the present time, as reflected in its publishing lists, we shall see that the light of other days has not degenerated; for since the period of which I speak, Prescott, Longfellow, Hawthorne, Whipple, Holmes, Lowell, Hilliard, have joined the Boston constellation of letters.

It cannot interest the reader to hear 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 of Mrs. Opie's works: these being, I believe, the first complete collections of the writings of these authors. In 1827 I published Sketches by N. P. Willis, his first adventure in responsible authorship. The next year I issued the Commonplace Book of Prose, the first work of the now celebrated Dr. Cheever. This was speedily followed by the Commonplace Book of Poetry, and Studies in Poetry, by the same author.

In 1828 I published a first, and soon after a second,volume of the Legendary, designed as a periodical, and intended 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 the contributors were Halleck, Miss Sedgwick, Miss Francis, Mrs. Sigourney, Willis, Pierpont, and other popular writers of that day. It was kindly treated by the press, which generously published, without charge, the best pieces in full, saving the reading million the trouble of buying the book and paying for the chaff, which was naturally found with the wheat. Despite this courtesy, the work proved a miserable failure. The time had not come for such a publication. At the present day, with the present accessories and the present public spirit, I doubt not that such an enterprise would be eminently successful.

The first work of the Annual kind, entitled the Forget-Me-Not, was issued by the Ackermanns of London, in the winter of 1823, while I was in that city. It was successfully imitated by Carey and 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, which I continued for fifteen years; editing it myself, with the exception of the volume for 1829, which came out under the auspices of Mr. Willis. In 1836, the Atlantic Souvenir ceased; and after that time, by arrangement with the publishers, its title was added to that of the Token.

The success of this species of publication stimulated new enterprises of the kind, and a rage for them spread over Europe and America. The efforts of the first artists and the best writers were at length drawn into them;and for nearly twenty years every autumn produced an abundant harvest of Diadems, Bijous, Amaranths, Bouquets, Hyacinths, Amulets, Talismans, Forget-Me-Nots, &c. Under these seductive titles they became messengers of love, tokens of friendship, signs and symbols of affection, and luxury and refinement; and thus they stole alike into the palace and the cottage, the library, the parlor, and the boudoir. The public taste grew by feeding on these luscious gifts, and soon craved even more gorgeous works of the kind; whence came Heath's Book of Beauty, Lady Blessington's Flowers of Loveliness, Bulwer's Pilgrims of the Rhine, Butler's Leaflets of Memory, Christmas with the Poets, and many others of similar design and execution. Many of the engravings of these works cost 500 dollars each, and many a piece of poetry 50 dollars a page. On several of these works the public spent 50,000 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 invented and introduced by our countryman, Jacob Perkins. This enabled the artist to produce works of greater 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 works scattered gems of art far and wide, making the reading mass familiar with fine specimens of engraving; and not only cultivating an appetite for this species of luxury, but exalting the general standard of taste all over the civilized world.

And thus, though the Annuals, by name, have perished,they have left a strong necessity in the public mind for books enriched by all the embellishments of art. Hence we have illustrated editions of Byron, Rogers, Thomson, Cowper, Campbell, and others; including our own poets, Bryant, Halleck, Sigourney, Longfellow, Read, &c. Wood-engraving, which since then has risen into such importance, has lent its potent aid in making books one of the chief luxuries of society, from the nursery to the parlor.

In comparison with many of these 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 engravings, from the designs of Allston, Leslie, Newton, Cole, Inman, Chapman, Fisher, Brown, Alexander, Healy, and others, were very clever, even compared with the finest works of 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 Sedgwick, Mrs. Hale, Pierpont, Greenwood, and Longfellow. Several of these authors first made acquaintance with the public through the pages of this work. It is a curious fact that the latter, Longfellow, wrote prose, andat that period had shown neither a strong bias nor a particular talent for poetry.

The Token was continued annually till 1842, when it finally ceased. The day of Annuals had, indeed, passed before this was given up; and the last two or three years it had only lingered out a poor and fading existence. As a matter of business, it scarcely paid its expenses, and was a serious drawback upon my time and resources for fifteen years; a punishment, no doubt, fairly due to an obstinate pride, which made me reluctant to abandon a work with which my name and feelings had become somewhat identified.

"THE TOKEN"—N. P. WILLIS AND NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE—COMPARISON BETWEEN THEM—LADY AUTHORS—PUBLISHERS' PROFITS—AUTHORS AND PUBLISHERS.

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

He had begun to write verses very early; and while in College, before he was eighteen, he had acquired an extended reputation, under the signature of "Roy." In 1827, when he was just twenty years old, I published his volume, entitled Sketches. It elicited 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 then condemned have now taken their places 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 written about than any other literary man in the history of American literature. 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 beloved pupil's back; some of them were dictated by envy; for we have had no other example of literary success so early, so general, and so flattering. That Mr. Willis made mistakes in literature and life, at the outset, may be admitted by his best friends; for it must be remembered that, before he was five-and-twenty, he was more read than any other American poet of his time; and besides, being possessed of an easy and captivating address, he became the pet of society, and especially of the fairer portion of it. Since that period, his life, on the whole, has been one of serious, useful, and successful labor. His reputation as a poet has hardly advanced, and probably the public generally regard some of his early verses as his best. As an essayist, however, he stands in the first rank; distinguished for a keen sagacity in analyzing society, a fine perception of the beauties of nature, and an extraordinary talent for endowing trifles with interest and meaning. As a traveller, he is among the most entertaining, sagacious, and instructive.

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, andis adapted to the playful wit, the piquant sentiment, the artistic descriptions 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 had a larger circle of steadfast friends than almost any man within my knowledge. There has been something in his works which has made women generally both his literary 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 everything 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 cheeks 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 rathersturdy form, his hair dark and bushy, his eyes steel-grey, 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 spectres of jealousy, remorse, despair.

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 his true title, representing a very substantial personage. At this period he was unsettled as to his views: he had tried his hand in literature, and considered himself to have met with a fatal rebuff from the reading world. His mind vacillated between various projects, verging, I think, toward a mercantile profession. I combated his despondence, and assured 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 mind 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 "PropheticPictures," 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, a gentleman in whose critical powers I had great confidence, 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 sort of second-sight, which revealed, beyond the outward forms of life and being, a sort of spirit-world, somewhat as a lake reflects the earth around it and the sky above it; yet he deemed them too mystical to be popular. He was right, no doubt, at that period; but, ere long, a 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. 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 worshippers.

In 1837 I recommended Mr. Hawthorne to publish a volume, comprising his various pieces, which had appeared in the Token and elsewhere. He consented, but as I had ceased to be a publisher, it was difficult to find any one who would undertake to bring out the work. I applied to the agent of the Stationers' Company, but he refused; until at last I relinquished my copyrights on such of the tales as I had published to Mr. Hawthorne, and joined a friend of his in a bond to indemnify themagainst 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 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 genius, gentle manners, and apostolic dignity of life and character.

To Mr. Pierpont I was indebted for encouragement and sympathy in my whole career, and for some of the best poems which appeared in the work I am noticing. I remember once to have met him, and to have asked him to give me a contribution for the Token. He stopped and said, reflectingly, "I had a dream not long ago, which I have thought to put into verse. I will try, and if I am successful you shall have it." A few days after he gave me the lines, now in all the gem-books, beginning,—

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