"Every body knows that from the time of the Romans up to the present century the only colossal objects which have been transported from Egypt, with the exception of the obelisk of Luxor, are the two sphynxes which are now at St Petersburgh, and which were found and sent to Alexandria through my means."
"Every body knows that from the time of the Romans up to the present century the only colossal objects which have been transported from Egypt, with the exception of the obelisk of Luxor, are the two sphynxes which are now at St Petersburgh, and which were found and sent to Alexandria through my means."
The last portion of Dr.Robert G. Latham'slearned work on the Ethnology of the British Colonies and Dependencies, treats of American ethnology, a branch of the subject which, though extensively investigated, is greatly in want of systematic arrangement. Some of Dr. Latham's views are novel. The following sketch of the Nicaraguan Indians is interesting at the present moment for political reasons:—
"The Moskito Indians are no subjects of England, any more than the Tahitians are of France, or the Sandwich Islanders of America, France, and England conjointly. The Moskito coast is a Protectorate, and the Moskito Indians are the subjects of a native king. The present reigning monarch was educated under English auspices at Jamaica, and, upon attaining his majority, crowned at Grey Town. I believe that his name is that of the grandfather of our late gracious majesty. King George, then, King of the Moskitos, has a territory extending from the neighborhood of Truxillo to the lower part of the River San Juan; a territory whereof, inconveniently for Great Britain, the United States, and the commerce of the world at large, the limits and definition are far from being universally recognized. Nicaragua has claims, and the Isthmus canal suffers accordingly. The King of the Moskito coast, and the Emperor of the Brazil, are the only resident sovereigns of the New World. The subjects of the former are, really, the aborigines of the whole line of coast between Nicaragua and Honduras—there being no Indians remaining in the former republic, and but few in the latter. Of these, too—the Nicaraguans—we have no definite ethnological information. Mr. Squier speaks of them as occupants of the islands of the lakes of the interior. Colonel Galindo also mentions them; but I infer, from his account, that their original language is lost, and that Spanish is their present tongue; just as it is said to be that of the aborigines of St. Salvador and Costa Rica. This makes it difficult to fix them. And the difficulty is increased when we resort to history, tradition, and archæology. History makes them Mexicans—Asteks from the kingdom of Montezuma, and colonists of the Peninsula, just as the Ph[oe]nicians were of Carthage. Archæology goes the same way. A detailed description of Mr. Squier's discoveries is an accession to ethnology which is anxiously expected. At any rate, stone ruins and carved decorations have been found; so that what Mr. Stephenson has written about Yucatan and Guatemala, may be repeated in the case of Nicaragua. Be it so. The difficulty will be but increased, since whatever facts make Nicaragua Mexican, isolate the Moskitos. They are now in contact with Spaniards and Englishmen—populations whose civilization differs from their own; and populations who are evidently intrusive and of recent origin. Precisely the same would be the case if the Nicaraguans were made Mexican. The civilization would be of another sort; the population which introduced it would be equally intrusive; and the only difference would be a difference of stage and degree—a little earlier in the way of time, and a little less contrast in the way of skill and industry. But the evidence in favor of the Mexican origin of the Nicaraguans is doubtful; and so is the fact of their having wholly lost their native tongue; and until one of these two opinions be proved, it will be well to suspend our judgment as to the isolation of the Moskitos. If, indeed, either of them be true, their ethnological position will be a difficult question. With nothing in Honduras to compare them with—with nothing tangible, or with an apparently incompatible affinity in Nicaragua—with only very general miscellaneous affinities in Guatemala—their ethnological affinities are as peculiar as their political constitution. Nevertheless, isolated as their language is, it has undoubtedly general affinities with those of America at large; and this is all that it is safe to say at present. But it is safe to say this. We have plenty of data for their tongue, in a grammar of Mr. Henderson's, published at New-York, 1846. The chief fact in the history of the Moskitos is that they were never subject to the Spaniards. Each continent affords a specimen of this isolated freedom—the independence of some exceptional and impracticable tribes, as compared with the universal empire of some encroaching European power. The Circassians in Caucasus, the Tshuktshi Koriaks in North-Eastern Asia, and the Kaffres in Africa, show this. Their relations with the buccaneers were, probably, of an amicable description. So they were with the negroes—maroon and imported. And this, perhaps, has determined theirdifferentiæ. They are intertropical American aborigines, who have become partially European, without becoming Spanish. Their physical conformation is that of the South rather than the North American; and, here it must be remembered, that we are passing from one moiety of the new hemisphere to the other. With a skin which is olive-colored rather than red, they have small limbs and undersized frames; whilst their habits are,mutatis mutandis, those of the intertropical African. This means, that the exuberance of soil, and the heat of the climate, make them agriculturists rather than shepherds, and idlers rather than agriculturists, since the least possible amount of exertion gives them roots and fruits, whilst it is only those wants which are compatible with indolence that they care to satisfy. They presume rather than improve upon the warmth of their suns, and the fertility of the soil. When they get liquor, they get drunk; when they work hardest, they cut mahogany. Canoes and harpoons represent the native industry. Wulasha is the name of their evil spirit, and Liwaia that of a water-dog. I cannot but think that there is much intermixture amongst them. At the same time, the data for ascertaining the amount are wanting. Their greatest intercourse has, probably, been with the negro; their next greatest with the Englishman. Of the population of the interior we know next to nothing. Here their neighbors are Spaniards. They are frontagers to the river San Juan. This gives them their value in politics. They are the only well known extant Indians between Guatemala and Veragua. This gives them their value in ethnology. The populations to which they were most immediately allied have disappeared from history. This isolates them; so that there is no class to which they can be subordinated. At the same time, they are quite as like the nearestknown tribes as the American ethnologist is prepared to expect. What they were in their truly natural state, when, unmodified by either Englishman or Spaniard, Black or Indian, they represented the indigenous civilization (such as it was) of their coast, is uncertain."
"The Moskito Indians are no subjects of England, any more than the Tahitians are of France, or the Sandwich Islanders of America, France, and England conjointly. The Moskito coast is a Protectorate, and the Moskito Indians are the subjects of a native king. The present reigning monarch was educated under English auspices at Jamaica, and, upon attaining his majority, crowned at Grey Town. I believe that his name is that of the grandfather of our late gracious majesty. King George, then, King of the Moskitos, has a territory extending from the neighborhood of Truxillo to the lower part of the River San Juan; a territory whereof, inconveniently for Great Britain, the United States, and the commerce of the world at large, the limits and definition are far from being universally recognized. Nicaragua has claims, and the Isthmus canal suffers accordingly. The King of the Moskito coast, and the Emperor of the Brazil, are the only resident sovereigns of the New World. The subjects of the former are, really, the aborigines of the whole line of coast between Nicaragua and Honduras—there being no Indians remaining in the former republic, and but few in the latter. Of these, too—the Nicaraguans—we have no definite ethnological information. Mr. Squier speaks of them as occupants of the islands of the lakes of the interior. Colonel Galindo also mentions them; but I infer, from his account, that their original language is lost, and that Spanish is their present tongue; just as it is said to be that of the aborigines of St. Salvador and Costa Rica. This makes it difficult to fix them. And the difficulty is increased when we resort to history, tradition, and archæology. History makes them Mexicans—Asteks from the kingdom of Montezuma, and colonists of the Peninsula, just as the Ph[oe]nicians were of Carthage. Archæology goes the same way. A detailed description of Mr. Squier's discoveries is an accession to ethnology which is anxiously expected. At any rate, stone ruins and carved decorations have been found; so that what Mr. Stephenson has written about Yucatan and Guatemala, may be repeated in the case of Nicaragua. Be it so. The difficulty will be but increased, since whatever facts make Nicaragua Mexican, isolate the Moskitos. They are now in contact with Spaniards and Englishmen—populations whose civilization differs from their own; and populations who are evidently intrusive and of recent origin. Precisely the same would be the case if the Nicaraguans were made Mexican. The civilization would be of another sort; the population which introduced it would be equally intrusive; and the only difference would be a difference of stage and degree—a little earlier in the way of time, and a little less contrast in the way of skill and industry. But the evidence in favor of the Mexican origin of the Nicaraguans is doubtful; and so is the fact of their having wholly lost their native tongue; and until one of these two opinions be proved, it will be well to suspend our judgment as to the isolation of the Moskitos. If, indeed, either of them be true, their ethnological position will be a difficult question. With nothing in Honduras to compare them with—with nothing tangible, or with an apparently incompatible affinity in Nicaragua—with only very general miscellaneous affinities in Guatemala—their ethnological affinities are as peculiar as their political constitution. Nevertheless, isolated as their language is, it has undoubtedly general affinities with those of America at large; and this is all that it is safe to say at present. But it is safe to say this. We have plenty of data for their tongue, in a grammar of Mr. Henderson's, published at New-York, 1846. The chief fact in the history of the Moskitos is that they were never subject to the Spaniards. Each continent affords a specimen of this isolated freedom—the independence of some exceptional and impracticable tribes, as compared with the universal empire of some encroaching European power. The Circassians in Caucasus, the Tshuktshi Koriaks in North-Eastern Asia, and the Kaffres in Africa, show this. Their relations with the buccaneers were, probably, of an amicable description. So they were with the negroes—maroon and imported. And this, perhaps, has determined theirdifferentiæ. They are intertropical American aborigines, who have become partially European, without becoming Spanish. Their physical conformation is that of the South rather than the North American; and, here it must be remembered, that we are passing from one moiety of the new hemisphere to the other. With a skin which is olive-colored rather than red, they have small limbs and undersized frames; whilst their habits are,mutatis mutandis, those of the intertropical African. This means, that the exuberance of soil, and the heat of the climate, make them agriculturists rather than shepherds, and idlers rather than agriculturists, since the least possible amount of exertion gives them roots and fruits, whilst it is only those wants which are compatible with indolence that they care to satisfy. They presume rather than improve upon the warmth of their suns, and the fertility of the soil. When they get liquor, they get drunk; when they work hardest, they cut mahogany. Canoes and harpoons represent the native industry. Wulasha is the name of their evil spirit, and Liwaia that of a water-dog. I cannot but think that there is much intermixture amongst them. At the same time, the data for ascertaining the amount are wanting. Their greatest intercourse has, probably, been with the negro; their next greatest with the Englishman. Of the population of the interior we know next to nothing. Here their neighbors are Spaniards. They are frontagers to the river San Juan. This gives them their value in politics. They are the only well known extant Indians between Guatemala and Veragua. This gives them their value in ethnology. The populations to which they were most immediately allied have disappeared from history. This isolates them; so that there is no class to which they can be subordinated. At the same time, they are quite as like the nearestknown tribes as the American ethnologist is prepared to expect. What they were in their truly natural state, when, unmodified by either Englishman or Spaniard, Black or Indian, they represented the indigenous civilization (such as it was) of their coast, is uncertain."
The Burns Ranch Union Mining Company in California have published a prospectus—we suppose to facilitate the sale of their stock—and the writer indulges in some speculations respecting the influence of the discovery that the chief mineral riches of the new state are in mines, instead of the sands of rivers, thus:
It appears to be the destiny of America to carry on the greatness of the future, and that Providence—which shapes the ends of nations as well as of persons, at a time when it was most needful for the prosecution of her mission, when war and the expedients of political strategy are out of vogue, and the people is most powerful of which the individual civilization, energy, ambition, and resources are greatest—that Providence, at this crisis, has opened the veins of the Continent, slumbering so many thousand years, in order that we might derive from them all that remained necessary for investing the United States with the leadership of the world.The first intelligence of the discovery of gold in California fell upon the general mind like news of a great and peculiar revolution. It was at once—even before the statements on the subject assumed a definite or certain form—it was at once felt that a new hour was signally on the dial-plate of history. Immediately, those immense fortunes which were acquired by the Portuguese and Spaniards nearly four centuries ago—fortunes which, in the decline of nations, have still remained in families as the sign and substance of the only nobility and power which mankind at large acknowledge—those astonishing fortunes which raised the enterprising poor man to the dignity and happiness of the most elevated classes in society, were recalled, and made suggestive of like successes to new and more hardy adventurers. The reports came with increased volume; every ship confirmed the rumors brought by its predecessor, and new intelligence, that, in its turn, tasked the popular credulity; and it came soon to be understood that we had found a land literally flowing with gold and silver, as that promised to the earlier favorites of Heaven did with milk and honey. As many as were free from controlling engagements, and had means with which to do so, started for our El Dorado, making haste, in fear that the wealth of the country would quickly be exhausted—not dreaming, even yet, that there was any thing to be acquired but flakes and scales and scattered masses of ore, which would be exhausted by the first hunters who should scour the rivers and turn the surface soil.But at length the geologists began to apprehend, what experience soon confirmed, that, extraordinary as were the amounts of gold found in drifts of gravel, and deposits that had been left in the beds of streams, these were merely the signs of far greater riches—merely indexes of the presence of rocks and hills, and underlayers of plains, impregnated with gold, in quantities that the processes of nature could never disclose, and that would reward only the scientific efforts of miners having all the mechanical appliances which the laborious experiments of other nations had invented. The fact of the existence of veins of gold in vast quartz formations, and ribs of gold in hills, was as startling almost as the first news of the presence of the precious metal in the country. This at once changed the prospect, and from a game of chance, elevated the pursuit of gold in California to a grand industrial purpose, requiring an energy and sagacity that invest it with the highest dignity, and to such energy and sagacity promising, with absolute certainty, rewards that make it worthy of the greatest ambition.Now, men of character and capital—the class of men whose speculating spirit is held in subjection by the most exact reason—began to turn to the subject their investigations, and to connect with it their plans. This will account for the fact that has so much astonished the world, which had supposed our Pacific colony to be composed of the reckless, profligate and desperate only—the fact, that when California made her constitution of government, it shot at once in unquestionable wisdom directly and far in advance of all the states on the Atlantic, presenting to mankind the very highest type of a free government that had ever been conceived. The demonstration that California was amine, like other mines in all but its surpassing richness, elevated it from a scene of gambling to one for the orderly pursuit of riches, and by the splendor of its promises, drew to it the most sagacious and most heroical intelligences of the time.Astonishing as are the present and prospective results of the discovery in California, however, we are not to suppose that there is any possibility of a decline in the value of the precious metals. In absolute material civilization, the world in the last three-quarters of a century has advanced more than it had in any previous three full centuries; and the supply of gold, for currency and the thousand other objects for which it was demanded, was becoming alarmingly insufficient, so that the addition of more than thirty per cent. to the total annual product of the world, which we are led by the officially-stated results thus far to expect from California, will merely preserve the historical and necessary proportion and standard value.
It appears to be the destiny of America to carry on the greatness of the future, and that Providence—which shapes the ends of nations as well as of persons, at a time when it was most needful for the prosecution of her mission, when war and the expedients of political strategy are out of vogue, and the people is most powerful of which the individual civilization, energy, ambition, and resources are greatest—that Providence, at this crisis, has opened the veins of the Continent, slumbering so many thousand years, in order that we might derive from them all that remained necessary for investing the United States with the leadership of the world.
The first intelligence of the discovery of gold in California fell upon the general mind like news of a great and peculiar revolution. It was at once—even before the statements on the subject assumed a definite or certain form—it was at once felt that a new hour was signally on the dial-plate of history. Immediately, those immense fortunes which were acquired by the Portuguese and Spaniards nearly four centuries ago—fortunes which, in the decline of nations, have still remained in families as the sign and substance of the only nobility and power which mankind at large acknowledge—those astonishing fortunes which raised the enterprising poor man to the dignity and happiness of the most elevated classes in society, were recalled, and made suggestive of like successes to new and more hardy adventurers. The reports came with increased volume; every ship confirmed the rumors brought by its predecessor, and new intelligence, that, in its turn, tasked the popular credulity; and it came soon to be understood that we had found a land literally flowing with gold and silver, as that promised to the earlier favorites of Heaven did with milk and honey. As many as were free from controlling engagements, and had means with which to do so, started for our El Dorado, making haste, in fear that the wealth of the country would quickly be exhausted—not dreaming, even yet, that there was any thing to be acquired but flakes and scales and scattered masses of ore, which would be exhausted by the first hunters who should scour the rivers and turn the surface soil.
But at length the geologists began to apprehend, what experience soon confirmed, that, extraordinary as were the amounts of gold found in drifts of gravel, and deposits that had been left in the beds of streams, these were merely the signs of far greater riches—merely indexes of the presence of rocks and hills, and underlayers of plains, impregnated with gold, in quantities that the processes of nature could never disclose, and that would reward only the scientific efforts of miners having all the mechanical appliances which the laborious experiments of other nations had invented. The fact of the existence of veins of gold in vast quartz formations, and ribs of gold in hills, was as startling almost as the first news of the presence of the precious metal in the country. This at once changed the prospect, and from a game of chance, elevated the pursuit of gold in California to a grand industrial purpose, requiring an energy and sagacity that invest it with the highest dignity, and to such energy and sagacity promising, with absolute certainty, rewards that make it worthy of the greatest ambition.
Now, men of character and capital—the class of men whose speculating spirit is held in subjection by the most exact reason—began to turn to the subject their investigations, and to connect with it their plans. This will account for the fact that has so much astonished the world, which had supposed our Pacific colony to be composed of the reckless, profligate and desperate only—the fact, that when California made her constitution of government, it shot at once in unquestionable wisdom directly and far in advance of all the states on the Atlantic, presenting to mankind the very highest type of a free government that had ever been conceived. The demonstration that California was amine, like other mines in all but its surpassing richness, elevated it from a scene of gambling to one for the orderly pursuit of riches, and by the splendor of its promises, drew to it the most sagacious and most heroical intelligences of the time.
Astonishing as are the present and prospective results of the discovery in California, however, we are not to suppose that there is any possibility of a decline in the value of the precious metals. In absolute material civilization, the world in the last three-quarters of a century has advanced more than it had in any previous three full centuries; and the supply of gold, for currency and the thousand other objects for which it was demanded, was becoming alarmingly insufficient, so that the addition of more than thirty per cent. to the total annual product of the world, which we are led by the officially-stated results thus far to expect from California, will merely preserve the historical and necessary proportion and standard value.
The following characteristic and interesting letter by Dr. Franklin is first printed in theInternational. Captain Falconer, to whom it is addressed, took Dr. Franklin to France when he was appointed commissioner, and proceeded thence with his ship to London. The letter is directedTo Captain Nathaniel Falconer, at the Pennsylvania Coffee-house, Birchin Lane, London, and the autograph is in the collection of Mr. George W. Childs, of Philadelphia:
Passy, July 28, 1783.Dear Friend:—I received your favor of the 18th. Captain Barney brought us the dispatches we so long expected. Mr. Deane as you observe is lost. Dr. Bancroft is I believe steady to the interest of his country, and will make an agreeable passenger if you can take him. You desire to knowsomething of the state of affairs here. Every thing goes well with respect to this court and the other friendly powers; what England is doing or means to do, or why the definitive treaty is so long delayed, I know perhaps less than you do; as, being in that country, you may have opportunities of hearing more than I can. For myself, I am at present as hearty and well as I have been these many years; and as happy as a man can be where every body strives to make him so. The French are an amiable people to live with; they love me, and I love them. Yet I do not feel myself at home, and I wish to die in my own country. Barney will sail this week with our dispatches. A good voyage to you, my friend, and may God ever bless you.B. FRANKLIN.Captain Falconer.
Passy, July 28, 1783.
Dear Friend:—I received your favor of the 18th. Captain Barney brought us the dispatches we so long expected. Mr. Deane as you observe is lost. Dr. Bancroft is I believe steady to the interest of his country, and will make an agreeable passenger if you can take him. You desire to knowsomething of the state of affairs here. Every thing goes well with respect to this court and the other friendly powers; what England is doing or means to do, or why the definitive treaty is so long delayed, I know perhaps less than you do; as, being in that country, you may have opportunities of hearing more than I can. For myself, I am at present as hearty and well as I have been these many years; and as happy as a man can be where every body strives to make him so. The French are an amiable people to live with; they love me, and I love them. Yet I do not feel myself at home, and I wish to die in my own country. Barney will sail this week with our dispatches. A good voyage to you, my friend, and may God ever bless you.
B. FRANKLIN.
Captain Falconer.
"The ice was here, the ice was there,The ice was all around."—Coleridge.
"The ice was here, the ice was there,The ice was all around."—Coleridge.
O, whither sail you, Sir John Franklin?Cried a whaler in Baffin's Bay.To know if between the land and the poleI may find a broad sea-way.I charge you back, Sir John Franklin,As you would live and thrive;For between the land and the frozen poleNo man may sail alive.But lightly laughed the stout Sir John,And spoke unto his men:—Half England is wrong, if he is right;Bear off to westward then.O, whither sail you, brave Englishman?Cried the little Esquimaux.Between the land and the polar starMy goodly vessels go.Come down, if you would journey there,The little Indian said;And change your cloth for fur clothing,Your vessel for a sled.But lightly laughed the stout Sir John,And the crew laughed with him too:—A sailor to change from ship to sled,I ween, were something new!All through the long, long polar day,The vessels westward sped;And wherever the sail of Sir John was blown,The ice gave way and fled.Gave way with many a hollow groan,And with many a surly roar;But it murmured and threatened on every side,And closed where he sailed before.Ho! see ye not, my merry men,The broad and open sea?Bethink ye what the whaler said,Think of the little Indian's sled!The crew laughed out in glee.Sir John, Sir John, 'tis bitter cold,The scud drives on the breeze,The ice comes looming from the north,The very sunbeams freeze.Bright summer goes, dark winter comes—We cannot rule the year;But long ere summer's sun goes down,On yonder sea we'll steer.The dripping icebergs dipped and rose,And floundered down the gale;The ships were staid, the yards were manned,And furled the useless sail.The summer's gone, the winter's come,We sail not on yonder sea:Why sail we not, Sir John Franklin?A silent man was he.The summer goes, the winter comes—We cannot rule the year:I ween, we cannot rule the ways,Sir John, wherein we'd steer.The cruel ice came floating on,And closed beneath the lee,Till the thickening waters dashed no more;'Twas ice around, behind, before—My God! there is no sea!What think you of the whaler now?What of the Esquimaux?A sled were better than a ship,To cruise through ice and snow.Down sank the baleful crimson sun,The northern light came out,And glared upon the ice-bound ships,And shook its spears about.The snow came down, storm breeding storm,And on the decks was laid;Till the weary sailor, sick at heart,Sank down beside his spade.Sir John, the night is black and long,The hissing wind is bleak,The hard, green ice is strong as death:—I prithee, Captain, speak!The night is neither bright nor short,The singing breeze is cold,The ice is not so strong as hope—The heart of man is bold!What hope can scale this icy wall,High over the main flag-staff?Above the ridges the wolf and bearLook down with a patient, settled stare,Look down on us and laugh.The summer went, the winter came—We could not rule the year;But summer will melt the ice again,And open a path to the sunny main,Whereon our ships shall steer.The winter went, the summer went,The winter came around;But the hard, green ice was strong as death,And the voice of hope sank to a breath,Yet caught at every sound.Hark! heard you not the noise of guns?And there, and there again?'Tis some uneasy iceberg's roar,As he turns in the frozen main.Hurra! hurra! the EsquimauxAcross the ice-fields steal:God give them grace for their charity!Ye pray for the silly seal.Sir John, where are the English fields,And where are the English trees,And where are the little English flowersThat open in the breeze?Be still, be still, my brave sailors!You shall see the fields again,And smell the scent of the opening flowers,The grass, and the waving grain.Oh! when shall I see my orphan child?My Mary waits for me.Oh! when shall I see my old motherAnd pray at her trembling knee?Be still, be still, my brave sailors!Think not such thoughts again.But a tear froze slowly on his cheek;He thought of Lady Jane.Ah! bitter, bitter grows the cold,The ice grows more and more;More settled stare the wolf and bear,More patient than before.Oh! think you, good Sir John Franklin,We'll ever see the land?'Twas cruel to send us here to starve,Without a helping hand.'Twas cruel, Sir John, to send us here,So far from help or home,To starve and freeze on this lonely sea:I ween, the Lords of the AdmiraltyHad rather send than come.Oh! whether we starve to death alone,Or sail to our own country,We have done what man has never done—The open ocean danced in the sun—We passed the Northern Sea!
O, whither sail you, Sir John Franklin?Cried a whaler in Baffin's Bay.To know if between the land and the poleI may find a broad sea-way.
I charge you back, Sir John Franklin,As you would live and thrive;For between the land and the frozen poleNo man may sail alive.
But lightly laughed the stout Sir John,And spoke unto his men:—Half England is wrong, if he is right;Bear off to westward then.
O, whither sail you, brave Englishman?Cried the little Esquimaux.Between the land and the polar starMy goodly vessels go.
Come down, if you would journey there,The little Indian said;And change your cloth for fur clothing,Your vessel for a sled.
But lightly laughed the stout Sir John,And the crew laughed with him too:—A sailor to change from ship to sled,I ween, were something new!
All through the long, long polar day,The vessels westward sped;And wherever the sail of Sir John was blown,The ice gave way and fled.
Gave way with many a hollow groan,And with many a surly roar;But it murmured and threatened on every side,And closed where he sailed before.
Ho! see ye not, my merry men,The broad and open sea?Bethink ye what the whaler said,Think of the little Indian's sled!The crew laughed out in glee.
Sir John, Sir John, 'tis bitter cold,The scud drives on the breeze,The ice comes looming from the north,The very sunbeams freeze.
Bright summer goes, dark winter comes—We cannot rule the year;But long ere summer's sun goes down,On yonder sea we'll steer.
The dripping icebergs dipped and rose,And floundered down the gale;The ships were staid, the yards were manned,And furled the useless sail.
The summer's gone, the winter's come,We sail not on yonder sea:Why sail we not, Sir John Franklin?A silent man was he.
The summer goes, the winter comes—We cannot rule the year:I ween, we cannot rule the ways,Sir John, wherein we'd steer.
The cruel ice came floating on,And closed beneath the lee,Till the thickening waters dashed no more;'Twas ice around, behind, before—My God! there is no sea!
What think you of the whaler now?What of the Esquimaux?A sled were better than a ship,To cruise through ice and snow.
Down sank the baleful crimson sun,The northern light came out,And glared upon the ice-bound ships,And shook its spears about.
The snow came down, storm breeding storm,And on the decks was laid;Till the weary sailor, sick at heart,Sank down beside his spade.
Sir John, the night is black and long,The hissing wind is bleak,The hard, green ice is strong as death:—I prithee, Captain, speak!
The night is neither bright nor short,The singing breeze is cold,The ice is not so strong as hope—The heart of man is bold!
What hope can scale this icy wall,High over the main flag-staff?Above the ridges the wolf and bearLook down with a patient, settled stare,Look down on us and laugh.
The summer went, the winter came—We could not rule the year;But summer will melt the ice again,And open a path to the sunny main,Whereon our ships shall steer.
The winter went, the summer went,The winter came around;But the hard, green ice was strong as death,And the voice of hope sank to a breath,Yet caught at every sound.
Hark! heard you not the noise of guns?And there, and there again?'Tis some uneasy iceberg's roar,As he turns in the frozen main.
Hurra! hurra! the EsquimauxAcross the ice-fields steal:God give them grace for their charity!Ye pray for the silly seal.
Sir John, where are the English fields,And where are the English trees,And where are the little English flowersThat open in the breeze?
Be still, be still, my brave sailors!You shall see the fields again,And smell the scent of the opening flowers,The grass, and the waving grain.
Oh! when shall I see my orphan child?My Mary waits for me.Oh! when shall I see my old motherAnd pray at her trembling knee?
Be still, be still, my brave sailors!Think not such thoughts again.But a tear froze slowly on his cheek;He thought of Lady Jane.
Ah! bitter, bitter grows the cold,The ice grows more and more;More settled stare the wolf and bear,More patient than before.
Oh! think you, good Sir John Franklin,We'll ever see the land?'Twas cruel to send us here to starve,Without a helping hand.
'Twas cruel, Sir John, to send us here,So far from help or home,To starve and freeze on this lonely sea:I ween, the Lords of the AdmiraltyHad rather send than come.
Oh! whether we starve to death alone,Or sail to our own country,We have done what man has never done—The open ocean danced in the sun—We passed the Northern Sea!
It seems to me as if it had been but yesterday, and yet it happened in the beginning of the year 1788. We were at table with one of our colleagues of the Academy, a respectable and lively gentleman. The company was numerous, and selected from all ranks: nobles, judges, professional men, academicians, &c. We had enjoyed ourselves as is customary at a well-loaded table. At the desert, themalvasierand Cape wine exalted the pleasure and increased in a good company that kind of liberty which does not remain within precise limits.
People in the world had then arrived at the point where it was allowed to say every thing, if it was the object to excite laughter. Chamfort had read to us some of his blasphemous and unchaste tales, and the noble ladies heard them without even taking for refuge to the fan. Then followed a whole volley of mockery on religion. One mentioned a tirade from the Pucelle; the other reminded us of those philosophical stanzas of Diderot, wherein he says: "With the intestines of the last priest tie up the throat of the last king;" and all clapped approbation. Another rises, holds up the full tumbler, and cries: "Yes, gentlemen, I am just as certain that there is no God, as I am certain that Homer was a fool!" and really, he was of the one as certain as he was of the other: we had just spoken of Homer and of God, and there were guests present, too, who had said something good of the one and of the other.
The conversation now became more serious. We spoke with astonishment of the revolution Voltaire had effected, and we agreed that it is the most distinguished foundation of his fame. He had given the term to his half-century; he had written in such a manner, that he is read in the anteroom as well as in the hall.
One of the guests told us with great laughter, that his hairdresser, as he powdered him, said, "You see, sir, though I am only a miserable fellow, I yet have not more religion than others." We concluded that the revolution would soon be completed, and that superstition and fanaticism must absolutely yield to philosophy; we calculated the probability of the time, and who of this company may have the happiness to live to see the reign of reason. The older ones were sorry that they could not flatter themselves to see this; those younger rejoiced with the hope that they shall live to the time, and we particularly congratulated the Academy for having introduced the great work, and that they have been the chief source, the centre, the mainspring of freedom of thought.
One of the guests had taken no part in this gay conversation, and had even scattered a few jokes in regard to our beautiful enthusiasm. It was M. Cazotte, an agreeable and original gentleman; but who, unfortunately, was prepossessed by the idle imaginations of those who believe in a higher inspiration. He took the word, and said, in the most serious manner: "Sirs, rejoice; you all will be witnesses of that great and sublime revolution for which you wish so much. You are aware that I make some pretensions to prophecy. I repeat it to you, you will all see it!"
"For this a man needs no prophetic gifts," was answered him.
"This is true," he replied, "but probably a little more for what I have to tell you yet. Do you know what will arise from this revolution (where, namely, reason will triumph in opposition to religion)? what her immediate consequence, her undeniable and acknowledged effects will be?"
"Let us see," said Condorcet, with his affected look of simplicity, "a philosopher is not sorry to meet a prophet."
"You, M. Condorcet," continued M. Cazotte, "you will be stretched out upon the floor of a dungeon, there to yield up your ghost. You will die of poison, which you will swallow to save yourself from the hangman—of the poison which the good luck of the times, which then will be, will have compelled you always to have carried with you."
This at first excited great astonishment, but we soon remembered that the good Cazotte occasionally dreamed waking, and we all laughed heartily.
"M. Cazotte," said one of the guests, "the tale you relate to us here is not as merry as your 'Devil in Love' (a romance which Cazotte had written). What kind of a devil has given you the dungeon, the poison, and the hangman?—what has this in common with philosophy, and with the reign of Reason?"
"This is just what I told you," replied Cazotte. "In the name of philosophy, in the name of humanity, of liberty, of reason, it shall be that you shall take such an end; and then reason will still reign, for she will have temples; yes, at the same time there will be no temples in all France, but temples of Reason."
"Truly," said Chamfort, with a scornful smile, "you will not be one of the priests in these temples?"
"This I hope," replied Cazotte, "but you, M. de Chamfort, who will be one of them—and very worthy you are to be one—you will open your veins with twenty-two incisions of the razor—and yet you will only die a few months afterwards."
They look at each other, and continue to laugh. Cazotte continues:
"You, M. Vicq d'Azyr, you will not open your veins yourself; but afterwards you will get them opened six times in one day, and during the night you will die."
"You, M. Nicolli, you will die on the scaffold."
"You, M. Bailly, on the scaffold!"
"You, M. Malesherbes—you, on the scaffold!"
"God be thanked," exclaimed M. Roucher, "it appears M. Cazotte has it to do only with the Academy; he has just started a terrible butchery among them; I—thanks to heaven—"
Cazotte interrupted him: "you?—you, too, will die on the scaffold."
"Ha! this is a bet," they exclaimed from all sides; "he has sworn to extirpate everything!"
Cazotte.—"No, it is not I that has sworn it."
"Then we must be put under the yokes of the Turks and Tartars?—and yet—"
Cazotte.—"Nothing less: I have told you already; you will then be only under the reign of philosophy and reason; those who shall treat you in this manner, will all be philosophers, will always carry on the same kind of conversation which you have peddled out for the last hour, will repeat all your maxims; they will, like you, cite verses from Diderot and the Pucelle."
It was whispered into one another's ear: "You all see that he has lost his reason—(for he remains very serious while he is talking)—Do you not see that he is joking?—and you know that he mixes something mysterious into all his jokes." "Yes," said Chamfort, "but I must confess his mysteries are not agreeable, they are too scaffoldish! And when shall all this occur?"
Cazotte.—"Six years will not expire, before all I told you will be fulfilled."
"There are many wonders." This time it was I (namely Laharpe) who took the word, "and of me you say nothing?"
"With you," replied Cazotte, "a wonder will take place, which will at least be as extraordinary; you will then be a Christian!"
Here was a universal exclamation. "Now I am easy," cried Chamfort, "if we don't perish until Laharpe is a Christian, we shall be immortal!"
"We, of the female sex," then said the Duchess de Grammont, "we are lucky that we shall be counted as nothing with the revolutions. When I say nothing, I do not mean to say as if we would not mingle ourselves a little into them; but it is assumed that nobody will, on that account, loath at us or at our sex."
Cazotte.—"Your sex will this time not protect you, and you may ever so much desire not to mingle into anything; you will be treated just like men, and no distinction will be made!"
Duchess.—"But what do you tell us here, M. Cazotte? You preach to us the end of the world!"
Cazotte.—"That I do not know; but what I do know, is, that you, Madame Duchess, will be led to the scaffold, you, and many other ladies, and on the public cart, with your hands tied on your back!"
Duchess.—"In this case, I hope I shall have a black trimmed coach?"
Cazotte.—"No, madam! Nobler ladies than you, shall, like you, be drawn on that same cart, with the hands tied on the back!"
Duchess.—"Nobler ladies? How? the princesses by birth?"
Cazotte.-"Nobler yet!"
Now was observed a visible excitement in the whole company, and the master of the table took on a dark appearance; they began to see that the joke had been carried too far.
Madame de Grammont, to scatter the clouds which the last answer had occasioned, contented herself by saying in a facetious tone: "You shall see that he will not even allow me the comfort of a father confessor!"
Cazotte.—"No, madam! you will not get one; neither you nor any one else! The last one executed, who, out of mercy, will have received a father confessor"—here he stopped a moment—
Duchess.—"Well, who will be the fortunate one, when this fortunate preference will be granted?"
Cazotte.—"It will be the only preference that he shall yet keep; and this will be the king of France!"
Now the host arose from the table, and all with him. He went to Cazotte, and said with an excited voice, "My dear M. Cazotte, this lamentable jest has lasted long. You carry it too far, and within a degree where you place the company in which you are, and yourself, into danger."
Cazotte answered not, and made himself ready to go away, when madame Grammont, who always tried to prevent the matter from being taken seriously, and exerted herself to restore the gaiety of the company, went to him, and said: "Now, M. Prophet! you have told us all our fortunes, but you say nothing of your own fate?"
He was silent and cast down his eyes; then he said: "Have you, madame, read, in Josephus, the history of the siege of Jerusalem?"
Duchess.—"Certainly! who has not read it? but you seem to think that I have not!"
Cazotte.—"Well, madame, during the siege a man went round the city, upon the walls, for seven days, in the face of the besiegers and the besieged, and cried continually, with a mournful voice, 'Wo unto Jerusalem! Wo unto Jerusalem!' but on the seventh day he cried, 'Wo unto me!' and at that moment he was dashed to pieces by an immense stone, which the machines of the enemy had thrown."
After these words, M. Cazotte bowed himself, and went away.
In relation to the above extraordinary prediction, a certain M.... has inserted the following article in the public journals of Paris: "That he well knew this M. Cazotte, and has often heard from him theannouncement of the great oppression which was to come over France, and this at a time when not the least of it was suspected. The attachment to the monarchy was the reason why, on the second of September, 1792, he was brought to the abbey, and was saved from the hands of the bloodthirsty rabble only through the heroic courage of his daughter, who mitigated the raging populace. This same rabble which wanted to destroy him, led him to his house in triumph. All his friends came to congratulate him, that he had escaped death. A certain M. D... who visited him after the terrible days, said to him: "Now, you are saved!"—"I believe it not," answered Cazotte; "in three days I shall be guillotined!"—"How can this be?" replied M. D... Cazotte continued: "Yes, my friend, in three days I will die on the scaffold!" As he said this he was very much affected, and added: "Shortly before your arrival, I saw a gend'armes enter, who fetched me by order of Petion; I was under the necessity of following him: I appeared before the mayor of Paris, who ordered me to theConciergerie, and thence I came before the revolutionary tribunal. You see, therefore (by this vision, namely, which Cazotte had seen), my friend, that my hour has arrived; and I am so much convinced of this, that I am arranging my papers. Here are papers for which I care very much, which you will deliver to my wife; I entreat you to give them to her, and to comfort her.""
M. D... declared this all folly, and left him with the conviction, that his reason had suffered by the sight of the scenes of terror from which he had escaped.
The next day he came again; but he learned that a gensd'arme had taken M. Cazotte to the Municipality. M. D... went to Petion; arrived at the mayoralty, he heard that his friend had just been taken to prison; he hurried thither; but he was informed that he could not speak to him, he would be tried before the revolutionary tribunal. Soon after this, he heard that his friend had been condemned and executed.
I would that I were dreaming,Where lovely flowers are gleaming,And the tall green grass is streamingO'er the gone—for ever gone.Motherwell.
I would that I were dreaming,Where lovely flowers are gleaming,And the tall green grass is streamingO'er the gone—for ever gone.
Motherwell.
The evening glories of a summer skyBrimming the heart with yearnings to be blest;The wood-bird's wailing as he soars on highWinging his weary way to distant nest;The murmuring billows as they kiss the strand,Bearing dim memories of stranger land;The sad mysterious voices of the night,Bathing the soul in reverie and love;The low wind, whispering of its former mightTo the tall trees that sigh the hills above,Like angel-tones that roll from sphere to sphereAnd dimly echo to the faithful ear;The flitting shadows glancing o'er the sailOf some proud ship that's dreaming on the sea;The lighthouse fires that fitful glow and pale;The far-off strains of martial minstrelsy;Wechawken's hoary head o'er hill and dell,Gloomy and proud, a giant sentinel;Such the soft charms, thou Paradise of Death!My languid spirit hath erewhile confest,When wearied with the city's tainted breath,Fever'd and faint I've sought thy shades of rest,Where all combines in heaven, and earth, and sea,To image life, death, immortality!—Here where the dusky savage twanged his bowIn the old time at startled doe or fawn,Raised the shrill war-whoop at the approach of foe,His wild eye flashing with revenge and scorn;Here where the Indian maiden told her loveTo the soft sighing spirits of the grove.Here, where the bloody fiend of frantic warFlapped its red wings o'er hill-top and o'er plain—Where the sharp musket ring, and cannon roar,Crashed o'er the valley, thundered o'er the main,No sound is heard, save the sweet symphonyOf Nature's all-pervading harmony.Here the pale willow, drooping o'er the wave,Dips its long tresses in the silvery flood;Here the blue violet, blooming o'er the grave,Distils its fragrance to the enamored wood,While the complaining turtle's mournful woeSteals on the ear in murmurs soft and low.Here its cold shaft the polished marble rears;Here, eloquent of grief, the sculptured urnBares its white bosom to the dewy tears,Dropt pure from heaven, far purer to return!Here the grim granite's sempeternal pileIn monumental grandeur stands the while.Where the still stars with gentlest radiance shineOn forest green and flower-enamelled vale,Two simple columns circled by one vine,Tell to the traveller's eye the tender taleOf constancy in life and death—and love,Not e'en the horrors of the tomb could move.Here strained, and struggling with the unequal mightOf sea and tempest, the poor foundering bark,And the snapp'd cable, chiselled on yon height,Where calmly sleeps the wave-tossed pilot mark;Hope, with her anchor, pointing to the sky,Triumphant hails the spirit flight on high!Hark! how the solemn spirit dirge ascendsIn floating cadence on the evening air,Where with clasped hands the weeping angel bendsIn human grief o'er her that's buried there;The gentle maid, in festive garments hurledFrom life's gay glitter to the gloomy world!Thy childish laughter lingers on mine ear,Thy fairy form still floats before mine eye;Still is the music of thy footsteps near,Visioned to sense by tenderest memory;Thy soul too pure for purest mortal love,Enraptured seraphs snatched to realms above!Here where the sparkling fountain flings its sprayIn sportive freedom, frolicksome and wild,Mocking the wood-nymphs with its gladsome lay,Serenely sleeps the dark-eyed forest child—Her kinsman's glory and her nation's pride!A chieftain's daughter and a warrior's bride!Oft shall the pale face, pensive o'er thy mound,Weep for the white man's shame, the red man's wrong;Oft from spring warblers, o'er this hallowed ground,Shall gush the tenderest melody of song,For the poor pilgrim to that distant shore,Her fathers loved, their sons shall see no more!Pause, weary wanderer, pause! In yon lone gladeWhere silence reigns in deep funereal gloom,Where the pale moonbeams struggle through the shade,Open the portals of "The Stranger's Tomb!"No holier symbol taught since time beganThe sacred sympathy of man for man!Dear Greenwood! when the solemn heights I tread,And catch the gray old ocean's sullen roar,Chanting the dirge of the mighty dead,Over whose graves the oblivious billows pour,A tearful prayer is gushing from my breast,"Here in thy peaceful bosom may I rest!—"Rest till the signal calls the ransomed throngWith shouts their Saviour and their God to greet;Rest till the harp, the trumpet, and the songSummon the dead, Death's conqueror to meet;And love, imperfect, man's best gift below,In heaven eternal rapture shall bestow!"
The evening glories of a summer skyBrimming the heart with yearnings to be blest;The wood-bird's wailing as he soars on highWinging his weary way to distant nest;The murmuring billows as they kiss the strand,Bearing dim memories of stranger land;
The sad mysterious voices of the night,Bathing the soul in reverie and love;The low wind, whispering of its former mightTo the tall trees that sigh the hills above,Like angel-tones that roll from sphere to sphereAnd dimly echo to the faithful ear;
The flitting shadows glancing o'er the sailOf some proud ship that's dreaming on the sea;The lighthouse fires that fitful glow and pale;The far-off strains of martial minstrelsy;Wechawken's hoary head o'er hill and dell,Gloomy and proud, a giant sentinel;
Such the soft charms, thou Paradise of Death!My languid spirit hath erewhile confest,When wearied with the city's tainted breath,Fever'd and faint I've sought thy shades of rest,Where all combines in heaven, and earth, and sea,To image life, death, immortality!—
Here where the dusky savage twanged his bowIn the old time at startled doe or fawn,Raised the shrill war-whoop at the approach of foe,His wild eye flashing with revenge and scorn;Here where the Indian maiden told her loveTo the soft sighing spirits of the grove.
Here, where the bloody fiend of frantic warFlapped its red wings o'er hill-top and o'er plain—Where the sharp musket ring, and cannon roar,Crashed o'er the valley, thundered o'er the main,No sound is heard, save the sweet symphonyOf Nature's all-pervading harmony.
Here the pale willow, drooping o'er the wave,Dips its long tresses in the silvery flood;Here the blue violet, blooming o'er the grave,Distils its fragrance to the enamored wood,While the complaining turtle's mournful woeSteals on the ear in murmurs soft and low.
Here its cold shaft the polished marble rears;Here, eloquent of grief, the sculptured urnBares its white bosom to the dewy tears,Dropt pure from heaven, far purer to return!Here the grim granite's sempeternal pileIn monumental grandeur stands the while.
Where the still stars with gentlest radiance shineOn forest green and flower-enamelled vale,Two simple columns circled by one vine,Tell to the traveller's eye the tender taleOf constancy in life and death—and love,Not e'en the horrors of the tomb could move.
Here strained, and struggling with the unequal mightOf sea and tempest, the poor foundering bark,And the snapp'd cable, chiselled on yon height,Where calmly sleeps the wave-tossed pilot mark;Hope, with her anchor, pointing to the sky,Triumphant hails the spirit flight on high!
Hark! how the solemn spirit dirge ascendsIn floating cadence on the evening air,Where with clasped hands the weeping angel bendsIn human grief o'er her that's buried there;The gentle maid, in festive garments hurledFrom life's gay glitter to the gloomy world!
Thy childish laughter lingers on mine ear,Thy fairy form still floats before mine eye;Still is the music of thy footsteps near,Visioned to sense by tenderest memory;Thy soul too pure for purest mortal love,Enraptured seraphs snatched to realms above!
Here where the sparkling fountain flings its sprayIn sportive freedom, frolicksome and wild,Mocking the wood-nymphs with its gladsome lay,Serenely sleeps the dark-eyed forest child—Her kinsman's glory and her nation's pride!A chieftain's daughter and a warrior's bride!
Oft shall the pale face, pensive o'er thy mound,Weep for the white man's shame, the red man's wrong;Oft from spring warblers, o'er this hallowed ground,Shall gush the tenderest melody of song,For the poor pilgrim to that distant shore,Her fathers loved, their sons shall see no more!
Pause, weary wanderer, pause! In yon lone gladeWhere silence reigns in deep funereal gloom,Where the pale moonbeams struggle through the shade,Open the portals of "The Stranger's Tomb!"No holier symbol taught since time beganThe sacred sympathy of man for man!
Dear Greenwood! when the solemn heights I tread,And catch the gray old ocean's sullen roar,Chanting the dirge of the mighty dead,Over whose graves the oblivious billows pour,A tearful prayer is gushing from my breast,"Here in thy peaceful bosom may I rest!—
"Rest till the signal calls the ransomed throngWith shouts their Saviour and their God to greet;Rest till the harp, the trumpet, and the songSummon the dead, Death's conqueror to meet;And love, imperfect, man's best gift below,In heaven eternal rapture shall bestow!"
I have "laid" the tiniest ghost of my professional duties. I shook off city dust twenty hours ago, and my lungs are rejoicing this August morning with the glorious breezes that sweep from the summits of the "Trimountains" of Waywayanda lake—that stretches its ten miles expanse before my freshened vision.
Waywayanda lake?
A Quere. Shall I play geographer to those who are learned in the nomenclature of snobbism? Who allow innkeepers and railroad guides to assassinate Aboriginal terms in order that petty pride may exult in petty fame? No! But if snobbism has a curiosity, I refer it to the first landscape painter of its vicinage: or the nearest fisherman amateur: or the Recorder of New-York: or sportsman Herbert and the pages of his "Warwick Woodlands;" a list of references worthy of the spot.
And as I gaze and breathe I feel as if the waters before me had bubbled from the fountains of rejuvenescence for which Ponce de Leon so enthusiastically searched in the everglades of Florida; and as if, too, I had just emerged from their embraces.
My pocket almanac says that I am living in the dogdays. Perhaps so. But "Sirius" hath no power around these mountains and primeval solitudes. Were the fiercest theological controversialist at my elbow, he would be as cool as an Esquimaux.
I feel at peace with all things. My friend M. says the conscience lieth in the stomach. Perhaps so; and perhaps I owe my quietude of spirit to the influence of as comforting a breakfast as ever blessed the palate of a scientific egg-breaker.
Shall I join forces with the laughing beauties who are handling maces in the billiard room of the inn hard by? Shall I challenge my "Lady Gay Spanker" of last night's acquaintance to a game of bowling? Shall I tempt the unsophisticated pickerel of the lake under the shadow of yonder frowning precipice, with glittering bait? Shall I clamber the mountain side and feast my vision with an almost boundless view—rich expanses of farm land stretching away for miles and miles, and edging themselves in the blue haze of the horizon where the distant Catskill peaks rise solitary in their sublimity?
It is very comfortable here. Is there always poetry in motion? How far distant are the confines of dreamland: that magical kingdom where the tired soul satiates itself in the intoxications of fancy?
I had just carefully deposited upon a velvety tuft of grass Ik Marvel's "Reveries of a Bachelor." I had arrived at the conclusion that its pages should be part and parcel of the landscape about. Surely there is a unison between them both. There are always certain places where only certain melodies can be sung to the proper harmony of the heart-strings. Who ever learned "Thanatopsis" on the summit of the Catskills, and afterwards forgot a line of it? Now I have seen these same "Reveries" of the said bachelor upon many a centre-table: in the lap of many a town beauty, half cushioned in the velvet of a drawing room sofa: but the latter half of the volume never looked so inviting as it does here just in the middle of one of nature's lexicons. May the page of it never be blurred.
Reveries of a Bachelor!
'Tis a sugared pill of a title. Its morals are sad will o' wisps. And if the definition "that happiness consists in the search after it" be true, it is so when the definition settles itself on the mind of a bachelor. Hathhereveries half so sweet for morsels under the tongues of memory and fancy as those which come nigh to the brain of the married man? As sure as the lesser is always included in the greater: as certain as the maximde minimis lex non curat: the reveries of the first are but bound up in the reveries of the last; one is apleasingromance, the other its enchanting sequel.
What is that yonder? There is a merry-faced form in the distant haze, shaking a dreamy negative with his head. A head whose reality is miles and miles away, airing its brow of single blessedness in foreign travel.
Let us argue the point: he smiles as if willing. Man socially is at least a three volumed work: however much longer the James-like pen of destiny may extend him. Volume first—bachelor. Volume second—husband. Volume third—father. Theremaybe a dozen more—thereshouldbe none less.
You have been a bachelor: you are a husband and a father. You always had, perhaps, a bump of self-esteem attractive to the digits of Fowler. You never believed half so well of yourself as when one morning at your business you were first asked concerning the well being of yourfamily. At the moment, you were in a fog, like the young attorney upon the first question of his first examination: next, memory rallied and your face brightened; your stature increased as you replied. You felt you were going up in the social numeration table of life. Two years ago you were a unit: you next counted your importance by tens over the parson's shoulder; when your child was born you felt that the leap to hundreds in the scale was far from enough and should have been higher.
Before the publication of your third volume—the father—you had been measurably blind. Your mental sight was afflicted with amaurosis. Like the philosopher of old you are now tempted to grasp every one by the hand and cry "Eureka." How indignantly you take down "Malthus" from your upper library shelf and bury him on the lowestamong the books of possible reference. Your political views upon education are cured of their jaundice. You pray of Sundays in the service for the widow and the orphan with a double unction. You walk the streets with a new mantle of comfort. The little beggar child whose importunities of the last wet day at the street crossings excited your petulance, upon the next wet day invites your sympathies. You stop and talk to her, nor perceive until you have ascertained where her hard-hearted parents live, and that she is uncommonly bright for the child of poverty and wretchedness, and that you have a half dollar unappropriated—nor perceive until these are found out, I say, that your umbrella has been dripping upon the skirts of your favorite coat, and that you have stood with one foot in a puddle. How this would have annoyed you years ago. But now—? How unconcernedly of the curious looks from pedestrians around do you stop the careless nurse in Broadway, who has allowed her infant charge to fall asleep in a painful attitude, and lay "it" tenderly and comfortably in position. You recall to mind with much remorse the execrations of five years ago, when the moanings of a dying babe in the next apartment to your own at the hotel disturbed your rest; and you wonder whether the mother still thinks of the little grave and the white slab which a sympathetic fancynowbrings up before you.
You are at your business: the lamps are lighting: in the suggestions of profit by an hour or longer at the desk you recognize an unholy temptation. Now, as often before, through all the turmoils of business memory suggests the lines of Willis: