"Never!" exclaimed the young lady, as she wiped her eyes, and a smile of joy and hope burst through her tears. "George, I know he will not go too far,—O, no! As an eagle may touch the earth, yet, soaring again, float in its own element in the light of the sun, so may he, though he has this once fallen, soar upward, and higher than ever, planning not another descent so low."
"I hope it may be so," said George.
"And why not hope? You know each has an opinion of his own, but that opinion may be changed. Though he now opposes the pledge, and the cause of which it is the representative, yet he may think differently, and may, through your influence, become one of its most zealous advocates. Don't mention to him that I know of his act," exclaimed Josephine, springing to catch the arm of her brother, as he opened the door to leave.
She was answered in the negative, and in the examination of a few articles that were being prepared for her bridal-day she gradually forgot all unpleasant misgivings, and nothing but happiness could she see before her.
It was not until the next day that George had an opportunity of seeing his friend. He then met him at the store, and James laughed over the doings of the day previous as a "good joke," as he called them. On that occasion, as on several subsequent ones, he urged him to sign and become a total-abstinent; but, with such influences as those which surrounded him, it was not strange that these efforts proved ineffectual.
Weeks passed, and the hour of marriage drew nigh. The festivity was to be one of unusual splendor and gayety. For a long time had preparations been in progress.
It was painful for George to refer to a matter which he would not have spoken of had it not so much concerned the welfare of a sister whom he loved as his own self. When he mentioned the circumstances attending the party on board the "Vincennes," she, in the fulness of her love, excused James, and brought up a host of arguments to prove the impossibility of a reoccurrence of any similar event.
Love is stronger than death; and, mastering all things, overlooks or decreases the evil and enlarges the goodness of its object. It was so in this case. Josephine's attachment to James led her to sacrifice all other feelings and opinions to her deep affection for him, and made her willing to stand by him or fall with him, as the vine to the tree, bright and fresh, though the once sturdy oak lies fallen and blighted.
The evening came, and with it many a bright and joyous heart to the home of George Alverton. A more beautiful bride never pronounced the bridal-vow than she who there, encircled with bright eyes and smiling faces, gave all to James Clifton. And when it was over, when they joined the bright galaxy that were about them and mingled with others in the festive mirth of the hour, a life of joy and social comfort was predicted for the hearts which that night were made one! Music was there with its charms, Terpsichore with her graceful motions, and everything from commencement to close was conducted in so happy and agreeable a manner, that not a few young folks, as they rode home, agreed to go through the same performance at their earliest convenience.
After the usual "calls" had been attended and a few weeks had elapsed, James and his young wife located themselves in a dwelling-house, which was furnished in an elegant though not in an extravagant manner. He was to continue with Messrs. Laneville & Co. They reposed the utmost confidence in him, and considered him the best judge of liquors in the city. On the day of his marriage they increased his salary one third, so that his income was by no means to be complained of. It was such as to enable him to live well, and to lay aside quite a large amount quarterly. His prospects were good, and no young man ever had better hopes of success.
We cannot close this chapter without referring again to the fact that he dealt in that which made widows of wives, orphans of children, and sent down the stream of life a rivulet of death. This fact was like a cloud hanging over his path; and, though it was but as a speck far up in sky, who could tell what it might become?
For a year the young couple were most happy. The moments flew too quickly by; so laden were they with joy, they would have them endure forever. "Little Jim" was a smart one, if he was n't as old as his father, and the handsomest piece of furniture in the house! Nobody doubted that; at least, it would n't have been well for them to have expressed their doubts in a very audible manner, if they held any.
Tasting, trying and judging of liquors, led to a loving, sipping and drinking of them. We may hate temperance; but it is certain we cannot hate a good without loving a bad thing. In offering for sale an article of food or beverage, the influence of our using it ourselves, or not using it, goes a great ways towards our disposing of it, or our not disposing of it. James knew this, and acted accordingly. He always had the best of liquors in his house, as it was often the case that, after selling a man a large amount, he invited him home to dine. They, in turn, invited him out in the evening, and it was often a late hour when he returned. At home the presence of his wife prevented him from indulging too freely; but away from home, and surrounded by gay companions, he went as full lengths as any.
Such indulgences could not continue long without showing their effects. George saw these, and remonstrated with him; but Josephine could not or did not observe them. If he did not arrive home at the customary hour, she ever had an excuse for his delay.
The arrival of another cargo of wines, etc., for Messrs. Laneville & Co., was duly acknowledged by another carousal in the cabins of the vessel, which ended in results far more destructive to the reputation of James, and to the happiness of himself and friends, than the former.
At a late hour Josephine sat waiting and watching, when the ring of the door-bell, the movement of the servant, the mingling of several suppressed voices, and the shuffle of footsteps on the entry-floor, aroused her from that listless inaction which fatigue had brought upon her. She sprang to the door of her room, and, opening it, was about to descend, when her brother met her and requested her not to do so.
"Why?" she inquired.
He gave no definite answer to her inquiry, but requested her to retire for the night, saying that James would probably be home in the morning, bright and early as the dawn.
"And not before?" she inquired, in a tone of voice that startled her attentive brother. Then, as a stray thought of the former ship's party and its unfortunate results came into her mind, she exclaimed, "I must see him now! Let me know the worst. Nothing can keep me from him. James, my James!" and, bursting from her brother's embrace, she ran down stairs, and, notwithstanding the remonstrance of her friends, opened the door where half a dozen men and her husband had gathered.
James lay upon a sofa, nearly unconscious of what was transpiring around him. Josephine caught the hand that hung loosely at his side, threw herself on the floor beside him, smoothed back his dishevelled hair, and kissed his flushed cheek.
"James, James!" exclaimed she. He opened his eyes, gazed for a moment listlessly upon her, then closed them again. "O, James! don't you know me? James! say,—wake thee, dearest!"
She pressed his hand in her own, and, as the tears fell freely from her eyes, so unused to weep, she continued her calls upon him who lay insensate before her. She whispered in his ear the breathings of her heart, or in louder tones gave vent to the grief that wounded it.
Vainly did friends beseech her to retire; vainly did they tell her she could not hasten his restoration to reason. She declared her determination to remain with him till morning.
Day dawned. There, at the side of her husband, sat the faithful wife, as neglective of her own wants as she was attentive to his. James began to realize his condition, but not fully. He had vague ideas of being in his own house, but his mind was at times wandering, and his words betrayed its condition.
"Here I am," said he, "in a paradise, with an angel at my side, and beauty and rich fragrance all around me. See you how that diamond sparkles at the bottom of this brook flowing at my feet! Watch that dove as it comes down from the sky! See, it nestles in my angel's bosom. See how it folds its wings! See how she smooths down its ruffled plumage, and, hark ye, listen to its plaintive cooing! My angel, my sweet one, come near me, let me whisper in thine ear. Go, bring me that bunch of luscious grapes which is suspended on that sapphire cloud, and make me wine of them that gods might envy! Ah, see, she goes,—she wings her flight,—she grasps the rich fruit,—she comes! She presses the grapes, and here is wine,—from where? From paradise! Droop not, droop not, droop not, spirit of light! Do not weep! What are you weeping for? Here, let me wipe those tears away. Ah, they are pearls, they are not tears! I thought they were tears.-Going so soon?-Gone?"
He sank into a quiet sleep. Josephine had wept as she caught his words partly uttered in a whisper so low as to be scarcely distinguishable. Now, as he slept, she watched his breathings, and hoped that when he awoke he would be of a sane mind, and that a realization of what had occurred might influence his future career for the better.
"News!" exclaimed Capt. Thorndyke, as he shook the hand of his friend Basyl. "Have you not heard it? Why, it's common talk. Young Clifton imbibes rather too freely. You know him,—Laneville & Co.'s clerk,—best judge of liquors in the states; strange that he will imbibe."
"Strange indeed, very strange, if he is really a judge and knows what they're made of," said Basyl; "and stranger yet that he will sell. For my part, I consider a man that will sell liquor, in these days of light and knowledge, as bad as a highwayman, and no better than a pirate."
"Rather plain spoken."
"I know it, but, look ye, there's Follet, a fine man, a first-rate man, once worth half a million, but now not worth a guinea-pig. The man that sold him good wine in his better days sells him poor whiskey now; and the confounded dealer in fancy poisons has taken the houses of Mr. Follet, brick by brick, and piled them up in his own yard, so to speak. Why, no longer ago than yesternight, he took a fine black coat of Dick Pherson, and gave him in return a coarse, brown one and a glass of sin-gin, I mean. Fudge! talk about consistency! That rumseller is nominated for an alderman, and he'll be elected. He's rich; and all your say-so temperance men will vote for him, and when elected he'll go hand-in-hand with some lone star, who deems it advisable that men should be licensed to corrupt the morals of the community, in order to make it wise and virtuous!"
The captain acknowledged that his friend had a right view of the matter, and, as he bade him good-day, promised to take care of his vote at the coming election.
We doubt whether any man ever felt more deeply sensible of the wrong committed than did James, as he, the next morning, awaking from his long sleep, beheld his wife standing at his side, now weeping over him, now joyous and smiling at his returned consciousness, and closely attentive to his every want. He felt himself unworthy of such kindness, and for the first time in his life saw the evil of the doctrine he had all his lifetime advocated, namely, that a man can drink enough and not too much; in other words, that he can guide his evil passions as he will, and command them to stop in their course, nor trespass on forbidden ground.
But James even yet was opposed to the pledge, and, though George presented it with strong arguments, he refused to sign it, and laughed at the idea of his ever getting the worse for liquor again.
The employer of James Clifton had his name on the same ticket with that of the rumseller before mentioned, as a candidate for mayor. Election-day came. The two political parties had their tickets in the hands of scores of distributors. There was a third party, with its ticket, the caption of which-"Temperance Men and Temperance Measures"-was bandied about with gibes and sneers by the prominent men of both other parties.
Among the vote-distributors was a young man of exceedingly prepossessing appearance, and who, by means of the winning manner he possessed, disposed of a large number of tickets, even to men of the opposing party. "Vote for Laneville! vote for Laneville!" was his constant cry, save when he, in well-chosen words, proclaimed the ability and worthiness of his candidate. Some said he was urged on by selfish motives; that, as he was a clerk of Laneville's, the election of that candidate would be much to his pecuniary benefit. But James Clifton cared for none of these insinuations.
"Well, deacon, my dear, dear deacon, who do you vote for?" inquired a stanch teetotaller, as an old gentleman approached. The person addressed, after a little hesitation, during which a few nervous twinges of the mouth betrayed his nervousness of conscience, and the debate going on in his heart between consistency and principles on the one side, and party names and measures on the other, replied, "Well, well,"-then a pause,—"well, I don't know; go for the best man, I s'pose."
"Here's the ticket, sir! the best man, sir, is Laneville! vote for Laneville!" shouted James, as he thrust his ticket into the hands of the old gentleman, and, laying hold of his arm, led him into the room, and saw him deposit the vote of a temperance advocate for a rumseller! James laughed well over his victory, while the distributors of the temperance tickets felt somewhat ill at ease in seeing him whom they thought their truest friend desert them in the hour of need, and give his vote and influence for the other party.
The day ended; the votes were counted, and Laneville was proclaimed elected by a majority of one!
The night was one of carousal. The betting on both sides had been considerable, and the payment of these debts caused the small change to circulate pretty freely among the dispensers of eatables and drinkables.
This night James yielded more easily than ever before to the cravings of an appetite that began to master him.
Poor fellow! Deluded man! A fond, a devoted, a trusting wife waiting at home, watching the hands of the clock as they neared the mark of twelve, and listening for thy footfall! Thou, trusting in thine own strength, but to learn thy weakness, lying senseless among thy drinking mates in the hall of dissolute festivity!
Tom Moore may sing in praise of "wine and its sparkling tide;" but the sighing of wronged women and their tears shall toll the requiem of its praise.
Notwithstanding the entreaties of George, added to those of Josephine, James continued in the way he had begun to walk, and which was leading him to ruin. The arguments of the one, and the tears of the other, were equally unavailing.
So far had he proceeded in a downward course that his employers remonstrated; and the same arguments they had used upon their former clerks were urged upon his consideration. Fearing the loss of situation, he repented, but it was only to fall again before the power of that appetite with which he had tampered as with a torpid viper, which now felt the warmth of his embrace, and became a living, craving creature within his bosom.
His old companions perceived the change he was undergoing, and, like butterflies that hovered about his path in sunshine, left him as clouds overshadowed his way. But he had friends who would not leave him. He had a wife who clung to him with all the affection of woman's love, and a brother whose hand was ever extended to aid him.
James saw the evil that threatened to overwhelm him; yet, strangely infatuated, he would not come to a fixed determination to reform so far as to sign the pledge.
The sun never shone with a brighter effulgence than it did on the morning of the 24th of July, 1849. The streets of Boston were filled with busy crowds, and banners and flags streamed from balconies and windows. Delegates of men from the suburbs poured into the city, and the sound of music filled the air. Men, women, and children, the rich and the poor, the merchant and the mechanic, the American and the foreigner, joined in the movement; and a stranger could not long remain ignorant of the fact that some great event was to transpire that day in the capital of the Old Bay State. Crowds gathered at the corners, and lined the principal thoroughfares.
"He has blist his own country, an' now he will bliss ours," said a well-dressed Irishman.
"An' that he will," was the response; "an' God bliss Father Mathew!"
"Amen," said half a dozen voices.
"He's coming!" exclaimed another. The sound of distant music was heard, and far up the street was seen approaching a dense mass of people. White banners mingled with the stars and stripes. Nearer they approached, and more distinct became, to the Irishman and his friends, the peals of music and the hurras of the multitude.
THEOBALD MATHEW, the friend of Ireland, was making his entry into Boston! Never man was more gladly welcome. Never was man more enthusiastically received. It seemed as though all men strove to do him homage, for they looked upon one who was the instrument, under God, of saving five millions of human beings from the greatest curse sin brought into the world; lifting them, and bidding them stand up as their Maker intended they should.
The "apostle" was seated in an open barouche, with his head uncovered, bowing to the crowds of stout men and fair women that filled the windows on either side, often shaking hands with those who pressed near him to do so.
A young man stood upon the side-walk watching its approach; and when the carriage in which he was seated came near where he stood, he took off his hat, pressed through the assemblage, and, urging his way towards it, grasped the hand that was extended to him. The carriage stopped. Father Mathew arose, and, as his hand lay upon the head of the young man, he repeated the words of a pledge, which the latter, in a distinct tone, repeated after him. At its close, the words "I do!" were heard far and near, and James Clifton had taken the pledge!
This was done from no sudden impulse. During the previous week he had indulged rather freely, and when its effects were over he began for the first time to give serious thought upon the question whether it was not required of him to become a pledged man. He was becoming convinced that he was unsafe. He knew how often he had fallen, how liable he was to fall again, and that it might be never to rise. He found his companions did not look upon him with as much respect as formerly; and he determined to break down the pride of opinion, rather than have it break him down.
As he thought of his situation at Messrs. Laneville & Co.'s, he for a moment drew back, yet it was but for a moment. He resolved to leave it, and beg rather than continue to disgrace himself and bring ruin upon his relatives and friends. He was cheered by the thought that he had those around him who would furnish him with employment suited to his mind, and in the steady pursuit of which he might live well. This resolution was made a few days previous to the twenty- fourth, but he communicated it to no one.
James hurried from the crowd that gathered around him, and hastened to his home. The glad news preceded him, and his wife, meeting him at the door, caressed, blessed and welcomed him. George grasped his hand, and James, with tears in his eyes, asked pardon for the past, and promised much for the future.
"Once," said he, "I refused to sign. I trusted to my own self, and thought because I was young and strong I could resist temptation. I said I would not make myself a slave to a pledge, and clung to my promise till I found myself a slave to an appetite. I ask your pardon, George, for the manner in which I treated your request."
"I grant it."
"Then I am happy, we are happy, and the future shall redeem the past."
The door opened, and a bright-eyed boy, bounding into the room, sprang upon his father, and, with a smile, said, "Father, I'm a Cadet of Temperance! We formed a little society this morning, 'cause Father Mathew has come to Boston. We've got six names, and we are to have more."
James kissed his child, and encouraged him to go on in the cause he had so early espoused.
Messrs. Laneville & Co. engaged a new clerk,—a young man of seventeen, hopeful, promising. He had heard of the fate of his predecessors, of the narrow escape of him whose place he was being trained to fill; but, like them and him, he thought himself stronger than the tempter at his side. That firm is in the home-desolating business to-day, though James has used much endeavor to induce them to relinquish it. The young man is there to-day, open to temptations which have conquered many strong men, have destroyed many mighty. The pledge is with us to-day, open for those who have fallen, for those who yet stand,—an instrument of God, in human hands, to rescue the one and to preserve the other.
BLUE-EYED child, with flaxen ringlets,'Neath my window played, one day;And its tiny song of gladness,Sounded like an angel's lay.Roses bright in beauty blossomedRound the path the cherub trodYet it seemed that child was fairest,Freshest from the hand of God.Watched I her till hour of sunsetTold me of the coming night,And the sun o'er rock and mountainShed its flood of golden light.Yet she gambolled, though the dew-dropsFell upon her thick and fast;Fearing ill, I went and told her,—Dearest child, the day hath past:"Haste thee to thy home,—there waitingIs thy parent, thee to bless."Then she hasted from the play-ground,To her mother's fond caress.Stars shone forth in all their splendor,And the moon with silver lightRose in beauty, and presidedQueen o'er all the hosts of night.Days had passed; I had not seen her,Had not heard her merry laugh,Nor those joyous tones that told meOf the joy her spirit quaffed.Vain I asked whence AngelinaHad departed,—none could tell;Feared I then that sorrow gatheredO'er the child I loved so well.Funeral train passed by my window,—Banished were all thoughts of mirth;And I asked of one who lingered,"Who hath passed to heaven from earth?"In his eye a tear-drop glistened,As he, turning, to me said,"Heaven now holds another angel,—Little Angelina's dead!"I could scarce believe the tidings,Till I stood above her grave,And beheld those flaxen ringlets,That so late did buoyant wave,Lie beside a face whose featuresStill in death did sweetly smileAnd methought angelic beautyLingered on her cheeks the while.At the pensive hour of twilight,Oft do angel-footsteps treadNear her grave, and flowers in beautyBlossom o'er the early dead;And a simple marble tabletThence doth unassuming rise,And these simple words are on it,—"Here our Angelina lies."Oft at night, when others slumber,One bends o'er that holy spot;And the tear-drops fall unnumberedO'er her sad yet happy lot.Friends, though oft they mourn her absence,Do in meek submission bow;For a voice from heaven is whispering,"Angelina's happy now."
Written for KAH-GE-GA-GAI-BOWH, a representative from the NorthwestTribes of American Indians to the Peace Convention in Frankfort-on-the-Maine, Germany; and recited by him on board the British steamshipNiagara, at the hour of sailing from Boston, July 10th, 1850.
THE day is brightening which we long have sought;I see its early light and hail its dawn;The gentle voice of Peace my ear hath caught,And from my forest-home I greet the morn.Here, now, I meet you with a brother's hand-Bid you farewell-then speed me on my wayTo join the white men in a foreign land,And from the dawn bring on the bright noon-day.Noon-day of Peace! O, glorious jubilee,When all mankind are one, from sea to sea.Farewell, my native land, rock, hill, and plain!River and lake, and forest-home, adieu!Months shall depart ere I shall tread againAmid your scenes, and be once more with you.I leave thee now; but wheresoe'er I go,Whatever scenes of grandeur meet my eyes,My heart can but one native country know,And that the fairest land beneath the skies.America! farewell, thou art that gem,Brightest and fairest in earth's diadem.Land where my fathers chased the fleeting deer;Land whence the smoke of council-fires arose;Land whose own warriors never knew a fear;Land where the mighty Mississippi flows;Land whose broad surface spreads from sea to sea;Land where Niagara thunders forth God's praise;—May Peace and Plenty henceforth dwell with thee,And o'er thee War no more its banner raise!Adieu, my native land,—hill, stream, and dell!The hour hath come to part us,—fare thee well.
HE hath unlearned to love; for once he lovedA being whom his soul almost adored,And she proved faithless; turned in scorn uponHis heart's affections; to another gaveThe love she once did pledge as all his own.And now he doth not love. Within his heartHate dwells in sullen silence. His soul broodsOver its wrongs, over deluded hopes.Fancy no more builds airy castles.Amid the crowd he passes on alone.The branches wave no more to please his eye,And the wind singeth no sweet songs to him.The murmuring brook but murmurs discontent,And all his life is death since Love hath fled.O, who shall count his sorrows? who shall makeAn estimate of his deep, burning woes,And place them all in order, rank on rank?Language is weak to tell the heart's deep, wrongs.We think, and muse, and in our endless thoughtWe strive to grasp, with all the mind's vast strength,The undefinable extent of spirit grief,And fail to accomplish the herculean task.
IT was a low, black, miserable place;Its roof was rotting; and above it hungA cloud of murky vapor, sending downIntolerable stench on all around.The place was silent, save the creaking noise,The steady motion of a dozen pumps,That labored all the day, nor ceased at night.Methought in it I heard a hundred groans;Dropping of widows' tears, and cries of orphans;Shrieks of some victim to the fiendish lustOf men for gold; woe echoing woe,And sighs, deep, long-drawn sighs of dark despair.Around the place a dozen hovels stood,Black with the smoke and steam that bathed them all;Their windows had no glass, but rags and boards,Torn hats and such-like, filled the paneless sash.Beings, once men and women, in and outPassed and repassed from darkness forth to light;And children, ragged, dirty, and despised,Clung to them. Children! heaven's early flowers,In their spring-time of life, blighted and lost!Children! those jewels of a parent's crown,Crushed to the ground and crumbled to the dust.Children! Heaven's representatives to man,Made menial slaves to watch at Evil's gate,And errand-boys to run at Sin's command.I asked why thus it was; and one old manPushed up the visor of his cap, and said:"That low, black building is the cause of all."And would you know what 't was that wrought such ill,And what the name of that low building was?Go to thy neighbor, read to him these lines,And if he does not tell thee right, at first,Then come to me and you shall know its name.
THERE is nothing from which more real enjoyment can be derived than the art of letter-writing. All praise to the inventive genius that gave to man a written language, and with it the implements with which to talk across the world! Did you ever think, reader, what a world this would be without pen, ink, and paper? Then, the absence of friends were painful, and, as we grasped the friendly hand, bade our acquaintances "good-by," and saw the last, far-distant wave of the parting signal, we might turn aside to weep, as we thought we should never hear from them till we met face to face-perhaps never. But, as it is, when friends leave, we expect a message from their hearts soon, to solace our own. How we watch, and how we hope! What a welcome rap is the postman's! With what eagerness we loosen the seal; with what pleasure we read, from date to signature, every word!
It may not be uninteresting, nor wholly uninstructive, to examine the various modes of letter-writing, and to spend a brief half-hour with those who have by their letters made grave or gay impressions on the public mind.
Some write letters with great ease; others, with great difficulty. Miss Seward was an inveterate letter-writer. There have been published six large volumes of letters written by her; besides these, she left twelve quarto volumes of letters to a publisher of London, and these, it is said, are but a twelfth part of her correspondence. It seems as though she must have written nothing but letters, so many and various were they; but her fame as an authoress will convince any one that her industry overcame what might seem an impossibility, and that her genius in this particular resembled that of the steam-writing machine, Dumas, of the present time.
Lord Peterborough had such a faculty for this kind of composition, that, when ambassador to Turin, according to Pope, who says he was a witness of the performance, he employed nine amanuenses, who were seated in a room, around whom Lord Peterborough walked and dictated to each what he should write. These nine wrote to as many different persons, upon, perhaps, nine times as many subjects; yet the ambassador retained in his mind the connection of each letter so completely as to close each in a highly-finished and appropriate manner.
These facts show the ease and rapidity of some writers. In contradistinction to these are the letters of many eminent Latin writers, who actually bestowed several months of close attention upon a single letter. Mr. Owen says: "Such is the defect of education among the modern Roman ladies, that they are not troubled to keep up any correspondence; because they cannot write. A princess of great beauty, at Naples, caused an English lady to be informed that she was learning to write; and hoped, in the course of time, to acquire the art of correspondence."
There are many persons with whom it is the most difficult task of their existence to write a letter. They follow the old Latin writers, and make a labor of what with others is a recreation. They begin with the stereotyped words, "I take my pen in hand," as though a letter could be written without doing so. Then follows, "to inform you that I am well, and hope this will find you the same." There is a period-a full stop; and there are instances of persons going no further, but closing with, "This from your friend, JOHN SHORT."
This "difficulty" arises not from an inability, but from an excessive nicety-a desire to write a prize essay, instead of a good, sociable, familiar letter. To make a letter interesting, the writer must transfer his thoughts from his mind to his paper, as truly as the rays of the sun place the likeness of an object in front of the lens through which it acts upon the silvered plate. Seneca says, "I would have my letters be like my discourses when we sit or walk together, unstudied and easy."
Willis' letters are of a kind always "free and easy." His "Letters from Under a Bridge" are admirable specimens of letters as they should be; and his "Pencillings by the Way" owe much of their popularity to their easy, familiar, talkative style. The letters of Cicero and Pliny, of ancient, and Swift, Pope, Arbuthnot, Madame de S‚vign‚, and Lady Mary Wortley Montague, of modern times, are generally received as some of the best specimens extant of epistolary composition. The letters of Charles Lamb are a series of brilliances, though of kaleidoscope variety; they have wit without buffoonery, and seriousness without melancholy. He closes one of them by subscribing himself his friend's "afflicted, headachey, sorethroaty, humble servant, CHARLES LAMB."
Some men, and women too, of eminence, have written curiosities in the form of correspondence. The letter of the mother of Foote is a good example of this kind of correspondence. Mrs. Foote became embarrassed, and, being unable to meet a demand, was placed in prison; whereupon she wrote to Mr. Foote as follows:
"DEAR SAM: I am in prison for debt; come, and assist your loving mother, E. FOOTE.
It appears that "Sam" was equally entangled in the meshes of the law, for he answered as follows:
"DEAR MOTHER:-So am I; which prevents his duty being paid to his loving mother by her affectionate son,
"P. S.-I have sent my attorney to assist you; in the mean time, let us hope for better days."
These laconic epistles are well matched by that of a French lady, who wrote to her husband this missive of intelligence, affection, &c., &c.:
"I write to you because I have nothing to do; I end my letter because I have nothing to say."
But these are left far in the rear by the correspondence of two Quakers, the one living in Edinburgh, the other in London. The former, wishing to know whether there was anything new in London, wrote in the corner of a letter-sheet a small interrogation note, and sent it to his friend. In due time he received an answer. He opened the sheet and found, simply, O, signifying that there was none.
In the London Times of January 3d, 1820, is the following, purporting to be a copy of a letter sent to a medical gentleman:
"CER: Yole oblige me uf yole kum un ce me. I hev a Bad kowld, amHill in my Bow Hills, and hev lost my Happy Tight."
William Cowper, the poet, being on very familiar terms with the Rev. Mr. Newton, amused himself and his friend with a letter, of which the following is a copy:
"MY VERY DEAR FRIEND: I am going to send, what, when you have read, you may scratch your head, and say, I suppose, there's nobody knows, whether what I have got be verse or not; by the tune and the time, it ought to be rhyme; but if it be, did you ever see, of late or of yore, such a ditty before?
"I have writ Charity, not for popularity, but as well as I could, in hopes to do good; and if the reviewers should say, 'To be sure the gentleman's muse wears methodist shoes, you may know by her pace, and talk about grace, that she and her bard have little regard for the taste and fashions, and ruling passions, and hoydening play, of the modern day; and though she assume a borrowed plume, and now and then wear a tittering air, 't is only her plan to catch, if she can, the giddy and gay, as they go that way, by a production on a new construction; she has baited her trap, in hopes to snap all that may come, with a sugar-plum.' His opinion in this will not be amiss; 't is what I intend my principal end; and if I succeed, and folks should read, till a few are brought to a serious thought, I shall think I am paid for all I have said, and all I have done, though I have run, many a time, after rhyme, as far as from hence, to the end of my sense, and, by hook or crook, write another book, if I live and am here, another year.
"I heard before of a room, with a floor laid upon springs, and such like things, with so much art, in every part, that when you went in, you was forced to begin a minuet pace, with an air and a grace, swimming about, now in and now out, with a deal of state, in a figure of eight, without pipe or string, or any such thing; and now I have writ, in a rhyming fit, what will make you dance, and, as you advance, will keep you still, though against your will, dancing away, alert and gay, till you come to an end of what I have penned; which that you may do ere madam and you are quite worn out with jigging about, I take my leave; and here you receive a bow profound, down to the ground, from your humble me,
At one of those famous coteries, so fashionable in the time of George Selwyn, Selwyn declared that a lady never closed a letter without a postscript. One of his fair auditors defended her sex by saying that her next letter should prove he was wrong. Soon after, Selwyn received a letter from the lady, in which, after the name, was "P. S. Who is right now, you or I?"
"We have met the enemy, and they are ours" is an example for naval letters. Commodore Walton's letter, by which he gave information of his capture of a number of Spanish vessels of war, was as follows:
"We have taken or destroyed all the enemy's ships or vessels on the coast, as per margin."
General Taylor's letters are of the same class,—brief and to the point.
As a specimen of ultra-familiarity, see the Duke of Buckingham's letter to King James the First, which he commences as follows:
and concludes thus:—
"Your Majesty's most humble slave and dog,
Some letters have been distinguished for a play upon words. The following is supposed to have been written by one Zebel Rock, a stone-cutter, to a young lady for whom he cherished a love somewhat more than Platonic:
"DIVINE FLINT: Were you not harder than Porphyry or Agate, the Chisel of my love, drove by the Mallet of my fidelity, would have made some impression on thee. I, that have shaped as I pleased the most untoward of substances, hoped by the Compass of reason, the Plummet of discretion, the Saw of constancy, the soft File of kindness, and the Polish of good words, to have modelled you into one of the prettiest Statues in the world; but, alas! I find you are a Flint, that strikes fire, and sets my soul in a blaze, though your heart is as cold as marble. Pity my case, pray, madam, for I know not what I say or do. If I go to make a Dragon, I strike out a Cupid; instead of an Apothecary's Mortar, I make a Church Font for Baptism; and, dear Pillar of my hopes, Pedestal of my comfort, and Cornice of my joy, take compassion upon me, for upon your pity I build all my hope, and will, if fortunate, erect Statues, Obelisks and Pyramids, to your generosity."
As a specimen of alliteration the following may be considered a fair off-hand epistle of love:
"ADORED AND ANGELIC AMELIA: Accept An Ardent And Artless Amorist'sAffections; Alleviate An Anguished Admirer's Alarms, And Answer AnAmorous Applicant's Avowed Ardor. Ah, Amelia! All Appears An AwfulAspect; Ambition, Avarice, And Arrogance, Alas, Are AttractiveAllurements, And Abuse An Ardent Attachment. Appease An Aching AndAffectionate Adorer's Alarms, And Anon Acknowledge AffiancedAlbert's Alliance As Agreeable And Acceptable. Anxiously Awaiting AnAffectionate And Affirmative Answer, Accept An Ardent Admirer'sAching Adieu. ALBERT."
The custom of espionage among some nations, which led the government officials' to open all letters supposed to contain matters at variance with the plans and purposes of their masters, induced the inventive to contrive various means of correspondence.
One of the most singular of these was that adopted by Histaus, the Milesian, as related by Herodotus. Histaus was "kept by Darius at Susa, under an honorable pretence, and, despairing of his return home, unless he could find out some way that he might be sent to sea, he purposed to send to Aristagoras, who was his substitute at Miletum, to persuade his revolt from Darius; but, knowing that all passages were stopped and studiously watched, he took this course: he got a trusty servant of his, the hair of whose head he caused to be shaved off, and then, upon his bald head, he wrote his mind to Aristagoras; kept him privately about him, till his hair was somewhat grown, and then bid him haste to Aristagoras, and bid him cause him to be shaved again, and then upon his head he should find what his lord had written to him."
A volume might be written of the Curiosities of Letter-writing, and it would be by no means an uninteresting production. Years ago, when New England missionaries first taught the wild men of the South Sea Islands, it so happened that one of the teachers wished to communicate with a friend, and having no pen, ink and paper at hand, he picked up a chip and wrote with a pencil his message. A native conveyed it, and, receiving some article in return, he thought the chip endowed with some miraculous power, and could he have obtained it would doubtless have treasured it as a god, and worshipped it. And so would seem to us this invaluable art of letter-writing, were we in like ignorance. We forget to justly appreciate a blessing while we have it in constant use; but let us be for a short time deprived of it, and then we lament its loss and realize its worth. Deprive mankind of pen, ink and paper, obliterate from the human mind all knowledge of letter-writing,—then estimate, if you can, thee loss that would accrue.
The good resulting from a general intercommunication of thought among the people has brought about a great reduction in the rates of postage. We look forward to the time when the tens of millions now expended in war, and invested in the ammunition of death, shall be directed into other channels, and postage shall be free. What better defence for our nation than education? It is better than forts and vessels of war; better than murderous guns, powder and ball. Hail to the day when there shall be no direct tax on the means of education!