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[Illustration: Sylvester Marsh]




THE BAY STATE MONTHLY.

_A Massachusetts Magazine._

VOL. III. MAY, 1885. NO. II.

       *       *       *       *       *




SYLVESTER MARSH.

[THE PROJECTOR OF THE MOUNT WASHINGTON RAILROAD.]


By Charles Carleton Coffin.


There were few settlers in the Pemigewasset Valley when John Marsh of
East Haddam, Connecticut, at the close of the last century, with his
wife, Mehitable Percival Marsh, travelling up the valley of the
Merrimack, selected the town of Campton, New Hampshire, as their future
home. It was a humble home. Around them was the forest with its lofty
pines, gigantic oaks, and sturdy elms, to be leveled by the stalwart
blows of the vigorous young farmer. The first settlers of the region
endured many hardships--toiled early and late, but industry brought its
rewards. The forest disappeared; green fields appeared upon the broad
intervales and sunny hillsides. A troop of children came to gladden the
home. The ninth child of a family of eleven received the name of
Sylvester, born September 30, 1803.

The home was located among the foot-hills on the east bank of the
Pemigewasset; it looked out upon a wide expanse of meadow lands, and
upon mountains as delectable as those seen by the Christian pilgrim from
the palace Beautiful in Bunyan's matchless allegory.

It was a period ante-dating the employment of machinery. Advancement
was by brawn, rather than by brains. Three years before the birth of
Sylvester Marsh an Englishman, Arthur Scholfield, determined to make
America his home. He was a machinist. England was building up her system
of manufactures, starting out upon her great career as a manufacturing
nation determined to manufacture goods for the civilized world, and
especially for the United States. Parliament had enacted a law
prohibiting the carrying of machinist's tools out of Great Britain.
The young mechanic was compelled to leave his tools behind. He had
a retentive memory and active mind; he settled in Pittsfield,
Massachusetts, and set himself to work to construct a machine for the
carding of wool, which at that time was done wholly by hand. The
Pittsfield _Sun_ of November 2, 1801, contained an advertisement
of the first carding machine constructed in the United States. Thus
it read:


  "Arthur Scholfield respectfully informs the inhabitants of Pittsfield
  and the neighboring towns that he has a carding machine, half a mile
  west of the meeting-house, where they may have their wool carded into
  rolls for twelve and a half cents per pound; mixed, fifteen cents per
  pound. If they find the grease and pick the grease in it will be ten
  cents per pound, and twelve and a half mixed."


The first broadcloth manufactured in the United States was by Scholfield
in 1804, the wool being carded in his machine and woven by hand.

In 1808 Scholfield manufactured thirteen yards of black broadcloth,
which was presented to James Madison, and from which his inaugural suit
was made. A few Merino sheep had been imported from France, and
Scholfield, obtaining the wool, and mixing it with the coarse wool of
the native sheep, produced what at that time was regarded as cloth of
superior fineness. The spinning was wholly by hand.

The time had come for a new departure in household economies. Up to 1809
all spinning was done by women and girls. This same obscure county
paper, the Pittsfield _Sun_, of January 4, 1809, contained an
account of a meeting of the citizens of that town to take measures for
the advancement of manufactures. The following resolution was passed:
"Resolved that the introduction of spinning-jennies, as is practiced in
England, into private families is strongly recommended, since one person
can manage by hand the operation of a crank that turns twenty-four
spindles."

This was the beginning of spinning by machinery in this country. This
boy at play--or rather, working--on the hill-side farm of Campton, was
in his seventh year. Not till he was nine did the first wheeled vehicle
make its appearance in the Pemigewasset valley. Society was in a
primitive condition. The only opportunity for education was the district
school, two miles distant--where, during the cold and windy winter days,
with a fire roaring in the capacious fire-place, he acquired the
rudiments of education. A few academies had been established in the
State, but there were not many farmer's sons who could afford to pay, at
that period, even board and tuition, which in these days would be
regarded as but a pittance.

Very early in life this Campton boy learned that Pemigewassett valley,
though so beautiful, was but an insignificant part of the world.
Intuitively his expanding mind comprehended that the tides and currents
of progress were flowing in other directions, and in April, 1823, before
he had attained his majority, he bade farewell to his birthplace, made
his way to Boston--spending the first night at Concord, New Hampshire,
having made forty miles on foot; the second at Amoskeag, the third in
Boston, stopping at the grandest hotel of that period in the
city--Wildes', on Elm street, where the cost of living was one dollar
per day. He had but two dollars and a half, and his stay at the most
luxurious hotel in the city of thirty-five thousand inhabitants was
necessarily brief. He was a rugged young man, inured to hard labor, and
found employment on a farm in Newton, receiving twelve dollars a month.
In the fall he was once more in Campton. The succeeding summer found him
at work in a brick yard. In 1826 he was back in Boston, doing business
as a provision dealer in the newly-erected Quincy market.

But there was a larger sphere for this young man, just entering manhood,
than a stall in the market house. In common with multitudes of young men
and men in middle age he was turning his thoughts towards the boundless
West. Ohio was the bourne for emigrants at that period. Thousands of New
Englanders were selecting their homes in the Western Reserve. At
Ashtabula the young man from Quincy market began the business of
supplying Boston and New York with beef and pork, making his shipments
via the Erie Canal.

But there was a farther West, and in the Winter of 1833-4 he proceeded
to Chicago, then a village of three hundred inhabitants, and began to
supply them, and the company of soldiers garrisoning Fort Dearborn, with
fresh beef; hanging up his slaughtered cattle upon a tree standing on
the site now occupied by the Court House.

This glance at the condition of society and the mechanic arts during the
boyhood of Sylvester Marsh, and this look at the struggling village of
Chicago when he was in manhood's prime, enables us to comprehend in some
slight degree the mighty trend of events during the life time of a
single individual; an advancement unparalleled through all the ages.

For eighteen years, the business begun under the spreading oak upon what
is now Court House square, in Chicago, was successfully conducted,--each
year assuming larger proportions. He was one of the founders of Chicago,
doing his full share in the promotion of every public enterprise. The
prominent business men with whom he associated were John H. Kuisie,
Baptiste Bounier, Deacon John Wright, Gurdon S. Hubbard, William H.
Brown, Dr. Kimberly, Henry Graves, the proprietor of the first Hotel,
the Mansion house, the first framed two-story building erected, Francis
Sherman, who arrived in Chicago the same year and became subsequent
builder of the Sherman House.

Mr. Marsh was the originator of meat packing in Chicago, and invented
many of the appliances used in the process--especially the employment of
steam.

In common with most of the business men of the country, he suffered loss
from the re-action of the speculative fever which swept over the country
during the third decade of the century; but the man whose boyhood had
been passed on the Campton hills was never cast down by commercial
disaster. His entire accumulations were swept away, leaving a legacy of
liability; but with undaunted bravery he began once more, and by
untiring energy not only paid the last dollar of liability, but
accumulated a substantial fortune--engaging in the grain business.

His active mind was ever alert to invent some method for the saving of
human muscle by the employment of the forces of nature. He invented the
dried-meal process, and "Marsh's Caloric Dried Meal" is still an article
of commerce.

While on a visit to his native state in 1852, he ascended Mount
Washington, accompanied by Rev. A.C. Thompson, pastor of the Eliot
Church, Roxbury, and while struggling up the steep ascent, the idea came
to him that a railroad to the summit was feasable and that it could be
made a profitable enterprise. He obtained a charter for such a road in
1858, but the breaking out of the war postponed action till 1866, when a
company was formed and the enterprise successfully inaugurated and
completed.

Leaving Chicago he returned to New England, settling in Littleton, New
Hampshire, in 1864; removing to Concord, New Hampshire, in 1879, where
the closing years of his life were passed.

Mr. Marsh was married, first, April 4, 1844, to Charlotte D. Bates,
daughter of James Bates of Munson, Massachusetts. The union was blessed
with three children, of whom but one, Mary E. Marsh, survives. She
resides in New York. Mrs. Marsh died August 20, 1852, at the age of
thirty-six years. She was a woman of the finest mental qualities, highly
educated, and very winning in her person and manners.

Mr. Marsh married, second, March 23, 1855, Cornelia H. Hoyt, daughter of
Lumas T. Hoyt of St. Albans, Vermont. Three daughters of the five
children born of this marriage live and reside with their mother in
Concord, New Hampshire. Mr. Marsh died December 30, 1884, in Concord,
and was buried in Blossom Hill Cemetery.

Mr. Marsh was to the very last years of his life a public-spirited
citizen, entering heartily into any and every scheme which promised
advantage to his fellow man. His native State was especially dear to
him. He was very fond of his home and of his family. He was a devout
Christian, and scrupulous in every business transaction not to mislead
his friends by his own sanguine anticipations of success. His faith and
energy were such that men yielded respect and confidence to his grandest
projects; and capital was always forthcoming to perfect his ideas.

He had a wonderful memory for dates, events, and statistics, always
maintaining his interest in current events. Aside from the daily
newspapers, his favorite reading was history. The business, prosperity,
and future of this country was an interesting theme of conversation with
him. In business he not only possessed good judgment, wonderful energy,
and enthusiasm, but caution.

He was philosophical in his desire to acquire wealth, knowing its power
to further his plans, however comprehensive and far-reaching. Immense
wealth was never his aim. He was unselfish, thinking ever of others. He
had a strong sense of justice, and desired to do right--not to take
advantage of another. He was generous and large in his ideas. He was
benevolent, giving of his means in a quiet and unostentatious way. He
took a great interest in young men, helping them in their struggles,
with advice, encouragement, and pecuniary assistance. Students,
teachers, helpless women, colored boys and girls, in early life slaves,
came in for a share of his large-hearted bounty, as well as the Church
with its many charities and missions.

Mr. Marsh was a consistent Christian gentleman, for many years
identified with the Congregational denomination. He was a Free Mason; in
politics he was an anti-slavery Whig, and later a Republican. In private
life he was a kind, generous, and indulgent husband and father,
considerate of those dependent on him, relieving them of every care and
anxiety.

He was a typical New Englander, a founder of institutions, a promoter of
every enterprise beneficial to society.

       *       *       *       *       *




BARNABAS BRODT DAVID.


By Rev. J.G. Davis, D.D.


In the early records of the French Protestant Church of New York City,
appears the name of John David, a Huguenot, an emigrant, who married
Elizabeth Whinehart. They settled in Albany, and had eleven children, of
whom only five attained majority. Peter David, the sixth child, born
March 11, 1764, married Elizabeth Caldwell, born May 24, 1764, the only
child of Joseph Caldwell, an officer in the British navy. They also
lived in Albany and had a large family of eleven children; Barnabas
Brodt David, born August 8, 1802, the subject of the following sketch,
was the ninth child and fifth son. On the death of his mother, which
occurred September 17, 1808, the family was widely scattered, and the
lad Barnabas found a home for the next five years with a family named
Truax, in Hamilton Village, New York. At the end of this period he was
taken into the family of an older brother, Noble Caldwell David, who
resided in Peterborough, New York. Of his previous opportunities of
instruction we are not informed, but during his stay of two years in
Peterborough he was permitted to attend school part of the time. The
death of Caldwell David's wife became the occasion of a third removal,
which brought him to Keene, New Hampshire, into the care of an older
sister, Mrs. David Holmes. The journey was made in the winter, in an
open sleigh, without robes, and being poorly clad, the hardship and
exposure were vividly remembered. He was interested in his studies, and
enjoyed the privileges of the schools in Keene, so far as they were open
to the children of the town. The question of an employment coming up for
decision, it was determined by his friends that the lad should go to
Boston and enter the shop of his eldest brother, John David, as an
apprentice to the art of whip making. At that time no machinery was
employed in the business, and the apprentice was taught every part of
the craft.

Before the termination of his apprenticeship, his brother John David,
was removed by death and an opportunity was presented of taking the
stock and tools and carrying on the business. He was ambitious and his
early experiences had made him self-reliant and courageous. The opening
was promising, but he had neither money nor credit. In this exigency a
partnership was formed with Mr. Samuel B. Melendy, who had some
knowledge of the craft. With the beginning of the year 1821, the firm of
Melendy and David raised a sign in Dock Square. The young men were
willing to labor and they determined by industry and economy to win
success. For a time the room, which they hired, served a two-fold use as
they worked and slept in the same apartment. They lived cheaply and the
work benches were cleared at night to furnish a place whereon to rest.
Having no one to endorse a note for the firm in Boston, they had
recourse to Mr. William Melendy, who had recently retired from business
in the city and returned to Amherst, New Hampshire. By the most direct
route, the distance from Boston must have been over forty-five miles,
but Mr. Melendy, starting in the early morning on foot, reached his
destination at night, and securing the signature of his brother returned
the next day.

Such pluck insured success. The business became profitable, the firm had
a reputation for promptitude, and were soon able to command capital.
Retaining the store in Dock Square as a salesroom, the young men adopted
a more comfortable style of living. They were unlike in their tastes and
temperaments, the staid, cautious and steadfast conservatism of the
older partner, making an admirable combination with the enterprising and
hopeful spirit of the younger. Mr. David was sagacious and ready to
employ every advantage that would enlarge the manufacture, or perfect
the workmanship, or promote the sale of whips; while his associate had a
practical oversight of the shop and materials which prevented any waste.
The demand for their goods increased rapidly, and with a view to larger
facilities for the manufacture, and diminished expenses, Mr. Melendy
came to Amherst and commenced work in the Manning Shop, so called, about
a mile south of the village, and a larger number of hands were employed.
In the course of three years, a salesman was placed in Boston, an agency
started in New York, and the business of manufacturing wholly transfered
to this town. There was an element of romance leavening these various
transactions, as in December on the twenty-second, 1825, Mr. Melendy was
married to Miss Eveline Boutelle of Amherst, and on the twenty-fifth of
the same month, Mr. David was married to Elizabeth Welch Melendy, a
sister of his partner. These were fortunate marriages. The parties were
not only happy in each other, but what is worthy special notice, a few
years later in 1831, very eligible houses were bought, one for each
family, at joint expense, which were occupied without interruption till
both couples had commemorated the fiftieth anniversary of their
marriage. During all this period, the property was held in common, and
the expenses of each family, however enlarged, were paid from the common
fund.

In 1830, stimulated by a desire to perfect his knowledge of the business
and secure any improvements in methods or machinery to be found in
England, Mr. David sailed for Liverpool.

As might be anticipated, in subordination to this main interest Mr.
David sought to enlarge his knowledge of English men and English
institutions. He became familiar with their commercial habits, visiting
public buildings and places of historical importance, so that fifty
years afterwards he could speak of parks, streets, and sections of the
city of London in which any recent event occured as if he had been an
eye witness. He was present at the opening of the Liverpool and
Manchester Railway when Lord Huskinson was killed, being crushed by the
wheels of the locomotive. At this time he saw the Duke of Wellington,
with other distinguished men, members of Parliament, and nobility. On
his return to America, he brought a machine for winding whip-stocks, the
first ever used in this country. The machine was subsequently
duplicated, and proved a valuable accession to the trade. He also
introduced some new materials, and enlarged the variety of fashions. In
other respects the manufacture was unchanged. The prosperity of the firm
had no serious checks; they had agencies for the sale of goods in
Boston, New York, New Orleans, and large orders came from other cities.
They bought materials for cash, so that when the commercial crash of
1837 carried disaster to multitudes, they survived. "We did not fail,"
said Mr. David, "for we owed no one anything, but we lost nearly all we
had by the failure of others." The result of this experiment was a
contraction of the system of credits and selling goods for cash or by
guaranteed commissions.

For many years, the manufacture of whips was the most important business
in Amherst. It gave employment to several persons and furnished the
means of support to ten or twelve families. The purchases of ivory,
whalebone, and other raw material, were usually made from first hands
and in such quantities as often gave the firm control of the market;
while in the style and workmanship of their handmade whips, they had few
competitors.

With the enlargement of their resources, Messrs. Melendy & David became
interested in other enterprises. They held real estate and buildings.
They bought shares in the railways which were finding their location in
New Hampshire. Mr. David belonged to the Board of Directors that laid
out and constructed the Northern Railroad. Subsequently this property
was sold, and with the proceeds they joined in new undertakings at the
West, which subjected the firm to very serious losses. The business was
entrusted to others, and unforeseen difficulties arose, attended by
material disasters, which no precaution will certainly avert; and
failing in the support which was supposed sure, defeat ensued. But these
reverses were not without their uses, as subsequent events clearly
demonstrated. Accepting the conditions, which were most disheartening,
Mr. David and his partner addressed themselves to the work of securing
their creditors and restoring their fortunes. It was a long and weary
struggle, demanding persistent application, economy, and careful
management. They were subjected to painful imputations and occasional
rebuffs, but they also found sympathy, and at the end of nine years,
in which they sought no relief from the usual claims of social and
religious obligations, every debt was discharged and their real
estate freed from all incumbrance. The example was most commendable,
illustrating the sterling virtue and high determination of the men in
circumstances where weak minds would have faltered, and unconscientious
persons would have evaded payment.

Going back in this history to the period of their increasing business,
we shall find that a strong religious element controlled the lives of
both of these men. In the years from 1830 to 1836, which were so
memorable in large accessions to the Churches of New Hampshire, the
power of the gospel was manifested in Amherst, and these men with many
others were persuaded to act upon their religious convictions and avow
their faith in Christ. Mr. Melendy united with the Congregational Church
in 1832, and Mr. David and several of his workmen followed the example
in 1835; the character of all these men for integrity and steady habits
had been good, but from this date a higher standard of conduct
prevailed. A new direction was given to their thoughts, and the tone of
the establishment was elevated by superior motives. While resident in
Boston. Mr. David had been attentive to the vigorous doctrinal
discussion which divided the community sixty years ago. He had listened
approvingly to the preaching of Wayland and Beecher, then in the fulness
of their strength. He was persuaded that the doctrines to which these
divines gave such prominence were in harmony with the teachings of the
New Testament; accordingly, when Mr. David accepted the Evangelical
system of faith as the ground of his own hope of God's favor, he acted
intelligently. He acknowledged his dependence on the grace of God in
Christ Jesus. He recognized the sacredness of the Christian calling. He
became a student of the Scriptures, entered the Sabbath School as a
teacher, and assumed the responsibilities of sustaining the ordinances
of public and local religious worship. In 1846, he was elected deacon in
the Congregational Church. He accepted the office with some reluctance,
being distrustful of himself, but his counsel and service were of great
value to the brotherhood. Intent on improving himself in all the
qualities of Christian manhood, he was observant of the great movements
of society, and deeply interested in the new and enlarged applications
of Chistianity. He followed the operations of the American Board, as new
fields opened to the missionaries of the Cross; keeping informed as to
the changing phases of Evangelical effort in this and in foreign lands.
In this particular he manifested the same accuracy which marked his
knowledge of current affairs. He was familiar with the history of the
United States and Great Britain, and having a lively admiration of
learned men, statesmen, scholars, and divines, he was a reader of
biographies. While emulating the excellence which he admired, these
stores of information were employed to enliven conversation and to
furnish material for public discourses. In the gathering of the people,
whether for secular or religious purposes, he was often called upon to
speak. His remarks were received with attention, and had weight with his
audience, because they embodied the fruits of his study and reflection.

In the meetings of the Church for conference and prayer, he was often
very helpful. He had too much reverence for the place and object of the
assembly, to indulge in crude and repetitious utterances. He prepared
himself for the duty, by recalling the lessons of his own experience or
citing illustrations from the wide stores of his reading. His words were
well chosen, and his thoughts seldom common-place. In the exigencies of
the missionary cause, or on some occasion of special peril to the truth
he would bring forward an instance of signal deliverance from similar
trial, in the previous history of the Church, or in the lives of her
servants. There were those, who might speak with more fluency, or
employ a more impassioned manner, but no one spoke more to edification.
His prayers also were marked by the same evident thoughtfulness and
spirituality. He was not hasty to offer his desires before God. You
felt, in following his petitions, that he had a message, and his voice
would often be tremulous with emotion as he made supplication in behalf
of the sick or the sorrowful; as he prayed for the youth of the
congregation, or interceded in behalf of the Church and the country.
As an officer of the Church, he was considerate of the feelings and
wants of his brethren; visiting the sick, searching out the poor, and
practicing a generous hospitality. Ministers of all denominations were
welcome to his house, and among his chosen friends there were none held
in higher esteem than the ministers whom he loved for their works' sake.

Deacon David was averse to strife and controversy; the convictions which
he cherished had been matured by careful study, and he was ready to give
them expression on all suitable occasions; but he avoided personal
disputes, and the imputations that accompany heated discussion. He knew
that these controversies were unprofitable, and he consequently sought
"the things that make for peace." When differences arose and bad
feelings were likely to be stirred, he was happy if he could remove or
allay the cause of alienation.

As a citizen, Deacon David exhibited a hearty interest in the prosperity
of the town, and he did not shrink from the duties by which the
community is served. He wished to have good schools, well made roads,
and all public buildings convenient and in good repair. A modest man,
not seeking office for himself, and always ready to commend good service
when rendered by others, he did not decline when called to take office.
He accordingly acted as a select-man, representative to the Legislature,
member of the School Committee, in addition to special services when
some interest or enterprise affecting the community was given in charge
to a committee to act in behalf of the town.

Socially, his influence was constantly exerted in the promotion of
whatever would elevate and improve the aims and habits of his townsmen.
He was active in the movement for the establishment of a Library which
should be open to all; in the absence of an Academy, he favored the
introduction of a High School.

He constructed sidewalks, and along the streets, so far as he had
control, shade trees were planted by his direction. He was also careful
to maintain the amenities of life, prompt in meeting and reciprocating
all social obligations. Somewhat above the medium height, erect but
spare in figure, there was a mingling of dignity and sweetness in his
expression which won your confidence. The promptness and despatch, which
distinguished his methods of business, were manifest in the general
ordering of his affairs. The practical forecast, which, anticipates the
crowding of engagements, and maps out the work, was seen in the
distribution of his occupations. The materials were in readiness for
every workman's alloted task. Without formal designation, there was time
for study, or the performance of civil or social duty, in the busiest
season. It entered into his plans to maintain an order in his reading
and recreations. His farm, his buildings, tools, equipage, and the whole
estate, were kept in excellent condition. Without lavish expenditure,
his premises wore an air of neatness and thrift. He was uneasy if his
animals were exposed to ill treatment, and he tolerated no waste. With
such habits, it was pleasant to be associated with him in any service.
You had not to wait for him. He remembered his appointments. He was in
his seat in the sanctuary before the opening of the service. No special
message was required to secure his attendance at town meeting. The power
of his example was elevating and wholesome, and as we review his life
and deplore the loss of his presence and cooperation, it is interesting
to hear the frequent and hearty testimonials to his kindness, and
fairmindedness coming from men who were long in his employment; while
others gratefully acknowledge his friendly counsel and assistance in
their youthful days.

In politics, Deacon David was Whig and Republican; he believed in the
policy of protecting American manufactures, and, during the most active
period of his life, his opinions were in harmony with the sentiments of
Mr. Webster. With the dissolution of the Whig party, and the undeniable
intention on the part of the South to extend the area of slavery, he
became a staunch Republican. On the election of Lincoln he put forth his
best endeavors to maintain the government, and when the call was made
for troops, he was among the foremost to pledge himself and all that he
had to sustain the imperilled cause of Liberty. He encouraged his sons
to enlist in the army and two of them entered the military service of
the country.

Deacon David had seven children, of whom five attained majority and
became heads of families; three of this number are now living, two sons
and a daughter; and there are fifteen grandchildren. He retired from
active business in 1875, but interested himself in the affairs of the
Church, and in the business of a son in Boston. But his health, never
very robust, became impaired with the advance in years, and he withdrew
more and more from public notice. His wife and children were constant
with their grateful ministrations, and, under the oversight of attentive
physicians, his life was prolonged beyond expectation. He retained his
mental powers in great activity until the end, his memory of recent, as
well as remote occurrences, serving him with unusual accuracy. He was
seldom depressed, and had none of the "melancholy damp of cold and dry,"
of which Milton speaks, to weigh his spirits down. Being able to see
friends, he conversed with the animation and intelligence of one in
middle life.

The change came at length, and sustained by an unfaltering trust in the
Lord Jesus, whom he had publicly confessed for nearly half a century, he
fell asleep on the third of September, 1883. He had lived with his wife
fifty-seven years, and in the same house for fifty-two years. Soon after
his death, the Church adopted formal resolutions, setting forth the
grounds of their gratitude to God for his valuable life and services as
an officer, and expressing the sincere affection with which they
cherished his memory as a citizen and friend.

       *       *       *       *       *




THE BOSTON LATIN SCHOOL.


The one educational institution in this country which has the honor of
ante-dating Harvard College by a few years, and of thus being the very
oldest in the land, is the Boston Latin School. For two hundred and
fifty years it has been a part, and an important part, of the town and
city of Boston, influencing all its other institutions, social,
literary, moral, political, and religious, and largely giving to the
metropolis, directly or indirectly, its wide-spread fame as the "Athens
of America."

The establishment of this School has its origin in a vote of which the
following is a transcript:

"... 13th of the 2d moneth 1635 ... att a General meeting upon public
notice ... it was generally agreed upon, that our brother Philemon
Pormout shall be intreated to become scholemaster for the teaching and
nourtering of children with us."

At this time, Boston was a village of perhaps, fifteen hundred
inhabitants, and it was a hundred years later before it had reached as
many thousands.

The first school-house was on the north side of School street, close by
the burying-ground which had already received the mortal dust of several
of the early settlers. It was a century before King's Chapel was built,
but at the foot of School street, near the site of the Old South
meeting-house, was Governor Winthrop's imposing mansion; and nearly
opposite this, was the Blue Lion Tavern.

The foundation of this school was soon followed by several others.
Charlestown had a school in 1636, Salem and Ipswich in 1637, and the
Eliot school in Roxbury was established in 1645. The Latin school was
alone in Boston, however, for nearly fifty years, and it was wisely
cherished and nurtured by the town. Mr. Pormout was paid a salary of
sixty pounds a year, a sum considered comportable to the talent
employed, and the grave responsibilities of the position.

The masters who succeeded to Mr. Pormout are, in their order: Rev.
Daniel Maude, Rev. John Woodbridge, Robert Woodmansie, Benjamin
Thompson, Ezekiel Cheever, Rev. Nathaniel Williams, and John Lovell,
whose rule continued for forty-two years, or until the Revolutionary
war. Among Lovell's pupils was Harrison Gray Otis. During the excitement
of the war, the school was closed for a short time, but was again opened
in June, 1776, under the rule of Mr. Samuel Hunt. He was in authority
for twenty-nine years and was then succeeded by William Bigelow of
Salem, who held the sceptre until 1813, when it passed to Benjamin
Apthorp Gould, and in 1828 to Frederick P. Leverett. The later masters
have been Charles K. Dilloway, who succeeded in 1831, Epes Sargent
Dixwell in 1836, Francis Gardner in 1851, Augustine W. Gay in 1876, and
in 1877 Moses Merrill, the present efficient master. Among these many
school teachers, some have been famous for their marked abilities. This
is especially true of Ezekiel Cheever, John Lovell, and Francis Gardner.

"Cheever and Lovell and Gardner, the Puritan, the Tory, and shall not we
say, in some fuller sense, the man--are they not characteristic figures?
One belongs to the century of Milton, one to the century of Johnson, one
to the century of Carlisle. One's eye is on the New Jerusalem; one's
soul is all wrapped up in Boston; one has caught sight of humanity. One
is of the century of faith, one of the century of common-sense, one of
the century of conscience. One leaches his boys the Christian doctrine,
one bids them keep the order of the school, one inspires them to do
their duty. The times they represent are great expanses in the sea of
time. One shallower, one deeper than the other; through them all sails
on the constant school with its monotonous routine, like the clattering
machine of a great ship which over many waters of different depths,
feeling now the deepness and now the shallowness under its keel, presses
along to some sea of the future which shall be better than them all."[1]

The first school-house stood until 1748. Another was then erected on the
opposite side of School street, where the Parker House now stands. In
1812 a new building was erected here. The Latin school was moved in 1844
to Bedford street, where it occupied the building recently torn down,
until 1881, when the magnificent structure on Warren Avenue became its
home.

A glance over the list of those who have graduated reveals the names
of John Hull, Benjamin Franklin and his four fellow-signers of the
Declaration of Independence, John Hancock, Sam Adams, Robert Treat
Paine, William Hooper; Presidents Leverett, Langdon, Everett and Eliot
of Harvard, and Pynchon of Trinity College; Governors James Bowdoin and
William Eustis; Lieutenant-Governors Cushing and Winthrop; James Lovell;
Adino Paddock, who planted the "Paddock Elms"; Judges Francis Dana,
Thomas Dawes, and Charles Jackson; Drs. John C. Warren, James Jackson
and Henry I. Bowditch; Professors William D. Peck, Henry W. Torrey,
Francis J. Child, Josiah P. Cooke, and William R. Dimmock; Mayors
Harrison G. Otis, Samuel A. Eliot and Frederick O. Prince; Honorables
Robert C. Winthrop, Charles Francis Adams, George S. Hillard, Charles
Sumner, William M. Evarts and Charles Devens; such writers as Ralph
Waldo Emerson and John Lothrop Motley, and divines as Right Rev. John B.
Fitzpatrick, Roman Catholic bishop of Boston, Right Rev. Theodore Dehon,
bishop of South Carolina, and Revs. Cotton Mather, Benjamin Colman,
Andrew Eliot, Joseph Tuckerman, William Jenks, Samuel Cooper Thacher,
Francis Parkman, N.L. Frothingham, William H. Furness, Alexander Young,
Frederick A. Farley, James Freeman Clarke, William Henry Channing, Henry
Ward Beecher, John F.W. Ware, Edward E. Hale and Phillips Brooks.

[Footnote 1: Rev. Phillips Brooks.]

       *       *       *       *       *




THE WHITE AND FRANCONIA MOUNTAINS.


By Fred Myron Colby.


[Illustration: WHITE MOUNTAIN RANGE FROM MILAN.]


What would the world be without mountains? Geographically, one vast
monotony of unchanging surface; geologically, a desert waste. Mountains
are the rib-bones of the great skeleton of nature, and they hold
together the gorgeous outline of river, valley, lake, and savannah that
gives the earth all its varied beauty. Beautiful and grand as they are,
they are as useful as ornamental, and serve a momentous necessity in
mundane affairs. They are grand landmarks of the Almighty's power and
mercy and goodness, and historically occupy a _high_ position in
the lives of nations.

The seers and saints of the old time speak of the strength of the hills
as if they were the special gifts of the Creator to his favored people
for their defence. The history of later nations has shown us that they
have found more in the strength of the hills than defences against the
attacks of outside enemies; that they have drawn from them a moral vigor
of character, a keenness and activity of intellect, and a love of
country, which has produced the most enduring and elevated patriotism.
And, indeed, we must bless God for mountains; those who live near them
are larger, better, nobler than the denizens of the plains. "Flee to the
mountains," cried the angel to Lot. Ah! there was meaning in the
command. Men stagnate upon the plain; they grow indolent, sensual,
mediocre there, and are only vivified as they seek the great alphabet of
nature, as they pulsate with her in her wondrous heart-beats. It has
been the mountain men who have ruled the world.

New Hampshire is a land of mountains. She is indeed throned among the
hills, and well deserves the title of the "Switzerland of America." Her
cloud-capped peaks, even in mid-summer, glisten with frosts and snows
of winter, and they stand watchful sentinels over the liberties of her
children. Our Alps are the White Mountains, and they hold no mean place
beside their rivals in the old world. Their lofty elevation, their
geological formation, the wild and romantic scenery in their vicinity,
and their legends of white and red men, all concur to render them
peculiarly interesting.

[Illustration: OWL'S HEAD AND MOOSILAUKE, WARREN, N.H.]

The White Mountain range is located in Coos, Grafton, and Carroll
Counties, covering an area of about two thousand square miles, or nearly
a third of the northern section of the State. Four of the largest rivers
of New England receive tributaries from its streams, and one has its
principal source in this region. The peaks cluster in two groups, the
eastern or White Mountain group proper, and the Franconia group,
separated from each other by a tableland varying from ten to twenty
miles in breadth. These mountains differ from most others in being
purely of a primitive origin. They are probably the most ancient
mountains in the world; not even the organic remains of the transition
period have ever been discovered near them; and they are essentially of
granitic formation. Underneath these coherent and indurate ledges the
most valuble ores exist, but coal and fossils are searched for in vain.
Many a change during the geological periods have these granite mountains
looked upon. They have seen fire and water successively sweep over the
surface of our globe. Devastating epochs passed, continents sunk and
rose, and mountains were piled on mountains in the dread chaos, but
these stood firm and undaunted, though scarred and seamed by glaciers,
and washed by the billows of a primeval sea, presenting nearly the same
contour that they do to-day. They are the Methuselahs among mountains.

[Illustration: "OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAINS."]

The Indians generally called these mountains Agiocochook, though one of
the eastern tribes bestowed upon them the name of Waumbek Ketmetha,
which signifies White Mountains. A mythic obscurity shadows the whole
historical life of this region till the advent of the white men. The red
man held the mountains in reverence and awe. What Olympus and Ida were
to the ancient Greeks, what Ararat and Sinai were to the Jews, what
Popocatapetl and Orizaba were to the Aztecs, so were the summits of the
White Mountains to the simple natives of this section. An ancient
tradition prevailed among them that a deluge once overspread the land
and destroyed every human being but a single powwow and his wife, who
fled for safety to these elevated regions, and thus preserved the race
from extermination. Their fancy peopled the mountains with invisible
beings, who indicated their presence and manifested their power by
storms and tempests, which they were believed to control with absolute
authority. The savages, therefore, never attempted to ascend the
summits, deeming the undertaking perilous, and success impossible. But,
though thus cherishing a superstitious respect for their utmost
elevations, they still frequented the environs and mountain defiles, and
propogated many marvelous stories of what they alleged could there be
seen. Among other things, they gave accounts of immense carbuncles seen
far up the steep and inaccessible sides, which shone in the darkness of
night with the most brilliant and dazzling splendor.

[Illustration: PEABODY RIVER AND MOUNT WASHINGTON.]

[Illustration: THE BOURNE MONUMENT.]

The first white men who visited these mountains, were Messrs. Neal,
Jocelyn, and Field, who explored the region carefully in the year 1632.
They were incited partly, no doubt, by curiosity, but more probably by
the hope of finding mineral treasure. They were disappointed in finding
gold, however, but they gave a glowing account of their adventures, and
of the extent and grandeur of the mountains, which they called Crystal
Hills. A few years later, Captain Richard Vines and others were
attracted there by the reports they heard. They remained some time in
their vicinity, but returned without anything more than a knowledge of
their romantic scenery and the fine facilities they afforded for game.
Since then, they have been frequented by hunters and men of science, and
within a number of years they have become one of the most fashionable
places of summer resort in the United States.

[Illustration: FRANCONIA MOUNTAINS, FROM THORNTON.]

The White Mountain plateau is approached by travellers from four
directions, namely: from the east by the Grand Trunk, Eastern, and
Ogdensburg Railroads; from the south by Lake Winnipiseogee and the
Pemigewassett rivers; from the south-west by way of Connecticut River
and White Mountain Railroad at Littleton, and from the north by the
Grand Trunk at Northumberland. The approach is grand from all sides, and
the mountain combinations picturesque and beautiful. From five to six
thousand feet above the plain, these mountains rise presenting every
variety of mountain scenery, slopes, ravines, precipices, towering
cliffs, and overhanging summits.

To the south of the mountains and nestling among the foot hills, lies
Lake Winnipiseogee--"Pleasant Water in a High Place," or "The Smile of
the Great Spirit," as the aborigines termed it, with its surface broken
by hundreds of islands: one, they say, for every day of the calendar
year; and its shores the delight of artists in search of the
picturesque, as well as of the sojourner after pleasure. Its waters
smile eternally pleasant, and the visitor will not find the fountain of
perpetual youth of the swart old navigator a fable; for here he will
regain lost youth and strength in the contemplation of scenes as
beautiful as poets' dreams. O! Lake Winnipiseogee, we recall the sails
across thy bright waters with delight, and long to see thy rippling tide
once more murmuring beneath the keel of our boat.

[Illustration: GEORGIANA FALLS.]

What haunts form a magic chain along the verdant shores of this
charming lake! The Wiers, Wolfborough, Alton Bay, Centre Harbor, each
a name that moves the heart to thrill it. A voyage across the lake will
be remembered a life-time. Says Edward Everett, commenting upon a sail
from Wiers up the lake: "I have been something of a traveller in my own
country, though far less than I could wish--and in Europe have seen all
that is most attractive, but my eye has yet to rest upon a lovelier
scene." A climb to the summit of Red Hill, at Centre Harbor, Starr
King's favorite haunt, well repays for the labor. The lake presents a
charming picture from its crest. Across its waters can be seen the domes
of Belknap and more distant Kearsage and Monadnock. In the east are
the Ossipee Mountains and bold Mount Chocorua. Toward the north is a
throng of lofty mountains overtopped on a clear day by distant Mount
Washington, which towers king-like over all his neighbors. In the west
one has a view of Squam Lake, with its many islands bordered by beaches
of white sand, the little village of Centre Harbor, Meredith, and that
popular lakeside resort, the Weirs.

At the Weirs, which is a way-station of the Boston and Montreal Road on
the borders of the lake, is a cottage city. Here in front of each
domicile is built the miniature wharf off which is moored the row boat
or yacht, dancing feather like on the waves. Lofty trees with dense
foliage grow to the water's edge, affording grateful shade. Within the
grove is an auditorium in one of nature's amphitheatres where the weary
people, assembled from their homes in the dusty city, listen to words of
eloquence or exhortation while fanned by lake breezes. On the sides of
the hill the veterans of the Grand Army have erected barracks, and there
they annually assemble, build their camp fires, recount old scenes,
fight mimic battles, and close up their ranks thinned by time. The
approach to their camp is guarded by cannon, used to salute some honored
comrade, and overlooked by an observatory on which stands no sentinel.

We had made up our minds "to do" the White Mountains, Molly, Fritz and
I, the latter being an indefinite person, and we calculated on going
prepared. We had spent a fortnight reading Starr King's "White Hills,"
studying handbooks and Hitchcock's Geology of New Hampshire, Then it
took us a week to do the packing. One bright summer day we started;
night found us at Plymouth on the banks of the Pemigewasset, at the very
gateway of the mountains. We slept at the Pemigewasset House, where we
were shown the room in which Hawthorne died twenty years ago, while on
an excursion for health with his friend Franklin Pierce. That will be
what Plymouth will be famous for one hundred years hence--the place
where Hawthorne died. "It is a pleasant place at which to die," said
Fritz, "but I had rather have been born there."

[Illustration: WHITE MOUNTAIN RANGE, FROM JEFFERSON.]

Following up the valley by the river-road through the towns of Campton,
Thornton, and Woodstock, one sees himself surrounded on either hand by
towering mountains and the most exquisite rural scenery. Another road
following the Indian trail from Canada to the coast, over which the
weary feet of many a captive passed in the old time, driven ruthlessly
from their homes to the wilderness by their savage captors, passes
through Rumney and Wentworth to Warren summit, the lowest land in the
"divide" between the Connecticut and Merrimack valleys, yet a thousand
feet above the ocean. Moosilauke, the ancient Moosehillock, here stands
sentry, almost five thousand feet above the sea level. It is the western
outpost of the mountain region and deserves a visit. A good carriage
road leads from the station to Breezy Point House, at its base, where
buck-boards are chartered for the ascent. At first the road leads
through rocky pastures, thence into primeval woods in which the way
becomes more and more precipitous; and as we go up the trees become
dwarfed to bushes, until as one emerges to the open space on the
shoulder of the mountain a most impressive scene breaks upon him. An
immense gulf lies beneath him, while before him towers the lofty summit.

[Illustration: ADAMS AND MADISON, FROM GLEN PATH.]

The morning or evening view from Moosilauke is grand in the extreme. The
valley of the Connecticut for many miles is in view, through which winds
the "long river" like a blue ribbon. Over in Vermont are the Green
Mountains, commanded by Mount Mansfield, while across the State and over
Lake Champlain one catches a glimpse of the distant Adirondacks. In the
south can be seen Ascutney and the mountains and lakes of central New
Hampshire, while a distant peak beyond Monadnock may be Mount Wachuset
in Massachusetts. To the eastward is massed an ocean of mountains, of
which Mounts Washington and Lafayette are monarchs. To the north lies
the Gardner range, and in the valley near at hand the sheltered
community incorporated by the name of Benton and overlooked by Mount
Kinsman.

As the sun sinks below the western mountains, one stands in brilliant
daylight, while the valleys below him are shrouded in the gloom of
night; when the sun has disappeared, darkness has come. One can well
spend a night on the summit if only to behold the glorious sunrise in
the morning. Before the dawn comes, one is on an island in an ocean of
foam. The sun springs gladly from behind the hills on the eastern
horizon, and scatters the early mists as by an enchanter's wand. As a
matter of course there is a Tip Top House on Moosilauke, and a genial
landlord.

[Illustration: CASTELLATER RIDGE OF MOUNT JEFFERSON.]

Owl's Head the traveller passes on the right as he leaves Warren summit.
Between Owl's Head and Moosilauke there is a deep valley through which
winds a road leading from Warren to Benton and Dansville, affording a
lonely but pleasant route through the mountains.

"That road," said Molly, "looks as if it might be haunted by Claude
Duval and his ilk; I suppose there are robbers among the mountains."

[Illustration: RAVINE IN MOUNT ADAMS, FROM RANDOLPH HILL.]

Fritz smiled. "We find them at the hotels now and then, and they wear
diamond studs generally," he said. "Our modern highwaymen do not haunt
lonesome defiles and cry 'Stand and Deliver.' That style is obsolete;
nor are there any romantic stories told of their dancing on the green
with the victims they have plundered. They are not gallant enough for
that."

"I don't care," declared Molly. "I like the modern way best; besides we
get our money's worth Why! any one of these views is worth, oh,--'ever
so much,' which includes hotel bills and all," laughed the cynical
Fritz.

At Wells River a very high bridge spans the Connecticut. Here the waters
of the tumbling Ammonoosuc, the wildest and most rapid stream in New
Hampshire, joins the Connecticut in its journey to the sea. The
highlands of Bath repay attention as we journey northward. Littleton is
a thriving village, which controls the business of this section, and
promises to be a northern metropolis.

A few miles from Littleton is Bethlehem, a regular mountain village,
with an altitude higher than that of any other village east of the
Mississippi. This is one of the most charming resorts in the White
Mountain region. The long, main street of the town runs along the side
of Mount Agassiz, and its elevation is such as to banish hay fever and
all kindred complaints.

After we had dined, Fritz, Molly, and I, proceeded to investigate the
place by carriage. The day was warm, but Bethlehem has the luxury of
admirably-shaded streets; and although tropic heat may flood the outer
world, they lie temptingly cool beneath the great boughs; delightful
breezes sweeping from the mountains, so that a ride is always enjoyable.
There are regulation drives, and there are other drives, for one can
take a different route every day for a month, and each drive will seem
to surpass the other. In fact, the drives, walks, and woodland paths
about this village, rival those of Central Park in New York City. The
hotels of the village are palatial, and compare favorably with the best
in much older communities. Their accommodations are fully appreciated by
the army of health and pleasure seekers who annually visit them.

[Illustration: VIEW ACROSS THE SUMMIT OF THE RAVINE.]

This village has lately been directly connected with the outside world
by a narrow-gauge road, which runs parallel with the street and joins
the main line at Bethlehem Junction. In laying the track very little
attention was paid to the grade, and the train follows the undulating
surface. The train after leaving the junction seems fairly to climb to
the upper level.

Southerly from Bethlehem Junction a narrow-gauge railway extends into
the heart of the Franconia Notch, having its terminus at the celebrated
Profile House, which is a considerable village in itself. At the end of
the route the road skirts the shores of Echo Lake, a gem of water
surrounded by lofty mountains, a fit home for nymphs and naiads.

"I should like to read 'Manfred' here," said Molly one morning (Byron
was one of her favorites) "It is just the place, mountains, forests and
all, and who knows--the wizzard."

"There is the Old Man of the Mountain; perhaps he would volunteer,"
suggested Fritz.

"I thought it was a witch," observed the indefinite person.

[Illustration: SILVER CASCADE IN THE NOTCH.]

"Well, it matters not which it was," said Molly, seeing that we were
attempting to badger her. "Here is the hour and the scene."

"But the _man_, O, where is he?" cried Fritz.

"The truth is, we cannot appreciate Byron till we come here," pursued
Molly. "If we could only have a tempest now. Ah, I can imagine those
mountain Alps. How beautiful and grand it is. Within this wide domain
romance, science, and nature, murmur an eternal anthem, which wooes for
every soul that finds itself herein a new aspiration, and a realization
that, after all our study and care, we have appreciated creation so
lightly!"

That afternoon Molly had her wished-for tempest. The heat had been
sultry, but by five o'clock a heavy wind began to blow and huge billows
of clouds began to appear above the tops of the mountains. The sky grew
blacker every moment. By and by a mighty river of clouds began to pour
itself down over the peaks into the valley below; one by one each
haughty crest disappeared beneath the flood. In a few moments every
ravine was filled with rolling masses of clouds and the rain was falling
in sheets. We could trace its rapid flight over the space between the
hotel and the distant mountains. A gentleman who has been at the Profile
House for several summers said that he had never seen so grand a
storm-cloud as the one just described. When the storm was past and the
clouds began to melt away, it was natural enough that we should call to
mind the following passage from "Lucile:"

[Illustration: GIANT'S STAIRS, BARTLETT.]


              Meanwhile,
  The sun in his setting, sent up the last smile
  Of his power, to baffle the storm. And, behold
  O'er the mountains embattled, his armies, all gold,
  Rose and rested; while far up the dim airy crags,
  Its artillery silenced, its banners in rags,
  The rear of the tempest its sullen retreat
  Drew off slowly, receding in silence, to meet
  The powers of the night, which, now gathering afar,
  Had already sent forward one bright signal star.


A whole host of natural beauties and attractive scenes lie at hand near
this great mountain caravansary. Turn in any and all directions, at
every point a view greets the vision which rivals the touches of an
almost divine brush on Oriental canvas. Avenues lead through a perfect
labyrinth of forests in all directions, and many are the famous sights
to be seen. Profile Lake lies close by at the base of Cannon or Profile
Mountain and Mount Lafayette. From its shore can be seen that inspiring
curiosity known the world over as the "Old Man of the Mountain," about
which much good prose and passable poetry has been written. The profile
is produced by the peculiar combination of the surfaces and angles of
five huge granite blocks, and when viewed from one spot the resemblance
is perfect. Colossal as it is in its proportions, being seventy feet
from chin to forehead, the lines are softened by distance, and the
sphynx itself is not carved more justly. There it stands, calm, grand,
majestic, wearing from age to age the same undisturbed expression of
sovereign and hoary dignity--the guardian spirit of the region. No
wonder the simple red man, as he roamed these wilds, should pause as he
caught sight of this great stone face gazing off through the mountain
openings into the distant valley, and worship it as the countenance of
his Manitou. All are impressed with it, and its influence is magnetic.

To climb Mount Lafayette will be scarcely less interesting than the
ascent of Mount Washington, though it is more tedious, as it has to be
made wholly on foot. But the charming views from its sides and summit
will repay the labor of the tourist. A fine view of the Franconia
Mountains can be obtained from the summit of Bald Mountain, to the top
of which a carriage road has been constructed.

Following down the outlet of Profile Lake, the headwaters of the
Pemigewasset, one may visit with profit and pleasure Walker's Falls, the
Basin, the Cascades, and the Flume. The Flume is one of those rifts in
the solid rock caused by some titanic force in ages long since. For many
years there hung suspended far up above the path a huge granite boulder.
In 1883 a sudden mountain storm caused a torrent to dash through the
chasm, and the boulder became a subject for history. It disappeared,
thus partially explaining how it was originally lodged in its former
resting place. A short distance below the Flume are the Georgiana Falls,
where the water descends for more than a hundred feet over a sheer
precipice.

[Illustration: WHITE MOUNTAINS, FROM THE GLEN.]

Franconia is a fairyland of wonderful fascination; and the weary of body
and mind, or the despondent and languid invalid, and no less the strong
and healthy, will find their physical faculties invigorated, and the
mind and soul elevated by a sojourn among the attractions of that lovely
town. It was with the deepest regret that we turned from those
delightful regions. Our time was not lost, for as we pant and struggle
in "life's ceaseless toil and endeavor," a thousand memories come to
cheer us from those sojourns in this romantic and magnificent mountain
land.

Again at Bethlehem Junction we follow the main thoroughfare through the
mountains to the great chain of hotels of world-wide fame known as the
Twin Mountain House, Fabyan's, and the Crawford House. Up the valley of
the Ammonoosuc to the Twin Mountain House, which takes its name from two
prominent peaks of the Franconia range, is a delightful ride. We are now
in the midst of the mountain region, the White Mountain plateau. Here
nature, _en dishabille_, with locks unkempt and loosened zone,
reclines at Ease in her most secret chamber, beyond the reach of
intrusion, and neither thinking of, nor caring for, the critical
philosophy of the outside world; an emerald-crowned Cleopatra, revelling
in the midst of her great vassals.

[Illustration: SQUAM LAKE AND MOUNT CHOCORUA.]

The Twin Mountain House, like Fabyan's and the Crawford House, is a
post-office. It is a hostelry, also, that is not surpassed in its
management, cuisine or in magnificence by any in the chain.

"It is good to be here," said Molly, lying back in her chair on the long
piazza, "while the wind blows fair, as in Indian myth blew the breeze
from the Land of Souls."

"Do you remember the other time we were here, Molly?" asked Fritz, "and
the beautiful moonlight evenings we enjoyed?"

"Oh, yes. How many nights we sat here or promenaded among the trees. It
was in September and the moon was full. As she arose over the eastern
hills and threw her light upon the valley beneath, I never saw her more
majestic. The soft, mellow radiance of the queen of night filled every
nook and crevice with light. The trees waved their branches, and
beckoned the woodland nymphs forth to a dance on the green. Surely, it
seems as if Shakespeare must have had just such evenings in his mind
when he wrote 'Midsummer Night's Dream.'"

"Ah, that was a 'Lover's Pilgrimage,'" observed Fritz, grimly, "now it
is a pilgrimage for--"

[Illustration: MOUNT MADISON, IN GORHAM.]

"What?"

"You interrupted me; we will call it an æsthetic pilgrimage."

What days those were we passed in the upland region. Fabyan's is
situated in the very heart of the White Hills and is the objective point
for all tourists. From the verandas of this spacious hotel, one obtains
an uninterrupted view of the whole Presidential Range, and can watch the
course of the train of cars as it creeps slowly up the precipitous sides
of Mount Washington.

Taking the train at Fabyan's, one glides rapidly up the steepest
practical grade to the Base station, where he leaves the ordinary
passenger coach and takes his seat in a car designed to be pushed up the
Mount Washington Railroad. After the warning whistle the train starts
slowly on its journey--the grandest sensation of the whole trip to the
ordinary traveller. The most magnificent scenery is soon spread before
the tourist. No other three miles of railway in the world affords such a
succession of wild and startling views as the passenger has on his
mountain ride on this iron line up the steep inclination of this mighty
summit of the great northern range. We get glimpses of the wide valley
below, the bold landscape ever changing, yet always filled with grand
and startling outlines. Up and up we go. We pass Gulf station, Naumbet
station, Jacob's Ladder, and the monument of stones which marks the spot
where, in 1855, Miss Lizzie Bourne of Maine died from exposure. At last
we are at the summit, in front of the hospitable looking Tip Top House.
We are standing at an altitude of over six thousand feet above the sea,
or to be exact, 6,293 feet, according to Professor Guyot, on the highest
point of land with one exception east of the Rocky Mountains.

"Isn't the thought inspiring," I remarked to my companions, "that we are
on the highest land for which our fathers fought a century ago?"

"And is it not the theme the _ultima thule_ of grandeur in an
artist's pilgrimage?" said Molly. "What a prospect! The plains of
Canada, the forests of Maine, the mountains of New York, and I really
believe the sea, if I mistake not that faint blue line in the far
distance over the billowy land! What a grand spectacle a sunrise or a
sunset would be, viewed from this height!"

[Illustration: MOUNT MORIAH, IN GORHAM.]

The next morning we saw the sun start from its bed in the Orient,
swathed in radiant clouds and vapors, and rise up behind the eastern
range of hills; we had never seen anything so beautiful and striking
before, and the scene is one which neither pen can describe nor pencil
portray. Our memory will not fail to cherish it as the choicest
revelation to be seen in a life time.

[Illustration: ECHO LAKE.]

"Do you know it was just one hundred years ago this very year, 1784,
Mount Washington received its name?" asked Fritz. "Well it was, and
eight years later Captain Eleazar Rossbrook penetrated into the heart of
the mountains and made a clearing where the Fabyan House now stands. His
son-in-law, Abel Crawford, the patriarch of the mountains, settled the
next season in the Notch, in the vicinity of Bemis station. Captain
Rossbrook built the first house for the reception of visitors in 1803.
Ethan Allen Crawford, son of Abel Crawford, took Captain Rossbrook's
house in 1817, and two years later opened the first footpath to the
summit of this mountain, where he soon after built a stone cabin. There,
I give all that information to you _gratis_."

"Very kind of you, I am sure," said Molly, "but who will vouch for its
authenticity?" you used to be a terrible story-teller."

"Clio does not lie; this is history."

"You would have us believe the staid muse very modest," said Molly. But
I remember some one has said history is a great liar."

"A libel, a _positive_ libel! Shall we believe nothing?"

"Only absolute truth. Do you believe in the Trojan war? Do you believe
that Marshal Ney said at Waterloo, 'Up guards and at them?'"

"Do you believe there is a Mt. Washington? Your iconoclasts would
destroy everything. There are White Mountain legends, of course, but
there is also White Mountain history, and the time is not so remote but
that the data can be relied upon."

"No one can argue with you, Fritz," answered Molly. "I accept your data
in this case. You are welcome to wear the wreath of victory."

A night spent at the White Mountain House, one of the old-fashioned
hostelries, cheery, hospitable, and with an excellent cuisine, cool,
airy chambers, where one is made to feel at home by the urbane landlord,
Mr. R.D. Rounsend, and we turned from this section.

[Illustration: LEDGES ON MOUNT HAYES, IN GORHAM.]

The Crawford House, four miles below Fabyan's, is one of the finest in
its plans of the mountain houses, its wide piazzas extending the entire
length of the buildings. It is magnificently situated upon a little
plateau, just north of the gate of the White Mountain, or Crawford
Notch. The Saco River has its source not far from the house, its
birthplace being a picturesque little lake. At the right hand Mount
Willard rears its shapely mass, from whose summit a glorious view can be
obtained. The ascent is easily accomplished by carriage, and the
prospect, though not so grand and wild as that from Mount Washington,
exceeds it in picturesque beauty. The whole valley of the Saco, river of
the oak and elm, lies spread before the vision. The grand outlines of
the gorge, the winding road through the whole extent, the leaping
cascades flashing in the sunshine, all appear before the eye as in a
picture. One feels like exclaiming with Cowper:


  "Heavens! what a goodly prospect spreads around,
  Of hills, and dales, and woods, and lawns, and spires,
  And glittering towers and gilded streams,
  The stretching landscape into smoke till all decays."


[Illustration: GIANT'S GRAVE, NEAR CRAWFORD HOUSE.]

One of the beauties of the Notch is the Flume, a brook that goes leaping
through its curious zigzag channel of rock on the side of Mount Webster,
hastening on its way to join the deeper current of the Saco. Then here
is "Silver Cascade," which is above the Flume, a series of leaping,
dashing, turning waterfalls, descending now in a broad sheet of whitened
foam, then separating into several streams, and again narrowing to a
swift current through the rocky confined channel. The visitor will pause
by its whitened torrent, loth to depart from the scene.

The White Mountain Notch, after Mount Washington, is the great natural
feature of the range. For three miles the road follows the bottom of a
chasm between overhanging cliffs, in some places two thousand feet in
height, and at others not more than twenty-five feet apart. This is the
great thoroughfare of travel, from the northern towns on the Connecticut
to Conway and the Saco valley, and _vice versa_; and through it
pass the headwaters of the Saco, which afterwards broadens out into a
great river, and flows with rapid course through the loveliest of
valleys to the sea. Much of the natural wildness and grandeur of the
pass has been destroyed by laying the line of the Portland and
Ogdensburg Railroad, which has been graded through the ravine. Railroads
serve a great utilitarian purpose, but they have their defects; it seems
out of place to ride across Egypt or the Holy Land behind a locomotive;
a prancing steed or a camel with tinkling bells seems the most fitting
motive power. There is nothing sentimental about a railroad, but after
all who would care to return to the old methods of locomotion?

The Willey House, famous in story, stands upon the Notch road nestling
under the steep acclivity of Mount Willey, which rises some two thousand
feet behind the house.

"Why don't some of our authors use more of the historical material of
this region in story writing than they do?" asked Fritz.

"The material is so romantic that romance can add nothing to it,"
answered Molly. "But you forget Hawthorne. His Ambitious Guest has
imparted a weird interest to the event. He makes a young man, travelling
through the Notch, partake of the hospitality of the family on the fatal
night. At the fireside they fall to talking of their individual plans,
the guest expressing himself as desirious of achieving fame. It seemed a
terrible thing to him to die and to be forgotten, to leave no name
behind and no monument to mark his resting place. In the midst of the
conversation the ruin came, and the ambitious guest, flying with the
family, found his burial with the others. The story will live in
Hawthorne long after the true facts have been forgotten; or they will
live because Hawthorne's narrative will have conferred immortality upon
them."

This memorable event happened on the night of Monday, the twenty-eighth
of August, 1826. A terrible storm of wind and rain prevailed, the
mountain branches of the Saco and the Ammonoosuc speedily overfilled
their rocky channels, and the steep sides of hills loosened by the rain
swept down upon the valleys, destroying many an ancient landmark. One of
these slides swept down toward the Willey House, then occupied by Samuel
Willey, his wife, and family. The frightened inmates, seeking safety by
flight from the impending ruin, were overwhelmed by the avalanche and
perished, while the house remained untouched. The bodies of two sons and
one daughter were never found; the rest of the Willey household lie
buried in a small cemetery enclosure near the mansion house of Willey
Farm at North Conway.

A most charming ride is that down the line of the Saco river to North
Conway, whether by rail or stage. The beauty and boldness of the scenery
on either side alternately enchants and awes.

[Illustration: VIEW FROM BRIDGE IN BERLIN.]

"It reminds me of Switzerland," said Fritz, who had travelled on the
continent, "only there are more rocks and ledges visible. The lower Alps
are clothed in green and the upper ones in perennial snow. The Simplon
Pass is not nearly so rugged as the Notch. Only in the West among the
Rockies is there anything to compare with this. But below, a few miles,
we have a view as pleasant as Christian and Hopeful saw from the
Delectable Mountains."

"And do we have to pass Doubting castle, as they did?" asked Molly. "I
don't think I should care for their experience with giants and
giantesses."

[Illustration: MOUNT CARTER, FROM GORHAM.]

"Here are castles and strongholds, but the giants, if there are any, are
as helpless as Giant Pope was, who could only sit in the sun and gnaw
his finger nails."

The towering cliffs on either side smile like the walls of a prison. We
felt a relief when once they were passed, and we found ourselves in the
broader valley below, stretching wide and green and beautiful in the
summer sunshine--the famous meadows of the Saco. All of the savage
aspects disappeared or were seen only at a distance. Glimpses were
caught now and then of charming vistas, with the waters of the Saco
gleaming brightly between the trees. No fairer valley can be found in
our land than that of the Saco; and as for skies and sunsets, stop at
North Conway and see what cannot be matched in Italy or the Orient.

That is what we did. A broad, level plain, five miles long by three
wide, is the site of the village, which is a quiet and picturesque rural
hamlet of the average size of country towns. Far in the north towers the
lofty Presidential Range, in full sight, the distance softening all
harsh and rugged outlines into beautiful curves and combinations, Mount
Washington wearing a snowy forehead often through the entire heated
term. The swelling summit of Mount Pequakett rises at the north-east of
the village, a lone sentinel, guarding the gateway of the mountains with
bold and unchanging brow. On the western side extends a long range of
rocky hills, with the single spire-like summit of Chocorua far beyond,
piercing the blue vault of heaven.

Sitting on the cheerful piazzas of any of the many hotels, one can
breath the mountain air as freely as if they sat under the tower of
Fabyan's or the French roof of the Twin Mountain House, but much of the
grandeur of course is missed. The mountains do not seem to frown down
upon you; they smile rather, and seem to beckon and wave as if desiring
to gain your closer acquaintance. To know the mountains you must visit
them, press their scarred rocky sides, feel their cool breezes on your
forehead, then you will love them, reverence them. And this privilege is
free to every one. Great railroads penetrate into the very heart of the
hilly region, and the cost of travel is reduced to such a minimum that
the poorest man can once in a while take his family for a pleasant
sojourn among the mountains. One can start from Boston in the morning,
take a dinner at the Pemigewasset House, Plymouth, and at night eat his
supper at Fabyan's. And even a short visit is so refreshing, so
invigorating to mind and body, that it repays when even the sight is not
a novel one.

Glorious, grand, old mountain, lifting thy brow among the eternal snows;
thou needst not the presence of Jove, nor the voice of a Homer to
consecrate thee; and although Greeks and Trojans have never battled at
thy base, still to us art thou dearer than Ida's wooded height where the
gods sat enthroned to witness that divinely-recorded combat. Thy hoary
peaks bear the names of chiefs and heroes who are not myths, and in the
hearts of the people they are an everlasting memory.

[Illustration: WHITE MOUNTAIN NOTCH.]

       *       *       *       *       *




THE PAST AND FUTURE OF SILVER.


By David M. Balfour.


Silver, next to iron and gold, is the most extensively diffused metal
upon our planet. It is found frequently in a natural state, though
never chemically pure, being invariably mixed with gold or copper,
or sometimes antimony, arsenic, bismuth, quick-silver, or iron. It is
distinguished by its whiteness, its brilliant lustre when polished,
its malleability, and its indifference to atmospheric oxygen. It is
remarkable for its beauty, and is ten times heavier than water. It does
not appear to have been in use before the deluge. Moses does not allude
to it before that event, but mentions only brass and iron; but in
Abraham's time it had become common, and traffic was carried on with it,
and its value was eight to one of gold. "He was rich in silver and gold,
and bought a sepulchre for his wife Sarah for four hundred shekels of
silver" ($250.) It was not coined, but circulated only in bars or
ingots, and was always weighed. Silver usually takes precedence in the
Scriptures, whenever the two metals are mentioned conjunctively. "Silver
and gold have I none," said Peter to the importunate beggar, "but such
as I have, I give unto thee." Silver is first mentioned in Genesis
xxiii: 15; but where it was first found is unknown to us.

Silver was extremely abundant in ancient times. "And Solomon made
silver to be in Jerusalem as stones." (I Kings x: 27.) "Cyrus heaped up
silver as the dust." (Zacariah ix: 3.) In the earliest times the Greeks
obtained silver from the Phoceans and Laurians. The chief mines were in
Siphnos, Thessaly, and Attica. In the latter country the silver mines
of Laurion furnished an abundant supply, and were generally regarded
as the chief source of the wealth of Athens. They ceased to be worked
in the second century of the Christian Era. At the period B.C. 500,
the relative value of silver to gold was eighteen to one. The Romans
obtained most of their silver from the very rich mines of Spain, which
had previously been worked by the Phoenicians and Carthaginians, and
which, though abandoned for those of Mexico, are still not exhausted.
The most important use for silver, among the Greeks, was for money.
At Rome, on the contrary, silver was not coined until B.C. 260.

Silver, as regards its mines, is represented in every portion of our
planet. The richest silver mine in the world is Potosi; it is situated
on an elevation thirteen thousand feet above the level of the sea, in
a region of perpetual snow; it has always been worked in a very rude
manner, yet it has already produced $250,000,000, and shows no signs of
exhaustion. The annual product of the silver mines of South America, at
the present time, is estimated to be $22,000,000. Their total product,
to the present time, has amounted to $2,430,000,000. The silver mines
of Mexico were wrought long before Cortez revealed them to the eyes of
Europe, in 1513. Their annual product, at the present time, is estimated
to be $30,000,000. The total product, to the present time, has amounted
to $3,834,000,000. In 1850 Nevada was not reckoned among the
silver-producing countries of the world. In 1867 she could proudly point
to an annual product of $13,000,000; but it has declined to $6,000,000
at the present time. The total product of silver in Nevada has amounted
to $340,000,000. The largest nugget of silver yet obtained was dug up in
Arizona, and weighed 43,200 ounces, valued at the same number of
dollars. The highest silver deposit in the world is on King Solomon's
mountain, in Colorado, fourteen thousand feet above the Pacific Ocean.
The annual product of the silver mines of North America is estimated to
be $76,480,000. Their total product has amounted to $4,783,000,000, more
than one-third of the entire product of the world from the earliest
times to the present day. The annual product of the silver mines of
America at the present time is estimated to be $98,480,000, and their
total product has amounted to $7,170,000,000, more than three-fifths of
the entire product of the world, from the earliest times to the present
day. The export of silver from the United States, since 1848, has
amounted to $413,292,757. The annual product of the mines of Europe at
the present time is estimated to be $15,000,000; and their total product
has amounted to $2,600,000,000. The annual product of the silver mines
of Asia (including Australia, New Zealand, and Oceanica), at the present
time is estimated to be $480,000; and their total product has amounted
to $1,685,000,000. India has often been represented as destitute of
silver, but we have statements from Sir Roderic Murchison that the Kulu
valley is so rich in silver ore that it could yield a large product for
future ages. The silver country of Vasours comprises the mountainous
regions between the Beas, Sainji and Parbutti rivers. The mines, though
previously worked, are now almost forgotten. The same is the case with
the Manikarn mines, hitherto known to be incalculably rich. The annual
product of the silver mines of Africa is estimated at the present time
to be $40,000; and their total product to the present time has amounted
to $389,000,000.

Silver, to the amount of $2,913,000,000, is estimated to have been
obtained from the mines of the earth from the earliest times to the
commencement of the Christian Era; from the date of the latter event
to the discovery of America $521,000,000 were obtained; thence to the
close of 1847, an addition of $6,025,000,000 was made; thence to the
close of 1884, there was added $2,344,000,000; making a grand total of
$11,803,000,000. The average loss by abrasion of coin is estimated by
Professor Bowen at one per cent. per annum; and the loss by consumption
in the arts, and fire, and shipwreck at $5,000,000 per annum. A cubic
inch of silver is worth, at 48 3-4d., or 97 1-2 cents per ounce, $9.75;
a cubic foot, $16.848; a cubic yard, $454,896.

Silver, to the amount of $900,000,000, is estimated to have been in
existence at the commencement of the Christian Era; at the period of the
discovery of America it had diminshed to $135,000,000; after the latter
event it gradually increased, and in 1600 it attained to $391,000,000;
in 1700, to $1,410,000,000; in 1800, to $3,622,000,000; in 1842, to
4,998,000,000; in 1853, to $4,945,000,000; and at the present the amount
of silver in existence is estimated to be $5,504,000,000; which, melted
into one mass, could be contained in a cube of seventy feet. Of the
amount of silver in existence $3,800,000,000 is estimated to be in coin
and bullion, $1,200,000,000 in watches, and the remainder in plate,
jewelry, and ornaments. Of the amount now in existence $4,722,000,000
has been obtained from North America; $613,000,000 from South America;
$59,000,000 from Europe; $50,000,000 from Asia (including Australia, New
Zealand, and Oceanica); and $60,000,000 from Africa. The amount of the
precious metals in existence is estimated to be $13,670,000,000.

Silver, so far as its annual product is concerned, has varied greatly
at different periods. At the commencement of the Christian Era it is
estimated to have been $4,200,000; at the period of the discovery of
America it had diminished to $150,000; after that event it gradually
increased, and in 1600 it attained to $9,000,000; in 1700, to
$18,000,000; in 1800, to $38,000,000; in 1848, to $47,000,000; in 1863,
to $63,000,000; and at the present time it is $114,000,000.

Silver, in performing the function of money, is of great antiquity. Asia
was a commercial country when Europe was a wilderness; and as the East
has not changed her habits since the remotest ages, silver alone is the
money of that continent, inhabited by more than one-half of the human
race, and among whom paper-money is unknown. The _drachma_ was the
principal silver coin among the Greeks, containing sixty-six grains of
pure metal, worth about seventeen and a half cents. It furnished the
type of the Roman _denarius_, containing fifty-eight grains of pure
metal, worth about fifteen and a half cents. The silver _mark_ was
imported into England from Denmark by Alfred in A.D. 870; the _penny_
was next issued in 1070; the _groat_ in 1280; then came the _shilling_
in 1503; and the _crown_ made its appearance in 1607. The earliest
silver coin issued in France was the _livre_, which appeared in 800, of
the value of eighty cents. It steadily depreciated, until, in 1643, it
was worth only sixty cents; it then, fell rapidly, until the epoch of
the Revolution, when its value was only nineteen cents, and the _franc_
took its place. The _Henri_ was issued in 1012; the _teston_ appeared in
1499; and the _couronne_ followed in 1610. The first silver coin issued
in the American colonies was in 1652, by Massachusetts, in the shape of
_pine-tree shillings_; silver coins were also issued, at a later period,
by the colony of Maryland. Silver _half-dimes_ were issued by the United
States in 1792; dimes appeared in 1793; and _half-dollars_ in 1794.

Silver, in regard to coinage, has exchanged places with gold since 1848.
Since 1726, to the present time, the silver coinage of the French mint
has amounted to 7,500,000,000 francs, of which 4,000,000,000 has been
issued since 1850; since 1664 the silver coinage of the Russian mint has
amounted to 488,000,000 roubles, of which 188,000,000 has been issued
since 1850; since 1792 the silver coinage of the United States mint has
amounted to $325,968,571, of which $352,741,869 has been issued since
1850; since 1603, the silver coinage of the British mint has amounted to
£40,000,000, of which £16,000,000 has been issued since 1850. The silver
coinage of the United States, within the last decade, has amounted to
$271,954,638.

Silver, since the commencement of the present century, has trebled its
annual product, but its price has declined but twenty-two per cent. The
causes of the depreciation of silver may be thus briefly stated:

1. The increased production of the metal; it having increased from
$47,000,000 in 1848 to $114,000,000 at the present time.

2. "Council Drafts," or bills drawn by Great Britain upon India, have
proved a most potent cause in the decline in the value of silver. The
materials which the Indian railways, or the Indian governments require,
in order to conduct business, have to be largely imported from England,
and therefore, payments are largely liquidated in these bills, which now
average $60,000,000 per annum, while formerly they did not average
one-fifth of that sum. These bills supersede silver, and the effect is
the same as though the silver mines had been equally increased. The
export of silver to the East has decreased from $80,000,000 in 1847 to
$20,000,000 in 1884.

3. The demonetization of silver, which has taken place in various
countries. In 1865 Italy adopted unconvertible paper-money, its previous
metallic currency, nearly all silver, having been about $90,000,000,
Doubtless, nearly all this amount was thrown upon the markets of the
world. But this produced no appreciable effect upon the price of silver,
which remained as formerly (62 3-4d.) until 1872; after which it fell
rapidly, reaching its lowest point in 1876, when it stood at 46 3-4d.
During the same period $30,000,000 were also thrown upon the markets of
the world by Germany, and $10,000,000 more by the Scandinavian kingdoms.
These direct effects of the demonetization of silver down to 1876 did
not of themselves, produce any appreciable effect upon its price, as
undoubtedly its very low price in 1876 was greatly due to panic. In
resuming specie payments in 1879 the United States adopted a gold
standard; Italy resumed specie payments in gold on the twelfth day of
April, 1883; and in Europe, the previous annual absorption of silver in
the leading countries has entirely ceased. The Occident, led by England,
is abandoning silver as money, thereby reducing it to a mere metal; and
thus depriving it of the chief source of that value, which it has
possessed since the beginning of civilized society. Germany has
discarded silver, and adopted a single gold standard; so have the
Scandinavian kingdoms; and France has closed her mint, since 1877,
against silver, to avoid being deluged with the metal, discarded by her
neighbors.

Silver, owing to the lesser amount in existence, and its less convenient
portability, is fast being superseded by gold in monetary circles. Of
the amount of the precious metals in existence, $8,166,000,000 are
furnished by gold; and of their annual product $98,000,000 are furnished
by it. The ratio of silver to gold has risen from fifteen and one-half,
which it has maintained since 1700, to nineteen and one-half, at the
present time, and with a still rising tendency. Owing to the great loss
by abrasion of coin the amount of silver in existence has gained but
little within the last forty-two years, it having increased but nine per
cent, while that of gold has increased three hundred and thirteen
per-cent. The price of the precious metals follow the great
politico-economic law of supply and demand. Gold, owing to its great
demand for international exchanges, has maintained its present price for
the last one hundred and sixty years, while silver has declined
twenty-two per cent. within thirteen. The _prestige_ enjoyed for
centuries, as the instrument and measure of commerce in all the
civilized and trading parts of the world, and its normal currency, has
been gradually lost since 1843, and will probably never be recovered by
silver.

       *       *       *       *       *




RAMBLES AMONG MASSACHUSETTS HILLS.


By Atherton P. Mason, M.D.


In the old Bay State there is no elevation of surface that really
deserves the name of mountain, but yet some of the more lofty eminences
rejoice in this appellation which serves to distinguish them from their
lesser brethren, the hills. In this paper, however, let us start on the
assumption that all the elevated points in the State that are worthy of
having received a name, from Saddle Mountain downwards, are hills. This
uniformity of nomenclature surely will not detract from the almost
sublime grandeur of Greylock and Wachusett any more than it will enhance
the picturesque beauty of Sugar Loaf, or the Blue Hills of Milton.

There are three rather lofty and extensive ranges of hills crossing
Massachusetts. The most western of the three is the Taconic range, which
is upon the very border of the State. East of this, across a valley
several miles wide, is the Hoosac range, which occupies eastern
Berkshire and the territory between this almost Alpine county and the
winding Connecticut. Still east of this is the hilly belt of country
comprising eastern Franklin, Hampshire, and Hampden Counties, and the
whole of Worcester County, to which range no particular name has been
given. The Hoosac and Taconic ranges may be considered as a portion of
the great Appalachian system of eastern North America, of which the
Green Mountains of Vermont are a continuation; while the third hilly
belt may be regarded as a side-show, so to speak, to the main exhibition
of nature's mighty upheavals. In this belt Wachusett is by far the
grandest elevation, and Worcester County may well be proud of the
majestic pile in her midst; but as it has been so recently described in
the BAY STATE MONTHLY, nothing need be said of it in this paper.

Scenery, in order to be truly mountainous, must present to the
spectator's eye towering peaks, bristling crags and beetling cliffs,
overhanging deep ravines and foaming torrents. Such objects rivet the
attention and produce a feeling of deep awe and reverence as one gazes
upon them and endeavors to contemplate the mighty forces of nature that
gave them being. Taking the word in this sense it may truly be said that
the scenery of Berkshire County closely approximates to mountainous. In
other parts of the State the isolated hills generally present a rounded
outline, and with a few exceptions do not inspire those strong emotions
which one must necessarily experience while standing like a pigmy among
the piled-up, craggy hills of northern Berkshire. Here is found the most
lofty elevation in the State--Saddle Mountain--whose summit is three
thousand six hundred feet above tide water. Its name originated from the
alleged resemblance of its top to a saddle, and is certainly neither
poetical nor romantic.

This is true of the majority of the names of our hills, and Professor
Edward Hitchcock, in commenting on their uncouthness, concluded his
disapproval with a pun worth preserving, by saying, "Fortunately there
are some summits in the State yet unnamed. It is to be hoped that men of
taste will see to it that neither Tom, nor Toby, nor Bears, nor
Rattlesnakes, nor Sugar Loaves shall be _Saddled_ upon them." The
highest point of this great mass is appropriately named Greylock on
account of its hoary appearance in winter. As the cold increases the
line of frostwork creeps down the sides, producing fantastic changes in
the aspect of the hill. Saddle Mountain lies near Williamstown and is
between the Hoosac and Taconic ranges. It is insulated, being almost
entirely surrounded by valleys, and forms a very imposing object in the
scenery of that region. It consists essentially of three distinct
ridges, separated by two valleys, called respectively the Hopper and the
Bellows. Greylock is the middle ridge, and from its lofty summit a grand
view can be obtained, and it is much frequented by sight-seers during the
summer. To the west is seen the beautiful valley in which nestles
Williamstown, with its fine college grounds and buildings, and beyond
rises the slope of the Taconic range, stretching from north to south in
an almost continuous chain, while to the north-west are the lofty hills
beyond the Hudson. The thriving town of North Adams lies in an adjacent
valley to the east, and beyond is the Hoosac range. Looking towards the
north or south one sees ridge after ridge, rising in constant
succession, until the peaks vanish in the distant horizon. It is indeed
a sublime sight, and may well inspire feelings of deepest reverence for
the Power that controls those mighty forces that produced these
everlasting hills.

Though loth to leave this grand pinnacle, we must not tarry longer upon
Greylock. Let us now take a trip down the Housatonic valley, close
beside the Taconic range. This forms an almost continuous ridge across
the State, and its summit is nearly upon the line between our State and
New York. There are no peaks of consequence until we get south of
Pittsfield. The range is bold and precipitous on its western side, and
fine views may be obtained from almost any part of the ridge. The
highest point of the old stage road between Pittsfield and Albany
affords a good prospect, though a view from an old road between Hancock
and Lanesboro is perhaps more striking. On either side are the valleys
of the Hudson and Housatonic, the cities of Albany and Pittsfield, the
distant Catskills and the Hoosac range. A little south of Pittsfield is
a spur from the Taconic range, parting from it at Egremont. The various
portions have received different names--the northern being called Lenox
Mountain, the middle Stockbridge Mountain, and the southern Tom Ball.
The last named is the highest part of the spur, and is located in the
township of Alford. The view from Tom Ball is very fine. A perfect
panorama of hills, with handsome towns and villages nestling in the
valleys, is spread out before the eyes, while the southern horizon is
filled by the giant piles in the township of Mount Washington.

Going still further south we find just north-east of Great Barrington a
vast mass to which the ugly name of Beartown Mountain was applied by our
forefathers. Its altitude is nearly equal to that of the other great
hills of Berkshire, but being quite gradual in ascent, and much rounded,
does not impress the traveller as much as it might, and there are no
peaks from which a good view is obtainable. Just west of this is a hill
that deserves mention. It is called Monument Mountain, and was so named
because of a great pile of stones found at its southern extremity, and
supposed to have been placed there by the aborigines to commemorate some
important event. This hill rises only about five hundred feet above the
plain, but its eastern side presents an imposing appearance, being an
almost perpendicular wall of quartz. From the top there is an excellent
view. Saddle Mountain can be seen, and portions of the Green Mountains,
while to the west the Catskills, blue and dim in the distance, appear
through a depression in the Taconic range. Near the highest part of the
cliff a pinnacle of quartz has been parted from the main mass, and forms
a tower fifty feet high, called Pulpit Rock. It was standing not long
ago, but the frost may have toppled it over ere this.

Before leaving this portion of Berkshire we must visit the township of
Mount Washington, near Sheffield. It consists wholly of an immense hill,
and the few inhabitants dwell in a valley that is two thousand feet
above tide water. This valley is bounded on the west by the Taconic
range, which a little farther south rises nearly one thousand feet above
the valley, and is there called Alender Mountain, and on the east by an
imposing peak, originally called Ball, or Bald, Mountain, but which
Professor Hitchcock named Mount Everett, in honor of Edward Everett, at
that time Governor of Massachusetts. Mount Washington is not as well
known as it should be. Comparatively few people in the State, outside of
Berkshire, are even aware that such a town exists. But it would be a
delightful place in which to spend a quiet summer. It is cool and
healthy, the air is clear and bracing, and the scenery simply superb.
The view from Mount Everett fully equals, if it does not surpass, that
from Greylock. In whatever direction the spectator looks a most glorious
display greets his eyes. Peak rises above peak on all sides, and the
blue surfaces of lakes and ponds in the vicinity greatly enhance the
beauty of the scene; while the charming valley through which winds the
Hoosatonic River stretches far to the north and south.

One more locality must be visited before leaving this Alpine county of
Berkshire, and that is Hoosac Mountain. Before the tunnel was completed
a stage ran from the east side over the mountain and down into North
Adams; so there is a good road all the way over. The walk is by no means
difficult, and one feels well repaid for his labor. The road runs quite
near the three main shafts that go down to the tunnel beneath. The woody
growth is scanty, and hence the view is unobscured the greater part of
the way. After reaching the summit the prospect towards the east is
especially beautiful. The surface slopes off towards the Connecticut and
is dotted with innumerable hills and ridges, among which winds the
romantic valley of the Deerfield River. This is but a meagre account of
the scenery of Berkshire, than which there is certainly none grander in
the State, though in beauty it is inferior to that of the Connecticut
valley.

In regard to geological formation it need only be remarked that the
Berkshire valleys are almost wholly composed of limestone, and the
supply for architectural and agricultural purposes being practically
unlimited, will prove a source of great wealth to that region for many
years to come. The hills, however, are all composed of quartz, gneiss,
talcose slate, or mica slate.

We will now visit the valley of the Connecticut, where is to be found
some of the boldest, and by all odds the most beautiful scenery in
Massachusetts. The broad and fertile plains through which the river
gently flows are, in themselves, charming, but when we add to them the
bordering hills, the scene is one of surpassing loveliness.

Between Hadley and Easthampton, the river runs through a gorge in a
greenstone ridge nearly one thousand feet high. The portion of the ridge
east of the river is called Mount Holyoke, and the portion west of it
Mount Tom. This gorge is very interesting because of showing the amount
of erosion that can be performed by water in long periods of time. In
all probability the bed of the Connecticut was, in remote time, much
higher than it is at present, and the river itself much larger, and the
rich, alluvial plains that border it at the present day were once
beneath its broad waters.

At one point in the gorge a mass of greenstone projects some rods into
the river from the west side of Holyoke, having a perpendicular face
twenty to one hundred feet high. This mass exhibits a columnar structure
similar to that of the Giant's Causeway. The structure is not very
evident above the level of the river, but at low water, by rowing along
the face of this rock one can find the tops of regular columns reaching
nearly to the water's surface. On the opposite side of Holyoke, not far
from the road going to the summit, is another interesting example of
these greenstone columns. Professor Hitchcock named these respectively
Titan's Pier and Titan's Piazza; and any lover of geology is well repaid
for the labor spent in getting a view of them.

Holyoke, though two hundred feet lower than Tom, is more frequented by
visitors. The ascent is not very difficult, and the view from the summit
is both grand and beautiful. The river is of course the most attractive
feature in the landscape. Far to the north and south it stretches, like
a silver, sinuous thread, gradually becoming narrower until it is lost
in the distance. Owing to an optical illusion the river seems to ascend
in both directions, and at the points where it is lost to view, seems on
a level with the eye. It is one of the best examples of this species of
optical illusion to be found in this part of the country.

A half century ago the river between this gorge and a point about a
quarter of a mile north of it made a most magnificent curve, three miles
long; but during the flood in the spring of 1840 a straight channel was
cut across, and the water continuing to flow in the old bed as well as
the new, there existed for some years what may be called an island in
the river.

At least three educational institutions of importance can be seen from
the summit of Holyoke--Mount Holyoke Female Seminary in South Hadley,
Smith College in Northampton, and Amherst College. Of the towns seen
from here Northampton presents the most beautiful aspect. Its fine
public and private edifices and grand old elms show to great advantage.
One cannot tire of looking at the level plain stretching along on either
side of the river, its surface divided into rectangular plats, covered
in summer by the various luxuriant crops. The view to the south
includes, of course, the river, and also the pleasant village of South
Hadley with its Seminary. Springfield is not very plainly visible, but
the spires of Hartford, Connecticut, can be seen on a clear day. To the
south-west, and at one's very feet, is the wide gorge, with Tom rising
directly across, its top being nearly two hundred feet above the
position of the observer. To the north-west Greylock is seen shooting up
its head beyond the Hoosac. To the north-east Monadnock looms up in the
distance, while Wachusett lies low in the eastern horizon. Close to the
observer are Toby and Sugar Loaf, each presenting rather peculiar and
fantastic outlines. The view from Tom is essentially the same as that
from Holyoke, and embracing as it does a radius of at least seventy-five
miles in every direction, over the most fertile and charming region in
New England, is one of rare beauty.

The ridge forming Tom and Holyoke is, as has been said, composed of
greenstone. All the other hills of consequence about the valley of the
Connecticut are sandstone, and this is distinctively a sandstone region.
Of the other three hills to be spoken of, Toby and Sugar Loaf hold about
the same relation to each other as do Holyoke and Tom, the Connecticut
flowing between Toby on the east and Sugar Loaf on the west. The former
is nearly one thousand feet high, and lies in the northern part of
Sunderland village. It is of irregular shape, being indented by a number
of valleys, and is densely wooded, so that until within the last few
years it has not been a very desirable place from which to obtain a
view; but there are now accommodations for sight-seers, and some of the
obstructing forest having been removed, interesting views may now be
obtained from several parts of the hill. The view of the valley of the
Connecticut from the southern part of the highest ridge is perhaps even
finer than that from Holyoke.

Sugar Loaf, on the other side of the river, in South Deerfield, is one
of the most picturesque objects to be found in this region. It is an
isolated peak of red sandstone rising, on the riverside, by an almost
perpendicular cliff, to the height of five hundred feet. From the river
it looks wholly inaccessible, but on the opposite side is a very good
path, rather steep, to be sure, by which one can gain the summit with
comparative ease. Upon the top there is a house in which is a good
telescope that visitors can use for a small fee, and a very extensive
view may thus be obtained. But the most interesting feature of a visit
to this hill is to stand upon the brink of the precipice on the eastern
side, and look down to the river and green plain five hundred feet
below. One feels an almost irresistible desire to take a plunge into the
blue waters of the Connecticut.

This hill overlooks the place where one of the most inhuman atrocities
was perpetrated by the Indians, and a scene of carnage enacted that will
long be remembered by the people of New England. The Bloody Brook
massacre occurred in 1675 on a spot about a mile north-west of this
hill, and eighty young men, "the very flower of Essex County," while
engaged in transporting grain from Deerfield to Hadley, were suprised by
the Indians and murdered almost to a man.

A little north of Sugar Loaf is Deerfield Mountain, or, as it is often
called in that region by the original Indian name, Pocumtuck, which is
the last eminence to be visited in this locality. Its summit is about
seven hundred feet above the village of Old Deerfield, and the bold
sandstone brow overlooks the valley of the Deerfield River. This brow is
bare and level for quite a space upon its top, and is called Pocumtuck
Rock. It is a favorite place for picnic parties, and if there were a
good road to the summit it would be more extensively patronized. It is
certainly a most lovely spot in which to eat your evening meal, and gaze
down upon the waters of the Deerfield, glittering in the rays of the
setting sun; and as the sun descends towards the western hills, it is
delightful to watch the shadows creeping along the plain below, until at
last the brilliancy of the river is snuffed out, and the shades of
evening gather fast within the peaceful valley. An excellent view of Old
Deerfield, or Deerfield Street, as it is often called, is also obtained
from the Rock. But very few of the houses can be seen owing to the
magnificent elm trees that line either side of the street, and form in
summer a continuous arch of greenness above it; and beneath the shade of
these old patriarchs of nature nestle many a quaint dwelling. There is
much in Deerfield to interest the antiquarian, historian, and lover of
nature; and all admirers of art will take an interest in it because it
was the birthplace, and for many years the residence, of George Fuller,
the painter, who recently died in Boston. Deerfield is one of the best
places in which to pass the summer, but is not so much frequented by
visitors as it once was, as there are at present no sufficient hotel
accommodations. A hotel of considerable size was burned there two years
ago, and has not been rebuilt.

We depart from the hills of the Connecticut and Deerfield valleys with
perhaps greater reluctance than was experienced on leaving the Berkshire
hills, for the reason that the scenery in these valleys is toned down
and mellowed into a uniformity of beauty, which can be appreciated not
alone in a single locality, but as a whole. The river forms a centre
about which all these beauties are aggregated; while in Berkshire one is
impressed more by single and somewhat startling evidences of nature's
beauty and grandeur.

Between the Connecticut and the Atlantic coast are many beautiful
eminences, a few of which may be alluded to. Big Watatic and Little
Watatic are two prominent hills situated in Ashburnham on very high
land, but are densely wooded and little visited. In Fitchburg there
is a hill which, though inconsiderable in size, being only about three
hundred feet high, is worthy of mention. It is a rounded mass of solid
granite, and, though extensively quarried for many years, seems to have
suffered very little diminution in size. It is called Rollstone Hill,
and the name is said to have originated from an event that occurred over
two centuries ago. When, in 1676, the Indians sacked Lancaster, among
the captives carried off by them towards Canada was Mrs. Rowlandson, the
wife of the minister at Lancaster. It is claimed that the party encamped
during the second night of their march upon the top of this hill, which
was afterwards called Rowlandson hill, and since has degenerated into
Rollstone. This origin is uncertain, however.

This sketch would be incomplete without a brief mention of a few
of the eminences about Boston. The Blue Hills of Milton form the most
conspicuous range in the vicinity, reaching an altitude of over seven
hundred feet in the south-western part of Milton, and afford a fine view
of Boston and its suburbs, and the harbor.

Corey Hill, in Brookline, is easily accessible, and offers the best and
most complete view that could possibly be desired. One sees Brookline,
with its handsome residences and public buildings just below him; Beacon
street extends in a straight line towards the north-east, and leads the
eye to the Common and the State House. To the north, beyond the Charles,
lies the great university city of Massachusetts, with the tower of
Memorial Hall overtopping all other buildings, and to the south, and
near at hand, are the sparkling waters of Chestnut Hill reservoir.

We have spent but a brief time skipping over some of the principal
elevations in the State, and what has been said gives but an imperfect
picture of the reality; for views from elevated points do not, by any
manner of means, show one all that is interesting and beautiful in the
scenery of adjacent country. There are deep ravines, romantic gorges,
and wooded valleys that require individual inspection to obtain a true
idea of their picturesqueness. But this sketch, such as it is, is
offered to the readers of the BAY STATE MONTHLY, in the hope that it
may, to some slight degree, lead to a more complete recognition and
appreciation of the vast amount of natural beauty contained within the
limits of our beloved Bay State.

       *       *       *       *       *




ELIZABETH.[2]

A ROMANCE OF COLONIAL DAYS.


By Frances C. Sparhawk, Author of "A Lazy Man's Work."


CHAPTER XVII.

DESSERT.


At dinner Elizabeth was between Sir Temple Dacre and Major Vaughan.
The former devoted himself especially to her. Opposite sat Katie, Lord
Bulchester on one hand, while on the other was placed the guest last
arrived, the one whose coming had been doubtful because it had not been
certain that he would reach the city in time to accept his invitation.
Lord Bulchester so far forgot his manners as to pay very little
attention to the pretty young lady who had been assigned to him; his
thoughts were all for Katie Archdale, his ears were for her, and his
eyes, except for the defiant glances which shot past her at Kenelm
Waldo, this last arrival, to whom had fallen the place on her other
hand. Katie's air of pensiveness as she took her seat seemed to her aunt
suitable and very becoming. But it was impossible to the girl's nature
not to enjoy the situation, and the smile that often lurked slyly in the
depths of her dimples and brought a light beneath the grave droop of her
eyelids made her only the handsomer. Her dress of white India muslin
was simple and beautiful; it heightened the effect of her gravity of
demeanor, and by making her seem even more youthful than she was,
softened any expression of enjoyment that flashed across her
pensiveness. Elizabeth in her brocade thought how little the girl needed
ornament. Edmonson, watching the high-bred air of the latter, her
attentiveness and tact where she used to be dreamy, her face full of
indications of strength and refinement, felt that in ten years, when
Katie's attractions had waned, Elizabeth would have an added charm of
presence, and an added power. He admired intellect, although he so
readily adapted himself to people with tastes, and pursuits differing
from intellectual, and secretly he had his ambitions. When he should
marry well, as he intended to do, the wealth thus gained would give him
the place to which his birth entitled him, and then he looked forward
to political eminence. Supposing, only supposing, that one day he
should be premier he mused, studying Elizabeth,--stranger things had
happened--what a help a wife like this would be to him; her pride,
her self-control, her graciousness, her wit would then come into play
excellently. She belonged to him by right, and----. Again there came
that ominous flash in his eyes as they turned furtively in another
direction, and the shadow that lurked in his heart leaped forward again
and clutched at its victim. Then Edmonson turned with a smile to Colonel
Pepperell beside him, and asked some further particulars about the
hostility of the Indian tribes.

Archdale, glancing at Elizabeth, saw that she looked extremely well.
He was grateful for her courage and her helpfulness, and he understood
better than she dreamed of his doing the distress that the present state
of affairs caused her. He liked her in a spirit of comradeship. She
seemed to him sensitive, yet he felt that in an emergency she would
prove as strong to act as to endure. In no case, he told himself, could
he ever be in love with her; she was too cold, too intellectual, she had
not enough softness or sweetness to charm him even if his fair cousin
had never existed. But when there was need of a woman with pride and
resolution enough to deny strenuously the force of a marriage ceremony
that had never been intended, nobody could answer the need better than
Mistress Royal. And it really was not necessary for that purpose that
she should feel him such an ogre as he believed she did. However, that
was of no consequence. He brought himself back forcibly from a gloomy
study of possibilities. There was enough for a man to do in this new
world if love were denied him. He began to talk to those next him about
the war already going on at the North.

"Young Archdale has caught the infection," said Pepperell, soon after to
his listener. "He will be in harness before we know it." Edmonson smiled
musingly.

"The very thing," he answered, "the very thing, Colonel Pepperell, for a
young man to do. If he go, I have no doubt I shall catch the fever, too,
being in the same house with him; Lord Bulchester may also, who knows?
there are three soldiers for you."

"For me, indeed!" echoed the Colonel with a laugh. "I should not refuse
you, though; I should be proud to pass you over to our commander,
whoever he may be."

Lord Bulchester at the moment looked as if his struggles for the coming
months were more likely to be personal than political. Katie had turned
to him with the kindest attention; her eyes looked into his with a shy
interest in the devotion that she found there. She was answering some
remark of his, more at length, it may be, than she need have done, but
with a most graceful amendment of an opinion doubtfully expressed, when
Waldo broke in with some question to her, and she finished in haste and
turned to him. Bulchester turned to him also, and in the eyes of the two
men as they met was war. Waldo had come back with the determination that
while there was life there should be hope. He had until this time
regarded Bulchester's marked attentions with the amusement that the
nobleman's unattractive exterior was likely to meet with in a rival.
Added to that was Waldo's conceit, which made him look through the large
end of the telescope in viewing others. But now he had heard Katie's
dallying--why hadn't she finished the fellow up quickly?--he had read
the determination in Bulchester's face, and had remembered his title.
Katie, meanwhile, with admirable unconsciousness, talked, now with one,
now with the other, giving most attention to Waldo, and yet making
Bulchester feel that if she had been assigned to him at dinner the
greater share would without effort from her have been his.

The dinner went on. Sir Temple Dacre's comments were so kind that they
could not be offensive. Most of them were made to Elizabeth. He admired
Madam Archdale, and thought that her son resembled her; he thought that
Colonel Pepperell had the air of a leader of men. "One born so," he
said. "He seems always to know what he means, that's it, and he doesn't
always tell you. On the whole, perhaps, the last is as great a point,
because men don't take ideas readily; they never half look at them; they
have too many crotchets of their own; or if not that, too much
thick-headedness. The only way to do is to send out the result of one's
conclusions in the form of an order, and say nothing about how it was
come at."

"You are speaking only of military matters?" she asked.

"Well, no, of things in general."

"Then it wouldn't do in our part of the Colonies," she said. "I once
heard of a little boy who was called 'Whatfor Winship' because he was
perpetually asking the reasons of things. That is like us. We think a
great deal of an aristocracy, provided we can all be aristocrats.
Everybody is sure that he can decide any matter that comes up, and then
from a sense of fairness we put it to vote. That's the way we manage
here."

"Yes," answered Sir Temple, "we across the water know that you people
are deuced fond of managing--Beg pardon.--But let me tell you what
Walpole, our former minister, said one day when I dined with him. 'Going
to America, I understand?' he asked. I said I was. 'Well, I hope over
there they'll let you travel in the way it pleases you, it's more than
they did to our orders; there is such an ado if those people are not
handled with velvet gloves, and the thickest velvet we have, too. I
would like you to tell me if you can make out what it all means,' he
said."

"And so you're taking notes to see what sort of a set we are? One thing,
Sir Temple, you'll find us loyal to our mother, though she does domineer
sometimes. And tell Sir Robert that children old enough to contribute to
the support of the family, as we do, ought to be allowed to put in a
word now and then as to its management."

Sir Temple looked at her, not having an answer ready and little dreaming
that a generation later this truth that the beautiful lips had uttered
so simply, yet with a proud curve through their merriment, would be
forced upon the English ministry at the point of the bayonet. But he
lived to see it. Then he thought more than once of this day, of
Elizabeth, with her dignity and her brightness, who had seen into the
heart of one of the world's great struggles and had spoken the thought
that later the cannon of a nation thundered through the earth. Now,
however, he looked at her without a full idea of her meaning, thinking
her only clever, and ready, and a trifle wanting in respect toward the
powers that be, and that this lack came from her youth and should be
treated with indulgence. It was a woman's way of looking at things, he
said to himself, for he recognized sometimes the same spirit in Lady
Dacre.

"Florence seems well entertained," he said aloud, looking at his wife,
who was laughing at one of Edmonson's sallies. "That's a brilliant
fellow, Mistress Royal; he will make his mark in the world; it's a pity,
though, he hasn't a fortune to help him forward; he ought to be in
Parliament."

"So he thinks, perhaps," she answered, remembering something that he had
said to her one day on his first visit to the country, and understanding
more clearly than ever the use that she might have been in the world.

"Very possibly he does. He appreciates himself, that is certain.
It's half the battle to know one's own power; sometimes I think it's
three-quarters of it. Because, you see, when a man knows his strong
points he's always meeting others at his best, and as for his
worst,--why, I imagine Edmonson would rather keep those dark." Elizabeth
looked up inquiringly, but she said nothing, and Sir Temple added, "In
fact, most of us would; we don't expect that charity from men which we
find from Heaven." She did not answer, and he talked on, for theorizing
was a favorite amusement, but his wife always snubbed him when he
attempted it, and most men either showed weariness or had theories of
their own which they were in such haste to air that his had only half a
chance. Now, here was a young lady ready to listen, and, since it was
not because she was unable to talk well herself, her listening was a
compliment that he felt.

At first Elizabeth did listen. But her companion fairly launched, went
on excellently by himself, and involuntarily her eyes turned upon
Edmonson. He was very handsome; she wondered if it was his conversation
with Lady Dacre that gave him so much animation. Since circumstances had
roused Elizabeth from the dreamy state in which she used to indulge, she
had lost something of her belief in his intellectual superiority, for
the things that had once seemed so difficult as to be almost impossible
to her had suddenly become simple enough; now that, they being required
of her, she found herself doing them. That was the way with Elizabeth;
whatever she could do she thought easy; it was the things that she
believed lay beyond her for which she had the reverence. She was not
much used to praise; the little that occasionally fell to her surprised
and embarrassed her, so that she seemed to receive it coldly, or else
the thing itself appeared to her so trivial that doing it well was a
matter of course. She learned with remarkable quickness, for her mind
was in good working order and grasped strongly whatever it laid hold of.
A few months ago Edmonson's social accomplishments had seemed a marvel
to her. Already she was beginning to see that, after all, they did not
require a very high order of mind, though she was far from undervaluing
them or thinking it possible that she could ever have such power of
being agreeable. She was wondering that day as she watched him how much
better ambitions he had, and what life would bring him. She could not
understand him.

But in a few moments she was watching another face that had now a
stronger fascination for her than ever--Katie's. How lovely she looked.
Her demureness was giving way under the assaults that fate was making
upon it, and she was becoming more and more like her old self--with a
difference, however, toward Elizabeth, if toward no one else. It was
true, she had greeted her with effusive warmth, but even then Elizabeth
had felt the change and drawn back humbly in response to it. But if more
proof had been needed, it had been given. For, as they stood together a
moment before dinner, Katie said, "How much pleasure it must have given
you to meet these guests of Stephen's; no wonder they seem agreeable to
you; it may be that you owe so much to them." Elizabeth looked at her in
amazement. "You know," continued Katie, "that these are the people whose
romantic story Master Harwin related to us one memorable evening?" "No,
indeed, I never dreamed of it, Katie," she added, her voice trembling.
"Why are you like this? You know how it all came about; you know that--"
"Mistress Archdale," Waldo's voice broke in, and the young man came
forward to be welcomed by a touch of Katie's hand and a smile that gave
him some excuse for lingering at her side. Elizabeth, after responding
briefly to his greeting, turned away. Her heart was heavy. It made very
little difference about the Dacres, but she had lost Katie, that was a
great deal. Last night she had thought that she might find the girl's
resentment gone and her sense of justice, if not her affection, ruling
her. At least there was this comfort, thought the watcher, she had not
broken Katie's heart, it had only been her own--that was better, after
all, than breaking anyone's else. Yet a sudden choking came into her
throat, she found her eyes grown dim, steadied her vision, heard a few
words of what Sir Temple was saying about English rule, assented by a
monosyllable, and went back to watching Katie, who seemed above sad
fortunes as she sat so unmistakably enjoying herself. She talked a
little with Bulchester, and smiled upon him until he beamed with
delight; then leaving him full of a secret conviction that she found him
more congenial than the neighbor on her other hand, she devoted herself
to Waldo, whose fierce suspicions had died out so that he was tranquilly
enjoying his dinner, or exchanging remarks with some other guest,
secretly delighted with the skill which Katie showed in making herself
agreeable to bores. Her bright brown hair would have gleamed in the
sunlight without the gold-dust it was powdered with. Her complexion, one
of Titian's warm blondes, was at its perfection; her eyes were grave
enough for steady expression, and at times for a touch of pathos; it was
at the sudden curving of her lips they filled with light, which was gone
again directly, making the beholder feel that the sunshine had flashed
over her face. As Elizabeth looked at her, and admired her, and felt her
heart still going out toward her and tried to find excuse for her
cruelty, the wish not to meet Katie's glance made her turn her eyes away
for a moment. They fell upon Archdale, who sat motionless, looking at
Katie. At that moment his mind, stung by jealousy, made one of those
maddened leaps against the slowness of the age that prophesied the
railroad and the telegraph by showing the necessity for them. The second
man who had been sent off to England the day that Archdale had told
Elizabeth of the misadventure of the first was clear in head and as
quick in movement as means of locomotion at that time permitted, but it
seemed to Archdale at that instant that the very sun had stood still in
the heavens to make the summer days run longer, and that the most
welcome certainty with such a messenger as had been chosen would come
too late. When he should be free, let rivals do their best; but now----.
He seemed to have lost himself and to be living in a dream of the girl,
as if her presence and her beauty and a sudden sense of distance from
her filled him with agony. Suddenly he stirred and his eyes met
Elizabeth's and fell. He turned away quickly and began to talk.

For the moment she had no power at all. She was pierced by a sharper
sense of her situation than had ever come to her before, and that had
been enough. She was one too many in the world. She must give place, and
she must not be long about it. A ringing was in her ears; a darkness was
around her. But she called back her forces with an effort; she must not
think until she should be alone. She turned back to Sir Temple, caught
his last words, and answered him in haste, beginning at random and going
on with a fluency which even he had not expected.

Colonel Pepperell, who was able to do more things at once than carry on
his dinner and a conversation with his neighbor, looked down hard at his
plate a moment and muttered under his breath, "Poor thing! Poor thing!"


CHAPTER XVIII.

LANDMARKS.


When the ladies had left the table and gone into the garden Elizabeth
moved restlessly from one to another. Before very long the gentlemen
joined them, when Edmonson, after a little engineering, a few moments of
detention here and there, came up to her as she was sauntering with
several others on the bank of the little river. He contrived to separate
her from the rest and walked with her a few steps behind them. His
vivacity had not deserted him, and she felt that it would be no effort
to talk to him, and that in listening she should be enough interested
not to forget herself.

"How beautiful it is here," she began.

"Yes, but I don't care much for landscape when I can get anything
better, and a woman who knows life and understands how to make herself
entertaining is a great deal better. Therefore, at present I have no
eyes for scenery."

"Well, what is it?" cried Elizabeth, with a smile that was a flash,
possibly of annoyance, rather than a gleam of pleasure. "As the saying
goes, what axe have you to grind, Master Edmonson? All this flattery
must be for some object. Can I do anything for you? If only I had
influence with the Grand Mogul, or any other high official, I would
speak to him for you with pleasure. You see your cause is already won,
so don't waste any more powder." And she turned to him with a little
laugh that was both bitter and defiant. It was a bad time to tell
Elizabeth Royal that she had powers of fascination. It was possible that
Edmonson understood her, for his observations, though not openly
expressed like Sir Temple Dacre's, were more pertinent. But this seemed
to him an opportunity not to be lost. "The voice that soothes the wounds
of vanity is always welcome," he mused. "I only meant that it pleased me
to talk with you," he answered. "I had no intention of gilding refined
gold. As you so frankly conclude I have an axe to grind, there is no
reason why I should hide the fact. But you can not grind it, else I
should come to you. I am equal to that. And he looked at her, first with
a cool audacity in his eyes, which he knew she would meet; and then as
he held her gaze with a sudden softening from which she turned away.

"Then, if I can not, why don't you ask some one who can, Colonel
Archdale, for instance? He likes to be obliging--that is, I take it for
granted he does."

"Perhaps I shall." They had left the water now and were following the
path up toward the house. There was a pause. "The air of this place does
not agree with you," he began abruptly, "You are much paler than when
you came."

"I am happy to say it is quite the contrary with you," she answered.
"Our sea breezes have given you the hue of health."

"Yes, that--and other things. You turn away from any reference to your
self, but you can never prevent my caring more for your welfare than for
anything else in the world." He was speaking softly in tones that were
deep with earnestness. There was no doubt that in some way she did
fascinate him.

She came to a halt and looked him full in the face without a blush, an
added pallor, or any sign of emotion. At that moment she felt herself
Archdale's wife, and felt, too, that Edmonson considered her so.

"You can't have any great objects in your life, then, if you fritter
away your interest on an idle acquaintance whom you will forget as soon
as you are out of her sight, and, if you'll pardon me, who will forget
you, except when something calls up your name, or a reminiscence of
you." Even Edmonson as he stood staring at her drew his breath like one
recovering from a shock. Then as he looked her face changed and he saw
tears on her lashes. She reached out her hand toward him and raised her
eyes to his with a pathetic appeal. "I know it's the habit of gentlemen
to make gallant speeches," she said, "probably more in your own country
than here; we are more simple, and as for me, I'm ignorant, I know that
very well. I am not as quick as other people, I suppose, but I don't
like this sort of thing, I never shall. Somehow, it hurts me, it seems
as if one despised me. Well, never mind, it's not that, of course; you
are in the habit of doing it, because it's the fashion. But why won't
you talk to me naturally, just as other people do?"

Edmonson looked at her with absorbed attention. He was convinced. The
thing was incredible, but it was true. She was not feigning, she did not
understand him. Her blindness came from one of two causes, either she
was incapable of passion, or her heart was not yet aroused. For he
argued that if she had loved any one she must have read him.

"I will do as you ask me," he said simply, taking the only course that
was open to him unless he had wished to banish himself entirely. But as
he walked slowly on beside her again the evil look came into his
downcast eyes, and the shadow darted out in his thoughts terrible and
triumphant.

When they were near the house, and she was about to turn back again
toward the others, still enjoying the summer air, he said. "Will you
come with me into the hall? I want to ask you about something I noticed
there." This was only so far true that he had found the antlers which he
remembered hung there an excuse to stand face to face with her a few
moments longer, and to talk with her, and have her answers even about
these trivial things all to himself before the others came. It was of no
use to pretend to himself now that disappointed ambition was the cause
of his chagrin at losing Elizabeth; his feeling was not chagrin, it was
something like fury. He had never denied himself anything, he would not
deny himself now. As to this woman who the higher he found, and the more
he admired her, the more she eluded him, and with every unconscious
movement drew tighter the chain that bound him; he had a purpose
concerning her. He was not capable of deep or continued devotion, but
when he had an object in view nothing mattered to him but that. If he
gained it, doubtless something else would absorb him; if he
lost--blackness filled this blank, but here he had resolved not to lose.

As he stood in the hall with Elizabeth beside the open door and watched
her delicate face and perceived the readiness with which she answered
his questions in full, as if glad of so simple a subject, he said to
himself, "That fancy of hers for me was lighter than I thought. She has
not yet quaffed the nectar of love--not yet--not yet." He gave little
attention to her story of the shooting of the stag, Stephen's feat when
a boy of fourteen; she did not of course know as much of the history of
the Archdales as did the petted young beauty to whom he had been talking
before dinner, and she in the midst of her fluent account wondered in
her own mind where she had heard it all, and remembered that it had been
one of Katie's stories when they were at school together.

"You see how large a creature it must have been," she finished, "the
forehead hangs quite low, but I can't touch the tip of the under branch
of this antler." She made the effort as she spoke, and reaching up on
tiptoe, caught at the antler to steady herself. It swung a little on one
side, and she stood looking at the hole torn in the tapestry by
Stephen's gun on that day, when he had gone into the woods in desperate
mood. It had been covered, and no one had noticed it, unless, possibly,
the servants in dusting, but, if so, they had not told of the accident,
not wishing to run the risk of being blamed for it.

"Did I do that?" asked Elizabeth. It seemed to her as if to have injured
an Archdale to the value of a pin would be intolerable.

"No indeed," said Edmonson. "I saw it just as you moved. The antler is
smooth here, see." And he made her pass her hand over the polished
surface above the tear. "Perhaps there is some roughness in the wall,"
he added, "it may be a nail under the tapestry that somebody found out
before we came."

She reached up eagerly.

"No," she said, "something must have struck against it and caught it,
for so far from being rough here, it's hollow. I can put my finger into
it; it is one of the openings between the beams." They went on talking
while Elizabeth's finger was unconsciously tapping the wall through the
torn hanging. All at once she broke off in the midst of what she was
saying to cry, "Why, there certainly is something very strange here; it
is like the canvas of a picture. Touch it, and see if it does not feel
so to you."

Edmonson reached up his hand as she withdrew hers. His eyes seemed to
scintillate as he felt the surface of the canvas under his finger; his
face flushed deeply; it was with effort that he restrained a jubilant
cry, and his tones betrayed a triumph that he could not hide, while
excitement broke through his barriers of measured words.

"Really, we must look into this," he said. "This may be El Dorado
to--some of us. Let us wager, Mistress Royal, whom it most concerns,
you, or me."

"I suppose it's some old family portrait and belongs to the Colonel,"
she answered.

"Yes, I suppose so," he said, waiving the question of the wager as she
had done. "Don't you propose to ask him?"

Elizabeth looked amazed, then flushed deeply as she realized her
imprudence in having spoken of the canvas.

"Certainly not," she answered. "I don't see how what Colonel Archdale
has on his walls concerns me."

"I should think a possible daughter-in-law would feel somewhat
differently." She winced, then answered coolly; "She ought not."

"Well, at least, _I_ am curious. I own it. I must see what we have
unearthed here. Won't you ask the Colonel to show us his private
portrait gallery? He will do anything for you, I notice."

"Certainly not," she answered.

"Certainly he won't do everything for you, or certainly you will not ask
him--which?" insisted Edmonson.

"Both. I shall never test him, and I shall make no comments on what I
may find on his walls. Nor will you, Master Edmonson, for no gentleman
would."

"Do you object to my seeing it?" She looked at him wonderingly.

"Why should I, if it were open? But I will tell you what I do object to,
to my coming here and seeming to pry upon--the family. I wish it had
been somebody else instead of me who had found it, or that it had never
been found at all. I beg you will spare me, Master Edmonson," And she
looked at him with the rare entreaty of a proud nature.

"Perhaps it's not a picture after all," he said. "You may be mistaken.
Don't you think so?"

"No," she answered. "I am not mistaken, but--."

"Don't fear that I shall speak one word," he cried as she hesitated. "I
would sooner lose my life than annoy you, to say nothing of losing my
amusement. If I can't see what is behind the hanging without doing that,
why, I'll not see it at all."

"Thank you," she said gratefully, dwelling only upon the first part of
his speech. "I was sure you would feel so."

"Yes, words and questions would be a clumsy way. I'll show you a
better." And while she looked at him wondering what he meant, he turned
from her and in an instant, bringing up a chair, had stepped upon it and
made with his penknife a line across what he judged would be the top of
the picture. Feeling along the length of this with his finger he cut a
perpendicular line from each end of it, so that the tapestry fell down
like the end of a broad ribbon, and showed that Elizabeth had not been
at fault in her supposition. He had stepped down from the chair,
replaced it, and returned to her side while she still stood in dumb
consternation. He was smiling. "There!" he said. The thing had been done
in a flash; he had scarcely glanced at the painting, until, as he spoke,
he fell back a step. Then he caught her arm.

"Look!" he cried hoarsely, "Look!"

But he need not have told her to look, she was doing it with eyes wide
open and lips parted and motionless. "I was right, you see. I had a
right to do this," he said.

She drew away from the grasp that he still laid on her arm in his
absorption. "Yes, I was right," he repeated. "Do you see?"

"No," she answered, "I understand nothing. Explain yourself. Or wait. It
is time now to call Colonel Archdale. You will explain to him this
liberty, and the meaning of this--this strange coincidence."

"Ah, ha!" he cried. "You see it? Everybody will see it; isn't it so?
Tell me," he insisted.

"I suppose so," she faltered, looking at his triumphant face and feeling
a presentiment that some evil was to fall upon the Archdale family. If
so she would have helped to bring it.

"Let us send for him," repeated Edmonson. "Or, no. Let us surprise them
all, give them an entertainment not planned by mine admirable host.
Come, let us go out into the garden, and when we return, here will be a
new face to greet us. That will be more as you wish it? I want it to be
as you wish."

"You have not considered me at all."

"The day will come when you will not say that," he answered, looking at
her fixedly, then turning away with abruptness. "We must name our new
friend," he added. "Suppose we call him Banquo's ghost? Banquo's ghost,
you remember, existed to only one person. Did you ever see him on the
stage? You must, some day in London. He rises up in solemn majesty from
a secret trap door, and overwhelms Mac--Well! here's the trap door."
And he touched the slashed tapestry with his finger. "Shall I tell you
why I call him so?" he went on, coming close to her as if about to
whisper some secret.

"No," she said, drawing back. "If you know any secrets belonging to this
family, I don't want to hear them. You will be obliged to apologize to
the Colonel for defacing his wall, and whatever explanation you have to
give, will be given to him."

Edmonson watched her with a smile.

"Do you know," he said, "that you have an exaggerated conscience? But
you have the faculty of making it seem charming. As you please, then. I
will give my explanation to the Colonel as soon as he is ready for
it--as soon, and even before. Shall we go into the garden again until
somebody comes?"

Elizabeth did not answer immediately. She stopped on the threshold where
she had been standing and looked at the speaker with an expression he
could not read. She had thought well of this young man. Was it going to
be that she could no longer believe in him? She did not care so much for
that in itself, but it seemed as if all the world in which she had
moved, the ideal world founded on beauty and nobleness, even if, indeed,
one cornerstone of it were pain, had fallen to pieces about her. Among
so many ruins the ruin of another ideal would not be so very much, but
it would give more pain than was due to itself. As she looked up at him
Edmonson's face lost its exultation. "Perhaps I am mistaken; I ought to
hear before I judge," she thought.

"I would rather stay here," she said at last. "There are footsteps
now--it is Master Archdale." She thought as she spoke that the girlish
figure walking beside him was Katie's, but when the two came nearer she
saw that it was not his cousin to whom Stephen was talking so merrily,
but another of his mother's guests. Katie was in the distance with
Kenelm Waldo. Bulchester had disappeared for the moment--no, he was with
Madam Archdale. As these and others sauntered up to the hall, Edmonson
partially closing the opening by pushing the tapestry behind the
antlers, retreated, and occupied himself with an examination of these
long branches that like a personal weapon had divided the thick
underbrush of his way before him. It was not until most of the party
were in the hall, not until the Colonel had come in with Madam
Pepperell, that he suddenly went forward and drew down the cut tapestry,
and at the moment put himself into the same attitude with the man in the
picture, and in this attitude stood with his eyes glancing keenly from
one to another of the spectators.

There was a murmur, not rising to articulateness, which seemed to be
surprise at the sight of the portrait so unexpectedly disclosed. Then
followed a breathless hush. It was in the hush that Edmonson's eyes were
busiest. But that, too, was short. For, a cry of astonishment rose from
nearly every one in the hall. This, though coming from many throats, had
but one import.

"What a likeness! Perfect! Wonderful! How came it there? How came
_he_ here? What does it mean?"

From Edmonson, standing motionless, the assembly looked toward Stephen,
and from him, plainly as much at a loss as themselves, they turned their
eyes where his were already fixed, upon the face of his father. But the
Colonel, pale and amazed, with a dark shadow fallen upon his face from
the door near by him--or perhaps from some door opening in his own
breast--seemed no more able than the others to read the riddle. Indeed,
he was the first to ask the explanation that all were seeking.

"When and how did you bring that picture here?" he said. "And whose
portrait is it?" For he had rejected the first suggestion of its being
Edmonson himself. The dress belonged to an earlier period, and the face
was that of a man somewhat older; it could not be thought of as the
portrait of the young man standing beside it; it was simply a marvellous
likeness.

"I found it here," returned Edmonson with a bow. "I have seen the copy
of it many times, this is the original painting by Lely. It came here--I
mean to the Colonies--by one of those mistakes that one member of a
family sometimes, perpetrates upon the others. How it ever got behind
this hanging it is out of my province to tell. I yield the field to
Colonel Archdale."

"I know nothing of it," said that gentleman. "The house was built when I
was a child. It was one of the preparations for my father's second
marriage. The tapestry is an heirloom; it is so old that I am always
afraid of its tearing, and it is never taken from the wall. My house is
at the disposal of my guests, to be sure, but none of them could have
destroyed anything else that I should have felt the injury to so
keenly."

"It was not willingly done," returned Edmonson, "it was by the impulse
of fate. As to the picture, it does not seem strange that we expect
Colonel Archdale to know whom his own family portraits represent."

"It may not seem strange, but it is not unprecedented to be ignorant,"
answered his host. "My father must have known, but in obeying his
injunctions as to care of the tapestry I had no idea that I was keeping
anything but bare walls from view. Even these antlers are fastened to a
great nail in one of the beams. I remember it since I was a child. The
hanging was fitted over it, and I was glad when it was put to use in
this way."

"Yes, no doubt he could tell us about the portrait if we could only get
at him," returned Edmonson coming back to his subject. "But as to who
the gentleman is, and why you have flattered me so far as to be able to
discover any likeness between us, I owe you all an explanation. And
Colonel Archdale, another one besides, which I am most ready to make,
for having presumed to search out the painting when I found by accident
that there was one behind here. No time is so good as the present. Then,
too, I have aroused the curiosity of these ladies and gentlemen, and I
am afraid they will owe me a grudge if I don't gratify it by telling the
whole story."

"Indeed we shall," cried Katie Archdale.

Bulchester had entered behind the others unseen in the concentration of
attention upon the portrait and its exhibitor, and had spent his moment
of amazement in silence. He now glided up to Edmonson and said something
to him in an undertone too low to be caught by anyone else. The other
replied by a look of scorn, and a muttered something that sounded very
like, "You always were a fool." Then he stood silent, glancing first at
Stephen, and then at the Colonel. The young man faced him in haughty
defiance of his manner which made his words almost insulting. The elder
stood with his suavity a little disturbed, it is true; but no one except
Edmonson found fear in his face, or interpreted what he said as a desire
of postponement when he suggested that if there were anything
interesting to be heard they should wait until all the stragglers had
come up, and then adjourn to the drawing-room where they would be more
comfortable.

Edmonson bowed slightly in answer, smiled, thanked him, but observed
that it was most flattering to an orator to find his audience increase
as he went on, and began:

"I am to tell you who this gentleman of the portrait is, and why I
resemble him."

All at once Stephen glanced at Elizabeth. He had found her in the hall
with Edmonson. Had she any hand in this unveiling of an ancestral face?
He thought of the possibility of shame that might follow--of shame,
because he remembered the talk of the two men in the woods and the old
butler's look at Edmonson that very morning. If this triumphant fellow
had any such thing to tell, did she already know it? Was she upon such
terms of intimacy with him as this? She stood apart, still near the
doorway where Edmonson had left her. None of the curiosity expressed
everywhere else was in her face. She seemed scarcely listening; she
looked as if she were far away and the people about her and the words
they were saying belonged to a different world. But it was not so, for
it was the consciousness that she was in the world about her and bound
to it that gave her the expression of struggle. Chains held her when she
wanted to be free. She was one too many here. Before her was Archdale's
face as he had looked at Katie, and between these two a stupid woman
whom she had no patience with, whom she hated--herself. And now there
might be coming an added pain that she had brought. She did not care
especially for Archdale's pain, except that it was of her bringing.

But Edmonson went on talking, and Stephen, like the others, forgot
everything in listening. He saw his father's brows contract, and knew
that he was biting his under lip hard, as he did when he was much
troubled.

Edmonson still went on with his story. He certainly made it interesting.
Stephen's secret uneasiness passed into surprise, distrust, conviction,
inward disturbance as he stood with his haughty air unchanged.


CHAPTER XIX.

RANKLING ARROWS.


Elizabeth was alone at last, that is, as much as a thought pursuing like
a personality lets one be alone. When she crossed her room in the
silence it was a relief to hear no voices, not to be obliged to answer
when she had not listened and was afraid lest she should not answer
rightly. Yet the events of the last few hours, the stray words as they
seemed to her that she had heard, the faces that had been before her
kept moving on before her now and repeating themselves faintly for a
little time, just as one whose head is throbbing with some continued
sound still hears it through all his pulses, even when he has gone out
of reach of the reality. She seemed to be driving home with Lady Dacre's
face full of tenderness opposite her. The sympathy had been almost too
much for Elizabeth, her eyes had not met the compassionate glances. Sir
Temple had conversed for three; he had been very kind, too, but the
kindness hurt her, for she knew they pitied her.

Elizabeth had an humble way with her sometimes, and, as has been said,
her own achievements seemed to her worthless. She had nothing of that
blatant quality, vanity, which claims from others and by reason of its
arrogance gets to be called pride; but her dignity strove above
everything to be sufficient for itself. Such a spirit shrinks from
claiming the appreciation it hungers for, shrinks back into itself,
and passes for shyness, or humility, or anything but what it is, that
supreme pride that seeks from the world its highest, the allegiance of
love, in return for its own love of what is true and grand. Finding a
denial in those it meets, it draws away in a silence that to people who
rate assertion as power seems tameness, for its action is beyond them,
like sights that need a telescope, or sounds out of reach of the ear.
Pride like this has two possibilities. It is a Saint Christopher that
will serve only the highest. That unfound, it grows bitter, and shrinks
more and more into itself, and withers into hopelessness. But if it find
the Highest and draw upon that love too great for change or failure,
then all things have a new proportion, for grown up to the shelter of
the eternities, human judgments dwindle, and human slights, however they
may scar, cannot destroy.

The person Elizabeth seemed to see most clearly was Archdale in that one
moment in which all his heart had been revealed. Yet it seemed to her
that it was not of him that she was thinking most but of Katie's pain
and anger. If she were to be separated from Stephen Archdale forever,
what wonder that she was grieved with the woman who had done it? For
Elizabeth knew that though Katie liked admiration, she loved Stephen.
Elizabeth herself saw that he was superior, not only in appearance, but
in mind, to any of the suitors with whom she confessed that in event of
the worst it was possible that the girl might console herself.

But Elizabeth was by no means so far above thoughts of herself that any
other woman's suffering was bringing to her face the look that came upon
it as her pride and her fear forced her away from the belief she had
determined to hold, into a horror lest all she dreaded was true, lest
she was really the wife of the man who at the very lightest disliked
her. She could not blame him for that, and it would not have been the
worst thing, since she cared nothing about him; she had not fotgotten
his look of scorn on that day of the wedding, it came back to her often;
but what of that, she asked herself, since she returned it? But to-night
there was more than this; to-night his heart had been shown, and
Elizabeth had seen how she stood for misery to him, seen, too, another
danger which she had never thought of before. This possibility, remote
enough, would not be put out of sight now. It might happen that if there
were proved to have been no marriage between herself and Stephen
Archdale, the certainty of this would come too late to save Katie for
him. Elizabeth turned wild at the sense of her own helplessness. "I am
one too many in the world," she thought; she could not have spoken, all
her will was concentrating into action. Night had overswept her; she
forgot everything in her thought for the beings whom she saw were
covered by the same cloud. She was to be always an ugly obstacle to the
happiness of Katie and of a man she pitied. Whichever way she turned it
seemed that there was no other chance for her. She would not go through
the world one too many. On coming into the room she had put back the
curtains for more air and had blown out the candles. She did not light
them again; all that she was going to do she could see well enough to do
by the stars and the long summer twilight. She sat down in the armchair
beside her table, drew her dressing-case toward her, and opening it,
unlocked one compartment with a tiny key found in another. The package
so carefully locked away here was something that Mrs. Eveleigh in one of
her nervous moods had given her to keep, lest some accident should
happen. To be sure, she had given it under promise that no one should
know of it, for she had used it for only a little while for her
complexion, she explained to Elizabeth, and might never want it again.
But, on the other hand, she might. It had been a good deal of trouble to
buy it; she did not want to run another gauntlet of questions. So the
powder had lain in Elizabeth's dressing-case, unremembered even, until
to-night. Now she took it out with a firm hand; there was no sign of
shrinking or fear about her, not because she was incapable of it, for
she had her terrors, though she showed them less than some women. But
she was a soldier in the midst of battle whose only object is to
dislodge the enemy; what it will cost is not counted. She waited a
moment, then opened the paper so steadily that she spilled none of the
powder in the dimness. She had no last words to say, nothing to leave;
it would be understood. She spread out the paper a little more, still
firmly, still so absorbed in the thought of escape as to have taken no
account of the way. Then she bent her face over it and slowly drew
nearer. Suddenly she raised her head; it seemed as if a voice had called
her, a voice so clear, so still, so full of power that she waited
submissive and wondering. In another moment she came to herself, the
brave self that suffering had thrust away usurping its place by a wicked
will. She drew a long breath as if waking from a horrible dream, and sat
quiet for a while, her hands clenched and brought together. She shivered
in the summer air. Suddenly she rose, took up the paper, and going to
the window, tossed it out, scattering its contents. "It shall never
tempt any one like this again," she said aloud.

Then slipping down to the floor, she leaned her arms upon the windowsill
and buried her face in them.

"God, forgive me," she cried. "It was Thy cross that I was casting off.
But my life is in Thy guidance. I will take all the pain from Thy hand.
Forgive me. Help me against my wicked pride. And in return for the
misery I have brought, give me something good that I may do, some little
favor. And yet--Thy will be done," she added brokenly, then trembled
lest that Will should refuse the one request which seemed to promise any
relief; trembled, but did not retract. "I will wait, I will trust," she
said, and looked into the depths beyond the stars with no fear that her
prayer would fall back into itself like a sound which, finding no home,
returns weary, and robbed of its meaning and strength. She knew that the
something which fell upon her was forgiveness too deep for words and an
assurance of guidance. For the telephone is not new but as old as
humanity and with a call in every man's consciousness. It summons him at
times to leave what he is doing and listen. And when in some depth of
need he sends a message, then, because no other ear than his may catch
the answer given, is there for that reason none? The soul is like
science; it cannot break through its boundaries and burst in upon the
unknowable that surrounds its little realm of knowledge, but wherever it
presses against these barriers they recede without being destroyed, and
the adventurer, still in his own domain, brings back new treasures to
the old life. The source of power is, we know, forever beyond us, but in
going out toward that we enter the realm of power and are charged with
it.

In the stillness that had fallen upon her Elizabeth rose softly, and
made her preparations for the night.

Archdale came down early the next morning. He stood a few moments in the
hall waiting for the appearance of the person he had come to meet. As he
looked out into the garden, a picture seemed to rise before him, one
that was not within his horizon at present. He seemed to be looking out
into a garden as he had been that morning when, with his mother, Sir
Temple and Lady Dacre, he had paid a visit to Madam Pepperell. Looking
into this garden absently he had seen Elizabeth. Unaware of visitors in
the house, she was going on with her occupation of gathering roses.
Archdale the day before, wondering about her complicity with Edmonson's
scheme had had this vision of her come between him and any belief in
this. It came again that next morning as he was waiting to see Edmonson
alone, and imagined his mind full only of what he had learned from him
the day before. He remembered the expression of her face; he had never
seen it gentle like this. She had been standing only a few rods distant
with scarcely so much as her profile turned toward him. A cluster was in
her left hand; in her right a stem just broken off, holding a rose and
several buds. She was perfectly still, seeming to have forgotten to
move, to be lost in reverie. She saw him no more than her roses; she was
alone with her thoughts. There was a strength and a sadness in the
delicate outline, especially in the mouth, which he had not seen before,
perhaps, because he had never studied her profile. As he had thought of
this expression while he had stood before the uncovered portrait, he had
said to himself that certainly she had not been willingly concerned in
helping forward another's misfortune. While he sat watching her he had
been inclined to go to her, obeying his impulse rather than his
judgment, which told him that even if he were in any way the cause of
her sorrow, he could do nothing to help her. But Lady Dacre had spoken
to him at the moment, and before he could answer her he had seen a
servant go up to Elizabeth, and had perceived that she was coming into
the house.

This morning also it was Lady Dacre's voice that broke in upon him. She
was hurrying through the hall with eyes on the open door.

"Good morning," she said. "Has Madam Archdale gone into the garden yet?
I told her I should be there first this morning, and now she has stolen
a march upon me." Archdale was startled. Yes, his mother was in the
garden, he saw her now. Was the other only a vision? "Will you follow,
Temple?" cried her ladyship. Her husband, who had been coming down
stairs as his wife spoke, greeted Archdale hastily and accepted her
invitation, for some one else stood in the hall, having entered it, his
observer supposed, from the library, for he had not seen him on the
stairs. This other one was coming forward to his host when Sir Temple
passed, and in another moment he stood face to face with Archdale.

"Good morning," he said with a bow. His expression had changed from the
sneer it had worn as he stood in the shadow covertly watching Archdale's
face. "Friends, is it not?" he added, and he smiled and held out his
hand tentatively. His host hesitated in the least, then took it. He had
been obliged to remind himself first that instinct was not an autocrat
of one's manners. Edmonson perceived the hesitation, slight as it was,
and the shadow in his heart sprang up and darkened his face for a
moment. Then he gave a short laugh, and turned toward the sunshine.
"That's right," he said; "let us part on good terms; it's luck, not I,
that you find against you."

"It was about this very thing that I was waiting here to speak to you
this morning," returned Stephen. "I was going to beg you to remain until
we can look into things a little; you, and my father, and I, you
understand? It can be done more conveniently here than anywhere
else,--and I trust I need not assure you that you are welcome. Of
course, I don't pretend to like the turn of affairs."

"Not necessary," interposed the other, the covert impertinence under his
frank smile making Archdale flush, and return haughtily:

"I was merely going to say that we must accept with the best grace
possible the consequences of things that happened so long before our
day."

"This philosophy is delightful on your lips. As for myself, I shall not
find that acceptance of the situation makes any demand for philosophical
endurance."

He tossed his head a little as he ended in amusement at having finished
his opponent at the same time as his speech.

"Perhaps that is well," returned Archdale quietly. "Then it is settled
that you stay a few days longer with us?" he added.

"Thank you. I shall be happy to do so. When you need me, I am at your
service; for you will find that I have proofs enough to be satisfactory.
I have not considered that my unsupported word would be taken as
sufficient guarantee in a case like this, where, you know, incredulity
is so desirable."

"Yes, Master Edmonson, I confess, where incredulity is so desirable.
Well, then, after breakfast I shall be obliged to trouble you."

"Thank you," answered Edmonson, marching off immediately. "I think Lady
Dacre is in need of my services. She is struggling with a rose that has
climbed up out of her reach, and her husband has disappeared altogether;
he is probably assisting Madam Archdale. These husbands are not in the
right place, you see." With which Parthian arrow he disappeared, and was
soon filling Lady Dacre's hands with her coveted treasures.

Archdale watched him a few moments noticing his easy movements and his
air of assurance.

"Impudent fellow," he muttered, setting his teeth, "to speak to an
Archdale in that style. I can't believe him. I shall have Allston
examine his proofs; he has a hawk's eye for flaws. But there's the
likeness. Yes, his story may be true; but the man has the making of a
knave in him, if the work is not done already."

It was almost dinner time. Elizabeth had been out sailing with Madam
Archdale, Colonel Pepperell, and Sir Temple, and Lady Dacre. They were
in the Colonel's boat; and Madam Pepperell, who had been detained, had
sent her young guest to represent her. But Edmonson had gone off with
his host to Colonel Archdale's, and Bulchester had mysteriously
disappeared soon afterward. Elizabeth suspected that he had gone to pay
a visit to Katie and had found her so fascinating that he could not tear
himself from her society, or that he had wandered off somewhere by
himself to dwell upon her perfections. "Poor simpleton!" she said to
herself in the revulsion from her fears of the night before. At all
events, the result was the same; there were only three at Seascape to
accept the Colonel's invitation to go sailing.

It was always a refreshment to Elizabeth to be with Sir Temple and Lady
Dacre; that morning it was even better than being alone; they were the
only ones purely spectators in the drama of struggle and suffering going
on under the courtesies that were its scenic accompaniments. When they
talked and jested it was out of happy hearts, at least so far as the
things about them were concerned, and for this reason the strain was
taken from her in their presence. She had only to be gay enough,
and there was no need of watching her words lest they should be
misconstrued. If she had been asked why anything that she said or did
was liable to be misconstrued, she could not have told. This was her
feeling, but she did not see her way; no flash of the electric storm
that the blackness foreboded had yet shown her where she stood; but the
elemental conditions affected her.

The boat on its return had landed Madam Archdale and her guests on the
pebbly beach at Seascape, not far from the house. They had said farewell
and sauntered up the path toward it and disappeared. The boat was about
putting out again when a man came running up to the Colonel, and begged
him to wait to speak with the Captain of a schooner standing out about
half a mile. The Captain had come ashore on purpose to see him and was a
little way down the beach now hurrying toward him. The business was
urgent.

"Go back without me," the Colonel said. "I may be kept here for some
time." But Elizabeth had had enough of sailing for that day; she was
already on shore and said that she would rather walk home. As Pepperell
left her with an apology she walked on a few rods, and stopped to speak
to a fisherman cleaning his boat. She had seen him at the house and had
heard that he had lost his child the week before. As she turned from him
she went on slowly until she came to where a boulder towered over her
head and seemed to bar her progress except along the shore. She knew the
zigzag way that wound about its base and led her into the straight path
again which would take her across the grounds of Seascape and bring her
into the road not far from Colonel Pepperell's home. But before she had
time to enter this way, voices on the other side of the boulder startled
her. Her first thought was that Lady Dacre and her husband had come
back. But she perceived that the tones were Bulchester's. She stood
still an instant, wishing that she could reach the road without being
obliged to talk to him or any one, she felt so little like it. But there
was no hope of that. There was a rough seat cut in the stone on the
other side; the views landward and seaward were delightful; the great
elm near by shaded the place, and Bulchester had probably ensconced
himself there with somebody else. She must go by, and if they even
joined her, it was no matter. She made a movement forward, when
Edrnonson's voice with a ring that she had never heard in it came to her
ears. Yet it was not his tones, but his words, that made her cower and
stand motionless with startled eyes and parted lips, until, slowly, as
wonder grew into disgust, her face crimsoned from brow to throat and
drooped, as if to hide from itself. Was this the way that men spoke of
women, with sneers, with scoffing? In all her innocent life she had
never looked even through bars at the world that such expressions
revealed, dimly enough to her veiled in her simplicity.

The Puritan spirit of her country, that although it sometimes put bands
on the freeman, chained the brute in human nature in his dungeon, lest
his breath in the land should breed death, had been in such accord with
her own fair womanhood that she had not realized that all the world was
not as safe as her own home, as safe, though not as happy. Yet the sneer
that Edmonson had spoken seemed to him so slight, so much a matter of
course, that it was forgotten as soon as uttered; it was merely his way
of looking at a world unknown to his listener. She did not know of what
woman it was that he had dared to speak with such contempt; probably of
some one she had never seen. It was not at the stranger alone; it was
through her at all women that the mire of suspicion had been thrown.

She could not go forward now, and while she stood trying to grow calm
through her indignation and seeing that she must go home by the other
road, which would take her quite a distance out of her way, scraps of
the conversation that fell upon her ears found lodgment in her mind. The
two seemed to be talking of some man now. Then all at once she heard
Bulchester say:

"It's the oddity that takes you;"--she had lost what went before--"that
will soon wear off. But I'm glad enough you're not as wise as I, to
prefer the other. What makes you so sure, though, that he has secured
your--?" In some movement she lost the last word and the answer, unless
it were merely a significant exclamation of belief. "You wouldn't stand
upon the chances of change though," resumed Bulchester, "I know you well
enough. But, according to you, there's the insuperable obstacle."

Edmonson laughed contemptuously.

"Insuperable?" he answered. "Stray shots have taken off more superfluous
kings and men than the world knows of. And just now, with this prospect
of war before the country, something is sure to happen,--to happen,
Bulchester; luck has a passion for me, and after all her caprices, she
is coming to--."

Elizabeth lost the rest of the sentence. She was already on her way home
by the other road, treading softly while on the beach, lest the pebbles
should betray her footsteps. When she was well out of hearing she
stopped a moment to take breath. She stood looking out upon the expanse
of ocean before her as if her sight could reach to the unknown world
beyond it.

"Last night," she said, "I thought the worst had come to me. I was
wrong."

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

[Footnote 2: Copyright, 1884, by Frances C. Sparhawk.]

       *       *       *       *       *




MEMORY'S PICTURES.


By Charles Carleton Coffin, 1846.


  It is a pleasure to throw back the door,
     And view the relics of departed hours;
  To brush the cobwebs from the ancient lore,
     And turn again the book of withered flowers.
  Within the dusty chambers of the past,
     Old pictures hang upon the crumbling walls;
  Dim shadowy forms are in the twilight cast,
     And many a dance is whirling through the halls.
  There are bright fires blazing on the hearth,
     The merry shout falls on the ear again;
  And little footsteps patter down the path,
     Just like the coming of the summer rain.
  I hear the music of the rippling rill,
     The dews of morn are sprinkled on my cheek;
  While down the valley and upon the hill
     The laughing echoes play their hide-and-seek.
  I roam the meadow where the violets grow,
     I watch the shadows o'er the mountain creep;
  I bathe my feet where sparkling fountains flow,
     Or bow my head on moss-grown rocks to sleep.
  I hear the bell ring out the passing hour,
     I hear its music o 'er the valleys flung;
  O, what a preacher is that time-worn tower,
     Reading great sermons with its iron tongue!
  The old church clock, forever swinging slow,
     With moving hands at morning and at even,
  Points to the sleepers in the yard below,
     Then lifts them upward to the distant heaven.
  How will such memories o' er the spirit stray,
     Of hopes and joys, of sorrows and of tears;
  They are the tomb-stones time will ne'er decay,
     Although the moss will gather with the years.


       *       *       *       *       *




EARLY ENGLISH POETRY.


By Professor Edwin H. Sanborn, LL.D.


Our Saxon ancestors when they conquered England, were rude, barbarous,
and cruel. The gods of their worship were bloodthirsty and revengeful.
Odin, their chief divinity, in his celestial hall drank ale from the
skulls of his enemies. In the year 596, the Monk Augustine, or Austin,
was sent by Pope Gregory to attempt their conversion to Christianity. He
and his associates were so successful that on one occasion ten thousand
converts were baptized in one day. Of course their conversion was
external and nominal. They still clung to their old superstitions and
customs. But with the new religion came new ideas.

Manuscripts were circulated; monasteries and schools were founded, and
learning was somewhat diffused. The Saxon language is marked by three
several epochs:

1st. From the irruption of the Saxons into Britain, A.D. 449, to the
invasion of the Danes, including a period of 330 years.

2d. The Danish-Saxon period, continuing to the Norman conquest, A.D.
1066.

3d. The Norman-Saxon era, running down to the close of Henry II's reign.
Of the first period, but a single specimen remains, and that a quotation
by King Alfred; of the 2d period, numerous specimens both in verse and
prose are extant; with the last period, the annals of English poetry
commence.

The three dialects of these three literary epochs illustrate fully the
changes which the old Saxon tongue underwent during the five centuries
of its growth into the modern English.

Learning was chiefly confined to the church, during the dark ages; of
course, the great lights of Saxon England were prelates, except Alfred,
and most of them wrote in Latin.

The venerable Bede (born 673, died 735), as he is styled, who wrote
in the eighth century, was a profoundly learned man for those times.
His writings embrace all topics then included in the knowledge of the
schools or the Church. His works were published at Cologne, in 1612,
in eight folio volumes. Another of the ornaments of this century was
Alcuin, librarian and pupil of Egbert, Archbishop of York. He enjoyed
a European reputation; was invited to France, by Charlemangne, to
superintend his own studies; and was thought by some to have been the
founder of the University of Paris. He was contemporary with Bede, was
acquainted with the Greek, Latin, and Hebrew, languages and composed
treatises on music, logic, rhetoric, astronomy and grammar; besides
lives of saints, commentaries on the Bible, homiles, epistles and
verses.

From the age of these authors learning declined till Alfred appeared.
"At my accession to the throne," he remarks, "all knowledge and learning
were extinguished in the Englsh nation, insomuch, that there were very
few to the south of the Humber who understood the common prayers of the
Church, or were capable of translating a single sentence of Latin into
English; but to the north of the Thames, I cannot recollect so much as
one who could do this." King Alfred was an eminent lover and promotor of
learning. His works in the Saxon tongue, both original and translated,
were numerous and valuable. His glory as a scholar is not eclipsed by
his fame as a legislator. In both respects he has no peer in England's
line of Kings. He is reputed to have been the founder of the University
of Oxford, as well as the originator of the "Trial by Jury." He died
A.D. 900 or 901.

John Scot, or Johannes Scotus Engena, flourished during Alfred's reign,
was a lecturer at Oxford, and the founder or chief prompter of
scholastic divinity. The earliest specimen of the Anglo-Saxon language
extant is the Lord's prayer, translated from the Greek by Ealdfride,
Bishop of Sindisfarne, or Holy Island, about the year 700:

  "Urin Fader  thic  arth in heofnas;
   Our  father which art  in heaven;

  sic gehalgud thin noma;
  be  hallowed thy  name;

  to cymeth thin ryc;
  to come   thy  kingdom:

  sic thin willa sue is in heofnas &   in eorthe;
  be  thy  will  so  is in heaven  and in earth;

  urin hlaf ofirwistlic     sel  us to daig;
  our  loaf super-excellent give us to day;

  and forgefe us scylda urna;
  and forgive us debts  ours;

  sue we forgefan scyldgum urum;
  so  we forgiven debts of ours;

  and no  inlead usig in   custnung;
  and not lead   us   into temptation;

  ah  gefrig usich   from ifle.
  but free   us each from evil.


The new Danish irruptions again arrested the progress of learning, and
ignorance and misery, as is usual, followed in the train of war. Alfred
had restored learning and promoted the arts of peace. But his successors
failed to sustain the institutions he planted. He is said to have shone
with the lustre of the brightest day of summer amidst the gloom of a
long, dark, and stormy, winter. Before the Norman conquest the
Anglo-Saxon tongue fell into disrepute; and French teachers and French
manners were affected by the high-born.

During the reign of Edward, the Confessor, it ceased to be cultivated;
and after the Conqueror, it became more barbarous and vulgar, as it was
then the sign of servility, and the badge of an enslaved race.

As early as the year 652, the Anglo-Saxons were accustomed to send their
youth to French monasteries to be educated. In succeeding centuries the
court and nobility were intimately allied to the magnates of France; and
the adoption of French manners was deemed an accomplishment. The
conquerors commanded the laws to be administered in French. Children at
school were forbidden to read their native language, and the English
name became a term of reproach. An old writer in the eleventh century
says: "Children in scole, agenst the usage and manir of all other
nations, beeth compelled for to leve hire own langage, and for to
construe his lessons and thynges in Frenche, and so they haveth sethe
Normans came first into England." The Saxon was spoken by the peasants,
in the country, yet not without an intermixture of French; the courtly
language was French with some vestiges of the vernacular Saxon.

The Conqueror's army was composed of the flower of the Norman nobility.
They brought with them the taste, the arts, and the refinements, they
had acquired in France. European schools and scholars had been greatly
benefitted by studying Latin versions of Greek philosophers from the
Arabic. Many learned men of the laity also became teachers, and the
Church no longer enjoyed a monopoly of letters. They travelled into
Spain to attend the Arabic schools.

It is a remarkable fact that Greek learning should have travelled
through Bagdad to reach Europe.

The Arabs were as fond of letters as of war. In the eighth century, when
they overran the Asiatic provinces, they found many Greek books which
they read with eagerness. They translated such as best pleased them into
Arabic. Greek poetry they rejected because it was polytheistic. Of Greek
history they made no use, because it recorded events prior to the advent
of their prophet. The politics of Greece and its eloquence were not
congenial to their despotic notions, and so they passed them by. Grecian
ethics were suspended by the Koran, hence Plato was overlooked.
Mathematics, metaphysics, logic, and medicine, accorded with their
tastes. Hence they translated and studied Aristotle, Galen, and
Hippocrates, and illustrated them with voluminous commentaries. These
works stimulated native authors to write new treatises. The Arabs,
therefore, became distinguished for their skill in logic, medicine,
mathematics, and kindred studies. They founded universities during the
eighth century in the cities of Spain and Africa. Charlemagne commanded
their books to be translated into Latin; thus Aristotle entered Europe
through Asia by the double door of the Arabic and Latin tongues, and, by
long prescription, still holds his place in European schools.

Charlemagne founded the universities of Bononia, Pavia, Paris, and
Osnaburg, in Hanover. These became centres for propagating the new
sciences. The Normans, too, shared in the general progress of learning,
and carried with them their attainments into England. The wild
imagination of the Saracens kindled a love of romantic fiction, wherever
their influence was felt. The crusades made the Europeans intimately
acquainted with the literature of the Arabs. Says Marton, who maintains
that romantic fiction originated in Arabia, in his "History of English
Poetry," "Amid the gloom of superstition, in an age of the grossest
ignorance and credulity, a taste for the wonders of oriental fiction was
introduced by the Arabians into Europe, many countries of which were
already seasoned to a reception of its extravagancies by means of the
poetry of the Gothic scalds, who, perhaps, originally derived their
ideas from the same fruitful region of invention.

"These fictions coinciding with the reigning manners, and perpetually
kept up and improved in the tales of troubadours and minstrels, seem to
have centred about the eleventh century in the ideal histories of Turpin
and Geoffrey of Monmouth, which record the suppositious achievements of
Charlemagne and King Arthur, where they formed the groundwork of that
species of narrative called romance. And from these beginnings or
causes, afterwards enlarged and enriched by kindred fancies fetched from
the crusades, that singular and capricious mode of imagination arose,
which at length composed the marvellous machineries of the more sublime
Italian poets, and of their disciple Spenser." The theory which traces
romantic fiction to the Arabs is but partially true. The entire
literature of that age was monstrous, full of the most absurd and
extravagant fancies. History was fabulous; poetry mendacious and
philosophy erroneous. Theology abounded in pious frauds. Monks and
minstrels vied with each other in the invention of lying legends to
adorn the lives of heroes and saints. All classes of the community
shared in the general delusion, and the supernatural seemed more
credible than the natural. In tracing the progress of learning, in
England, I propose, during the remainder of the present paper to discuss
one inconsiderable yet _important_ element of modern civilization,
which is often entirely overlooked. I refer to "Lyric Poetry."

The lyre is one of the oldest of musical instruments. Its invention is
ascribed to a god. Its Saxon name is harp. It was the favorite
instrument of the ancient Hebrews, as well as of the Greeks. The Saxons,
Britons and Danes regarded it with veneration, and protected by legal
enactments those who played upon it. Their persons were esteemed
inviolable and secured from injuries by heavy penalities. By the laws of
Wales, slaves were forbidden to practice upon it; and no creditor could
seize the harp of his debtor. That minstrels were a privileged class is
manifested from king Alfred's penetrating the Danish camp (878)
disguised as a harper. Sixty years after a Danish king visited King
Athelstan's camp in the same disguise. It was also said of Aldhelm, one
of the leading scholars of the eighth century: "He was an excellent
harper, a most eloquent Saxon and Latin poet, a most expert chanter, or
a singer, a doctor egregius, and admirably versed in scriptures and
liberal sciences." The minstrel was a regular and stated officer of the
Anglo-Saxon kings. Poetry is always the earliest form of literature;
song the earliest form of poetry. The Muse adapts her lessons to the
nation's infancy and adds the charm of melody to verse. No nation is
destitute of lyric poetry. Even the North American Indians have their
war songs, though their individual worship of their gods has prevented
the creation of any national poetry for associated worship. The
Scandinavians have but one term for the poet and the singer. The
Northern _scald_ invented and recited his own songs and epics. In
other countries the poet and minstrel performed separate duties. "The
Minstrels," says Bishop Percy, "were an order of men in the Middle Ages
who subsisted by the arts of poetry and music, and sang to the harp
verses composed by themselves and others. They appear to have
accompanied their songs with mimicry and action. They are called in
Latin of the day _histriones_, _Mimi_ and _Scurræ_. Such arts
rendered them exceedingly popular in this and in neighboring countries,
where no high scene of festivity was esteemed complete that was not set
off with the exercise of their talents; and where so long as the spirit
of chivalry existed, they were protected and caressed, because their
songs tended to do honor to the ruling passion of the times, and to
encourage and foment a martial spirit."

They were the legitimate successors of the bards and scalds of early
times whose art was considered divine and their songs worthy of regal
patronage. They were the historians, genealogists, poets, and musicians,
of the land. The word minstrel is derived from the Latin
_minister_, a servant, because they were classed among the King's
attendants. An earlier Saxon name for this class of performers was
"Gleeman," in rude English, a Jogeler or Jocular; Latin, "Joculator."
The word "glee" is from the Saxon "gligg," meaning music; and the
meaning now attached to that word shows how intimately associated were
pleasure and music in the national mind. The harp was the most ancient
of Saxon musical instruments. It continued in use for a thousand years.
It was well known in the time of Chaucer. His _Frere_ could play
upon it and sing to it; the merry "wife of Bath" had frequently danced
to it in her youth. It was an ordinary accompaniment of revels and
tavern festivals. It continued in use till the reign of Elizabeth.
In Dr. Percy's "Reliques of ancient English poetry" he speaks of the
minstrels as an order of men in the Middle Ages, highly honored,
retained and pensioned by kings, lavishly rewarded by nobles, and kindly
entertained by the common people.[3] Ritson in his "Ancient Songs"
admits that such an "order" of singers existed in France, but never in
England; that individuals wandered up and down the country chanting
romances and singing songs or ballads to the harp or fiddle; but that
they never enjoyed the respect of the high born or received favors from
them. The church evidently looked upon them with disfavor, as the
enemies of sobriety and the promoters of revelry and mirth. In the
sixteenth century they lost all credit and were classed, in penal
enactments, with "rogues and vagabonds." One reason of the decline of
minstrelsy was the introduction of printing and the advance of learning:
that which might afford amusement and pleasure when sung to the harp,
lost its point and spirit when read in retirement from the printed page.
Their composition would not bear criticism. Besides, the market had
become overstocked with these musical wares; as the religious houses had
with homilies and saintly legends. The consideration bestowed on the
early minstrels "enticed into their ranks idle vagabonds," according to
the act of Edward I, who went about the country under color of
minstrelsy; men who cared more about the supper than the song; who for
base lucre divorced the arts of writing and reciting and stole other
men's thunder. Their social degeneracy may be traced in the dictionary.
The chanter of the "gests" of kings, _gesta ducum regumque_,
dwindled into a gesticulator, a jester: the honored jogelar of Provence,
into a mountebank; the jockie, a doggrel ballad-monger.


  Beggars they are by one consent,
  And rogues by act of Parliament.


What a fall was there from their former high estate and reverence. The
earliest minstrels of the Norman courts, doubtless, came from France,
where their rank was almost regal.

Froissart, describing a Christmas festival given by Comte de Foix in the
fourteenth century, says:


  "There were many Mynstrels as well of hys own as of strangers, and
  eache of them dyd their devoyres in their facalties. The same day
  the Earl of Foix gave to Hauralds and Minstrelles the sum of 500
  franks, and gave to the Duke of Tonrayns Mynstreles gouns of cloth
  of gold furred with ermyne valued at 200 franks."


The courts of kings swarmed with these merry singers in the Dark Ages,
and such sums were expended upon them, that they often drained the royal
treasuries. In William's army there was a brave warrior named Taillefer,
who was as renowned for minstrelsy as for arms. Like Tyrtæus and Alemon,
in Sparta, he inspired his comrades with courage by his martial strains,
and actually led the van in the fight against the English, chanting the
praises of Charlemagne, and Roland. Richard Coeur de Lion was a
distinguished patron of minstrels as well as "the mirror of chivalry."
He was sought out in his prison in Austria by a faithful harper who made
himself known by singing a French song under the window of the castle in
which the king was confined. Blondel was the harper's name. The French
song translated reads thus:


  "Your beauty, lady fair,
    None views without delight;
  But still so cold an air
    No passion can excite.
  Yet still I patient see
  While all are shun'd like me.
  No nymph my heart can wound
    If favor she divide,
  And smiles on all around
    Unwilling to decide;
  I'd rather hatred bear,
  Than love with others share."


Edward I had a harper in his train, in his crusade to the Holy Land, who
stood by his side in battle.

That same king in his conquest of Wales is said to have murdered all the
bards that fell into his hands lest they should rouse the nation again
to arms. Gray's poem, "The Bard," was written upon that theme. I will
quote a few lines:


  "Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
    Dear as the light that visits these eyes,
  Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
    Ye died amidst your dying country's cries--
  No more I weep. They do not sleep.
    On yonder cliffs a griesly band,
  I see them sit; they linger yet,
    Avengers of their native land."


That the minstrel was a privileged character in England down to the
reign of Elizabeth is proved by history, by frequent allusions to them
in the current literature of the times, and by the large body of songs,
ballads, and metrical romances, still extant which are ascribed to them.
They were essential to the complete education of a knight as tutors: for
no accomplishment was more valued in the days of chivalry than the
playing of the harp and the composition of songs in honor of the fair.
Before the origin of printing they acted as publishers of the works of
more renowned poets by public recitations of their works. The period of
their greatest celebrity was about the middle of the fifteenth century.
The minstrel chose his own subject and so long as he discoursed to
warriors of heroes and enchanters, and to gay knights of true love and
fair ladies, he would not want patient and gratified listeners.

The great sources of Gothic romance are a British History of Arthur and
his wizzard, Merlin, by Walter, Archdeacon of Oxford, translated into
Latin by Geoffrey of Monmouth; the history of Charlemagne and his twelve
peers, forged by Turpin, a monk of the eighth century; the History of
Troy, in two Latin works, which passed under the names of Dares Phrygius
and Dictys Cretensis; and the History of Alexander the Great, originally
written in Persic and translated into Greek by Simeon Seth, A.D. 1070,
and again turned into Latin by Giraldus Cambrensis about the year 1200.
These four works with variations, additions, and dilutions, formed the
staple of romantic fiction in verse in the Dark Ages.

The minor songs and ballads which were called forth by passing events
were usually amorous, sportive, gay, and often gross, yet suited to a
rude age.

Ellis in his specimens of the early English poets has given us sketches
of one hundred and sixty-one writers of songs from the year 1230 to
1650, after a careful search through this whole period for literary
gems. The first edition of his work consisted almost entirely of love
songs and sonnets; the revised edition has greater variety; but our
circle of ideas is so enlarged, our habits are so different from those
of by-gone centuries, that we look over this rare collection of old
poems, rather to learn the manners of the people, than to enjoy the
diction of their songs. We cannot doubt that this species of poetry
excited an important influence when it was the staple of popular
education and amusement.

A maxim is current among us which has been successively ascribed to many
great thinkers, which shows the value usually set on compositions of
this kind. It is this: "Let me make the songs of a people and I care not
who makes their laws."

A ballad is a story in verse whose incidents awaken the sympathies and
excite the passions of those who listen. The song is designed to express
deep emotion, joy or sorrow, hope or fear and appeals directly to the
feelings. Here, often, the singing is more than the sentiment; the tones
of the chanter are often more touching than the thoughts of the Emperor.
A national ode must have a national element in it; it must reflect the
passions that burn in the people's breasts. Local topics, too, may call
forth a general interest when they describe trials or triumphs which all
may share. Says Carlyle: "In a peasant's death-bed there may be the
fifth act of a tragedy. In the ballad which details the adventures and
the fate of a partisan warrior or a love-lorn knight,--the foray of a
border chieftain or the lawless bravery of a forrester; a Douglass, or a
Robin Hood,--there may be the materials of a rich romance. Whatever be
the subject of the song, high or low, sacred or secular, there is this
peculiarity about it, it expresses essentially the popular spirit, the
common sentiment, which the rudest breast may feel, yet which is not
beneath the most cultivated. It is peculiarly the birth of the popular
affections. It celebrates some event which the universal heart clings
to, which, for joy or sorrow, awaken the memories of every mind." Hence
we learn the history of a nation's heart from their songs as we learn
their martial history from their armor.

The oldest song, set to music, which is now known is the following:


   "Summer is y-comen in,
    Loude sing cuckoo:
  Groweth seed,
  And bloweth mead,
  And springeth the wood now;
    Sing Cuckoo!
    Ewe bleateth after lamb,
      Lowth after calf cow;
  Bullock starteth,
    Buck resteth
      Merry sing cuckoo!
      Cuckoo, Cuckoo!
    Well sings thou cuckoo!
    Ne swick thou never now."


The old ballads seem to have no paternity. They spring up like flowers,
spontaneously. Most of them are of unknown date and unknown authorship.
The structure, language, and spelling of many have been so modified, by
successive reciters, that their original form is now lost. We have a
short summary of King Arthur's history, the great hero of romance, in a
comparatively modern ballad. I will quote it:


  Of Brutus' blood, in Brittane born,
    King Arthur I am to name:
  Through Christendome and Heathynesse
    Well known is my worthy fame.
  In Jesus Christ I doe beleeve;
    I am a Christyan born:
  The Father, Sone and Holy Gost
    One God I doe adore.
  In the four hundreed nintieth yeere
    Over Brittaine I did rayne,
  After my Savior Christ his byrth:
    What time I did maintaine.
  The fellowshippe of the table round
    Soe famous in those days;
  Whereatt a hundred noble Knights
    And thirty sat alwayes;
  Who for their deeds and martiall feates,
    As bookes dou yet record,
  Amongst all other nations
    Wer feared through the world.
  And in the castle of Tayntagill,
    King Uther me begate
  Of Agyana, a bewtyous ladye,
    And come of hie estate.
  And when I was fifteen yeer old,
    Then was I crowned Kinge;
  All Brittaine that was att an uprore
    I did to quiett bring
  And drove the Saxons from the realme,
    Who had oppressed this land;
  All Scotland then throughe manly feates
    I conquered with my hand.
  Ireland, Denmarke, Norway,
    These countryes won I all
  Iseland, Getheland and Swothland;
    And mad their kings my thrall
  I conquered all Galya,
    That now is called France;
  And slew the hardye Froll in Field
    My honor to advance,
  And the ugly gyant Dynabus
    Soe terrible to vewe,
  That in Saint Barnard's Mount did lye,
    By force of armes, I slew;
  And Lucyus, the emperor of Rome
    I brought to deadly wracke;
  And a thousand more of noble knightes
    For feare did turn their backe;
  Five kings of "Haynims" I did kill
    Amidst that bloody strife;
  Besides the Grecian emperor
    Who also lost his liffe.
  Whose carcasse I did send to Rome
    Cladd pourlye on a beete;
  And afterward I past Mount Joye
    The next approaching yeer.
  Then I came to Rome where I was mett
    Right as a conquerer
  And by all the cardinalls solempnelye
    I was crowned an emperor.
  One winter there I mad abode;
    Then word to mee was brought
  Howe Mordred had oppressed the crown;
    What treason he had wrought.
  Att home in Brittaine with my queene:
    Therefore I came with speed
  To Brittaine back with all my power
    To quitt that traterous deede.
  And soon at Sandwich I arrivde
    Where Mordred me withstoode.
  But yett at last I landed there
    With effusion of much blood.
  Thence chased I Mordred away
    Who fledd to London right,
  From London to Winchester, and
    To Comeballe took his flight.
  And stile I him pursued with speed
    Tile at the last wee mett:
  Uhevby an appointed day of fight
    Was there agreed and sett
  Where we did fight of mortal life
    Eche other to deprive,
  Tile of a hundred thousand men
    Scarce one was left alive.
  There all the noble chevalrye
    Of Brittaine took their end
  Oh see how fickle is their state
    That doe on feates depend.
  There all the traiterous men were slaine
    Not one escapte away
  And there dyed all my vallyant knights
    Alas! that woful day!
  Two and twenty yeere I ware the crown
    In honor and grete fame;
  And thus by deth[4] suddenlye
    Deprived of the same.


Some distinguished English critics, like Warton and Dr. Warburton,
maintain that the materials as well as the taste for romantic fiction
were derived almost exclusively from the Arabians. They assume therefore
that the traditions, fables and mode of thought in Northern Asia from
whence the Scandinavians and Germans are supposed to have originated,
were identical with those which the secluded people of Arabia afterwards
incorporated into their literature. It is more natural to assume that
there is always a similarity in the mythologies, as in the manners,
religion, and armor of rude ages and races. Respect for woman was a
characteristic of the northern nations of Europe, and not of the
Mohammedans. This is an all pervading element in romantic and chivalric
fiction. The Northmen believed in giants and dwarfs; in wizzards and
fairies; in necromancy and enchantments; as well as the Oriental
natives. It is reasonable, therefore, to assume that the immense tide of
song which inundated Europe from the eleventh to the sixteenth century,
under the form of metrical romances, ballads, and songs, was made up of
confluent streams from classical, Oriental, and Gothic mythologies. The
Troubadours of Province (from Provincia, by way of eminence), the
legitimate successors of the Latin citharcedi, the British bards, the
northern scalds, the Saxon gleemen, and English harpers, all contributed
in turn to form English minstrelsy and French romance. The Latin tongue
ceased to be spoken in France about the ninth century. The new language
used in its stead was a mixture of bad Latin and the language of the
Franks. As their speech was a medley, so was their poetry. As the songs
of chivalry were the most popular compositions in the new or Romance
language, they were called Romans, or Romants. They appeared about the
eleventh century. The stories of Arthur and his round table are
doubtless of British origin. It is evident that the Northmen had the
elements of chivalry in them long before that institution became famous,
as is shown by the story of Regner Lodbrog, the celebrated warrior and
sea king, who landed in Denmark about the year 800. A Swedish Prince had
intrusted his beautiful daughter to the care of one of his nobles who
cruelly detained her in his castle under pretence of making her his
wife. The King made proclamation that whoever would rescue her should
have her in marriage. Regner alone achieved her rescue. The name of the
traitorous man was Orme, which in the Islandic tongue means a serpent,
hence the story that the maiden was guarded by a dragon, which her bold
deliverer slew. The history of Richard I. is full of such romantic
adventures. Shakespeare, in his play of King John, alludes to an exploit
of Richard in slaying a lion, whence the epithet "Coeur de Lion,"
which is given in no history. He says:


  "Needs must you lay your heart at his dispose
  Against whose furie and unmatched force,
  The aweless lion could not wage the fight
  Nor keep his princely heart from Richard's hand:
  He that perforce robs lions of their hearts
  May easily winne a woman's."


This allusion is fully explained in the old romance of Richard Coeur de
Lion. The King travelling as "a palmer in Almaye," from the Holy Land,
was seized as a spy and imprisoned. Being challenged to a trial of
pugilism by the King's son, he slew him. The King to avenge his son's
death let in a hungry lion upon the royal prisoner. The King's daughter,
who loved the captive, sent him forty ells of white silk "kerchers" to
bind about him as a defence against the lion's teeth and claws. The
romance thus proceeds:


  The kever-chefes he toke on hand,
  And aboute his arme he wonde;
  And thought in that ylke while
  To slee the lyon with some gyle
  And syngle in a kyrtyle he strode
  And abode the lyon fyers and wode,
  With that came the jaylere,
  And other men that with him were
  And the lyon them amonge;
  His pawes were stiffe and stronge.
  His chamber dore they undone
  And the lyon to them is gone
  Rycharde aayd Helpe Lord Jesu!
  The lyon made to him venu,
  And wolde him have alle to rente:
  Kynge Rycharde beside hym glente
  The lyon on the breste hym spurned
  That about he turned,
  The lyon was hongry and megre,
  And bette his tail to be egre;
  He loked about as he were madde,
  He cryd lowde and yaned wyde.
  Kynge Richarde bethought him that tyde
  What hym was beste, and to him sterte
  In at the thide his hand he gerte,
  And rente out the beste with his hond
  Lounge and all that he there fonde.
  The lyon fell deed on the grounde
  Rycharde felt no wem ne wounde.


On such fictitious incidents in the romances of past ages, Shakespeare
undoubtedly built many of his dramas. The story of Shylock in the
Merchant of Venice is found in an old English ballad. I will quote a few
stanzas to indicate the identity of Shylock and "Germutus, the Jew of
Venice."


  The bloudie Jew now ready is
    With whetted blade in hand
  To spoyle the bloud of innocent,
    By forfeit of his bond,
  And as he was about to strike
    In him the deadly blow;
  Stay, quoth the judge, thy crueltie
    I charge thee to do so.
  Sith needs thou wilt thy forfeit have
    Which is of flesh a pound;
  See that thou shed no drop of bloud
    Nor yet the man confound
  For if thou do, like murderer
    Thou here shall hanged be;
  Likewise of flesh see that thou cut
    No more than longs to thee;
  For if thou take either more or lesse
    To the value of a mite
  Thou shall be hanged presently
    As is both law and right.


It is reasonable to suppose the miser thereupon departed cursing the law
and leaving the merchant alive.

There is, also, a famous ballad called "King Leir and His Daughters,"
which embodies the story of Shakespeare's tragedy of _Lear_. It
commences thus:


  So on a time it pleased the king
    A question thus to move,
  Which of his daughters to his grace
    Could show the dearest love;
  For to my age you bring content,
    Quoth he, then let me hear,
  Which of you three in plighted troth
    The kindest will appear.
  To whom the eldest thus began;
    Dear father, mind, quoth she
  Before your face to do you good,
    My blood shall render'd be:
  And for your sake, my bleeding heart
    Shall here be cut in twain
  Ere that I see your reverend age
    The smallest grief sustain.
  And so wilt I the second said;
    Dear father for your sake
  The worst of all extremities
    I'll gently undertake.
  And serve your highness night and day
    With diligence and love;
  That sweet content and quietness
    Discomforts may remove.
  In doing so you glad my soul
    The aged king replied:
  But what sayst thou my youngest girl
    How is thy love ally'd?
  My love quoth young Cordelia then
    Which to your grace I owe
  Shall be the duty of a child
    And that is all I'll show.


This honest pledge the King despised and banished Cordelia. The ballad
accords with the drama in the catastrophe. Both have the same moral and
the same characters. The ballad is doubtless the earlier form of the
story. Possibly the minstrel and dramatist may have borrowed from a
common source. Good thoughts, good tales and noble deeds, like well-worn
coins, sometimes lose their date and must be estimated by weight. Ballad
poetry is written in various measures and with diverse feet. The rhythm
is easy and flows along trippingly from the tongue with such regular
emphasis and cadence as to lead instinctively to a sort of sing-song in
the recital of it. Ballads are more frequently written in common metre
lines of eight and six syllables alternating. Such is the famous ballad
of "Chevy Chace,"[5] which has been growing in popular esteem for more
than three hundred years. Ben Jonson used to say he would rather have
been the author of it than of all his works. Sir Philip Sidney, in his
discourse on poetry, says of it: "I never heard the old song of Percy
and Douglass that I found not my heart more moved than with a trumpet."
Addison wrote an elaborate review of it in the seventieth and
seventy-fourth numbers of the _Spectator_. He there demonstrates
that this old ballad has all the elements in it of the loftiest existing
epic. The moral is the same as that of the Iliad:


  "God save the king and bless the land
    In plenty, joy and peace
  And grant henceforth that foul debate
    Twixt noblemen may cease."


Addison, in Number 85 of the _Spectator_, also commends that
beautiful and touching ballad denominated "The Children in the Wood." He
observes, "This song is a plain, simple copy of nature, destitute of the
helps and ornaments of art. The tale of it is a pretty, tragical story
and pleases for no other reason than because it is a copy of nature." It
is known to every child as a nursery song or a pleasant story. A stanza
or two will reveal its pathos and rhythm. The children had been
committed by their dying parents to their uncle:


  The parents being dead and gone
    The children home he takes,
  And brings them straite unto his house
    Where much of them he makes.
  He had kept these pretty babes
    A twelve month and a daye
  But for their wealth he did desire
    To make them both away


An assassin is hired to kill them; he leaves them in a deep forest:


  These pretty babes with hand in hand
    Went wandering up and downe;
  But never more could see the man
    Approaching from the town:
  Their pretty lippes with black-berries
    Were all besmeared and dyed
  And when they saw the darksome night
    They sat them down and cried.
  Thus wandered these poor innocents
    Till death did end their grief,
  In one another's armes they dyed
    As wanting due relief;
  No burial this pretty pair
    Of any man receives
  Till robin red-breast piously
    Did cover them with leaves.


There is a famous story book written by Richard Johnson in the reign of
Elizabeth, entitled, "The Seven Champions of Christendom."[6]

The popular English ballad of "St. George and the Dragon," is founded on
one of the narratives of this book, and the story in the book on a still
older ballad, or legend, styled "Sir Bevis of Hampton." This, too,
resembles very much Ovid's account of the slaughter of the dragon by
Cadmus. In the legend of Sir Bevis the fight is thus described:


  "Whan the dragon that foule is
  Had a sight of Sir Bevis,
  He cast yo a loud cry
  As it had thondered in the sky,
  He turned his belly toward the sun
  It was greater than any tonne;
  His scales was brighter than the glas,
  And harder they were than any bras
  Betwene his sholder and his tayle
  Was 40 fote without fayle,
  He woltered out of his denne,
  And Bevis pricked his stede then,
  And to him a spere he thraste
  That all to shivers he it braste.
  The dragon then gan Bevis assayle
  And smote Syr Bevis with his tayle
  Then down went horse and man
  And two rybbes of Bevis brused than."


Suffice it to say the knight at last conquered and the monster was
slain. The same story is repeated in the ballad of "St. George and the
Dragon," with variations. There a fair lady is rescued:


  "For, with his lance that was so strong,
    As he came gaping in his face,
  In at his mouth, he thrust along,
    For he could pierce no other place;
  And thus within the lady's view
  This mighty dragon straight he slew."


The martial achievements of this patron saint of the "Knights of the
Garter" are considered apocryphal, and, in 1792, it required an octavo
volume by Rev. J. Milner to prove his existence at all. Emerson says he
was a notorious thief and procured his prelatic honors by fraud.

The English history is to a considerable extent embodied in the national
songs. Opinions, prejudices, and superstitions, however, are oftener
embodied in them than facts. This species of literature has been very
potent for good or ill in revolutionary times. Kings and parties have
been both marred and made by them. The martial spirit, in all ages, has
been kindled by lyrics; national victories have been celebrated by them;
and by them individual prowess has been immortalized.

The English people were famous for their convivialty and periodical
festivals such as May Day, New Years, sowing-time, sheep-shearing,
harvest home, corresponding to our Thanksgiving and Christmas. All these
occasions were enlivened with songs and tales. The Christmas carol and
story are famous in England's annals. Scott says:


  "All hail'd with uncontroll'd delight
  And general voice the happy night,
  That to the cottage as the crown,
  Brought tidings of salvation down.
  'Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale
  'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
  A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
  The poor man's heart through half the year."



[Footnote 3: Ritson and Bishop Percy speak of different ages: one
describing the rise and the other the decline of minstrelsy.]

[Footnote 4: The song makes Arthur record his own death.]

[Footnote 5: 7th vol. Child's British Poets.]

[Footnote 6: Childs British Poets, I: 139 and 149.]

       *       *       *       *       *




BOOK REVIEWS.


ORIENTAL RELIGIONS AND THEIR RELATION TO UNIVERSAL RELIGION. By SAMUEL
JOHNSON, with an introduction by O.B. FROTHINGHAM. _Persia_,
Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1885.

This is the third volume of the series, and was not quite completed at
the time of Mr. Johnson's death in 1882. The other volumes, on
_India_ and _China_, created much interest in the world of
religious and ethnical study, a prominent London publisher and
literateur saying to a friend of the present writer that nothing more
would need to be written of China for the next quarter of a century. Max
Muller testified to the high value of Mr. Johnson's work.

In the study of the various religions, the author finds in each some
peculiar manifestation of the universal religious sentiment. In Southern
Asia he clearly sees nature almost absorbing the individual and hence a
pantheistic vagueness and vastness in which man does not realize a
complete sense of personality. But in the North and West the same
Tudo-European race comes to a self-conscious individuality and there is
the "evolution and worship of personal will." Mr. Johnson's first
chapter on "Symbolism" brings out this epoch of will development as
illustrated by the Persians,--the human soul impressing itself upon the
material world--and finding outside itself natural emblems to express
its religious life. "Symbolism is mediation between inward and outward,
person and performance, man and his environment." "Work is the image man
makes of himself on the world in and through nature." Mr. Johnson finds
the personal element becoming supreme in these people of Northern and
Western Asia.

Perhaps there has never been so philosophical and satisfactory a
treatment of the Fire-Symbol, which, however, our author says is not
peculiar to the religion of Persian Zoroaster, as we find in Mr.
Johnson's chapter under that head. As light, heat, cosmic vital energy,
astronomical centre, as all producing and all sustaining force, the sun
and the other burning and brilliant objects lighted therefrom, furnish
very much of the symbolism of all religions. "The Sun of Rightousness"
is a favorite figure with Jew and Christian. It is doubtless as
incorrect to characterize the Persians as "fire worshipers" as it would
be to say that Christians, who use the same symbol, give their worship
to the symbol rather than the Being symbolized. Still our author finds
this emblem a very important one in the religion of the followers of
Zoroaster and thinks he detects a progress in thought and civilization
marked by the coming of the people to give religious regard to the sun
and heavenly bodies, instead of fire kindled by human hands--a new
stability of being corresponding with the passage of early people's art
of nomadic or shepherd life into agriculture with its fixed abodes and
domestic associations.

The two deities of the Zend Avesta, Ormuzd and Ahriman, the good and the
evil in perpetual conflict, could not have been conceived of in Southern
Asia where the human will is kept under, and where self-consciousness is
so moderately developed. This battle is in the Avestan faith and morals
largely in the human breast, and is the same that Paul is conscious of
in the combat he describes between himself and sin that was in him. The
Avestan _Morals_ are brought out by Mr. Johnson in their original
and exceeding purity.

But the larger sweep of Mr. Johnson's purpose carries him into an
exhaustive and most interesting consideration of Persian influence upon
the Hebrew faith and thought--through the conquests of Cyrus and
Alexander--and through Maurchæism and Gnosticism--down to Christendom.

Mahometanism is, in our author's mind, the culmination of the religion
of personal will, and he devotes many glowing and instructive pages to
bringing out the meaning and heart of the religion of Islam, especially
in its later and in its more spiritual developments. The final object of
the volume is to show the relation of the religion of personal will to
universal religion.

Of course our author has not been foolish and unfair enough to portray
the perversions and lapses of this particular type of Oriental faith and
ethics; but his aim has been to set forth its essential principles and
to show how they spring from the universal root.

The study of comparative religions, and hence of the universal religion,
is one of the characteristics and glories of our time. Once every people
despised, as a religious duty, every nation and every religion but its
own, and sword and fagot were employed, as under divine command, to
exterminate all strange manifestations of religious sentiment. Now the
advance guard of civilization is giving itself to devout and thankful
study of all the religions under the sure impression that they will
prove to be one in origin and essence: and so a sweeter human sympathy
and a more complete unity are beginning to be realized among men.

No man has in most respects been better fitted for this study than was
the lamented author of these books. Mr. Johnson was almost or quite "a
religious genius," with an enthusiasm of faith in the invisible and the
idea, which few men have ever shown; and his devoutness was equalled by
his catholicity. His religious lyrics enrich our Christian psalmody,
while his published discourses, mingling philosophical light with fervor
of a transcendent faith in God and man, rank among the grandest
utterances from the American pulpit and platform. No American can afford
to miss the power and influence of such a mind; and no student of
religion should fail to have in his possession Johnson's _Persia_.

S.C. BEANE.

       *       *       *       *       *


"THE OVERSHADOWING POWER OF GOD. A synopsis of a new philosophy
concerning the nature of the soul of man, its union with the animal
soul, and its gradual creation through successive acts of overshadowing
and the insertion of shoots, to its perfection in Jesus the Christ; with
illustrations of the inner meaning of the Bible, from the Hebrew roots;
offering to the afflicted soul the way of freedom from inharmony and
disease. By HORACE BOWEN, M.D.; transcribed in verse by Sheridan Wait,
with chart and illustrations by M.W. Fairchild. Vineland, N.J. New Life
Publishing Co., 1883."

This book of Dr. Bowen's opens into a field of thought that has
heretofore mostly escaped the survey of theologians and philosophers:
classes that are supposed to be in pursuit of essential truth concerning
both God and man. Its leading aim seems to be to present a reliable clew
to those truths by an unusual interpretation of the Scriptures as a
revelation of creative order. The author stands with a comparatively
small class of ardent explorers who have come to see "the light of the
world" under a new radiance; a radiance that actually gives it the
breadth and power of its claim.

Dr. Bowen's personal career in coming to this light, as related in the
preface, is full of interest; and this preface is impressively wrought
with the system of creative law that he aims to outline, and that the
verse of Mr. Wait labors to elaborate. This author is firmly loyal to
the sacred Scriptures as divine revelation, and, as such, he aims to
show that, in their inmost sense, they systematically unfold the
creative process, which consists of divine operations in the human soul
by which, through varied series of growth, it becomes fully conjoined
to, and illuminated with creative life--the light and life of Jesus, the
Christ. The process from Adamic to Christ states of soul, Dr. Bowen
finds was effected through successive births by "the overshadowing power
of God;" so the immaculate conception of the virgin, that gave "the
highest" full embodiment in Jesus Christ was simply a revelation of the
ultimation of creative power in outward realms; as such, "was the
completion of the plan for the creation of man, through a serial
gradation of over-shadowings, or the sowing of seed and the insertion of
shoots"--this "individual case being but the universal method of God in
creation."

Dr. Bowen goes on to show the relation and bearing of this ultimate
order of creative life in the human form to the mental and physical
conditions of man, and holds it to be the saving term to our human
nature, in all respects.

The body of the book, consisting of nearly five hundred pages of "verse"
by Mr. Wait, is an ingenious elaboration of the principles and forms of
this order, especially as it is found held in the Hebraic Roots,
throughout the incomparable system of divine revelation. But,
indisputably, the treatise would have been far more forcible and
impressive if it had been dressed with the direct and vigorous style
shown by the author in his preface. Not the least in significance in
this remarkable publication is a pocketed chart by Miss Fairchild. But
the whole must be perused and pondered in order to give proper
impressions of its real value. To the mind of the writer of this brief
notice, the book will greatly aid the struggling thought of this
manifestly transitional era, in that it points so distinctly to the
oncoming theological science that is to effect a complete revolution in
prevailing conceptions of creative order.

W.H.K.

       *       *       *       *       *


PHILOSOPHIÆ QUESTOR: or Days in Concord. By JULIA R. ANAGNOS. Boston:
D. Lothrop and Company.

This is a little book--only sixty pages--but it is entirely unique in
its plan and style. Its purpose is to give an outline sketch of two
seasons of the School of Philosophy. To secure this purpose, the author
has taken as "a sort of half heroine the shadowy figure of a young
girl;" and, as seen to her, the proceedings of the school are sketched.
Most of the persons and places have fictitious names; Mr. Alcott is
called "Venerablis;" Concord, "Harmony;" the school, "the Acadame." Mr.
Emerson retains his real name; the girl, who observes and writes, is
"Eudoxia."

One who opens the book will be apt to read it through, not as much for
its real value as for its quaint style and sometimes beautiful
expressions.

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EDITOR'S TABLE.


Of all the nearly two-score states together forming the American Union,
no one surpasses the Commonwealth of Massachusetts in the extent and
variety of her historical resources. Two hundred and sixty-five years
ago the Mayflower and her companion craft sighted the rock-bound coast
of New England as they sailed into Massachusetts Bay. That event marks
the beginning of a history which, to us of the present generation,
stands unequalled in the richness of its coloring. While the history of
the Colonial period is cold and unpoetic in many of its aspects, it also
contains an element of romance not to be overlooked. Truly, it is not
the romance of ancient Rome, nor of the castle-bordered Rhine, nor of
Merrie Old England; it is a romance growing out of a life in a new
world; a life attended--almost made up, even, of conflicts with a
strange race of savage people, and conflicts with hunger, cold, and
sometimes famine. The events of this early Colonial life, tragic as they
often are, carry with them an interest which is almost enchanting.

When, as children, we read those tales from the old school reading book,
or heard them recited as we sat at grandfather's knee, what pictures
impressed themselves on our eager minds! The log meeting-house, and
before it the stacked muskets and pacing sentinel; the dusky savage
faces hiding behind every tree; the midnight assault: the lurid fire,
and the brandished tomahawk--these are pictures that have sometimes come
with startling vividness to our youthful imaginations. And then our
fancies have seen the so-called witches of Salem, the sudden arrest, the
hurrying to the jail and perhaps to the gallows.

To the older mind, these realities of the past have a deep and
ever-growing interest. The later periods of the Colony, the period of
the Revolution and the period immediately following, are increasingly
fertile in materials for the historian, the essayist, and the novelist.
To bring out into clearer light, to present in forms adapted to the mass
of readers, and to arouse a more lively interest in this history,
especially the romantic element of it, is one leading aim and intent of
this magazine. There are in existence various magazines devoted to New
England history, and which are of great value to the student and the
antiquary. The BAY STATE MONTHLY is not only this, it is a magazine
for the people; and throughout this State, and no less in many
others,--offsprings of this old Commonwealth,--it has received and
awaits a still more generous reception.

       *       *       *       *       *

The custom of observing the anniversaries of the incorporation of towns
and cities in New England has become well established. In Massachusetts
there are a very few towns which have reached so important an epoch in
their history, as the quarter millennial of their corporate existence.
Several have celebrated their bi-centennials, while hardly a year passes
without the observance of one or more centennial anniversaries.

The custom is strongly to be commended, for it serves an important
historical purpose. It is especially true in New England that every
town, no matter how small, has an important place in the general
history, and the perpetuity of this history, it hardly needs to be said,
is a matter of great importance to this and succeeding generations. This
is being done most effectually by means of these publicly-observed
anniversaries. An event of this kind draws together the residents of the
town, and many others who are connected with its history by their early
life or ancestry. The occasion calls forth an historical address
prepared by some native of the town, who has attained distinction in
professional or public life--and what New England town cannot boast of
its distinguished son--and, at the same time, arrangements are made for
a published history of the town. These historical sketches are of great
value and, collectively, they contain the true history of the people.
The humble historian of the little town down on the Cape or up among the
hills of Berkshire, may not be a Prescott, a Motley or a Bancroft, but,
in his smaller sphere, he is performing a service no less valuable than
that of the historian of nations. In many of these local histories are
to be found events of highly-romantic interest, while some of them have
been the starting point of real romances stronger than fiction. But
their chief value is in their faithful portrayal of the lives of those
earlier generations whose relations with our lives are so well worthy of
study. That there is at present a much more general interest in this
kind of history than there was fifty, or even twenty years ago, is
evident; and as the towns of this State successively arrive at their
important anniversaries, the written history of Massachusetts will grow
more and more complete.

The annual meeting of the Massachusetts Historical Society took place in
the society's room, April 9, the Honorable Robert C. Winthrop in the
chair.

It was greatly regretted that Mr. Winthrop felt compelled to decline
serving as President for a longer term, and a tribute to his
distinguished services in this office was offered in the remarks of Mr.
Saltonstall. Mr. Winthrop's reply was most appropriate; and in it he
spoke of the distinguished men who had honored the membership of the
society within the term of his presidency extending over the last
forty-five years.

The following officers were elected for the ensuing year: President,
Rev. G.E. Ellis, D.D.; Vice Presidents, Charles Deane, LL.D., Francis
Parkman, LL.D.; Recording Secretary, Rev. Edward J. Young, A.M.;
Corresponding Secretary, Justin Winsor, A.B.; Treasurer, Charles E.
Smith, Esq.; Librarian, Honorable Samuel A. Green, M.D.; Cabinet-keeper,
Fitch Edward Oliver, M.D.; Executive Committee of the Council, William
W. Greenough, A.B., Honorable Samuel C. Cobb, Abbott Lawrence, A.M.,
Abner C. Goodell, A.M., Honorable Mellen Chamberlain, I.L.B.

The one hundred and tenth anniversary of the battle of Lexington was
fittingly observed in that town on the 19th of April. The citizens, with
many visitors, united in celebrating that memorable event, the very
thought of which must ever stir the soul of every patriotic American. At
the exercises in the evening at the Lexington Town Hall, Governor
Robinson delivered a brief oration. The closing words are as follows:

"The story of eloquence is breathed in the associations of the spot. You
feel the inspirations that come out of the place and you know full well
in your heart the depth of the lesson it teaches. Now, has it failed in
these recent years? When the call came again to the men of Lexington to
stand for the welfare of the Union there were no laggards. So shall it
be that the people reading the story of the past will bring up all to
that standard which was set so high. Slavery of the human form may not
now be tolerated. Despotism may not triumph. The shackles may have
fallen from men's bodies. But still, forms of bondage control the
actions of thinking men, and so the battle is before the men who love
their liberty and appreciate it. And so, as of old, they shall find the
God above leading them on, and when the great victory of all is
accomplished, when man treats his brother man in perfect equality--not
in theory, but in truth--it will certainly be in recognition of God's
leadership of his people, and then the grand Te Deum should be chanted
that should make the welkin ring with rejoicing."

Among the few towns in Massachusetts which were founded so long as two
hundred and fifty years ago, the town of Newbury is one. On the tenth
day of June next, its quarter-millennial anniversary will be celebrated.
The occasion will be one of great interest. The address will be given by
President Bartlett of Dartmouth College. John G. Whittier, who is
descended from the old Greenleaf family of Newbury, is expected to
furnish a poem, and George Lunt, who read the ode at the celebration
fifty years ago, will provide one for this occasion. It is regretted
that James Russell Lowell, who is a lineal descendant from a noted
Newbury family, cannot take part in the exercises. But the gathering
will be a notable one, and there will be no lack of historical
reminiscences.

The one-hundredth anniversary of the incorporation of the town of Heath,
Franklin. County, Massachusetts, is to be observed on the nineteenth of
August next. Previous to 1785, Heath was a part of Charlemont. The town
is rich in historic events and is the birthplace of many men and women
of note.

At the centennial celebration, addresses will be delivered by Rev. C.E.
Dickinson of Marietta, Ohio, and John H. Thompson, Esq., of Chicago,
Illinois; and a poem will be given by Mrs. C.W. McCoy of Columbus,
Georgia.

The town has chosen the following committee to have charge of the
arrangements: O. Maxwell, Chairman; William S. Gleason, William M.
Maxwell, Charles D. Benson; Charles B. Cutler, Corresponding Secretary.

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End of Project Gutenberg's The Bay State Monthly, Volume 3, No. 2, by Various