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Held for a sentence: the biographical sketch STATES where and when Peter Rugg was first printed, which is the only kind of evidence on which this archive will assert that a tale was first printed at all.","text_extract":"-_ -*\" \n\n\n(Ufa \n\n\nd&sypt^ \n\n\nLITERARY PAPERS \n\n\nWILLIAM AUSTIN \n\n\n£&itfj a Biographical Sfcctrfj \n\n\nBY HI3 SON \n\n\nJAMES WALKER AUSTIN \n\n\nBOSTON \n\nLITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY \n\n1890 \n\n\nCopyright, 1S90, \nBy James Walker Adstin. \n\n\nTWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY COFIES PRINTED. \n\n\nUniversity Press : \nJohn Wilson and Son, Cambridge. \n\n\nCONTENTS. \n\n\nPlGE \n\nBiographical Sketch of William Austin\" v-xvi \n\nFeter Rugg, the Missing Man 3— 10 \n\nThe Late Joseph Xatterstrom 43-58 \n\nMartha Gardner ; or, Moral Reaction 61-74 \n\nThe Man with the Cloaks : A Vermont Legend . 77-96 \nThe Sufferings of a Country Schoolmaster . . . 99-119 \n\nLetters from London 123-327 \n\nThe Human Character of Jesus Christ .... 331-372 \nOration at Charleston, Mass., June 17, 1801 . . 375-394 \n\n\nM209621 \n\n\nBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. \n\n\nWILLIAM AUSTIN, the author of the Papers in- \ncluded in this volume, was the son of Nathaniel \nAustin. — of the Austin family that settled in Charlestown, \nMassachusetts, about 1638, — and of Margaret Rand, a \nsister of Dr. Isaac Rand, well spoken of by Lorenzo Sabine \nin the Biographical Sketches of American Loyalists. \n\nThe earliest recorded notice of the Austin name in the \nCharlestown Records is that of Richard Austin, who was \nadmitted a freeman in 1651, probably when he became \ntwenty-one years of age. From this Richard descended \nBenjamin Austin, commonly known as u Honestus ; \" \nJonathan Loring Austin, secretary to Dr. Franklin at \nParis, and afterward Secretary of State and Treasurer of \nMassachusetts ; and the late Attorney-general, James \nTrccothick Austin. During the Revolution all of the \nAustin name were patriots, stanch and active; and \nBenjamin, the father of \"Honestus,\" was one of the \nnumber of those whose appointment as councillors was \nvetoed by Governor Gage. \n\nThere is a tradition that two boys, brothers, came to \nCharlestown in 1638, — one of whom was Richard (ad- \nmitted freeman in 1651, as before stated), and the other \nnamed Anthony, who first went to Rowley, Massachusetts, \nand thence to Suffield, Connecticut. That one of the \nsame race as Richard of 1651 removed to Connecticut is \n\n\nvi MOGKAPIIICAL SKETCH. \n\nbeyond doubt, but at what particular time we have no \nevidence. It is stated thai from this Connecticut branch \nwas descended Stephen Puller Austin, by whose forecast, \nwisdom, and energy, in a large measure, Texas became \na part of tbe Union. \n\nTbe two boys mentioned above were probably tbe \" two \nchildren\" accompanying tbat Richard Austin of Bishop- \nstoke, England, enumerated by John Camden Hottcn in his \n\" Original Lists of Emigrants\" as embarking from Southamp- \nton, bound for New England, in the ship \" Bevis \" in May, \n1638. No further trace of Richard, senior, lias been found ; \nand be is unaccounted for, unless identical with the Aus- \ntin mentioned in Winthrop's Journal, who arrived in New \nEngland in 1638, and whose subsequent capture by the \nTurks on his return voyage to England by way of Spain is \nconsidered by Winthrop a judgment of God for his dis- \nsatisfaction with the new country and withdrawal there- \nfrom. This may be the Richard, as tbe date of his arrival, \n1638, corresponds with the year of his departure from \nEngland ; but if so, Winthrop is in error in stating that he \nwith \" bis wife and family were carried to Algiers and sold \nthere for slaves.\" Such may have been the fate of Richard \nand his wife, but not of the children, who seem to have re- \nmained in this country, and afterward appear as Richard \nand Anthony. There seems to be more than common \nobscurity in the history of the family until we begin with \nRichard of 1651, who appears from the Charlcstown \nRecords to have been a man of some note, and who held \nvarious public offices. From his time the family descent \nis clearly traced. \n\nWilliam Austin, the subject of this sketch, was born at \nLunenburg, in the County of Worcester, Massachusetts, \nMarch 2, 1778, and died in Charlestown, June 27, 1841. \n\n\nBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. vii \n\nThe house of his father was burned in the conflagration at \nCharlestown, June 17, 1775, during the battle of Bunker \nHill ; and on the same day the family left for Lunenburg, \nthere to remain until the house was rebuilt. During \nthe burning of Charlestown Mrs. Austin hastened with \nher son Nathaniel (William's elder brother), then about \nfour years old, over Charlestown Neck to Maiden. She \nnever forgot the anxiety and distress of the day ; and \nin after years, still cherishing her Tory prejudices, she \nwas always careful to remind that son when arrayed in \nregimentals as general of the militia, to celebrate the \n17th of June, that he was celebrating a defeat, and also \nher flight with him from the burning town. \n\nThe life of William Austin was not without incident. \nHe was graduated from Harvard College in the Class of \n1798, — a class of ability and good character. Among its \nmembers were William Ellery Channing, Samuel Phillips \nPrescott Fay, Joseph Story, Richard Sullivan, Stephen \nLongfellow, John Varnum, and Humphrey Devereux, — the \nlast named his room-mate for four years. Mr. Austin \nwas chosen a member of the Phi Beta Kappa Society, \nbat declined for two reasons, — one, because he had \na strong dislike to secret societies, and the other, be- \ncause he thought injustice had been done to one of his \nclassmates. \n\nIn 1709 Mr. Austin was appointed schoolmaster and \nchaplain in the Navy, being, I believe, the first commis- \nsioned chaplain in the service. He sailed with Com- \nmodores Nicholson and Talbot in the frigate \" Consti- \ntution,\" and among his pupils was John, afterward \nCommodore; Downes, who years after, when in command \nat the Charlestown Navy Yard, gratefully said that there \nwas one man, William Austin, to whom he could always \ncheerfully take off his hat. During the cruise of the \n\n\nviii UIOGRAPIIICAL SKETCH. \n\n\" Constitution,\" Commodore Talbot commanding, the ship \n\" Amelia,\" owned in Hamburg, was captured from the \nFrench, and in 1800 the court decreed that the captors \nwere entitled to one sixth of the value for salvage. \nCommodore Talbot had expected more, and sent Mr. \nAustin to engage Alexander Hamilton to manage the \ncase. At the interview, Hamilton said : — \n\n\" Who are you, sir 1 \" \n\n\" I am the chaplain,\" was the reply. \n\n\" You do not look much like a chaplain.\" \n\n\" I intend, as soon as I can afford it, to study law.\" \n\n\"Well, hero is my library; make yourself at home. Study out \n\nthis case, and determine for yourself what is the proper amount of \n\nsalvage, as you are interested.\" \n\nMr. Austin accepted the invitation, examined the author- \nities, and came to the same conclusion with Mr. Hamilton, \nwho highly commended the researches and arguments of \nthe young chaplain. \n\nAfter his cruises in the \" Constitution \" Mr. Austin \nwent to England, and while there enjoyed the society \nof Washington Allston and John Blake White, artists, \nEdmund Trowbridge Dana, son of Judge Francis Dana, \nand Arthur Maynard Walter. Walter was a classmate, \nwho took his degree at Columbia College, New York, \nbecause he had had some difficulty with the Harvard \nauthorities, and Dana severed his connection with the \nCollege in his junior year. They were all genial men, \nand their political or other differences did not affect \ntheir social relations. These young men, having been \nintimate in America, their good-fellowship in London \nwas but natural, and they remained cordial friends as \nlong as life lasted. Austin gave a somewhat different \nversion of the visit of the young men to see George III. \n\n\nBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. ix \n\nfrom that given by his classmate Willard, in the \" Mem- \nories of Youth and Manhood.\" The account given in \nMr. Austin's own words, is as follows : — \n\n\" I walked with White, Allston, Dana, and Walter to Windsor \nto see the royal family parade on the terrace. We all had canes, \nas was the fashion of the time, and to our surprise, upon enter- \ning the grounds these were taken away by an usher. I said, ' I \nhope you do not think we came to cane his Majesty.' I had seen \nthe king before and knew his person. The others spoke almost in \none breath, — \n\n\" 'Austin, which is the king ? ' \n\n\" I said, ' Do you see that man there ? ' pointing to the king. \n\n\" ' Yes.' \n\n\" ' Well, that is the rascal who burned my father's bam' \"' \n\nBoth house and barn had been burned at Charlestown, \nbut the burning of the barn was treated as the meaner \noffence. Willard states that : — \n\n\" Austin was not born until nearly two years after the battle of \nBunker Hill,1 but in his childhood he could see ample proofs of \nthe awful conflagration in the cellar walls and naked chimneys' \nand fragments of timber, charred, but not wholly consumed.\" \n\nI do not know that I can give any better description of \nMr. Austin, with some slight qualifications and additions, \nthan that to be found in the \" Memories of Youth and \nManhood,\" to which I have before referred. Mr. Willard \nsays : — \n\n\" At no time, so far as I can remember, did Mr. Austin while at \ncollege show any desire to excel in the prescribed studies, being \ndoubtless of the opinion that one has as good a right of choice in \nthe studies he shall pursue as in the companions with whom he \nshall choose to associate. Apart from this, which was unjust to \n\ni He was born nearly three rears after the battle. \n\n\nx BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. \n\nhimself, he employed much of his time usefully, and was among \nthe most distinguished belle-lettrists (if I may use a word of Cole- \nridge's coining) of his class, and wrote with far more facility and \nsprightliness than the generality of its members. .Soon after he \nreceived his degree he went to England as a literary amateur and \nobserver, and wrote many letters home, which after his return he \ncollected and published in a volume. They embrace a variety of \ntopics, and among them descriptions of some of the most distin- \nguished Parliamentary speakers at the close of the last and the \nbeginning of the present century, which form an interesting part \nof the book. For his professional life he studied law, and prac- \ntised in this profession as an attorney, counsellor, and advocate. \nHis ideas indeed were quick and often brilliant, but his tempera- \nment was impulsive, and he failed in that degree of illustrative \namplification and that continuity of thought which are necessary \nto lead common minds to the desired conclusion. As a companion \nhe was entertaining and instructive, — one whom it was pleasing \nto meet even casually in the street ; for there was always some- \nthing uppermost in his mind, and one might perceive in his ap- \nproach that he had something to say, and he said it very abruptly \nperhaps, and sometimes it was very odd, but not infrequently \nsuggestive of more than was said. While in active life, Austin \nbelonged to the Democratic party, and for two years, beginning in \nMay, 1822, he was a member of the Massachusetts Senate for the \nCounty of Middlesex. It was a time when party politics inter- \nfered little with legislation. He was also in 1820 a delegate from \nCharlestown to the Convention for revising the Constitution of \nMassachusetts, and upon some of the proposed amendments he \ntook an active part in the debates. In the debate concerning the \ngovernment of Harvard College he manifested a liberal spirit. \nWith his usual frankness he acknowledged that he had formerly \nentertained prejudices, but they had long since been dissipated. \nIt is a remarkable fact that there were eight members of the class \ngraduated at Harvard College in 1798 who were members of this \nConvention ; namely, John Abbot, William Austin, Samuel P. P. \nFay, Isaac Fiske, Henry Gardner, Joseph Story, Richard Sullivan, \nand Joseph Tuekerman. \n\n\"Though Austin wrote with facility from a mind well stored, I \nam not aware that he contributed largely to the literature of his \n\n\nBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. x} \n\ntimes. His story of Peter Rugg, published in the \" Galaxy \" (a \npaper conducted by Joseph T. Buckingham), had great celebrity, \nand was copied in many newspapers and miscellaneous journals. \nIt is a story unsurpassed in its kind, and so well and consistently \nsustained that the reader cannot fail to follow the hero in his \nperpetual motion with a feeling of sympathy and anxiety for \nhis fate.\" \n\nWhat is said of Mr. Austin as an advocate is partially \ntrue. He could make a close and able argument, but I \nthink that from the bent and formation of his mind, unless \nhe thought his client had a just cause he could not with \nenergy enforce his arguments. He was however a most \nfaithful counsellor, and when he officiated on trials as a \njustice for the County of Middlesex, all the Boston Bar, \nwith scarcely an exception, brought their Middlesex \nactions to his court. \n\nIn England Mr. Austin made acquaintance with gentle- \nmen of varied qualities, as will be seen by his account in \nthe \" Letters from London.\" Among others he became \nacquainted with the celebrated Lord Erskine. On a warm \nsummer day he attended the Sessions, when it was known \nthat Mr. Erskine was to address the Court. Erskine said, \n•• Why. Mr. Austin, what can keep you in the court such \nan oppressive day?\" \"A gentleman, sir, by the name \nof Erskine keeps me here ; he is responsible,\" — a reply \nwhich greatly pleased Erskine. \n\nAfter spending about eighteen months at Lincoln's Inn \nin the study of law, Mr. Austin returned to Massachusetts, \nand soon after entered upon the practice of his profession. \nFrom this period until his activity of life ceased, he \nhad a throng of attached clients in Charlestown and \nBoston, who kept him so much engaged that there was \nsmall opportunity for literary production. \n\nOn the 17th of June, 1801, three years after his gradu- \n\n\nxii 1;I(h;i;A1'IIK'AL sketch. \n\nation, Mr. Austin delivered an oration on Bunker Hill, \nbefore and at the request of the Charlestown Artillery \nCompany. It was published, and is worth reading as a \nspecimen of the style of the times. The essay on \" The \nHuman Character of Jesus Christ,\" written when the \nauthor was less than thirty years of age, is remarkable for \nits depth of thought, its beauty of language, and its rev- \nerent appreciation of the Son of Man. \n\nThrough the kindness of Col. Thomas Wcntworth Hig- \nginson, I am permitted to include in this Sketch a part \nof his interesting essay published in \" The Independent \" \nof March 29, 1888, in which William Austin is called \" A \nPrecursor of Hawthorne.\" Colonel Higginson writes as \nfollows : — \n\n\" The tale which will, perhaps, keep him in lasting memory is \n'Peter Rugg, the Missing Man.' The tale was first printed in \nBuckingham's 'New England Galaxy' for Sept. 10, 1824; and \nthat editor says of it : ' This article was reprinted in other papers \nand books, and read more than any newspaper communication \nthat has fallen within my knowledge.' l \n\n\" The original story purports to belong to the year 1820, aud \nthe scene of a later continuation is laid in the year 1825, both \nthese being reprinted in the 'Boston Book' for 1841. It is the \nnarrative, in the soberest language, of a series of glimpses of a \nman who spends his life in driving a horse and chaise — or more \nstrictly ' a weather-beaten chair, once built for a chaise-body ' — \nin the direction of Boston, but never getting there. He is accom- \npanied by a child ; and it subsequently turns out that he really \nleft Boston about the time of the Boston massacre (1770) and \nhas been travelling ever since, — the explanation being that lie was \nonce overtaken by a storm at Menotomy, now Arlington, a few \nmiles from Boston, and that being a man of violent temper he \nswore to get home that night or never see home again. Thence- \nforth he is always travelling ; a cloud and a storm always follow \n\n1 Personal Memoirs, i. 87. \n\n\nBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xiii \n\nhim, and ever}- horse that sees his approach feels abject terror. \nThe conception is essentially Hawthorne-like ; and so are the scene \nand the accessories. The time to which Puigg's career dates back \nis that borderland of which Hawthorne was so fond, between the \ncolonial and the modern period; and the old localities, dates, cos- \ntumes, and even coins are all introduced in a way to remind us of \nthe greater artist. But what is most striking in the tale is what \nI have called the penumbra, — a word denned in astronomy as that \nportion of space which in an eclipse is partly but nut entirely \ndeprived of light ; and in painting, as the boundary of shade and \nlight, where the one blends with the other. \n\n\" It is this precise gift which has long been recognized as almost \npeculiar to Hawthorne, among writers of English. Miss Elizabeth \nPeabody, Hawthorne's sister-in-law, stated it admirably when she \nwrote in a paper on ' The Genius of Hawthorne :'' 'He does not \nseem to know much more about his heroes and heroines than he \nrepresents them to know of each other ; but recognizing the fact \nthat most outward action is of mixed motives, and admits of more \nthan one interpretation, he is very apt to suggest two or three \nquite diverse views, and, as it were, consult with his readers \nupon which may be the true one ; and not seldom he gives most \nprominence to some interpretation which we feel pretty sure is \nnot his own.' Then she points out by way of illustration, that in \n' The Marble Faun ' the author does not seem really to know \nwhether Donatello has pointed and furry ears or not ; and such \nillustrations could easily be multiplied. Xow, it is precisely this \nmethod which we find in full force throughout the story of ' Peter \nRugg, the Missiug Man,' published while Hawthorne was yet a \nstudent at Bowdoin College. \n\n\" At every point in the narrative of this enigmatical man we are \nthrown into this borderland between light and shade. When the \ndriver points out in Ihe thunder-cloud, after Eugg and his weird \nchild have driven by, the form of the man, horse, and vehicle, the \nwriter admits that he himself saw no such thing, and suggests that \n'the man's fancy was doubtless at fault,' and that it is 'a very \ncommon thing for the imagination to paint for the senses.' When \nan old citizen tells the tradition of Rugg's ill-temper, that he be- \n\n1 Atlantic Monthly, September, 1868. \n\n\nxiv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. \n\ncame 'so profane that his wig would rise up from his head,' the \ndispassionate historian is careful to tell us: 'Some said it was on \naccount of his terrible language ; others accounted for it in a \nmore philosophical way, and said it was caused by the expansion \nof his scalp, as violent passion, we know, will swell the veins \nand expand the head.' When the author mentions the rumor \nthat on the only occasion when Rugg really reached Boston and \ndrove through his own street, unable to stop the horse, the clatter \nof the animal's hoofs shook the houses, he quietly points out that \nthis was nothing remarkable ; ' for at this day, in many of the \nstreets, a loaded truck or team in passing will shake the houses \nlike an earthquake.' However,' he adds, ' Rugg's neighbors never \nafterward watched. Some of them treated it all as a delusion, \nand thought no more of it. Others of a different opinion shook \ntheir heads and said nothing.' Here we have in perfection the \npenumbra of Hawthorne. \n\n•' Again, when the toll-gatherer once attempted to stop Rugg on \nCharlestown bridge and failed, the writer adds : ' Whether Rugg, \nor whoever the person was, ever passed the bridge again, the toll- \ngatherer never would tell ; and when questioned, seemed anxious \nto waive the subject.' Thus does Austin, like Hawthorne, actually \ndiscredit his own witnesses, half evoking them from the shadow, \nand then on second thoughts remanding them to the dusk again. \nSo in the continuation of the story, — which, as being a con- \ntinuation, is more ambitious and proportionately less effective, — \nPeter Rugg appears with his equipage on a Virginia race-course, \nand outruns the winning steeds. One of the riders and half the \nspectators declare that the stranger beast is not a horse but a \nhuge black ox, — and, indeed, his tracks show the cloven foot; yet \nwhen the horse is afterward examined on a ferry-boat it turns out \nthat his hoofs have been accidentally split on a newly macadam- \nized road. So when another toll-gatherer claims that the horse \npassed without touching the bar, the author points out that the \nbar is so low that so high-stepping a horse could easily draw a \ntwo-wheeled vehicle over it. Thus at every step, in the Haw- \nthorne fashion, Austin mystifies himself with the reader, and never \nleaves one so wholly confused as when offering him some perfectly \ncommonplace elucidation. \n\n\" The continuation of ' Peter Rugg' rises at the close to a cer- \n\n\nBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xv \n\ntain dignity of tone which justifies its existence. Peter Piugg at \nlast reaches Boston with his weary child, at the very moment \nwhen an auctioneer is offering for sale his own ancient estate, now \nescheated to the Commonwealth. The house is gone, the genera- \ntion Eugg knew is gone, and all he can do, while peering on the \nalien crowd, is to recognize, in true Boston fashion, the features of \nthe older families, — Window and Sargent, Sewall and Dudley. \n' Will none of you speak to me 1 ' he says. . . . ' Will no one \ninform me who has demolished my house?' \n\n\" Then spake a voice from the crowd, but whence it came I \ncould not discern : ' There is nothing strange here but yourself, Mr. \nRugg. Time, which destroys and renews all things, has dilapidated \nyour house and placed us here. You have suffered many years under \nan illusion. The tempest which you profanely defied at Menotomy \nhas at length subsided; but you will never see home, for your house \nand wife and neighbors have all disappeared. Your estate, indeed, \nremains, but no home. You were cut off from the last age, and yon \ncan never be fitted to the present. Your home is gone, and you can \nnever have another home in this world.\" \" \n\n\" Who but Hawthorne ever brought back his readers from the \nrealms of fantasy by an ending so much like that of a ' Twice-Told \n\nTale'?\" \n\nThe Oration delivered at Charlestown at the request of \nthe Artillery Company, June 17, 1801, was published in \nCharlestown, 1801 ; the \" Letters from London,\" in Boston, \n1801 ; the essay on \" The Human Character of Jesus \nChrist,\" in Boston, 1807 ; \" The Sufferings of a Country \nSchoolmaster,\" in the \" New England Galaxy,\" Boston, \nJuly 8, 1825 ; \" The late Joseph Xatterstrom.\" in the \" New \nEngland Magazine,\" July, 1831; \"The Man with the \nCloaks,\" in the \" American Monthly Magazine,\" January, \n1836 ; and \" Martha Gardner,\" in the \" American Monthly \nMagazine,\" December, 1837. \n\nThe portrait of my father which accompanies this \nvolume is from the painting by Pratt. \n\n\nxvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. \n\nMy father died in my boyhood, and now, after nearly \nfifty years, his pleasant smile, his kind heart, and the \nlight of his countenance are still living memories. It \nhas been a great delight to me to place and preserve \non the speaking page these memorials of his life and \nlabors. \n\nI am indebted to my brother, the late Arthur Williams \nAustin, of Milton, for information in regard to much of \nthe material that I have made use of in this Sketch ; \nand also to my friend, Albert Harrison Hoyt, for his kind \nassistance in helping me prepare this volume for the \npress. \n\nJAMES W. AUSTIN. \n\nBoston, September, 1890. \n\n\nPETER RUGG, THE MISSING MAN. \n\n\nPETER RUGG, THE MISSING MAN. \n\n\nFrom Jonathan Dunk-ell of New York, to Mk. \nHekmax Kkauff. \n\nSLR, — Agreeably to my promise, I now relate to you all \nthe particulars of the lost man and child which I have \nbeen able to collect. It is entirely owing to the humane \ninterest you seemed to take in the report, that I have pur- \nsued the inquiry to the following result. \n\nYou may remember that business called me to Boston \nin the summer of 1820. I sailed in the packet to Provi- \ndence, and when I arrived there I learned that every seat \nin the stage was engaged. I was thus obliged either to \nwait a few hours or accept a seat with the driver, who \ncivilly offered me that accommodation. Accordingly, I \ntook my seat by his side, and soon found him intelligent \nand communicative. When we had travelled about ten \nmiles, the horses suddenly threw their ears on their necks, \nas flat as a hare's. Said the driver, \" Have you a surtout \nwith you ? \" \n\n\" No,\" said I ; \" why do you ask ? \" \n\n\" You will want one soon,\" said he. \" Do you observe \nthe ears of all the horses ? \" \n\n\" Yes ; and was just about to ask the reason.\" \n\n\" They see the storm-breeder, and we shall see him \nsoon.\" \n\n\nj PETER RUGG, \n\nAt this moment there was not a cloud visible in the firma- \nment. Soon after, a small speck appeared in the road. \n\n\" There,\" said my companion, \" comes the storm-breeder, \nlie always leaves a Scotch mist behind him. By many a \nwet jacket do I remember him. I suppose the poor fellow \nsuffers much himself, — much more than is known to the \nworld.\" \n\nPresently a man with a child beside him, with a large \nblack horse, and a weather-beaten chair, once built for a \nchaise-body, passed in great haste, apparently at the rate \nof twelve miles an hour. He seemed to grasp the reins of \nhis horse with firmness, and appeared to anticipate bis \nspeed. He seemed dejected, and looked anxiously at the \npassengers, particularly at the stage-driver and myself. In \na moment after he passed us, the horses' ears were up, and \nbent themselves forward so that they nearly met. \n\n\" Who is that man ? \" said I ; \"he seems in great \ntrouble.\" \n\n\" Nobody knows who he is, but his person and the child \nare familiar to me. I have met him more than a hundred \ntimes, and have been so often asked the way to Boston \nby that man, even when he was travelling directly from \nthat town, that of late I have refused any communica- \ntion with him ; and that is the reason he gave me such a \nfixed look.\" \n\n\" But does he never stop anywhere ? \" \n\n\" I have never known him to stop anywhere longer \nthan to inquire the way to Boston ; and let him be where \nhe may, he will tell you he cannot stay a moment, for \nhe must reach Boston that night.\" \n\nWe were now ascending a high hill in Walpole ; and as \nwe had a fair view of the heavens, I was rather disposed \nto jeer the driver for thinking of his surtout, as not a \ncloud as bier as a marble could be discerned. \n\n\nTHE MISSING MAX 5 \n\n\" Do you look,\" said he, \" in the direction whence the \nman came ; that is the place to look. The storm never \nmeets him : it follows him.\" \n\nWe presently approached another hill ; and when at the \nheight, the driver pointed out in an eastern direction a \nlittle black speck about as big as a hat. \" There,\" said he, \n\" is the seed-storm. We may possibly reach Polley's be- \nfore it reaches us, but the wanderer and his child will go \nto Providence through rain, thunder, and lightning.\" \n\nAnd now the horses, as though taught by instinct, has- \ntened with increased speed. The little black cloud came \nou rolling over the turnpike, and doubled and trebled itself \nin all directions. The appearance of this cloud attracted \nthe notice of all the passengers, for after it had spread \nitself to a great bulk it suddenly became more limited in \ncircumference, grew more compact, dark, and consolidated. \nAnd now the successive flashes of chain lightning caused \nthe whole cloud to appear like a sort of irregular net-work, \nand displayed a thousand fantastic images. The driver \nbespoke my attention to a remarkable configuration in the \ncloud. He said every flash of lightning near its centre \ndiscovered to him, distinctly, the form of a man sitting in \nan open carriage drawn by a black horse. But in truth I \nsaw no such thing ; the man's fancy was doubtless at \nfault. It is a very common thing for the imagination to \npaint for the senses, both in the visible and invisible \nworld. \n\nIn the mean time the distant thunder gave notice of a \nshower at hand ; and just as we reached Polley's tavern \nthe rain poured down in torrents. It was soon over, the \ncloud passing in the direction of the turnpike toward \nProvidence. In a few moments after, a respectable-look- \ning man in a chaise stopped at the door. The man and \nchild in the chair having excited some little sympathy \n\n\n6 PETER RUGG, \n\namong the passengers, the gentleman was asked if he had \nobserved them. lie said be had met them ; that the man \nseemed bewildered, and inquired the way to Boston ; that \nhe was driving at great speed, as though he expected to \noutstrip the tempest ; that the moment he had passed him, \na thunder-clap broke directly over the man's head, and \nseemed to envelop both man and child, horse and carriage. \n\" I stopped,\" said the gentleman, \" supposing the lightning \nhad struck him, but the horse only seemed to loom up and \nincrease his speed ; and as well as I could judge, he trav- \nelled just as fast as the thunder-cloud.\" \n\nWhile this man was speaking, a pedler with a cart of tin \nmerchandise came up, all dripping; and on being ques- \ntioned, he said he had met that man and carriage, within a \nfortnight, in four different States; that at each time he \nhad inquired the way to Boston ; and that a thunder-shower \nlike the present had each time deluged his wagon and his \nwares, setting his tin pots, etc. afloat, so that he had de- \ntermined to get a marine insurance for the future. But \nthat which excited his surprise most was the strange con- \nduct of his horse, for long before he could distinguish the \nman in the chair, his own horse stood still in the road, \nand flung back his ears. \" In short,\" said the pedler, \" I \nwish never to see that man and horse again ; they do not \nlook to me as though they belonged to this world.\" \n\nThis was all I could learn at that time ; and the occur- \nrence soon after would have become with me, \"like one of \nthose things which had never happened,\" had I not, as I \nstood recently on the door-step of Bennett's hotel in Hart- \nford, heard a man say, \" There goes Peter Rugg and his \nchild ! he looks wet and weary, and farther from Boston \nthan ever.\" I was satisfied it was the same man I had seen \nmore than three years before ; for whoever has once seen \nPeter Rugg can never after be deceived as to his identity. \n\n\nTHE MISSING MAN. 7 \n\n\" Peter Rugg ! \" said I; \" and who is Peter Rugg?\" \n\n\" That,\" said the stranger, \" is more than any one can \ntell exactly. He is a famous traveller, held in light esteem \nby all innholders, for he never stops to eat, drink, or sleep. \nI wonder why the government does not employ him to \ncarry the mail.\" \n\n\" Ay,\" said a by-stander, \" that is a thought bright only \non one side ; how long would it take in that case to send \na letter to Boston, for Peter has already, to my knowledge, \nbeen more than twenty years travelling to that place.\" \n\n\" But,\" said I, \" does the man never stop anywhere ; \ndoes he never converse with any one ? I saw the same \nman more than three years since, near Providence, and I \nheard a strange story about him. Pray, sir, give me some \naccount of this man.\" \n\n\" Sir,\" said the stranger, \" those who know the most re- \nspecting that man, say the least. I have heard it asserted \nthat Heaven sometimes sets a mark on a man, either for \njudgment or a trial. Under which Peter Rugg now labors, \nI cannot say ; therefore I am rather inclined to pity than \nto judge.\" \n\n\" You speak like a humane man,\" said I ; \" and if you \nhave known him so long, I pray you will give me some \naccount of him. Has his appearance much altered in \nthat time ? \" \n\n\" Why, yes. He looks as though he never ate, drank, or \nslept ; and his child looks older than himself, and he looks \nlike time broken off from eternity, and anxious to gain a \nresting-place.\" \n\n\" And how does his horse look ? \" said I. \n\n\" As for his horse, he looks fatter and gayer, and shows \nmore animation and courage than he did twenty years ago. \nThe last time Rugg spoke to me he inquired how far it was \nto Boston. I told him just one hundred miles.\" \n\n\n8 PETER RUGG, \n\n\" ' Why,' said he, ' how can you deceive mo so ? It \nis cruel to mislead a traveller. I have lost my way ; \npray direct me the nearest way to Boston.' \n\n\" I repeated, it was one hundred miles. \n\n\" ' How can you say so ? ' said he ; 'I was told last even- \ning it was but fifty, and I have travelled all night.' \n\n\"'But,' said I, 'you arc now travelling from Boston. \nYou must turn back.' \n\n\" ' Alas,' said he, ' it is all turn back ! Boston shifts \nwith the wind, and plays all around the compass. One \nman tells me it is to the east, another to the west ; and the \nguide-posts too, they all point the wrong way.' \n\n\" ' But will you not stop and rest ? ' said I ; ' you seem \nwet and weary.' \n\n\" ' Yes,' said he, ' it has been foul weather since I left \nhome.' \n\n\" ' Stop, then, and refresh yourself.' \n\n\" ' I must not stop ; I must reach home to-night, if pos- \nsible : though I think you must be mistaken in the distance \nto Boston.' \n\n\" He then gave the reins to his horse, which he restrained \nwith difficulty, and disappeared in a moment. A few days \nafterward I met the man a little this side of Claremont,1 \nwinding around the hills in Unity, at the rate, I believe, of \ntwelve miles an hour.\" \n\n\"Is Peter Rugg his real name, or has he accidentally \ngained that name ? \" \n\n\" I know not, but presume he will not deny his name ; \nyou can ask him, — for see, he has turned his horse, and \nis passing this way.\" \n\nIn a moment a dark-colored high-spirited horse ap- \nproached, and would have passed without stopping, but I \nhad resolved to speak to Peter Rugg, or whoever the man \n1 In New Hampshire. \n\n\nTHE MISSING MAX. 9 \n\nmight be. Accordingly I stepped into the street ; and as \nthe horse approached, I made a feint of stopping him. \nThe man immediately reined in his horse. \"Sir,\" said I, \n'• may I be so bold as to inquire if you are not Mr. Rugg ? \nfor I think I have seen you before.\" \n\n\" My name is Peter Rugg,\" said he. \" I have unfortu- \nnately lost my way ; I am wet and weary, and will take \nit kindly of you to direct me to Boston.\" \n\n\" You live in Boston, do you ; and in what street ? \" \n\n\" In Middle Street.\" \n\n\" When did you leave Boston ? \" \n\n\" I cannot tell precisely ; it seems a considerable time.\" \n\n\" But how did you and your child become so wet ? It \nhas not rained here to-day. \" \n\n\" It has just rained a heavy shower up the river. But \nI shall not reach Boston to-night if I tarry. Would you \nadvise me to take the old road or the turnpike ? \" \n\n\" Why, the old road is one hundred and seventeen miles, \nand the turnpike is ninety-seven.\" \n\n\" How can you say so ? You impose on me ; it is wrong \nto trifle with a traveller ; you know it is but forty miles \nfrom Newburyport to Boston.\" \n\n\" But this is not Newburyport ; this is Hartford.\" \n\n\" Bo not deceive me, sir. Is not this town Newburyport, \nand the river that I have been following the Merrimack ?\" \n\n\" No, sir ; this is Hartford, and the river the Connecticut.\" \n\nHe wrung his hands and looked incredulous. \" Have \nthe rivers, too, changed their courses, as the cities have \nchanged places ? But see ! the clouds are gathering in \nthe south, and we shall have a rainy night. Ah, that \nfatal oath ! \" \n\nHe would tarry no longer; his impatient horse leaped \noff, his hind flanks rising like wings ; he seemed to devour \nall before him, and to scorn all behind. \n\n\n10 PETER RUGG, \n\nI had now, as I thought, discovered a clew to the history of \nPeter Rugg ; and I determined, the next time my business \ncalled me to Boston, to make a further inquiry. Soon after, \nI was enabled to collect the following particulars from Mrs. \nCroft, an aged lady in Middle Street, who has resided in Bos- \nton during the last twenty years. Her narration is this: \n\nJust at twilight last summer a person stopped at the \ndoor of the late Mrs. Rugg. Mrs. Croft on coming to \nthe door perceived a stranger with a child by his side, in \nan old weather-beaten carriage, with a black horse. The \nstranger asked for Mrs. Rugg, and was informed that Mrs. \nRugg had died at a good old age, more than twenty years \nbefore that time. \n\nThe stranger replied, \" How can you deceive me so ? \nDo ask Mrs. Rugg to step to the door.\" \n\n\" Sir, I assure you Mrs. Rugg has not lived here these \ntwenty years ; no one lives here but myself, and my \nname is Betsey Croft.\" \n\nThe stranger paused, looked up and down the street, and \nsaid, \" Though the paint is rather faded, this looks like \nmy house.\" \n\n\" Yes,\" said the child, \" that is the stone before the door \nthat I used to sit on to eat my bread and milk.\" \n\n\" But,\" said the stranger, \" it seems to be on the wrong \nside of the street. Indeed, everything here seems to be \nmisplaced. The streets are all changed, the people are \nall changed, the town seems changed, and what is stran- \ngest of all, Catherine Rugg has deserted her husband and \nchild. Pray,\" continued the stranger, \" has John Foy \ncome home from sea ? He went a long voyage ; he is \nmy kinsman. If I could see him, he could give me some \naccount of Mrs. Rugg.\" \n\n\"Sir,\" said Mrs. Croft, \"I never heard of John Foy. \nWhere did he live?\" \n\n\nTHE MISSING MAN. 11 \n\n\" Just above here, in Orange-tree Lane.\" \n\n\"There is no such place in this neighborhood.\" \n\n\" What do you tell me ! Are the streets gone ? Orange- \ntree Lane is at the head of Hanover Street, near Pem- \nberton's Hill.\" \n\n\"There is no such lane now.\" \n\n'•Madam, you cannot be serious! But you doubtless \nknow my brother, William Kugg. He lives in Royal \nExchange Lane, near King Street.\" \n\n\" I know of no such lane ; and I am sure there is no \nsuch street as King Street in this town.\" \n\n\" Xo such street as King Street ! Why, woman, you \nmock me ! You may as well tell me there is no King \nGeorge. However, madam, you see I am wet and weary, \nI must find a resting-place. I will go to Hart's tavern, \nnear the market.\" \n\n\" Which market, sir ? for you seem perplexed ; we have \nseveral markets.\" \n\n\"You know there is but one market near the town \ndock.\" \n\n\" Oh, the old market ; but no such person has kept there \nthese twenty years.\" \n\nHere the stranger seemed disconcerted, and uttered to \nhimself quite audibly : \" Strange mistake ; how much this \nlooks like the town of Boston ! It certainly has a great \nresemblance to it ; but I perceive my mistake now. Some \nother Mrs. Rugg, some other Middle Street. — Then,\" \nsaid he, \"madam, can you direct me to Boston?\" \n\n\" Why, this is Boston, the city of Boston ; I know of \nno other Boston.\" \n\n\" City of Boston it may be ; but it is not the Boston \nwhere I live. I recollect now, I came over a bridge in- \nstead of a ferry. Pray, what bridge is that I just came \nover?\" \n\n\n12 PETEE KUGG, \n\n\"It is Charles River bridge.\" \n\n\" I perceive my mistake : there is a ferry between Bos- \nton and Charlestown ; there is no bridge. Ah, I perceive \nmy mistake. If I were in Boston my horse would carry \nme directly to my own door. But my horse shows by his \nimpatience that he is in a strange place. Absurd, that I \nshould have mistaken this place for the old town of Bos- \nton ! It is a much finer city than the town of Boston. It \nhas been built long since Boston. I fancy Boston must \nlie at a distance from this city, as the good woman seems \nignorant of it.\" \n\nAt these words his horse began to chafe, and strike the \npavement with his forefeet. The stranger seemed a little \nbewildered, and said, \"No home to-night;\" and giving the \nreins to his horse, passed up the street, and I saw no more \nof him. \n\nIt was evident that the generation to which Peter Rugg \nbelonged, had passed away. \n\nThis was all the account of Peter Rugg I could obtain \nfrom Mrs. Croft ; but she directed me to an elderly man, \nMr. James Felt, who lived near her, and who had kept a \nrecord of the principal occurrences for the last fifty years. \nAt my request she sent for him ; and after I had related \nto him the object of my inquiry, Mr. Felt told me he had \nknown Rugg in his youth, and that his disappearance had \ncaused some surprise ; but as it sometimes happens that \nmen run away, — sometimes to be rid of others, and some- \ntimes to be rid of themselves, — and Rugg took his child \nwith him. and his own horse and chair, and as it did not \nappear that any creditors made a stir, the occurrence soon \nmingled itself in the stream of oblivion ; and Rugg and \nhis child, horse, and chair were soon forgotten. \n\n\"It is true,\" said Mr. Felt, \"sundry stories grew out of \nRugg's affair, whether true or false I cannot tell ; but \n\n\nTHE MISSING MAN. 13 \n\nstranger things have happened in my day, without even a \nnewspaper notice.\" \n\n\" Sir,\" said 1, \" Peter Rugg is now living. I have lately \nseen Peter Rugg and his child, horse, and chair; there- \nfore I pray you to relate to me all you know or ever heard \nof him.\" \n\n'■ Why, my friend,\" said James Felt, \" that Peter Rugg \nis now a living man, I will not deny ; but that you have \nseen Peter Rugg and his child, is impossible, if you mean \na small child ; for Jenny Rugg, if living, must be at least \n— let me see — Boston massacre, 1770 — Jenny Rugg was \nabout ten years old. Why, sir, Jenny Rugg, if living, \nmust be more than sixty years of age. That Peter Rugg \nis living, is highly probable, as he was only ten years older \nthan myself, and I was only eighty last March ; and I am \nas likely to live twenty years longer as any man.\" \n\nHere I perceived that Mr. Felt was in his dotage, and I \ndespaired of gaining any intelligence from him on which \nI could depend. \n\nI took my leave of Mrs. Croft, and proceeded to my \nlodgings at the Marlborough Hotel. \n\n\" If Peter Rugg,\" thought I, \" has been travelling since \nthe Boston massacre, there is no reason why he should not \ntravel to the end of time. If the present generation know \nlittle of him, the next will know less, and Peter and his \nchild will have no hold on this world.\" \n\nIn the course of the evening, I related my adventure in \nMiddle Street. \n\n\" Ha ! \" said one of the company, smiling, \" do you \nreally think you have seen Peter Rugg ? I have heard my \ngrandfather speak of him, as though he seriously believed \nhis own story.\" \n\n•• Sir.\" said I, \"pray let us compare your grandfather's \nstory of Mr. Rugg with my own.\" \n\n\n14 PETEK liUGG, \n\n\" Peter Rugg, sir, — if my grandfather was worthy of \ncredit, — once lived in Middle Street, in this city. He was \na man in comfortable circumstances, had a wife and one \ndaughter, and was generally esteemed for his sober life \nand manners. But unhappily, his temper, at times, was \naltogether ungovernable, and then his language was terri- \nble. In these fits of passion, if a door stood in his way, he \nwould never do less than kick a panel through. He \nwould sometimes throw his heels over his head, and come \ndown on his feet, uttering oaths in a circle ; and thus in \na rage, he was the first who performed a somerset, and \ndid what others have since learned to do for merriment \nand money. Once Rugg was seen to bite a tenpenny nail \nin halves. In those days everybody, both men and boys, \nwore wigs ; and Peter, at these moments of violent pas- \nsion, would become so profane that his wig would rise up \nfrom his head. Some said it was on account of his terri- \nble language ; others accounted for it in a more philo- \nsophical way, and said it was caused by the expansion of \nhis scalp, as violent passion, we know, will swell the veins \nand expand the head. While these fits were on him, Rugg \nhad no respect for heaven or earth. Except this infirmity, \nall agreed that Rugg was a good sort of a man ; for when \nhis fits were over, nobody was so ready to commend a \nplacid temper as Peter. \n\n\" One morning, late in autumn, Rugg, in his own chair, \nwith a fine large bay horse, took his daughter and pro- \nceeded to Concord. On his return a violent storm over- \ntook him. At dark he stopped in Menotomy, now West \nCambridge, at the door of a Mr. Cutter, a friend of his, \nwho urged him to tarry the night. On Rugg's declin- \ning to stop, Mr. Cutter urged him vehemently. ' Why, \nMr. Rugg,' said Cutter, 'the storm is overwhelming you. \nThe night is exceedingly dark. Your little daughter will \n\n\nTHE MISSING MAN. 15 \n\nperish. You are in an open chair, and the tempest is in- \ncreasing.' ' Let the storm increase] said Rugg, with a fear- \nful oath, ' / tot72 see home to-night, in spite of the last \ntempest, or may J never see home ! ' At these words he \ngave his whip to his high-spirited horse and disappeared \nin a moment. But Peter Rugg did not reach home that \nnight, nor the next ; nor, when he became a missing \nman, could he ever be traced beyond Mr. Cutter's, in \nMenotomy. \n\n\" For a long time after, on every dark and stormy night \nthe wife of Peter Rugg would fancy she heard the crack \nof a whip, and the fleet tread of a horse, and the rattling \nof a carriage passing her door. The neighbors, too, heard \nthe same noises, and some said they knew it was Rugg's \nhorse ; the tread on the pavement was perfectly familiar \nto them. This occurred so repeatedly that at length the \nneighbors watched with lanterns, and saw the real Peter \nRugg, with his own horse and chair and the child sitting \nbeside him, pass directly before his own door, his head \nturned toward his house, and himself making every effort \nto stop his horse, but in vain. \n\n\" The next day the friends of Mrs. Rugg exerted them- \nselves to find her husband and child. They inquired at \nevery public house and stable in town ; but it did not ap- \npear that Rugg made any stay in Boston. No one, after \nRugg had passed his own door, could give any account of \nhim, though it was asserted by some that the clatter of \nRugg's horse and carriage over the pavements shook the \nhouses on both sides of the streets. And this is credible, if \nindeed Rugg's horse and carriage did pass on that night ; \nfor at this day, in many of the streets, a loaded truck or \nteam in passing will shake the houses like an earthquake. \nHowever, Rugg's neighbors never afterward watched. \nSome of them treated it all as a delusion, and thought no \n\n\n1G PETER RUGG, \n\nmore of it. Others of a different opinion shook their heads \nand said nothing. \n\n\"Thus Etugg and his child, horse, and chair were soon \nforgotten; and probably many in the neighborhood never \nheard a word on the subject. \n\n\" There was indeed a rumor that Rugg was seen after- \nward in Connecticut, between Suflield and Hartford, pass- \ning through the country at headlong speed. This gave \noccasion to Rugg's friends to make further inquiry ; but \nthe more they inquired, the more they were baffled. If \nthey heard of Rugg one day in Connecticut, the next they \nheard of him winding round the hills in New Hampshire ; \nand soon after a man in a chair, with a small child, exactly \nanswering the description of Peter Rugg, would be seen in \nRhode Island inquiring the way to Boston. \n\n\" But that which chiefly gave a color of mystery to the \nstory of Peter Rugg was the affair at Charlestown bridge. \nThe toll-gatherer asserted that sometimes, on the darkest \nand most stormy nights, when no object could be dis- \ncerned, about the time Rugg was missing, a horse and \nwheel-carriage, with a noise equal to a troop, would at \nmidnight, in utter contempt of the rates of toll, pass over \nthe bridge. This occurred so frequently that the toll- \ngatherer resolved to attempt a discovery. Soon after, at \nthe usual time, apparently the same horse and carriage \napproached the bridge from Charlestown square. The toll- \ngatherer, prepared, took his stand as near the middle of \nthe bridge as he dared, with a large three-legged stool in \nhis hand ; as the appearance passed, he threw the stool \nat the horse, but heard nothing except the noise of the \nstool skipping across the bridge. The toll-gatherer on \nthe next day asserted that the stool went directly through \nthe body of the horse, and he persisted in that belief ever \nafter. \"Whether Rugg, or whoever the person was, ever \n\n\nTHE MISSING MAX. 17 \n\npassed the bridge again, the toll-gatherer would never tell; \nand when questioned, seemed anxious to waive the subject. \nAnd thus Peter Rugg and his child, horse, and carriage, \nremain a mystery to this day.\" \n\nThis, sir, is all that I could learn of Peter Rugg in \nBoston. \n\n\nFURTHER ACCOUNT OF PETER RUGG. \nBy Jonathan Duxwell. \n\nIn the autumn of 1825 I attended the races at Richmond \nin Virginia. As two new horses of great promise were \nrun, the race-ground was never better attended, nor was \nexpectation ever more deeply excited. The partisans of \nDart and Lightning, the two race-horses, were equally \nanxious and equally dubious of the result. To an indiffer- \nent spectator, it was impossible to perceive any difference. \nThey were equally beautiful to behold, alike in color and \nheight, and as they stood side by side they measured from \nheel to forefeet within half an inch of each other. The \neyes of eacli were full, prominent, and resolute ; and \nwhen at times they regarded each other, they assumed a \nlofty ilemcanor, seemed to shorten their necks, project \ntheir eyes, and rest their bodies equally on their four \nhoofs. They certainly showed signs of intelligence, and \ndisplayed a courtesy to each other unusual even with \nstatesmen. \n\nIt was now nearly twelve o'clock, the hour of expecta- \ntion, doubt, and anxiety. The riders mounted their horses ; \nand so trim, light, and airy they sat on the animals as \nto seem a part of them. The spectators, many deep in a \nsolid column, had taken their places, and as many thou- \n\n\n18 PETER RUGG, \n\nsand breathing statues were there as spectators. All eyes \nwere turned to Dart and Lightning and their two fairy \nriders. There was nothing to disturb this calm except \na busy woodpecker on a neighboring tree. The signal \nwas given, and Dart and Lightning answered it with \nready intelligence. At first they proceed at a slow trot, \nthen they quicken to a canter, and then a gallop; pres- \nently they sweep the plain. Both horses lay themselves \nflat on the ground, their riders bending forward and rest- \ning their chins between their horses' ears. Had not the \nground been perfectly level, had there been any undula- \ntion, the least rise and fall, the spectator would now and \nthen have lost sight of both horses and riders. \n\nWhile these horses, side by side, thus appeared, flying \nwithout wings, flat as a hare, and neither gaining on the \nother, all eyes were diverted to a new spectacle. Directly \nin the rear of Dart and Lightning, a majestic black horse \nof unusual size, drawing an old weather-beaten chair, \nstrode over the plain ; and although he appeared to make \nno effort, for he maintained a steady trot, before Dart and \nLightning approached the goal the black horse and chair \nhad overtaken the racers, who, on perceiving this new \ncompetitor pass them, threw back their ears, and suddenly \nstopped in their course. Thus neither Dart nor Lightning \ncarried away the purse. \n\nThe spectators now were exceedingly curious to learn \nwhence came the black horse and chair. With many it \nwas the opinion that nobody was in the vehicle. Indeed, \nthis began to be the prevalent opinion ; for those at a short \ndistance, so fleet was the black horse, could not easily \ndiscern who, if anybody, was in the carriage. But both \nthe riders, very near to whom the black horse passed, \nagreed in this particular, — that a sad-looking man and \na little girl were in the chair. When they stated this I \n\n\nTHE MISSING MAX. 19 \n\nwas satisfied that the man was Peter Rugg. But what \ncaused no little surprise, John Spring, one of the riders \n(he who rode Lightning) asserted that no earthly horse \nwithout breaking his trot could, in a carriage, outstrip \nhis race-horse ; and he persisted, with some passion, that \nit was not a horse, — or, he was sure it was not a horse, \nbut a large black ox. \" What a great black ox can do,\" \nsaid John, \" I cannot pretend to say ; but no race-horse, \nnot even flying Childers, could out-trot Lightning in a \nfair race.\" \n\nThis opinion of John Spring excited no little merriment, \nfor it was obvious to every one that it was a powerful \nblack horse that interrupted the race ; but John Spring, \njealous of Lightning's reputation as a horse, would rather \nhave it thought that any other beast, even an ox, had been \nthe victor. However, the \" horse-laugh \" at John Spring's \nexpense was soon suppressed ; for as soon as Dart and \nLightning began to breathe more freely, it was observed \nthat both of them walked deliberately to the track of the \nrace-ground, and putting their heads to the earth, sud- \ndenly raised them again and began to snort. They re- \npeated this till John Spring said, — \" These horses have \ndiscovered something strange ; they suspect foul play. Let \nme go and talk with Lightning.\" \n\nHe went up to Lightning and took hold of his mane ; \nand Lightning put his nose toward the ground and smelt \nof the earth without touching it, then reared his head \nvery high, and snorted so loudly that the sound echoed \nfrom the next hill. Part did the same. John Spring \nstooped down to examine the spot where Lightning had \nsmelled. In a moment he raised himself up, and the coun- \ntenance of the man was changed. His strength failed him, \nand he sidled against Lightning. \n\nAt length John Spring recovered from his stupor and \n\n\n•20 PETER RUGG, \n\nexclaimed, \" It was an ox ! I told you it was an ox. No \nreal horse ever yet beat Lightning.\" \n\nAmi now, on a close inspection of the black horse's \ntracks in t lie path, it was evident to every one that the \nforefeet of the black horse were cloven. Notwithstanding \nthese appearances, to me it was evident that the strange \nhorse was in reality a horse. Yet when the people left the \nrace-ground, I presume one half of all those present would \nhave testified that a large black ox had distanced two of \nthe fleetest coursers that ever trod the Virginia turf. So \nuncertain are all things called historical facts. \n\nWhile I was proceeding to my lodgings, pondering on \nthe events of the day, a stranger rode up to me, and \naccosted me thus, — \" I think your name is Dun well, sir.\" \n\n\" Yes, sir,\" I replied. \n\n\" Did I not see you a year or two since in Boston, at the \nMarlborough Hotel ? \" \n\n\" Very likely, sir, for I was there.\" \n\n\" And you heard a story about one Peter Rugg ? \" \n\n\" I recollect it all,\" said I. \n\n\" The account you heard in Boston must be true, for here \nhe was to-day. The man has found his way to Virginia, \nand for anght that appears, has been to Cape Horn. 1 \nhave seen him before to-day, but never saw him travel with \nsuch fearful velocity. Pray, sir, where does Peter Rugg \nspend his winters, for I have seen him only in summer, \nand always in foul weather, except this time ?\" \n\nI replied, \" No one knows where Peter Rugg spends his \nwinters ; where or when he eats, drinks, sleeps, or lodges. \nHe seems to have an indistinct idea of day and night, time \nand space, storm and sunshine. His only object is Boston. \nIt appears to me that Rugg's horse has some control of \nthe chair ; and that Rugg himself is, in some sort, under \nthe control of his horse.\" \n\n\nTHE MISSING MAX. 21 \n\nI then inquired of the stranger where he first saw the \nman and horse. \n\n•• Why, sir,\"' said lie. \" in the summer of 1824, 1 travelled \nto the North for my health ; and soon after I saw you at \nthe Marlborough. Hotel I returned homeward to Virginia, \nand, if my memory is correct, I saw this man and horse in \nevery State between here and Massachusetts. Sometimes \nhe would meet me, but oftener overtake me. He never \nspoke but once, and that once was in Delaware. On his \napproach he checked his horse with some difficulty. A \nmore beautiful horse I never saw ; his hide was as fair and \nrotund and glossy as the skin of a Congo beauty. When \nRugg's horse approached mine he reined in his neck, bent \nhis ears forward until they met, and looked my horse full \nin the face. My horse immediately withered into half a \nhorse, his hide curling up like a piece of burnt leather : \nspell-bound, he was fixed to the earth as though a nail \nhad been driven through each hoof. \n\n'• • Sir,' said Kugg, ' perhaps you are travelling to Boston ; \nand if so, I should be happy to accompany you, for I have lost \nmy way, and I must reach home to-night. See how sleepy \nthis little girl looks ; poor thing, she is a picture of patience.' \n\n\"'Sir,' said I, 'it is impossible for you to reach home \nto-night, for you are in Concord, in the county of Sussex. \nin the State of Delaware.' \n\n'• ' What do you mean,' said he, ' by State of Delaware ? \nIf I were in Concord, that is only twenty miles from Bos- \nton, and my horse Lightfoot could carry me to Charles- \ntown ferry in less than two hours. You mistake, sir ; you \nare a stranger here ; this town is nothing like Concord. \nI am well acquainted with Concord. I went to Concord \nwhen I left Boston.' \n\n\" ' But,' said I, ' you are in Concord, in the State of \nDelaware.' \n\n\n22 PETER RUGG, \n\n\" ' What do you mean by State ? ' said Rugg. \n\n\" ' Why, one of the United States.' \n\n\" ' States ! ' said he, in a low voice ; ' the man is a wag, \nand would persuade me I am in Holland.' Then, raising \nhis voice, he said, ' You seem, sir, to be a gentleman, \nand I entreat you to mislead me not : tell me, quickly, for \npity's sake, the right road to Boston, for you see my horse \nwill swallow his bits ; he has eaten nothing since I left \nConcord.' \n\n\"'Sir,' said I, 'this town is Concord, — Concord in Dela- \nware, not Concord in Massachusetts ; and you are now five \nhundred miles from Boston.' \n\n\" Rugg looked at me for a moment, more in sorrow than \nresentment, and then repeated, ' Five hundred miles ! Un- \nhappy man, who would have thought him deranged ; but \nnothing in this world is so deceitful as appearances. Five \nhundred miles ! This beats Connecticut River.' \n\n\" What he meant by Connecticut River, I know not ; his \nhorse broke away, and Rugg disappeared in a moment.\" \n\nI explained to the stranger the meaning of Rugg's ex- \npression, \" Connecticut River,\" and the incident respecting \nhim that occurred at Hartford, as I stood on the door- \nstone of Mr. Bennett's excellent hotel. We both agreed \nthat the man we had seen that day was the true Peter \nRugg. \n\nSoon after, I saw Rugg again, at the toll-gate on the \nturnpike between Alexandria and Middleburgh. While I \nwas paying the toll, I observed to the toll-gatherer, that \nthe drought was more severe in his vicinity than farther \nsouth. \n\n\" Yes,\" said he, \" the drought is excessive ; but if I had \nnot heard yesterday, by a traveller, that the man with the \nblack horse was seen in Kentucky a day or two since, I \nshould be sure of a shower in a few minutes.\" \n\n\nTHE MISSING MAX. 23 \n\nI looked all around the horizon, and could not discern \na cloud that could hold a pint of water. \n\n\" Look, sir,\" said the toll-gatherer, \" you perceive to the \neastward, just above that hill, a small black cloud not \nbigger than a blackberry, and while I am speaking it is \ndoubling and trebling itself, and rolling up the turnpike \nsteadily, as if its sole design was to deluge some object.\" \n\n\" True,\" said I, \" I do perceive it ; but what connection \nis there between a thunder-cloud and a man and horse ? \" \n\nli More than you imagine, or I can tell you; but stop a \nmoment, sir, I may need your assistance. I know that \ncloud ; I have seen it several times before, and can testify \nto its identity. You will soon see a man and black horse \nunder it.\" \n\nWhile he was speaking, true enough, we began to hear \nthe distant thunder, and soon the chain-lightning per- \nformed all the figures of a country-dance. About a mile \ndistant we saw the man and black horse under the cloud ; \nbut before he arrived at the toll-gate, the thunder-cloud \nhad spent itself, and not even a sprinkle fell near us. \n\nAs the man, whom I instantly knew to be Rugg, at- \ntempted to pass, the toll-gatherer swung the gate across \nthe road, seized Rugg's horse by the reins, and demanded \ntwo dollars. \n\nFeeling some little regard for Rugg, I interfered, and \nbegan to question the toll-gatherer, and requested him not \nto be wroth with the man. The toll-gatherer replied that \nhe had just cause, for the man had run his toll ten times, \nand moreover that the horse had discharged a cannon-ball \nat him, to the great danger of his life ; that the man \nhad always before approached so rapidly that he was too \nquick for the rusty hinges of the toll-gate ; \" but now I \nwill have full satisfaction.\" \n\nRugg looked wistfully at me, and said, \" I entreat you, \n\n\n24 PETER RUGG, \n\nsir, to delay me not ; I have found at length the direct \nroad to Boston, and shall not reach home before night if \nyou detain me. You see 1 am dripping wet, and ought \nto change my clothes.\" \n\nThe toll-gatherer then demanded why he had run his \ntoll so many times. \n\n\" Toll ! Why,\" said Rugg, \" do you demand toll ? There \nis no toll to pay on the king's highway.\" \n\n\" King's highway ! Do you not perceive this is a \nturnpike ?\" \n\n\" Turnpike ! there are no turnpikes in Massachusetts.\" \n\n\"That may be, but we have several in Virginia.\" \n\n\" Virginia ! Do you pretend I am in Virginia ?\" \n\nRugg then, appealing to me, asked how far it was to \nBoston. \n\nSaid I, \" Mr. Rugg, I perceive you are bewildered, and \nam sorry to see you so far from home ; you are, indeed, \nin Virginia.\" \n\n\" You know me, then, sir, it seems ; and you say I am \nin Virginia. Give me leave to tell you, sir, you are the \nmost impudent man alive ; for I was never forty miles \nfrom Boston, and I never saw a Virginian in my life. \nThis beats Delaware ! \" \n\n\" Your toll, sir, your toll ! \" \n\n\" I will not pay you a penny,\" said Rugg ; \" you are both \nof you highway robbers. There are no turnpikes in this \ncountry. Take toll on the kings highway ! Robbers take \ntoll on the king's highway ! \" Then in a. low tone, he said, \n\" Here is evidently a conspiracy against me ; alas, I shall \nnever see Boston ! The highways refuse me a passage, the \nrivers change their courses, and there is no faith in the \ncompass.\" \n\nBut Rugg's horse had no idea of stopping more than one \nminute ; for in the midst of this altercation, the horse, \n\n\nTHE MISSING MAN. 25 \n\nwhose nose was resting on the upper bar of the turnpike- \ngate, seized it between his teeth, lifted it gently off its \nstaples, and trotted off with it. The toll-gatherer, con- \nfounded, strained his eyes after his gate. \n\n\" Let him go,\" said I, u the horse will soon drop your \ngate, and you will get it again.\" \n\nI tbcii questioned the toll-gatherer respecting his \nknowledge of this man ; and he related the following \nparticulars : — \n\n\" The first time,\" said he, \" that man ever passed this \ntoll-gate was in the year 1S06, at the moment of the great \neclipse. I thought the horse was frightened at the sudden \ndarkness, and concluded he had run away with the man. \nBut within a few days after, the same man and horse \nrepassed with equal speed, without the least respect to the \ntoll-gate or to me, except by a vacant stare. Some few \nyears afterward, during the late war, I saw the same man \napproaching again, and I resolved to check his career. \nAccordingly I stepped into the middle of the road, and \nstretched wide both my arms, and cried, ' Stop, sir, on your \nperil!' At this the man said, 'Now, Lightfoot, confound \nthe robber ! ' at the same time he gave the whip liberally \nto the flank of his horse, which bounded off with such force \nthat it appeared to me two such horses, give them a place \nto stand, would overcome any check man could devise. \nAn ammunition wagon which had just passed on to Bal- \ntimore had dropped an eighteen pounder in the road ; \nthis unlucky ball lay in the way of the horse's heels, and \nthe beast, witli the sagacity of a demon, clinched it witli \none of his heels and hurled it behind him. I feel dizzy \nin relating the fact, but so nearly did the ball pass my \nhead, that the wind thereof blew off my hat ; and the ball \nembedded itself in that gate-post, as you may see if you will \ncast your eye on the post. I have permitted it to remain \n\n\n26 PETER RUGG, \n\nthere in memory of the occurrence, — as the people of Bos- \nton, I am told, preserve the eighteen-pounder which is now \nto be seen half embedded in Brattle Street church.\" \n\nI then took leave of the toll-gatherer, and promised him \nif I saw or heard of.his gate I would send him notice. \n\nA strong inclination had possessed me to arrest Rugg \nand search his pockets, thinking great discoveries might \nbe made in the examination ; but what I saw and heard \nthat day convinced me that no human force could detain \nPeter Rugg against his consent. I therefore determined \nif I ever saw Rugg again to treat him in the gentlest \nmanner. \n\nIn pursuing my way to New York, I entered on the \nturnpike in Trenton ; and when I arrived at New Bruns- \nwick, I perceived the road was newly macadamized. The \nsmall stones had just been laid thereon. As I passed this \npiece of road, I observed that, at regular distances of about \neight feet, the stones were entii-ely displaced from spots \nas large as the circumference of a half-bushel measure. \nThis singular appearance induced me to inquire the cause \nof it at the turnpike-gate. \n\n\" Sir,\" said the toll-gatherer, \" I wonder not at the ques- \ntion, but I am unable to give you a satisfactory answer. \nIndeed, sir, I believe I am bewitched, and that the turn- \npike is under a spell of enchantment ; for what appeared \nto me last night cannot be a real transaction, otherwise \na turnpike-gate is a useless thing.\" \n\n\" I do not believe in witchcraft or enchantment,\" said I ; \n;' and if you will relate circumstantially what happened last \nnight, I will endeavor to account for it by natural means.\" \n\n\" You may recollect the night was uncommonly dark. \nWell, sir, just after I had closed the gate for the night, \ndown the turnpike, as far as my eye could reach, I beheld \nwhat at first appeared to be two armies engaged. The \n\n\nTHE MISSING MAX. 27 \n\nreport of the musketry, and the flashes of their firelocks, \nwere incessant and continuous. As this strange spectacle \napproached me with the fury of a tornado, the noise in- \ncreased ; and the appearance rolled on in one compact body \nover the surface of the ground. The most splendid fire- \nworks rose out of the earth and encircled this moving \nspectacle. The divers tints of the rainbow, the most brill- \niant dyes that the sun lays in the lap of spring, added to \nthe whole family of gems, could not display a more beau- \ntiful, radiant, and dazzling spectacle than accompanied the \nblack horse. You would have thought all the stars of \nheaven had met in merriment on the turnpike. In the \nmidst of this luminous configuration sat a man, distinctly \nto be seen, in a miserable-looking chair, drawn by a black \nhorse. The turnpike-gate ought, by the laws of Nature \nand the laws of the State, to have made a wreck of the \nwhole, and have dissolved the enchantment ; but no, the \nhorse without an effort passed over the gate, and drew \nthe man and chair horizontally after him without touch- \ning the bar. This was what I call enchantment. What \nthink you, sir?\" \n\n\" My friend,\" said I, \" you have grossly magnified a nat- \nural occurrence. The man was Peter Rugg, on his way \nto Boston. It is true, his horse travelled with unequalled \nspeed, but as he reared high his forefeet, he could not \nhelp displacing the thousand small stones on which he \ntrod, which flying in all directions struck one another, and \nresounded and scintillated. The top bar of your gate is not \nmore than two feet from the ground, and Rugg's horse at \nevery vault could easily lift the carriage over that gate.\" \n\nThis satisfied Mr. McDoubt, and I was pleased at that \noccurrence ; for otherwise Mr. McDoubt, who is a worthy \nman, late from the Highlands, might have added to his \ncalendar of superstitions. Having thus disenchanted the \n\n\n28 PETER RUGG, \n\nmacadamized road and the turnpike-gate, and also Mr. \nMePoubt, I pursued my journey homeward to New York. \n\nLittle did I expect to see or hear anything further of Mr. \nRugg, for he was now more than twelve hours in advance \nof me. I could hear nothing of him on my way to Eliza- \nbethtown, and therefore concluded that during the past \nnight he had turned off from the turnpike and pursued \na westerly direction ; but just before I arrived at Powles's \nHook, I observed a considerable collection of passengers \nin the ferry-boat, all standing motionless, and steadily \nlooking at the same object. One of the ferry -men, Mr. \nHardy, who knew me well, observing my approach de- \nlayed a minute, in order to afford me a passage, and \ncoming up, said, \" Mr. Dunwell, we have a curiosity on \nboard that would puzzle Dr. Mitchell.\" \n\n\" Some strange fish, I suppose, has found its way into \nthe Hudson.\" \n\n\" No,\" said he, \" it is a man who looks as if he had \nlain hidden in the ark, and had just now venured out. \nHe has a little girl with him, the counterpart of himself, \nand the finest horse you ever saw, harnessed to the \nqueerest-looking carriage that ever was made.\" \n\n\" Ah, Mr. Hardy,\" said I, \" you have, indeed, hooked a \nprize ; no one before you could ever detain Peter Rugg \nlong enough to examine him.\" \n\n\" Do you know the man ? \" said Mr. Hardy. \n\n\" No, nobody knows him, but everybody has seen him. \nDetain him as long as possible ; delay the boat under any \npretence, cut the gear of the horse, do anything to detain \nhim.\" \n\nAs I entered the ferry-boat, I was struck at the spectacle \nbefore me. There, indeed, sat Peter Rugg and Jenny Rugg \nin the chair, and there stood the black horse, all as quiet \nas lambs, surrounded by more than fifty men and women, \n\n\nTHE MISSING MAX. 29 \n\nwho seemed to have lost all their senses but one. Not a \nmotion, not a breath, not a nestle. They were all eye. \nRugg appeared to them to be a man not of this world ; and \nthey appeared to Rugg a strange generation of men. Rugg \nspoke not, and they spoke not; nor was I disposed to dis- \nturb the calm, satisfied to reconnoitre Rugg in a state of \nrest. Presently, Rugg observed in a low voice, addressed \nto nobody, \"A new contrivance, horses instead of oars ; \nBoston folks are full of notions.\" \n\nIt was plain that Rugg was of Dutch extraction. He \nhad on three pairs of small clothes, called in former \ndays of simplicity breeches, not much the worse for \nwear ; but time had proved the fabric, and shrunk one \nmore than anotber, so that they showed at the knees \ntheir different qualities and colors. His several waist- \ncoats, the flaps of which rested on his knees, made him \nappear rather corpulent. His capacious drab coat would \nsupply the stuff for half a dozen modern ones ; the sleeves \nwere like meal bags, in the cuffs of which you might \nnurse a child to sleep. His hat, probably once black, now \nof a tan color, was neither round nor crooked, but in shape \nmuch like the one President Monroe wore on his late tour. \nThis dress gave the rotund face of Rugg an antiquated dig- \nnity. The man, though deeply sunburned, did not appear \nto be more than thirty years of age. He had lost his sad \nand anxious look, was quite composed, and seemed happy. \nThe chair in which Rugg sat was very capacious, evidently \nmade for service, and calculated to last for ages; the \ntimber would supply material for three modern carriages. \nThis chair, like a Nantucket coach, would answer for every- \nthing that ever went on wheels. The horse, too, was an \nobject of curiosity ; his majestic height, his natural mane \nand tail, gave him a commanding appearance, and his \nlarge open nostrils indicated inexhaustible wind. It was \n\n\n30 PETER RUGG, \n\napparent that the hoofs of his forefeet had been split, \nprobably on some newly macadamized road, and were now \ngrowing together again ; so that John Spring was not \naltogether in the wrong. \n\nHow long this dumb scene would otherwise have con- \ntinued I cannot tell. Rugg discovered no sign of im- \npatience. But Rugg's horse having been quiet more than \nfive minutes, had no idea of standing idle ; he began to \nwhinny, and in a moment after, with his right forefoot he \nstarted a plank. Said Rugg, \" My horse is impatient, he \nsees the North End. You must be quick, or he will be \nungovernable.\" \n\nAt these words, the horse raised his left forefoot ; and \nwhen he laid it down every inch of the ferry-boat trembled. \nTwo men immediately seized Rugg's horse by the nostrils. \nThe horse nodded, and both of them were in the Hudson. \nWhile we were fishing up the men, the horse was perfectly \nquiet. \n\n\" Fret not the horse,\" said Rugg, \" and he will do no \nharm. He is only anxious, like myself, to arrive at yonder \nbeautiful shore; he sees the North Church, and smells \nhis own stable.\" \n\n\" Sir,\" said I to Rugg, practising a little deception, \n\" pray tell me, for I am a stranger here, what river is this, \nand what city is that opposite, for you seem to be an \ninhabitant of it ? \" \n\n\" This river, sir, is called Mystic River, and this is Win- \nnisimmct ferry, — we have retained the Indian names, — \nand that town is Boston. You must, indeed, be a stranger \nin these parts, not to know that yonder is Boston, the \ncapital of the New England provinces.\" \n\n\" Pray, sir, how long have you been absent from \nBoston ? \" \n\n\" Why, that I cannot exactly tell. I lately went with \n\n\nTHE MISSING MAX. 31 \n\nthis little girl of mine to Concord, to see my friends ; \nand I am ashamed to tell you, in returning lost the way, \nand have been travelling ever since. No one would direct \nme right. It is cruel to mislead a traveller. My horse, \nLightfoot, has boxed the compass ; and it seems to me he \nhas boxed it back again. But, sir, you perceive my horse \nis uneasy ; Lightfoot, as yet, has only given a hint and a \nnod. I cannot be answerable for his heels.\" \n\nAt these words Lightfoot reared his long tail, and \nsnapped it as you would a whiplash. The Hudson re- \nverberated with the sound. Instantly the six horses be- \ngan to move the boat. The Hudson was a sea of glass, \nsmooth as oil, not a ripple. The horses, from a smart trot, \nsoon pressed into a gallop ; water now run over the gun- \nwale ; the ferry-boat was soon buried in an ocean of foam, \nand the noise of the spray was like the roaring of many \nwaters. When we arrived at New York, you might see \nthe beautiful white wake of the ferry-boat across the \nHudson. \n\nThough Rugg refused to pay toll at turnpikes, when Mr. \nHardy reached his hand for the ferriage, Rugg readily put \nhis hand into one of his many pockets, took out a piece \nof silver, and handed it to Hardy. \n\n••What is this?\" said Mr. Hardy. \n\n\" It is thirty shillings,\" said Rugg. \n\n\" It might once have been thirty shillings, old tenor,\" \nsaid Mr. Hardy, \" but it is not at present.\" \n\n\" The money is good English coin,\" said Rugg ; \" my \ngrandfather brought a bag of them from England, and \nhad them hot from the mint.\" \n\nHearing this, I approached near to Rugg, and asked \npermission to see the coin. It was a half-crown, coined \nby the English Parliament, dated in the year 1649. On \none side, \" The Commonwealth of England,\" and St. \n\n\n32 PETER RUGG, \n\nGeorge's cross encircled with a wreath of laurel. On the \nother, \" God with us,\" and a harp and St. George's cross \nunited. I winked at Mr. Hardy, and pronounced it good \ncurrent money ; and said loudly, \" I will not permit the \ngentleman to be imposed on, for I will exchange the \nmoney myself.\" \n\nOn this, Rugg spoke, — \" Please to give me your name, \nsir.\" \n\n\" My name is Dunwell, sir,\" I replied. \n\n\" Mr. Dunwell,\" said Rugg, \" you are the only honest \nman I have seen since I left Boston. As you are a stran- \nger here, my house is your home ; Dame Rugg will be \nhappy to see her husband's friend. Step into my chair, \nsir, there is room enough ; move a little, Jenny, for the \ngentleman, and we will be in Middle Street in a minute.\" \n\nAccordingly I took a seat by Peter Rugg. \n\n\" Were you never in Boston before ? \" said Rugg. \n\n\" No,\" said I. \n\n\" Well, you will now see the queen of New England, a \ntown second only to Philadelphia, in all North America.\" \n\n\" You forget New York,\" said I. \n\n\"Poh, New York is nothing; though I never was there. \nI am told you might put all New York in our mill-pond. \nNo, sir, New York, I assure you, is but a sorry affair; no \nmore to be compared with Boston than a wigwam with \na palace.\" \n\nAs Rugg's horse turned into Pearl Street, I looked Rugg \nas fully in the face as good manners would allow, and said, \n\" Sir, if this is Boston, I acknowledge New York is not \nworthy to be one of its suburbs.\" \n\nBefore we had proceeded far in Pearl Street, Rugg's \ncountenance changed : his nerves began to twitch ; his eyes \ntrembled in their sockets; he was evidently bewildered. \n\" What is the matter, Mr. Rugg ; you seem disturbed.\" \n\n\nTHE MISSING MAX. 33 \n\n\" This surpasses all human comprehension ; if you know, \nsir, where we are, I beseech you to tell me.\" \n\n\" If this place,\" I replied, \" is not Boston, it must be \nNew York.\" \n\n\" No, sir, it is not Boston ; nor can it be New York. \nHow could I be in New York, which is nearly two hun- \ndred miles from Boston ? \" \n\nBy this time we had passed into Broadway, and then \nBogg, in truth, discovered a chaotic mind. \" There is \nno such place as this in North America. This is all the \neffect of enchantment ; this is a grand delusion, nothing \nreal. Here is seemingly a great city, magnificent houses, \nshops and goods, men and women innumerable, and as \nbusy as in real life, all sprung up in one night from the \nwilderness ; or what is more probable, some tremendous \nconvulsion of Nature has thrown London or Amsterdam \non the shores of New England. Or, possibly, I may be \ndreaming, though the night seems rather long ; but before \nnow I have sailed in one night to Amsterdam, bought goods \nof Yandogger, and returned to Boston before morning.\" \n\nAt this moment a hue-and-cry was heard, \" Stop the \nmadmen, they will endanger the lives of thousands ! \" In \nvain hundreds attempted to stop Rugg's horse. Lightfoot \ninterfered with nothing; his course was straight as a \nshooting-star. But on my part, fearful that before night \nI should find myself behind the Alleghanies, I addressed \nMr. Bogg in a tone of entreaty, and requested him to \nrestrain the horse and permit me to alight. \n\n\" My friend,\" said he, \" we shall be in Boston before \ndark, and Dame Rugg will be most exceeding glad to \nsec us.\" \n\n\" Mr. Rugg,\" said I, \" you must excuse me. Pray look \nto the west ; see that thunder-cloud swelling with rage, as \nif in pursuit of us.\" \n\n3 \n\n\n34 PETER RUGG, \n\n\" Ah,\" said Rugg, \" it is in vain to attempt to escape. \nI know that cloud ; it is collecting new wrath to spend on \nmy head.\" Then checking his horse, he permitted me to \ndescend, saying, \" Farewell, Mr. Dunwell, I shall be happy \nto see you in Boston ; I live in Middle Street.\" \n\nIt is uncertain in what direction Mr. Rugg pursued his \ncourse, after he disappeared in Broadway ; but one thing \nis sufficiently known to everybody, — that in the course of \ntwo months after he was seen in New York, he found his \nway most opportunely to Boston. \n\nIt seems the estate of Peter Rugg had recently fallen to \nthe Commonwealth of Massachusetts for want of heirs ; \nand the Legislature had ordered the solicitor-general to \nadvertise and sell it at public auction. Happening to be \nin Boston at the time, and observing his advertisement, \nwhich described a considerable extent of land, I felt a \nkindly curiosity to see the spot where Rugg once lived. \nTaking the advertisement in my hand, I wandered a little \nway down Middle Street, and without asking a question \nof any one, when I came to a certain spot I said to my- \nself, \" This is Rugg's estate ; I will proceed no farther. \nThis must be the spot; it is a counterpart of Peter \nRugg.\" The premises, indeed, looked as if they had ful- \nfilled a sad prophecy. Fronting on Middle Street, they \nextended in the rear to Ann Street, and embraced about \nhalf an acre of land. It was not uncommon in former \ntimes to have half an acre for a house-lot ; for an acre \nof land then, in many parts of Boston, was not more \nvaluable than a foot in some places at present. The old \nmansion-house had become a powder-post, and been blown \naway. One other building, uninhabited, stood ominous, \ncourting dilapidation. The street had been so much raised \nthat the bed-chamber had descended to the kitchen and was \nlevel with the street. The house seemed conscious of its \n\n\nTHE MISSING MAN. 35 \n\nfate ; and as though tired of standing there, the front was \nfast retreating from the rear, and waiting the next soutli \nwind to project itself into the street. If the most wan- \nanimals had sought a place of refuge, here they would \nhave rendezvoused. Here, under the ridge-pole, the crow \nwould have perched in security ; and in the recesses be- \nlow, you might have caught the fox and the weasel asleep. \nu The hand of destiny,\" said I, \" has pressed heavy on \nthis spot ; still heavier on the former owners. Strange \nthat so large a lot of land as this should want an heir ! \nYet Peter Rugg, at this day, might pass by his own door- \nstone, and ask, ' Who once lived here ? ' \" \n\nThe auctioneer, appointed by the solicitor to sell this \nestate, was a man of eloquence, as many of the auctioneers \nof Boston are. The occasion seemed to warrant, and his \nduty urged, him to make a display. He addressed his \naudience as follows, — \n\n\" The estate, gentlemen, which we offer you this day, \nwas once the property of a family now extinct. For that \nreason it has escheated to the Commonwealth. Lest any \none of you should be deterred from bidding on so large \nan estate as this for fear of a disputed title, I am author- \nized by the solicitor-general to proclaim that the purchaser \nshall have the best of all titles, — a warranty-deed from the \nCommonwealth. I state this, gentlemen, because I know \nthere is an idle rumor in this vicinity, that one Peter Rugg, \nthe original owner of this estate, is still living. This \nrumor, gentlemen, has no foundation, and can have no \nfoundation in the nature of things. It originated about \ntwo years since, from the incredible story of one Jonathan \nDunwell, of New York. Mrs. Croft, indeed, whose hus- \nband I see present, and whose mouth waters for this estate, \nhas countenanced this fiction. But, gentlemen, was it ever \nknown that any estate, especially an estate of this value, \n\n\n36 PETER KUGG, \n\nlay unclaimed for nearly half a century, if any heir, ever so \nremote, were existing? For, gentlemen, all agree that old \nPeter Rugg, if living, would he at least one hundred years \nof age. It is said that he and his daughter, with a horse \nand chaise, were missed more than half a century ago ; and \nbecause they never returned home, forsooth, they must be \nnow living, and will some day come and claim this great \nestate. Such logic, gentlemen, never led to a good invest- \nment. Let not this idle story cross the noble purpose of \nconsigning these ruins to the genius of architecture. If \nsuch a contingency could check the spirit of enterprise, \nfarewell to all mercantile excitement. Your surplus money, \ninstead of refreshing your sleep with the golden dreams of \nnew sources of speculation, would turn to the nightmare. \nA man's money, if not employed, serves only to disturb his \nrest. Look, then, to the prospect before you. Here is half \nan acre of land, — more than twenty thousand square feet, — \na corner lot, with wonderful capabilities ; none of your con- \ntracted lots of forty feet by fifty, where, in dog-days, you \ncan breathe only through your scuttles. On the contrary, \nan architect cannot contemplate this lot of land without \nrapture, for here is room enough for his genius to shame \nthe tern] ile of Solomon. Then the prospect — how com- \nmanding ! To the east, so near to the Atlantic that Nep- \ntune, freighted with the select treasures of the whole earth, \ncan knock at your door with his trident. From the west, \nthe produce of the river of Paradise — the Connecticut — \nwill soon, by the blessings of steam, railways, and canals, \npass under your windows ; and thus, on this spot, Neptune \nshall marry Ceres, and Pomona from Roxbury, and Flora \nfrom Cambridge, shall dance at the wedding. \n\n\" Gentlemen of science, men of taste, ye of the literary \nemporium, — for I perceive many of you present, — to you \nthis is holy ground. If the spot on which in times past \n\n\nTHE MISSING MAN. 37 \n\na hero left only the print of a footstep is now sacred, of \nwhat price is the birthplace of one who all the world \nknows was born in Middle Street, directly opposite to this \nlot ; and who, if his birthplace were not well known, would \nnow be claimed by more than seven cities. To you, then, \nthe value of these premises must be inestimable. For \nere long there will arise in full view of the edifice to be \nerected here, a monument, the wonder and veneration of \nthe world. A column shall spring to the clouds ; and on \nthat column will be engraven one word which will convey \nall that is wise in intellect, useful in science, good in \nmorals, prudent in counsel, and benevolent in principle, — \na name of one who, when living, was the patron of the \npoor, the delight of the cottage, and the admiration of \nkings ; now dead, worth the whole seven wise men of \nGreece. Need I tell you his name ? lie fixed the thun- \nder and guided the lightning. \n\n\" Men of the North End ! Need I appeal to your patriot- \nism, in order to enhance the value of this lot ? The earth \naffords no such scenery as this ; there, around that corner, \nlived James Otis ; here, Samuel Adams ; there, Joseph \nWarren ; and around that other corner, Josiah Quincy. \nHere was the birthplace of Freedom ; here Liberty was \nborn, and nursed, and grew to manhood. Here man was \nnewly created. Here is the nursery of American Inde- \npendence — I am too modest — here began the eman- \ncipation of the world ; a thousand generations hence \nmillions of men will cross the Atlantic just to look at \nthe north end of Boston. Your fathers — what do I \nsay — yourselves, — yes, this moment, I behold several at- \ntending this auction who lent a hand to rock the cradle \nof Independence. \n\n\" Men of speculation, — ye who are deaf to everything ex- \ncept the sound of money, — you, I know, will give me both \n\n\n38 PETEB UUGG, \n\nof your cars when 1 tell you the city of Boston must have \na piece of this estate in order to widen Ann Street. Do \nyou hear me, — do you all hear me ? I say the city must \nhave a large piece of this land in order to widen Ann \nStreet. What a chance ! The city scorns to take a man's \nland for nothing. If it 6eizes your property, it is gen- \nerous beyond the dreams of avarice. The only oppres- \nsion is, you are in danger of being smothered under a load \nof wealth. \"Witness the old lady who lately died of a \nbroken heart when the mayor paid her for a piece of her \nkitchen-garden. All the faculty agreed that the sight of \nthe treasure, which the mayor incautiously paid her in \ndazzling dollars, warm from the mint, sped joyfully all the \nblood of her body into her heart, and rent it with raptures. \nTherefore, let him who purchases this estate fear his good \nfortune, and not Peter Rugg. Bid, then, liberally, and do \nnot let the name of Rugg damp your ardor. How much \nwill you give per foot for this estate ? \" \n\nThus spoke the auctioneer, and gracefully waved his \nivory hammer. From fifty to seventy-five cents per foot \nwere offered in a few moments. The bidding labored from \nseventy-five to ninety. At length one dollar was offered. \nThe auctioneer seemed satisfied ; and looking at his watch, \nsaid he would knock off the estate in five minutes, if no \none offered more. \n\nThere was a deep silence during this short period. \nWhile the hammer was suspended, a strange rumbling \nnoise was heard, which arrested the attention of every \none. Presently, it was like the sound of many shipwrights \ndriving home the bolts of a seventy-four. As the sound \napproached nearer, some exclaimed, \" The buildings in the \nnew market arc falling in promiscuous ruins.\" Others \nsaid, \" No, it is an earthquake ; we perceive the earth \ntremble.\" < (there said, \" Not so ; the sound proceeds from \n\n\nTHE MISSING MAN. 39 \n\nHanover Street, and approaches nearer ; \" and this proved \ntrue, for presently Peter Rugg was in the midst of us. \n\n\" Alas, Jenny,\" said Peter, \" I am ruined ; our house \nhas been burned, and here are all our neighbors around the \nruins. Heaven grant your mother, Dame Rugg, is safe.\" \n\n\" They don't look like our neighbors,\" said Jenny ; \" but \nsure enough our house is burned, and nothing left but \nthe door-stone and an old cedar post. Do ask where \nmother is.\" \n\nIn the mean time more than a thousand men had sur- \nrounded Rugg and his horse and chair. Yet neither \nRugg, personally, nor his horse and carriage, attracted \nmore attention than the auctioneer. The confident look \nand searching eyes of Rugg carried more conviction to \nevery one present that the estate was his, than could any \nparchment or paper with signature and seal. The impres- \nsion which the auctioneer had just made on the company \nwas effaced in a moment ; and although the latter words of \nthe auctioneer were, \" Fear not Peter Rugg,\" the moment \nthe auctioneer met the eye of Rugg his occupation was \ngone ; his arm fell down to his hips, his late lively hammer \nhung heavy in his hand, and the auction was forgotten. \nThe black horse, too, gave his evidence. He knew his \njourney was ended ; for he stretched himself into a horse \nand a half, rested his head over the cedar post, and \nwhinnied thrice, causing his harness to tremble from \nheadstall to crupper. \n\nRugg then stood upright in his chair, and asked with \nsome authority, \" Who has demolished my house in my \nabsence, for I sec no signs of a conflagration ? I demand \nby what accident this has happened, and wherefore this \ncollection of strange people has assembled before my door- \nstep. I thought I knew every man in Boston, but you \nappear to me a new generation of men. Yet I am familiar \n\n\n40 PETER RUGG. \n\nwith many of the countenances here present, and I can call \nsome of you by name ; but in truth I do not recollect that \nbefore this moment I ever saw any one of you. There, I \nam certain, is a Winslow, and here a Sargent ; there stands \na Sewall, and next to him a Dudley. Will none of you \nspeak to me, — or is this all a delusion ? I sec, indeed, \nmany forms of men, and no want of eyes, but of motion, \nspeech, and hearing, you seem to be destitute. Strange ! \nWill no one inform me who lias demolished my house ? \" \n\nThen spake a voice from the crowd, but whence it came \nI could not discern : \" There is nothing strange here but \nyourself, Mr. Rugg. Time, which destroys and renews all \nthings, has dilapidated your house, and placed us here. \nYou have suffered many years under an illusion. The \ntempest which you profanely defied at Menotomy has at \nlength subsided ; but you will never see home, for your \nhouse and wife and neighbors have all disappeared. Your \nestate, indeed, remains, but no home. You were cut off \nfrom the last age, and you can never be fitted to the \npresent. Your home is gone, and you can never have \nanother home in this world.\" \n\n\nTHE LATE JOSEPH NATTEESTEOM. \n\n\nTHE LATE JOSEPH NATTERSTROM. \n\n\nTHE great wealth of the late Joseph Natterstrom, of \nNew York, was connected with several remarkable \nincidents, which under the pen of a writer of ordinary \nimagination might grow into a romantic tale. \n\nThe merchant of the United States frequently traces the \norigin of his prosperity to foreign climes. He holds a \nmagic wand in his hand which reaches to the extremity of \nthe globe ; and if he waves it judiciously, he levies from \nall quarters of the world princely revenues. The restless \nsea and its richest contents, desolate islands and the most \ncircuitous rivers, the cultivated territory and the intermi- \nnable wilderness, are as much the merchant's, as the rain \nand sunshine, the warm breezes and the fattening dews, \nare the property of the husbandman. But the embryo \nfortune of Mr. Xatterstrom was not of mercantile origin ; \nit came from the heart of Arabia, and grew out of an in- \ncursion of the Wheehabites, — a reforming and fanatic sect \nof Mahometans, who date from Abdul Wheehab, of the last \ncentury. This man, like Martin Luther, thought a refor- \nmation in morals and discipline had become necessary. \n\nAbout the year 1790, Ebn Beg and Ibrahim Hamet were \nreturning home from Mecca to Abou Jbee, a village not far \nfrom the Rumleah mountains. They had united religion \nand trade together, as is sometimes done here by the sons \nof Mercury. In performing their pilgrimage to Mecca with \na caravan, they furthered both their temporal and eternal \n\n\n44 THE LATE JOSEPH NATTEBSTBOM. \n\ninterests; for on their return from Mecca, they encoun- \ntered a party of those children of the desert who believe \nthey have a divine right to all the goods of this world \nwhich they can conquer, and what they spare, they credit \nto their magnanimity and generosity, — and herein they do \nnot greatly differ from most other people. But the cara- \nvan of Beg and Hamet proved too powerful for the children \nof Hagar, who became the prey of the stranger. The spoils \nof that day enriched Beg and Hamet, for those Arabs \nhad shortly before enriched themselves at the expense of \nanother caravan. \n\nWith joyful hearts these two men approached home, \nhaving left the caravan at the intersection of the road that \nleads to Aleppo, rejoicing that their danger was over, that \nthey had honorably obtained an accession of wealth, and \nthat they had become entitled to the coveted name of \nHadji. But there soon came a blast from the desert \nwhich converted the shady spot, on which they had en- \ncamped, into a sand-heap. When within a day's journey \nfrom home they met a man whom they knew. It was \nAli Beker. Said they, \" Is there peace at Abou Jbce ? \" \n\" God is great, there is peace at Abou Jbee,\" said Ali \nBeker, \"the peace of the grave.\" He turned his head \naway, and said no more. Their hearts withered within \nthem. Soon after they met another man ; as he ap- \nproached them, he looked at them earnestly for some \ntime, and then said, \" Do I behold the unhappy Beg and \nHamet ! \" and he tore off his turban and flung it on \nthe ground. They passed on, neither Beg nor Hamet \nspeaking to each other. At length they approached the \nconfines of their village, and learned the whole. The \nWheehabites had been there, and being powerfully resisted \nand nearly overcome, they left nothing but a heap of ruins \nto tell the story. Beg and Hamet were now alone on the \n\n\nTHE LATE JOSEPH XATTERSTROM. 45 \n\nface of the earth. They made a circuit around Abou Jbee, \ntook a last look, and passed on to Smyrna. There they \nremained some time, and studied the French and English \nlanguages. \n\nFrom Smyrna they sailed to Marseilles ; and there they \nassumed the European dress, and studiously conformed \nto the manners of that people, — a seemingly impossible \nchange, from a Turk to a Frenchman. From Marseilles \nthey proceeded on foot to Paris ; and after remaining there \na few months, they saw such strange mistakes made, that \nfearing they might lose their heads without a chance for \nexplanation, they passed on to London, where they felt \nquite at home. There they remained during the winter of \n1793. Chancing to meet Captain Dixon of the Xew York \npacket, who had been in the Smyrna trade, they became \nattached to him from an accidental expression which fell \nfrom his lips at the New York Coffee House. Some one \nhad asserted that there were not twenty merchants in the \ncity of Xew York who could pass for genuine merchants \non the Royal Exchange of London, — such was the mer- \ncantile honor of Englishmen. An appeal was made to \nCaptain Dixon, who, waving a direct answer, said, \" If you \nwish to find mercantile honor in perfection, surpassing the \ncomprehension of a European, you must go to Turkey. A \nTurkish merchant's word is better than a Christian mer- \nchant's bond. The word is sacred ; the bond may be dis- \nputed. I have seen many a Turk in whose skin you might \nsew up half a dozen very decent Christians.\" \"Allah!\" \nsaid Beg, in rapture, \" an infidel has spoken the truth ! I \nwish the Prophet could hear that ! \" This incident led to \nan acquaintance with Captain Dixon, who gave them such \nan account of the Xew World as excited their curiosity \nto see it. Accordingly, they sailed soon after with Cap- \ntain Dixon, for Xew York. \n\n\n46 THE LATE JOSEPH NATTERSTROM. \n\nBeg and Ilamct could now speak the English lan- \nguage quite fluently ; and concealing that they were \nTurks, they passed in the principal cities and towns \nfor very decent Christians. Among the people of New \nEngland they passed current for two Dutchmen of New \nYork or Pennsylvania ; and at Baltimore they were sup- \nposed to be two Scotchmen, so prudently and discreetly \ndid they demean themselves. They spent a year in the \nUnited States, the chief of the time at New York ; and \nduring that time they found ample food for their minds. \nHamet told Captain Dixon that he had brought him not \nonly to a new world, but to a new race of men : a people \nnot really civilized, yet far from savage ; not very good, \nnor altogether bad ; not generally intelligent, nor alto- \ngether ignorant ; a calculating people, who reckoned up \ntheir rights as often as they did their money. \" In fine,\" \nsaid Hamet, \" I perceive this is a very young country, but \na very old people.\" \n\nAs Beg and Hamet travelled through the States, they \nwere surprised to find so much order and tranquillity \namong a people without any apparent government; for \nduring nearly the whole year there was no appearance of \nany government. In divers provinces, each of them bigger \nthan the pachalic of Damascus, a few men would meet \nonce a year, wind up the government like a clock, and \nleave it to run at random; for after the public agents, \nlike a dispersed caravan, had hastened home, all signs of \ngovernment vanished. \" How different,\" said Beg, \" from \nall other countries, where the first object of government \nis to make itself seen, heard, and felt ; whereas, among \nthis strange people, you can neither see, hear, nor feel the \ngovernment.\" \n\nBeg was greatly diverted in attending a lawsuit at Boston. \n\" There were five reverend judges,\" he said, \" with twelve \n\n\nTHE LATE JOSEPH XATTERSTROM. 47 \n\nmen to help them, aided by four counsellors of the law, \nwho consumed a whole day and part of a night in settling \na case of twenty-five dollars ; and \" said Beg, laughing, \" the \nnext morning the jury, as they called the twelve men, \ncame solemnly into court and said they could not agree, \nand never would agree. Whereas,\" said Beg, \" one of our \ncadis alone would have settled it in twenty minutes.\" \n\nA few days previous to Beg and Hamet's return to \nSmyrna, as Beg was passing down Wall Street, he heard \na man say, as he was leaving one of the offices, \" I don't \nbelieve there is an honest man in Xew York.\" \" Oh, yes, \nthere is,\" said another, as he was passing ; \" there is Joe \nXatterstrom.\" At that moment an unaccountable trance- \nlike feeling came over Beg, and a voice, which seemed to \nhim audible, said, \" Beg, before you leave the country, see \nNatterstrom and prove his honesty.\" Beg had not pro- \nceeded far before he saw two men in conversation on the \nsidewalk ; and as he passed them he overheard one of them \nsay, \" Can I trust him with so much money ? Are you sure \nhe is honest ? \" \" Yes,\" said the other, \" honest as Joe \nXatterstrom.\" This second incident, to a Mussulman who \nbelieved in predestination, was as imperative as the voice \nof the Prophet. Beg responded aloud, u I will see Xat- \nterstrom and prove his honesty.\" Soon after he heard \ntwo men disputing in Broadway with no little passion ; \nand as he approached them, one said, \" I will refer it to \nJoe Natterstrom.\" \" Agreed,\" said the other. \" So,\" said \nBeg, \" this Xatterstrom is also a man of judgment. I will \ncertainly see Xatterstrom and prove his honesty.\" \n\nThe next day Beg inquired for Xatterstrom, and soon \nlearned that Xatterstrom had become a proverb. \" As \nhonest as Joe Xatterstrom,\" was in everybody's mouth ; \nbut he could find no one who could give him any account \nof Joe Xatterstrom. All agreed that no man in Xew York \n\n\n48 THE LATE JOSEPH NATTERSTKOM. \n\nwas better known than Joe Natterstrom, yet no one of \nwhom Beg inquired could identify him or tell where he \nresided. \" Pray, sir,\" said Beg to a merchant on the Ex- \nchange, \" can you point out to me Joseph Natterstrom ? \" \n\" No,\" said he, \" I cannot, but his name and reputation are \nperfectly familiar to me ; ask almost any man and he will \ntell you where he is to be seen.\" To the same question \nanother replied, \" I have often heard of honest Joe Natter- \nstrom : he must be known to almost everybody ; but for \nmy part, I do not recollect ever to have seen him. Ask that \ngentleman across the way, in a drab coat ; he knows every- \nbody.\" Beg then accosted the gentleman with the drab \ncoat. \"Pray, sir, can you point me to Joseph Natterstrom?\" \n\" Honest Joe Natterstrom, do you mean ? \" \" Yes, sir,\" \nsaid Beg, \" honest Joe Natterstrom.\" \" Oh, yes, I know \nNatterstrom,\" said the gentleman in drab ; \" everybody \nknows Natterstrom. There is no man in New York better \nknown than Natterstrom.\" \" Sir,\" said Beg, \" can you \ndescribe him to me ? \" \"I would have affirmed a minute \nago,\" said the gentleman in drab, \" that I well' knew honest \nJoe Natterstrom, but I must confess I cannot describe him \nto you, and do not distinctly recollect that I ever saw \nhim ; but almost everybody knows Natterstrom.\" Beg was \nastonished. \" Here,\" said he, \" is a man honest to a \nproverb, and no one knows him. Honest men must be \nvery plenty in New York.\" \n\nBeg now thought Natterstrom must be known at some \nof the banks ; and he inquired at the City Bank if Joseph \nNatterstrom ever transacted business there. \" Do you \nmean honest Joe Natterstrom?\" said the cashier. \"Yes,\" \nsaid Beg. \" No,\" replied the cashier, \" but we would be \nhappy to accommodate Mr. Natterstrom if he wants a loan.\" \nThe cashier of the Manhattan Bank said he had paid many \na cheque drawn in favor of Joseph Natterstrom, but did not \n\n\nTHE LATE JOSEPH XATTERSTROM. 49 \n\nrecollect ever to have seen Xatterstrom ; nor did he know \nat what bank he negotiated his business, but said, \" Joseph \nXatterstrom can have any accommodation at this bank.\" \nIn short, Xatterstrom was known by reputation at every \nbank in the city, and it seems, could have commanded their \nfunds, but none of the officers knew him. \n\nThe next Sunday, Beg was certain he had obtained a \nclew to the person of Xatterstrom. The clergyman on \nwhose preaching Beg attended (for though a Mussulman, \nBeg believed a full third of what he heard), spoke of \nXatterstrom as a man of such integrity that his name \nhad become synonymous with honesty. But to Beg's sur- \nprise, the next day the preacher told him he did not know \nthe man, nor where he resided, but supposed he was the \nmost familiarly known man in Xew York ; for he had \noften heard the children in the streets mention \" honest \nJoe Xatterstrom.\" Beg, now in despair of ever finding \nXatterstrom, began to suppose he was an imaginary \nbeing ; and as there was not an honest real man in Xew \nYork, the people had conjured up a phantom and given \nit the name of Joe Xatterstrom. Yet this was not the \nfact ; for a few days after, as Beg was walking through \nPearl Street, he saw two men in conversation, and heard \none of them say, \" There goes Joe Xatterstrom ; let it be \nsettled by honest Joe Xatterstrom.\" \n\nBeg now followed Xatterstrom in order to obtain a \nknowledge of his person. \" Allah ! \" said Beg, after he \nhad obtained a 'distinct view, \" he has the mark of the \nProphet ; he would not be ashamed to look the Sultan in \nthe face!\" The next day Beg, with studied secrecy, — \nHamet himself ignorant of it, — disguised himself like an \nold man tottering on the brink of the grave. lie painted \nhis face more cadaverous than the natural look of death ; \nthen, taking a bag of gold in his hand, he sought an \n\n4 \n\n\n50 THE LATE JOSEPH NATTERSTROM. \n\nopportunity about twilight, when Natterstrom was just \nleaving his counting-room, and slowly opening the door, \nbe reached the bag, with an apparently feeble arm and \ntrembling hand, to Natterstrom, and said only, \" Occupy \ntill Elm Beg comes,\" disappearing in a moment, leaving \nNatterstrom in reasonable doubt whether the occurrence \nwas natural or supernatural. However, he immediately \nuntied the bag, and to his astonishment, counted five \nhundred English guineas. \n\nNatterstrom stood some time in a revcry, many unutter- \nable things probably passing in his mind. He then reached \nhis ledger, and entered therein, \" October 21st, 1794, re- \nceived of Mr. Eben Beck five hundred guineas to be \nused for his benefit.\" Beg and Hamct, the next week, \nleft the United States, and returned by the way of Liver- \npool to Smyrna, where Beg established himself as a \nmerchant. \n\nThe next morning Natterstrom opened a new account \nand placed the money to the credit of Ebenezer Beck, con- \nsidering himself merely as the agent of Beck. From that \nday Natterstrom kept Beck's concerns and his own entirely \ndistinct ; and from that day Natterstrom was esteemed the \nmost fortunate man in the world, although Natterstrom pro- \nnounced himself the most unfortunate. The money of Beg \nall prospered. It was like a snow-ball in a damp day roll- \ning down the White Mountains. It doubled and trebled \nitself like an assemblage of clouds driven by contrary \nwinds, while Nattcrstrom's own property was dissipated \nlike a mist in summer. He seldom saw his own money but \nonce ; the winds, the waves, and the rocks in the sea, all \nconspired against Natterstrom. The same tempest which \nwrecked Nattcrstrom's ship on the rock Rodondo, drove \nBeg's into a famished port in the West Indies, where they \nweighed silver against flour. The commissions on Beg's \n\n\nTHE LATE JOSEPH XATTERSTROM. 51 \n\nadventure retrieved Xatterstrom's late loss and gave him \nthe command of a great sum as the agent of Beg. \n\nNatterstrom was among the first to embark in trade to \nthe Levant. The situation of the commercial world was \nmost inviting to the commerce of the United States. All \nthe world was a new milch cow to the merchant. While \nall Europe was fighting for this cow, and one nation was \nseizing her by the horns, another by the tail, a third by \nher fore-leg, and a fourth by her hind-leg, the merchant \nof the United States was sitting beside her, milking as \nquietly as a milkmaid. Xatterstrom freighted two ships, \none on his own, the other on Beck's account, and sent \nthem to Smyrna. Captain Dixon commanded Beck's and \nCaptain Hathaway, Xatterstrom's ship. On their arrival \nin the roadstead of Smyrna, they hoisted the flag of the \nUnited States, which excited no little curiosity on shore, \nfor very few of the Smyrniots had ever seen our national \ncolors. It soon came to Beg's ears that two ships from \nthe New World, heavily laden, were at anchor in the offing. \nHe was immediately on board the nearest, which proved \nto be Captain Hathaway's ; and learning they were both \nfrom New York, he was greatly delighted. Beg was in- \nvited into the cabin, and, at his request, was shown an \ninvoice of the cargo. When he had read it, he cast it on \nthe table, and said, \" I pity the owner ; every article is a \ndrug here, and would better suit the Xew York market.\" \n\" That is Xatterstrom's ill-luck,\" said Captain Hathaway : \n\" if he had shipped gold, it would have transmuted itself \ninto brass ; if he held in his hands the rain of heaven, it \nwould descend in mildew. Whatever he touches with his \nown hand, he poisons ; but whatever he touches with \nBeck's hand, he converts to gold. I dare say Beck's cargo \nwill turn to good account.\" \" Xatterstrom,\" said Beg, \n\" Xatterstrom, what Xatterstrom ? I was once in Xew \n\n\n52 THE LATE JOSEPH NATTERSTROM. \n\nYork, and knew a Mr. Natterstrom ; they called him \n' honest Joe Natterstrom.' \" \" The same, the same,\" said \nCaptain Hathaway ; \" who could have imagined that Joe \nNatterstrom was known to a merchant of Smyrna ! He is \nthe owner of this unhappy cargo, which is his whole prop- \nerty.\" \" And whose is the other ship and cargo ? \" said \nBeg. \" That,\" said Captain Hathaway, \" is more than any \nliving man knows. Natterstrom himself is ignorant of the \nowner. He says he is the agent of one Ebenezcr Beck, \nand as no one doubts what Natterstrom says, the property \nis all taxed to Ebenezcr Beck. This Beck owns a large \nreal and personal estate, particularly a valuable wharf, in \nNew York ; and as nobody knows who Beck is, and as \nthe estate has thus strangely slipped away from the lawful \nowner, the public have called it Bcckman's Slip. Heaven \ngrant that this same Beck do not ultimately prove the \nruin of poor Natterstrom.\" \"It. may be so,\" said Beg; \n\" a man may be wise for another, and a fool for himself. \nLet us now go on board Beck's ship, and examine his \ncargo.\" \" That is needless,\" said Captain Hathaway ; \n\" here is an invoice of Beck's cargo.\" Beg examined it, \nand exclaimed, \" Admirable ! It is worth half Smyrna. \nThis Beck is a lucky fellow ; he was born under the sun ; \nhis lamp will never go out. He must be a favorite of the \nProphet, and was nursed under a tree that sheds its fruit, \n■when ripe, into his lap.\" Beg then went on board of the \nother ship, and to his surprise and great joy, beheld his \nold friend Captain Dixon. After an oriental salutation, \nBeg mentioned his interview with Captain Hathaway, and \nlamented the unhappy voyage of Natterstrom. \" And \nwho,\" said Beg, \" may be the fortunate owner of your \ncargo?\" \"That,\" said Captain Dixon, \"is a mystery, \ndeep as the hidden springs of your deserts. If honest Joe \nNatterstrom speaks truth, the fountain is still sealed. He \n\n\nTHE LATE JOSEPH XATTERSTROM. 53 \n\nis an agent of an unknown being. Natterstrom, though \nhe is obliged to live and appear like a pacha, asserts \nthat he is a poor man, only the agent of Beck, and de- \npendent on his commissions. He affirms that all the \nproperty in his hands is one Eben Beck's ; and when ques- \ntioned who Beck may be, he says he does n't know, he never \nsaw him but once, then in the twilight, and that, several \nyears since.\" \" But,\" said Beg, \" is there any doubt that \nNatterstrom would surrender this property to the man \nBeck, if he should go and demand it ? \" \" That, indeed, \nremains to be proved,\" said Captain Dixon, \" and will for- \never remain a doubt ; for there is no probability that Beck \nwill ever appear. Many believe that Natterstrom, from \nsome strange whim or dubious motive, has fabricated the \nwhole story of this Eben Beck.\" \" It may, nevertheless, all \nbe true,\" said Beg ; \" and Natterstrom may be the honest \nagent of Eben Beck. He is no friend to virtue who doubts \nits existence. The case may be as Natterstrom affirms; \ntherefore it 's wrong to prejudge. To attribute a bad motive \nto a good action is to sow tares among wheat. Is it so \nvery extraordinary that a man should be honest ? Our \nProphet could summon thousands of the faithful, whose \nleast merit would be their integrity. To return a pledge, \nto keep sacred a deposit, to do equity where the law would \nnot compel you, in the estimation of the Prophet are all \nnatural ; little better than instinct. I fear you wrong \nNatterstrom in doubting his integrity. Mere honesty is \nonly a silent virtue. Your Prophet and ours have, each \nof them, many humble followers, who are like the potato \nof your country, which never raises its head above the \nsurface. Yet the potato is worth the whole tribe of flowers \nthat sport in the breeze. The English, who trade to the \nRed Sea, trust1 whole cargoes to our people, who carry \nthem to the heart of Asia ; and all the security they \n\n\n54 THE LATE JOSEPH NATTERSTROM. \n\ndemand is a token, a crook of a Mussulman's finger. If \nNatterstrom has proclaimed himself the steward of an- \nother man, has he not pledged himself to a surrender when \nthat man appears and reclaims his own ? \" \n\n\" I wish Eben Beck was in the Red Sea,\" said Captain \nDixon ; \" for it is evident, whether a real being or a phan- \ntom, he is the evil genius of honest Joe Natterstrom.\" \n\n\" But now to business,\" said Beg. \" Give me the re- \nfusal of your cargo, and I will freight both vessels back \nwith such products as you may order.\" \n\nThis accomplished, both ships returned to New York, \nheavily laden with the richest products of the East. \n\nWhen it appeared to Natterstrom that Beck's ship had \nmade a prosperous voyage, and that his own enterprise \nhad failed, Natterstrom was disheartened ; all his thoughts \nturned, inwardly, to one dark idea. Strange things passed \nin his mind. He remembered the pale look of the person, \nthe feeble arm and trembling hand, that reached to him \nthe bag of gold. The apparent old age and the decrepitude \nof the man now fixed his attention more strangely than \nin the moment of reality. The man of 179-4 seemed to \nreappear to Natterstrom in full life ; and an impression \nthat he might be the passive agent of an unholy princi- \npal overpowered him. He began to hate his own name, \nwithout being reconciled to that of Beck. However, the \ncourse of events and the facility of business all tended to \nsink the name of Natterstrom into that of Beck ; so that \nNatterstrom was frequently addressed as Ebenezer Beck \nby foreign merchants, who really supposed they were \nmerchandising with Beck himself. Indeed, he began to \nbe called in New York, Ebenezer Beck ; so that at length \nhe willingly assumed the name. He therefore relinquished \nall business in the name of Natterstrom, took down his \nsign on his warehouse, and substituted in place thereof \n\n\nTHE LATE JOSEPH NATTERSTROM. 55 \n\nthat of Ebenezer Beck. Thus, honest Joe Natterstrom \nsank into Ebcnczer Beck ; and many of the present gen- \neration, who suppose they have seen Ebcnczer Beck a \nthousand times, never heard of the name of Joseph Nat- \nterstrom. So hasty is time to bury the past ; so closely \ndoes oblivion press on the footsteps of time. \n\nUnder the name of Ebenezer Beck, Natterstrom long \nflourished, one of the most eminent merchants of New \nYork. Although he employed thousands of men, and \ncame in contact with the whole mass of civil society, \nno man was ever heard to complain of him ; he was \nthe counterpart of the late Mr. Gray of Boston. \n\nAfter many successful voyages to Smyrna, Beck ex- \nclaimed one day in the hearing of Captain Dixon, \" Lord, \nremember poor Joseph Natterstroni ; but as for Ebenezer \nBeck, stay thy hand, for he has enough ! \" This being \nrelated to Beg the last time Captain Dixon was at Smyrna, \n\" Enough ! \" said Beg, \" he is the first man that ever \ncried enough ! \" \n\n\" But,\" said Captain Dixon, \" if the wealth is not his \nown, but one Ebenezer Beck's, he exclaimed ' Enough ' for \nanother man, not for himself.\" \n\n\" True,\" said Beg, \" it is so ; yet it seems to confirm his \nintegrity, if he did not apply the expression to himself.\" \n\nBeg now thought it time to sec Natterstrom, and he \nprepared to visit the United States. Accordingly, he em- \nbarked a second time with Captain Dixon for New York. \nOn his arrival, he pondered a long time how he should \nmake himself known to Natterstrom. At length, he re- \nsolved to appear before him in the same disguise in which \nhe appeared at his counting-room in 1794, thirty years \nbefore. He now prepared himself for a meeting ; and \nhaving ascertained that Natterstrom and his family were \ngoing to a country-seat at Flushing, he placed himself \n\n\n56 THE LATE JOSEPH NATTERSTROM. \n\nin the way, and sat down near the middle of the road, \nnear the Dutch church. With one hand he supported \nhimself with a staff; and the other was half extended, \nas if in dubious expectation of charity. When the horses \nof Natterstrom's carriage approached Beg, they suddenly \nstopped and trembled, as if spell-bound. The coachman \nturned to Natterstrom and said, \" Here, sir, is a miser- \nable object, so (inhuman that the horses tremble at sight \nof him.\" \n\n\" Eternal God ! \" said Xatterstrom, \" that is Eben Beck ! \nThe day of doubt is passed, and if that is a human \nbeing, I am happy ; otherwise, I have been thirty years \nunder enchantment.\" In an instant, Natterstrom leaped \nfrom the carriage and approached Beg. \" Thou art Eben \nBeck,\" said Natterstrom. \" Dost thou appear to me a \nmiserable beggar, or a mysterious being, unallied to this \nworld, and all its concerns ? Speak, for I am Joseph Nat- \nterstrom, and have 'occupied' till Eben Beck has come.\" \n\n\" How hast thou ' occupied ' ? \" said Beg, austerely. \n\n\"I have 'occupied,'\" said Natterstrom, \"until thy five \nhundred guineas have become more than five hundred \nthousand. Arise, and take a seat in this, thy carriage, \nfor it is thine, — see thy name on the panel, — and let me \naccompany thee to thy beautiful mansion at Becksville.\" \n\nBeg ascended the carriage, seated himself, sat calmly, \nand said nothing. Natterstrom, though full, even to \nanguish, was silence-struck at this strange occurrence ; \nand thus all was quiet until they arrived at Beck's \ncountry-scat. Natterstrom now proposed a change of \nraiment, which Beg declined, observing he was too old \nto change his habits ; he had come a long distance to \nsettle his affairs, and was desirous of returning home \nto his own country. \" When canst thou settle with me ? \" \nasked Beg. \n\n\nTHE LATE JOSEPH NATTERSTROM. 57 \n\n\" To-day,\" replied Xatterstrom. \n\n\" But how canst thou settle the concerns of thirty \nyears in one day ! \" \n\n\" I have only,\" said Xatterstrom, \" to hand thee a \nbundle of papers, and the business is done.\" \n\n\" Explain thyself, Mr. Xatterstrom, for I am an ignorant \nman.\" \n\n\" All thy property is in thy own name ; thy real estate \nis registered, thy ships are registered, thy notes of hand, \nthy bonds and mortgages, are all payable to thyself ; thy \nhank stock is all certified to Eben Beck ; and all thy \nother personal property is in thy day-book and ledger. \nOtherwise, how could Eben Beck receive his own, if Joseph \nXatterstrom had died before Eben Beck came back ? \" \n\n\" But how canst thou distinguish hetween thy own \nand my own ? Joseph Xatterstrom has not hecome poor \nwhile Eben Beck has become rich ? \" \n\n\" Joseph Xatterstrom has become poor, and has lived \nmany years under the shadow of Eben Beck, and has \nrejoiced in the sunshine of his prosperity ; for to rejoice \nin the prosperity of another is to partake of it. But \nnow, all is Eben Beck's ; if Joseph Xatterstrom retains \nanything, he wrongs Eben Beck.\" \n\n\" And art thou ready to resign all ? \" \n\n\" All.\" \n\n\" And what wilt thou have left ? \" \n\n'• Myself.\" \n\n\" True,\" said Beg, \" Joseph Xatterstrom will remain, \nand a man's best wealth ought to be himself.\" \n\nThe next day, Xatterstrom resigned all, and Beg took \nall. In one day, everything was settled. From great \nsplendor and apparent opulence, Joseph Xatterstrom was \nreduced to nothing. From that day Beg never saw Xat- \nterstrom, though he remained in Xew York about six \n\n\n58 THE LATE JOSEPH NATTERSTROM. \n\nmonths. lie continued his disguise, lived meanly, and \nencouraged the opinion that he was a mysterious miser. \nThe experiment on Natterstrom having succeeded to Beg's \nsatisfaction, he was now desirous of returning home to \nSmyrna ; but first he executed his Will, which for brevity \nwas remarkable. Thus : \" There is but one God, and \nMahomet is his Prophet. I, Ebn Beg, of Smyrna, known \nin the city of New York as Eben Beck, being of sound \nand disposing mind and memory, do make this my last \nwill and testament. First, I devise to Joseph Natterstrom, \nmy late agent, and to his heirs and assigns, all my real \nestate in the United States. Secondly, I give and be- \nqueath to said' Natterstrom, all my personal property, \nboth in Europe and in the United States.\" This will, \ncorrectly executed, Beg deposited with Captain Dixon, \nwho now for the first time was made acquainted with \nthe long-sleeping secret. By the aid of Captain Dixon, \nBeg now appeared to sicken, languish, and die. His \nfuneral was performed, and his decease was publicly no- \nticed, very little to his credit. The good-natured Beg \nsmiled at this, and soon after sailed for Smyrna. \n\nCaptain Dixon now presented the will to Natterstrom ; \nhe read it, and for a moment his well-balanced mind \nbegan to totter. He was now deeply impressed, that for \nthirty years he had been under a supernatural influence, \nbut as it appeared to him to be that kind of influence \nwhich one good spirit might have over another, he re- \ntained the name of Eben Beck to the day of his death, \nas well from pleasant associations as from public sanction ; \nbut his real name was Joseph Natterstrom, as is well \nknown to many aged people now living in New York. \n\n\nMARTHA GARDNER; \n\nOK, MORAL REACTION. \n\n\nMARTHA GARDNER; \nOR, MORAL REACTION. \n\n\nSIR FRANCIS WILLOUGHBY attempted the first set- \ntlement in Charlcstown on the land adjoining the old \nferry. Afterward Martha Gardner became heir to a part \nof the same estate. What inhabitant of that region, who \nhas passed the meridian of life, cannot remember Martha \nGardner ? What man or woman of sixty has not bought \nsweetmeats, nuts, and apples at the shop of Martha Gard- \nner at her little mansion measuring ten feet by twelve, \nwhich during her life was a frontier cottage between \nBoston and Charlestown, on the Charlestown shore near \nthe old ferry-way ? Those who remember Martha, and \nrecollect how silent, modest, industrious, and unassuming \nshe was, will think it impossible that anything interesting \ncan grow out of her history ; yet one incident in her long \nlife merits solemn reflection. It may appear to many an \nidle legend, yet it is not so ; for the footsteps of time \nhave already left an indelible track, and Martha Gardner, \nalthough long since in her grave, still speaks trumpet- \ntongued from her venerable ashes. \n\nPrevious to the American Revolution Martha Gardner \nlived in Charlestown. Her family name was Bunker, \nwhence came the name Bunker Hill. On the seventeenth \nday of June she saw her little mansion given to the flames, \nand herself houseless, destitute, and an exile from her \n\n\n62 MARTHA GARDNER; \n\nEden. After the war she returned and erected her small \ncottage on the border of the beautiful river ; and there she \nlived, and there in 1809 she died. \n\nIn 1785 Charles River Bridge, the greatest enterprise of \nthat day, was erected near the door of Martha Gardner, on \nthe Charlestown shore. The wealthy proprietors soon be- \ngan to fancy that a valuable part of the estate of Martha \nGardner was their corporate property ; and Martha was \ncompelled cither to resign her title, or engage in a lawsuit \nwith the richest corporation in New England. Her dis- \ntress may be imagined, — a poor widow, recently flying \nfrom the flames of her dwelling, hardly reinstated in the \ncommon comforts of life, already bending with age, and \nnow forced to contend with powerful claimants for a part \nof the small estate of which, unluckily, all the deeds and \ndocuments were (as she supposed) burned during the gen- \neral conflagration of Charlestown. \n\nA lawsuit has different aspects to different persons. To \nsome a lawsuit is a holiday ; to others it gives the heart- \nache. To some the agitation of a lawsuit is but the lullaby \nof a sea breeze ; so the French officer thought, who, dur- \ning a tedious peace, contrived to be involved in a hundred \nlawsuits. When he was summoned before Louis XV. as \na public nuisance, the king ordered him to drop them all ; \nbut he, falling on his knees, entreated that he might retain \nhalf a dozen of them for his diversion, otherwise he should \ndie with languor during the long peace. Not so Lord \nChancellor Eldon. When his steward complained to him \nof a trespasser, he asked if the man had stolen an acre \nof land. \" Why, no, sir.\" \" Then wait till he does.\" Nor \ndid Erskine see any amusement in a lawsuit. Ellenbor- \nough once suggested to him that his client could have a \nbetter remedy in the Court of Chancery. At the name of \nthe Court of Chancery, Erskine, wiping away a tear, and \n\n\nOK, MORAL REACTION. 63 \n\nlooking the Chief-Justice in the face, said, in a supplicat- \ning tone : \" Has your Lordship the heart to send a fellow- \nbeing to the Court of Chancery ? \" \n\nBut let us pause a moment to contemplate Martha Gard- \nner. How much do these two words \" Martha Gardner \" \ncomprise ! More than the whole Trojan war ! Homer \ncould have turned Martha Gardner into an epic poem, for \nshe and moral reaction are one. Moral reaction, — what a \nsubject for contemplation ! The anger of Achilles, the \nwanderings of that cunning itinerant Ulysses, the flight \nfrom Troy, our lagging sympathy with JCneas, and the \nfertile squabble of the Crusaders and the Turks for a \nfew square feet of earth, are mere incidents compared \nwith the eternal decrees of moral reaction. Coleridge and \nKant, transcendental philosophers ! — ye could discourse \nsublimely on moral reaction forever and ever ; for every \naction, past, present, or future, would afford food to your \ntelescopic minds. Every intelligent being and nation, as \nwell as individual, is at this moment suffering under moral \nreaction. The earthquake is but a momentary shock, the \nthunder dies in its birth, the volcano is but a palpitation ; \nbut moral reaction though silent, unseen, and unheard, is \nthe most busy agent in the universe. While it requires \nages for the ocean to effect a little inroad on the sea-beach. \nmoral reaction at one time overwhelms individuals and \nnations at a blow, at another it leads them through a laby- \nrinth to slow but sure destruction, — a giant, but without \nthe arms of a giant ; Time with his scythe, but you see not \nthe scythe. The prophetic imprecation of Martha Gardner \nwhich we are about to relate, was but a woman's voice \nsighing in the tempest and dying away among the billows ; \nbut it was a voice charged with an awful decree. \n\nThe story of Martha Gardner, although having its scene \nunder our own eyes, and the principal fact a matter of pub- \n\n\nG4 MARTHA GARDNER; \n\nlie record, is so much like a legendary tale that it is impossi- \nble to treat the subject without a tinge of the marvellous. \n\nSoon after the great Corporation of Charles River Bridge \nbegan the conflict with Martha Gardner for a part of \nher little patrimony, — the dock adjoining the bridge, — \nMartha one morning sat in her chair, her hands folded, \nlooking more like a figure of stone than a living being, \nwhen in came David Wood (the late Colonel Wood), one \nof those rare men, whom as soon as the eyes saw, the lips \nwhispered, \" There goes a man.\" His noble heart you \nmight read in his face and see in his hand ; in his deal- \nings he was so just that his word was as good as a promis- \nsory note, and passed like a bill of exchange from man \nto man. His looks created immediate confidence ; a lost \nclog might always be found at David Wood's door-step. \nIndeed, this man seemed to live exempt from the general \npenalty, and never appeared to realize that all others were \nnot like himself. \n\n\" What 's the matter, Martha ; what 's the matter ? You \nlook worse than you did when you fled from the ' seven- \nteenth of June.' \" Martha at first made no reply, for she \ndid not see him. \" Are you in a trance, Martha ? Wake \nup, and tell me what the trouble is.\" \n\nMartha seemed to awake from a deep revery, and re- \nplied, \" Ah, Mr. Wood, the burning of Charlestown, with \nmy little all, was but a momentary conflict, — it was but a \ndream of the night. What comes without anticipation, and \nends in a moment, passes over us like a dream. That \nmorning found me happy, and the next morning found me \nso. The seventeenth had passed over me forever, and the \nmorning of the eighteenth gave me new joy. Why could \nthey not wait a little longer, and I should have been at \nrest ? But now I see no end to my sorrows. When I lay \nmy head on my pillow, the Corporation appears to me in \n\n\nOR, MORAL REACTION*. 65 \n\nall its terrors ; when I sleep — no, I do not sleep — when \nI dream, I dream of the Corporation ; and when I wake. \nthere stands the great Corporation of Charles River Bridge \nagainst Martha Gardner, — they, seemingly almighty, and \nI, nothing. Why did yon waken me ? \" \n\n\" Cheer up, Martha,\" said the benevolent Mr. Wood, \n\" your happy star shall yet prevail. Why, have you for- \ngotten your old wooden post with Ebenezer Mansir's name \ncarved on it, — the old wooden post which the selectmen of \nCharlestown, in their wrath, ordered to be cut away, and \nwhich, after traversing the whole world of waters, floated \nback after two years to your own door, and was replaced \nin its own post-hole ? Arise, look out of your window and \nsee the old wooden pier, and then doubt, if you can, of \neternal justice. Ebenezer — look at it; it means, ' Praise \nthe Lord ! ' \" \n\n•• All,\" said Martha, \" the day of miracles is not yet \npassed. That old wooden pier has given birth to strange \nreflections, its return seemed to connect heaven and earth ; \nit seemed like the return of a wandering spirit, cast out of \nits native element, to its first happy state.\" \n\n\" Yes,\" said Mr. Wood ; \" think of that post with the \nname carved on it to identify it, floating on the mighty \nwaters, — now in the Gulf Stream, now driven up the \nBaltic, then by a north wind sent to the Equator and \nPacific, and thence back to the Atlantic, — and alter such \na voyage of adventure, arriving at Charlestown in its \nown dock again ! \" \n\n\" Yes,\" said Martha, \" I have heard it observed that \nmany ages past a man by the name of Plato, being in \nthe dark, guessed a great deal about the immortality of \nthe soul. I have often imagined that the return of the \nwooden post was like a lust angel to his native home ; and \nif that old post, subject two years to the winds of heaven \n\n5 \n\n\n66 MARTHA GARDNER; \n\nand waves of the sea, tossed upon all the coasts, inlets, \nbays, creeks, and nooks of the four quarters of the world, \ncame home at last, a wandering spirit might one day reach \nits native home !\" \n\nThe wooden pier just mentioned was well calculated to \nbewilder the least superstitious mind. The simple facts \nwere these : Soon after the erection of Charles River \nBridge, the selectmen of Charlestown believed a portion of \nMartha Gardner's estate was the town dock, and they \nordered a favorite wooden post standing at the dock to be \ncut away. The post stood under her chamber window, and \nfrom her youth upward she was attached to that post as \nmuch as Pope was attached to the classic post before his \ndoor. Ebenezer Mansir tied his fishing-boat to that post, \nand Martha when a child played in the boat ; and when it \nfloated on an ebb-tide down the dock the length of its \ntether, she pulled herself up the dock by the help of the \nrope. That was a pure pleasure never to be forgotten. \n\nMartha remonstrated against the wrong done her, with \nall a woman's eloquence, but in vain ; and as the post was \nfloating out into Charles River, a by-stander said, \" Farewell \nto your old post, Mrs. Gardner, you will never see it again.\" \nShe instantly replied, \" \"Who knows but that post may one \nday come back again, to convince the selectmen of my \nright and their wrong ? \" Nothing more was thought of \nthis until two years after, when the old post, covered with \ncaraghcen-moss and barnacles, came floating up the dock at \nmidday, shining like an emerald ; and as the tide receded, \ndeposited itself beside its old situation. This incident is \nnow in the family records. \n\n\" But,\" said Mr. Wood, \" when will the trial begin ? \" \n\n\" Next week,\" said Martha ; \" and my heart fails within \nme, for I have nothing to show ; all my deeds were de- \nstroyed on the seventeenth of June.\" \n\n\nOR, MORAL REACTION. 67 \n\n\" Ah, Martha, you seem now like a lamb shorn in winter; \nbut I have a presentiment that there is an angel behind the \ncurtain. When human help fails us, an armed giant some- \ntimes appears in our defence. A benighted traveller has \noften been shown his true path by a flash of lightning. \nYou may yet awake out of a dream.\" \n\nEarly the next morning Mr. Wood received a message. \nHis mansion stood half a mile from Martha Gardner's \ncottage, where the brick church now stands at the corner \nof Wood and Green Streets. On entering Martha's cot- \ntage, lie found her greatly agitated. Said Martha, \" Your \nangel behind the curtain made his appearance last night. \nHe knocked at my door once ; I was afraid. He knocked \nat my door again ; I was afraid and said nothing. He \nknocked at my door the third time, and said, ' Awake, \nMartha, awake, and fear no harm!' I took courage and \nreplied. 'I am awake, but am overcome with fear; for I \nam alone, and there is none to help me.' ' Fear nothing, \nMartha, I am here to help you. Listen. In the house of \nyour son-in-law, in an old trunk at the bottom of the old \ntrunk in the garret, behind the chimney, there all your \ndeeds and records are preserved.' \" \n\nSearch was immediately made, and in an old trunk at \nthe bottom of the old trunk in the garret, behind the \nchimney. Sir Francis Willoughby's original deed to Martha \nGardner's ancestor was quietly reposing in perfect pres- \nervation. This was handed to the late Governor Sullivan, \nthen attorney-general, the faithful counsellor of the lone \nwidow. She prevailed in the Supreme Court, and was \nquieted in her rights. \n\nThis incident of \" the angel behind the curtain,\" deserves \na passing remark. There was nothing strange in Martha \nGardner's dreaming every night of her lawsuit, of the \ngreat Corporation, and of her lost deeds ; neither is it \n\n\nG8 MARTHA GARDNER; \n\nstrange that she should dream of finding them. And if we \nconnect the sanguine expressions of her friend Wood with \nher own earnest wishes, we have the key to her dream. \nThere is no probability that she heard a knocking at \nher chamber door, either once, twice, or thrice ; but she \ndreamed she did so, and in the morning she doubtless \nthought it was more than a dream. She had probably \nseen that old trunk many times, little imagining the jewel \nit contained. There is really nothing marvellous in this \ndream, and I do not wish it to be so considered ; for though \nit was far more important to her than the return of the \nold wooden post, yet this dream is not worthy of a passing \nnotice compared with the adventures of that almost in- \ntellectual wooden post. \n\nBut Martha Gardner was not destined to a long repose. \nOne pleasant morning soon after, looking out of her win- \ndow, she observed the sea-gulls sporting themselves above \nthe bridge. \" This is a deceitful calm,\" said Martha. \n\" These sea-gulls so near my door denote an approaching \nstorm ; \" and immediately after the great Corporation \nappeared to Martha in the shape of a summons, com- \nmanding her to appear at court and submit to a new trial \nin the form of a review. Said Martha, \" How cruel ! This \nmay be sport to them, but it is death to me. I have but \na short lease of all worldly things ; my setting sun shows \nonly a crescent, it will be down in a moment. Let the \ngreat Corporation take my estate. I will contend no \nlonger. If they have resolved to contend again, let them \ntake my estate this moment rather than that I should close \nmy few remaining days in anxiety and distress. I have \nalready been overwhelmed in the waters of bitterness. \nTruly my name is Martha.\" \" Not so,\" said her friends. \n\" Remember the wooden post with Ebenczer Mansir's name \ncarved on it. Remember the ' ancrel behind the curtain,' \n\n\nOR, MORAL REACTION. 69 \n\nand remember the old trunk. Do not let the great Cor- \nporation with their long arms reach beyond your simple \nrights. The whole Corporation in the eye of the court \nweighs no more than Martha Gardner.\" \n\nIn consequence of this assurance, Martha maintained \nthe conflict a second time with the Corporation, and pre- \nvailed. She now congratulated herself that she should die \nin peace ; and she resigned herself to that sweet repose, \nsuch as virtuous old age, when light-hearted, enjoys under \nthe shadow of a weight of years. In old age most persons \ncling the closer to earth the nearer they approach the \nclose of life. Not so Martha ; her setting sun seemed \nto renew her youth. She was as merry as a cricket in \nautumn, which sings loudest on the last day of sunshine. \nShe was at peace with herself, and therefore with all the \nworld. The swallows observed this, and built their nests \nover her window, and twittered on her window-sill. Her \nday never seemed too long. She renewed her girlhood \nwith the foliage of spring, while the wreath of snow over \nthe river on Copp's Hill, reminded her of a gay plume \nrather than of her winding-sheet. All her wrinkles fled \nbefore the sparkling of her eyes. Life returned to her, \nand in her old age she was still young. Doubtless a \njoyous old age with a heart alive to youthful sensations \nis nearly allied to spiritual existence ; in truth, her mor- \ntality seemed swallowed up in life. \" Happy Mrs. Gard- \nner,\" said the neighbors ; \" there is nothing mortal about \nher, she will never die. She will sit upright in her easy- \nchair and seem to die ; but no, Martha has only been \ntranslated.\" Hesiod must have had such a one as Martha \nGardner in view when speaking of the first happy ages: — \n\n\" They die, or rather seem to die; they seem \nFrom hence transported in a pleasing dream.\" \n\nIndeed Martha Gardner appeared to have gone to heaven \n\n\n70 MARTHA GARDNER; \n\nbefore her time, and to have enjoyed in this world an \nathanasia. But the evening breeze which was so sweetly \nwafting her down the quiet stream of time to the calm \nlatitudes, was only the precursor of a tempest which over- \nwhelmed her gentle soul. Just before she took leave of \nthis world, the moment she was folding all up for her last \njourney, just when with her own hands, she had worked \nher last white dress and instructed her granddaughter how \nto adjust it, the great Corporation sent a third summons \nto her, more appalling than would have been her last \nsummons. This blow was too much for Martha, and she \nbecame a weeping-willow. Again the great Corporation op- \npressed her sleep ; her day-fears pursued her to her couch, \nwhere in her phantom sleep she wrestled with the night- \nmare in the shape of the great Corporation. Trouble in \nyouth is like the morning dew, — the first gleam of the sun \ndissipates it; but trouble in old age weighs heavier and \nheavier, and the heart sinks, and drags hope downward. \n\nBut why did the Corporation of Charles River Bridge \nthus pursue Martha Gardner ? There is but one answer, \n— it was a Corporation. \n\nThe metaphysicians distribute man into three parts, — \nthe animal, the intellectual, and the moral. Which of \nthese three is most likely to prevail in a Corporation ? The \nCorporation of Charles River Bridge was composed of \nmany men well remembered now for their private and \npublic worth. Less than five of them would have re- \ndeemed Nineveh. But unhappily the animal and the in- \ntellectual part of Corporations generally govern the body, \nand conscience is a non-corporate word. \n\nWhile Martha was preparing for her last conflict with \nthe Corporation a great storm in November threatened \nwide desolation to the neighboring shores of Boston and \nCharlestown. A three days' northeast wind, assisted by \n\n\nOR, MORAL REACTION. 71 \n\nthe full moon, seemed to challenge the Gulf Stream. It is \nwell known that a powerful northeast wind narrows the \nGulf Stream, renders it more rapid, and drives it nearer \nthe coast. The third day of this memorable storm af- \nforded the sublimest scene ever beheld in New England. \nIt seemed for a fearful moment that the order of Nature \nwas broken up, and that He who gave the sea its bounds \nhad released the conditions ; that the whole Atlantic, in a \nboisterous mood, had forced the Gulf Stream into Boston \nharbor. There was not a wave to be seen ; it was one \nwhite surge, — one white mountain of foam breaking over \nthe tops of the numerous islands in the harbor ; while \nduring the momentary lulling of the wind and subsiding \nof the waters, the surges broke upon the eye like so many \ngambolling sea-monsters, dancing to the ceaseless roar of \nChelsea and Lynn beaches. It seemed as though the \nmainland must give way to the mighty sea beating upon \nthe rock-bound coast. It was a fearful day for Charles- \ntown. The waters had already buried the wharves in \ntheir abyss. Charles River Bridge next disappeared and \nwas totally engulfed ; vessels might have sailed over it \nkeel-safe. The flood was marching up Main Street to the \nSquare. Mothers seized their infants, and were preparing \nto fly to the uplands. Three days more and the heights \nof Boston and Charlestown would have appeared like \nislands in the Atlantic ocean ; but happily for Boston and \nthe vicinity, this storm occurred in November and not in \nMay, otherwise the numerous icebergs which annually ap- \npear off the coast might have blockaded the harbor be- \ntween Cape Ann and Cape Cod, and destroyed Boston \nand the neighboring seaports. \n\nIn the last efforts of the storm the little cottage of \nMartha Gardner began to tremble. The surge bore down \non her tottering tenement, while the winds lashed every \n\n\n72 MARTHA GARDNER ; \n\nreturning billow into new fury. The neighbors collected \naround her dwelling and besought her to fly from instant \nruin. She. nothing daunted, ascended to her chamber win- \ndow, and opening it, addressed them : — \n\n\" 1 will not fly,\" said she. \" Let Lynn beach roar, and \nlet the winds and the waves rage three days more. If my \nhouse moves it shall be my ark ; it shall be my cradle. I \nwill move with it. I will neither fly from the storm nor \nlook back, but will look up ! I have nothing to fear from \nthe war of elements. My destruction comes not in the \nwhirlwind nor in the tempest, but from a broken heart. \nWelcome, ye stormy winds and raging waves ! Ye are \nbut ministers of Supreme Power, flying messengers ; and \nwhen your errand is done, ye are as quiet as a landscape. \nWhen the storm is passed all will smile again. Ye are \nnow my diversion ; ye bring repose to my troubled spirit ; \nye lull me to rest. When ye are quiet, the great Corpora- \ntion will trouble my sleep. All natural evils are but play- \nthings. This tempest shakes my dwelling, but not my \nsoul. The thunder is harmless the moment it is heard. \nThe earthquake brings impartial ruin ; but I, a poor widow, \nam singled out by the great Corporation, and pursued to \nmy dying bed-chamber. Yes, my soul enjoys this tempest ; \nI look down on it ; I am lifted above it. I had rather see \nthis tempest with open eyes than the great Corporation in \nmy sleep. \n\n\" This storm gives me new courage, a new spirit, and \nraises me far above its idle rage. I am above the \nstorm ; I am on the top of Jacob's ladder, and see the \nheavenly blue. This storm quiets my soul. It has caused, \nfor a moment, Charles River Bridge to disappear. I am \nin a new element. I am at the gate of heaven, and hear \na voice you cannot hear ; I hear a voice above the storm \nsaving, ' Martha Gardner shall be avenged, but not in her \n\n\nOB, MORAL REACTION. 73 \n\nday.' The time is coming when there shall be no more \npassing over that bridge than there is at this moment. It \nshall be desolate and forsaken, — a fishing-place. The \ncurlew ami gray gull and stormy petrel shall there rest in \nquiet. The traveller shall pass over another highway, and \nturning his head shall say, ' Behold the great highway of \nthe north and of the east, — behold how desolate ! ' And \nit shall lie desolate ; but neither storm nor tempest nor \nfire nor earthquake shall destroy it. It shall be like a \nbarren spot in a fertile valley. All around it shall flour- \nish. The voice of prosperity shall echo and re-echo across \nthe river from all the hills of Boston, even to the heights \nof Charlestown, and thence among the islands ; but that \nspot shall become a solitude, a barren streak in a green \ncircle. The grass shall spring from the crevices, but it \nshall wither before the midday sun. No living thing shall \npass over it. A lost child shall not be sought in that \ndesolate path. The traveller shall shun it, and shall pass \nanother way to the great city, and they of the great city \nshall shun it and pass another way ; and they of the great \nCorporation shall avoid it, turn from it, and pass another \nway. It shall disappear in all its glory as the great high- \nway of the north, and still remain visible as an everlast- \ning monument. And the stranger shall come from the \nuttermost parts of the earth to behold the beautiful city ; \nand he shall ascend the mount of my fathers, and shall \nview the beautiful city, begirt with mountains of emerald ; \nand he shall behold the thousand villas which shall stud \nthe lawns like diamonds, and the distant hills pouring \ndown plenty, while the Atlantic, bearing on her bosom the \nharvest of the world, shall bow at her footstool. And the \neyes of the stranger shall become weary in beholding new \nbeauties, and his senses sleep from the fatigue of behold- \ning the ever-varying prospect changing with every passing \n\n\n74 MARTHA GARDNER. \n\ncloud, and be shall descend from the mount of my fathers \nand return to the beautiful city ; but when he shall cast \nhis eye on this spot the charm shall dissolve lie shall \nstand amazed and demand, ' Why that solitude amid uni- \nversal life ? ' \" \n\nDimly seen through the spray, she now withdrew from \nthe storm, and gently closed the window. All was silent ; \nfor as she did not appear to address the spectators, no one \nknew how to reply to her. At length William Goodwin, \na man of ardent temperament and generous feelings, said, \n\" Truly, that was Martha Gardner's countenance, I cannot \nbe deceived ; for the flash of her eyes created, amid the \nstorm, a rainbow around her head. But it was not — no, it \nwas not Martha Gardner's voice. This means something; \nhere is a mystery. Some of us may live to see it unrav- \nelled; but Martha Gardner never uttered all that.\" \n\nThe storm immediately died away. The next morning \nwas calm and fair. Martha Gardner soon after passed \nthrough her last conflict with the Corporation, and died. \n\nThe world knows all the rest. The traveller who passes \nover Warren Bridge, and turns his eye over his shoulder \nand beholds the present desolation of Charles River Bridge, \nand sees the immense crowd passing over the new highway, \nif he hath any faith in moral reaction, will say, \" In truth, \nMartha Gardner built Warren Bridge ; \" and in other times \nit may be said, \" As true as Martha Gardner built Warren \nBridge.\" 1 \n\n1 The public are familiar with the suit lately decided in the United States \nSupreme Court of Errors, between the proprietors of Charles River and \nWarren Bridges. The decision was agaiust the Charles River Bridge, and \n\" the great Corporation \" have vainly petitioned the Massachusetts Legisla- \nture for a release from the conditions of their charter. Their bridge is seldom \nor never used, and must soon become impassable. The distant reader may \nask, \" Why is this ? \" The answer is, \" Warren Bridge is free, so rendered by \nan act of the Legislature ; and few persons, not even the proprietors them- \nselves, choose to pay toll for the privilege of crossing Charles River Bridge.\" \n\n\nTHE MAN WITH THE CLOAKS: \nA VERMONT LEGEND. \n\n\nTHE MAN WITH THE CLOAKS: \n\nA VERMONT LEGEND. \n\n\nOX the border of Lake Cliamplain you will find a beau- \ntiful declivity in the present town of Ferrisburg, \nwhich commands a southerly view of the lake. In a calm \nsummer morning you may look down on a sea of glass ; \nand sometimes in winter when a severe frost catches the \nlake asleep, you may behold a spacious mirror, polished \nbeyond the highest skill of art. \n\nThe following account of John Grindall, who many years \nsince lived on this declivity, is still current in the neighbor- \nhood, although time has probably added not a little to the \nreal facts. Grindall was something more than a strict \neconomist, one whom the present extravagant age would \npronounce a miser. To give and to lose had with him the \nsame meaning ; so, to get and to keep. \n\nA poor traveller from the Genesee country, on his return \nfrom Canada, was overtaken in the month of November in \nthe year 1780 (a memorable cold winter in New England), \nwithout a surtout. He tarried for a night at an inn in the \nneighborhood of Ferrisburg. His landlord taking pity on \nhim, observed, \" My neighbor Grindall has just bought him- \nself, after many years, a new cloak. Call on him to-morrow \nmorning, and tell him I sent you, and hope he will give you \nhis old cloak ; and, moreover, say to him, he will never be \n\n\n78 THE MAN WITH THE CLOAKS. \n\nless warm for parting with it, as a deed of charity some- \ntimes warms the body more than a blanket.\" \n\nAccordingly the traveller called on Grindall and told his \nerrand. The day was extremely cold, and of itself pleaded \nmost eloquently for the old cloak \n\n\"How easy,\" said Grindall, \"is it for one man to be \nliberal of the property of another ! My neighbor is one of \nthe most generous men in the world, for the simple reason \nthat he has nothing to give.\" \n\n\" You do him wrong, sir,\" said the traveller ; \" he gave \nme a lodging and a breakfast; and, moreover, said you were \nthe wealthiest man in these parts.\" \n\n\" Ay,\" said Grindall, \" I have grown rich by keeping, \nnot by giving. If the weather grows much colder, I shall \nwant not only my new cloak and my old one, but another.\" \n\n\" So you will want two, or more, while I have to travel \nmore than one hundred miles without any ! Your neighbor \nbade me tell you a deed of charity would warm one better \nthan a blanket.\" \n\n\" My old cloak will fit no one but myself.\" \n\n\"Ah ! he that is warm thinks all others are so.\" \n\n\" But you should be more provident, and not have to \nmake the cloak when it begins to rain. However, you have \none advantage : a threadbare coat is armor-proof against a \nhighwayman.\" \n\n\" And perhaps,\" said the traveller, \" another advantage, \n' the greatest wealth is contentment with a little.' \" \n\n\" Yes,\" said Grindall, \" many talk like philosophers and \nlive like fools.\" \n\n\" But sir, if you make money your god, it will plague you \nlike the devil.\" \n\n\" But he is not wise that is not wise for himself ; and he \nthat woidd give to all, shows great good-will, but little \nwisdom.\" \n\n\nTHE MAN WITH THE CLOAKS. 79 \n\n\" Still, sir, you make a good investment when you relieve \nthe necessitous.\" \n\n\" All my income is applied to very different purposes.\" \n\n\" Farewell, then. You may want more than two cloaks \nto keep you warm if I perish with the cold.\" \n\nThe traveller departed. A few days afterward a rumor \nwas prevalent that a traveller had perished on the west \nside of the lake. Grindall heard the report, and reflecting \non the last words of the stranger, felt a sudden dullness \nshoot through his frame. There was nothing supernatu- \nral in this : the hody is often the plaything of the mind. \nThe imagination can produce a fever ; and why may it \nnot turn the heart to an icicle, especially as it appeared \nthat Grindall's heart was sufficiently cold before ? The \nmorning after this rumor he pronounced it the coldest day \nhe had ever experienced ; and he sat in his old cloak the \nwhole day. congratulating himself that he had not given \nit to the traveller. The next day seemed to Grindall more \nsevere than the former ; and he put on both the old and \nthe new cloak. Nevertheless he was far from comfortable. \nThe third day he sent to his tailor for a new cloak; but \nas the tailor could not make a cloak in a day, he borrowed \none of his neighbor, the innkeeper. \n\nThe weather .that year, 1780, as is well known, waxed \ndaily colder and colder, and Grindall was obliged to em- \nploy all the tailors far and wide, for nothing could keep \nhim warm, not even an additional cloak every day ; so that \nGrindall soon excited the curiosity of all around him. His \nappearance indeed must have been grotesque. His circum- \nference was soon so great that he could not pass out of his \ndoor, yet nothing less than a new cloak daily could relieve \nhim. He was extremely loath to send for a physician ; for \nhaving on one occasion been bled by a doctor, he was heard \nto declare that he never would part with any more of his \n\n\n80 THE MAN WITH THE CLOAKS. \n\nblood, meaning thereby his money. However, Grindall was \nnot without medical advice. Curiosity soon filled his \nhouse. All the old ladies far and near, Indian doctors \nand doctresscs, offered him more remedies than can be \nfound in the Materia Medica. Even the regular and irreg- \nular faculty gave him a call gratis, hoping at least to learn \nsomething either in confirmation of preconceived opinion, \nor, what was more agreeable, from practical experiment on \na new disease. While it cost nothing, Grindall was willing \nto listen and submit ; hence his house became a hospital, \nand himself the recipient of a thousand prescriptions. But \nall availed nothing ; he grew colder every day. Every new \ncloak was but a wreath of snow. The doctors at length \nbegan to quarrel among themselves. In thoir various ex- \nperiments they so often crossed one another's path, and \nadministered such opposite remedies, that Grindall began \nto jeer them. The only perspiration he enjoyed for three \nmonths was caused by a fit of laughter at the doctors' \nexpense. He plainly told them, if one remedy would cure, \nanother would as certainly kill. To this each physician \nreadily assented, but at the same time asserted that his \nown remedy was the only cure. These opposite prescrip- \ntions soon embroiled all his doctors, both male and female ; \nat the same time there was a perplexing debate respecting \nthe nature of the disease. While one pronounced the dis- \norder a weakness of the blood, another asserted it was an \nossification of the heart, — a disorder incident to many old \npersons, and always accompanying an undue love of money. \nAnother said the disorder arose from a defect of the blood \nin the heart, and the true remedy was to send the blood \nfrom the extremities to the heart. While the doctors were \ndisputing, Grindall was growing colder and colder, and his \ncircumference larger and larger, so that he nearly filled \nthe largest room in his house. \n\n\nTHE MAN WITH THE CLOAKS. 81 \n\nToward Bpring, when the sun began to assert himself, \nand when the snow began to moisten, an incident befell \nGrindall, which has become an interesting part of this \nmemorandum. Grindall said he had been confined to the \nhouse more than three months, and as it was a beautiful \nday, he would walk out and learn if there were any heat in \nthe sun. But there was one difficulty attending this enter- \nprise : it was necessary in order to pass his doorway, to \nthrow off more than seventy cloaks ; for in order to feel \nin any way comfortable, he was still obliged to add a new \ncloak every day. While the ceremony of disrobing was \ntaking place, Grindall complained bitterly of the cold ; \nand before his assistants could re-cloak him, he became \nnearly senseless. At twelve o'clock he was re-clothed. \nAs he stood on his doorstep, which overlooked the lake, \nfor the first time in his life he was sensible of the beauties \nof Nature, though in winter ; for having been housed more \nthan three months, the glory of the sun, the purity of the \nair, and the sublimity of the lake, which reflected at mid- \nday ten thousand diamonds, seemed for a moment to warm \nhis heart. He became exhilarated, and not having the usual \ncommand of his legs, and being ill-balanced owing to the \nhasty putting on of the seventy cloaks, he faltered, reeled, \nand gently fell on the snow. In a moment, owing to the \nsharp declivity and the moistened surface of the snow, he \nbecame a huge snowball. The snow as usual had covered \nthe tops of the walls and fences, and there was no impedi- \nment in the descent to Lake Champlain. Accordingly, \nvery soon Grindall became apparently a huge rotund snow- \nball, and acrpuired at every rebound additional velocity ; \nand when this man-mountain arrived at the margin of the \nfrozen lake, he swiftly passed its whole diameter. \n\nAnd now the whole country was rallied to disinter \nGrindall from his mountain snowbank. Various were the \n\n\n82 THE MAN WITH THE CLOAKS. \n\nspeculations attending this snow-scene excavation. To \nsome who held Grindall in no respect, it was a half- \nholiday ; to others more serious, connected with what had \nalready happened, it was more solemn. Some asserted he \nnever could be dug out alive ; others, more indifferent, \nsaid he was as safe as a toad in his winter quarters. \nA physician who had tried all imaginable remedies, as- \nserted he would come out a well man; for the rapid \ncirculation of the snowball would equally circulate the \nman, induce a profound perspiration through the whole \nsystem, and effect a cure. \" All that may be true,\" said \nanother physician who had just arrived; \"but the man \ncan never be dug out alive, for this internal heat, like a \nvolcanic fire, will melt the surrounding snow, cause an \ninternal deluge, and drown the man.\" \" But,\" said a third, \n\" if the man should come out alive, he will be deranged ; \nfor as his descent may have been oblique, all his brains \nprobably have fallen on one side.\" \" Never mind what the \ndoctors say,\" said one of the working-men, \" old Grindall \nmay yet be got out alive, and prove himself a worthy man. \nThough all the doctors could not cure him, this very acci- \ndent may ; for accident and Nature are two great physi- \ncians, and have often outwitted the faculty.\" \n\nIn the mean time the snow flew merrily. Curiosity light- \nened their labors and speeded their snow-shovels ; but all \ntheir efforts could not release Grindall in one day. The \nsucceeding night was honorable to the neighborhood, for \nthere was a general assembly of the townsfolk, and no little \nsympathy expressed for the fate of Grindall. The next \nday additional succor came, and before midday they came \nin contact with the outside cloak. There was a loud and \ntumultuous call on Grindall. No answer ; but soon they \nperceived a gentle moving of the cloak, as though the in- \nhabitant was stirring. A moment more and Grindall saw \n\n\nTHE MAN WITH THE CLOAKS. 83 \n\ndaylight. The first words he uttered were, \" Cover me up \nagain, oh, cover me up ! I perish with the cold ! \" Dis- \nregarding his cries they brought him forth to open day. \nBut Grindall's cry was, \" Another cloak, or I perish ; \" \nand the garment was immediately loaned him by a spec- \ntator. By the help of a sled and four horses he was soon \nat home. \n\nWhen Grindall was first discovered, he looked as fresh \nas a new-blown damask rose ; and though you could see \nnothing but his face, joy seemed to illumine bis counte- \nnance, and so far contracted his muscles as to disclose a \nfine set of teeth, which shone from out his many cloaks \nlike so many orient pearls at the bottom of a dungeon. \n\nThe spring now began gradually to exchange her heavy \nwhite robe for a silken green ; and those who knew more \nthan their neighbors, said that the only doctor who could \ncure Grindall was the great restorer of the vegetable \nworld. Indeed, Grindall himself now looked to the sun \nas his only remedy. But to the surprise of all and the \ndespair of poor Grindall, the sun made no more impres- \nsion on him than did the great yellow dog who had \nbeen hanged on the tree before his door for sheep-stealing. \nAt midday in the month of July you might have seen \nGrindall sitting in his now more than two hundred cloaks \non his door-stone, courting the notice of the sun, which \nregarded him with the same sensibility that it does a \nsnow-drift in winter on Mount Bellingham. This cir- \ncumstance of course gave currency to many strange \nstories ; one, for instance, that the coldness of Grin- \ndall's head was such, that a gallon of warm water \npoured on his head, in July, ran down to his shoulders \nin icicles. This, and a thousand such idle rumors, gave \na miraculous coloring to the real facts; especially as \nhundreds of people from the frontiers, even from Canada, \n\n\n84 THE MAX WITH THE CLOAKS. \n\nboth whites and Indians, attracted by curiosity, came to \nsee a man clad in ten score of cloaks in July. \n\nAfter the summer solstice, Grindall himself began to \ndespair ; for the superstition, or more probably the solemn \nreflection of the people, began to treat his case as some- \nthing out of the common course of nature, and they \nbelieved Grindall to be what the Scotch call \" a doomed \nman.\" This was equal to an interdict of fire and water. \nGrindall's house became a solitude. All, even women, \nrefrained from visiting him. \n\nThus the solitary Grindall wrapped himself up in his \nmany cloaks, and sat on his door-stone, courting in vain \nthe rays of the sun. One day when peering wistfully \nthrough the long avenue of his cloaks at the fervid sun, \nto him more like the moon in winter, he was heard to \nexclaim, \" 0 wretched me ! I am an outcast from hu- \nman nature. There is no human being to sympathize with \nme ; all forsake me. I am alone in the world. At \nhome, without a home ; in the world, but not of it. More \nthan an outcast, all men fly from me ; even the women, \nthe natural nurses of men, have lost their curiosity. The \ndogs do not even bark, but stare at me and pass on. \nThe birds have retreated to other woods. How dreadful \nis this solitude ! If I look up, the sun has no genial \nsmile for me ; if I look down, I have no hope but in \nthe bowels of the earth. If I look within — I dare not \nlook within, for there a solitude reigns more dreadful \nstill. Fool that I was, — I once thought a bag of money \nthe easiest pillow I could repose on.\" \n\nThus the summer passed away, while Grindall had \nno other occupation than to procure a new cloak every \nday. But about the middle of November, the anniversary \nof the traveller's visit to him, who should cull at his \nhouse but the same man who the year preceding had \n\n\nTHE MAX WITH THE CLOAKS. 85 \n\nbegged his old cloak. Grindall immediately recognized \nhim by instinct, for that was nearly all that remained \nto the unhappy man ; and there came over him a sud- \nden feeling that this same man was connected with his \nfate, and was the harbinger of a good result. Moreover \nthe man was supposed to have perished, and his appear- \nance to Grindall was like one risen from the grave. \nThe stranger was therefore doubly welcome. He heard, \nwith apparent wonder, an account of the events of the \npast year ; and in conclusion Grindall stated that he had \nexhausted the whole art of the faculty, who had pro- \nnounced him incurable, and that he had at length begun \nto despair. \n\n\" A strange case, indeed,\" said the stranger. u Tell \nme all that the doctors have done for you.\" \n\n\" They have done nothing for me ; but I can tell you \nwhat they have done to me. They have made a laboratory \nof me, and subjected me to all sorts of experiments, — \ncold remedies and warm, internal and external, remedies \nthe most opposite. I have been roasted by one, boiled \nby another ; I have been stewed, blistered, and parboiled \nby a third ; merged in hot water, wrung out, and laid by \nto dry, and immediately after subjected to a cold bath. \nI should have been baked could they have stowed me \nwith all my cloaks into the oven. The Spanish Inquisi- \ntion is a flower-bed in comparison with the bed the \ndoctors have spread for me. They have made an apoth- \necary's shop of my inwards, while each one told me his \nown remedy was the sovereignest remedy on earth for \na cold affection of the blood. \n\n\" When the doctors relinquished me, I fell into the * \nhands of a hundred old ladies. Good souls ! they would \nhave cured me if they could ; for they exhausted all that \nis known of botany. I can tell you the taste of every \n\n\n86 THE MAN WITH THE CLOAKS. \n\nvegetable that ever grew on the face of the earth, both \nroot and branch ; from the sweet fern to the bitter cl-wort, \nfrom henbane to nightshade. And here, oh, forgive me \nif my cold blood warms in wrath ! one pertinacious \nfemale forced down a whole dragon-root, and said, if \nthat did not cure me, nothing would. It did, indeed, \nnearly cure me of all my earthly pains ; for I thought \nit time to send for the sexton, the only friend I have \nin this world.\" \n\n\"But,\" said the traveller, \"why did you permit so \nmany vain experiments to be tried on you. It is the de- \nlight of the physician to experiment on new cases. If he \nsucceeds, he has achieved some great thing ; if he fails, \nthe case was remediless.\" \n\n\" Ah ! \" said Grindall, \" let the well man laugh at the \ndoctors ; but the sick man is all ears to those who promise \nhelp. Cannot you do something for me ? \" \n\n\" I can tell you one thing ; you are no warmer for \nyour many cloaks. It is not the clothes that keep the \nbody warm ; therefore whoever can warm your heart can \ncertainly cure you.\" \n\n\" That I fear is impossible ; I never felt my heart \nwarm in all my life. Not one of the thousand remedies \nthat I suffered ever touched my heart. The dragon-root \nwhich burned my bowels, made no impression on my \nheart.*' \n\n\" Nevertheless I can cure you if you will submit to \nthe remedy. You may think it cruel and tedious, but I \nbelieve I can warrant you a cure.\" \n\n\" Name it, try it, — I am all submission, — and you \nshall have half of my estate.\" \n\n\" Oh, no ; I must not be selfish, and oppose a cold \nheart to your warm one. I see a change in you already. \nDo you not feel a little better ? \" \n\n\nTHE MAN WITH THE CLOAKS. 87 \n\n\" I do, I protest I do ; the last cloak I put on feels \nrather heavy. *' \n\n\" The cure lies entirely with yourself ; all the doctors \nin the universe, male and female, can do you no good. \nA permanently warm heart depends on the man himself.\" \n\n\" Ah, you mock me ; how can a man warm his own \nheart, when naturally cold ? \" \n\n\"Aa easy as a man can awake from a sound sleep. \nPray tell me how many cloaks encircle you.\" \n\n\" This very day counts a year, that is three hundred \nand sixty-five cloaks.\" \n\n\" It will require a whole year to perform a perfect \ncure ; in the mean time you will be comfortable, more \nso every day.\" \n\n\" But what horrible drug are you about to propose ? \nI thought I had exhausted both Nature and art.\" \n\n\" Be easy, Mr. Grindall, you will swallow nothing. As \nyour disorder has appeared to many inexplicable, your \ncure will appear equally so, if you can only warm your \nown heart. I must now leave you ; I am on my annual \nvisit to Canada, but when I return I will call to see \nyou. To-morrow, about this time, you may chance to \nfind a remedy : but whether or not you will improve it, \ndepends entirely on yourself. Farewell.\" \n\nThe stranger immediately returned to the innkeeper \nand requested him to send to Grindall on the morrow \nthe most destitute man he could find. \n\n\" Why. you are the very man,\" said the innkeeper, \n\" who begged his old cloak last winter, and the report \nwas you had perished with the cold. You might as well \nattempt to warm Grindall's heart as to obtain a cloak \nfrom him. He buys a new one every day.\" \n\n\" No matter ; say nothing about a cloak, but do as I \ntell you. Farewell.\" \n\n\n88 THE MAN WITH THE CLOAKS. \n\nThe Stranger was not in the innkeeper's house one \nminute ; and the innkeeper soon hegan to think a vision \nhad passed over him. The call, the conversation, and the \ndeparture were all one. In a few minutes he began to \ntreat it as the magnanimous Jefferson once treated an \ninjury, \" like one of those things that never happened.\" \nBut still, the more the innkeeper believed it a vision, the \ndeeper impression it wrought on him. At that time, in \nthose deep solitudes on the frontiers of a savage wilder- \nness, the natural easily passed into the supernatural ; \ntherefore the innkeeper soon resolved, whether he had suf- \nfered under an illusion or had seen a reality, to seek \nout and send a proper object to Grindall. This was no \neasy task. In those days it was as difficult to find a very \npoor man as it is now difficult to find a very honest one. \nHowever, before night he found his object ; and as the \nnext day proved extremely inclement, the innkeeper thought \nit possible Grindall might give the poor man one of three \nhundred and sixty -five cloaks. \n\nThe next morning, as if by accident, a half-naked man \nstood at the door of Grindall's house, dubious whether he \nshould enter or not. The appearance of the poor man \nwas more eloquent than any language, and the day itself \nwas a powerful appeal. When Grindall understood that \na man was standing on his doorstep, he reached his spy- \nglass, for he was now obliged to use a long spy-glass in \norder to see through the long avenue of his many cloaks. \nAs soon as he beheld the man, \" What, my friend,\" said \nGrindall with unwonted courtesy, \" has brought you here \nthis cold day ? \" \"I was sent here without any errand, \nsupposing you wanted to see me.\" \" I did not send for \nyou.\" \" It is only a mistake then ; farewell.\" \" But stop, \nfriend; you are almost naked. Arc you not perishing with \nthe cold ? I am under cover of three hundred and sixtv- \n\n\nTHE MAX WITH THE CLOAKS. 89 \n\nfive cloaks.\" \" I have on my whole wardrobe,\" said the \nstranger, w and, thank Providence, my heart keens me \ntolerably warm.\" \" The heart, the heart, a warm heart,\" \nmuttered Grindall to bimself. \" ' To-morrow, about this \ntime, you may chance to find a remedy ; but whether or not \nyou will improve it, depends entirely on yourself.' This \nman. without knowing it, may be the remedy. — Why, how \nwonderful ! You, almost naked in the extremity of winter, \nare comfortable ; while I, by my fireside, clad in three hun- \ndred and sixty-five cloaks, am suffering with cold.\" \" I \npresume, sir,\" said the stranger, \"your heart is cold. If \nyou could warm your heart, your cloaks would be a burden \nto you.\" \" Ah, that is impossible. However, you seem to \nbe a worthy man ; Heaven may have sent you here for \nyour own good, if not for mine. One cloak among three \nhundred and sixty-five can make no great difference. \nTake this cloak ; it was new yesterday, and may you never \nwant but one at a time.\" \" I accept it most thankfully,\" \nsaid the stranger ; and he departed. \n\nThe next morning Grindall either did feel, or thought \nhe felt, a little more comfortable. He sent for the inn- \nkeeper and related what had happened. \" I feel,\" said \nGrindall, \" or fancy I feel relieved from the burden of the \nlast cloak.\" \" If that is the case,\" said the innkeeper, \" I \nadvise you to part with another.\" \" With all my heart,\" \nsaid Grindall, \" if I could find an object.\" \" Ay, sir, I \nfear your trouble now will be to shake off your cloaks. \nIt is easier for you to procure a new cloak every day, than \nto find every day a worthy object.\" \" What shall I do ? \nMy outside cloak grows heavier and heavier ; it has already \nbecome a grievous burden. Pray, sir, assist me ; you sec \nI cannot go abroad with all these cloaks. If I should fall \nin my present bulk, I should roll again on to the lake, and \nmight not be dug out till spring.\" \" Your case,\" said the \n\n\n90 THE MAX WITH THE CLOAKS. \n\ninnkeeper, \" is certainly a strange one, and somewhat \nmarvellous ; for I now perceive you suffer more from the \nweight of your cloaks than you do from the cold. Is it \nnot so ? \" \"I cannot say exactly that ; but the outside \ncloak seems to feel heavier than all the others.\" \" I wish \nyou were down cast in the Bay State,\" said the innkeeper, \n\" among the poor people of Charlestown, who were all \nburned out of house and home by the British. You would \nfind among them objects of pity enough ; for I understand \nCongress never gave them a penny, — only told them to \ncall again.\" \" If they were within one hundred yards of \nme, I would send every one of them a cloak,\" said Grindall. \n\" But.\" said the innkeeper, \" why do you not take off your \noutside cloak, if it is such a burden ? Why do you wait \nuntil you can find an object on whom to bestow it?\" \" I \nhave tried that experiment twice this morning, and each \ntime a cold shivering obliged me to put it on again ; but if \nI could find a worthy object, like the one yesterday, I fancy \nthat it might warm my heart. I wish to try the same \nexperiment again, even if I send to Massachusetts.\" \" You \nneed not send so far ; only let it be known on the other \nside of the lake that you have a cloak for a native Indian, \nand you will not want for customers.\" \" White, black, and \nred, in distress,\" said Grindall, \" are all my brethren ; only \nfind me a man in distress for a cloak, and you shall have \nmy hearty thanks.\" \" A wonderful change, indeed,\" said \nthe innkeeper. \" Only last summer there was no human \nbeing with whom you could sympathize.\" \" True, but \nsince yesterday I perceive I have something within me \nwhich they call a heart ; for after I gave that cloak to \nthe poor man yesterday, I soon felt something stir within \nme, warmer than all my cloaks. But talking never cured \na man like me ; send me a poor man in want of a cloak, \n— that is the best doctor.\" \n\n\nTHE MAX WITH THE CLOAKS. 91 \n\nSoon afterward a stranger entered the door, and Grindall \nasked if the innkeeper had sent him. \" Yes,\" said the \nstranger. \" What did he tell you ? \" \" Nothing ; only to \ngo to Mr. Grindall's house, he wanted to see me.\" \" Right ; \ndo you know any one really in want of a good warm cloak ? \nYou see I have more than my share.\" \" I will thankfully \nreceive one,\" said the stranger. \" But with this condition,\" \nsaid Grindall. - that you send me another poor man who \nis in want of a cloak.\" \" With all my heart,\" said the \nstranger. \" Then take it with all my heart.\" \n\nThus from day to day Grindall grew a little warmer. \nAs the spring advanced, he found it more difficult to be- \nstow his cloaks ; and on the approach of summer he was \nobliged to employ twenty men in scouring the country \nto hunt up suitable subjects. Though in winter the In- \ndians were his best customers, yet in summer no Indian \nwould travel far to receive a cloak. \n\nAs the dog-days approached, the anxiety of Grindall was \nredoubled; for as the heat increased, though he suffered \nnothing from it, yet the warmth of the remaining one \nhundred and fifty cloaks required constant watching, lest \nspontaneous combustion should consume both himself \nand his woollen environment. This converted Grindall \nsometimes into a real spectacle. While sitting in the sun \nhe would appear to be enveloped in a warm vapor, such as \nyou sometimes see in a morning, rising over a meadow ; \nand when the sun played upon this vapor Grindall would \nappear to be surrounded with beautiful rainbows. This \nwas considered by all the curious females in the neigh- \nborhood a good sign ; and they all prophesied that Grin- \ndall would yet come out bright. It is an ill wind that \nblows nobody any good. Although this warm mist pro- \nduced a vapor suffocating to Grindall, it was productive \nof no little benefit to others. Thousands of esrixs were \n\n\n92 THE MAN WITH THE CLOAKS. \n\nsent to Qrindall, who enveloped them in his cloaks ; and \nafter a little while, from under the skirts there proceeded \nhroods of chickens. This breed became famous. The \ngallant little rooster on board McDonough's ship, who, \nprevious to the battle on Lake Champlain, perched on the \nforeyard and crowed thrice, cock-a-hoop, was of this same \nbreed. \n\nOne day toward the end of August, while Grindall \nfrom his door-stone was watching the descending sun and \neagerly expecting the approach of a traveller to relieve \nhim from his outside cloak, it is said he suddenly made an \nunnatural and hideous outcry, which echoed and re-echoed \nthrough the mountains and over the lake, even to Mem- \nphremagog. This ebullition of Grindall must have been \nterrific, for the wild beasts, then so numerous on the Green \nMountains, all left their lurking-places. The bears, cata- \nmounts, and foxes, with one consent took to the trees. \nThe wolves alone stood their ground and answered to the \nsupposed challenge. It was feared at first that the howling \nof the wolves would be everlasting ; for as the nature of \nthe wolf is gregarious, all within hearing assembled at the \nfirst call, and soon an army of wolves collected around the \nhabitation of Grindall. As their howling, like the out- \ncry of Grindall, echoed and re-echoed among the moun- \ntains, the wolves mistook each individual howl of their own \nfor a new challenge ; and thus a continuous howl through \nthe remainder of the day and following night agitated the \nGreen Mountains, even to Montpelier, east, and to the \nborders of Canada, north. But at sunrise all was quiet. \nThe howling, from pure exhaustion, gradually died away, \nso that no echo was returned ; and then all was as still as \nwhen Adam was a lone man. \n\nOne good sprung out of this incident. It was remarked \nfor several years afterward that in the vicinity of Ferris- \n\n\nTHE MAN WITH THE CLOAKS. 93 \n\nburg no wild beasts were to be seen. Hence deer, sheep, \nand poultry, safe from their enemies, increased in geometri- \ncal progression, to the utter subversion of the theory after- \nward promulgated by Mr. Malthas. The fact was, the wild \nbeasts had retired affrighted to other forests. \n\nNow much of this wolvish story has doubtless been \nadded to the account of Grindall. Yet it is in some degree \ncredible, for it is well known that the human ear placed \nnear the earth can hear the report of a cannon forty \nmiles ; and we know that the beasts of the forest, natur- \nally carrying their heads low, have an ear vastly more \nsensitive to sounds than man. \n\nAfter this outcry Grindall exclaimed, \"What could have \nkept those men warm, half naked as they were, who cap- \ntured Burgoyne on the other side of the lake ? They must \nhave had very warm hearts. Yes, it must be true, as the \nstranger told me, the heart keeps the body warm. I see \nit clearly ; the country is safe, — it never can be conquered. \nBurgoyne spoke the truth when he said it is impossible to \nconquer a people who fight till their small clothes drop off \nin rags. Warm-hearted fellows, I wish I could give every \none of them a cloak ! But here am I, the wonder and \nhorror of all around me ; a dead weight on creation ; \nworse, a monster, repulsive to man and beast, — the sport \nof all nature. The elements conspire against me. I am \nequally exposed to fire and frost. The sun laughs at me, \nand buries me in a cloud of vapor. At one moment I am \nthreatened with a deluge ; at the next with a conflagra- \ntion ; then comes a wind, a heart-withering wind, and dis- \nsipates all and whistles through my flapping cloaks, and \nsings in mockery : — \n\n' If old Grindall's heart is as cold as his head \nOld Grindall's heart is the icicle's bed.' \" \n\nBut this was onlv one of Grindall's ill turns. He was \n\n\n94 TflE MAN WITH THE CLOAKS. \n\nevidently growing butter, and as the cool weather ap- \nproached he appeared more anxious than ever to shake \noil his cloaks. So far from appearing a doomed man to \nhis neighbors, he was considered a man changed only for \nthe better, llis house began to be crowded again with the \ncurious, and all those who delight in the marvellous. His \nformer visitors, except his medical oracles, who confessed \nhe was an outlaw to their several systems, came to con- \ngratulate him on what they termed his return to human \nnature. \n\nBut now a new occurrence arrested the attention of all. \nAs the season advanced toward the anniversary of the \ngrand investment of the cloaks, the daily dispensation of \neach cloak gave rise to various reports, utterly subver- \nsive of the human character of Grindall. The fact was \nthus : Immediately preceding the divesting of a cloak, it \nwould appear to be animated with life. It would first \ntremble, then crankle, and then dance all around the \nbody of Grindall. It would seem joyful, almost intelli- \ngent, and inclined to speak. It did not shrivel or show \nany sign of distress. Not a few asserted all this was ac- \ncompanied by a noise not unlike the rumbling of distant \nthunder. But the moment the cloak was put off, it was \nas quiet as lamb's wool. No wonder it began to be noised \nabroad that there was an evil spirit in each cloak. \n\nFortunate was it for Grindall that no ventriloquist added \nto the alarm ; for in those days Mr. Page could have made \nall these cloaks speak whatever language he pleased, and \nthus the unhappy Grindall might have suffered an igno- \nminious fate, under the statute of James the First, against \nwitchcraft and sorcery. But the event soon showed there \nwas no evil spirit concealed in these cloaks ; and, if I may \nhazard an opinion at this late day, I would account for it \nall in a natural way. There was, no doubt, daily a strange \n\n\nTHE MAN WITH THE CLOAKS. 9.5 \n\nappearance in each cloak previous to its leaving the body \nof Grindall. It may have trembled, and may have ap- \npeared to flutter about his body. This simple circum- \nstance, even in the present enlightened times, would \nimmediately grow into the marvellous. All these strange \nappearances might arise from the bounding heart of \nGrindall. Every cloak that he gave away expanded his \nheart. It beat high with the joyful assurance that when \nall bis cloaks had left him, he would become a well man ; \nhence the agitation of bis heart caused bim and his whole \nenvironment to tremble, and the supposed thunder was \nonly noise caused by his heart-throbs. Greater mistakes \nthan this have been made down east, near Boston, where \nthe good people of a certain town on the sea-coast lived \na whole century, after the settlement of the country, on \nshags, mistaking them for wild geese. \n\nHowever the truth might be, respecting this affair of the \ncloaks, one thing is certain, — it was near proving fatal to \nGrindall ; for many of those who came to receive a cloak \nin charity, when they saw its tumultuous quaking, declined \nreceiving one through fear of catching the palsy. But \nafter a little while, when they saw these cloaks lie so quiet \nwhen cast off from Grindall, and perfectly harmless to \nthe wearer, the few remaining cloaks became popular, al- \nthough the last of them trembled the most and danced \nthe longest. \n\nThe Canadian traveller on his return remembered his \npromise, and stopped to greet Grindall, who had just \nshaken off his last cloak. Grindall regarded him with a \nfeeling of awful respect. He stood silent, but the traveller \nheard Grindall's heart speak. \"Your looks, Mr. Grindall, \nhave told me all. You have found the remedy. You now \nknow how to keep yourself warm in the coldest weather ; \nbut in order to keep yourself constantly warm, you must \n\n\n96 THE MAN WITH THE CLOAKS. \n\nhave a constantly warm heart. None of your sudden im- \npulses, warm to-day and cold to-morrow. Most men are \ngoverned by impulses, and they endeavor to offset against \nhabitual coldness, a single warm impulse. There is little \nmerit in that. The rattlesnake is poisonous, although \nit may show you many golden specks scattered over its \nback. In short, Mr. Grindall, if you desire never to want \nanother cloak, keep a warm heart.\" Grindall followed \nthis advice, and before he died became a proverb. \" As \ngood as old Grindall,\" is still current west of the Green \nMountains. \n\n\nSOME ACCOUNT OF THE SUFFERINGS OF \nA COUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER. \n\n\nSOME ACCOUNT OF THE SUFFERINGS OF A \nCOUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER. \n\n\nYE happy beings of tranquil stomach, who sleep on \nbeds of down, feed heartily, and fear nothing but \nthe nightmare, — ye who are fondly looking for a passage \nthrough the Isthmus of Darien, in prospect of the turtle of \nthe Galapagos Islands, listen to the sufferings of a country \nschoolmaster. \n\nI was born in New England of white parents, and \nreceived my education at the University in Cambridge. \nUntil my twentieth year I was a member of that sect of \nhappy mortals who think with Mr. Pope, \" all is for the \nbest.\" At that time the fatal sisters spun me a yarn of \nnew color, and caught me in the web, which literally \npreyed upon my entrails. \n\nIn the fourth year of my college life, ere I had arrived \nat man's estate, and although born of white parents, I was \nat noonday publicly sold at auction, on one fatal day in \nMarch, at a March meeting, — to me the ides of March ! \nOn that day was I sold at public auction, and afterwards, \nin tlic month of December, was I kidnapped into a district \nschool in the town of . \n\nThe proceedings relative to me at March meeting ran \nthus, — \"Mr. Moderator, I know as well as any man alive \nthe advantages of learning; and as we have thirty dollars \n\n\n100 SUFFERINGS OF A COUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER. \n\nia the treasury, I vote that we spend the whole next win- \nter in giving the boys a complete education.\" \" Second the \nmotion,\" said another, \" and let us have a schoolmaster col- \nlege-learnt.\" It was put to vote, and carried unanimously. \n\" But who will board the master ? \" said one ; \" 1 will,\" \nsaid another; \" and 1 will,\" said a third ; \" and I live near- \nest to the school,\" said a fourth. On this, a man arose \nand said, \" The master should be put up at auction, and \nwhoever will take him for the least money, should have \nhim.\" Agreed ; and ten and sixpence, and ten and five- \npence, and ten and fourpence, down to seven and sixpence, \nregularly decreasing a penny, were successively bidden for \nme. I was knocked down at seven and sixpence. Nothing \nof all this, at the time, could be known to me ; and although \nthe town had sacrificed a victim, it could not be foreseen on \nwhom destiny would fix for the future schoolmaster. \n\nThe month of December came ; and it was soon known \nthat a schoolmaster was wanted for two months in the \n\ntown of . Fifteen dollars per month were no small \n\ntemptation to a young man who had never seen a bank-bill \nnumbered higher than five. The best scholars, all of them, \nrefused the offer, alleging it would be a reproach to litera- \nture to teach a school for fifteen dollars per month, when \nthey could get as much for tending a stable in Boston ; and \nas horses are generally more docile than boys, the stable \nhad the preference. \n\nAt length the proposal was made to me. \" Fifteen dol- \nlars per month,\" thought I, \" is very well to begin with. If \nI refuse, I shall certainly lose the money, and then I shall \nas certainly dream of it. Now it is vastly more pleasing to \ndream that you have got the money, than to dream that \nyou have lost it.\" Unluckily, at that moment Shakspcare \nthrew in one of his old saws, — \"There is a tide in the \naffairs of men \" etc. The town agent, who was empowered \n\n\nSUFFERINGS OF A COUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER. 101 \n\nto secure me, saw my hesitation. He was a sensible, keen- \nlooking, hard-featured man, as sharp-faced as if he had \nlong been fixed for a weather-cock at the North Pole. He \nwas dressed quite tidily, and wore his hair queued with an \neel skin. His coat was more than square at the skirts, \nmuch like a mainsail. \n\n\"Young man,\" said the town agent, \"do not think \nlightly of thirty dollars. All things in this world proceed \nfrom small beginnings ; a pint of acorns in process of time \nwill send a seventy-four to sea. With respect to your- \nself, learned as I suppose you are, you began with the \nalphabet. Franklin tells you that five shillings seemed to \nhim the nest-egg of all his future prosperity. If you are \ninclined to go with me, the amount which you will receive \nought to encourage you ; for let me tell you, no man has \never received so much from the town.\" \n\n\" What do you tell me ? \" said I. \" Do you offer me the \nmost that any schoolmaster ever received in your town?\" \n\n\" We never, before now, gave more than ten dollars \nper month.\" \n\nHere, Alexander the Great conspired against me. I \nrecollected he was offered the freedom of a certain petty \nGrecian city : and when he snorted at the offer, they told \nhim he need not turn up his nose, for no stranger except \nHercules had ever received that honor. He then gra- \nciously accepted the offer. I considered it would be entered \non record that I was the first schoolmaster who had ever \nreceived fifteen dollars per month in the town of . \n\n\" Besides, sir,\" said the town agent, \" money is not so \neasily obtained as you young men imagine. Look at this \ngreat brick building that you inhabit, and consider for a \nmoment how it was built, from the first stroke of the pick- \naxe to the well formed brick in the hands of the mason. \nHeaven and earth united do not give you a mouthful of \n\n\n102 SUFFERINGS OF A COUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER. \n\nbread short of three months. Would you know, young \nman, the real value of money, go to Salem.\" \n\nIn short, the money tempted me, and I, in an evil hour, \nwas seduced. 1 went with the town agent; and alter a \nday's journey, passing through many cross-roads, we ar- \nrived at a place which appeared to be outlawed from the \nrest of the world. It was the month of December, and no \nsnow had fallen, though all was frost-bound. At a dis- \ntance I saw a house in the midst of an abrupt, broken, \nand mountainous landscape. The herbage far and wide \nwas so sere and withered that it was doubtful if any \nfuture Spring could refresh it. Such will be the deso- \nlation when Time with his scythe shall visit that place \nat his last call. \n\n\" There,\" said the town agent, \" is your boarding place,\" \npointing to a tottering house, the top of which was covered \nwith moss, and shone like an emerald. \n\n\" Heavens ! \" said I, \" can you have a heart to leave a \nfellow-creature in this desolate place ? It would be in vain \nto cry for help here, if any one should attempt to murder \nme.\" \n\n\" Fear nothing,\" said he, \" crimes are unknown here ; \nthe family sleep with their doors and windows open in \nsummer.\" \n\n\" But,\" said I, \" the wild beasts will catch me.\" \n\n\" Fear nothing,\" said he ; \" we should have reason to \nrejoice at the sight of a wild beast ; he would soon take \noff the rust from our spits.\" \n\nSaying this, he dropped me on an ill-shapen door-stone \nthat looked as if it had grown there, and disappeared with \na satisfaction he could ill conceal. \n\nI was cold, hungry, and sleepy, all which together gave \nme uncommon courage. I entered the house, and was \nwelcomed with great diffidence. The family was small, \n\n\nSUFFERINGS OF A COUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER. 103 \n\nconsisting of an elderly man, his wife, a son grown to \nmanhood, and a daughter. If the scenery without the house \nwas appalling, a fine lesson was read to you within doors. \nHere, nothing was superfluous, and everything within reach. \nYou could stand before the fire and reach every article of \nthe kitchen establishment, from the gridiron and warming- \npan down to the pudding-bag and dripping-pan. There \nwas no separate kitchen to the house ; and, from neces- \nsity, the keeping-room served for \" kitchen and parlor and \nall.\" \" How few things,\" thought I, \" will satisfy our \nreal wants. Thousands in Boston would die of chagrin if \nreduced to this necessity ; yet Adam and Eve lived very \ncomfortably without any of these things.\" \n\nAfter incmiring the number of my scholars and the dis- \ntance of the schoolhouse, I requested a morsel of victuals. \nThe table was immediately set, and a slice of bread and a \nslice of cheese, with a pewter pot of cider were presented \nto me. The cheese was beautifully white, — it looked ex- \nactly like Stilton cheese ; but to the taste it was quite dif- \nferent. I have since heard the same sort of cheese called \nwhite oak. The bread was sweet enough, but rather too \nsolid ; the knife cut as smoothly through it as it would \nthrough the cheese-like clay near Hartford Asylum. The \ncider was as clear as a rivulet, and would have been excel- \nlent had it tasted of the apple. I had resolved to conform \nto the family, and render myself agreeable ; therefore lest \nthey might think me delicate in my diet, I ate up all on \nthe table. \n\nImmediately after supper I was shown upstairs to my \nbed-chamber, where I fortunately found a bed and one \nchair. There was only one superfluous thing in the room, \n— a fireplace; but there were no tongs nor shovel nor \nandirons, nor any signs that a wreath of smoke had ever \npassed up chimney. But to a weary man sleep is sleep, \n\n\n104 SUFFERINGS OF A COUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER. \n\nwhether on down or straw. Nature was always a leveller \nbetween bedtime and uprising. \n\nIn the morning I began my daily labors. The school- \nhouse was nearly a mile from my abode in a northwesterly \ndirection ; but nothing is better than exercise for a school- \nmaster. From the appearance of the surrounding country, \nI anticipated an easy task, especially when I saw the \nschoolhousc, which appeared like a martin-box at a short \ndistance. I was quickly undeceived ; although the school- \nhouse was very small, it was full within, and surrounded \nwithout. Whether it was the novelty of a \" college-learnt \" \nschoolmaster, or a laudable desire of obtaining a good \npennyworth of learning, I cannot tell ; but certain it is, \nthe building could not contain one half of the scholars. \nWhence they all came I could not imagine , the surround- \ning country gave no sign of animal life. I should as soon \nhave thought of opening a school six weeks after the flood \nas in that place. In this perplexity 1 thought it most rea- \nsonable to fill the schoolhouse with the most ignorant, and \ndismiss the rest. Accordingly, after a short examination I \nretained about fifty, and sent as many home. This plan \nwas considered by many very judicious, and rendered \nme popular. But alas ! I soon found that popularity \nwould not fill an empty stomach. From the first day I \nperceived I was at board on speculation, and that I was \nlimited to less than one dollar and twenty-five cents' worth \nof food per week. To sit down to one's dinner with an \nappetite is agreeable, but to rise from table with all the \npangs of devouring hunger would excite the pity of Tan- \ntalus. The ancients could invent nothing worse than to \nshow a hungry man a good dinner and deny him a taste ; \nI think I could have added to the misery of Tantalus, — \nI would occasionally have given him a taste. \n\nThe pangs of hunger began now to assail me. The \n\n\nSUFFERINGS OF A COUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER. 105 \n\nincreasing cold, and the daily exercise of travelling four \nmiles to and from school, soon gave me a voracious ap- \npetite ; and as the good people with whom I lived had \ntaken me upon speculation, I was at the mercy of a close \ncalculation. Thrice a day my host gauged that part of \nman which requires food, and as he always reckoned with- \nout me, lie made no allowance for my wants. Within two \ndays after my arrival my head became sorely affected ; I \nfelt drowsy in the forenoon soon after breakfast. This I \nimmediately attributed to the right cause. Instead of real \ncoffee, I discovered that I had been drinking the decoction \nof a noxious drug, the grain of which has been known to \nkill horses and oxen, — I mean rye coffee, so fatal to the \nintellects of the sedentary and studious. I complained \nthat rye was injurious to my head, and requested I might, \ninstead thereof, have tea. But alas, there was no tea in \nthe house ; they said they had conceived a prejudice against \ntea ever since the Revolution. My next request was a bowl \nof milk — but alas, the cow was dry ! \n\nIn a few days all the luxuries with which the house was \nstored at my coming were exhausted. The cheese, the \nbutter, the flour disappeared. Fresh meat there was none ; \nno beef-cart was ever seen in that precinct. I began to \nfear for the pork barrel. That bread which at first, in the \nwantonness of my appetite, I compared to Hartford clay, \nwas now more delicious than the first bread-cake of the \nPilgrims. One day as I sat down to dinner, foreseeing \nthat should I eat all on the table I should rise with an \nincreased appetite, I fainted at the recollection of an inci- \ndent which had occurred to me ten years before. When a \nboy, I passed through the town of Lynn, in the county of \nEssex, on my way to Exeter, in the stage. Just opposite \nthe residence of Mrs. Mary Pitcher, the stage broke down ; \nthe whifTletree parted, the braces snapped asunder, and \n\n\n10G SUFFERINGS OF A COUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER. \n\nthere seemed to be a sudden and unaccountable wreck \nof everything, but no one was injured. The passengers, \none and all, exclaimed that it was done by witchcraft. \" It \nis quite likely,\" said the stage-driver, \" for there stands \nMrs. Pitcher at her door, with her cup in her hand.\" The \npassengers beckoned to her, and she came out to see them, \nevidently pleased — as I suppose witches always are — at \nthe accomplishment of their purposes. However, as it is \nalways best to bespeak the good-will of a witch, the passen- \ngers treated Mrs. Pitcher with great courtesy, and gave her \nsome money. She examined the faces of all of us, and for \nthe most part made flattering comments ; but when she \nlaid her piercing black eyes on me she stood considering a \nmoment, then clapped me on the head and buried her hand \nin my flaxen hair, and gently shook me, saying, \" You are \na very likely boy, Johnny, but I fear you will one day die \nof hunger.\" The sudden recollection of Mrs. Pitcher's \nprophecy gave me such an \"ill turn\" that the family ob- \nserved it, and asked me if I was indisposed. I told them I \nfelt rather faint. They immediately insisted on my empty- \ning the vinegar-cruet, telling me that vinegar was the \n\" sovereigncst thing on earth \" for a fainting fit. \n\nTo one who has never palled his appetite in a pastry \nshop, and whose Spartan diet only rendered hunger more \nkeen, the idle ceremony of daily holding a knife and fork \ntended only to increase the desire to eat. By degrees the \ncravings of hunger changed my nature, and took absolute \npossession of my imagination. One day the whole dinner \nconsisted of one dumpling, which they called a pudding, \nand five sausages, which in cooking shrunk to pipe-stems. \nThere were five of us at table. My portion of pudding \nwas put on my plate ; I swallowed thrice, and it disap- \npeared. My one sausage was put on my plate; I swallowed \ntwice, and my dinner was ended. I rose from table, deeply \n\n\nSUFFERINGS OF A COUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER. 107 \n\nimpressed with the beauty of that passage in Job: Be- \nhold now Behemoth ; he eateth grass as an ox ; he drinketh \nup a river; he trusteth he can draw up Jordan into his \nmouth. So I, in my imagination, thought I could devour \nwhole hecatombs. I fancied a roast pig would be but a \nmouthful. A knife and fork seemed the most useless things \nin the world. With the two legs of a turkey in each hand \nI made a lantern of the carcass in a moment ; chickens and \npartridges I swallowed whole. If the globe had been a \npasty, I thought I could have swallowed it, Captain Symmea \nand all. Thus would my distempered fancy prepare the \ngreatest delicacies ; so that I often detected myself in the \nact of working my jaws as though I were actually eating \nsubstantial food. \n\nI had recently read Riley's-\" Narrative \" of his suffer- \nings in Africa, and was at the time sensibly affected. \nNow I began to laugh at Riley and his companions, and \nwished myself one of the company. Any man may easily \nimagine that the sense of hunger is far more keen and \ndevouring on the hills of New England in the winter than \nin the soft climate of Arabia, where, if a man can once in \ntwenty-four hours swallow a pint of camel's milk, he is \nperfectly happy. \n\nAs my sufferings became daily more and more dreadful, \n1 was put upon my wits ; and as necessity is the mother of \ninvention, one half of that time which I ought to have de- \nvoted to my school was employed in devising means of \npreserving my life. And here, in justification of myself, I \nought to observe that a man consumed by hunger becomes \nby degrees destitute of all moral principle. There was at \nschool one little round-faced, chubby, fat fellow of about \nforty pounds' weight, on whom I cast my evil eye; for \nthe extremity of hunger makes cannibals equally of the \ncivilized and the savage. The Jewish mother, and the \n\n\n108 BUFFERINGS OF A COUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER. \n\nrecent experience of the French army in their retreat from \nRussia arc examples of this. But fortunately a better mor- \nsel was soon thrown in my way. Some of the schoolboys \nhad discovered and killed a skunk, and had left it near the \nschoolhouse. When I had dismissed the scholars, I seized \nupon my prey and returned to the schoolroom. With the \nhelp of my penknife I quickly stripped off the skin, and had \nthe pleasure of seeing fresh meat. I laid the tongs and \nshovel across the andirons, and placed the creature over a \nbed of coals. I broiled it about fifteen minutes ; and when \nI supposed it sufficiently cooked, I cut it in halves, meaning \nto eat one half, and hide the other in the woods for an- \nother repast. But my appetite was sovereign ; after I had \neaten the one half, so delicious was the morsel I could not \nrestrain the call for more, and I devoured the whole. That \nwas a bright and happy day ; but my hunger soon returned. \nWild meat is not so substantial food as the stalled ox. \n\nA few days afterward, being faint and weary on my re- \nturn from school, my eyes were delighted at the sight of \nan animal I had never before seen. It was a raccoon which \nthe young man Jonathan had taken or rather overtaken, \nfor he caught it with the help of his hands and feet. So \nthe observation of the town agent, \" If a wild beast should \nbe detected in these parts, he would soon take off the rust \nfrom the spit,\" was true. As soon as the raccoon was \ndiscovered the young man gave chase. The creature \nafter some time ran under a rock for protection, whence \nhe was soon ferreted, and a well-aimed stone entirely dis- \nabled him. He was brought home in triumph; and when \nskinned, he seemed to be one entire mass of fatness, of a \nmost delicate whiteness. I was overjoyed ; and both the \ncat and the dog leaped for joy. The dog in particular was \ntransported. When he looked steadily at the raccoon the \nwater ran from his mouth in a stream. It was in truth \n\n\nSUFFERINGS OF A COUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER. 109 \n\nan equal temptation either to an epicure or to a man per- \nishing with hunger. If Vitellius and Albums had lived in \nthe same age, they would more readily have fought for that \nraccoon than for the Roman empire. I retired to bed, as \nwas my custom, as early as I could with decency ; for I \nsoon learned that all the time I could pass in sleep was \nclear gain to my stomach. But sleep for a long time \nfled before a beautiful apparition in the form of the rac- \ncoon. At length I fell into a slumber ; and oh, had I \nbeen a Mussulman 1 should have wished never to awake. \nI seemed to see the raccoon suspended on a hook, and \nhanging majestically before the fire, perspiring most beau- \ntifully into the dripping-pan. The raccoon roasting in this \nmanner showed to far greater advantage than if he had \nbeen run through with a spit. I eagerly watched it all the \ntime it was roasting ; the flavor of it was ravishing, — no \nheathen god ever smelt such an incense. At length I saw \nit placed before me on the table ; and I seemed to have the \nwhole raccoon within reach of my knife and fork, and \nmost uncourteously I seized upon the whole for myself. \nYet, however impolite this may appear, it was quite natural ; \nfor I know by experience that excessive hunger is exces- \nsively selfish. Steak after steak, slice after slice, collop \nafter collop I carved from the raccoon ; and when I could \ncut no more, I took every bone from its socket, and as \nthough my appetite increased by the meat I fed on, I \nseized those bones and polished every one of them to \nthe smoothness of ivory. When I had eaten all the \nmeat, I awoke ; and such had been the deceit practised \non my senses, that after I was satisfied it was all a dream, \nI could not keep my jaws still, so inveteratcly were they \nbent on eating. However, as there is no good in this \nworld without its evil, so there is no evil without its good. \nI readily consoled myself in anticipation of the real rac- \n\n\n110 SUFFERINGS OF A COUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER. \n\ncoon, which the coming morrow would place in reality on \na real table. \n\nLong before daylight I heard the family stirring ; and \nthe alacrity of their footsteps, and the repeated opening and \nshutting of doora, all gave assurance of the coming holiday. \nI arose and loosened the strap which after the Indian \nmanner 1 had buckled around my body in order to pacify \nthe corrosions of hunger. This I recommend to all wlro \nmay hereafter fall into my distress. A leathern belt with \na buckle, drawn tight around the waist, will be of great \nservice ; for the more you can contract the stomach, the \nlittle mill within, which is always grinding, will have the \nless room to play. \n\nI was soon ready for breakfast, and when seated at \ntable I observed the place of Jonathan vacant. \" \"Where is \nJonathan ? \" said I. \" Gone to market,\" said they. \" Mar- \nket ! what market, pray ? I did not know there was any \nmarket in these parts.\" \" Oh, yes,\" said they, \" he is gone \n\nto — , about thirty miles to the southward of us.\" \n\n\" And what has called him up so early to go to market ? \" \n\" He is gone,\" said they, \" to sell his raccoon.\" I should \nhave fainted again, but the dread of vinegar preserved my \nsenses. I now resigned myself to my fate, and patiently \nawaited the accomplishment of Mrs. Pitcher's prediction. \n\n\" I am doomed,\" thought I, \" to a strange destiny. If I \nperish here I shall die ingloriously and unpitied. If I ab- \nscond, I shall lose my honor, and the story of my sufferings \nwill never be credited. There would be some satisfaction in \nbeing drowned or assassinated, or in perishing with hun- \nger in a noble attempt to discover the source of the Nile, \nor in exploring the outlet of the Niger; but to perish here \nin the woods, — perhaps in a snowdrift, where I may lie \ntill spring, if the birds of prey do not find me, — is fearfully \ndepressing.\" I then turned my thoughts wistfully to the \n\n\nSUFFERINGS OF A COUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER. HI \n\nseaboard ; and no landscape was ever so pleasing to Claude, \nas the recollection of the clam-banks at low water, on the \nseashore, was to me. IIow happy should I be if I could steal \naway in the night and watch the ebbing tide, and enjoy a \nfeast of shells ! I then compared my situation with that \nof the first settlers of New England, and thought they had \na great advantage over me. When the winter drove the \nfishes into deep water, they could always get a discount at \ntheir banks ; clams in abundance, and even the more deli- \ncious quahaug could always be had at bank hours. \n\nIn going to school that morning, I perceived a large \nflock of crows. It was a dark, bitter-cold morning ; and \nthe crows hovered over and scaled around my head. \" Ah,\" \nthought I, \" sagacious birds, do you foresee that my strength \nwill soon fail, and that I shall fall a prey to you ? Oh, \nthat the severity of the cold would freeze some of your \nwings that you might become a prey to me.\" Then, half \ndelirious, my imagination carried me to the first inhabi- \ntants of Charlestown. Happy people! Instead of the crows \ncoming after them, wild geese in a time of famine were \nready to fly down their chimneys on to their roasting-hooks. \nThose worthy people had appointed a thanksgiving, which \nthreatened to change itself into a fast. The night preced- \ning the day of thanksgiving was intensely cold ; and while \nan immense flock of wild geese were pursuing their way to \nthe South, the frost suddenly seized their wings, arrested \ntheir progress, and they all fell down into Charlestown \nSquare. Every family not only filled their bellies the whole \nwinter, but also filled their beds with down. Whereas, I \nwas reduced to the extremity that a crow a hundred years \nold would have been to me the richest treasure. \n\nThe next day beheld the earth covered with a deep snow. \nMy fears now multiplied upon me. \"This snow,\" thought \nI, \" will be my winding-sheet ; I can never in my present \n\n\n112 SUFFERINGS OF A COUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER. \n\nweakness force my way through these snowdrifts. I shall \nperish with a double starvation, — with both cold and hun- \nger. But courage, courage ! \" said I. Hope often lingers \nafter the footsteps of despair ; and help came even when \nhope was gone. In fact, that day proved to me the happiest \nday in the calendar of that year. I succeeded in gaining the \nschoolhouse after travelling double the distance ; for 1 was \nso weak that in balancing myself I would frequently retreat \ntwo steps backward, and then in rescuing one leg from a \nsnowpit, I would lose my balance and stagger in a semi- \ncircle. It is really incredible how much a man can endure \nin a good cause. But I hasten to describe the most happy \noccurrence of my life. On my return from school, at the \nmoment when one leg was about refusing to follow the \nother, and the belt which I had loosened the day before in \nexpectation of the raccoon, had just fallen down and was \nresting on my hips, I saw at a distance an object partly \nburied in a snowdrift, which appeared to be a living animal. \nHad it been the Nemcan lion I would have attacked it \nwith no other weapon than my penknife. On approaching \nthe creature I perceived it was a cow. Instantly I resolved \nto have a steak. I had just read Bruce's travels in Abys- \nsinia, and he had taught me the art of cutting a steak from a \nliving cow in the real oriental style. On examination I per- \nceived she was a new milch cow, and carried not less than a \npail of milk in her bag. I preferred the milk to the meat, \nand did not mangle the cow. How to get at the milk was \nthe thought only of a moment. I perceived the top of a \nstone wall at a little distance, which the late snow-storm \nhad not quite covered. Now, hunger will as readily leap \nover as break through a stone wall. I succeeded in forcing \nthe cow to straddle the stone wall. In that situation she \nwas as quiet as at her own stanchion. I cleared away the \nsnow and laid myself down in the form of the letter Y on \n\n\nSUFFERINGS OF A COUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER. 113 \n\nmy back between the cow's legs, and she was milked in less \ntime than a cow was ever milked before. While draining \nthe cow, my licit soon began to tighten, and became painful ; \nbut my handy penknife quickly cut it asunder. When I \nhad drained the last drop, I threw down the wall and let \nthe cow go. If a pint is a pound, I arose sixteen pounds \nheavier ; yet I felt no ill consequence from that copious \ndraught ; it lay in my stomach like a poultice. \n\nThe timely succor of the cow sustained me several days ; \nso that I began to bid defiance to the crows. I lived in \nhope of meeting with that beautiful cow again ; but unhap- \npily I never saw her more. \n\nThe pains of hunger began again to consume me. \nStrange fancies haunted me in my sleep ; I rambled \nthrough the country, milking in my own way every cow \nI met, and hamstringing every ox, and cutting steaks from \nthem. So jealous did I become, that I often questioned \nmyself in my sleep, and argued the point whether I was \nreally eating or dreaming. Once in particular, I well re- \nmember that I insisted I was eating a beefsteak, and held \nit up on my fork, and said, \" This is real beef, this can- \nnot be a dream — I am certain I am eating an excel- \nlent beefsteak, I cannot be dreaming now ; so inveterate \nand persisting, busy and alert is excessive hunger. It \nhaunts you by night and by day, awake and asleep. But \nhappily though the sense of hunger is most ferocious, it \nis not inclined to despair. Had you hung a sirloin of beef \non one horn of the moon, my hunger would have hoped \nto reach it. \n\nWinn I became reduced a second time, so low that my \nbelt was lost between my ribs, I was relieved by a happy \nmistake. Instead of the snuff of a candle which was usu- \nally handed to light me to bed, I found the candlestick \nadorned with more than half of a tallow candle. I cut the \n\n\n114 SUPPEEINGS OF A COUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER. \n\ncandle into four pieces, ate the tallow, ami reserved the \nwicks for the last extremity. Before 1 fell asleep, 1 fancied \nI felt something stirring the bedclothes. It was a rat \ncautiously climbing up the bed-rug. On any other occa- \nsion this would have been an unpleasant visitor — but in- \nstantly 1 saw my advantage. I feigned a sound Bleep, lay \nquiet, and set my trap. For a starving man — I appeal to \nFrance — cannot distinguish between a rat and a squirrel. \nI opened my mouth uncommonly wide, nearly from ear to \near. The hungry rat, attracted by the smell of the tallow, \nthe perfume of which had not evaporated from my lips, \nsoftly approached my mouth, and began to lick the rem- \nnant, if any remnant there was, of the tallow. I am con- \nvinced the rat was as hungry as I was, and from his gen- \ntle movements, I am satisfied he designed me no harm ; \ntherefore I have ever since felt a regret at the foul trick I \nplayed him. When the rat had tenderly passed over my \nupper, he began with my under lip ; and when he was about \nmidway, directly under my nose, I made a sudden snap, \ntook his whole head into my mouth, and strangled him \nbetween my teeth. When the rat was quiet, I dropped \nhim on the floor and fell asleep. \n\nThe next morning the candle was missing, and on be- \ning questioned, I replied with great truth I had no doubt it \nwas eaten, as I had seen a rat in the room. \n\nI now began to think I might probably survive to the \nend of my engagement, as it was drawing to a close, and \nI had four candlewicks, well saturated, and a large rat \nsafely deposited in my trunk. \n\nAt this time a strange sight appeared in the neighbor- \nhood. A man with a load of pork, bound for Boston, had \nlost his way. He came up to our door to ask for direc- \ntions. I detained him as long as I possibly could, for \nthe sake of beholding the charming swine. My stomach \n\n\nSUFFERINGS OF A COUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER. H5 \n\ndilated at the sight, and my teeth began to move. As the \nman and team moved off, I discovered for the first time \nthat I was a ventriloquist. There came an audible, dis- \ntinct voice from the lower region of my stomach, saying, \n•• It is suicide to die of hunger, when food is placed before \nyour eyes. Fly ! cut a collop.\" \" Cut,\" said I, \" thou shalt \nnot steal.'' The voice replied, •• That law was not made \nfor an empty stomach.\" I rejoined, \" The law has made \nno exception.\" \" Fool,\" said the voice, \" had you rather \neat a rat than a pork-steak?\" I confess I was not entirely \nconvinced ; however, I followed after the team, and slyly \nslid behind it, and, whether feloniously or justifiably the \nSupreme Court can determine, with my penknife I cut \ntwo as handsome steaks as Eumteus cut from the two \nporkers with which he regaled Ulysses. Oh, the beau- \ntiful steaks of red and white ! I see them even now in \nall their allurement. I put my booty in my pocket, and \nhastened to deposit it in my trunk. Never did time \nlinger so lazily ; the sun appeared to me to be travelling to \nthe east, so impatient was I for night, in order to taste of \nmy dainty ; for it was now more than six weeks since I \nhad had a smack at fresh meat, except that which I had \neaten at the schoolroom. Bedtime at length arrived, and I \nretired, not to sleep, but to the most delightful contem- \nplations. I cut those steaks latitudinally, and longitudi- \nnally into more sections than you find marked on the \nterrestrial globe. Nothing in the world appeared to me so \ncaptivating as pork-steaks. Had I been a calico-painter or \npaper-stainer, the only figures would have been pork-steaks. \nWhen all was quiet, I arose, opened my trunk, took out \nmy steaks, softly descended to the kitchen, raked open the \ncoals, rubbed the rust off the gridiron, placed my steaks \nthereon, and soon began to snuff the delicious flavor. The \ndog who was outside of the house, no less quick-scented, im- \n\n\n116 SUFFERINGS OF A COUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER. \n\nmediately began to bark. For fear of disturbing the family \ni opened the door, and let him in ; but alas, before 1 could \nshut the door, he flew at the steaks, seized one in his \nmouth, and although 1 seized him by the neck with one \nhand, and thrust the other into his mouth, at one gulp he \nswallowed the whole. While I was contending with the \ndog, the cat seized the other steak and lied up-chamber. \n\nMany a man has succumbed at a less disappointment \nthan this. \" But, courage ! \" said I ; \"do not despair, \nyou have still a rat and four candlewicks.\" I retired to \nlied, and soon began to dream of my steaks; and when \nI had eaten them, awoke, and found my lips moving \nas usual. \n\nThe next morning discovered a trait in natural history, \nwhich I will here notice, for the satisfaction of the curious. \nThe dog appeared to be sensible he had wronged me. No \nsoothing could induce him to look me in the face. He lost \nhis animation, curled his tail between his legs,, and hung \nhis head down to his feet. The next day the dog ab- \nsconded. At first I attributed this to his sense of honor, \nthen to his sagacity ; he had obtained one taste of fresh \nmeat, and was no longer a domestic animal ; but I was \nin part deceived, as will quickly appear. \n\nI was now reduced again to great extremity, but was \nunwilling to depredate on the treasure in my trunk, for I \nhad still a week more to suffer. However, on retiring to \nrest that night, I determined in the morning to eat two \ncandlewicks, and carry the rat to school and cook it in the \nintermission. Soon as I awoke and could distinctly see, my \nwistful eyes turned to my trunk. I partly arose, my eyes \nstill fixed on my trunk, and to my sorrow, I saw a mouse \nleisurely go down the side. Miserable wretch ! on taking \nthe steaks from the trunk, I had carelessly suffered the \nclasp of the lock to rest on the ridge of it, and left ample \n\n\nSUFFERINGS OF A COUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER. 117 \n\nroom for a mouse and a cat's paw to plunder me. Both \nthe rat and eandlewieks were gone! \n\nNow, indeed, for the first time, my spirits began to fail \nme. The remembrance of the Lynn lady's expression came \nover me with a fearful foreboding. I hesitated for a moment \nto go to school. But as it was a beautiful, bright morning, \nmy official duty urged me on ; and with a heart heavier \nthan all the rest of my body, I pursued my way through \nthe pathless snowdrifts. The crows, my former visitors, \nwith a numerous recruit hovered over my head, uttering omi- \nnous language. Instead of \" caw, caw,\" they seemed to me \nto say, •• We arc come.\" At this moment, a whirl of snow \nnearly engulfed me. My bones trembled in their sockets : \nthe north wind pierced me through, and shook every fibre \nof my body. My right leg faltered and sunk into a snow- \npit, and my left leg refused to help it out. My danger \nwas imminent ; for although I had sufficient strength, \nperhaps, to fight off a crow, an eagle or a vulture in my \nemaciated state could have borne me off an unresisting \nvictim. At that moment had an umbrella been at my \ncommand, I should have tied myself to the stick and took \nmy chance to other regions. But, joy ! The spirit of hun- \nger again burst fortli in ventriloquism. \" See the dog with \na rabbit!\" exclaimed a voice from the lower regions of \nmy stomach. It was true — the noble animal came up to \nme, bold as a lion, his eyes glistening through tears, his \ntail lashing each side of his hams ; he laid a prodigious \nlarge rabbit at my feet. When the crows saw this they \ndisappeared, and I saw no more of them. I placed the \nrabbit in my bosom, covering it with my waistcoat ; and I \npresume there was room for a dozen more. \n\nThis rabbit I took effectual care to secure to myself. \nOn the first opportunity I took off the skin, cut it in four \nparts, and put them in my pockets, meaning to eat a \n\n\n118 SUFFERINGS OK A COUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER. \n\nquarter part daily. But let no hungry man in future say, \n\" Thus much will I eat, and no more.\" When I had \nbroiled and eaten one fore-quarter, I was more voracious \nthan ever; and while exerting all my power of restraint, \nthe voice below exclaimed, \" Treat every part of your \nstomach alike ! \" In short, I broiled and ate the hind- \nquarter; then the other fore-quarter; and lastly, the other \nhind-quarter : yet after I had eaten the whole, I thought I \nhad swallowed only the phantom of a rabbit. \n\nThanks to the dog, I was enabled to linger until Satur- \nday, the twenty-fifth of January ; and then Time with his \nleaden feet released me from my contract with the town \nagent. No one before me ever lived so long in two \nmonths. Methuselah might complain of the shortness of \nlife, — not I. A thousand years were crowded into the \nperiod of sixty days. After the ceremony of sitting down \nto an ideal dinner I arose to depart, left my trunk behind \nme, took a bundle in my hand, and bade the family a most \ncordial farewell. I was thirty-one miles from home. Most \nfortunately the wind was in my favor, and blew a gallant \nbreeze ; otherwise I should never have reached my door- \nstone. I was reduced to such a gossamer that Zephyr \nwould have blown me about at pleasure. As it was I made \nrapid progress. Had a field of wheat covered the whole \ndistance, I could have skimmed over it without bending a \nblade. But it was fearful to hear my bones clatter as I \nran along the road. The journey, although delightful, was \nin one respect unpleasant ; for my incredible fleetness and \nthe large bundle in my hand rendered me so suspicious \nthat ever and anon persons cried, \" Stop thief ! \" Yet \nthis worried me not ; the hippogriff could not have over- \ntaken me. I saw nothing, horse or sleigh , that I did not \ninstantly overtake, and as quickly leave far behind. In- \ndeed I knew my life was in imminent danger from two \n\n\nSUFFERINGS OF A COUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER. 119 \n\nquarters ; therefore I heeded not the ventriloquist, who \nexclaimed, at every tavern I passed, \" Stop, oh, stop ! and \nsend a message to the cavern below.\" \" No,\" said I, \" life \ndepends on speed : I would not stop to feast with an alder- \nman.\" In truth, I was fearful if a physician should see me \nhe would seize me as a stray \" anatomy ; \" and to render \nme perfectly helpless, would dislocate my arms, pin up my \ntongue, and fasten me to the wall of his dissecting-room. \nHad I stopped at a tavern, I might have been arrested for \na mummy, shut up in a lemon-box, sent to Boston, sold to \nGreenwood, placed in the New-England Museum beside the \nlittle black Egyptian, and there exhibited among a thou- \nsand notions. \n\nIt was a quarter-past five o'clock when I reached home. \nI opened the door ; the family were at tea ; before I could \nmake myself known, they all fled in consternation, and left \nthe tea-table and all its contents to me. There was but \none who ventured to examine me, and she immediately \nrecognized me and burst into tears. In a few weeks I \nrecovered my personal identity, aud returned to college, \nprotesting in favor of country schoolmasters against \npublic auctions and rye coffee. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nWRITTEN DURING THE YEARS 1803-1804. \n\n\nEGa >l;o gratiora dictn alia esse scio ; seil me vera pro gratis loqui, ets \nmeum ingenium non moneret, necessitas cogit. — Lnv, bk. iii. 6S. \n\n\nADVERTISEMENT. \n\n\nThese Letters were written during a residence in Lon- \ndon, and addressed to a friend in Massachusetts. The \nwriter has endeavored to blend amusement with informa- \ntion, and has attempted to sketch both national and indi- \nvidual character, with occasional outlines of the state of \nsociety in that interesting country. The frequent allusion \nto the United States by way of comparison, while it adds \nvariety, he trusts will take nothing from the impartiality \nof the work. The public will judge. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\n\nLETTER I. \n\n\nLondon, June 19, 1S02. \n\nDEAR SIR. — I have just arrived in the land of our \nancestors, — a land not much less strange to me \nthan were the shores of New England to Standish, Carver, \nWinslow, and the other adventurers. They were awfully \nimpressed with the grandeur of Nature hefore she yielded \nto cultivation. I am apprehensive I shall not be less af- \nfected with the excesses to which pride, vanity, and am- \nbition carry those who, endeavoring to rise above, sink \nfar below, the standard of Nature. \n\nA descendant of those ancestors arriving here, might \nnaturally ask. •• What invincible prejudice, what inveterate \nbigotry, or what pre-eminent virtue induced our forefathers \nto leave this country for a desert ? \" Thank God, their \nposterity know how to answer the question ! Three thou- \nsand miles and a desert they justly thought a full equiva- \nlent for what they left behind, notwithstanding the maxims \nof Europe followed them, but which distance in some de- \ngree served to cleanse of their leprosy. \n\nYou may expect, agreeably to promise, from time to \ntime, a few notices of those things which I may think \nworth presenting. Letters are the recreation of literature, \nand arc usually written in nightgown and slippers. We \ngive our friends our looser thoughts, reserving our abilities \nfor more important occasions ; but knowing your taste, \n\n\n124 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nFeelings, and views, I shall endeavor, so far as I am able, \nto assume a shir rather more elevated than is frequent in \nthis mode of writing, reserving the liberty of disporting at \nintervals on the surface of things. \n\n.Men, manners, morals, politics, and literature will al- \nways afford a fertile field of observation. It demands the \nhardihood of personal indifference to speak present truth, \nthough afterward the same becomes legitimate history ; \nbut at the same time, it requires the pen of Tacitus to \nmake the proper discrimination between the people of two \ncountries, or even between people of the same country, \nespecially in Europe, where even under one government \nthere arc many different species of men. It would richly \ncompensate for a voyage across the Atlantic to observe this \nsingular circumstance. Indeed, I know not who can \ntravel with more advantage to himself, or to his country, \nthan a citizen of the United States, born since the Revo- \nlution ; for the moment he arrives in Europe, the love of \nhis own country becomes his predominant passion, while \nhis mind is awakened at every step to reason, compare, \npity, approve, or condemn. But that which will more par- \nticularly engage his attention is the comparative operation \nof the English and American Constitutions on general \nhappiness, — the only true criterion of the excellence of \nevery government. \n\nThe few observations which I shall make on the English \ncharacter will be rather an incidental than a definitive \ndrawing. I shall not remain here long enough to catch \nthose nice and frequently complex traits which mark na- \ntional character, — though I suspect a sign-painter might \nhit off John Bull as well as an artist could do.1 I do not \nthink it honest or gentlemanly to draw the character of \nany people while riding through their country on horse- \n1 lu the scrjuel I found myself not a little mistaken. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 125 \n\nback, or to describe a city after lodging in it one night. \nYou would not imagine that a certain traveller had passed \nthrough Boston, on reading that ridiculous anecdote of the \n\" house with wooden rollers.\" You recollect, he says the \npeople of Boston live in \" moving houses \" ; so that if they \ndo not like their situation or neighborhood, they move to \nanother part of the town. What a strange idea will Euro- \npeans have of Boston after reading such a fabrication ! \nSuch a traveller is really unpardonable ; for of all the \nsenses, the sight is least likely to mislead. But travellers \ntake great liberties ; they lie boldly, and speak the truth by \nchance.1 — not so much, perhaps, from a disposition to wan- \nton over Nature, as from an opinion that mankind are more \nreadily captivated with romance. One of the earliest and \nmost famous saints docs not hesitate to assert that he \npassed through one country, the people of which were desti- \ntute of heads, and through another, the people of which had \neach but one eye. The story of the Amazons had its origin, \npossibly, from some traveller desirous of attracting attention \nat home, or perhaps from certain smugglers who appeared \nat the sea-side dressed in women's clothes ! \n\nAnother traveller, who has done us the honor of publish- \ning a volume, goes nearly the length of asserting that the \ncitizens of the United States look back with regret on their \nseparation from Great Britain. \n\nThe same traveller visited Philadelphia; but not being \nnoticed, because not known, he left the city in disgust, and \ncharged the citizens with a lack of hospitality. As well \nmight one who had just dropped from the moon walk \nthe streets of London, and then return with a similar \nreport. Should Mr. Weld visit Philadelphia again, where \n\n1 A mentir hardiment, ct a dire la vcrite par hasard. — Bonavesti/re \nD'Akgonxe, under the name of Vigneul-Marville. \n\n\n126 LETTEBS FBOM LONDON. \n\nhe is now so well known, I am confident he would be well \nreceived. \n\nIndeed, so little is known in Europe of the people of the \nUnited States, that if you would describe them, it would \nbe necessary to affirm, with no little assurance, that they \nare as white as other people ; that they live in houses ; thai \nthey boil and roast their meat ; and that they speak the \nEnglish language, at least as well as it is spoken in \nDevonshire. \n\nLest I should be premature in my sketches, I shall adopt \na rule which every stranger ought to follow, until repeated \nobservation confirms first impressions ; that is, to open his \neyes and ears, but seal his mouth. Adieu. \n\n\nLETTER II. \n\n\nLondon, June 25. \n\nI never knew, until the present time, what a weight im- \npresses on one who presumes to utter his opinions on an- \nother country. I seem to support the responsibility of the \nnation, and tremble while judging those in secret whose \ngrand prerogative it is to be judged in open court. That \nis a dignified office which is held by one who assumes to \nsit in judgment over a whole nation, and it ought not to be \nfilled except by philosophers ; yet most men have finished \ntheir travels before they set out. \n\nThe English, like Themistocles, take to themselves the \nfirst place, because most foreigners allow them the second : \nand they imagine themselves treated with ingratitude \nunless every stranger throws in his mite of panegyric. \nThey are hardly satisfied if you invert the defiance of the \npoet, and praise where you can, and censure where you must. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 127 \n\nIt has been the good fortune of the English to be ac- \ncused only of those traits of character of which they boast. \nCharge them with haughtiness, and they will tell you the \nRomans in their best days were the haughtiest people on \nearth. Accuse them of hardness and oppression ; they \nwill tell you, these were ever the misfortune of conquerors. \nTax them with an overbearing demeanor, and they will \nseriously tell you this is a constitutional foible, owing to \nthe consciousness of personal independence. Call them \nproud, and they will tell you it is the part of slaves to be \nhumble: freemen are always proud. \n\nIt is our misfortune to have been visited by those, who, \nfar from being philosophers,1 estimated the United States \nagreeably to the views of Europeans ; hence they have \nthought us two centuries behind the polish of Europe ; at \nthe same time, a William Penn or a Rousseau would pro- \nnounce us more than four centuries nearer the great object \nof the social compact. It is not long since a Chinese great \nman (if you will allow the Chinese to have had a great man \nsince the days of Confucius) arrived in Boston with a con- \nsiderable suite. Being asked his opinion of Boston, he \nvery naturally replied, \" It is the vilest place I have ever \nseen, and utterly destitute of magnificence.\" At the same \ntime, adverting to the style of living, he added, \" Why, my \nfather has three hundred servants.\" \n\nThis man probably went home and thanked Cod that he \nwas not born a citizen of the United States, and was ten \ntimes more confirmed in his prejudices than when he left \nChina ; for travelling is as likely to fix native as to remove \nforeign prejudices. When such a man as Montesquieu, \nafter having written the \" Spirit of Laws,\" and appearing to \n\n1 Even Brissot, I suspect, had formed his opinions of the character of \nthe citizens of the United States before he left France. Charmed with the \nform of our government, he was easily led to speak too highly of the citizens. \n\n\n128 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nsympathize so sincerely with freemen, declares, \" As Plato \nthanked J leaven that he was born in the same age with \nSocrates, so I thank God that I was born a subject un- \nder that government in which I have lived,\" he surely \ndisplays a childish weakness. It may be pardoned in a \nChinaman, who has nothing but the soil, and those connec- \ntions which all people have, to attach him to his country ; \nbut Montesquieu goes near to prove that a man may think \nand write like a freeman, and yet content himself in a state \nof slavery. My love for my own country is founded chiefly \non its constitution of government. \" Nee in superficie tig- \nnisque caritas nobis patriae pendct.\" J I should prefer the \nsalubrious breezes and grateful soil of Spain to the cold \nnorth winds and iron-bound soil of New England, were all \nother things equal. \"Quo me cumque [Libertas trahct], \ndeferor hospes.\"2 \n\nI foresee I shall have to encounter many difficulties be- \nfore I can catch John Bull ; however, I will send you all \nthe views of his person that I can collect, and you must \nput them together as well as you can. If you sometimes \nmake a small mistake, it is no great matter, for John does \nnot always know himself. To understand the English, one \nshould be a plebeian in the morning, a gentleman in the \nafternoon, and a nobleman at night ; otherwise, the vari- \nous grades of society are so fortified in peculiar habit that \nyou arc in danger of mistaking honest John for a different \nanimal. \n\nA citizen of the United States arrives here under no \nfavorable circumstances of birth or of consequence ; there- \nfore, to gain all the advantages of travel, he must either \nbreak down or leap over many of those barriers of society, \nwhich, with many, are esteemed sacred. Adieu. \n\n1 Livy, bk. v. 54. \n\na Horat. Epist., bk. i. 1. 15. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 129 \n\n\nLETTER III. \n\nLondon, July 9. \n\nMy attention was arrested soon after my arrival, by a \nmost humorous object, — a chariot and eight ; but to do jus- \ntice to the horses, four of the appendages to the chariot \nwere not of their species : they were four stout men, such as \nHannibal would have chosen for his companions through \nthe Alps. Three of these gentlemen had their station \nbehind ; and with such a lofty air did they carry themselves, \nwith so much lace were they puffed off, and so elegantly \ntrimmed were their cocked hats, one might easily have \nmistaken them for men of high rank, who were disposed \nto amuse the populace, — especially as the English are \nfamous for whim. I was soon undeceived, for I observed \non many of the gayest carriages four supporters, or \nholders, for the servants. \n\nAn Englishman, accustomed to see such things daily, may \nprobably have but one reflection on such an exhibition, — \n\"The owner of that chariot must be very rich ;\" and pos- \nsibly this is the only reflection he ought to make. What \npurpose can it serve to reason, when our best conclusions \ntend only to discover a situation which we cannot remedy ? \nSlaves ought to have but one sense, that of hearing, and \nbut one idea, that of obedience. \n\nIt is the part of a man of judgment, Rousseau some- \nwhere observes, when surprised by novelty to ask its use. \nThis is natural, and is exemplified by the aborigines of \nour own country. They wondered at the stupidity of the \nman who rode about in a chaise, which could not be moved \nwithout a horse ; but the first mau on horseback whom \n\n\n130 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nthey saw they believed to be one animal, and pronounced \nit an excellent contrivance; for strength, swiftness, hunt- \ning, and swimming, — savage attributes and faculties of \nprime consequence, — were present in an eminent degree. \nBut had they seen these three stout men behind the \nchariot, they would have perceived little congruity be- \ntween them and the carriage. \n\nI am strongly impressed that cither these useless beings \nimply a great degree of misery or a great degree of servi- \ntude in the nation. If their situation be desirable, it pre- \nsupposes such a degree of misery that they are obliged \nto fill the humblest offices for bread. If they seek these \nsituations and fill them in preference to others, it implies \nthe loss of all sense of human dignity. These are not \nthe only evils. These drones are a tax on the industrious \npoor ; they eat that bread for which others are suffering, \nand raise the price of that which they do not consume. \nHowever, all this is necessary in a monarchy ; the grand- \neur of the nobles is a part of the Constitution, and must \nbe supported,1 — in other words, poverty is a necessary \npart of monarchy. If this evil cannot be remedied, kind \nfortune is daily counteracting it by humbling the great \nand exalting the humble : otherwise Europe would soon \nbecome a sad spectacle of tyrants and slaves. So true \nis it, as Beccaria observes : \" In every human society there \nis an effort continually tending to confer on one part the \nheight of power and happiness, and to reduce the other \nto the extreme of weakness and misery.\" \n\nThere are two powerful reasons why the United States \nwill not for these hundreds of years afford such a sight \nas those chariot appendages. The proud principles of the \nConstitution will teach the humblest to avoid the distinc- \ntions of master and servant. The other is a more practi- \n\n1 Vide Montesquieu's Spirit of Laws, bk. v. 9. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 131 \n\ncal cause, and is operating daily, — I mean the extended \nterritory of the United States. If a man be born poor, \nhe is not born to poverty ; or if born to labor, he is not \nborn to servitude. He has only to emigrate an hundred \nor two miles, and in the course of a few years he proudly \nlooks around him and says, — \" This farm is my own, and \nmy children will inherit it after me.\" \n\nHowever, I do not wish you to believe the English \npopulace are in general so little respectable as those four \neasy men. One could not stand two hours in the street \nwithout seeing a practical application of one of the first \nprinciples of the English Constitution. The chimney- \nsweeper knows very well his standing in society : and \nwithout seeming to feel for those who think cleanliness \none of the conveniences of life, he wraps himself up in \nhis sooty consequence, and all who would pass by him \nmust either hazard the effect of contact or walk in the \nmud until they are out of his reach. The porter, too, \nthough his burden should be an impediment to every one, \nkeeps the footway ; and no one presumes to request him \nto walk in one part of the street rather than in another. \n1 am not certain that 1 am correct in attributing this to \nthe democratic branch of the Constitution ; I am more \ninclined to attribute it to the common law.1 The influence \nof the democratic branch of the Constitution is too remote \nfrom the people to affecjb them very strongly ; but that \npart of the common law which places the person of the \npeer and of the plebeian on an equality, being known to \nevery one, comes home to their feelings, and operates \nmost visibly on the lowest. If all people are presumed to \nknow enough of the laws of their country to be answer- \nable for the infraction of the same, it would be singular \n\n1 The common law is a part, and in my opinion, the best part of the \nEnglish Constitution. \n\n\n132 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nif they should be ignorant of those laws whence they \nderive all their consequence. \n\nPreserve the common law, and I believe the people would \nscarcely miss the Constitution. But every good has its at- \ntendant evil : the common law is in continual danger of \nthat terrier of Parliament, — statute law ; so that the Eng- \nlish ma-y one day find themselves buried under a mass of \nstatutes. Adieu. \n\n\nLETTER IV. \n\n\nLondon, August 10. \n\nOne can know nothing of this people without mixing \nwith them. They seem, most of them, to have two char- \nacters, — one repellent, especially to strangers ; the other \nquite accommodating and disposed to confidence, if you \nare willing to show them a little deference. Nothing is \nlost by this, for they generously disclaim that superiority \nwhich is granted. \n\nI have also discovered a remarkable desire in those who \naffect to rank among the better sort, to pass themselves \noff in the presence of strangers for gentlemen of fortune \nand consequence. Last Sunday morning I visited Kens- \nington Garden so early that but one person was there \nbefore me. \"We passed and repassed each other many \ntimes ; but he showed no disposition to speak, or to be \nspoken to. At length I ventured to accost him; and to \nwhom do you think I had the honor to address myself ? \nIt appeared in the sequel that he was a member of Par- \nliament, possessed of an immense landed property in Kent, \nand that he had frequently been offered a pension by Mr. \nPitt if he would support the ministry, which offer had \nbeen as frequently refused from a motive of patriotism. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 133 \n\nHe said he had foreseen, and advised Mr. Pitt of the \ntermination of the war. I observed he must also have \nknown Mr. Burke. u Poor fellow,\" said he, \" Burke lost \nhis senses a long time before he died ; he quarrelled \nwith me at last, after an intimacy of thirty years.-' This \nman might possibly have been a member of Parliament, \nnotwithstanding the attrition of time had effected one \nconsiderable breach in his hat and two breaches in his \ncoat. \n\nThe English are said to hold all other peoples in con- \ntempt,— the usual fault of islanders; and they indulge \na sentiment of disdain, arising from comparison rather \nthan from any other cause. I am led to the above re- \nmark from an occurrence which lately happened to my- \nself. In travelling to London in a stage-coach, I had \nbecome so intimate with one of the passengers that just \nbefore the journey was finished he politely gave me his \naddress. I told him I could not in return give him mine ; \nfor being a stranger in the country, I knew not where I \nshould take lodgings. I thought the man was suddenly \ntaken ill, so altered was his countenance in a moment. \n\" Are you not an Englishman ? \" he asked, with a tone \nwhich partly betrayed mortification that he should have \nmade such a mistake, and partly regret that he should \nhave done me so much honor as to have taken me for \nan Englishman. \" No ; I am a citizen of the United \nStates.\" He seemed to say, \" So much the worse,\" wrapped \nhimself up in a revery, and was silent the remainder of \nthe journey. \n\nThis repelling trait of character, for which the English \nare noted, does not arise, in my opinion, entirely from \ntheir disposition. In a country like this — a commercial \ncountry — where the interest of each individual interferes \nin some form or other with his neighbor's; where the \n\n\n134 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\npeople mutually thrive at one another's expense ; and \nwhere even the pious, if they put up a prayer in the \nmorning for a blessing on the day, the substance of it \nmust be the overreaching of their fellows, — among such \nthere is no room for cordiality ; and when attentions are \nproffered, the motive ought to be suspected. All will be \nsuspicious of those with whom they are unacquainted, \nespecially in such a city as this, to which rogues of all \ndescriptions resort, either to hide their infamy or sell it \nfor a higher price. Hence the first maxim should be to \nknow nobody by whom you are not likely to profit. An \napostle among such a people would command no more \nattention than a ballad singer, and would afford specula- \ntion to no one but a Jew clothesman. \n\nHow far these observations apply to our own country, \nI leave you to judge. I believe commerce preserves the \nsame character in all countries and in all ages. The \nmerchant of Alexandria, who arrived in a time of famine \nat Rhodes with a cargo of corn ; the bankers of Syracuse, \nwho sold Cauius, the Roman knight, a farm with a fish- \npond in it; the merchants of Amsterdam, who cut down \nthe cinnamon-trees in the East; the Hamburghers, who \nbetrayed Napper Tandy ; the merchants of Liverpool, who \npray God not to change the color of the negroes ; and cer- \ntain merchants of Boston, who dream of wars in Europe \nas the greatest blessing which Providence can send, are \nall allied to the same family. How applicable to the \npresent time is the following remark, made nearly nine- \nteen centuries ago : \" Quod si, qui proscribunt villain \nbonam beneque ledificatam, non existimantur fcfellisse, \netiam si ilia nee bona est, nee cedificata ratione.\" 1 \n\nThank God, the United States are rather an agricul- \ntural than a commercial country ; otherwise, in spite of \n1 Cicero De Officiis, bk. iii. 13. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 135 \n\nthe Constitution, our republic would soon be lost in an \nodious aristocracy, and what is still worse, a commercial \naristocracy, which experience proves to be the most inex- \norable and cold-blooded of all tyrannies, whose maxims are \nfounded on cautious speculation, and acted on in all the \nvarieties of monopoly, — maxims which, fortified by law, \nstrengthen the powerful at the expense of the weak. For- \ntunately for us the citizens, lords of their farms, will have \ninterests different from the merchants, and will be for- \never a check on the spirit of commerce. Were it not for \nthis last circumstance there would not be virtue suffi- \ncient in the country to support our form of government, \nexcept for a very short period. I know not if these senti- \nments meet yours, but from what I have already observed \nhere, I am confirmed in them. It is neither the king \nnor the nobles nor the commons who govern England, \nbut stockjobbers, commercial companies, and monopolists. \nParliament is only a sort of attorney to draw up their rules \nand regulations, and ratify them according to law. \n\nAdieu. \n\n\nLETTER V \n\n\nLoxdox, August 20. \nThe election of members of Parliament, for Westmin- \nster, recurred in July. Everything relative to this popu- \nlar prerogative will interest a citizen of the United States ; \nhe cannot observe the hustings without a warm reverence \nfor the great original of his own freedom. The theory of \na popular election is a political sublimity which a demo- \ncrat cannot contemplate without rapture. It practically \nbrings society back to first principles, checks the tendency \n\n\n136 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nof government to usurpation, arrests the bolt of power in \nthe hands of the wicked; and though frequently perverted \nin practice, and made to sanction its own destruction, yet \nelection keeps alive the principle and asserts the virtue of \nat least a part of the people. \n\nThe following notices I made in Covent Garden, the \nscene of the election. \n\nThe candidates were Mr. Fox, Admiral Lord Gardner, \nand Mr. Graham, an auctioneer. All was quiet until the \ncandidates appeared. First came Mr. Fox. On presenting \nhimself at the front of the stage, elevated a little above \nthe heads of the spectators, a violent uproar of applause \ncommenced with, \" Good morning, Charley,\" which scarcely \nceased, when Lord Gardner and Mr. Graham appeared. \nThe popular suffrage seemed to be divided between these \ntwo. Fox was not opposed ; but a scattering hissing and \nclapping, at short intervals, commenced when either Gard- \nner or Graham appeared at the front of the stage. \n\nWhether or not the people, from some cause, are weary \nof the popular branch of their government, or whether they \nconsider an election a mere mockery, or an affair which \nconcerns only the candidates, or whether Mr. Graham was \nnot a man of sufficient weight to contest1 the election seri- \nously, I know not ; but certain it is, the election appeared \nto me a sort of Bartholomew Fair, to which the people \ncame, some for amusement, some to pick pockets, and \nsome merely to increase the crowd, while the candidates \nafforded the entertainment, which was not without humor. \nYou know the English fancy themselves free once in seven \nyears. This election brought to my mind the Roman \nSaturnalia. During the hustings, likewise, everything is \ntaken in good part by the candidates, who court popularity, \n\n1 The candidates have usurped the word \" contest.\" One would imagine \nthat the people should contest an election, not the candidates. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 137 \n\nsometimes not disdaining to be carried home on the shoul- \nders of the people. \n\nThe candidates usually address the crowd at the close \nof each day's poll and return their most sincere thanks for \nthe support they have received, and sometimes lay their \nhands on their hearts, and urge their friends to come for- \nward the next day with redoubled ardor. Those who are \nnot in the habit of public speaking, frequently (at least it \nwas so in the present instance) authorize some friend to \nrepresent them to their future constituents. \n\nThe daily state of the poll is painted in a conspicuous \nplace, to satisfy the curious. This I imagine is absolutely \nnecessary ; for John Bull would think himself imposed \non if not permitted every day to see how the election \nis going. \n\nSometimes the electors are disposed to shake hands with \ntheir representatives, one of whom, with seeming cordiality, \nsaid, \" Ah, Charley, it is seven years since I had the pleas- \nure of shaking hands with you, how have you done all that \ntime ? \" \" Ah,\" groaned another man among the crowd, \n\"it is only once in seven years that the two parties do \nshake hands.\" \n\nLord Gardner was not so civilly received ; but he bore \nthe sarcasms of the populace with much good humor, and \nseemed by his demeanor to be confident of his election in \nspite of his opposers. A sailor stripped off his jacket and \nshirt before the hustings, and asked, \" Do you remember \nwhen you gave me that flogging ? \" At the same time an- \nother threw a halter at Lord Gardner telling him to recol- \nlect Governor Wall. The Admiral seemed for a moment \nmortified at this. He said nothing, but looked a sort of \nappeal to the spectators as if he had said, \" Do I merit the \ncharge ? \" All were softened in his behalf, and by their \nmurmur of applause accmitted him instantly. This ready \n\n\n138 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\ndisposition to espouse the cause of the injured, is one of \nthe finest traits of character in the plebeian English. \n\nAt the close of the poll, Mr. Fox and Lord Gardner \n■were declared elected. I could not readily account for \nthis ; Fox was not opposed, and yet Graham, who was in \nFox's interest, lost his election. Mathematically speaking, \none might say such a conclusion was impossible. \n\nThe election continued eight or ten days. I believe it \nin the power of either candidate to extend the time at \npleasure. If so, there is an opening to the greatest ex- \ncesses, for every election is not conducted with such good \nhumor as was this.1 Broken limbs, and even homicide, \nare not unusual at some elections. How will you account \nfor it ? The citizens of the United States ought to have \nthe prerogative of suffrage much more at heart than the \nsubjects of England have, and yet at no contested election \nin the United States was there ever a citizen killed, nor \ndid I ever hear of a broken limb. The cause must be \nsought in the candidates and not in the people. \n\nYou will expect a description of Mr. Fox, his appearance \nand demeanor. You wish to know how he was dressed, \nhow he stood, and how he looked. In his youth he is re- \nported to have been as great a fop as was Aristotle. At \npresent I will only say his appearance was altogether \nagainst him. He looked as if he had been long in the \nsea-service, and after many a storm, had retired on half \npay. His greasy buff waistcoat, threadbare blue coat, and \nweather-beaten hat, gave him, in connection with his great \ncorpulency, dark complexion, and short dark hair hasten- \ning to gray, very much the appearance of a laid-up sea- \ncaptain. He has the countenance of an ancient English- \nman, but long watching has changed the complexion of \n\n1 At the three preceding elections murder was committed. This circum- \nstance alone is nearly sufficient to prove there is no liberty in England. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 139 \n\nhealth to a dun color. He would be thought at present, \nby one who did not know him, to be a man of noble dis- \nposition rather than a great man. \"When I hear him in \nthe House of Commons I will give you my opinion of this \ngreat favorite of our citizens ; though why he should be \na favorite, I know not. He is not more a democrat than \nMr. Pitt, nor have his exertions benefited his country ; \nthey have only exasperated inveteracy and strengthened \nopposition by calling forth a ministerial energy, which not \nonly touched hard on the true principles of the Constitu- \ntion, but too plainly proved that there was not sufficient \naffection in the people to support a government for which, \nif Mr. De Lolme be not a bombastic panegyrist, every Briton \nought to be proud to die. So that, with all his ability as \nan orator, and all his logical deduction as a lawyer, he \nmust pass down the current of time as an ^Eschines or \nHyperides, — a foil to set off Mr. Pitt, whose ascendant \ngenius has shone with a blaze sufficient to encircle his \nown head, even amidst the ruin of his country. \n\nFor my part, 1 regard the late administration with an \neye less favorable to the glory of Mr. Pitt than do many \nof our citizens. The loss of three hundred millions ster- \nling and the gain of ninety-five peers are trifling compared \nwith the loss, in a great measure, of that old English spirit \nwhich formerly distinguished John Bull from all other be- \nings, and which spirit led our ancestors first to Leyden \nand soon after to Plymouth Rock, — an expedition which \nmight have revolted a Scotchman. The late iron-handed \nadministration, fearful of every one who was not directly \nor indirectly a part of itself in the midst of that terror \nwhich it inspired, displayed its imbecility by what it was \npleased to term its own inherent energy. \n\nWho supports our Constitution? Who supports the \nadministration of our government ? Mr. Jefferson ! No, \n\n\n140 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nno; the strength of the government of the United States \nis founded only in legitimate strength, — in popular senti- \nment, in popular affection. We have no personal attach- \nment to our presidents and governors, and ought not to \nhave ; we respect them only as constitutional statesmen. \nSuch a government might be a laughing-stock in Europe \n— more shame to Europeans; but this is certainly an ex- \nperienced fact, that \" those who have once been blessed \nwith a free government have never lost their freedom until \nthey were unworthy of it.\" They could not lose their lib- \nerties by any accident in the train of worldly vicissitude ; \nthey would not, like the oak, be subject to the whirlwind, \nnor like the wheat blade, to the silent mildew. Neither \nforce nor fraud ever ended in successful slavery. Force \nand fraud can find nothing on which to act until the people \nforget their original principles. Sinon in his wooden horse \nmay enter Troy, but his success depends on the situation \nof the Trojans.1 There is no good reason for doubting \nCromwell's sincerity at first ; afterward he thought the \nnation incapable of a free government and took the most \nready method of ascertaining the point, and was successful. \nI never thought worse of Cromwell for his usurpation. He \nwas not a tyrant over those who courted his tyranny. \n\nIf the English were incapable of self-government then, \nstill less so are they at present. Bonaparte has tried the \nsame experiment with still less force, and with still greater \nsuccess ; fugitive from Egypt, he well knew the termination \nof his journey, — the empty chairs of the directory. The \nEnglish and the French have both had an opportunity of \nestablishing an equal government. Events have proved \nthat the blood of their sovereigns was offered up to strange \ngods. These efforts, in both cases, were worth making ; \nbut they finally demonstrated that a legitimate republic \n1 When Sinon entered Troy, they were celebrating a grand rout. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 141 \n\nrequires principles to which the people of both nations \nwere altogether strangers. \n\nWhen the citizens of the United States become strangers \nto these principles, the}- are no longer free. Should I live \nto see that day, I should triumph in their slavery. I can- \nnot find it in my disposition to sympathize with those who, \nhaving once felt the sentiment of liberty, could be rendered \ncold to its influence. The tyrant Tiberius stands acquitted \nbefore that senate who mingled tears with joy, and regret \nwith flattery.1 Could John Hampden have been recalled \nto life in the days of the second Charles, I have often \nthought he must have expired in indignation. \n\nAdieu. \n\n\nLETTER VI. \n\n\nLondon, August 30. \nIt is somewhere observed by Dr. Johnson, that a deed \nwith all its legal solemnities is one of the severest moral \nsatires on mankind which study could invent. He need \nnot have gone far to have found subjects for many more \npositive and direct reflections to the same purport. A deed \nis rather a satire on the approaching than on the present \nage, being made with a view to posterity, who, it supposes, \nwill give no more credit to the present than they are \nobliged to do by force of law. Besides, a deed supposes \nonly a passive kind of dishonesty, which might endeavor \nto defeat the original design by legal interpretation ; but \na large number of men (the city watch), in time of pro- \n\n1 Vultnque c'omposito, ne lteti excessu Principis, neu tristiores primordio, \nlacrimas, gaudium, questus, adulatione miscebant. — Tacitus, Annals, \nbk. i. 7. \n\n\n142 LETTERS FHOM LONDON. \n\nEound quiet, distributed over a city but within call of one \nanother, armed, some with clubs and others with blunder- \nbusses, looks very little like the extreme, or rather very \nmuch like the extreme of civilization. \n\nHost of those magnificent houses round about London, \nwhich proudly retiring from the city for the benefit of air \nand prospect, seem built as much with a view to external \ngrandeur as to domestic convenience, are so completely \nguarded with high brick walls that you might imagine the \nBarons' wars had not yet terminated ; for his house in a \ndouble sense is the owner's castle. Nor can you look into \nthe gardens by reason of the fortifications ; though you fre- \nquently sec an elevated sign at the corner, requesting you \nto take notice that \" man-traps \" are placed there. \n\nThe houses in the city, even if they have ten feet of rear \nground, suffer the inconvenience of darkness and confined \nair by reason of high walls, to the tops of which broken \nglass bottles are usually cemented, — I do not say to \nguard against the neighbors. \n\nThe security of the house in which I reside is guaranteed \nin the following manner : The door has a double lock, a \nchain and two bolts, besides an alarm bell, which is care- \nfully fixed to the panel every night. A watchman, if he \ndoes his duty, passes by the door once in thirty minutes. \nAnother watchman is stationed in the yard and doomed \nto perpetual imprisonment with a chain around his neck. \n\nThis wariness is perhaps as necessary in London as the \nguarded circumspection in wording and the various for- \nmality of executing a deed. But there is another caution, \nthough in appearance much of the same complexion, \nwhich does the people infinite honor, — I refer to the Chris- \ntian part of the community, who lock up their pew doors, \nlest the church should be profaned by those who have no \nright to hear the Gospel. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 143 \n\nThe story which they tell of the savage, who was invited \nto send his son to New York to be educated, might have \nbeen more highly embellished at London. I know not if you \nhave met with it. The savage said he would consider of \nthe proposal, but would first see the people, and take a view \nof the city ; and if he gave the preference to our mode of \nlife, should have no objection. On entering New York, he \nmanifested little of that surprise and admiration which \nnovelty usually produces in the ignorant. The first object \nwhich attracted his notice was a negro. He had never \nseen one before. He asked, \" Who is that black person ? \" \nand was informed that he was a negro slave. The meaning \nof the word \"'slave\" being explained, he asked the cause of \nhis being a Blave. '• Why, he is black.\" The Indian said \nnothing : you know it is his habit in the most serious con- \ncerns to proceed with a coolness which looks like indiffer- \nence. Presently he observed a gentleman getting out of a \ncoach, with the assistance of two or three persons. This \narrested his attention. He asked, \" Who is he ?\" and was \ntold he was a very rich man who was afflicted with the \ngout. He asked, \" What is the gout ? \" and was informed. \nThe savage said nothing, but passed on. Presently, he saw \na man apparently in distress enter a certain building un- \nder the guard of another. He asked the reason of this, \nand why the building looked so gloomy. He was told \nit was a prison, in which both those who would not and \nthose who could not pay their debts were confined. The \nBavage said nothing. He now saw a beggar asking charity, \nand demanded, '* What makes so much difference between \nthose two men ? \" The explanation of this involved most \nof the principal relations of society. The savage paused, \nand seemed to reflect with deep consideration. At length \nhe smote his breast, and said he would proceed no farther ; \nnor could lie be persuaded to tarry one night in the city. \n\n\n144 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\n1 have imagined the same wild man's mode of reasoning \nhad he come to London. I pass over those few particulars \nwhich speak full as strongly, I think, as Dr. Johnson's \ndeed. \n\nHad the Indian entered the city by the west end, he \nmight have seen on Hounslow Ileath two of those gentle- \nmen who live and die at the public expense, suspended on \ngibbets ; one of whom, from the appearance of the skele- \nton, must have been a remarkably fine fellow. He would \nsuppose these skeletons were monuments, sacred to the \nmemory of redoubted chiefs, and animating examples to \nthe rising generation, of undaunted valor, wary stratagem, \nor Indian fortitude. The savage would naturally inquire, \nhow they encountered their death ; in what glorious, but \nfatal struggle they fell ; what unusual exploits they per- \nformed to merit such a conspicuous station ; and what \nenemy had the honor of conquering them ? Alas ! he \nwould be told the scene of action was Hounslow Heath, \nthe encounter memorable only in the Newgate calendar, \nthat they were thought to merit their high station in the \nunanimous opinion of twelve men, and the famous fellow \nwho triumphed over them was one Jack Ketch. After \nthe code of English criminal law had been explained to \nhim, he would find sufficient to divert his mind until he \nreached Hyde Park corner. \n\nBy the time the Indian arrived there he would be ren- \ndered so tame he would not dare to reach over a hedge \nto cut a walking-stick. What a reflection! that he, who \nhad been accustomed to consider the largest quarter of \nthe globe his park, all the rivers and lakes his fishery, \nand all the forests subservient to his necessities or pleas- \nures ; that he, who had considered himself the centre of \nbeing, and fancied the circle of creation moved with him- \nself, should suddenly find his person in the king's high \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 145 \n\nway, and liable to be put in closer confinement if be over- \nstepped the narrow limit of sixty or seventy feet. \n\nTo shock the man's feelings as little as possible, 1 would \nnot hurry him into the city, but would take him to St. \nJames' Park, in order to show him the decency, the order, \nand the magnificence of a well-regulated government. But \neven here he would ask certain questions which it might \nbe invidious to answer. The numerous houses of noble- \nmen which border the park would raise the question of \ntheir origin and present support. \" This man's ancestor \nfound the weak side of a weak prince, and his posterity \nhave been maintained ever since at the public expense. \nThat man's great ancestor by his abilities became so for- \nmidable to the State that it was found necessary, in order \nto change his conduct, to quiet him with an earldom ; and \nthough Nature, through his descendants, has inflicted a \nposthumous penance on him for perverting his abilities, \nyet that only affects their intellects, not their dignity. \nThat house is considered one of the first in the kingdom \nbecause the proprietor's ancestor, many years ago, nearly \nruined the nation.\" \" But does not every age produce a \nsufficient number of chiefs ?\" the savage would ask, \" why \nthen the necessity of making those men chiefs who had \nnone of the requisite qualities ? \" The shortest answer \nwould be that they never were made such, and that they \nwere in general nothing more than reflected greatness, \nlike the moon which he had so often seen when standing \non the banks of the Potomac. \n\nOn viewing the king's guards the question would occur, \n\"Is it a time of war?\" Being answered in the negative, \nthe stranger would naturally ask, \" Of what use are these \nsoldiers in time of peace, and by whom are they sup- \nported ?\" After being informed that men in Europe are \nso depraved that their chiefs are obliged to raise armies to \n\n\n146 LETTERS FBOM LONDON. \n\nkeep them in awe, he would ask, \"Are those chiefs pro \nvided with the means to subsist and clothe them?\" Tlie \nanswer would be, \"The people themselves, to guarantee \ntheir own obedient conduct, raised them and paid their \nexpenses.\" This would be altogether unintelligible, and \nit would be necessary to enter into a thousand political \nrelations, which would only serve to perplex him still \nmore. \n\nOur Indian should now be shown the Tower. After view- \ning the trophies and the armory, with which he would be \nenraptured, and comparing the armor of former days with \nthe stature of men of the present time, he would ask. \" For \nwhat purpose was the Tower built?\" On being told, \"To \ndefend the city,\" he would naturally inquire, \" Why do \nsome of the port holes open directly on the city ? \" \n\nIn passing down to Wapping, he would meet a press- \ngang which had apprehended some sailors. He would be \ntold that persons of this sort were carried on board the \nships to the number of eighty or an hundred thousand \nmen, and confined there for the space of four, six, or \neight years. He would probably ask, since the criminal \ncode had been explained to him, \" What enormous crimes \nhave they committed to be thought worthy of such an \ninhuman punishment ? \" He would be told that these \npeople, so far from having committed any crime, are in \nreality the most useful members of the community, and are \nactually esteemed the grand pillars of the empire. Here \nthe poor devil would be confounded, and might exclaim \nin the Esquimaux or Mohawk dialect, \" Credat Judseus \nApclla ; non Ego.\" \n\nIn returning from Wapping, the visitor should look into \nthe Royal Exchange. Observing the continued hum of the \ncitizens, he would ask, \" Why do those people appear so \nbusy about nothing ? \" and would greatly wonder on being \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 147 \n\ntold that here was concentred the vital principle of the \nnation, which diffused its influence throughout the world ; \nthat here was the heart of the empire, — but unlike the \nhuman heart, which sends the current of life through the \nbody, it drew from the four quarters of the globe its own \nsupport. It would then be necessary to enter into the \nhistory of the East and West Indies. \" But, if one half \nof the world suffer more or less to subserve the wants of \nthis people, why have I seen so many of those you call \nbeggars?\" The national debt must now be explained, in \norder to convince him that it was absolutely necessary \nthat one half of the nation should prey upon the other ; \nand that for each of those whom he saw in the Exchange \nthere must be many who wanted bread. But what of \nthat ? The rich delight to see themselves surrounded by \nthe poor, because from them they gain one half of their \nconsequence. \n\nBy this time the savage would become incredulous, and \nimagining his facility was tempted, his impatience might \nrise to indignation. Therefore, to give him a practical \nview of London on the body, mind, and life, he should \nvisit Heaviside's Anatomical Museum, Bedlam, and the \nOld Bailey; and whether he would leave the city more \nor less a savage, I think it rather doubtful. \n\nAdieu. \n\n\nLETTER VII. \n\n\nLondon, September 11. \nThe English are a more civil people than our own ; at \nleast they are more disposed to street civility. I have \nnot accosted a Londoner, nor indeed any of the country \n\n\n148 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\npeople, whose ready attention did not surprise nic ; but \nthere is a perceptible difference between the civility of the \nplebeian and of the gentleman. If you request a gentle- \nman for any little matter of information, he may possibly \nseem to say, \" I am no guide-post,\" while the plebeian is \nready to become one. In general, however, you are sure \nto meet with that cordiality which one owes another who \nhas placed in him so much confidence, as eventually to ex- \npose yourself to a degree of ill-treatment by being roughly \nanswered. A pertinent question, accompanied with a de- \nmeanor which does not assume superiority, invariably \nreceives from the common people decent respect, if not \ndisinterested courtesy. This was unexpected, as the Eng- \nlish are usually called barbarians by foreigners. \n\nFrom whatever cause this urbanity proceeds, it is cer- \ntainly pleasing to a stranger who finds himself among a \nmillion of people, nine-tenths of whom owe but little to \nsociety. \n\nNot so with our citizens ; they seem to carry the Declara- \ntion of Independence about with them, and to regard the \nleast degree of urbanity which may possibly be construed \ninto obsequiousness, a breach of the Constitution. Stran- \ngers are most likely to observe this ; hence their first im- \npressions are unfavorable. \n\nThis want of urbanity, I am inclined to think, is the \noffspring of manners rather than of morals, and docs not \naffect the disposition. The Chinese are said to be the \nmost civil people in the world. The French, too, are more \nnoted for politeness than cordiality. I believe the cause \nis to be sought in the form of government. It is a politi- \ncal paradox, I allow, that people under the worst form of \ngovernment should even appear to have any commendable \nqualities. Despotic governments have ever produced the \nmost pliant, accommodating, and obliging subjects; while in \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 149 \n\nlimited monarchies the people have departed from this \ncharacter in the degree that their monarchy lias been lim- \nited. Democracies have ever produced the contrary char- \nacter in the degree the democracy has approached to a \nstate of nature. We have a remarkable instance of this \nin the anecdote recorded in Robertson's Charles V. Clovis \n■was nominally king of the Franks. His followers on a \ncertain expedition had plundered, among other things, a \nvase belonging to a church. The bishop sent deputies to \nClovis to beseech him to return the sacred vessel; and \nClovis, willing to restore it, requested the soldiers. to per- \nmit him to take that vase for himself before the plunder \nwas divided, when a fierce soldier stepped forth and with \nhis battle-axe broke the vase into a thousand pieces, saying, \n\" He shall have nothing which his lot does not give him.\" \n\nI am still less willing to believe this spirit of subservi- \nence is indicative of a substantial virtue to which our \nown citizens arc strangers. A late physician has sup- \nposed thirty-seven persons to die daily in London from \nwant of the necessaries of life ; yet London, above all \nplaces, is renowned for charitable institutions and volun- \ntary subscriptions, while the cities of the United States \n(Charleston and New York excepted) are chiefly famous \nin the journals of travellers for debt and credit ; for all \nthat, I am sure it would be suicide if a man should starve \nto death in the United States. However, it is no reflection \non the humanity of England if many die of want. To \nprovide for all who are suffering would exhaust the bounty \nof Providence. With us the case is different. The fer- \nvency of many a pious Christian's charity cools before he \ncan find an opportunity of bestowing it; and because chari- \nties are consequently unusual, certain superficial observers \nhave supposed there is a lack of sympathy, to excite which \nthere is no object. \n\n\n150 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nEuropeans believe the people of the United States to \nbe pre-eminent for hospitality on account of the facility \nof obtaining a livelihood : whereas, in fact, we ought to \nbe the least hospitable of any people. If you except the \nsingle case of merchants, you will find hospitality has \never flourished most where there has been the greatest \ninequality of rank and fortune. It is a feudal, rustic \nvirtue, which the vigor of equality relaxes, and which the \ndecay of chivalry renders useless. Where there are few \nbeggars, there will be little charity ; and where there is a \nprevalent equality of condition, there will be little hospi- \ntality. Yet surely that town cannot be thought inhospi- \ntable through which no human being could pass with an \nempty stomach, if he would condescend to make his wants \nknown. I do not mention this in contrast to the country \npeople of England, seven-eighths of whom are laboring \ntenants, with the exception of those who depend on their \nprecarious labor. This circumstance — connected with the \nstate of society, which, in consequence of land monopoly \noriginating in a spirit of commerce, has rendered the con- \ndition of the lower classes ten times worse than it was \nunder feudal institutions — must naturally raise a hedge \nabout their hearts and contract the generous affections. \n\nI know that the opinion is advanced in books that our \ndistresses soften the heart and lead to commiseration ; yet \nuniversal experience is to the contrary. Present distress \nengrosses our thoughts and renders us altogether selfish ; \npast pains we know to have been tolerable, and are in- \nclined to despise those who do not endure them with \ndignity. Thus Tacitus : 1 \" Quippe Rufus diu nianipularis, \ndeinde centurio, mox castris prrefectus, antiquam duramquc \nmilitiam revocabat, vetus operis ac laboris, et co immitior, \nquia toleraverat.\" The negroes who are made overseers \n' Annals, l>k. i. 20. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 151 \n\nof plantations are said to be the most severe taskmasters. \nBlood familiarizes to blood. Achilles, who was discovered \nin the habit of a virgin, romping among girls at a boarding- \nschool, could after ten years' warfare please himself with \nthe sight of the dead body of the respectable Hector, \ndragged at his chariot wheels, — \"Ter circiim Iliacos rap- \ntaverat Ilectora muros.\" 1 In short, those who have suf- \nfered most distress are the most ready to laugh at the \ndistresses of others ; hence old age is less than youth \ndisposed to pity. Were it not so, the people of Europe \nwould be doubly wretched ; for their circumstances, in gen \neral. would oblige them to contract their hand in the \nmoment of benevolence. \n\nPrinciples are inculcated which, even should they operate \nkindly, would only add to men's misery. Why instil noble \nseutiments into the minds of those whose fixed situation \nin life tells them noble sentiments would not be suffered \nin persons of their condition, and would even be a barrier \nto a livelihood ? Why teach the negro the Christian re- \nligion ? You only fire him with indignation, and give \nhim a weapon with which he may slay you. Why teach \nthe Jews toleration, or even common honesty, since every \nnation, except our own, persecutes them for the glory of \nGod, and binds them down by restrictions and disabilities ? \nThe practical part of the Christian religion is founded on \ncharity, sympathy, community, equality ; then how absurd \nto teach the Christian duties o?ie Jan, which, politically, \nmust be counteracted the six following days ? In a coun- \ntry like this, where there are so many species of men, there \nshould be as many codes of morality as there arc condi- \ntions in the State. For the same moral principles imposed \non all operate unequally: to bind a poor man to the same \nprinciples you do a rich man, is unjust. All political iu- \n\n1 Vergil, ^Eucid, bk. i. 4S3. \n\n\n152 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nstitutions, even the best, operate against the poor and in \nfavor of the rich. Law and equity guard against these \nconsequences as much as they can; still the law operates \nChiefly for the benefit of the wealthy, and is rather a for- \ntification to the powerful than a protection to the weak. \nFortunately lor Europe, custom, prejudice, and education \ndispose her subjects to acquiesce ; otherwise they would \ncountervail to a degree which her political systems could \nnot tolerate. Adieu. \n\n\nLETTER VIII. \n\n\nLondon, September 25. \nThe English have not that esteem for the citizens of \nthe United States which might naturally be expected from \ntheir mutual relations ; in truth they are partial to nobody. \nThey hate all whom they do not despise, while the latter \ncan only render hatred for contempt. Machiavel would \nprobably think it a national virtue to hate or despise all \nother people; but the English have improved on this, — \nthey undervalue their own fellow-subjects as much as \nthey do foreigners. A poor Scotchman, who is necessi- \ntated to take the main road to England because Sir John \nSinclair has deprived him of the means of subsistence at \nhome, by converting thirty-six small farms into one in \norder to try an experiment in raising sheep,1 is thought \nto be very selfish if he comes to London to shun the curse \nof Scotland. The Irishman, too, tired of sour buttermilk \nand potatoes at home, is considered a poor vagabond \n\n1 Since writing the above, I observe that Sir John has vindicated this \nmeasure ; and the Reviewers think the vindication an able one. I hope Sir \nJohn's tenants are of the same opinion. \n\n\nLETTERS FEOM LONDON. 153 \n\nthe moment he crosses the Channel in search of roast \nbeef and plum-pudding. Had the United States continued \nunder the British government we should have been the \nmost contemptible of mankind, and the English would \nhave been the first to despise us ; at present they regard \nthe United States with a sentiment far more honorable \nthan that of contempt. \n\nIt is very easy for these people to tell you what they do \nnot respect ; on the contrary, what they do respect is not \nso evident. They differ wonderfully from the Scotch, in \none particular: A Scot is partial to his fellow-Scotchmen, \nwith very little fondness for Scotland ; an Englishman is \nstill more partial to England, with very little fondness for \nEnglishmen. One might suppose such a people must be \ninsufferably haughty, yet he would greatly mistake their \ncharacter. I have never seen a haughty Englishman. \nThey could not live within a mile of one another, were they \nboth proud and haughty ; but being only proud, they re- \nspect one another, whereas it is the property of haughti- \nness to be arrogant. Now the English are not open to \nthis charge. He who is haughty will inevitably render \nhimself ridiculous to all who despise his airs. I do not \nrecollect an instance of having seen an Englishman ridi- \nculous on this account. Hence, though their characters \nare extremely angular, they are rather defensively than \noffensively proud. \n\nNor are the English more vain than haughty. They \ndress, conduct, think, as they please, and set everybody at \ndefiance. At the same time if they know you esteem them, \nand feel conscious they have not demeaned themselves, none \ncan be more happy in possessing your good opinion. This \ncarelessness of the opinion of other people shows itself in \nall ranks, especially the lowest. The swing of the arm, the \nincautious step, the rolling of the body, tell you plainly that \n\n\n154 LETTERS FROM LONDON*. \n\nthey care for nobody, no, not they ; but this, in part, may \nbe owing to an air of majesty which they assume, for \nwhich the very lowest of the English are remarkable. \nThose who are more immediately dependent on others for \n\na livelihood, have a mixed character of servility and inde- \npendence. They cherish the estimation of those on whom \nthey are dependent, but seem utterly regardless of the good \nopinion of others. The middle ranks follow their own in- \nclinations, and form their own manners. Hence they make \na motley picture, diversified from Quaker simplicity to an \nappearance of studied artifice ; but this appearance seldom \narises from affectation, — they are above that, — but rather \nfrom whim. Judging at a distance, the nobility appear to \nme to build their characters much more on the populace \nthan the populace theirs on the nobility. I am disposed to \nbelieve it policy and affectation which so frequently in- \nduce the nobility to dress more meanly than many among \nthe lower orders, — policy to conciliate ; affectation of \nseeming to attach no consequence to their rank. The \nking is liable to the same remark ; he has much more of \nthe external appearance of John Bull than of the Ger- \nman, and is frequently seen not better dressed than one \nof our farmers, with an old hat not worth sixpence. But \nI was speaking of the nationality of this people. \n\nIt is a happy circumstance that this attachment to the \nsoil is so deeply rooted in the great mass of the English ; \nit serves a substitute for real patriotism. The rich, in \nevery country, if they retain those sentiments for which \nan honest man ought to blush, may be tolerably happy, \nwhether they live at Constantinople, Venice, or Madrid ; \nbut by far the greater part of every nation in Europe, \nand that part to which a nation looks for support in the \nmoment of emergency, is fortunately retained under the \nwizard spell of prejudice. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 155 \n\nI will give you one or two instances of this national \npartiality, which have already passed under rny notice. \n\nAt an ordinary the other day, I heard two politicians, \none friendly, the other inimical, to Mr. Pitt's administra- \ntion, advance their different sentiments. You observe I \ndo not term one of them Wliig and the other Tory. There \nis, I believe, no such distinction now in England. Dr. \nJohnson was the last Tory. The one contended that \" the \nConstitution of 1G92 is no longer the boast of Englishmen ; \nthat it is a mere prejudice to support longer a form of \ngovernment which has evaporated to theory, and which \ncannot support itself on first principles;\" that \"Mr. Pitt \nhad told the whole world, that a chancellor of the ex- \nchequer has it in his power to guide the Parliament at \npleasure, whereby the democratic branch of the Constitu- \ntion is become a dead letter.\" The other opposed him \non the grounds of expediency, popular disaffection, and \nthe latitude of ministerial prerogative. A few days after- \nward I observed the former gentleman at the same place, \nand suspecting his every-day politics were assumed, urged \na conversation, first giving him to understand that I was \nnot a subject of his Majesty, in order to touch more nearly \nhis national pride. Otherwise it would have been impoli- \ntic ; for the moment an Englishman discovers you to be \na foreigner, he assumes a different aspect, not in the least \nconciliating. 1 observed, after a few minutes of discon- \nnected conversation, that \" England has, in a great meas- \nure, lost that proud pre-eminence which she possessed under \nthe auspices of Walpole and Chatham.\" \" Old England,\" \nhe replied, \" for a century past has been obliged to sup- \nport the dignity of all Europe against the open force and \nsecret intrigue of France. The history of the last cen- \ntury, take it all together, is as splendid as that of any \nformer ; and, though the late administration beggared the \n\n\n156 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\ncountry, the honor of the nation is unsullied, its dignity \nincreased, and its spirit unbroken.\" \" But do you think \nan Englishman can rest his heart on the bosom of his \ncountry now with as much complacency as he might have \ndone half a century past?\" \"Yes, sir, with much more. \nWhen England is most distressed, then is she most loved.\" \n\" But love for our country ought to proceed from principle, \nnot from a mere attachment to its soil. Is your Constitu- \ntion, which has extorted the admiration of your enemies, \nas operative now as it was half a century since ? \" \" No \ndoubt ; for it is better understood and more nicely defined. \nBut suppose we had no Constitution at all, to what country \nwould an Englishman emigrate ? \" \n\nThe other instance occurred over a pot of porter, be- \ntween a French immigrant and a full-blooded Englishman, \nwhose pedigree probably has not been crossed since the \ndays of Canute. The Frenchman thought porter was too \ngross for those who lead an idle life, and generally ren- \ndered those who drink much of it, dull and stupid. This, \nin the opinion of the Englishman, amounted to an attack \non the national character ; and calling for another pot, like \nanother Lord Peter, he endeavored to persuade the French- \nman that in a pot of porter was contained the quintessence \nof the best wines of every climate. Tbe Frenchman \nthought there was not so much vivacity in it as in cham- \npagne. \" True,\" said John Bull, \" there is not so much \nevaporation, but it has more heart.\" \n\nThis man might not have crusaded to Jerusalem in be- \nhalf of religion, but he might have been led double the \ndistance in support of barley and hops. \n\nIt is said that two beggars entered into partnership ; \nbut on counting their money it was found that one never \ncollected so much as the other. The cause of this was a \nmatter of speculation between them, especially as the one \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 157 \n\nwho collected the least had the best address. At length \nthe niore successful one asked his fellow, \" What terms do \nyou use in begging ?\" He replied, \" That depends on the \npassengers. If they look humane, it is simply, ' God bless \nyou;' if they are hard featured, ' for God's sake.' \" \" Oh,\" \nsaid the other, \" that explains it ; to-morrow beg for the \nhonor of Old England.\" \n\nWhen an Englishman was told, \"The French are restor- \ning their navy,\" he observed, \" I am happy to hear it.\" \nBeing questioned why, he answered sublimely enough, \n\" They are working for us.\" \n\nGood God ! if a poor devil who has not a foot of land in \nthe island, and whose ancestors, for many generations, have \nnever owned even a cottage which might serve for a monu- \nment of their having been members of the social compact, \n— I say, if such a people, who seem to be outlawed from \nGod's providence, are so fondly attached to a country \nwhich affords them only an abstract and indefinite senti- \nment of affection, I can easily believe what is reported of \nthe Spartan women, who, when their children survived \nthe battle of Leuctra, put on mourning, while the mothers \nof those who were slain, went in procession to the temple, \nand returned thanks to the gods. What sort of characters \nwill the citizens of the United States display in the time \nof national emergency, possessing as they do a practical \nform of government which Plato dared only contemplate, \nand which the sanguine imagination of Rousseau never \nled him to hope for ! Adieu. \n\n\n158 LETTERS FItOM LONDON \n\n\nLETTER IX. \n\nLondon, October 15. \n\nThe following letter will be composed of a variety of \nparticulars, which may be worthy the notice of a citizen of \nthe United States. \n\nThe most humorous sight which I have seen was an Eng- \nlish funeral, performed in the most fashionable manner ; \nfor, you must know, they perform funerals here. An un- \ndertaker's sign exhibits these words : \" Funerals per- \nformed.\" The first funeral I saw was such a novelty, I \nfollowed it a short distance, not knowing what it was ; \nand as my habit is to question ever}' one whom I think \ncan give me any information, 1 asked an honest fellow \nwhat the show was. He seemed a little offended, but \ndirectly replied, \" You may know, one day, if you do not \ncome to the gallows.\" This man, like Chatham, was \n\" original and unaccommodating.\" Observing that I was \nsurprised at his answer, and feeling perhaps a little mor- \ntified, he asked, \"Do you live in London?\" I told him \nI had just come. \" Well, but people die sometimes in \nyour town.\" By this I discovered that the performance \nwas a funeral. The plumes being white (the sign of a \nvirgin) instead of black, which is the more usual color, \naccounts for my ignorance. LTad I been in Pekin, I should \nhave expected a white funeral, but was not prepared to see \none in London. \n\nWhen a rich man dies, an undertaker, or fashionable \nperformer, is ordered, who employs equipages drawn by \nhorses, which I mistook for baggage wagons, in one of \nwhich he puts the body, while several hired men, dressed \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LOXDOX. 159 \n\nfantastically in black, walk on either side, with not more \nunconcern than would be expected. Two men on horseback \nprecede the wagon which contains the body ; those which \nfollow display the plumes, the sight of which made me so \nmerry. The mourners follow in coaches. I never until \nnow understood that line in Young, — \n\n\" Xor ends with life, but nods in sable plumes.\" \n\nThough, with due deference to Young, I think this is rather \nman's vanity than his love of fame ; for no mortal can \nbe so weak as to expect personal fame from a pompous \nfuneral. \n\nAfter having witnessed an English funeral, you would \nnot think those lines of Pope exaggerated, in which he \nrepresents a dying beauty in hysterics lest she should be \nlaid out in woollen, and supposes her to call Betty, to \n\" give her cheek a little red \" lest she should appear ugly \nin her coffin. \n\nI believe that funeral processions in New England are \nconducted much in the same manner as they were in \nancient Rome. Livy says it was reported that on the \ndeath of Appius Claudius, in the year of Rome 284, the \npeople assembled at his house to swell the funeral proces- \nsion. \" Et exsequias frequens celebravit.\" \n\nThe Jews are worthy of particular notice. I have be- \nstowed not a little reflection on this miserable race, and \nfeel disposed to speak a word in their favor. If we con- \ntemplate their situation, even in England, where they are \nless persecuted than in any other country except the \nUnited States, we shall find them indirectly driven to prey \non the public, and compelled by their disabilities to a con- \ntinual antagonism. Eligible to no office, incapable of \nholding land, or even of possessing a house, with the ad- \nditional hardship of being despised, like the pariah class \n\n\n160 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nof India, they arc absolutely proscribed from the social \ncompact, and reduced to a state worse than that of simple \nNature ; for in opening their eyes to their condition, they \nfind nothing on which to rest but the canopy of heaven. \nNow, I would appeal to Tully's Offices, or even to Dr. \nJohnson, if a man thus conditioned by force insiduously \nlegalized, ought to be honest ; and whether a man thus cir- \ncumstanced would not have a moral right to repel hostility \nby every means in his power. Under such restrictions can \na Jew be expected to philanthropize, or, in the moment of \nbenevolence, can his heart wander out of the bounds of \nhis own nation, when early sentiments have necessarily \nbeen contaminated by all the arts of low commerce to \nwhicli his nation is reduced ? A benevolent Hebrew would \nbe a monster. Hence a Jew's passion cannot be reputa- \ntion of any kind, but must be the love of money. There- \nfore Shakspcarc's imaginary Shylock is not exactly true \nto Nature. A Jew in such a case would have accepted all \nthe money he could have extorted, and have foregone his \nrevenge. Yet this imaginary Shylock has prejudiced thou- \nsands of Christians who never saw a Jew, against the \nwhole tribe of Israel ; while those very Christians who \nread the story of a certain duke who demanded a large \nsum of money from a Jew, and extorted four of his teeth \nbefore the money was paid, are greatly surprised at the \nJew's obstinacy. In short, the Jews owe the Christians \nnothing but hatred and revenge, whether they revert back \nto former times or regard the present. \n\nThe operation of those disabilities and restrictions which \nthe Christian imposes on the Jew is just what ought to be \nexpected. Is a house on fire, the Jew is happy to sec it ; \nthe old nails afford a speculation. Crimes, for aught he \ncares, may multiply with impunity; he is the last person \nto inform. \"Who ever heard of a Jew informer ? The \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 161 \n\nmore thieves, the more distress, the more boundless ex- \ntravagance, the fairer the prospect; to him, private vices \nare public benefits. Is the nation ruined? — he has noth- \ning to lament, ha\\ ing no tie, no amor patrice, no attachment ; \nbut he is not quite ready to leave the country. A nation in \nruins is a Jew fair. \n\nIf the Jews were more disposed to agriculture, they \nmight lind in the United States a resting place; and not \nwithstanding their religion, they might flourish as well \nthere as at Jerusalem or on the more favorite banks of \nthe Jordan. Adieu. \n\n\nLETTER X. \n\n\nLondon-, October 30. \n\nI have lately made a most important discovery which \nhas disclosed one of the great secrets of English rank. \nYou in the United States, knowing nothing of this, will \nconsider the following authentic history of rank a singular \ncuriosity. \n\nThey have confined the several species of man in this \ncountry within such definite limits that the moment they \nhear a knocking at their doors they can tell you whether \nit is the knock of a servant, a postman, a milkman, a half \nor whole gentleman, a very great gentleman, a knight, or \na nobleman. \n\nA servant is bound to lift the knocker once ; should he \nusurp a nobleman's knock he would hazard his situation. \nA postman knocks twice, very loudly. A milkman knocks \nonce, at the same time sending forth an artificial noise, \nnot unlike the yell of an American Indian. A mere gen- \ntleman usually knocks three times, moderately. A terrible \n\n\n162 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nfellow feels authorized to knock thrice, very loudly, gen- \nerally adding two or three faint knocks, which seem \nto run into each other; but there is considerable art in \ndoing this elegantly, therefore it is not always attempted. \nA stranger who should venture on an imitation would \nimmediately be taken for an upstart. A knight pre- \nsumes to give a double knock ; that is, six raps, with a \nfew faint ones at the end. I have not yet learned the \nvarious peculiarities which distinguish the degrees be- \ntween the baronet and the nobleman ; but this I know \ntoo well, that a nobleman, at any time of night, is al- \nlowed to knock so long and loud that the whole neigh- \nborhood is frequently disturbed ; and although fifty people \nmay be deprived of their night's rest, there is no redress \nat law or at equity. Nor have I learned how long and \nloud a prince of the blood presumes to knock, though \ndoubtless he might knock an hour or two, by way of \ndistinction. \n\nYou may hold your sides if you please, but I assure you \nI am perfectly serious. These people are so tenacious of \nthis prerogative that a true-blooded Englishman goes near \nto think it a part of British liberty. Indeed, I am con- \nvinced I could place certain Englishmen in a situation in \nwhich, rather than knock at a door but once, they would \nfight a duel every day in the week. Good heaven, how \nwould a fine gentleman appear, if obliged to knock but \nonce at the door of a fashionable lady to whose party he \nhad been invited, while, at the same moment, a number of \nhis every-day friends passing by might observe the circum- \nstance ! I cannot conceive of a more distressing occur- \nrence. The moment he entered the room, the eyes of the \nwhole company would be turned on him. He would believe \nhimself disgraced forever ; he would feel himself anni- \nhilated, for all his imaginary consequence, without which \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 163 \n\nan Englishman feels himself to be nothing, would have \nforsaken him. \n\nYou may imagine it a very easy matter to pass from the \nsimple rap of the servant to that of the nobleman ; but \nlet me inform you this little monosyllable stands in the \nplace of Alpine mountains, which neither vinegar1 nor \nvalor can pass. Hercules and Theseus, those vagabond \nbut respectable bullies, who governed by personal strength \ninstead of a Btanding army, would have hesitated an enter, \nprise against these raps. They have, by prescription, risen \nnearly to the dignity of common law, of which strangers as \nwell as natives are bound to take notice. I was lately- \nplaced in a pleasant position through ignorance of this. \nSoon after my arrival, I received an invitation to dine with \na gentleman ; and in my economical way, with the greatest \nsimplicity, I gave one reasonable rap. After a considerable \ntime a servant opened the door, and asked me what I \n\nwanted! I told him Mr. . He replied, \"My master \n\nhas company, but I will see if he can be spoken with.\" In \n\nthe mean time I was left in the entry. Presently Mr. \n\ncame, who, a little mortified, began to reprove the servant : \nbut it appeared in the sequel he was perfectly right, for on \n\ntelling Mr. u I knocked but once,\" he burst into a \n\nlaugh, and said he would explain that at dinner. \n\nShould an honest fellow, ignorant of the importance of \nthese raps, come to London in search of a place, and un- \nfortunately knock at a gentleman's door after the manner \nof a nobleman, it might prejudice him as much as a \nprayer-book once prejudiced a certain person in Connec- \nticut. The anecdote is this : — \n\nA young adventurer, educated Church-of-Enirland-wise \non going forth to seek his fortune, very naturally put his \n\n1 Hannibal is saiJ to have employed vinegar in his passage through the \nAlps. \n\n\n164 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nprayer-book in his pocket. Wandering within the precincts \nof Connecticut, he offered his services to a fanner, who, \nafter asking him a thousand questions, gave him employ- \nment ; but in the evening, the unlucky prayer-book being \ndiscovered, he fairly turned the poor wight out-of-doors to \nget a lodging where he could. You know it was said that \nthe Connecticut \" Blue Laws \" made it death for a priest, \nmeaning a clergyman of the Church of England, to be \nfound within that State. Thank heaven, those days are \npassed. \" God, liberty, and toleration,\" whether a man \nprefers a prayer-book to the missal, or the kuran to a \nprayer-book, or a single rap at a door to the noise of a \ndozen. Adieu. \n\nN. B. — You must keep this letter a profound secret, as \nwe have certain gentlemen on our side of the Atlantic who \nwould, in imitation of the noblemen here, disturb their \nneighbors. \n\n\nLETTER XI. \n\n\nLondox, November 19. \nI was in Rosemary Lane yesterday ; in other words, at \nRag Fair. The shop-keepers take the liberty of addressing \nevery one who passes, and not infrequently come into the \nstreet, take you by the arm and lead you, half forcibly, \ninto their shops. Those who are most clever, that is, \nmost troublesome to passengers, arc called barkers. I was \naccosted not less than fifteen times in passing through \nRosemary Lane. Telling one I was in no want of old \nclothes, \" Then,\" said he, as though he thought I meant to \nbe witty, \" you have a wardrobe to dispose of.\" I asked \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 165 \n\nanother what he saw in my appearance which led him to \nsuspect I wanted to purchase old clothes. \" Oh,\" said he, \n\" we don't judge by appearances here ; many a man comes \ninto Rosemary Lane to change his dress : some go away \nbetter, but most, worse dressed.\" A third asked me to \nwalk into his shop if only to see an assortment, which \nfor variety was not to be equalled in London. Another \nof the trade, who was standing by, observed, he was sure I \ncould not ask for an article which he could not produce. \nAfter thinking a moment what would be least likely to \nfind its way from New England to Rag Fair, I asked for a \npair of Cape Cod trousers. '\"Ah,\" said the other, \"you \nnever knew a Cape Cod man to sell his trousers.\" \n\nI then asked the other, \" How do you happen to know so \nmuch about me ? \" \" Why, there is not a man in Rosemary \nLane who does not know that you came from Xew Eng- \nland.\" \"They must be extremely clever1 in their way, to \ndistinguish so quickly those who speak the same language, \nhave the same complexion, and dress like you.\" \" It looks \na little like instinct, to be sure ; but the people in this busi- \nness are, perhaps, the most clever of any in the world.\" \n\" Then the history of Rag Fair must be very entertaining, \nand would mucli assist one in learning a little of low life.\" \n•• Why. yes, it is a great school ; the stock exchange affords \nnothing equal to it, whether you wish to overreach your \nfellow, or to become acquainted witli the sad vicissitudes \nto which trade is liable. Here are bankruptcies, sometimes \nnot less unexpected than those which happen at the Royal \nExchange ; and the bankrupt as frequently rises again in \nsudden importance, to the surprise of the whole Fair.\" \n•• You must have an abundance of anecdotes respecting \n\n1 \" Clever,\" in Now England, means honest, conscientious: but we do not \nuse the word as defined in the dictionaries Nor is it used here exactly in \nits proper sense : a very clever fellow nobody will trust \n\n\n166 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nthe knowing one* and the flats, of those who have triumphed \nover simplicity, and of those who have come to London in \na wagon.1 Pray give us an instance how far a knowing \n\none is capable of outwitting a man of common caution.\" \n\" Why there is a story sometimes mentioned at the Fair \nthat Sir Matthew Hale, in passing through Rosemary Lane, \nwas made a prize of by a shopman, who, from Sir Matthew's \nslovenly appearance2 and threadbare coat, thought him a \ngood speculation. The shopman led him by the arm up- \nstairs into a dark room, and told him he was resolved to \nsell him a new coat, for his was no longer decent. Sir \nMatthew submitted to try on several coats, but insisted no \none would fit him, and at length was going away without \npurchasing, when the clothesman said he had one more \nwhich he was sure would fit him, and brought one which \nSir Matthew said fitted him as well as his old one ; the \ndifference between them being paid, Sir Matthew went \naway.\" \" Well, where is the wit of all this ? \" \" Why, \nSir Matthew wore the same coat away that he wore in.\" \n\" But this is an old story, and its authenticity rather doubt- \nful ; tell jue one that happened lately.\" \" I can give you \nan instance which lately occurred within my own notice, of \na man who in broad daylight bought his old hat twice for \na new one.\" \" How was that done ? \" \"A Jew went on \nboard a ship just arrived, and purchased among other \nthings an old hat ; but it being only weatherworn, he soon \nput a new gloss on it, and within a day or two carried it \nwith several others on board the ship, and sold it to the \nsame man of whom he bought it, for it fitted him exactly. \nSoon after, the polish wearing off, he discovered that it \n\n\n1 A wagon-load of fools is said to come to London every day. \n\n2 It is hardly necessary to mention the anecdote of Sir Matthew's being \ntaken up by a press-gang and carried on board a tender, whence he was \nobliged to write to the Secretary of the Navy before he was liberated. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 167 \n\nwas the old hat. In due time the Jew went on board \nagain, and after receiving very meekly all the abuse which \nwas offered, repurchased the hat. Fortunately it had a \nvery broad brim ; he cut it smaller, put it into another \nshape, gave it a new gloss, and fitted it a second time \non the same head.\" \n\nJust as he finished this story a boy, in appearance not \nmore than ten years of age, passed by, with as many old \nclothes slung over his back as he could carry. \" Do you \nsee that little Jew ? \" said the man ; \" by the time he is \ntwenty he will be the envy of everybody. He did an ex- \nploit last week which will not soon be forgotten. The \nservants of a gentleman at the west end of the town had \nsold a quantity of their master's cast-off clothes to a cer- \ntain Jew witli whom that boy was acquainted. The pur- \nchase coming to his knowledge, he bought them of his \nfriend, and the next morning with the clothes slung over \nhis back he proceeded to the gentleman's house, and pacing \n\nto and fro before the door, began to bawl 'Mr. 's old \n\nclothes to sell.' The servants, hearing their master's name \nrepeated, came to the door, and after discovering the Jew's \ndesign, found it expedient to buy back the clothes at his \nown price.\" \" Ay, there was some wit in this ; but any \none in the trade might have newly glossed an old hat, or \ncut a broad brim narrower.\" \" No,\" said he, \" though it \nis very easy to overreach the same man twice, yet to de- \nceive him twice in the same article belongs only to Rag \nFair.\" \n\n'• Pray, do you never buy bad bargains, and do you know \njust how long a coat has been worn ? \" \" Yes, we can \ngem rally tell within an hour; and not only how long \nworn, but the style of life of the wearer. This coat was \nan auctioneer's, who was left handed. You sec, though \napparently a new coat, it is quite threadbare under the \n\n\n168 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nleft arm ; when worn most at the back, that is the mark \nof a gentleman ; if at the left elbow and at the right cuff, \nof an author; if at the shoulder, of a lounger; if at the \npockets, it is a sign of a merchant, stockjobber, or attor- \nney.\" \" How do you judge of small clothes ? \" \" We can \nspeak more positively of them. The profession is gener- \nally found under the hip; and if the former owner had \nno profession, it is easily ascertained whether he was se- \ndate or restless, whether his gait was long or short. Here \nwas a poor fellow who led a very unhappy life ; see, his \nbreeches are worn equally on both knees, in the seat, and \nbehind, and are nearly threadbare, though they could not \nhave been worn more than three weeks. Here was one \nwho had the gout to a cruel degree.\" \" But,\" said I, \" can \nyou conscientiously sell these clothes for new, even if you \nfind a purchaser ? They would be sent back to Rag Fair \nthe next day.\" \" And why,\" said lie, \" should this be the \nonly honest trade in London ? In these times a poor man \ncannot be honest.\" Adieu. \n\n\nLETTER XII. \n\nLondon, November 27. \n\nThe observations which I shall make in this letter will \nnecessarily be invidious ; yet as they will conduce to a \nknowledge of the English system, I shall not withhold \nthem. \n\nI seem to have found in this country a new religion, so \ndifferent is its aspect from the religion that prevails in \nNew England. Whenever religion degenerates into cere- \nmony or becomes the crooked way of worldly ambition, it \nbegets a mocking spirit in the profane and the feeling of \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 169 \n\nindifference in the more serious. The priest who, instead \nof supporting the Cross of Christ, thinks it sufficient to \nwear a cross on the hack of his robe, or he who in the \nmoment of a \"nolo episcopari\" accepts a bishopric, must ex- \npect to meet with that ridicule to which he is liable. \" Whip \nme \" those delicate saints who have exchanged the coarse \ngarments of the apostles for the courtly dress of the Phari- \nsees ; who, instead of challenging credit for the Gospel by \nhumility, moderation, and meekness, resort to the pen. \nChrist never designed that his religion should be supported \nby Aristotle's Logic or by Euclid's Elements. The Gos- \npel is an appeal to the heart ; its operation is on the life, \nand its sanction is at the hour of death. All the arguments \nwhich depth of research and acuteness of mind can bring, \nweigh not against my disbelief, if he who brings them in- \nhabits a palace and gains another tithe by my conversion. \nYet I may be in an error. Our Saviour, you know, will at \nhis second coming be preceded by the sound of the trum- \npet, and will come in great glory. Now, to whom should \nhe come, if not to the heads of his church ? Consequently, \nhis reception ought to be equal to the occasion. He tells \nyou that his followers shall inherit the earth ; hence mag- \nnificent state will be evidence of heirship. But then Saint \nPeter, when (as it is claimed) he delivered the key to the \nbishop of Rome, ought to have told this, which would have \nsecured his Holiness, the college of Cardinals, and the \nLords Spiritual from much profane ridicule. \n\nThe Christian religion as it is maintained in England \nmight induce a stranger to believe it to be a political in- \nstitution ; that its duties are defined by act of Parlia- \nment; and that the clergy are officers paid for carrying \nthe statute into effect. No matter whether there be an \naudience or not, the clergyman feels it his duty to perform \nall the sacred offices ; and it is still \" dearly beloved \n\n\n170 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nbrethren,\" though not a dearly beloved brother be present. \n1 was lately in a church at Cheapside in which there were \nbut eleven persons, except some little charity boys who \nsung. Most of these eleven, I suspect, were strangers like \nmyself. However, I ought to observe it was midsummer, \nand that the parishioners were probably gone into the \ncountry to take their pleasure. \n\nThe Church of England is extremely jealous of her dis- \nsenting brethren ; and she ought to be so. The ease, \npomp, and magnificence of the one suffers a silcut repri- \nmand from the comparative simplicity and assiduity of \nthe other. Hence the legislature should endeavor as \nmuch as possible to divest religion of its asperities, and \nconnect it with worldly pleasure. To render it a vital \nprinciple, they should, observing a little decency, make it \nconsistent with and a handmaid of worldly interest. \nUnder such advantages the Church of England must \nflourish, whatever may become of the Church of Christ. \n\nThat the legislature has partially adopted this plan you \nwill perceive by turning to Blackstone's Commentaries.1 \nHe observes : \" The keeping one day in the seven holy, as \na time of relaxation and refreshment as well as for public \nworship, is of admirable service to a State, considered \nmerely as a civil institution. It humanizes, by the help of \nconversation and society, the manners of the lower classes, \nwhich would otherwise degenerate into a sordid ferocity and \nsavage selfishness 2 of spirit.\" Then he quotes the substance \nof a statute of 1 Charles the First : \" No persons shall as- \nsemble out of their own parishes for any sport whatever, \nupon this day [Sunday], nor in their parishes shall use any \nbull or bear baiting, interludes, plays, or other unlawful ex- \nercises or pastimes, on pain that every offender shall pay \n\n1 Bk. iv. chap. iv. § 9. \n\n- Savages are the least selfish of all men. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 171 \n\nthree shillings and four pence to the poor. This statute \ndoes not prohibit but rather impliedly allows, any innocent \nrecreation or amusement within their respective parishes, \neven on the Lord's day, after divine service is over.\" \n\nThe object of this statute was, I suspect, to turn Sunday \ninto a holiday, and thereby divert the lower classes from \nthe principles of the dissenters ; especially as there is \nno accommodation for poor people in the established \nchurches. \n\nNo wonder the Christian religion shows so fair an aspect \nin the United States, for it does not stand there on the \nstilts of politics. No establishment, no Thirty-nine Arti- \ncles, no assistance from statute law, and very little legis- \nlative interference impede its course. Indeed, Rhode \nIsland and some few other States do not mention the \nChristian religion in their Constitutions. I had occasion, \nsome time since, to mention this to an English gentleman, \nand he seriously asked if there were any churches in those \nStates ! That the Christian religion in Europe has so \nsuccessfully withstood the oppressions which it has under- \ngone from its dear friends and most humble followers, \nought to excite the surprise of every one, and affords it, \nin my opinion, a more respectable sanction than it receives, \nfrom having resisted the all-unhinging and cool-blooded \nHume, the indefatigable and diversified assaults of Voltaire, \nor the more insidious and undermining attempts of Gibbon. \nThese great men, with many others, have pecked a little \ncement from the edifice, but have not injured the build- \ning ; they have hurled a pebble at the citadel, but have not \neffected a breach. \n\nI think it well worthy of notice that the Gospel, when \nfirst published, had nothing to fear but the temporal power, \nand flourished in spite of the civil authority. Since the \ntime of Constantino it has had nothimr to fear but the \n\n\n172 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\ntemporal power of its friends, and it still flourishes not- \nwithstanding ; a fair proof that if left entirely to its own \ninfluence on the heart, it is capable of going alone, and \nstands in no need of a great cradle and Thirty-nine leading \nstrings. \n\nIn passing through Smithfield the other morning, I could \nnot cease blessing the spirit of toleration which, in favor \nof humanity, has surpassed the most sanguine expectations \nof the wisest men of former days. Their inferences, it \nappears, were drawn from persecution rather than from \nany experience of toleration. They reasoned that because \npersecution did not harmonize the people, unlimited tolera- \ntion1 would only induce mutual war. It has remained for \nus to prove that it was entirely owing to the temporal \npower that religion has exhibited such an unaccommo- \ndating spirit. For the honor of the United States let me \nobserve that the spirit of toleration is there so transcend- \nantly liberal that the whole of the five hundred and fifty- \nsix sects might unite in any of our cities, notwithstanding \nNew England once made the gross blunder of mistaking \nQuakers for scapegoats and paschal lambs — so operative is \nthe Federal Constitution on a species of derangement which \nonce knew no remedy but bulls, ropes, and fagots. In New \nEngland, the Christian may worship his Trinity, the deist \nhis one God, and the atheist, if he please, the fortuitous \nconcurrence of atoms. The Roman Catholic may quietly \nenjoy his purgatory, his seven sacraments, and transub- \nstantiation. The Mahometan may publicly assert his kuran \nto be of greater authority than the Bible, and prove his \nposition from the pulpit of his mosque. The Persian may \n\n1 Oar country has proved the contrary ; the many religions in the United \nStates have disclosed a new and godlike trait in human character. Far \nfrom embittering the dispositions of the various sects, difference of sentiment \nexcites to mutual tolerance and virtuous emulation. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 173 \n\nadore the sun, the heathen his idols, and the Indian the \nDevil ; while the Manichean, who is not content with one \ngreat First Cause, is allowed two gods. \n\nA philosopher cannot contemplate this picture without \nrapture ; for he is necessarily carried back to those days \nof religious accommodation when the conquerors of the \nworld plundered the gods of their enemies, — not to de- \nstroy them, but to give them a more respectable station at \nRome. What would be his surprise when informed that \neach individual member of these five hundred and fifty-six \nsects is eligible not only to all the subordinate offices of \ngovernment, but even to the Presidency ! The Federal \nConstitution is pervaded by this spirit, but some of the \nState governments are not quite so liberal. \n\nThe good sense of the clergy of the United States will \nlead them to favor the most unlimited toleration ; for if \nthere ever should be an Established Church, the great body \nof the clergy would sink in the same degree in which a \nfew of the most intriguing and ambitious were exalted. \nThis is the case in England, where thousands of poor \ndevils are bound to a system which subjects them to the \ncontempt of their co-religionists. \n\nThis letter is already sufficiently long, therefore \n\nAdieu. \n\n\nLETTER XIII. \n\n\nLondon, December 16. \n\nAt present, I have only a few observations to make ; so \nI shall fill up this letter with any matter that occurs. \n\nNothing has afforded me more amusement than a certain \nclass of Englishmen. The class to which I refer is com- \n\n\n174 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nposed of those who have unexpectedly come to wealth, \nsome few of those who are earnestly in pursuit of fortune \nand whose affairs are flourishing, but principally of those \nwho have spent their fortunes, and yet are resolved to sup- \nport appearances. \n\nThese characters sport themselves before the public on \nall occasions, and are as tenacious of the title of \" gentle- \nman\" as though they suspected that every one was about \nto dispute the point with them. When they appear in \npublic they do not seem to observe anybody, yet they indi- \nrectly tell you that they themselves are the only persons in \nthe street. Still there is a certain something in their de- \nmeanor which courts attention, as though they said, \"Look \nat me.\" Many of them appear to be in a pillory, owing to \nthe quantity of their cravats, and to the two wings of their \nshirt-collar, for fear of disarranging which, they are obliged \nto turn their whole bodies with their heads ; hence if they \nwish to view the whole horizon, they are obliged to make \nseveral right angles. One eye, if it were fixed in their \nforeheads, would serve these gentlemen for all purposes. \n\nOf the various expedients of raising money to which \nMr. Pitt has resorted, that of laying a tax on strutting \nwould not have been the most unsuccessful. For the gen- \nerality of the English who attach any consequence to them- \nselves, arc addicted to this affected manner of walking. \nSome of these gentlemen, you might imagine, must meet \nwith the saddest accidents ; for they resolutely proceed \nstraight forward, in defiance of all opposition, whether \nfrom wheelbarrows and posts, or from persons of their \nown description who are approaching with an air equally \ndetermined. Yet, I know not how it happens, they meet \nwith few serious misfortunes, though I have seen a col- \nlision between two persons, when it was necessary for each, \nbefore they could pass, to make an angle of forty-five \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 175 \n\ndegrees. But these gentlemen are liable to another acci- \ndent, much more serious than a flesh wound. In the rainy \nseasons the square stones on the way-side sometimes be- \ncome loose ; and mischievous boys remove the earth from \nunder them, balance them on props, and form what they \ninhumanly call beau traps. Now, a man who never lowers \nhis eves is very likely to fall into these insidious snares. \n\n\"Why .should the generality of mankind differ so much in \ntheir demeanor ? The scholar, the soldier, the sailor, and \nsome other persons have professional peculiarities ; but the \ngreat body of the people in a free country ought to have \nthat ingenuous carriage which bespeaks a conscious dig- \nnity, equally distant from insolence and servility. It is \nscarcely expected in England that a poor man should have \nthe principle of fixed virtue ; and if one in authority ne- \nglects the opportunity of robbing the public, that is \naccounted a rare effort of virtue, and worthy of a monu- \nment ; on the other hand, if one of the lowest class should \nby mistake, in the dark, receive a guinea instead of a \nshilling and return it the next morning, it is matter for \nthe public papers. Carere vitio, habetur pro virtnte.1 \n\nThe lowest class, both men and women, have a careless, \nundefined, abandoned carriage, which indicates their con- \nsciousness of being little better than outlaws from the \ncommunity ; yet they are far from being destitute of gen- \nerous feelings, though in appearance they have not even \nthe outward show of humanity. \n\nThe character of the English is more complex than that \nof any other people in Europe. I shall in some future \nletter take occasion to inquire into the cause of this, \notherwise one is in danger of knowing this people only by \nhalves. A part of their character might induce you to \n\n1 Virtus est vitium fugere, et sapientia prima stultitia caruisse. — Ilorat \nEpUt. i. 1,41. \n\n\n176 LETTEKS PROM LONDON'. \n\nimagine them a feeble, Inefficient, secondary race of men ; \nbut you would be greatly mistaken. The English are never \ngreater than on those occasions when most men would \ndespair. They are restless under uncertainty, fearful from \ncontingency, undone from anticipation ; but mark out the \ntime when, with its duration, and the place where, let the \nsum total of what they are required to endure be precisely \ncalculated, connect these circumstances with the honor of \nOld England, and they are equal to all occasions. They \nsubmit to phantoms of their own creation, but can bear \nreal misfortune with complacency. \n\nI have imagined, I know not with what degree of truth, \nthat the English, more than any other people, require some \nobject of attention, without which they seem to stagnate. \nThe Spaniard, if he have nothing to do, will swing in his \nhammock until he is weary, and after that will swing him- \nself to rest. The Dutchman will sit in a happy vacancy \nuntil some vocation arouses him. The Frenchman is in no \nhurry to force himself on an opportunity, but is ready to \nembrace it when offered ; and in the mean time, he is con- \ntent to give himself up to levity. Not so the Englishman ; \nhis mind preys on itself in that state of calmness which \nto some is the moment of most perfect beatitude. That \nhappy languor which is the repose of the soul sinks his \nheart to despondency. Wake him to activity, agitate \nhim, arouse him even to desperation, but do not expect to \nsoothe him with the happy leisure or the monotonous pan- \negyric of the blessed. Otherwise, how can you account for \nit that a man who from an humble situation and humbler \nprospects should raise himself to great fortune, gaining \nthe proudest name of all his contemporaries, and display- \ning a readiness of expediency which in times of the utmost \ndifficulty propped, restored, and established a tottering \nempire, should in the prime of life, after retiring with \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 177 \n\nall that wealth and honor could confer, hang himself? \nSuch a man was Robert Lord Clive. \n\nBut this is an extreme case, and ought not to be ex- \ntended beyond an individual illustration, like that of the \nRoman in the reign of Nero who came to a resolution to \nstarve himself, and persisted in his design notwithstanding \nthe urgent request of Nero to the contrary, with whom he \nwas mi terms of intimacy ; for Nero, tender of his own \nreputation, observed, \" My enemies would attribute the \nsecret cause of my friend's death to myself.\" \n\nThe entire history of this people proves them to be a \nsingular compound of strength and weakness. They are \nutterly incapable of enjoying what their valor has so fre- \nquently accomplished, and they do not know how to exert \ntheir strength for any personal advantage. If main force \nonly be requisite, they can wield the club of Theseus, and \nlike him bend the stoutest tree of the forest, but they can- \nnot, like Theseus, follow Ariadne's clew through the laby- \nrinth. After having conquered their enemies by force of \narms, they have generally in their turn been conquered by \nforce of treaty. Nothing more strongly marks the do- \nmestic character of this people than their famous conduct \nat the close of the Revolution of 1688. They had then a \nfine opportunity of making the best possible bargain for \nthemselves with their rulers; but by a most stupid con- \ntract, they conveyed themselves and their posterity to the \nHouse of Hanover. Mr. Burke seriously advanced the \nsame thing, which not a little surprised the nation, who \nfor more than a century had fancied themselves free. I \nbelieve it is not known in England that De Loltne, who \nwrote without reference to party, has established the same \npoint in his essay on the Constitution of England. \n\nAdieu. \n\n\n178 LETTEBS Fliu.u LONDON. \n\n\nLETTER XIV. \n\n\nLondon, December 26. \n\nThe English who visit the United States complain of the \nlark of attention from those who wait on them. For my \npart I am disposed to complain, but for a very different \nreason. I am even incommoded and not infrequently dip- \nconcerted by being so officiously attended as one is obliged \nto be by the English servants. I had supposed, when in \nthe United States, that the lowest classes of the English \nought naturally to be the most insolent and unaccommo- \ndating of all' beings. Enjoying under the Constitution the \nsame degree of liberty with the higher orders, and yet in \nfact retained eternally in a situation from which no \ndocility of nature and no impulse of ambition can redeem \nthem, they ought to possess the ferocity of the savage, \nwithout his generous sentiments. \n\nMatthew Prior is the only Englishman that I recollect \nwho ever burst the fetters of servitude and rose to emi- \nnence. This instance is not a fair one. Prior was a vine \nwhich must forever have run on the ground, had he not \nmet with a great man around whom to twine. Prior ex- \nhibited afterward, it is true, abilities of the first order ; but \nhad he not been a poet and fond of the writings of Horace, \nhis abilities would only have rendered him a worse servant. \n\nIt was thought a wonderful occurrence that Philip York \nshould become Lord Chancellor Hardwickc ; yet Philip \nYork had in the early part of his life as great advantages \nas the sons of noblemen usually enjoy. What would an \nEnglishman say, were he told that the speaker of the \nHouse of Representatives of the United States was born in \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 179 \n\nScotland, and not many years since sold himself for his \npassage, and redeemed himself by manual labor '.' \n\nWhat do you imagine is the tie which restrains the Eng- \nlish servants in this ready servility to their masters ? You \nobserve I use the terms servants and masters. A servant is \nnot offended if you ask him where his master is. It is but \na day or two since a man forty years old told me if I \nwould wait a moment his master would be at home. Pres- \nently a young man appeared. \" That,\" said the servant, \n\"is my master.\" Should one ask a person in the United \nStates where his master is, lie would doubtless meet with a \nrough reply ; for in truth there are no such titles in the \nUnited States as master and servant. I will now tell you \nthe reason why the English make such excellent servants : \nThey have three things before their eyes, — servitude for \nlife, Botany Bay. and the gallows. Servitude they most com- \nmonly esteem the least of the three evils ; yet even this \nhas its terrors, for if masters dismiss servants without a \ncharacter, they arc undone. Their habits and education, \nor rather want of education, rendering them useless, they \nare forced to enter the lowest class of that great body of \nmen who live at the public expense. \n\nThe English complain of their servants, and think them \nthe most worthless beings on earth. So do I ; but if they \nhad to deal with the generality of our servants, they would \nsoon change their tone, or what is more likely, change \nplaces with them. \n\nVoltaire says that the vulgar in England, less than in \nany other country in the world, fashion their manners \nafter those of the nobility. This ought to excite a smile. \nShould one of the common people here endeavor to imitate \na nobleman, his impudence would cither mark him for an \nidiot or exclude him from all employment \n\nThe servants in England are not exactly what they ought \n\n\n180 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nto be. Where the fathers and sons for man}- generations \nare likely to be servants during their lives, it is of great \nconsequence that they should possess as little as possible \nthe dress, manners, Or feelings of men. They should be \nbred in the most profound ignorance, and be taught from \ntheir infancy to consider themselves a distinct species. \nTo impress this more deeply, they should be disfigured as \nmuch as may be consistent with their usefulness; both of \ntheir ears might be spared, so might their noses. It might \ninjure their health to paint them, but it is a pity that a \ndyestuff could not be invented, through which perspira- \ntion might pass. In short, they should in all respects \nbe treated like beasts of burden, — though I hardly go so \nfar as Cato the Censor, who advises that when servants \nare grown old and infirm they be sold. \n\nThe surprising difference which is observable between \nthe English servants and our own is not entirely owing to \nthe influence which the Federal Constitution has on the \ncharacter of the American servant. The English servant \nis chained to a servitude which in many respects is little \nremoved from helotism. He has no imagination, no ambi- \ntion : a holiday or a debauch bounds his hopes, and fully \ngratifies his wishes. In the United States, on the contrary, \na servant's imagination is ever on the wing ; he calculates \neven to a day, and that day not distant, when he shall be \nas independent as the person whom he serves. He in- \ndulges the most flattering prospects, feels himself already a \nfreeman, and wanders in his fancy through scenes of \nfuture life, or reposes from labor in the cool of his own \nshade. As he approaches personal independence, he ex- \npects deference from his master and from his fellow- \ncountrymen ; while his master, foreseeing how soon his \nservant may be his equal, is disposed to facilitate the ap- \nproaching equality. Hence the American servant shows \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 181 \n\nnothing of that humble, debasing demeanor which is so \napparent in the English servant. \n\nI confess the majestic carriage of our servants would \nrevolt the feelings of one accustomed to travel the Bath \nroad; for he might be in danger of starving before he \ncould learn the language of the country. \n\nAdieu. \n\n\nLETTER XV. \n\n\nLondon, January 17, 1803. \n\nI was at the theatre last evening, where I saw their \nMajesties with three of the princesses. Nunc scio quid \nBint Rex et Regina. They all behaved with great defer- \nence to the spectators, and the queen in particular seemed \nhappy. We half-civilized folk in the United States can \nform no conception of the solemn pomp, the dignified im- \nportance and sacred reverence which accompany these \nawful exhibitions of royalty. On such happy occasions, \nthe cold feelings of our people would look like pointed \ndisaffection. \n\nThe box in which their Majesties sat was fitted up on \npurpose, while the trappings reminded one of the style of \nPersian monarchs. How an English courtier would have \nlaughed on seeing the late President and his wife, without \n:. without attendants, without any peculiarity to \ndistinguish them from the other citizens, take their seats \nin the theatre at Boston ! \n\nAs soon as their Majesties appeared in the front of \ntheir box a tumult of applause began, which, had it been \ncordial, must have been really pleasing. As all this was \n\n\n182 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nnothing to me, I sunk into a revery, and thought of Tima- \ngoras the Athenian. After the noise was over their Majesties \nsat down, and the favorite song \" God save great George \nour King,\" l was sung several times by the whole posse \ntheatri. This completed the royal reception. When the \nentertainments were concluded, the same solemnities fin- \nished the f vening. \n\nThe king is a fine, healthy-looking man, and if he do \nnot die of apoplexy, \" is good for fifteen or twenty years,\" \nas the life insurers say. He wore a sort of half wig, so I \ncould not discover whether hard times had caused his hair \nprematurely to turn gray. Poor man ! I could not but \npity him, for it is not altogether his fault that he has \nfallen into so many bad hands. He made constant use of \nan opera glass ; it is a royal custom, I suppose, to sec \nwith artificial eyes. \n\nIf the countenance is indicative of the disposition, his \nMajesty has a very good heart ; and he has more intellect \nthan yon would judge from his likeness on the coin. On \nthe whole, I looked at him with a considerable degree of \ncomplacency ; for though kingly government might orig- \ninally have been elective, all hereditary government is \nfounded, directly or indirectly, on usurpation ; yet where \na people acquiesce, this usurpation, at least during the \nacquiescence, receives a popular sanction. \n\nThe three princesses were to me objects of commisera- \ntion. I viewed them as the wretched victims of political \nexpediency. \" Born under the agonies of self-denial and \nrenounced desire,\" 2 amidst the mockery of a court they \nendure the penance of a nunnery. How can that woman \nbe happy who feels herself alone in the midst of millions, \n\n1 Not so the generous Cathmor ; he retired when his praise was sung. \n\" The voice of Fouar rose in praise of Cathmor, son of Larthon , but Cathmor \n.lid nut hear his praise. He lay at the roar of a stream.\" — Ossian, Temora. \n\n2 Lavater's Aphorisms. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 183 \n\nnot one of whom regards her more than a piece of State \nfurniture ? The heart must have some object on which to \nrepose, or it will prey on itself. The trappings of royalty, \nthe idiotic applause of thousands, and the elevation of \nmomentary pride, heightened by contrast, leave but tran- \nsient impressions which lose their importance with every \nrecurrence. In such a miserable state there is not even \nplay for a woman's vanity, for she is above the tempta- \ntion to be vain ; nor can she have any desire to please, \nfor a withered heart knows no pleasure. \n\nBehind their Majesties and the princesses stood certain \nladies and gentlemen \" in waiting.\" Having noticed the \nfact that they had been standing two hours, and thinking \nit rather singular, I asked the person who sat next to me \nwhy they did not sit down. He smiled at my ignorance, \nand told me that etiquette required them to stand. Those \nwho stood behind their Majesties were Earls. I know not \nwhat may be the sentiments or feelings of Earls, but of this \nI am sure : there is not an earldom in England which \ncould tempt me to staud two hours behind their Majesties' \nchairs.1 \n\nAt the close of the entertainment, the royal family were \nescorted home under a very strong guard with drawn \ncutla.-- \n\nAfter witnessing all this etiquette and solemn ceremony, \nwhich certainly was well calculated to astonish weak minds, \nI could not help reverting to our own country, and figuring \nto in ■. si'lf George Washington, after his return to private \nlife, sitting as foreman of a country jury ; or, to give a \nr contrast to European mummery, I might men- \ntion the late President Adams, who, at a conflagration in \nPhiladelphia, stood two hours handing buckets of water. \n\n1 The fact is, the gentlemen-in-waiting stand four hours, or during the \nwhole entertainment ; the ladies are relieved every two hours. \n\n\n184 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nCertainly, no man can contemplate with indifference the \nchief magistrate of six millions of people — '- dispari gen- \nere . . . alius alio more viventcs,\" - — a plebeian among \nplebeians, and feeling more secure in the midst of his \nfellow-citizens than if he were guarded with a legion of \ncavalry. Would not Mr. Jefferson be mortified if Con- \ngress should vote him a guard ? Would he not say : \" I \nnever feel more secure than when surrounded by my \nfellow-countrymen. Have I lost their confidence to the \ndegree that personal protection is thought necessary?\" \n\nI should like to dwell on this subject, but it might \nappear invidious. Adieu. \n\n\nLETTER XVI. \n\n\nLondon*, January 30. \n\nYou are quite voluminous in your questions ; but they \nare all interesting, as well to myself as to you. The most \nimportant : \" Whether the Constitution of the United States \nappears at this distance more or less capable of supporting \nitself on its own inherent strength,\" demands an entire \nletter ; and to satisfy you, a more labored one than I can \nat present write. \n\nLiterature cannot be expected, at present, to flourish in \nthe United States as luxuriantly as it will in a few years. \nThe useful naturally precedes the ornamental, — cottages \nwere built long before the Temple of the Muses. The \nequality of condition in the United States, together with \nthe excellent policy of dividing estates equally among all \nthe children, obliges the citizens to become the builders of \ntheir own fortunes. Either agriculture or commerce in- \n1 Sallust. Cataliua, vi. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 185 \n\nsures the decencies of life to industry or enterprise ; and \nthe young man whose talents might have ranked him high \non the hill of science scarcely hesitates whether to prefer \na habitation on the fertile banks of the Mississippi to a \nmore elevated seat on Parnassus. Hence you find many \nmore men of talent, not to say genius, than scholars. We \nhave a few passable scholars, but not one of them happens \nto be a man of genius ; and we have many citizens of first- \nrate ability, but none of them are scholars. The mere \nscholar can never claim more than the merit of scholar- \nship. The man of genius, for the reason just stated, is \nobliged in the early part of life to neglect his scholarship \nfor worldly pursuits ; and by the time he is in easy cir- \ncumstances it is too late to become a scholar. \n\nHad D., P., L., or J., preferred the society of the Muses \nto the courts of law or the practice of physic, the banks of \nthe Thames had as frequently echoed their labors as the \nbanks of the Ohio resound with the periods of Burke, the \ndignified narrative of Robertson, or the more stately tenor \nof Gibbon ; while England, though she could not boast of \nthem as subjects, would assert her claim to them as \nauthors. It is really a loss to the community, that such \nmen, capable of attaining to the highest style of literature, \nand who might have produced new truths or destroyed \nsanctioned error, should suffer their abilities to evaporate \nwitli the fleeting occurrences which give rise to their exer- \ntions. Those whom God has endued with superior powers \nowe it to patriotism, to their fellow-citizens, to posterity, \nto leave behind them some monument more durable than \na tombstone and more interesting than '• Here lies the \nbody.\" What though the architecture of their minds in- \ndicates different orders ? In the collision of contending \nprinciples the brightest sparks arc elicited. What though \nthe world can scarcely contain the conflicting parties when \n\n\n186 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nliving ? The same monument becomes their memorial \nwhen dead. Rousseau and Voltaire met at last in the Pan- \ntheon ; while Butler and Milton may shake hands in West- \nminster Abbey. Nor is the benefit to posterity less on this \naccount. The labors of Burke and Paine find a place on \nthe same shelf ; nor do the bickerings of Sallust and Cicero \nderogate from their individual merit. Nature has wisely \nordained that amidst the vicissitudes of human life the \nhuman mind shall partake of these vicissitudes ; other- \nwise, if immutable principles were adopted, mankind would \nbecome too deeply rooted in habit, would be rendered in- \ncapable of pursuing the expedient, and would always con- \nflict with accident, emergency, or novel circumstance. A \nfew great moral principles are, and ever have been, ac- \nknowledged ; but the minor morals and all those principles \nfounded in convenience, vary with time, arc subject to \nrevolution, and obedient to contingency. \n\nWhen the sciences shall be cultivated in the United \nStates, those branches which relate to civil polity, or to \nspeak more generally, all that which is connected with or \nrelative to man, will be treated in a manner which must \nshock the feelings of all Europe, and oppose the principles \nof all ages. From the Stagyrite down to the no less \npowerful oracle of Lichfield, the legitimacy of those hoary \nsanctions of established authority will be disputed; while \nthe great advantage which the United States will afford \nof appealing to facts,1 and to the successful operation of \nprinciples which have hitherto been deemed impracticable \nmerely because they were never permitted an opportunity \nof trial, will challenge respect on this side of the Atlantic, \nand, what is all-important, will confirm our fellow-citizens \n\n1 \" Human experience,\" says Dr. Johnson, \" which is constantly contra- \ndicting, is the great test of truth.\" But in Europe, human experience has \nnever had a {air trial. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 187 \n\nin their attachment to a Constitution which seems to em- \nbrace all possible good with least possible evil. \n\nBut you must not imagine the people of England are \nmore intelligent than the people of the United States. It \nis the reverse ; there is much more useful information and \npractical common-sense among our citizens than among \nthe generality of the English. In the United States, a \nman's mind is early awakened to reflection and comparison. \nHe feels that he is a member of the body politic ; he takes \na lively interest in public affairs, and probably looks for- \nward to some office in his town, county, or State. Hence \nthe country people in the United States, whose occupation \nin England would be, an evidence of their profound igno- \nrance, frequently surprise you with information which no \nman would have been at the trouble of acquiring had he \nnot foreseen a possibility of bringing it to public view. \nNot long since, I found a shoemaker reading De Lolnie on \n• i English Constitution while his leather was soaking in \nthe tub. Taking the book into my hand, I observed that he \nhad marked the following passage, which refers to the con- \nduct of a popular assembly in the act of legislating : — \n\n\" But as very few among them have previously considered the \nsubjects on which they are called upon to determine, very few carry \nalong with them any opinion or inclination, or at least any inclina- \ntion of their own, and to which they are resolved to adhere. As, \nhowever, it is necessary at last to come to some resolution, the \nmajor part of them are determined by reasons which they would \nblush to pay any regard to on much less serious occasions. An \nunusual sight, a change of the ordinary place of the assembly, a \nsudden disturbance, a rumor, are, amidst the general want of a spirit \nof decision, the sufficient ratio of the determination of the greatest \npart ; and from this assemblage of separate wills, thus formed \nhastily and without reflection, a general will results, which is also \nvoid of reflection.\" * \n\n1 De Lolme on the Constitution of England, bk. ii. 5. \n\n\n188 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\n\" Why,\" said the shoemaker, \"Mr. Dc Lolnie attributes \nthis conduct to the Romans, and is happy to take occasion \nfrom such instances to abuse the democratic form of gov- \nernment. Now, our government is much more popular \nthan the ancient democracies, except in the particular in- \nstance he lias mentioned, of direct legislation; and the \ntemporary resigning of which into the hands of those \nwhom we from time to time delegate is not in fact dis- \nclaiming the prerogative, but legislating by proxy. So De \nLolme's observations do not, in this respect, apply to our \ndemocratic system ; but,\" he added, \" I am not disposed \nto quarrel with De Lolme. He could not foresee that we \nshould spoil certain of his positions : his work is a fine \npanegyric and deserves a statue.\" \n\nNo ; the republic of letters has not become an aris- \ntocracy in our country. Knowledge seems to follow the \nlaw of inheritance, and is pretty equally distributed. Thus \na competent portion of learning is found in every town: \naud though Pope's famous couplet may be objected, — \n\n\" A little learning is a dangerous thing ; \nDrink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring,\" \n\nyet, like many more of his verses, they are perfect non- \nsense. A little learning with a weak head will often be \nless beneficial than profound ignorance ; but even in this \ncase, a little will be less dangerous than deep learning. A \nman of common-sense is never rendered a fool by a little \nlearning. Mr. Pope owes his fame to his genius, not to \nhis education. There is not a schoolboy nowadays who \nhas not more learning than had Socrates ; yet Socrates \nwas never intoxicated with the shallow draught. A man \nof great strength of mind is less likely to exercise his own \npowers with great than with moderate learning. No man \nof genius was ever fond of thumbing a dictionary. While \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 189 \n\nthe learned man is breaking the nut-shell, the man of \ngenius has found the kernel. The United States, on every \nemergency, has produced men full grown, who have ac- \nquitted themselves with ability and propriety. \n\nI cannot better illustrate this point than by a comparison \nof our Congress with the British Parliament. There is a \nreason why each should have a pre-eminence over the \nother. The peer is born to a seat in the House of Lords; \nor, if created, he must like Jenkinson be great in some \nway or other. Hence the House of Lords must be com- \nposed of a few legislators of first-rate ability ; and even \nthe generality, by reason of education, ought to possess \nsuperior minds. After all, you will find many stupid fel- \nlows among them. However, they are not to blame ; they \ncould not help being born legislators. With respect to the \nHouse of Commons the same reason partially exists. Many \nof the members, like Pitt and Fox, were educated for the \nHouse of Commons. Some few of commanding abilities \nand popular address claim a seat in the House, no matter \nwho their fathers were ; such was Burke, and such is Sheri- \ndan. Besides, the greatest and most dangerous or useful \nof the commoners are often created peers, and thereby \nkeep up the ability and dignity of a body of men which \ncould otherwise scarcely support itself on a hereditary \nprinciple ; for if one should look into the House of Lords \nduring the absence of all those who have been created in \nthe present reign, he might forget to take off his hat. \nNow, the probability is that you will find in Parliament a \nfew members of first-rate powers, the generality rather \nabove mediocrity, and a certain number in respect to \nwhom it would puzzle a predestinarian to tell how they \ncame there. \n\nIn the United States, we have neither these advantages \nnor disadvantages. The legislator is sometimes taken \n\n\n190 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nfrom the plough, sometimes from the counting-house, but \nmore frequently from the law-shop. An Englishman, I \nknow, must smile at this, and imagine that our members \nwould bring their professions with them to Congress, and \nprove, illustrate, and embellish their arguments with sug- \ngestions drawn from the farm-yard, the warehouse, or the \nattorney's office. It is worthy of remark, however, that \nour members of Congress have, most of them, been in busi- \nness, and consequently they know more of human life than \ndo the English peers ; and though they may at first be \ndeficient in forms and precedents, they arc likely to bring \nmore mind to the public service. As they arc considerably \nadvanced in life, and already had shown their abilities \nbefore they were delegated, their former agricultural, com- \nmercial, or legal pursuits qualify them to make the laws \nmore just and equal in their operation. \" Plus pollere mul- \ntorum ingenia consiliaque.\" \n\nThese considerations give our members a decided superi- \nority over the English peers ; I mean there will be more \ncapacity in the one body than in the other, notwithstanding \nthere will ever be a few pre-eminent members in the House \nof Lords, of recent creation. This does not apply to the \nHouse of Commons ; for though there are many rotten \nboroughs and no little ministerial influence at elections, \nyet this docs not debar any ability from the House ; for the \nminister will naturally seek the man of greatest capacity. \nHence you find Windham, Laurence, Canning, and others \nin the House, who would be very loath to be questioned \nrespecting the hustings. \n\nThe happy days which we have experienced under the \nConstitution of the United States have scarcely offered, \nsince its adoption, two important occasions of calling forth \nthe abilities of Congress. The question of the Judiciary \ngave rise to the most spirited and well contested debate \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 191 \n\nwhich was ever heard in a deliberative assembly ; while \nthe dignity and moderation with which it was conducted \nproved the empire of reason over passion and personality. \nHad such a question — a question which called forth the \nwhole force of political feeling in every individual of the \nlegislature — been agitated in the House of Commons, you \nmight have heard Mr. Fox pant across the Thames ; Mr. \nPitt would have forgotten his usual senatorial dignity ; Dr. \nLaurence would have frothed at the mouth ; Mr. Windham, \nforgetting the point in question, would have hurled Greek \nfrom the philippics of Demosthenes at his opponents ; and \nMr. Erskinc would have been carried out. \n\nThe members of Congress were not less surprised than \ntheir fellow-citizens at this unexpected display of close \nargument arrayed in the most brilliant eloquence. The \npublic mind was immediately convinced when Brecken- \nridge spoke to his motion, and supported it with force and \nsimplicity, destitute of the least appeal to popular senti- \nment. But when Morris arose, his wild eloquence threw \na mist before the eyes of every one, and served to keep in \nagitation a question supposed to be settled. Yet Mason, \nwith a steady, piercing eye, saw through the labyrinth of \npart3'-colored rhetoric, and, reverting to first principles, \nbrought back the question to its original state. These \ngreat efforts in the Senate aroused all the ability of the \nHouse, and called forth faculties which had either slept \nfor years or were not supposed to exist. The modest \nHemphill, with the simplicity of his sect, supported his \nopinion with a dignity peculiar to himself; while Giles \nand Bayard, veterans in debate, knowing each other and \nconscious of the public expectation, reserved themselves \nto the last, and came prepared for the arduous conflict. \n\nAdieu. \n\n\n192 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\n\nLETTER XYII. \n\nLondon, February 18. \n\nA government which owes its greatness to the vicious \npassions, and whose stability is foundad on an artificial \nbasis, should endeavor as much as possible to substitute \nideal glory for real patriotism, and should call the atten- \ntion of the people to the consideration of what their fathers \nhave been, not to what they themselves arc ; for a ruined \ncountry like a ruined woman may support itself for a cer- \ntain time on the credit of its former reputation. \n\nFortunately for England, she has many objects to engage \nthe affections of her subjects which serve the purpose of \na sort of spurious patriotism. This bias to our country, \nwhen principle is wanting, is absolutely necessary, other- \nwise the people will be beggared with a standing army. \n\nIn the advantage of external attachments, England \nstands pre-eminent over all nations. In the first place, \nshe is small in territory, in the next, she is an island. \nSuch circumstances may operate on a people without their \nknowledge ; but England has food for her pride, which is \nthe strongest trait in her character. It is a property of \nthe human mind in its most miserable state to rest with \na degree of complacency cither on some object, or, if that \nfails, on some delusion. If a nation be no longer great, \nthe people console themselves with past greatness ; if no \nlonger brave, they are ready to appeal to their ancestors. \n\nGreat men, great victories, magnificent public buildings, \nstupendous monuments, pompous equipages, nay, a long \nline of kings and nobles, secretly operate in Europe instead \nof a greater force, and produce a counterfeit patriotism. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON'. 193 \n\nI say counterfeit, for most of those who are emphatically \nstyled great men have been public burdens. Great vic- \ntories have usually originated a second war, while the first \noriginated to a Bpirit of plunder, or, what more frequently \nhappens in our days, a spirit of commerce. Magnificent \npublic buildings are a sure mark of slavery and oppression; \nthe pyramids do no honor to Egypt. Stupendous monu- \nment* not infrequently rise in honor of the tyrant, and at \nthe expense of slaves ; they are an incentive to false ambi- \ntion, and perpetuate and sanction the principle to which \nthey were reared. Kings1 and nobles are the severest libel \nwhich any people can suffer ; they had their origin in the \nweakness of mankind, at length they usurped an hereditary \nauthority, and now have their continuance through the \nbaseness of mankind. When kings and nobles are once \ninstituted, it is their constant policy to discourage every \nadvance to former virtue. Said the late Catharine of Rus- \nsia : '• If men would listen more carefully to the dictates \nof reason and justice, they would have no occasion for us \nor others upon thrones. I was always fond of philos- \nophy, and my mind has ever been altogether republican. \nMy innate love and regard for liberty, to be sure, forms a \nStrange contrast to my boundless power.\"2 Good God! \nif these are the sentiments of a despot, a woman who \nheld twenty-four millions of slaves in chains, what ought \nto be the feelings of freemen ! If we do not guard the \n\n1 Monarchy doubtless originated in the infanev and weakness of society, \nwhen an aide, bold, and popular man was elected to protect and unite the dis- \ncordant interests of iiis own tribe or clan. Thus, though simple monarchy \nmay boast an elder origin than republics, all hereditary authority is founded \nin usurpation, and is acontinued usurpation. I might easily demonstrate this, \nso could Lord Thnrlow. \n\n5 Catharine wrote this in a letter to Zimmerman ; her letters to Diderot \nand D'Alembert were probably in the same style. Persons like Catharine \ncarry with them their own excuse. Those who will not be free \nbe slaves. \n\n13 \n\n\n194 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nsacred fire with which we are intrusted, we shall deserve \nto be governed by a woman, and when dead, torn from \nour sepulchres by posterity, and have our dust scattered \nto the winds of heaven. There is no spark in Europe at \nwhich to light another torch. The chains of slavery no \nlonger clank ; restlessness no longer brightens them ; they \nare reposing in rust. If liberty be not cherished by us, \nshe will retire beyond the Appalachian mountains ; her \ncause in Europe is hopeless. The blood of Hampden was \noffered in vain, and one day, soon after, rendered ineffect- \nual the efforts of years. The labors of Sidney ended in \nconstructive treason ; and the fair prospects of Brissot, of \nthe Rolands and others, closed in despair. It is you, my \ncountrymen, on whom all Europe is looking, most with in- \ndifference, a few with sympathy ; but her kings and nobles \narc watching with the eagle eye of despots, to seek in your \nmiscarriage a sanction for their own principles.1 \n\nWhat though we have no magnificent palaces ? Manius \nCurius lived in a cottage. What though we have no hered- \nitary nobility? \"One family is as ancient as another.\"2 \nWhat though the simplicity of our temples, unindebted to \nthe chisel, command no admiration from the traveller? \nThe pattern of humility was born in a manger. What \nthough we have no marble monuments? The human heart \nwas once affected by a rude pile of stones bearing no other \ninscription than \" Sta viator, calcas heroem.\" \n\nBut to return to the English. In addition to many natu- \nral and adventitious causes of attachment which are com- \nmon to all the subjects, there are others which do not any \nless influence those who feel themselves of some little \nweight in the democratic branch of the Constitution. As \nyou readily perceive, this attachment to which I refer \n\n1 C. P. Sumner's Eulogy on Washington. \n\n2 Frederic II. Memoirs of the House of Brandenburg. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 19.-, \n\nis of a political nature. This class, if they have the \nleast knowledge of their own history, ought to feel elevated \nin reflecting that, even in the dark ages, there was suffi- \ncient spirit in England to give law to a king fully disposed \nto he a tyrant; and though in succeeding times, the people \nbandied about by York and Lancaster, at one moment re- \njoiced in a victory which had no popular right for its \nobject, at the next were happy to escape in a general \namnesty, yet under Richard the Third there was spirit \nenough to overturn an usurpation in the third year, though \nsupported by first-rate abilities and heroic valor.1 ff the \nnational spirit departed for a century, it returned to take \nvengeance for three former reigns on a man who was com- \nparatively a mild prince. But what ought to elate the \nEnglish people more than all this, there was found, not \nlong after, a power in the nation capable of dropping a fool, \nof excluding his posterity, and establishing a new family \non the throne. This power, it must be confessed, was not \nexerted in consequence of the sovereignty a of the people \nof England ; yet its exertion under any circumstances shows \nthe difference between this people and the monotonous \nhistory of other nations, where, if \" by the grace of God \" \nthey are afflicted with a tyrant or a fool, he is feared as a \ndemon, or worshipped as a sage. All these historical \ntraits have their influence ; for an Englishman discovers \nthat there is a power residing somewhere in the nation \ncapable of creating all things anew. Hence the class of \n\n1 I know not why the character of Richard the Third should be treated \nwith peculiar severity. There is little or nothing with which to reproach \nhim after he came to the throne. The tyranny of Richard never reached \nthe people ; and he was less a villain in order to acquire a crown, than were \nsome of his successors after they had obtained one. \n\n- In Europe, it looks like affectation or irony to say \"the sovereign \npeople.\" It is so. But nothing was more usual at Rome than for the orators \nto stvle a popular assembly the sovereign people, — \" at imperimn popnli Ro- \nmani majestasque conservaretur.\" (Cic. pro Rabirio PerdaeUionis Reo.) \n\n\n196 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nEnglishmen to whom I refer at present, cannot but feel a \nproud pre-eminence in comparing themselves with their \nneighbors. Doubtless the extorting of Magna Charta from \nKing John, the beheading of Charles the First, the dismis- \nsion of James the Second, and the establishment of a new \nmonarchy, are the finest portions of English history. A \nnation which 'knows how thus cither to reduce to reason, \ndismiss forever, or speak in thunder to their ill-disposed \nor incorrigible rulers cannot for a long time endure either \nthe stork, the serpent, or the tyranny of ministers under a \nharmless King Log, though there may not be sufficient \nvirtue in the nation to establish a legitimate government. \nFor the English are not yet quite like the Ottomans ; nor \nis their empire quite like the Ottoman, — weak in propor- \ntion to its wide extended territory, and poor in proportion \nto its natural fertility. \n\nIf the common people and the humblest of that class \nwho are allowed the privilege of voting feel a reflected \nconsequence in viewing their country, the gentry and \nnobility must naturally be the best patriots in the world, \nsince the latter rise with the prosperity of their country, \nthough they suffer little in its distress. Indeed, the nobil- \nity in all nations have exhibited as much love for their \ncountry as the leech feels for a plethora. \n\nI confess, if my country had experienced the various \nrevolutions and modifications which England has under- \ngone, and the people in every contest with royal authority \nhad added to their own prerogative, it would be matter of \nproud contemplation. But our country has done more ; \ninstead of amending and modifying an indefinite and un- \nintelligible Constitution, and advancing and retreating in \nthe maze of politics, she has, by one great effort, brought \nback the social compact to its first principles, restored a \nsmall portion of humanity to its original respectability, and \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 197 \n\nleft their posterity a form of government which merits to \nbe hated by kings and nobles. Adieu. \n\n\nLETTER XVIII. \n\n\nLondon. March 7. \n\nYou inquire respecting the climate of England. That \nclimate must be salubrious which has produced so mam- \ngreat men ; yet I would not seem to attach too much to \nthis circumstance, for the most congenial climates do not \nconstantly produce the greatest men. It is reported in \nhistory that the Dutch were once generous and noble, that \nthe Spaniards were once brave, and Livy is either erro- \nneous or too much given to irony, if Italy did not at one \ntime produce men. \n\nIf the English have a single prejudice, it is certainly \nnot in favor of their climate. Their caricaturists, who for \nbroad humor are unrivalled, hit off John Bull in a cloudy \nday with great success. The weather here is of such pub- \nlic concern that not infrequently it is a subject of comment \nin the newspapers. There are perhaps more weathercocks \nin London than in all the world besides ; though it ought to \nbe considered that London is the seat of government. \n\nAmong the various modes of insurance which the wit of \nman has invented, I am not a little surprised that no one \nhas ever opened an office for the insurance of fair weather. \nAll those who are in pursuit of pleasure or business ; all \nwho have delicate constitutions, and are liable to suf- \nfer from the wind being a point or half a point variant \nfrom their favorite quarter ; all who are incommoded on \njourneys, — might be compensated in money for mental \n\n\n198 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nor corporal inconvenience. This may appear rather ri- \ndiculous at first sight ; but it is only an improvement on \nmarine insurance, and is much more rational than insur- \nance on lives. I have no doubt the lawyers will improve \nthis hint : it would afford rare sport at Westminster and \nGuildhall. All the dull rogues in town would insure ; for \nthe author who wrote on a dull day would recover special \ndamages if his book did not sell. All the ladies at the \nwest end of the town would insure, though I know not \nwhat damages would be given for an unsuccessful rout. \nAll those who frequent places of public amusement, as \nwell as the proprietors of such places, would insure ; the \none for lack of pleasure, the other for disappointment \nin money receipts. \n\nIf many of the English have degenerated into a mongrel \nsort ; if the mane of the lion has given place to more ear ; \nif a thousand nervous affections have turned the men into \nwomen without the spirit of women, I am not disposed to \nattribute it to the climate, which is now as good as when \nBoadicea led the van of her countrymen. Let us, for a \nmoment, consider what effects the climate of England pro- \nduces, and then we can judge whether or not it be insalu- \nbrious. Where neither the excess of pleasure nor the \nexcess of labor emaciates, the English, both men and \nwomen arc exceedingly handsome. Their round, ruddy \ncountenances bespeak a mellow temperature of weather \nwhich neither relaxes nor contracts. Surely, the climate \nof that country must be good which produces brave men \nand handsome women ; and I think those gloomy affections \nto which so many of the English are subject, ought not to \nbe imputed to the climate. Man must first be degenerate \nbefore a west wind 1 or a cloudy day can reduce him \nto despondency. \n\nJ Id England it is the west wind which brings hanging weather. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 199 \n\n\" By chase our long-liv'd fathers earn'd their food; \nToil strung the nerves and purified the blood; \nBut we, their sons, a pauiper'd race of men, \nAre dwindled down to threescore years aud ten.\" ' \n\nThis is doubtless mere poetry. The English are more \nlaborious now than if they were hunters ; and as for their \nbeing dwindled down to seventy years, I think it rather a \nbull. The English live as long and bear their age as well, \nI believe, as any people. My washerwoman tells me she \nknows more than half a dozen women in her neighborhood \nbetween the ages of sixty-seven and seventy-five who gain \ntheir livelihood at the washing-tub. I do not know that \nthe English live longer or retain their faculties to a later \nperiod than the New Englanders do ; but the inroad of \nyears does not make so early nor so deep an impression on \ntheir faces. The climate is so temperate, both in summer \nand winter, that I have not experienced what I consider a \nwarm or a cold day. Hence the pores of the body are \nnot so frequently open in summer, nor so continually con- \ntracted in winter. When I say the English bear their age \nbetter than our people, I am supposing that they lead \nsimilar lives. In New England you rarely see the emaci- \nated, the deformed, the rickety, or the deficient ; in Eng- \nland, you meet with them at every step. I have seen \nthousands of these miserable creatures, to whom it would \nhave been an act of mercy to have extended a certain \nwise law of Sparta. \n\nWhether or not the women bear their years better than \nours do, I am not certain, they are so very loath to tell \ntheir ages; but of this I am sure, — the dress, carriage, \nand conversation of the English women are at least ten \nyears in their favor. The contrast is remarkable. A \nyoung woman in this country is willing to be sociable, and \n1 Dryden, Epistle xiii. \n\n\n200 LETTERS PROM LONDON. \n\nseems disposed to render herself pleasing, rather than an \nobject of indifference. In the United States, on the con- \ntrary, a young woman is too ready to imagine she has done \nwrong, and frequently checks herself, and betrays a degree \nof guilt, when she discovers that she has unwittingly done \nherself justice. The manners of the one render her \nyounger in appearance than she is; the manners of the \nother make her seem older. \n\nThere is one description of Englishmen on whom the \nclimate must operate very unhappily. I mean the country \ngentlemen, who, residing most of their time on their \nestates, and not having a taste for either the elegant or \nthe more laborious pursuits of agriculture, or, what is still \nmore unhappy, cold to the charms of literature, spend their \ndays insulated within their own barren selves, and instead \nof giving their days to \" negotium cum dignitate,\" sacrifice \ntheir lives to a false \" otium cum dignitate.\" To such, a \ngloomy day is the harbinger of their evil genius. The \nsombre appearance of their aged mansions, and the \nsolemn aspect of the scene around render their solitude \nawful, and recall the most depressing recollections. The \nspectres of their ancestors come in the clouds and haunt \nthe halls of their former residence; while the sullen still- \nness of the trees helps to turn the mind upon itself, which \nto most men is, of all ills, the most insupportable. The \ncountry gentlemen feel that they are the centre of a scene \nfrom which they cannot fly ; past pleasures are now con- \nverted into present pain, while the present moment, in \nimagination, is to last forever. \n\nSuch of the English people as know how to think, think \nas much as or more than any other people ; yet those \nwho think most do not always think most happily. Some \npersons at the end of a revery find themselves in the \nslough of sensuality ; others think only to get rid of them- \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 201 \n\nselves, while some bring themselves to the sad conclusion \nthat it would be madness in them to be happy. The English. \nI believe, think less happily than any other people. They \nscarcely affect happiness to hide their misery. Montes- \nquieu, you recollect, attributes this to their form of govern- \nment, rather than to their climate. This merits attention. \nI will never admit that a free people ' (so Montesquieu \ntermed the English) are less happy than a tyrant could \nrender them ; but I can easily believe that a people feeling \ntheir incapacity to enjoy those rights which their consti- \ntution of government guarantees, will be unhappy in pro- \nportion to their sensibility, while the frequent changes \nof weather will give a sad cast to their dispositions. The \ngreat body of every people are secure from the violent pas- \nsions. A free people are less secure, indeed, but their \njealousy, sensibility, and transient violence are rather a \nproof of their happiness ; for their passions are never \nexcited except when they imagine they are about to lose \neither a part or the whole of that which Montesquieu \nthinks is the chief cause of their misery. \n\nAdieu. \n\n\nLETTER XIX. \n\n\nLondon, March \"23. \nThe character of the English, I have more than once \nobserved, is a singular mixture of dignity and servility. \nThe more I see of this people the more am I struck with \nthese opposite traits. Here are few men who have not two \ncharacters which they put off and resume at pleasure. \nThe moment a man is addressed, he either discipline?; \n1 Whenever I call the English free, I mean comparative freedom. \n\n\n202 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nhimself to a demeanor of inferiority or assumes an air of \nimportance suitable to the opinion he thinks is entertained \nof his presence. Of all characters that is least respectable \nwhich is now the lion and presently the sheep. I have \nseen at a coffee-house a man who, in the pride of his im- \nportance challenging the whole conversation and enjoying \nthat lire-eminence which was tacitly allowed, sank suddenly \ninto silence the moment another person entered the room. \n\nThey tell a pleasant story of an European who was in- \ntroduced to an Indian chief. You know the American \nsavages are celebrated for their unreserved deportment in \npresence of those whom the world call great. The Euro- \npean, with an inherent servility, fell on his knees, and by \nhis interpreter addressed his savage majesty to the follow- \ning effect : \" Most powerful chief, who boldest in thy hands \nthe destinies of the four corners of the earth, the fame of \nthy valor has encircled both hemispheres ! Accept the \nhomage of the white man who has come from the other \nside of the great water to behold the Little Toad-Eater.\" \nNeither the chief nor his companions smiled, — that might \nhave discomposed the white man. Neither did the chief \nknow how to reply ; but, suspecting from the white man's \nposture that lie was quite exhausted, with true civility \nasked him if he wished for anything to eat. The interpreter \nreplied that they had just eaten and drunk abundantly. \nThis perplexed the chief and his companions, who won- \ndered why the white man preferred to continue on his \nknees. At length the white man, thinking it a great \nbreach of politeness to be left in such a situation, asked, \n\" How long shall I continue on my knees ? \" The chief re- \nplied, \" As long as you please.\" This was natural ; the \nchild of Nature being ignorant of the reason why the man \nhad knelt, knew no reason why he should not rise at one \ntime as well as at another. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 203 \n\nNot a little of the national character may be discovered \nat the courts of law. The examination of witnesses in \nthe frequently tedious tragi-comedy of law is a great relief \nto the judges, to the lawyers, and to the jury. A poor man \ncomes into court with a presentiment of being subjected \nto abuse and insult. The counsellor frequently inquires \nof the witness his occupation, his mode of life, and his \ncircumstances, with a view to ridicule him. Cowardly \nconduct to abuse a defenceless man from behind a chief- \njustice, and under the covert of law ! A man of fortune is \ntreated very differently ; and if anything offensive should \nescape the counsel, there is immediate room made for an \napology which more than satisfies the delicate feelings of \nthe witness. I know that witnesses often give their evi- \ndence in a manner which lays them open to fair criticism ; \nbut if this sometimes happen, it is not a sufficient reason \nfor abusing an honest man. Should our citizens receive \nsuch treatment in our courts as the poorer class of English \nsuffer at Westminster and Guildhall, they would first call \nupon the judge to protect them ; and if not protected, they \nwoidd protect themselves. Here an innocent man is \nobliged to suffer in cross-examination the meditated bru- \ntality of a secure attack, while the judge stands ready \nto commit the witness to Newgate if he dare to assert \nhis dignity. \n\nI am daily more and more surprised at the difference \nbetween the English as a nation and as individuals. They \nthemselves seem conscious of the difference. Individuals \nare more ready to resent national than personal attacks. \nThe man who will sit patiently and hear his neighbors \nabused, instantly shows a spirit of opposition if it be ques- \ntioned whether the English were free under Queen Eliza- \nbeth. It is the part of most men to take little care of \ntheir private, so long as their public character stands fair. \n\n\n204 LETTERS PBOM LONDON. \n\nDan Prior, after spending part of the evening with Pope. \nSwift, and Oxford, would close it over a pot of porter in \nLong Acre, with a soldier and his wife. \n\nIf the English think they have no circumstantial, pre- \nscriptive right to assume superiority, they readily acquiesce \nin inferiority, and still assume as much as they dare. Not \nso our citizens ; they attach voluntary respect to merit, \nhut do not allow even superiority to assume anything. \n\nI am happy to record the following anecdote, as it illus- \ntrates a rare species of magnanimity. I was lately in com- \npany with some of those happy mortals, who, having \nalready enjoyed a competency of fame, arc now reposing \nunder their own statues. They were speaking of vulgar \nprejudices. One of them said he had been stoned several \ntimes in passing through a certain country village, he- \ncause his hair naturally curled. I asked him how long \nsince this happened ; he replied, \" Ahout thirty years since, \nwhen I was a journeyman shoemaker.\" \n\nI cannot better illustrate the subject of the present letter \nthan by quoting the following famous speech of Beckford \nto George the Third. This speech is inscribed on Beck- \nford's monument in Guildhall, in large, fair characters. \nIt is supposed to do the city of London great honor. There \ncertainly is in the last paragraph a wonderful degree of \ndignity for a Lord Mayor ; but the Asiatic style of the \nrest of the speech will be received in the United States \nfor sarcastic raillery : — \n\n\"Most Gracious Sovereign, — Will your Majesty be \npleased so far to condescend as to permit the Mayor of \nyour loyal city of London to declare in your royal presence, \non behalf of his fellow-citizens, how much the bare appre- \nhension of your Majesty's displeasure would, at all times, \naffect their minds ; the declaration of that displeasure has \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 205 \n\nalready filled theni with inexpressible anxiety, and with \nthe deepest affliction. Permit me, sire, to assure your \nMajesty, that your Majesty has not in all your dominions \nany subjects more faithful, more dutiful, or more affec- \ntionate to your Majesty's person and family, or more \nready to sacrifice their lives and fortunes to the main- \ntenance of the true honor and dignity of your crown. \n\n•■ We do, therefore, with the greatest humility and sub- \nmission, most earnestly supplicate your Majesty that you \nwill not dismiss us from your presence without expressing \na more favorable opinion of your faithful citizens, and with- \nout some comfort, without some prospect at least of re- \ndress. \n\n\" Permit me, sire, further to observe, that whoever has \nalready dared, or shall hereafter endeavor by false insinu- \nations and suggestions to alienate your Majesty's affections \nfrom your loyal subjects in general, and from the city of \nLondon in particular, and to withdraw your confidence in \nand regard for your people, is an enemy to your Majesty's \nperson and family, a violator of the public peace, and a \nbetrayer of our happy Constitution as it was established \nat the glorious revolution.\" \n\nThus ended this famous speech ; but his hard-hearted \nMajesty scarcely sat long enough to hear the supplications \nof his poor, disconsolate subjects. Beckford was dismissed \nwithout comfort and without redress. Alas, broken- \nhearted citizens of London! \n\nBut I challenge all the archives of Asia to match the \nfollowing: \"The Lords spiritual and temporal, and Com- \nmons do, in the name of all the people of England, most \nhumbly and faithfully submit themselves, their heirs and \nposterity forever,\" etc. I am sick of such stuff. \n\nAdieu. \n\n\n206 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\n\nLETTER XX. \n\n\nLoxdox, March 28. \n\nHad Thcophrastus made a voyage to Britain, he might \nhave embellished his treatise, \" De Lapidibus,\" with num- \nberless \" lusi natural.\" That Spartan was no doubt a wag \nwho asked the Athenian whether trees grew square in his \ncountry. I know not why trees in Athens should not have \nbeen square as well as that the quarries in England should \nproduce stones of all dimensions, some in the form of \ncylinders, others square, and some round. Nor is this all; \nstones not only grow in these convenient geometrical fig- \nures, but grow as smooth as the hand of art could polish \nthem; and not a few of them seem to be fluted, as though \na chisel had been employed, particularly those in the form of \ncylinders. Among all the curiosities in the British Museum, \nI saw not one of these natural productions, — a striking \ninstance how little mankind regard the greatest miracles \nof Nature which are within the observation of everybody. \nShould one of these fluted columns be discovered in New \nEngland, every man would turn antiquary ; yet I should be \nsorry to see any of these fluted columns in our country, \nfor our citizens would be so pleased with them that they \nmight endeavor to force our quarries to conform to those \nof England, and that would be an endless undertaking. \n\nWith these ready-made materials, it is no wonder that \nmany of their public buildings are built on a magnificent \nscale. St. Paul's is one grand, entire, vast edifice, which \ndoes great honor to the Saint, and argues no little piety in \nthe nation. \"Where so much money is made by religion, \nit would look like ingratitude not to show some little \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 207 \n\nexternal respect to its founders ; yet St. Paul's is rather a \nniggardly building for a people who have sported away so \nmuch money. St. Paul's cost only £1,500,000 sterling. \nComparing the value of money at the time it was built \nwith the present value of money, we may suppose it cost \n£3,500,000 ; a trifle which could never have been missed \nfrom the treasury, and which might have been reimbursed \nto the nation in exchequer bills in two days. \n\nThe front of St.. Martin's, its bold design, its majestic \npillars, its elevated ground-work, rising so gradually that \nthe eye commands it without an effort, its weighty pedes- \ntals and spacious portico frequently delay the stranger until \ndivine service is over. I might thus run over, in descrip- \ntion, the Royal Exchange, Somerset House, Westminster \nAbbey, and a hundred other buildings ; but they excite no \nfeeling in the heart, convey no food to the mind, and scarcely \nthe skeleton of an image to the imagination. Yet the Par- \nliament Douse I must particularly mention. It is a very \nold building, and from a western view seems to have fallen \nfrom the clouds in \" disjuncta membra \" and to have been \nblown together by a violent wind ; so that the Parliament \nand Parliament House are perfectly congenial. At differ- \nent periods this building has undergone many improve- \nments. There is quite a small portion of the building, \nknown as the House of Commons, formerly St. Stephen's \nChapel, which long ago was devoted to what was then \ncalled religion. This part of the building is thought by \nmany to be out of repair; but, unfortunately, it is situate \nso near the centre, and the approach to it is through so \nmany windings that you might as well pull down the \nwhole edifice as undertake to repair it. Besides, many of \nthe occupiers of this apartment have an interest in the \npremises, and are naturally attached to a house which \nhas cost them so much money ; but, like many other \n\n\n208 LETTEES FBOM LONDON. \n\npersons, rather than repair their house they are willing to \nhazard its falling on their heads. Perhaps no human in- \nvention was ever more criticized than this apartment. \nFor instance, some have observed that it appears very \nwell defined at a distance, but that internally it is little \nbetter than a labyrinth ; that those who enter soon get be- \nwildered, no longer know their former friends, and seldom \nreturn the same way they entered. Others have compared \nit to a worsted purse, extremely accommodating, capable \ncither of contraction or expansion, at pleasure. Some \nhave more ludicrously comj tared it to a puppet-show, and \nhave stretched the comparison beyond all bounds of tolera- \ntion. After all, I think it the best room in the house. \n\nA little lower down is another famous apartment more \nornamental than useful, called the House of Lords. Its \nsize is a little less than that of the House of Commons. I \nnever was in any place so well calculated for lounging; and \nI believe it a just remark, that most of those who find them- \nselves on these satin seats lounge away the rest of their \ndays. Indeed, the government not infrequently places \nrestless men there to make them easy ; such a wonderful \ninfluence have these satin seats on the spirits of men. A \nviolent fever of ten or twenty years has been known to \nchange to a life-long lethargy. Calypso never possessed a \nstronger influence over the nature of men than do these \nsatin seats. \n\nThere are many small apartments on the area well \nworthy the notice of a stranger. Those termed the courts \nof King's Bench and Equity are the most remarkable of \nthe several courts. The court of Equity is a very small \napartment, nearly circular, — in allusion, I suppose, to the \ncircle, the most perfect of figures ; though a person whose \ncase had been in Equity five-and-twenty years might sup- \npose that the allusion points to Time, as the circle has no \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 209 \n\nend. All these courts of law are so exceedingly circum- \nscribed that you might imagine they were designed for the \nlawyers only. The entrance to them is through a spacious \nhall, but the distance is bo great that the suitors are fre- \nquently lost before they can find the courts. So this \nspacious hall, though built for the public service, is chiefly \ndevoted to the entertainment of a fevr lawyers. It is a pity \nthese courts cannot be rendered more commodious and \neasy of access ; but there is very little prospect of this, \nfor the bare proposition would evoke a \" nolumus mutare \" \nthroughout the country. \n\nI shall speak more distinctly in my next letter. \n\nAdieu. \n\n\nLETTER XXI. \n\nLondon, April 4. \n\nThe conclusion of my last letter has given occasion for \nthe present. \n\nHuman laws, however well adapted to a people's circum- \nstances, however well defined or mildly executed, are of \nunequal operation. In all societies there are persons who \nhang so loosely on the social compact that they may be \nconsidered privileged characters, and paramount to the \nlaw ; while others, though seemingly born for the opera- \ntion of law on themselves, contrive to slip the noose of \njustice. These two classes are little affected, whether the \nlaws operate kindly or with the greatest severity. How- \nevor, the number of these people will scarcely be. trouble- \nsome under a polity where all the members have it in their \npower to live by industry in decent respectability. Our \nown country is an illustrious proof of this ; the conven- \n\n14 \n\n\n210 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nicnccs of life arc there procured with such facility, and the \ngovernment rests so lightly on the shoulders of the citizens, \nthat the most abandoned European rogues find it to their in- \nterest, on their arrival, to become honest. The burden of \nthe law forever bears hardest on that class of men who in \nmost countries are the majority, — I mean those who have \nsufficient honesty to keep within the limits of the law. yet \nnot sufficient property to feel perfectly easy under its au- \nthority. Hence the daring observation of Beccaria will be \nfound practically true : \" The generality of laws are ex- \nclusive privileges, — the tribute of all to the advantage \nof a few.\" \n\nNow, if the association of the rich and poor for the sup- \nport of law be a very unequal association, and if the poor \nsuffer the chief burden of that establishment which pro- \ntects the rich, and if law will, from necessity, even in a \ngovernment founded on the broad basis of political equal- \nity, operate in this manner, the man who, confiding in the \nprotection of law which has received its sanction from the \nhighest human authority, experiences from whatever cause \nits inefficacy, and finds himself ruined — though the law \nin its sarcastic mockery may give him a verdict — must \nfeel his moral sense weakened, and in the moment of \nindignation feel disposed to make reprisal. \n\nThese observations are necessary in order to convince \nyou that I am serious in what I shall advance in the pres- \nent letter, though I cannot reasonably expect one word of \nit will be believed. \n\nIt was the policy of Alfred, says history, to bring justice \nhome to every man's door. Now this is either an orna- \nmental story in the annals of that age, or Madam Justice \nhas for many years been too proud to enter the door of a \ncottage. It is the boast of the English that they live under \nequal laws, and that in the eye of the law the meanest \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. -211 \n\nman in the kingdom ranks with the greatest. Though \nthis were a vain boast, it bespeaks a people not entirely \nuninfluenced by noble sentiments. It has, however, unfor- \ntunately happened to other people besides the Romans to \nappeal to laws engraven on \" twelve tables,\" but which, in \nprocess of time, attract the notice of the lawyer less than \nthat of the antiquary. A modern Roman may dig up a \nbroken piece of an old column which shall contain the \nwhole spirit of Roman liberty, and on this authority assert \nhimself a freeman. So may an Englishman produce from \nhis dusty archives Magna Charta, and quote you the proud \npassage : \" Nulli vendemus, nulli negabimus, aut differemus, \nrectum aut justiciam,\" and I will send him to the court of \nKing's Bench or Common Pleas to recover the sum of £10. \nA form of government or a code of laws may command our \nadmiration, but unless they operate in practice they serve \nonly to betray the weak more easily to the wary. The \noperation of the laws is law, not their t!'e<>r>/. \n\nA legitimate government, that is, a government founded \non public will, should make it a first concern that the laws \nof property 1 sit as easy as possible on the shoulders of pov- \nerty. The greatest praise which a code of laws can receive \nis the high estimation in which it is held by the poor ; but \nif the operation of the laws be oppressive, the poor naturally \ntransfer their hatred from the abuses of the laws to the \nlaws themselves. Uence the embryo of revolution. It is \nunfortunate that in all governments destitute of a regene- \nrative principle the first abuse merges in the second, and \nthe latter in the succeeding one ; so that at length accumu- \nlated abuses lay claim to prescription and outbrave the law \nitself. Otherwise it never could have happened that in \nEngland, famous throughout the world for just judges and \n\n1 Criminal law, however severe, in all countries operates nior- \nthan tin; laws which regulate private property. \n\n\n2l2 LETTERS FROM LONDON'. \n\nwell-defined law, a poor man whom injury has overwhelmed \nis necessitated to fly from remedy, lest the justice of his \ncountry should double his distress. Indeed, I caught the \nfollowing observation from Lord Chancellor Eldon,1 while \non his scat in Chancery : \" In many instances a man who \ntrusts to his neighbor's honesty, without taking any secu- \nrity, stands a better chance of obtaining justice than if he \nbrings his case into Chancery on the faith of parchment.\" \nThe Chancellor delivered this with a vehemence which \ndid him honor, and in just indignation at the perversion \nof justice, which in his own court and under his own eye \noccurs so frequently in spite of himself. This, let it be \nobserved, was in the court of Chancery. It is the inferior \ncourts which most interest the great mass of the people. \nIn Chancery, if the scales of justice sometimes labor, the \nsuitors in general can afford to oil them. Let the laws \ntake care of the poor, the rich can take care of themselves : \nthe widow's cruise I wish to spare. \n\nI shall now show you, by a single fact, the practical \noperation of law in England. \n\nIn the year 1793 the number of writs from £10 to £20 \nonly, which issued in Middlesex, amounted to 5,719. The \nsums sued for amounted to £81,791. If not one of these \nwrits had been defended, the costs would have amounted \nto £GS,728. Had they been defended, the amount of costs \nwould have arisen to £285,950 ! This I do not expect you \nwill believe. What havoc among the poor! Sir William \nBlaekstone says that the impartial administration of justice \nis the great end of civil society; but such justice as the \nabove, one would suppose, would soon be the complete end \nof civil society. \n\nColeman, in his comedy of the \" Poor Gentleman,\" im- \nagines the following dialogue between Sir Robert Bramble \n1 Better known in the United States as Sir John Scot. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 21 o \n\nand Humphrey. Sir Rob. : \" Is there any distresses in the \nparish ? Read the morning list, Humphrey.\" Humph. : \n\" Jonathan Haggens of Muck Mead is put in prison.\" Sir \nRob. : \" Why, it was but last week Gripe, the attorney, \nrecovered two cottages for him, by law, worth sixty \npounds.\" Humph. : \" And charged a hundred and ten \nfor his trouble ; so seized the cottages for part of his bill, \nand threw Jonathan into jail fur the remainder.\" \n\nI know not where I read the following story, which, \nthough in the oriental style, was doubtless fabricated in \nEngland : — \n\nTanghi, a young and gay Chinese, had married the \ndaughter of a wealthy Arab, whose dowry was three horses. \nWho was so happy as Tanghi ! He had a very pretty \nwife and, what in some countries is still more valuable \nthan women, three of the finest horses in the empire. It \nis no wonder that Tanghi was disposed to make a gay \nappearance. He sported his horses to the admiration or \nenvy of all Pekin ; but if wisdom is sometimes rash, how \nshould folly know where to stop ? Tanghi soon sported \naway his property, and in a moment of distress sold his \nfinest horse on a short credit. Tchin Chan, the pur- \nchaser, had a very particular friend, a lawyer, who com- \nmanded no little practice at Fekin. This friend had \nlong desired to become the proprietor of at least one of \nthese Arabian horses ; and when his friend Tchin Chan \ninformed him of the purchase, the lawyer naturally in- \nquired if the money were paid. To oblige his friend. \nTchin Chan promised to refuse payment. The lawyer \nimmediately wrote a note to Tanghi, informing him that \nTchin Chan designed to refuse payment, and politely \noffered his services in recovering the money. At the end \nof nine months, Tanghi got judgment for the whole sum \nwith interest ; but Tchin Chan, by the advice of his friend, \n\n\n214 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nappealed to a higher tribunal, and again recovered judg- \nment for the money with interest. After another appeal \nin the last resort, final judgment with costs and interest \nwas given in favor of Tanghi, for the Chinese agree with \nSir William Blackstone in thinking that impartial justice \nis the great end of civil society. The story adds, that \njust before final judgment, Tanghi's two other horses were \nattached by his lawyer. \n\nIs it not remarkable that legislation, which ought to be \nthe first, has in all countries been the last concern of \nnations ? While people are making telescopes twenty feet \nlong to discover new systems, they are regardless of man. \nthe glory of their own system ! Could not an Englishman \nvisit the United States and retort much of this letter ? I \nbelieve he might. \n\nThere is one petty institution in London which merits all \nmy admiration. It is the only instance which I have ever \nfound of a discrimination between the rich and the poor.1 \nThis institution is the Court of Requests for the recov- \n\n1 It is very true the laws of property make no distinction between man and \nman. A poor man is secure of justice, when his cause comes before the sacred \ntribunal, but if he do not perish before it arrives there, he may possibly find \nhimself buried at last under a load of justice. \n\nOf all the emperors of the East, Selim was the most just. Not a day \npassed in which it was not proclaimed from the tower of the palace, \" Selim \nis just ! Selim never sleeps while injustice triumphs.\" The name of Selim \nmingled itself with the religion of his subjects. No praises ascended to \nAllah, in which Selim was not named ; uo tears were shed which accused \nSelim ; no wrinkles of age owed a deeper furrow to the account of Selim. \nHis presence anions his people was as benign as the dew of heaven to the \ntropic latitudes. Razai lived far from the capital, content to cultivate a \nfew paternal acres. An opulent neighbor in draining his own lands, had \noverflowed the little patrimony of Razai. In vain Razai remonstrated, and \nthen proceeded to the capital to throw himself at the feet of Selim, often \nrepeating on the way, \"Selim is just! Not a day passes in wdiich is not \nproclaimed from the tower of the palace, Selim never sleeps while injus- \ntice triumphs.\" Razai had never seen the capital, and when he entered it \nhis inquiring eyes ami earnest looks arrested the attention of everybody. \nHe told his story a hundred times before he arrived at the palace, every \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LOXDOX. 215 \n\ncry, without appeal, of debts under forty shillings, at the \nexpense of ten pence ! There are many of these petty \ncourts distributed through Westminster, and if they oper- \nate without abuse, arc, in my opinion, not less illustrious \nthan the most noble order of the Garter. \n\nSuch institutions in the capital towns of the United \nStates would afford an alleviation from one of the greatest \npressures under which the poor labor. Such courts should \ncommand the whole practice under ten dollars ; and if the \nlegal fees would not engage a lawyer of integrity and tal- \nents, let him be remunerated from the county treasury. \n\nIt would not be less glorious than beneficial to the \nUnited States should the Congress commission, at the ex- \npense of the nation, a number of intelligent men to bring \nhome all that is better in other countries in economy, law, \nagriculture, and the arts of life. \n\nAdieu. \n\none telling him that Selim -was just, ami that it was daily proclaimed from \nthe tower that Selim never slept while injustice triumphed. - \nserve that a few trees are kings of the wood, many are \non an equality and of respectable height, but a greater \nnumber are mere dwarfs which Nature stints (and these \nin resentment grow crooked and knotty), besides a great \nquantity of furze and underwood.\" \n\n\" Nay, sir,\" I replied, \" you have no right to use this \nillustration. If the dwarfs, the furze, and the underwood \nsuffer by being overshadowed by the kings of the wood, \nyour exposition were happy. Besides, sir, Nature, to which \nyou appeal, is not so capricious ; you have coupled together \ntrees, furze, and underwood, three different species. Now, \nwe find in inanimate nature a certain deference to equality \namong members of the same species ; but, sir, if an upas- \ntree were to spring up on the equator and threaten to \novershadow the whole world, would not every tree of the \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 219 \n\nwood be interested to destroy the poisonous influence of \nthis tyrant ? You carry your principles too far, sir.\" \n\nHe smiled at iny impetuosity. \n\nIn passing down Fleet Street we saw at a distance a \nman of enormous and disproportionate body. \" Do you see \nthat man.\" said Mr. L., \"who is approaching with such \nhard labor ? Twenty years ago he was as healthy, active, \nand well-proportioned as any man in London ; but, unfor- \ntunately, a distant relative left him a large fortune. This \nproved his ruin ; lie abandoned himself to indolence and \nhigh living, consequently to gout and grossness. The fat \nsoon began to grow about his eyes, so that now you see \nlie is almost blind ; doubtless another twelvemonth will \nhermetically seal both of his eyes.\" \n\nSoon after, he pointed to a little court which we passed, \nobserving, \" A man lives in a back apartment there wbo \ncould not give a better account of himself for the last \ntwenty years than could the person we have just seen.\" \n\nI asked who he might be. \n\n\" He is an alchemist,\" said Mr. L., \" in search of the \nphilosopher's stone ; but,\" added he, \" I have known only \none discoverer of the secret : he knew the grand art of \nbeing happy without it.\" \n\n\" But, sir, how can you account for it that persons in \nthis age should attempt to realize fortunes from those \nspeculations wherein thousands have miserably failed and \nnot one person has ever succeeded ? Nothing equals this \nin the history of madness and extravagance.\" \n\n•• V -.\" said Mr. L., \" notwithstanding every preceding \nadventurer has been ruined, notwithstanding the ridicule \nattached to the pursuit, notwithstanding repeatedly abortive \nexperiments, still there are alchemists who persevere in \nsearch of the philosopher's stone. There are anomalies in \nthe minds of men which perplex the deepest research. \n\n\n220 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\n\" We have on record several instances of characters not \nless extraordinary than the alchemists of our day, — the \ncharacter of Proxenus, for instance, aa drawn by Xenophon : \n\n\" ' Tavra ovi> ; epya aval, oo\"Tty, \ni%ov fxev elptjvTjv ayeiv avev alayyvrfi ical j3\\d/3rj<; aipelrai \n7ro\\ep,eiv ' e%di> Se padvfielv, j3ov\\erat, iroveiv ware TroXep.eii' ■ \ne%ov he \\p7jfiaTa e%ei.v dict,vhvv£,tiv ti'Sures ivravda nal TCL\\t] Kal \nTro\\ei5.1 \n\ni ,\" continued Mr. L., \"cast your eye on the Thames, \nand contemplate the innumerable merchantmen. The per- \nfumes of Arabia, the luxuries of the South, and the ele- \ngancies of the East are wafted up this silver stream, and \nthence distributed through a thousand channels, to gratify \nthe senses of this happy people. Here you find what no \nother people ever witnessed, — luxury and liberty, commerce \nand strength of character.\" \n\n\" Happy the man,\" thought I, \" who in the midst of mis- \nery and ruin sees nothing but scenes of felicity. Such an \none will find flowers in December.\" \n\n\" You seem to be in a revery,\" said Mr. L. \n\n\"Yes, sir; I was comparing the English with those \nblessed spirits of Indian paradise, who, reposing half \nintoxicated beside water-falls, on the banks of their ely- \nsium. sleep only to dream of pleasure, and wake only to \nenjoyment. Oh, happy people of Wapping, did you but \nknow your happiness! For you the luxuries of the South \nand the elegances of the East are landed at your doors. \nOh, fragrant tatterdemalions of St. Giles's, would you but \nincense yourselves with the perfumes of Arabia ! \" \n\nMr. L. smiling at this outburst, observed that every Picca- \ndilly and Pall Mall must have a St. Giles's, and every Fleet \nStreet and Cornhill a Wapping. He then asked me if I \nhad ever traced the progress of civil society from its first \n\n1 The late Arthur W. Austin, Esq., a son of the author of this volume, \nturned these and other lines of Alcens into verse (see \" The Woman and the \nQueen : a Ballad, and Other Specimens of Verse.\" Boston, 1875). The lines \nwere also paraphrased by Sir William Jones in his verses entitled, \" What \nConstitutes a State.\" — Ed. \n\n15 \n\n\n226 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nrude endeavors to its present state of social affection and \naccommodating polity. \n\nHe added : \" Here arc nearly a million of people in this \nsmall compass, whose interests, views, and pursuits cross \none another as do the streets ; yet human policy has con- \ntrived to divest the people in a great measure of Hobbs's \nprinciple, and has rendered them the most pliant, docile, \nand submissive of all animals. In a state of Nature cor- \nporal strength dominates the mental faculty. Here, all \nthe violences of a state of Nature are usurped under law, \ncustom, prerogative, privilege, pride, avarice, and fashion ; \nand what would be considered among barbarians refine- \nment on barbarity is effected here by mutual consent.\" \n\n\" I pray you, sir, particularize.\" \n\n\" Why, for example, do you wish to banish a man from \nhis country ? It may be easily effected, at the same time \nyou will appear to confer a favor. Do you wish to assas- \nsinate your enemy.? gain his confidence, affect friendship, \nanticipate his feelings, administer to his desires, allure him \nto the precipice, and in the degree he approaches ruin, you \nwill rise in his esteem ; but if you wish to imbitter his \nsituation with a knowledge of your own perfidy, throw him \ninto prison, and keep him there for life. If this process be \ntoo tedious there is a more direct way. If the man be in \nbusiness, coHude with his creditors and employers. Do you \nwish to see him worn to a skeleton with constant fatigue ? \nGarrow shall be made to wear away his eyebrows,1 and \nErskine and Gibbs shall become sallow in poring over dark \nquestions, — darkened still more with the glorious uncer- \ntainty of the law, — while the judge shall daily sit seven \nhours2 on the Bench, in defiance of gout, gravel, and stone. \n\n1 Mr. Garrow has no eyebrows, and no wonder, since he has browbeaten \nso many witnesses. \n\n2 The Chief-Justice of the Court of King's Bench is daily on the Bench \nseven hours duriug nearly six months in the year. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 227 \n\nIn one word, sir, do you wish to send your enemy to bell, \nadvise him to take orders, and offer him promotion in \nthe church.\" \n\n\" But I am most surprised that this immense number of \npeople who live at the expense of one another, and who \nhave less regard for their neighbors than the savage has \nfor his, should contrive to live in a compass so small. I \nthink it worthy of remark that the most populous cities \nhave always been the most easily governed.\" \n\n\" Why,\" said Mr. L., \"those who are most enslaved are \nmost obedient to their rulers. If you could put all the \nChinese, Italians, Germans, and Spaniards into a washing- \ntub, they would be more easily go\\«erned. In despotic \nStates the people are more quiet and passive than in a \nmonarchy like this. Hence more enormities are com- \nmitted in England in one year by the subjects than in any \nother country in Europe ; but, on the other hand, fewer \ninjuries are offered to the subjects under the sanction \nof law.\" \n\n\" This may be true, sir, with respect to England, but how \nhappens it that in the United States — a country so free \nthat not a few of the savages have preferred it to Lake \nHuron, or the more temperate regions of the South-west \n— fewer enormities arc committed by the subjects there \nthan in England. To particularize : In the most strongly \ncontested elections there has never been a man slain. They \ncannot say this at Westminster or Nottingham.\" \n\n\" It is of little consequence to your people, who their \nlegislators are, so long as the Constitution is administered \non its own principles. Now the probability is, that of \ntwo, three, or more candidates, all will support the Con- \nstitution. Hence in most elections, there is at present \nwith your people no other than a personal motive of \npreference.\" \n\n\n228 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\n\" I instanced but one particular. Can you give as good \na reason why there arc fewer crimes of every description \ncommitted in the United States, by citizens, than in any \nother country ? \" \n\nMr. L. candidly allowed that the difference is to be attrib- \nuted to the system of government. \n\nMr. L. then gave the conversation another turn and \nremarked, — \" There was once a merchant in extensive \nbusiness — a man of deep calculation and great foresight \n— who ascended St. Paul's to command a view of the city. \nHe took a map from his pocket, and stood some time in \nmelancholy musing, when he exclaimed, ' Here is a true \npicture of worldly greatness ; this city has already cost \nmore than it will ever be worth ! ' What,\" said Mr. L., \" do \nyou imagine was the process of this merchant's mind ? \" \n\nTo this it was replied : \" Perhaps he was a West India \nproprietor, or an East India director, or a great stock job- \nber; perhaps he was all these together, and possibly, he had \nbeen in both Indies and had seen in the East those jungles ' \nof which Cornwallis, the successor of Mr. Hastings, wrote \nto the Company. If so, the ethereal air of this eminence \nmight, for a moment, have elevated his mind above personal \nconsideration, and led him to compare the affluence and \nhappiness of London with the misery and oppression of all \nthose who are the sources of your greatness. Then casting \nhis eye on the map, and reflecting how large a portion of \nthe globe was at that moment suffering for the aggrandize- \nment of a few merchants, he was naturally led. to exclaim, \n' Auri sacra fames ! ' \" \n\nWhile I was saying this, I perceived that Mr. L. was \n\ncollecting himself for a violent explosion. In his opinion, \n\n1 Cornwallis wrote to the East India Company that three fifths of the \nCompany's territory had become a jungle ; that is, deserted by the natives, and \npossessed by wild beasts, meaning thereby lions, tigers, leopards, etc., not \nEnglishmen. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON'. 229 \n\nI had not been sufficiently respectful toward the majesty of \nold England. \n\n\"Sir,\" said he, \"you have totally mistaken the mer- \nchant's meaning. He was a notorious miser, who came \nhere for the pleasure of contemplating the various situation \nof his own estates, but being apprehensive of the depreci- \nation of real estate he was alarmed for his property. Com- \nmerce, which you affect to undervalue, is the grand pillar \nof our strength and magnificence. In these times, a \nsmall extent of territory must be commercial in order to \nmaintain its entirety and independence ; the people, occu- \npied in commerce and manufactures, must depend for pro- \ntection on the military resources which wealth insures, or \nat least suffer a dismemberment of the kingdom. Destroy \nour commerce and you instantly wither the heart of Eng- \nland ; those thousand veins which lead from a thousand \ndistant extremities in so many directions to this centre, \nwould cease to nourish their parent source.\" \n\nThis was conclusive, so far as it related singly to Eng- \nland ; but I could not refrain from remarking that there is \nno mutual benefit, for England takes profit of the veins, but \naffords not a single artery. We now descended. \n\nAfter I returned home, I fell into a revery. \" Here is a \ncountry,\" thought I, \" whose greatness is built on the oppres- \nsion and slavery of all those who are connected with her ; \nwherever England has laid her hand, she has left the print \nof her fingers. Wherever she has trodden, she has blasted \nvegetation. Of whatever country she has gotten possession, \nshe has reduced it, either to a state of slavery or to desola- \ntion. The moment her influence is felt, it either rouses the \nspirit of emigration, or impels to immediate flight.1 The \n\n1 Yet the government of England, when it destroys its enemies, adores \nGod*s righteous judgment : when it is likely to suffer, it cries out in the name \nof heaven and earth against the diabolical machinations of its enemies. \n\n\n230 LETTERS FltOM LONDON. \n\nfertile fields of Ireland show noble cattle, but a fine har- \nvest is a blessing to her oxen, not to her people, — they are \n^•excluded from God's providence. Even Scotland, reduced \nfar below the state of Nature, and weary of the sight of her \ndear native hills, banishes herself forever to the frontiers \nof America. Nor is England much more enviable ; she \nstarves her subjects to fatten her horses. If this be the \nstate of things under the wing of the Constitution, what \nmay be expected at the extremities of the empire ? If Eng- \nland's West India possessions were sufficiently extensive to \ndrain Africa, in ten years the race of negroes would be \nextinct.1 The East is more involved in darkness ; and \nperhaps it is more honorable to humanity, and to the hon- \norable East India Company, that this history should never \nbe written or mentioned.\" \n\nHelp me bless God, my dear fellow, that the United \nStates are not within the influence of this upas, and that \nwe are nationally guilty of but one enormity, — I mean the \ntoleration of slavery. \n\nOh, heaven! is it possible that in the United States, a \ncountry where the purest principles of legislation which \never adorned civil society hold sway ; a country in which \nthe human character is already elevated to a superior \ndegree, as compared with the miserable people of Europe ; \na country whose principles, tested by their present opera- \ntion, are to influence future ages and perhaps sanction the \nbasest crimes, — is it possible that in such a country, you \ncan find a \" slave to be sold \" ? \n\nWhat abominable impudence! What unheard of incon- \nsistency ! Let other people who do not acknowledge our \nfeelings and our principles, enslave and be enslaved. \n\n1 It has been ascertained that the West India planters are obliged to im- \nport annually at the rate of ten per cent, on their stock. I submit this to \nLord Thurlow. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 231 \n\nEurope is not inconsistent! She never acknowledged the \nrights of man. In England, — whose oppressions have \ntravelled with the revolution of the globe, have explored \nnew oceans, and have extended to the four quarters of the \nworld, — a negro is as free as a Briton. I blush for my \ncountry; and I have been made by Englishmen to blush \nfor my country. Adieu. \n\n\nLETTER XXIV. \n\nLondon, April 22. \n\nThe south of Europe has long been accustomed to call \nthe English barbarians. The weaker character, which \nsuffers from the stronger, is readily disposed to strong epi- \nthets. The degenerate Greeks termed the Romans bar- \nbarians. A nation of slaves will always be inclined to \nconsider their neighbors barbarous, in the degree they \napproach natural freedom. This opinion of foreigners \nought to flatter the English ; they would be little disposed \nto become like their neighbors in order to be more \ncivilized. \n\nThat people, whoever they may be, who for a thousand \nyears have neither changed their constitution of govern- \nment nor their religion, nor suffered the forcible and \ninfectious intercourse of foreigners, but whose laws, cus- \ntoms, manners, and sentiments, kindly bending with time \nand circumstance, are nothing more than emanations from \nthe spirit of their government, will regard the English \nas a monstrous sort of people. \n\nHowever, it must be couceded that foreigners have some \nlittle color for their opinion, though they are not suffi- \n\n\n232 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nciently candid to inquire the reason. The English have \nbeen so frequently bandied about and suffered so many \nmodifications within a thousand years that one part of \ntheir character is at least two centuries behind the other. \nThis will ever be the case where the original stock of a \nnation like the English has suffered so many ingraftings \nand revolutions. Jn order that laws, customs, and manners \nmay keep pace with civilization, it is necessary that the \npeople should preserve their principles and their individ- \nuality, and lie neither retarded nor hastened in their career. \nBut if a people be not free when they enter the social con- \nfederacy, those checks which they may receive and those \nforeign inroads which will partially destroy their individu- \nality are as likely to benefit as to injure. \n\nThe English, you very well know, have been peculiarly \nsubject to those impressions which revolutions leave \nbehind ; and no revolution can happen without exciting \nthe worst passions into action, and transmitting them to \nposterity. \n\nAs we learn from history, this people were at one time \nlittle better than savages. Propitious events have led them \nto comparative freedom ; but these events have rendered \nthe English the most complex characters in Europe by \nnot always happening at that period of their civilization \nwhich was most conducive to their advantage. I give an \ninstance. \n\nFrom the moment Magna Charta was signed, the Eng- \nlish fancied themselves free ; the nobles, indeed, attained \ntheir object. The people also were proclaimed free ; but \nthey had not more of the spirit of freemen than has the \nslave who rests on his spade and listens to the song of \nliberty. They were not then ready for freedom. The \nissue of the Revolution of 1G88 was the best constitution \nof government which modern Europe — which perhaps the \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 233 \n\nworld had ever witnessed. The English were then free ; \nunfortunately their freedom came too late. Liberty for \nthe first time found herself seated on the couch of com- \nmerce. The consequence might have been foreseen ; an \nevil has grown up with the English Constitution which has \nlong since proved its ruin. \n\nThere is but one period allotted to any people in which \nthey can establish their freedom. Prior to this period they \nare too barbarous ; posterior to this period they are too \ncivilized. The Romans under the auspices of Lucius \nJunius Brutus seized the happy moment. In process of \ntime they gradually lost their liberty ; yet they knew not \nprecisely how nor when ; but lost it certainly was in the \ndays of Marina and Sulla. Brutus, some time after, en- \ndeavored to restore the liberty of his country, but it was \ntoo late. Lacedcemon offers a similar remark. Lycurgus \nestablished what might then be called freedom ; but after \na few centuries, neither Agis nor Cleomenes could renovate \ndeparted principles. \n\nI will also instance the Reformation. This happened at \na period fortunate for the people. The Roman Catholic \nreligion when it has its proper operation, is an effeminate \nreligion and tends to precocious civilization. Had the Eng- \nlish continued Roman Catholics until now they would have \nbeen much weaker characters than they are at present. \nThough the Reformation strengthened the national char- \nacter of the English, yet a change of religion in any coun- \ntry will awaken the most ferocious passions, unless there \nbe an absolute toleration without political restriction and \ndisability. The injuries which the Dissenters, who are \none-fifth part of the nation, have suffered from the Church \nof England, and, on the other hand, the hard feelings which \nthe Churchmen indulge against the Dissenters have given \nan impression little favorable to the English character. \n\n\n23-4 LETTERS PBOM LONDON. \n\nPolitical dissensions, which have been urged further in \nEngland than among any other people except those who \nranged themselves as Guelphs or Ghibellines, have also \nserved to render this people barbarians in the eyes of \nforeigners. \n\nThe beheading of Charles the First, the usurpation of \nCromwell, and the consequences of the abdication of \nJames the Second, all had their effects. It is unnecessary \nto revert so far back as the days of York and Lancaster. \n\nIn the opinion of foreigners, the inhuman code of crimi- \nnal law tolerated by the English is little favorable to the \nnational character. If we reason only from their criminal \nlaws, without reference to the state of society, it would be \na fair conclusion that the English are either the worst or \nthe most barbarous people on earth. They have very hu- \nmanely abolished torture, but they have retained the death- \npenalty. Their humanity cannot endure the broken arm, \nthe lacerated body, the quivering flesh of the criminal ; \nbut a simple hanging affects them as little as the loss of a \nsheep, a sorry horse, or forty shillings. I have heard \nErskine laboriously address a jury, in the presence of the \nChief-Justice of England, in behalf of five pounds ; yet if \na man's life be at stake, no counsel is allowed the felon, \nwhatever may be the palliating circumstances, lest the \njury, more humane than the law, should be driven to \ncompassion. \n\nThe commonalty of the English have a most ferocious \nappearance ; but, as far as I have observed, it is only an \nappearance. We cannot expect that the deportment of \nthose who bear the whole weight of society should be so \nengaging, or their countenances so rounded with compla- \ncency, or their dispositions so placid as we should expect, if \ntheir lives were exempt from the pressure of daily anxiety. \nIf two men have originally the same features, different \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 235 \n\npursuits will so entirely change their physiognomies that \nLavater would have classed them in different species. \nAnother pursuit might have converted the hard features \nand sallow complexion of the lawyer into the round \nlineaments and ruddy glow of the bishop.1 \n\nIn fine, a people who have suffered so many impressions \nas have the English cannot have a nicely distinct char- \nacter : like the senators of Tiberius, they will be likely to \nhave all the airs of freemen, with the conduct of slaves ; \nand to those who are both slaves in their manners and \nactions the English will seem barbarians ; yet these bar- \nbarians have been governed by women, and were quiet \nsubjects under petticoat government. \n\nThere are only two marks in England of a very bar- \nbarous people. The first concerns the inhabitants of Lon- \ndon and the other great cities only, a large portion of \nwhom spend their days below the surface of the earth. \nThis is owing to the lack of accommodation, which \nobliges them to convert their cellars into kitchens. The \nother mark concerns the women only ; like many barbarous \npeople they paint, but with this difference, — the former \nto look like angels, the latter to look like the devil. \n\nAdieu. \n\n\nLETTER XXV. \n\nLondon, April 29. \nThe English ordinaries and eating-houses offer an in- \nexhaustible source of observation on the national character \nand manners. You meet not only with all descriptions of \n\n1 The business men are chiefly conversant in does not only give a cer- \ntain cast or turn to their minds, bnt is very often apparent in their outward \nbehavior. — Sjtectator, No. 197. \n\n\n236 LETTERS PEOM LONDON. \n\nLondon people, but likewise with French, Irish, Scotch, \nand country people ; and you may choose your company, \nfrom the most humble to the most exalted ; that is, you \nmay choose the price of your dinner, from sixpence to a \nguinea. You arc not troubled with the least ceremony ; if \nyou wish for nothing more than a dinner, you have only to \nenter these places, hang up your hat or keep it on your \nhead, sit down, look at your bill of fare, call for your din- \nner, pay for it, and go away. \n\nA Londoner generally enters the room and observes no- \nbody, plants himself firmly at the table, then in an airy \nmanner breaks his bread in halves, falls to, says not a word \nduring his dinner, — which he masticates rather slowly, \nyet swallows too quickly for his health, — rises from table \nin resolute reserve, and retires from the room as he would \nfrom a cavern. The Frenchman, on the contrary, makes a \ngeneral bow when he enters, no matter who the company \nmay be, carefully hangs up his hat, sits and adjusts him- \nself, cuts his bread, eats his dinner rapidly, sits a little \nwhile, converses, and retires with a general bow. \n\nIf you are willing to make an effort, you may often en- \ngage a Londoner in conversation, especially if he thinks \nyou are a grade above him, otherwise he may regard you \nas impertinent. The Scotch, Irish, and country people \nare more sociable at table, — the country people from \ncuriosity, the Scotch with a view to information, the Irish \nfrequently from a love of rodomontade. \n\nHowever reserved and indifferent people may be, they \nnever so fairly lay themselves open as at their meals. On \nno other occasions did the pagan gods and goddesses so \nopenly betray their origin in human invention as at their \njovial feasts of nectar and ambrosia. At table, the \ndivine forgets his system, the physician his last fatal ex- \nperiment, and the lawyer no longer casts a side glance \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 237 \n\nat his neighbor's pocket. All being on an equality at \nthese places, those who are so disposed feel no embar- \nrassment in giving themselves up to their natural im- \npulses. The most grave will sometimes be induced to for- \nget their affectation, while those who claim their parentage \nfrom Mercury and hold to the \" dulce est dissipere in \nloco \" desire no better place to worship the god than these \nliberal institutions afford. Not knowing that they shall \never see one another again, they scarcely feel responsible \nfor the sentiments they utter, and hence they sport their \nopinions on men and things, and not infrequently throw \nout, as though by chance, dubious yet favorite notions, \nin order to ascertain their probable currency with the \nworld. \n\nIf you wish to study human nature you can see it in all \nalive, provided you are willing to adapt yourself. There \nis not a grade in society with which you may not familiar- \nize yourself; but then it is necessary to have a various and \nextensive wardrobe, otherwise you will miss your object. \nUnder the late administration, the Venetian custom of \nspying out people's opinions was adopted ; so that every \nman was suspicious of the company in which he chanced \nto be. It is not exactly so now, though I have been \nshocked more than once by the remains of this poison \nof social intercourse. Figure to yourself a party of \n6trangers flung back in their chairs in all the security \nof good-humor and ingenuous remark, struck dumb on \nthe entrance of a person suspected for a pointer of gov- \nernment commissioned to scent out sedition. You would \nimagine the Roman \"delators\" revived again. Had I been \nin London during certain late years I should have felt \nmyself at Venice, and should never have passed Cold Bath \nFields without being reminded of the Inquisition. How \ndifferent in the United States ! If a person dislikes the \n\n\n238 LETTERS PEOM LONDON. \n\nadministration of government he says bo in the open mar- \nket, in the public streets, in popular assemblies, nay, more \n— a custom which I disapprove — in the pulpit, in those \nplaces dedicated to divine harmony ! If his abuse be \nmingled with any sort of reason it is listened to; if it \nbe scurrilous, it is only laughed at, or rendered harmless \nby inattention. In a good government seditious infection \nis never dangerous; it is not contagious; it cannot find \nmatter on which to operate ; by its dissipation it is rarefied, \ncleansed, or annihilated. \n\nThe same person, if he choose, in the course of a week \nmay parade Bond Street in the morning ; 1 gamble in the \nevening with knights and noblemen ; show himself at \nHungcrford's, and discourse of redoubts, battles, sieges, or \nbroadsides, captures, and prize-money ; shift his dress, and \ndine and dance with the beggars in St. Giles's ; look in at \nthe Stock Exchange Coffee-House, and affect the man of \nbusiness ; or go to Wapping, be entertained for sixpence, \nand pass himself off for an accomplished sailor. \n\nNo wonder the London wits should write good comedies ; \nthey can pick up a character every day ; and if they are at \na loss for a whole character they can readily put together \ntwo halves. A stock-jobber and a politician will always \nmake an excellent knave ; and if a pensioner with a \ncourtier will not make a complete parasite, they can add \na lord bishop. I am acquainted with a comic writer who \ntold me he met a man at an ordinary who afforded him the \nhero of his most successful comedy ; but it cost him, he \nadded, more than a week before he could perfectly catch \nhis hero. \n\nIf you wish to know how the petty cooks can afford to \n\n1 Those who are termed \" Bond-Street loungers \" consider mid-day mid- \nnight ; hence three o'clock in the afternoon is early dawn. These gentlemen \nare frugal in one respect, — they save their breakfasts. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 239 \n\ngive you a dinner for sixpence or less, I will tell you what \n1 learned at Wapping, where 1 dined for fourpenee half- \npenny including a farthing to the waiter, who was very \nmuch obliged to me. 1 was told it was the custom of the \nmore respectable ordinaries and eating-houses to sell their \nleavings to the next less great houses ; these in their turn \nsell again, SO nothing is lost; but a part of that dinner \nwhich is eaten at a high price at the west end of the town \nis eaten at Wapping, perhaps a fortnight after, for four- \npence. Tims the delicious viands of the rich degenerate \nat length into twopenny broth for the poor. This may \noffend a delicate stomach, but hunger never reasons, and \nas the sailors say, \" Poison is killed by boiling, and what \nwill not poison you will fatten you.\" Some of these cook- \nshops boast of more liberality than others. They give you \na tablecloth, a pewter plate and a spoon, and do not de- \nmand your money until you have dined ; while others will \nmake you pay before you eat a mouthful, and will trust you \nwith nothing but a wooden plate, a wooden bowl and a \nwooden spoon. \n\nThe different sorts of men whom you meet at these \nplaces arc remarkable. If it did not excite the most de- \nbasing ideas, it would be humorous to converse some- \ntimes with a class of men you find at these places, whose \nstupid ignorance would disgrace a Hottentot. If they \nhave Half an idea, they know not enough of the English \nlanguage to convey even that. They seem to have been \nborn in a cockle-shell and have never burst their confine- \nment. Locke possibly got his opinion that the human \nmini was like a blank sheet of paper from his knowledge \nof this description of men, whom you may find in every \ncook-shop. They are so profoundly stupid, they scarcely \nknow whence they came, where they arc, or whither they \nare going ; yet frequently they possess a remarkable \n\n\n24C LETTERS FEOM LONDON. \n\nsagacity in whatever is directly connected with their oc- \ncupations,— a fair proof that they once had minds capable \nof discernment. Therefore they ought not to be classed \nby naturalists as a distinct species, though they are gen- \nerally considered such by certain politicians. \n\nAs you know not who your company are, you may be as \nlikely to dine with a pickpocket as with a saint. One day, \nafter a genteel person, whose conversation was very intelli- \ngent, had retired from table, I was asked if I knew him. \nAnswering in the negative, I was informed that he was \nreputed to be a highwayman. This will probably surprise \nyou, but it ought not. In such a city as this, and in such \na country, where, if a man is willing to brave suspicion, the \nlaw waits until he affords full proof, a person may pos- \nsibly pass the greater part of his life in the business of a \nhighwayman, parade the public walks every day, and even \naffect the highest style of splendor, and all the while under \nthe strongest suspicions, yet no one will venture to arrest \nhim, or to charge him with his crimes. Although a thou- \nsand witnesses should testify that they were robbed, and \ncould almost testify they were robbed by the prisoner, yet \nthey must more than almost identify his person, which is \nextremely difficult on account of his mask ; otherwise he \nwould assuredly be acquitted. Our own criminal laws are \nsimilar. The same person who informed me of this reputed \nhighwayman, remarked that most persons of this class are \nwell known to the Bow-Street \" runners.\" ' Like other as- \nsociated bodies, they frequently assemble at known public- \nhouses and the Bow-Street runners are on tolerable civil \nterms with them. For instance, if one of these runners \nshould demand admittance to their assemblies, which is \nfrequently the case, he would be admitted, though treated \nin the most laconic style. Thus : \" Whom do you want?\" \n1 Officers of justice employed to pursue suspected persons. \n\n\nLETTER? FROM LONDON. 241 \n\nThe runner names the person if he sees him, who replies, \n\" I will wait on you directly.\" If the runner says the per- \nson whom he wants is not there, the reply is, \"Well, then, \noff and be damned ! \" Such persons as are arrested and \ncarried off arc called \" flats \" by tbeir associates. \n\nAdieu. \n\n\nLETTER XXVI. \n\nLoxdox, May 8. \n\nI purpose in this letter to answer your important ques- \ntion respecting the Constitution of the United States ; and \nto render the subject less tedious, I shall introduce the \nEnglish system by way of comparison. \n\nThe Constitution of England is said to be the strongest \nform of government which the world has witnessed. This \nis too general : a government may be very strong in its \npolitical operations, and yet of very brief duration. A \nstrong government implies stability as well as energy. \nOtherwise an absolute monarchy is the strongest of all \nthe three original forms. Age, not energy and dispatch, \nis the mark of a strong government ; still, duration is not \na sure sign of its excellence. \n\nIt will be worth the labor to prove that the government \nof the United States is as strong as that of England. I \nshall go further, and from the natural bias of man's mind, \nreasoning on the causes of revolution, shall satisfy you, I \nbelieve, from analogy, that the Constitution of the United \nStates is even stronger than that of England. \n\nDating from 1602, the Constitution of England is one \nhundred and eleven years old. An Englishman will prob- \nably date from the reign of King John; but with whatever \n\n16 \n\n\n242 LETTEKS FROM LONDON. \n\ntriumph he should appeal to Magna Charta, the successive \ntyrannies which the nation experienced down to the time of \nJames the First were still more ignominious, if England \nreally had a free Constitution to which to appeal. What \ncheek had Henry the Eighth, or with what reference did \nElizabeth govern England? Her authority was a perfect \ndespotism, confessedly mild, but undefined and uncon- \ntrolled, which frowned down all opposition into disaffection \nand treason. James the First, though personally as weak \nas the Emperor Claudius, felt himself not less absolute ; \nand Charles the Second, had he been less a buffoon, might \nhave revived the days of Henry the Eighth. \n\nThe English would be wise to appeal to history in sup- \nport of one dubious point only, — which, if true, is worthy of \nthe remark, \" If we were once slaves, we are now free.\" \nMost people are tied down to the sorry reflection, \" If we \nwere once free, we are now slaves.\" \n\nAllowing the Constitution of England to be as old as \nMagna Charta — which I myself would allow, could I find \na single reason for so doing — it unfortunately proves too \nmuch ; for the repeated revolutions England has undergone \nsince that period argue a weakness, which totally destroys \nevery claim to stability. \n\nThe Constitution of England is one hundred and eleven \nyears old, that of the United States only fourteen. Both \nhave this merit, — a change of public officers may happen \nin either country without a revolution, or, to speak more \nprecisely, without affecting the Constitution. That this \ntotal change should occur in England there is scarcely a \nremote possibility, because, agreeably to Mr. Burke's posi- \ntion, the king himself enjoying the fee simple of the British \nempire, and his own consent being necessary to effect such \na change, it cannot be expected a king of Great Britain will \nsurrender his family inheritance. The change of public \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 243 \n\nofficers has already happened in the United States, and \nsuccessive changes will more firmly establish the Constitu- \ntion. The sovereign people perceiving how easily a change \nmay be' wrought when the government is either weakly or \ncorruptly administered, will not be disposed to proceed to \nthose violences which are necessary in England, if the \noriginal compact between the people and government \nshould be so far superseded as to warrant a revolution. \n\nTbe Constitution of England cannot be contemplated ex- \ncept with reference to King, Lords, and Commons. Hence \nthe affections of the subjects are regulated by their con- \nsideration for the reigning prince, and by the degree of \nrespect which the House of Lords attaches to itself, but \nparticularly by the independence or facility of the House of \nCommons. Thus the long reign of a weak prince, succes- \nsive unpopular ministers, together with an unprincipled \nHouse of Commons, would weaken, if they did not ren- \nder contemptible, the Constitution. In the United States \nthe citizen contemplates the existing administration with- \nout a necessary reference to the Constitution ; they are two \ndistinct things. Now, no administration can be long in \npower without becoming in a certain degree odious ; and \nthis odium attaches to the Constitution in the degree that a \nchange of administration is more or less practicable. But \nthe citizens of the United States are in no danger of this \ndisaffection. There is scarcely a possibility that abuses \nshould gain stremrth in spite of the Constitution; there is \nno danger that the first abuse will take root, perpetuate it- \nself, and rise to enormity. In one word, the Parliament \ndoes not so much flow from the Constitution of England, \nas the Constitution flows from the Parliament. The King, \nLords, and Commons are, in a very great degree, para- \nmount to the Constitution, while the Constitution of the \nUnited States is paramount to the Congress. \n\n\n_'44 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nFurther, the Constitution of England is unwritten, and \nknown only to the people by its operation. It has indeed \nbeen questioned if the English have any real Constitution. \nWhatever is undefined cannot admit of reasoning. Argu- \nment may forever flutter round the dubious point, but can \nnever rest. More than this, the most carefully worded \nstatutes are frequently defeated by the ingenuity of the \nlawyers, and every new act of Parliament extends the field \nof litigation. To what a labored debate did the question \nof our federal judiciary give rise ! Yet both parties con- \nstantly appealed to the first section of the third article of \nthe Constitution which contains but seven lines. Now, \nif the sagacity of the wise be frequently liable to wander \nin doubt, or falter in perplexity, an unwritten Constitu- \ntion is prima facie much worse than none, by reason \nof its lending itself on all occasions as a sanction to \nParliament. \n\nLet us confess the truth : the English are the freest peo- \nple in Europe. Whence does this arise ? From that portion \nof the Constitution called the common law, which recog- \nnizes three grand popular prerogatives, — the right of per- \nsonal liberty, the right of personal security, and the right \nof private property. One might suppose that the English- \nman intrenched behind these, would hurl defiance at oppres- \nsion ; but unfortunately these prerogatives are continually \nliable to be superseded by a paramount prerogative of the \nConstitution. Insure an Englishman his common law, and \nhe will scarcely contend for his Constitution ; while the citi- \nzen of the United States not only reposes under the protec- \ntion of the common law, which certainly is well calculated \nfor people asleep, but he awakes to assert and claim the \npositive rights of a well-defined Constitution. \n\nThe common law is founded on equality, its chief excel- \nlence. This sometimes srives the lowest of the Ensrlish a \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 245 \n\ndignity to which slaves are insensible. But the common \nlaw is barely protective, while the Constitution offers lit- \ntle on which the people may rest their fondest hopes. \nNot so the Constitution of the United States ; with all \nthe equality of the common law it acts on the citizens as \nan incentive, not only to all the political but also to the \nmoral virtues ; the Constitution attributes nothing to fam- \nily, nothing to riches, nothing to reflected merit. He who \nwas born a beggar frequently arrives at a condition in \nwhich he might retort on a nobleman, \" My ancestors are a \ndisgrace to me ; you are a disgrace to your ancestors.\" \nHence with the poorest, love of the Constitution becomes a \npassion, and mingles with their sentiments and actions, \nmingles with their religion, mingles with their life. In \nEngland, on the other hand, the most felicitous and gen- \nerous feelings of which man is capable are cautiously cher- \nished, or blighted in youth. It is justly considered in the \nUnited States that all those honors and riches which de- \nscend to a great man's posterity, would be a direct injury \nto the greatest men in the republic. A great man founds \na new family ; but his posterity, from age to age, do not \ninherit the rights of the great ancestor; they cannot do \nthis unless they inherit his ability. They usurp the natural \nrights of some other man equally great1 with the founder \nof the family, but who has been necessarily excluded by rea- \nson of hereditary succession because rewards and honors in \nevery State must be restricted within certain bounds. It is \nnot for me to determine who, but some one of the nobility \nin England possesses the natural rights of Home Tooke. \nand some other nobleman possesses those of William \nWindham.9 \n\n1 If every century produces an eqnal number of great men. this is precisely \ntrue. \n\n• If natural ability be frequently perverted in England, it is the fault of \nthe Constitution. A great plebeian must either be hanged, pensioned, or \n\n\n246 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nI will illustrate : If the first characters in the United \nStates should he ennobled, the offices of honor and emolu- \nment would naturally How from them to their heirs. In \ncases of emergency, indeed, if the descendants were not \nequal to great occasions, necessity would compel the gov- \nernment to summon to its aid the plebeian great. Hence in \nEngland you find a Chatham, a Hardwicke, a Smith, and a \nDuncan. Nobiliores viri factis quam gencrc. If the re- \nmote relatives of the nobility had been barely competent, \nthese great men would have sunk under the ascendency of \nthose who so frequently rise like air balloons, and rise \npretty much on the same principle, — for want of weight. \nNow, if the heirs of this nobility were permitted to repre- \nsent their great ancestors, long before they had arrived at \nthe age of thirty years there would be an equal number of \nmen great as the ancestors of these heirs, of most of whom \nit might well be said that it would have been better both \nfor themselves and society if they had been born idiots. \nHence every noble sentiment of which plebeians are suscep- \ntible would be early suppressed, or, if indulged, would be \nmore likely to lead to disgrace than to usefulness. A citi- \nzen of the United States has nothing to fear from this usur- \npation ; on the contrary, the reflection that his children \nstart in the race of life at the same moment with their con- \ntemporaries, and the assurance that their merits will not \nbe overshadowed and blasted by hereditary usurpation open \nto each citizen new resources, and insure the parental du- \nties ; hence, the child is educated to love that Constitution \ntitled. Tooke nearly underwent the former fate : Windham, more fortunate, \nwas made Secretary at War. \n\nI embrace this opportunity of offering my esteem to one of the greatest, \nwisest, best, and most injured men in England. Home Tooke has ever \nlabored under a most disgraceful and multiform oppression, which has fre- \nquently ended in the basest exertions of his enemies. Unfortunate man ! \nhad destiny cast your lot on onr shores, you would have been revered while \nliving, as much as you yet will be when dead. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LOXDOX. 247 \n\nunder which his youth is passed ; and hence the strength of \nour government consists in that alone which is competent \nto its destruction. \n\nWhatever may he the power of a State, however prompt \nthe executive and however inexhaustible the treasury even, \nwithout the affections of the people all is false, all hollow, \nall artificial. In vain docs the government nail up its \nauthority on every post, if it is not cherished in the hearts \nof the people. In vain will a few purchased voices cry, \nLong live King Richard ! In one night Pelopidas over- \nturned a tyranny. In the height of his power Dionysius \nfound himself deserted in Syracuse. \" Huic tantae tem- \npestati 'iiuim se consules obtulissent, facile experti sunt, \nparum tntam majestatem sine virions esse.\" \n\nLet us suppose a case. If a revolution should be at- \ntempted in the United States, who would be the actors, to \nwhom would they apply, and what method would they \nadopt? Would they, like Catiline,1 address the people: \n'• Nobis rcliquere pericula, repulsas, judicia, egestatem. \nQua; quousque tandem patiemini, fortissimi viri ? Xonnc \nemori . . . praestat, quam vitam miscram atque inhonestam, \n. . . per dedecus amittere ? . . . Etenim quia mortalium, \ncui virile ingenium, tolerare potest, illis divitias superare, \nquas profundant in extruendo mari et montibus cocequan- \ndis, nobis rem familiarem etiam ad necessaria deesse ? illos \nbinaa ant amplius domos continuare, nobis larem famili- \narem nusquam ullum esse\" ? Or would they apply to the \nrich, ami attempt to weaken their confidence by explain- \ning the little consideration which the Constitution attaches \nto wealth as due to an odious spirit of equality which be- \nreaves the pride of affluence of half its importance ; or, \nmore successfully, would they promise future grandeur, \nthe charms of aristocracy, and the self-complacency of \n1 Sallust. Catilina, xx \n\n\n248 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nhereditary succession? What a singular paradox! The \nconspirators would cautiously avoid every man, that is, the \ngreat body of the people, who earn their bread by per- \nsonal industry, and would fly from all those who enjoy a \ngolden competency. Singular paradox ! The rich alone \nwould be actors in the revolution, and the poor ' would be \nthe supporters of government ! On one side you would \nsec only those whose ambition had overstepped the proper \nbounds, and whose riches had only added to their restless- \nness ; on the other, the great mass of the citizens, know- \ning that a revolution would not benefit them, but terminate \nin aristocracy, would support the Constitution as the grand \npillar of their own consequence. Hence the Constitution \nis as strong as natural affection, and as durable as self- \ninterest. It destroys some of the worst and enlists in its \nsupport some of the best passions of which human nature \nis susceptible. It lops off the efficient cause of revolution, \nand impels to patriotism. It is founded in popular feeling, \nand is considered by the people as a part of their property, \nas a part of their blood, as a part of their very life ; and \nhence the strength of tbis Constitution consists in that \nalone which is competent to its destruction. \n\nYou are now prepared, I believe, for the following \nmaxim : \" A revolution cannot happen until it ought to \nhappen.\" This maxim is founded in human feeling, and \nrests on the broad basis of experience. A people blessed \nwith a good government arc themselves the surest pledges \nof its support. Need I appeal to Sparta, Athens, Rome, \nconfessedly the best and most durable governments of an- \ntiquity ? The long continuance of despotic power proves \nnothing; where the will of the prince governs, his violent \n\n1 Rich and poor are convertible terms; therefore in every country there \nwill be rich and poor. But poverty, in the European meaning of the word, \ndoes not find a place in the United States. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 249 \n\ndeath begets a revolution, although his successor be \nequally absolute. Thus by consulting history, absolute \nmonarchies will be found to have undergone more frequent \nrevolutions than republics. Hence governments have ever \nbeen found to be weak in the degree they have been abso- \nlute. A great prince, indeed, may during his life give the \nimpression of durability to his rule ; but his successor \nusually proves the inanity of power without personal char- \nacter. At this moment I should be obliged to consult \nhistory to know who were the successors of Alexander, \nCharlemagne, or Alfred the Great. \n\nIn no instance recorded in history have the people \nhazarded a revolution prematurely : they have indeed at- \ntempted many too late. It is characteristic of every body \nof men in subjection to suffer long before they appeal to \nthe last resort. The enterprise demands such an effort, \nsuch vigor, such a degree of secrecy and unity of action \nthat most people are already slaves before they confess it \nto one another. They hear the clanking of other men's \nchains before they seem to feel the weight of their own. \nYet it is a favorite declamation with the pupils of that \nschool which Mr. Burke opened in prospect of a lordship, \nthat there is no political monster but the people — no \ntyrant but the multitude. \n\nNow, if a revolution cannot happen until it ought to \nhappen, the Constitution of the United States is pre-emi- \nnent in strength over all other forms of government. \nThere are not sufficient materials wherewith to work a \nrevolution. It is not in human extravagance to act with- \nout an object of action ; and happily the most dangerous \npassions are rendered inefficient or subservient. Ambition, \nindeed, may soar to the empyrean, but unless its object be \nheavenly it must descend to prey on its own carcass. The \nFederal Constitution has not only expelled every humor \n\n\n250 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nwhich might injure the habit, but has lopped off every ex- \ncrescence which might fret the body. Nor is this all; its \nregenerative spirit, operating at short intervals, preserves \nits youth and gives it immortal vigor, so that the principle \nof revolution is a part of the system. \n\nThe productive causes of revolution are restriction and \nexclusion on the one part, and usurpation on the other. \nIn the latter particular our Constitution has nothing to \nfear ; the first step of usurpation is the last ; nor has the \nConstitution more to fear from restriction and exclusion. \nIt remained for the people of the United States to ex- \nhibit the happiest sight which philosophy ever witnessed. \nThe extremities of all the religions in the world might \nmeet in a circle. \" Incredibile memoratu est quam facile \ncoalucrint.\" J Hence unlimited toleration, incapacitated \nby no political disability and no invidious exclusion, not \nonly teaches the citizen to respect other men's opinions or \nto regard them with indifference, but strengthens the gov- \nernment by lopping off one principal exciting cause of \nrevolution. Should the Constitution of England be threat- \nened, the Dissenters, to say the least, would either sit with \ntheir arms folded as if in triumph, or in a sort of anxious \nindifference. \n\nIt is the property of most governments to grow strong \nby usurping the rights of the people ; and when the ex- \necutive, like the northern whirlpool seizes and swallows up \neverything within its reach, then the government lays \nclaim to dignity and energy ; but this strength is as base- \nless as an inverted pyramid, or is like the water-spout, \nwdiich, in the moment of its greatest strength and tower- \ning pride, finds its level with the ocean. In a considerable \ndegree the government of England partakes of the nature \nof the northern whirlpool, in that it has seized and swal- \n\n1 Sallust. Catiliim, vi. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 251 \n\nlowed up the rights of the Dissenters, and moreover has \nweakened itself in proportion to their strength. It is like \nthe inverted pyramid in that its chief strength, built \noriginally on the canon law, partially ameliorated, and on \nthe feudal system, partially corrected, flows from the head \nand not from the heart of the social compact. It is like \nthe water-spout, in that its abuses, for want of an effectual \nregenerative principle, are in danger of accumulating until \nthey rise to that pitch of enormity which naturally cures \nitself. \n\nOn the contrary, the Constitution of the United States \nis founded on natural strength, on popular right, on \n, popular affection, and may be amended and even newly \nmodelled without danger of a revolution. Such a govern- \nment will probably possess all possible good with least \npossible evil. \n\nIn short, a monarch, a hereditary nobility, an estab- \nlished church, are supposed here to be the foundation of \ngovernment. In the United States they are considered as \npompous titles, imposing names, usurpations ; nay, more, \nit is held that legitimate government cannot exist under \nthem. Hence it will be found a more difficult enterprise \nto introduce than to overturn such a system. Most other \ngovernments originated in slavery ; ours originated in \nfreedom. In the former case the weak have to contend \nagainst the strong, and every unsuccessful effort renders \nthe weak still weaker, the strong still stronger ; and unless \nthe spirit of freedom should inspire the people, or the \ntyranny should be intolerable even to slaves, there is no \nremedy. In the latter case the conflict is only defensive ; \nguard the sacred fire and freedom must be co-existent \nwith the principle. \n\nWere the United States like ancient Carthage, or like \nEngland or Holland, we should soon look with regret on \n\n\n252 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nwhat we once were ; but being an agricultural rather than \na commercial people, wc shall be enabled, in spite of com- \nmercial aristocracy, to preserve .the Constitution in its \nmost wholesome state. The agricultural will happily \nswallow up the commercial influence ; and even if com- \nmerce should ruin both the Atlantic and Pacific shores, \nthere will still be ample space between for liberty to range \nin. Poverty, misery, and slavery, when they find a resi- \ndence in the United States, will first seat themselves in \nthe capitals of the Atlantic, and may advance a little way \ninto the interior, but in vain will they endeavor to tres- \npass on the freeholders. The wings of our eagle, sitting \non the great range of mountains, if not large enough to \ncover both the Atlantic and Pacific, will still shield the \nfreeborn, brave, and hardy sons of the soil. \n\nAdieu. \n\n\nLETTER XXVII. \n\n\nLondon, May 15. \nImagine to yourself a man of short stature, who has \njust passed the prime of life ; whose broad high forehead \nis inclined to baldness, but whose ruddy, thoughtful, yet \nopen countenance shows the temperature both of health \nand philosophy ; of manners remarkably mild, unassum- \ning, rather reserved ; in conversation cautious, argumenta- \ntive, frequently doubting, yet modestly courting reply, more \nfrom a desire of truth than a love of contending; in his \nfamily affectionate, cordial, accommodating ; to his friends \nconfidential, ready to make any sacrifice ; to his enemies \n— you would never know from Mr. Godwin that he had \nan enemy. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 253 \n\nMr. Godwin lives at Somerton, about three miles from \nLondon. His house is neat, but in all respects unpre- \ntentious ; it is called a cottage. His study is small, and \nlooks out upon the country ; his library is not large, yet \nsufficient for a man who depends more on his own re- \nsources than on the labors of others. The portrait of \nMary, painted by Northcote, hangs over the fireplace. \nThis rendered the study one of the most interesting places \nI ever visited. Though I have frequently been in the room, \nI have ventured only to look at the portrait. Mr. Godwin \nis since married to a charming woman who seems devoted \nto domestic happiness. At present he is occupied with his \n\" Geoffrey Chaucer,\" a work of which great expectations \nare entertained. \n\nA billet received from Mr. Godwin this morning, in- \nformed me that Mr. Holcroft and Dr. Wolcott would dine \nthere to-day. \n\nMr. Holcroft, though nearly sixty, has suffered nothing \nfrom years, laborious mental exertion, or persecution. He \nhas all the activity and vivacity of youth. Just returned \nfrom the Continent, whither he had banished himself in \ncompliance with the wishes of the English government, he \nhas brought back with him not the least resentment. Per- \nsecution, instead of imbittering his disposition, has had \nthe effect which it has on all good men. A villain will \nalways hate mankind in proportion to his knowledge of \nthe world ; a good man, on the contrary, will increase in \nphilanthropy. \n\nLiterature is not a little honored when one of her vota- \nries, leaving a mechanical employment at a period of life \nwhen habits are usually fixed, has employed his pen suc- \ncessfully, and realized a handsome support. Still more \ncharming is it to see the votaries of literature giving proofs \nof the strongest friendship. Holcroft and Godwin are firm \n\n\n264 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nfriends. A striking likeness of the former, also by North- \ncote, is in the dining-room. \n\nIn appearance, Dr. Wolcott is a genuine John Bull, and \nuntil lie opens his mouth you would little suspect his rela- \ntionship to the poet of Thebes. lie is a portly man. rather \nunwieldy, and, I believe, is fond of a sedentary life. He is \nhastening to old age, and seems disposed to make the most \nof life. There is little similarity of character between \nWolcott and Godwin. They are both constant in mental \nexertion ; but the one prefers to sit on a silver cloud and be \nwafted through the four quarters of the world, looking \ndown on all the varieties of Nature and the follies of man. \nThe other, possessed of the nicest moral feelings, loves to \nenvelop himself in darkness and abstraction, in order to \ncontemplate whatever is just, fit, or useful. The. one, laugh- \ning, dressed in the gayety of spring, enters society with the \npruning-hook ; the other, more serious, labors with the \nploughshare. Holcroft, who, owing to a defective educa- \ntion, never began to think until his mental powers had \ncome to maturity, embarrassed by no system follows the \ndictates of his own mind, and if he is sometimes erroneous, \nthe error is all his own ; it is never a borrowed error. \nHence his conversation, embellished by the variety of life \nwhich he has seen, is rendered rich, brilliant, original, and \nimpressive. \n\nIt is singular, but I believe old age is more disposed to \negotism and more open to flattery than youth. I can ac- \ncount for it only from a fondness for the past and a certain \nkind of jealousy which are natural to old age. However \nthis may be, a man like Wolcott, and a poet too, whose \nsociety has been courted as much as his works have been \nread, will naturally in the company of friends frequently \nfind in himself a subject for conversation ; nor is this in \nthe least displeasing. They are always the greatest egotists \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON\". 255 \n\nwho are most offended with the egotism of others. Wol- \ncott seemed delighted with the following anecdote respect- \ning certain of his works. He said that the ministry had it \nin contemplation to prosecute him for a libel : and when \nthe good polio; of the prosecution was questioned, the gra- \ncious Lord Thurlow, to whom Wolcott was under great ob- \nligation, rose and asked his fellows whether they were sure \na jury would condemn the man ; and on the surmise of a \nmere doubt, Thurlow said : \" Then it is not expedient to \nprosecute.\" \n\n1 was struck with surprise and horror when Mr. Godwin \ninformed me that the ministry once had it on the carpet to \nprosecute the \" Political Justice.\" I took occasion on this \nto ask him how long before he was known to the world he \nhad devoted himself to literature. He replied : \" It was \nten years before I was known as an author.\" This ought \nto inspire the persevering with new ardor. \n\nWolcott, like most men of genius, has a contempt for \n-'■liolars, who, walking on the stilts of pedantry, im- \nagine themselves a head taller than other folk. The talents \nof a certain famous man being questioned, Wolcott re- \nmarked that he was not a man of genius, but a man of \ngreat capacity. He also said that if we would attend to \nhim he would distinguish between the learned man, the \nman of capacity, and the man of genius. \" Here,\" said he, \n\" we will suppose a number of coins — ducats, pistoles, \ndollars, guineas — on this table. The learned man. after \nthumbing his dictionaries for half an hour, will be able to \ntell you the names of these coins, in all languages. The \nman of capacity will go further, and tell you the value \nof each coin and the amount of the whole together, with \neverything relative to their use, difference of exchange, \nand origin. But who invented these coins ? The man of \ngenius.\" \n\n\n256 LETTERS FROM LONDON'. \n\nThis gave general satisfaction. However, it was replied, \nami 1 thought very justly, that unless the man of genius \nshould acquire capacity, his genius without capacity would \nbe less useful than capacity without genius. For, the ex- \nertion of genius is rare. God does not every day create a \nworld : and although genius may claim a higher preroga- \ntive than capacity can claim, they are mutually indebted. \nIf genius gives employment to capacity, not infrequently \ncapacity gives direction and results to genius. \n\nAdieu. \n\n\nLETTER XXVIII. \n\n\nLondon, May 24. \n\nI am conscious how much I hazard in the present letter ; \nbut the preceding notices on the English character will \ndispose you to consider this letter a commentary, rather \nthan a dictate of my own authority. \n\nThose various prerogatives which the English claim to \npossess exclusively might induce a stranger to suppose \nthat they would fling themselves back in their easy-chairs \nand either deride or despise all those who are not self- \ndependent, self-supported, and regardless of the opinions \nof everybody else. Yet I am inclined to believe these \nself-poised characters sacrifice more to their foolish pas- \nsions than any other people. This can be illustrated only \nby instances taken from real life. \n\nIt is obvious that in proportion as a country is free, its \npeople will display a variety of passions ; while the ease \nand safety with which the passions may be indulged will \nlead many to preposterous lengths ; and while the man is \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 257 \n\nraining himself his obstinacy of perseverance will increase \nto the last ; the same spirit which first incited, propels him \nforward. He will esteem it more honorable to flounder in \ndesperation than to stop midway in his career. \" Maluit \npatrati, quam incepti facinoris reus, esse.\" 1 His passion \nacts in a circle, finds no end, but still progresses in degrees. \nThe poor, in proportion to their means, will be in danger \nof low pleasures, or, what is not less ruinous, they will \nsacrifice themselves to a hopeless emulation. \n\nI think it necessary to premise this, in order to preserve \na degree of verisimilitude among so many inconsistent \ntraits as are discoverable among the English. \n\nI have frequently thought that if such a man as Fabricius \nshould visit England, he would leave the people with sen- \ntiments little to their honor. He would discover that \npoverty was considered not only the greatest evil, but a \nspecies of crime. He would perceive a disposition to ex- \nchange fame, happiness, even principle, for worldly appear- \nance and the inglorious reputation of riches ; nay more, \nthat the poor enjoyed a transient happiness in being \nthought affluent. \n\nZimmerman, you know, in speaking of the different \nobservations which different peoples make on strangers, \ndues the English the superior honor to attribute to them \nthis liberal characteristic : \" What sort of a man is that ? \" \nThe praise which this supposes may, for aught I know, be \ncomparatively just ; but certain it is, if the English ever \ndo respect a poor man, it must be under a singular circum- \nstance ; for they cease to respect themselves only in the \ndegree they approach poverty ; and such a horror have \nthey of the mere suspicion of indigence that they become \nprodigal in counterfeiting affluence, and insure future \nthrough fear of present distress. The coward who killed \n\n1 Tacitus. \n17 \n\n\n258 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nhimself lest he should be killed by the enemy was not \nmore ridiculous. \n\nThe truth is, and I have noticed it before, the English \nattribute to themselves a wonderful degree of consequence : \nthey will naturally do this in comparing themselves with \nthe slaves of Europe. Unfortunately they appreciate the \nfact that unless they possess the talents of a Burke or a \nSheridan, personal worth commands no respect without a \ncertain style of appearance ; and with all classes, except \nthat which is abandoned to hopeless wretchedness, this \nnecessary appearance is rated far above ability. Hence it \nmay easily be credited that the English are generally ex- \ntravagant, frequently desperate, and always unhappy ; for \nno people descend to misfortune with less dignity than \nthe English. Tbe fearful calm which precedes despair \nor the headlong impetuosity of Niagara, seizes the un- \nhappy Englishman. His native frankness forbids him to \nsuppress his feelings ; from far you hear the brewing \nstorm. \n\nIf the English possessed the real spirit of independence \nthey might still retain all their pride, but they would mani- \nfest it in a very different manner. Indeed, they sometimes \nassert their independent spirit in devoting themselves to \nmad pursuits, but, whether governed by whim or madness, \nthey would feel themselves disgraced if they indulged their \ncaprice or madness at less expense than they could their \nsober senses. He who is fantastic is easily tolerated ; but \nif he is singular merely to save expense, he instantly be- \ncomes contemptible. \n\nTbis unhallowed attachment to wealth docs not spring \nfrom the miser-passion of possessing property, but rather \nfrom a consciousness that its dissipation affords the surest \nmeans of gratification. The English are not remarkable \nfor being \" alieni appetcntes,\" but only for being \" profusi \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 259 \n\nsuorum ; \" yet the \" profusi suoruin \" are nearly related to \nthe \" alicni appeteutes.\" \n\nIf you descend to real life you will find this same spirit \noperating through all the ranks of society. In presence \nof this influence, moral fitness, natural justice, and social \nfeeling are all annihilated. From the august tribunal of \nthe Lord Chief-Justice down to a petty Court of Requests, \nfrom the Secretary of State to his humblest retainer, or \nfrom the magnificent merchant down to a haberdasher of \nsmall wares, — all, all are in counteraction to the proud \nprinciples of their Constitution. \n\nNo people are more ready at the theatre to applaud the \nfine sentiment, \" Who steals my purse, steals trash.\" This \nsentiment still passes in a court of honor, and it passes in \nthe theatre. When retired from real life, the people for- \nget themselves ; but I have never heard the lines quoted at \nGuildhall, nor at Westminster. The filching of a good \nname and the stealing of a purse would conduct to very \ndifferent tribunals ; and the damaging of another to the \namount of a sixpence in purse and a sixpence in reputation \nwould terminate in very different consequences. The sen- \ntiment of Shylock is more just : \" If you spare my life, \nspare my property, for that is life.\" \n\nIn general, the spirit of a nation is shown in the spirit \nof its laws ; but England is an exception. The English \nlaws ignore all distinction in the several gradations of \ncrime. This would puzzle a foreigner ignorant of the \nEnglish character. He would either pronounce the Eng- \nlish to be more attached to property than to life or repu- \ntation, or conclude that they are a nation of thieves. At \nthe Old Bailey I saw a wretch capitally convicted for steal- \ning a ragged pocket-handkerchief, while the humane judge, \nfeeling the hardship of the case, asked the prosecutor this \nquestion : \" Were you in the least degree sensible of miss- \n\n\n260 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\ning it at the time, or immediately after the time ; for if \nyou felt it go from your pocket, the felony was not capital.\" \nSometimes the jury, to save a man from the gallows, will \ngenerously perjure themselves. At the Old Bailey, they \narc in the frequent habit of reckoning two for one, except \nwhen specie is stolen ; then they are obliged to value two \npounds at forty shillings ; though I have heard the judge \ncondole with the jury because there was no system of arith- \nmetic which would warrant their computing three guineas \nat one pound nineteen shillings. \n\nI am not sure if it be candid to attribute the unequal \nlaws of the English to their intemperate regard for prop- \nerty ; though I have labored in vain to find a less dishonor- \nable reason. Commercial people, we all know, will, as much \nas they can, render law offensive to others and defensive to \nthemselves. The same spirit seems to run through the \nwhole system of English law, whether relative to commerce \nor to the landed interest. If you ask the merchant, \" What \ndo you consider the greatest crime ? \" he might possibly say \nmurder, but he would mean forgery ; on the other hand, \nshould you ask the country squire the same question, he \ntoo might possibly say murder, but he would mean the \nmurder of one of his hares. \n\nIn this country, few crimes arc thought to be highly \ncriminal so long as property is secure. One would sup- \npose that the forcible amputation of a man's ears or nose \nwas a greater crime than the stealing of one of his sheep; \nbut the fact is, a man's cars and nose are not essential \nmembers, nor subjects of trade ; whereas, if a man's ears \nor nose were soused, like a hog's feet and ears, the law in \nthis respect would change from a civil process to a felony. \nIf you steal the only child of a fond parent, the law is \nsilent : but if you steal the child's clothes you commit a \nfelony. I was present at a trial of this sort, on which the \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 261 \n\nprisoner was acquitted, it not appearing sufficiently evident \nthat he stole the child with a view to steal the clothes. \n\nThe same spirit influences the administration of public \naffairs. The subject is invidious, yet sufficiently noto- \nrious. Public offices are not sold at vendue, but it is well \nknown they may be purchased. You frequently see in the \nmost celebrated newspapers advertisements offering cer- \ntain sums \" to any lady or gentleman who can command \nsufficient parliamentary interest to procure the writer a \npublic office with a specified salary\" — the utmost secrecy \nbeing promised ! I confess I had so much simplicity, \nwhen I first saw such an advertisement, that I thought it \nan excellent joke. I am now fully persuaded that public \noffices may be purchased, if you know where to apply. \nMr. Addington is the last man to whom I would recom- \nmend a suitor. He would certainly suffer disappointment. \n\nThe following singular circumstance passed under my \nown observation. An honest fellow in the west of Eng- \nland, with more money than correct knowledge of the \nworld, had doubtless heard that public offices as well as \nloans and state lotteries were sold in London. A valuable \nsinecure in his neighborhood becoming vacant, he wished \nto purchase it for his son. In full expectation of getting \nthe office, he applied to the Chancellor of the Exchequer, \npromising him two thousand pounds. The sinlple man \nhad no idea of bribing the Minister of State, and was not \na little frightened when told his proceeding was not ex- \nactly regular. Mr. Addington prosecuted the man for an \nattempt at bribery, and he was convicted ; but the judges, \nmuch to their honor, feeling the merit of the case, imposed \nthe small fine of one hundred pounds. They were obliged \nto convict the man, otherwise Mr. Addington must have \npaid the costs. \n\nIn this instance the Chancellor of the Exchequer did not \n\n\n2G2 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nshow himself the great man. Had there never been an \noffice sold in England, public virtue might have exacted \nthis from Mr. Addington ; but England is not early Rome, \nthough Mr. Addington may be Cato the Censor. It would \nhave been more magnanimous in the Chancellor to have \nwritten back a gentle reprimand, attributing the man's \noffers to ignorance. This prosecution was as ill-timed as \na similar one would have been at that period of Rome \nwhen Jugurtha, with a certain famous exclamation, de- \nparted from the city. \n\nIn common life so much is attributed to the reputation \nof riches that you meet with few men who would not be \nhappy to pass themselves off as worth ten thousand pounds. \nThis shows itself in the style of appearance and manners \nof the people. Understand me ; I do not impute this so \nmuch to a passion for property as to a fondness for appear- \nance. To this ambition the old men are an exception ; \nthey are the same in all countries. No wonder if he who \nhas outlived the world and all his friends believes nothing \nin this life is so substantial as money and so durable as \nreal estate. No wonder that when he can lean no longer \non this world, and when society conspires to cast him off, \nhe considers his bag of gold his softest pillow. \n\nThe first lodgings for which I incpiired in London were \nshown me by a decent-looking man. I had scarcely entered \nthe apartments when he told me he was independent and \nnot in the habit of letting lodgings, but that a part of his \nfamily was in the country. \n\nI was chatting lately with a lady newly married, who \nexcused herself for a few minuses. On her return I ob- \nserved that she was more richly dressed. I bantered her ; \nshe said she expected one of her husband's relatives. \n\" Well, and were you not dressed with perfect decency ? \" \n\" The gentleman whom I expect,\" replied the lady, \" would \n\n\nLETTERS PROM LONDON. 263 \n\nnever have called on me again, had he seen me in that \ndress.\" \n\n\" You must not judge by appearances \" is the most \nfrequent precaution one hears in London ; and perhaps \none half of the credit given in this city is due to the \nStrength of appearance. In passing the streets thousands \nwill value you with a coup d'ceil. It is surprising how \nrapidly the eyes of those one meets will scrutinize your \npersonal appearance, and invariably fix on that part of \nyour dress which does you the least honor ! A man with \na hole in his stocking will meet with an insult at every \nstep, unless the eyes of the passengers are arrested by his \nwaistcoat or his breeches. Hence some gain a false \ncredit, while others receive a transient injury, from every \none they meet. So usual is it to annex a certain style \nof appearance to certain characters, that, where the per- \nsons are not known they are in danger of being taken \nfor impostors. A certain innkeeper between Oxford and \nLondon had never seen Counsellor Garrow, but had \nformed an idea of his personal appearance. Unfortunately \nfor Garrow, this innkeeper had decorated him with the \ntrappings of a Lord Mayor, and imagined a person very \ndifferent from plain Mr. Garrow. Mr. Garrow's carriage \nbreaking down in the neighborhood of the innkeeper, the \nowner endeavored to bargain for another to proceed to \nLondon ; but the innkeeper hesitating to trust his own \ncarriage for the broken one, Garrow unwittingly told his \nname. \" Counsellor Garrow,\" replied the innkeeper, \n\" might command anything in my house ; but I believe \nyou to be an arrant impostor, and will not trust you a \nfarthing.\" Whether this be true I know not, but I heard \nGarrow tell it to embellish some case he was supporting. \n\nThis letter has become tedious: expect the remainder \nin my next ; for the present Adieu. \n\n\n264 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\n\nLETTER XXIX. \n\nLondon, June 4. \n\nGlory docs not so sensibly affect the English as one might \nimagine. If talents or valor be requited with money, they \nseem little solicitous to survive their bodies. They eat \nparsley with their victuals. The sight of this plant, so \nsacred to the ancients, affects them as little as do turnips \nor cabbages. \n\nThere is now a ballad-singer under my window chanting \nthe praises of Nelson. The most characteristic couplet is \nthe following : — \n\n\"Like a true British tar he sported while ashore, \nHas spent all his money and gone to sea for more.\" \n\nSuccessful valor is scarcely to be censured, if the pres- \nent time command most of its attention ; trappings of honor, \nsplendor of appearance, joyful ovations are the principal \nrewards of valor. Bravery is a common virtue ; mankind \nare naturally brave, and only become cowards when they \nbecome effeminate. The successful exertion of mind co- \nextends with time, operates through every grade of society, \nand is felt through all ages. The man whose fame is to \nbe endless ought to feel himself the first among mortals, \nwhether, like Cleanthes, he works in a mill, or, like Anax- \narchus, he is pounded in a mortar. \n\nThe glory of valor and of literature became a passion \nwith the Greeks and Romans, melting them sometimes to \ntears, and sometimes depriving them of sleep. I know \nnothing of the English, if the feelings of the present age \nare similar to those which influenced the great men of \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 265 \n\nGreece and Borne. They seemed to be endued with a pure, \nethereal spirit, expansive as the light of heaven, and dis- \ninterested as the goddess of harvest. Even those who \nknew not how to imitate them either paid in admiration or \ndetracted in envy. These feelings were, indeed, sometimes \ncarried to excess by the Stoics, but had their origin in \nmagnanimity. If a man can believe that poverty is not an \nevil, and that pleasure may be extracted from pain itself, \nhe is doubtless a god among men, and may trample tempta- \ntion under his feet. \n\nFelix, qui potuit reium cognoscere causas, \nAtque metus omnes, et inexorabile fatuui \nSubjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari ! l \n\nCan you believe it, my dear fellow, that there are char- \nacters here to whom Greeks and Romans would have erected \naltars, — men who would feel themselves honored in being \nadmitted among noblemen whose chief distinction might \nperhaps be traced to the herald's office ? What a perver- \nsion of Nature that mere matter should thus gain ascend- \nency over mind ! Nobler sentiments would have taught \nthem that the immortal exertion of mind ought to inspire \na slave, like Epictetus, with more magnanimity than the \nworthless court of a worthless monarch 2 could boast. How \ncan yon believe that there are those in England ready to \nsell their names to works not their own ! \n\nMost of the English, I suspect, would, like Congreve, \nrather be esteemed \" independent gentlemen \" than authors \nor philosophers, and would sell their tombs in Westminster \nAbbe; for a pair of buckskin breeches.3 I might illustrate \nthis with numerous instances, but they are too well known \nto you, and are disgraceful to the republic of letters. \n\n1 Virgil, Georg. bk. ii. \n\n- Nero, under whom Epictetus flourished. \n\n3 These are in the fashion both iu summer and winter. \n\n\n266 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nThe cause of this debasement of human dignity might \neasily he found ; republics and monarchies will ever exhibit \nthe human mind under different aspects. Under the for- \nmer an Aristippus will be an exception ; under the latter a \nWollstonecraft and a Jean Jacques Rousseau will be excep- \ntions. It might be worth the labor to pursue this inquiry \nfrom the time of the philosophers who flourished while the \nrepublics of Greece were in full vigor, to the period of the \nSophists, when liberty began to decline, thence down to \nthe pandering authors who sprung up under the thousand \npetty monarchies. It would appear that the government \nof Greece through all its various stages, from liberty to \nslavery, produced the like. Philosophers flourished with \nliberty, sophists on its decline, and an abandoned set of \nparasites on its catastrophe. Dignity, servility, truth, \nfalsehood, knowledge, ignorance, virtue, vice, — all flow \nfrom the spirit of the government as naturally as the \nstream flows from the fountain. \"Who could not discern \nthat Cicero wrote during the existence of the Roman re- \npublic, and that Horace wrote under a monarchy ! Who \ncould not discern that Lord Bacon 1 at one period of his \nlife held the pen of a slave, while Sydney, Harrington, \nand Milton wrote during a respite ! \n\nIn short, this passion for appearance, pardonable in the \nglowworms of society, which shine only in the absence of \nlight, has not only infected both city and village, but has \npervaded the republic of letters, has tricked out philosophy \nin the garb of the coxcomb, and sent her to dance attend- \nance on the great. \n\n1 Lord Bacon, in speaking of James the First, in his Essay on the \nCharacter of Queen Elizabeth, says : \"There remain two posthumous felici- \nties, which seem to attend the more noble and august passages of her life; \nthe one is that of her sneeessor, tho other that of her memory. For she \nhas got such a successor, who though by his masculine virtue and offspring, \nand late accession to the throne, he may excel and eclipse her glory ; \nyet, etc.\" \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON*. 267 \n\nThe remark must be qualified with many exceptions, \nbut I believe it will generally be found true that if this \npeople could have their choice of property or happiness, \nthey would prefer property and trust their happiness to \nthe fashion. Adieu. \n\n\nLETTER XXX. \n\nLondon, June 16. \n\nI dined yesterday with Mr. L. \n\n\" And so,\" said he, \" I have heard you say you esteem \nthe English more since you have seen them, but esteem \nEngland less.\" Mr. L. then threw the gauntlet by ob- \nserving : \" The English form of government exhibits this \nremarkable peculiarity, that while all other forms of gov- \nernment have deteriorated and become victims of their \nown corruption, it is the fortune of the English Consti- \ntution, — notwithstanding so many revolutions, which fre- \nquently ruin what they are designed to mend, and the \nconstant collision of party, which as frequently either re- \nlaxes to imbecility or strains beyond the vigor of law, — \nto stand at this day the wonder of the world.\" \n\nIn. reply to this it was asked : \" How does the govern- \nment operate on general happiness ? A government may \nbe excellent in theory, and yet its administration be a \nmockery of its principles : that is, the government may \nbe nothing more than a form.\" \n\nMr. L. observed : \" The theory of every government is \ndoubtless more pure than its administration; the sublimest \nprinciples become sullied in their descent to common life ; \nbut the English Constitution has provided a remedy for \n\n\n268 LETTERS FBOM LONDON. \n\nevery wrong, and brought that remedy home to every \nEnglishman's door.\" \n\n\" What, sir, is your definition of the best form of \ngovernment ?\" \n\n\" That,\" replied Mr. L., \" which operates most exten- \nsively on general happiness.\" \n\n\" What, then, sir, may be the proportion between the \nrich and the poor in England ? \" \n\n\" Whom do you term poor ? \" \n\n\" All those whose daily industry produces only their \ndaily bread, and leaves them at the end as destitute as they \nwere at the beginning of the year ; not only those who have \nnot bread to eat, but all those whose daily labor enriches \nothers, while it affords only a scanty subsistence to them- \nselves.\" \n\nMadam L. observed, \" Such were not considered poor \nin England, and you are in a fair way to conclude that \nwe are a nation of beggars.\" \n\nMr. L. replied, \" Perhaps, four fifths of the people would \ncome under this description of poor.\" I then asked, \" What \nwas the proportion in the reign of Henry the Eighth when \nthe pleasure of the king was the law of the land, — greater \nor less ? \" \n\n\" There was, doubtless, then,\" said Mr. L., \" a more equal \nstate of things, for society was not so complicated as at \npresent ; the largest possessions did not exert so dangerous \nand oppressive an influence ; the desire of acquisition had \nnot thrust out of doors the liberal, chivalrous spirit of \nhospitality.\" \n\n\"Nor,\" added I, \"had commerce and manufactures en- \nriched a few at the expense of the many.\" \n\n\" But what is your view,\" said Mr. L., u comparing the \npresent state of society with the past? \" \n\n\" Why, the English would be willing to exchange the \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 269 \n\nreign of his present Majesty for that of Henry the \nEighth.\" \n\n•• Nay, sir, the spirit of the modern English would not \ntolerate a tyrant like llenry on the throne ; and if there be \nat present less general happiness in England than there \nwas in the days of Henry the Eighth, it is not to be attrib- \nuted to the pernicious influence of the Constitution of 1692, \nbut to the national debt.\" \n\n\" Very plausible,\" I replied ; \" but suppose the English \nfree from debt. If your king happen to be a weak monarch, \nhe falls into the hands of a minister, — the consequence of \nthis let Walpole, Bute, and North answer ; if he happen to \nbe an Edward First, an Edward Third, or Henry the Fifth, \nand capable of governing per se without a minister, your \nConstitution is pro tempore annulled, for he must be a \nvery weak prince who is not stronger than that Constitu- \ntion which thwarts his wishes. A James the Second, I \nreadily admit, ought not to attempt an usurpation on the \nConstitution ; but a bold prince, nay, a woman, like ' good \nqueen Bess,' might use the Constitution as she did the Earl \nof Essex, — flatter it when pleased, and discard it when \njealous. Indeed, I hazard a doubt if your boasted Consti- \ntution has ever had a trial of its strength.\" \n\n\" But,\" said Mr. L., \" you seem to be ignorant, sir, that \nthe English have a House of Commons, — the protector of \nthe Constitutional rights of the subject, the watchful guar- \ndian of the interests of the people, without whose consent \nnot a farthing can be levied ; this is the glorious bulwark \nof an Englishman's liberty. This inestimable popular \nbranch of the government was peculiar to England until \nthe wisdom of your own legislators adopted it under the \nname of a House of Representatives.\" \n\n\" Your House of Commons, I concede, has been a very \neconomical guardian of the interests of the people ; since \n\n\n270 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nthe commencement of the last century, it has involved them \nin a debt of only five hundred and fifty millions. Your \nHouse bf Commons is the most convenient thing imagin- \nable for a Chancellor of the Exchequer ; it affords him \ncolor for those measures which might have cost former \nministers their heads. Hence, one of them in imitation of \nthe Roman said : ' Money and votes are equally necessary, \nfor with money I can purchase votes, and with votes raise \nmoney.' \" \n\nMr. L. replied : \" This national debt, which so much \nalarms you, is not only an imaginary evil, but a positive \ngood : it consolidates the strength of the nation. The \nriches of the country have increased with its debt, and at \nthis moment she is as competent to pay the interest as she \nwas in the days of George the First or George the Second.\" \n\nI observed : \" If the landholders and the merchants \nshould divide between them the burden of the national \ndebt there might not be so much cause for complaint ; \nbut the whole burden falls on the poor.\" \n\n\" How do you make that appear ? \" said Mr. L. \n\n\" It is sufficiently evident ; for there can be no possible \nproportion between that tax which levies one hundred \npounds on him who will never feel the remotest inconven- \nience from the imposition, and that which levies only six- \npence on him who will suffer the deprivation of a single \ndinner, or work two extra hours, in consequence of the \ntax ; and this is equally true whether the tax be direct or \nindirect. Therefore, your national debt does impoverish \nthe country, and chain the poor to hopeless poverty. It is \na tyrant whom no law can bind, no weapon reach, no sub- \nmission soften, no condition escape ; a new species of mon- \nster, which would collect within itself the whole world, and \nthen sink beneath its own weight.\" \n\n\" But,\" said Mr. L., \" what nation under heaven ever dis- \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 271 \n\ncriminated in this manner between the rich and the poor ? \nIt is utterly impossible, if the taxes be indirect. Do \nthey, in your country, discriminate between the rich and \nthe poor ? \" \n\nThus Mr. L. turned my eyes on our own country. Cer- \ntainly, my dear fellow, it is one of the first principles, and \nit ought to be the operation of our Constitution, to check \nthe tendency of inequality, to burden those least whose \ndoors open with a wooden latch, to facilitate the endeavors \nof industry, and to discountenance the redundancy of \nwealth. Adieu. \n\n\nLETTER XXXI. \n\n\nLoxdox, June 27. \n\nThere is no description of people in England holden in \nless respect than the Quakers ; yet I have seen no sect in \nthis country with whom I have been more pleased. The \ncause of this dislike lies very deep. In a corrupted state \nof society, those who approach nearest to first principles \nwill forever be objects of dislike, if not of abhorrence, with \nthe rest of the community ; for the latter will naturally \nhate those who differ from them in so many important \npoints, and who not only differ from them, but interfere \nwith their immediate interests. \n\nWith respect to the rest of the world, the Quakers cer- \ntainly are a hopeless and barren set of people. They hate \nin equal degree both kings and priests. Their consciences \nrevolt at tithes in any shape ; therefore the clergy hate \nthem. Their own meditations serve them instead of \npreaching ; therefore the religious of most other denomi- \nnations dislike them. Their temperance laughs at the \n\n\n272 LETTEBS FROM LONDON. \n\nphysician, and their honesty starves the lawyer, while their \nprudence and foresight exalt them above the active, in- \njurious hatred of the world, and elevate them above those \nwho despise them. Their decency of carriage, their un- \nassuming manners, their habitual economy, and their \ngeneral spirit of equity, have long, and will perhaps for- \never connect them in a body as lasting as their present \nmaxims. \n\nThere is one characteristic which distinguishes the \nQuakers from all other sects. They exhibit nothing of \nthe spirit of proselytism ; their favorite sentiments par- \ntake not of enthusiasm ; they hurl no damnation on the \nrest of the world. Tolerant of everybody, they consider \nall honest men their brethren. There is not a single trait \nin their character which is incentive to ill-will, nor a move- \nment in their conduct which has ever courted persecution. \nTheir humility has never resisted even oppression ; patient \nin suffering, they arc active only in support of their prin- \nciples. Remote from all hypocrisy, they have never \nsought after temporal power, nor has their own system \never operated to the prejudice of others. Yet this sect \nhas been persecuted and its members put to death ! This \nis the blackest stigma on human nature with which the \nannals of politics or religion have been stained. \n\nThough the Quakers live under a monarchy they have \ncontrived, without the aid . of temporal favors, to erect \nthemselves into a government of their own, approaching \nas near to a republic as is consistent with any sort of allegi- \nance to the national government. This is a masterpiece of \npolicy, which has gained them a firm standing in the midst \nof their enemies, and which ought to teach the rest of man- \nkind that it is practicable for a virtuous, persevering few \nto counteract the many. The Quakers have contrived to \nrender themselves happy in the midst of misery, and free, \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 273 \n\nin a great measure, in the midst of slavery. Hence, they \nhave all that natural, unaffected dignity, and all that \nmanly, cordial spirit of accommodation which man shows \nto fnan before he becomes degenerate ; and hence, they re- \ngard mankind pretty much as that Cherokee did, who, being \nintroduced at Paris and shown everything which was sup- \nposed capable of delighting or surprising him, was asked, \nafter his eyes had devoured the objects of a whole week's \nexhibition, what astonished him most. He answered, \n\"The difference between man and man;\" and then being \nasked with what he was most delighted, he replied, \" I was \nmost delighted to see a passenger help to carry a heavy \nburden which he saw upon the back of another.\" \n\nAlthough the Quakers approach nearer to the religion of \nNature, notwithstanding their correspondence with the \nworld, than any systematic sect which has ever appeared, \nthey still hold to the great principles of the Christian religion, \nthough in point of \" orthodoxy \" they can hardly be termed \nChristians. Most other religious persons, whether east- \nern sages or western saints, have retired from the world in \nthe degree they have approached Brahma or Jesus, while the \nQuakers, contented with this world until they can find a \nbetter, have found the secret of living in the midst of so- \nciety, and of mingling as much of this world as is consistent \nwith heaven, and as much of heaven as is consistent with \nmaking the most of this world. \n\nI have been led to these observations from a circum- \nstance which occurred yesterday. I found on my table \nthe following printed notice : \" Some of the people called \nQuakers, intend to hold a meeting this evening, at their \nplace of worship, in Martin's Court, St. Martin's Lane, to \nwhich the neighbours are invited.\" In expectation of \nsomething extraordinary, I attended. At the door I was \nreceived by one of the Friends, who introduced me to a seat \nis \n\n\n27-1 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\namong the elders. The house was soon filled, and a pro- \nfound silence reigned for a few minutes, when one of the \n\nbrethren rose and began to speak, but he had not spoken \na minute, when an elder said, \" We would take it kind of \nthee, friend, to sit down.\" The speaker looked up to \nsee whence the disapprobation proceeded, then bowing in \nacquiescence, sat down. Presently a fine-looking elderly \nlady of matronly appearance, dressed in the most elegant \nsimplicity, rose, and after a warm and impressive prayer, \ndelivered extempore an animated and edifying discourse \nwith a flow of elocution and grace of manner, which, had \nshe been forty years younger, might have inflamed those \npassions she sought to allay. \n\nThere is one defect in the polity of the Quakers, which \nwill forever subject them to the tyranny of the times, — \nthey love peace so well that they will not even fight for \ntheir liberty. This known principle divests them of all \npolitical consequence when those great political movements \nare agitated which sometimes involve the deepest conse- \nquences to society. Otherwise, the Quakers would gradu- \nally effect a revolution throughout the world. \n\nAdieu. \n\n\nLETTER XXXII. \n\nLondon, July 9. \nIt is the custom of some of the London booksellers to \ngive weekly dinners to their literary and other friends. \nHence you sometimes find at the same table, characters \nwho would never have met except under the auspices of \nroast beef and Madeira wine. It was these which brought \ntogether \"Jack Wilkes and the venerable Samuel Johnson.\" \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 275 \n\nA bookseller's dinner is doubly a treat to his guests. It \noffers an indirect but agreeable compliment, by telling \nthem their own fame has enabled him to treat them so \nsumptuously. \n\nThe republic of letters is never more respectable than on \nthose occasions of good humor and liberal mirth, when all \nthe arts and sciences find themselves encircled round the \nfestive board. The man who is in the habit of associating \nwith his enemy will frequently finish by esteeming him. \nMr. Malthus, who, in opposition to the \" Political Justice,\" \nhas written an essay on the \" Principle of Population,\" a \nwork of some fame, was lately seated at a bookseller's \ndinner next to Mr. Godwin. \n\nYesterday, I found myself at Mr. Johnson's, the booksel- \nler, in St. Paul's Churchyard, where, among those to \nwhom 1 was introduced, was Fuseli the painter, and a \nScotch gentleman who is publishing in Scotland a new \nedition of Ossian in the \" original language.\" \n\nThe English don't say much at the table till the first \ncourse is finished ; but their manner of eating soon throws \nthem into a gentle fever which invites to sociability when \nthey have sufficient confidence in the company. Mr. \nr.niinveastle contributed not a little to the entertainment ; \nthough remarkably merry, I suspect he is a mathematician, \nfor he remarked that \" the ball on the top of St. Paul's \nwould appear ten times larger if placed on the ground at \nthe same distance.\" The difference in the medium of \nvision was concluded to be the cause of this ; but one of \nthe company, who thought it much easier to be certain of a \nthing than to ascertain its truth, proposed to Mr. Bonny- \ncastle to go and measure the circumference of the ball and \nthen make the experiment. \n\nFuseli was the life of the entertainment. Ready on all \noccasions, his happy combination of language joined to his \n\n\n276 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nemphatic manner, bordering hard on dogmatism, together \nwith bis deep insight into human nature, renders him an \noracle wherever he goes. This is the same Fuscli to whom \nLavater dedicated his \" Aphorisms.\" His first publication \nwas a romantic essay on the principal works of Rousseau, \nwritten, as Mr. Johnson, the publisher, informs me, forty \nyears since ; and from that time to the present he has \npublished nothing except his professional lectures.1 Fuscli \nwas brought up in the family of Lavater, and caught \nfrom the latter not a little of the enthusiasm of his char- \nacter. He spoke of Lavater with reverence and affection, \nand seemed gratified with my marks of respect for the \nmemory of that original sage. One of the company related \nthe following anecdote of Lavater : \" A Swiss lady waited \non him to request his opinion of her. Lavater observed \nher a considerable time, and promised he would send her a \nwritten character. The contents of his letter were, ' Very \npretty, very silly.'\" I remarked that \"pretty\" had no \nrelation to character, and if it had, Lavater's style of con- \nduct was very remote from such trifling. Fuseli nodded \nassent, and said that the author of the anecdote knew \nnothing of Lavater's character. \n\nThere must have been a conflict in the mind of Fuseli, \nbetween the painter and the author, but the painter got the \nascendency, and claims a large portion of the sublimity of \nhis character. However, I am inclined to believe he some- \n, times regrets that he has preferred the temporary and lim- \nited fame of the brush to the more durable and extensive \nexpression of the pen ; for his conversation shows all the \ncorrectness of the scholar with the enthusiasm of original \nsentiment. His profession has naturally led him to history, \nwhich he seems to have explored with the jealous eye of \nincredulity. \n\n1 Fuseli is Professor of Painting in the Koval Academy. \n\n\nLETTERS FKOM LONDON. 277 \n\nThe character of Julian was accidentally remarked upon \nby one of the company. Julian, whom his enemies have \nattempted to depreciate with the name of Apostate, has \nalways been a favorite of mine, on account of his justice, \nvalor, constancy in adversity, and moderation in command. \nBut Fuseli, 1 perceived, regarded Julian with mure than \ndislike, — with abhorrence ; and wben I volunteered in \nhis defence, and appealed to the M Decline and Fall of the \nRoman Empire,\" he put me down by saying that \" Ainmi- \nanus Marcellinus, the historical authority of Gibbon, had \ndrawn a very different character of Julian from that exhib- \nited in the ' Decline and Fall.' The worst traits in his \ncharacter are concealed, and the best embellished by Gib- \nbon, who, fond of Julian, was afraid of spoiling his hero by \ngiving him his just character.\" However, Gibbon is not \nthe only historian who has taken delight in celebrating \nthe virtues, the wisdom, and the valor of Julian ; and I \nam yet to be persuaded that Julian the Apostate was not \na fine fellow, and worth all the holy Fathers who \nhave worn a tiara. \n\nThe features of Fuseli are as strongly marked as if they \nhad been cut in marble ; but his character, which I suspect \nis naturally violent, seems tempered with philosophy and \nadorned with an exquisite taste. Eccentric from his cra- \ndle, age has taken nothing from the impetuosity of his con- \nceptions, which by turns dazzle, elevate, and astonish. It \nis now a profound remark, then general satire, and pres- \nently a romantic excursion. In all the relations of life, \nin short, Fuseli is a respectable man. \n\nThe Scotch gentleman, who is publishing Ossian in the \n\"original language,\" bad come to London to mortgage a \nlarge quantity of Scotch land. One of the company at \ndinner whispered, \" Be ought to have gone to Norway \nor Lapland ; there Scotch lands might be praised.\" \n\n\n278 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nThe new edition of Ossian gave rise to several obser- \nvations. I endeavored to obtain Fuscli's opinion of the \nauthority of those poems, but was prevented by the rapid- \nity of his conversation. He seemed to treat the poems \nwith no great respect, and at length let off a shot at the \nwhole clan of Scotch poets, by roundly asserting that all \nthe Scotch rhymers put together would not amount to half \na poet. Fuseli, I discovered, would allow no man to be a \npoet who is not in the habit of attaining to the sublime. \nHe himself deals altogether in the sublime of painting. \nHe has even attempted the sublime in the three witches in \nMacbeth. But if the object of the various kinds of poetry \nbe to please, to enrapture, to soothe, to elevate, he is a true \npoet who can attain his object in either way. The Greeks \nwere not so nice : Anacreon, Theocritus, and Pindar were \nacknowledged by all Greece. Then why should Allan \nRamsay, Thompson, and Burns be questioned ? For my \npart, I should be loath to see the more humble Beattie \nwhipped from Parnassus. \n\nIt seemed to be the opinion of the Scotch gentleman \nthat if the \" original language \" was printed with the trans- \nlation of Ossian, every doubt respecting the authority of the \npoems would be silenced. I suggested the possibility that \nthe \" original language \" might have been translated from \nMacpherson\"s Ossian, and if so, the fact would probably \nraise another storm of criticism. \n\nAdieu. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 279 \n\n\nLETTER XXXIII. \n\nLondon, July 20. \n\nAn excursion at this season of the year to Oxford, on \nfoot, with an intelligent companion, will afford all that \nthe charms of Nature can give, in addition to what one \nmay collect as a tourist. \n\nHaving procured a letter of introduction to Mr. Portall, \na fellow of St. John's, Oxford, we proceeded by the way of \nWindsor, the summer residence of their Majesties. Nine \nmiles from the city, on the road to Windsor, is Turnham \nGreen ; here dwells the venerable Dr. Griffiths,1 the pro- \njector of the \" Monthly Review.\" Having formerly been \nintroduced, and received by him with the affectionate com- \npliment that he had \" a reverence for the citizens of the \nUnited States,\" we called on this literary patriarch, and \nran over fifty years in about an hour and a half. Sociable, \nas most old men are when you have their confidence, and \nhighly interesting, by having at command the cream of all \nthe literature and the connecting anecdotes of the last \nhalf century, Pr. Griffiths requires only your attention to \ncarry you into the \"greenroom\" of the republic of letters. \nFortunately for most celebrated authors, their books live, \nand their memories perish ; otherwise the glory of their \nDames would rarely save their characters from contempt. \n\nI asked him if David Hume did not formerly reside in \nthat vicinity, and if he was acquainted with that writer. \nDr. Griffiths pointed from the window to the house in \nwhich Hume resided while at Turnham Green. He added : \n\" Both Hume and Rousseau have spent many an hour in \n\n1 Lately deceased. \n\n\n280 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nthis room.\" I was transported by the fact that I was \nconversing with a man who had been intimate with Rous- \nseau, and 1 was anxious to collect every particular respect- \ning that wonderful character. \n\nDr. Griffiths thought Rousseau knew the human heart \nmuch better in the closet than he did in the world, which, \nnotwithstanding the goodness of his heart, led him to ex- \nhibit — \" \n\n\" Then,\" I added, interrupting him, \" he had an excel- \nlent heart ? \" \n\n\" — which, not withstanding the goodness of his heart,\" \nrepeated the doctor, \" frequently led him to exhibit a jeal- \nousy, which rendered it extremely difficult for people to \naccommodate themselves to him.\" \n\n\" But, sir, this jealousy was nothing more than the \nexcess of sensibility ; it did not originate in envy ? \" \n\n\" No ; who was there for Rousseau to envy ? Rousseau \nenvied no man.\" \n\n\" But,\" 1 added, \" Voltaire, I suspect, envied Rousseau.\" \n\n\" No wonder,\" said the doctor ; \" the world gave Vol- \ntaire a rival, and Voltaire had not sufficient magnanimity \nto admire a man who like Minerva sprung full-grown \nfrom the head of Jupiter, and who seemed to usurp part \nof that temple in which Voltaire alone had been so long \nworshipped.\" \n\nI asked the doctor, \"How did Rousseau spend his time \nwhen he visited you ? \" \n\n\"As little like a philosopher,\" he replied, \" as you can \nimagine. He had a small sagacious dog called Cupid, \nthat always followed him. Whenever Rousseau was urged \nto converse on subjects either disagreeable or fatiguing to \nhim, he would begin to sing ; at the same moment Cupid \nwould begin to dance, — and thus Rousseau would fre- \nquently spend two hours, excepting those short intervals \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 281 \n\nwhen Cupid would make a blunder, and then his master \nwould fall a-laughing. In this manner would the philos- \nopher of Ermenonville spend many an hour in that window- \nseat, while he resided in this town with Hume.\" \n\nWe left this civil old gentleman, who made us promise \nto come and eat a bit of mutton with him, and proceeded \nto Windsor. The castle is on a high hill of gentle ascent, \nand from the Round Tower commands a fine prospect of \nnot less than twelve counties. But nothing gave me \nmore pleasure than the view of Runnymead, so memorable \nfor the extortion of Magna Charta from King John, — if a \nnatural right can ever be said to be extorted. It is a pity \nthat every royal castle has not a Runnymcad in sight. I \nobserved that the keeper, who pointed out the places of \nmost note, passed his eye over this famous campaign. \nWithin a short distance and seemingly within reach, stands \nEton College, noted for good classical scholars. The hills, \ncovered with wheat, which was quite ripe and promised \na golden harvest, the stately oaks, and trees of less growth \nvariegated the face of Nature ; while the brute creation \ngrazing at large in the neighboring plains, the calmness of \nthe scene around, the approaching decline of day, together \nwith the curling smoke from the fire-hearths of many vil- \nlages, inspired a serenity of mind which was fast approach- \ning to a religious revery, when a beggar1 who had followed \nus up to the Round Tower broke the charm. \n\nThe castle is ornamented with many fine paintings, \namong which the cartoons of Raphael were shown to us. \nOf course I admired them, not that I know an original from \na copy ; I only aspire to judge of the design and execution, \nof the moral or humor of the piece, or whether it be true to \nNature ; and every one can do this. The cartoons are so \ncalled by way of eminence, to distinguish six of Raphael's \n1 The roval waiter who admitted us to the castle. \n\n\n282 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nlarge paintings, the subjects of which are taken from inter- \nesting passages of the New Testament, whence most of the \nsubjects of the Italian masters are taken. \n\nYou, in the United States, know nothing of the rap- \ntures which fine paintings are capable of raising in the \narms, face, and shoulders of real amateurs. A man is \nscarcely a critic unless he can expire in convulsions or \nbecome petrified with astonishment at the sight of a line \nnew painting. At the late annual exhibition at the \nRoyal Academy, I observed a gentleman examining very \nattentively one of Turner's recent paintings. For my \npart, I had visited all the rooms and was about to retire \nwhen I saw the same man fixed in the same place and con- \ntemplating the same portrait. I ventured to inquire of him \nwhat he saw in that portrait, which commanded so much of \nhis attention. \" See ! \" exclaimed he, \" I see something \nthat looks a little like painting ! I wish I was chained to \nthat portrait!\" I told him that Lord Thurlow1 would have \nno objection to that, as he was fond of chains and slavery. \n\nI lately visited a small collection of pictures, which cost \nthe proprietor £ 20,000. He had formerly made the tour \nof Europe in search of paintings, and was then gone to \nItaly to purchase more. Two of the pictures, called by \nway of eminence the Murillos, which cost him .=£4,000 \nsterling, would scarcely sell at a Boston vendue for so \nmany pence, — only because we do not know the worth of \npictures. However, if the affluent have no worse passion \nthan a passion for fine paintings, let them enjoy both by \nday and night their sleeping Venuses, or wanton with the \nhouris over the landscapes of Claude Lorrain. \n\nThe time now approached when it was expected that the \nroyal family would walk on the terrace. The terrace is \nsituate on the declivity of the hill southeasterly from the \n\n1 It was a must striking likeuess of Lord Thurlow. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 283 \n\ncastle. It is a charming walk, faced with freestone, and, \nas I judge, is nearly two thousand feet in length. Here, in \nfine weather, their Majesties with the princes and prin- \ncesses, accompanied by a band of musicians, graciously \nwalk at six o'clock in the evening to show themselves to \nstrangers. Behind the royal family came several lords in \nwaiting whom I stupidly mistook for liveried servants ; so \nnearly allied, sometimes, is the height of greatness to the \nheight of meanness. There were as many as a hundred \nStrangers who lined the terrace to view this royal exhibi- \ntion. As his Majesty passed by they stood uncovered, he \nhimself frequently bowing to the spectators. \n\nThe same evening we proceeded to Maidenhead. A \nsound sleep would have been highly agreeable, but like all \nstrangers who tarry in that town, we were compelled to lie \nawake. At every half-hour a watchman crying the time \nof night passed under my window, and what made the \nmatter worse he tagged every thirty minutes with \" Praise \nthe Lord ! Amen ! \" A monkish relic, I suppose. \n\nOur landlord, one of the most civil men in the world, \nhad risen before us and seemed really sorry to have us go \nbefore breakfast. The English inns are certainly the most \naccommodating places in the world ; two knocks on the \ntable will immediately produce all the effects of magic. \n1 have never met in England but one innkeeper who \ndid not appear to be a gentleman. This was at Newbury. \nIt is the custom for most of the English to drink at every \ninn at which a stage stops. As the English travel day and \nnight, a passenger will sometimes drink about twelve times \nin the twenty-four hours, besides what he drinks at dinner. \nThe landlord, having waited on those who were most \npressing for drink, at length came up to one of the pas- \nsengers and asked him what he would have. The pas- \nsenger assured him that he had drunk five times since \n\n\n284 LETTERS PBOM LONDON. \n\ndinner, and could not venture on any more. \" But then,\" \n.said the landlord, \" what shall I make by you?\" \"Oh, sir, \nyou shall lose nothing by me,\" replied the passenger; \"if \nyou will be so good as to deduct from a pint of porter the \noriginal cost and duties, I will pay you the difference \nbetween that amount and the retail price.\" \n\nWe breakfasted at Henley, a considerable country town ; \nand while breakfast was preparing, I went into a neighbor- \ning churchyard — the place of most interest in many \ncountry towns — to read the epitaphs, some of which were \nhighly impressive, though written in very bad taste. Pos- \nsibly without knowing it, the writers of these epitaphs \nsometimes hit upon the sublime of human character. The \nfollowing epitaph I met with in a country village : \" Here \nlies the body of Henry Steele. He was a good son and a \ngood brother, a good husband and a good father ; and the \nneighbors all followed him to his grave.\" \n\nBetween Henley and Oxford, the prospects, scenery, and \ncultivation, the ripe and abundant harvest of wheat, the \nmellow temperature of the season, — all conspired to \nenhance those pleasures which liberal Nature offers to the \nsenses. \n\n\" Surely,\" said I, \" this is a delightful country ! \" \n\" Yes,\" replied my companion, \" but finish your rhapsody \nquickly, or it will end in a sarcasm.\" I looked up and \nsaw at a distance a company of gleaners approaching, \nwith their arms full of sheaves. \"There,\" said he, \" your \nfirst reflection will be that, although Providence has lav- \nished an abundant harvest, this little company of gleaners \nwill scarcely have in winter bread enough, while the grana- \nries, in mockery of Ceres, will hold much of this wheat \nuntil it rots. But who can help it, if monopolizers frus- \ntrate God's providence ? \" \n\nAs the gleaners passed by, I asked one of them why \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 285 \n\nthe}- went so far to glean, when the reapers were so busy \nall around. \" Oh, sir,\" said another of the company who \nseemed to be the brightest, \" it is not every farmer that \npermits us to glean, nor is it a favor granted to every \none.\" \n\nWe passed on. \" Ah,\" said my fellow-traveller, shrug- \nging his shoulders in raillery, \" this would be a charming \ncountry if there were no men in it ! \" \n\nIn the evening we arrived at Oxford, an inland city, \nabout sixty miles northwesterly from London, and famous \nall over the world as a nursery of great men and great \nscholars. Oxford particularly is an object of curiosity on \naccount of the variety of Gothic architecture. The col- \nleges, twenty in number, are very large, and some of them \nare noble buildings in the Gothic style. Separated from \none another at considerable distance, they give the city a \nmost venerable and solemn aspect. Oxford too has the \nhappiness of being visited by the Thames, of all rivers in \nthe world the most adored by Englishmen. The Hindoos \ndo not hold the Ganges in higher veneration than do the \nEnglish this river, and should they become idolaters they \nwould pay divine honors to silver Thames. The Cherwell, \ntoo, and the more humble Isis are in the neighborhood \nof Oxford. \n\nIn the morning we waited on Mr. Portall. I cannot \nexpress to you how cordially he received us ; he gave us \ntwo days of unwearied attention. He is a ripe scholar \nand, what is more, a man of good sense. He seemed to \npartake of the satisfaction he afforded in showing us every- \nthing remarkable in the different colleges, which he ren- \ndered doubly impressive by adding all the interesting \nparticulars which have been collecting for ages. \n\nThe Bodleian Library, the largest in the world except \nthat of the Vatican at Rome, contains many precious, \n\n\n286 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nunillumined manuscripts, which no doubt in the course \nof centuries will enrapture many an antiquary, as will the \nArundelian marbles lately arrived from the East. These \nfragments were imported at great expense; and probably \nwhen the inscriptions are deciphered, it will be found that \nthey amount to nothing more than some loose couplets to \na favorite mistress, or what is more pernicious, that they \nrecord the apotheosis of some tyrant. \n\nSome of these manuscripts are so exceedingly obscure \nthat it is not yet ascertained in what language they are \nwritten. It is told with considerable humor that one of \nthem was presented to a famous antiquary, who after six \nmonths returned it, giving his serious opinion that the \nmanuscript was a ramification of a branch of a dialect \nof the language which was spoken by the northern Huns \nwho broke down the Great Wall of China ! \n\nThis immense library was to me a source of various re- \nflection. \"Here,\" thought I, \"is collected not a little of \nthe nonsense of the days of monkery, much of the truth \nand falsehood of antiquity, the romantic extravagance of \nthe days of chivalry, ' which now, alas, are gone forever ! ' \nand the more dangerous, because more subtle, dictates of \nmodern tyranny.\" The wonderful exertion of the human \nmind which this library displays produced a mingled emo- \ntion of admiration, pity, and contempt for the sublimity, \nperversion, and meanness of the race of philosophers and \nauthors. Nine tenths of the volumes here laid up in liter- \nary penance ought to have sent their authors to bedlam ; \nfor every famous book filled with more errors than truths \nadds a new link to the chain of error. Notwithstanding \ntruth is eternal, and error temporary, yet owing to self- \ninterest, passion, and wrong-headedness, there are in all \ncountries ten errors published for every one truth ; hence \nwe ought not to wonder at the doubt in which men of \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 287 \n\nsense arc involved, nor at the inconsistencies into which \nthe thoughtless fall. Truth and error are at first received \nby mankind with equal credit, and when these ten errors \narc discovered the solitary truth is not secure, for out of \nmere resentment the errors turn persecutors. \n\nYour fancy cannot figure, either in Arcadia or in imag- \ninary Parnassus, more charming retreats for contemplation, \nor more inspiring recesses for prosecuting lofty composi- \ntion than those afforded by the secluded gardens of the \ncolleges. Here the peripatetics might have forgotten \ntheir favorite walks, or the more refined Epicurus and \nhis disciples their earthly paradise. Here Art has success- \nfully introduced the varieties of Nature, and administers \nto the senses at the same time she expands the heart and \nelevates the mind. No wonder this is classic ground ; no \nwonder this University is the nursery of so many veterans \nin the republic of letters. Whether they prefer to contem- \nplate mankind, explore Nature through the various forma- \ntion and use of the leaf, or, leaving the garden, to ascend to \nthe heavens, they have within their reach every assistance \nto establish truth or confute error. Oxford has at present \nfifteen hundred students. \n\nHere is the largest collection of paintings by the great \nmasters which I have ever seen. Some of the more public \napartments of the colleges seem to revive the Italian and \nFlemish schools. Nor do the Dutch make an awkward \nappearance among the more southern artists, although a \nDutchman rarely considers his painting finished until he \nhas introduced a dirty table, with pipes, tobacco, and a \npot of Geneva, together with a fishing-smack in a fresh \nbreeze ; but if the latter cannot be introduced the artist is \ncontent to hang up a large ham and several pounds of \nBologna sausages over the fireplace. \n\nAt four o'clock we dined at St. John's with Mr. Portall \n\n\n288 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nand several other Fellows of that college. The apartment \nwas decent and the furniture elegant. The dinner was per- \nhaps too sumptuous and gross for those who are laboring \nup the hill of science. According to custom, or more prob- \nably as a compliment to the guests, dinner was scarcely \nended when coffee was introduced, and immediately after \nthat supper was on the table ; so we did not rise from din- \nner, coffee, and supper until nearly ten o'clock. If these \nare usual habits, Aristippus would be found there much \noftener than Zeno. During the entertainment, questions \nwere naturally multiplied respecting our own country. The \ncompany seemed delighted to hear that their own great \nmen were perhaps more generally known and read in the \nUnited States than in England. It was a romantic pleas- \nure to imagine the reverberating echoes of their own \nlabors in what they were pleased to term the wilderness. \nThey were not a little surprised when I told them that \nthere were no cities in England, excepting London, which \ncould vie with New York, Philadelphia, or even Boston. A \nregret was expressed that we arc no longer one people. I \nlaughingly told them that this is their own fault, for doubt- \nless the United States would accept them as a colony. \n\nAfter a morning excursion along the banks of the Isis, \na stream made sacred by the poems of Mason and Warton, \nwe took our leave of Mr. Portall, who now added those \ncordialities which gave a double interest to his warm recep- \ntion of us. \n\nWe proceeded to Woodstock, about eight miles from Ox- \nford, to take a view of Blenheim House, the seat of the \nDuke of Marlborough. On our way thither we stopped at \na cottage to buy a draught of beer. There was only an \nelderly woman with her daughter at home ; the latter of \nwhom appeared to be ten years of age, and was sitting at \na table learning to write. The mother regarded us with- \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 289 \n\nout the least curiosity, but seemed gratified when we ex- \namined the little girl's writing-book, and offered to mend \nher pens and set her some new copies ; those from which \nshe was writing being very little better than her own at- \ntempts. When we had ruled her book through, and set \nher more than twenty copies, she was highly pleased with \nthe fairness of the writing, and showing it to her mother, \nsaid, \" John himself cannot write half so well.\" This in- \ncident is not otherwise worthy of notice than by way of \ncomparison. This woman lived in rustic retirement, and \nsaw less of the world than if she lived in a village ; yet \nthough we were travelling on foot, an unusual sight in \nEngland, and presumed to enter a private dwelling-house \nwith no other view than to buy a draught of beer, a suspi- \ncious circumstance, this good woman eyed us with no at- \ntention, asked us no questions, and courted no knowledge \nof our pursuit. How different in our own country ! In \nsuch a case the good woman would first inquire whence \nwe came, and whither we were going, and what might be \nour business. Then she would contrive to find out our \nnames. Then, pausing a moment to recollect if she knew, \nor had ever heard of the names before, she would ask if \nour grandfathers or grandmothers were not related to Mr. \nor Mrs. Such-a-oue. This would naturally lead to all the \ngood woman knew. \n\nWoodstock is doubly famous on account both of the \npast and the present. Here Geoffrey Chaucer was born, \nand here he spent most of his days ; but in vain I looked \nfor that door-stone which one of our own bards has so \nhappily imagined : — \n\n\" Chaucer on his door-stone sits and sings, \nAnd tells his merry tales of knights and kings.\" \n\nWoodstock is famous at present for being the seat of \n\n19 \n\n\n290 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nthe Duke of Marlborough, and for gentlemen's fashion- \nable gloves and steel watch-chains. \n\nAt the great gate of the ample domain of his Grace \nwe were received by one of those persons, powdered for \nthe occasion, whom you so frequently find in the service \nof great men. lie was an elderly man, who in the course \nof perhaps forty years had accumulated ten thousand par- \nticulars respecting this country-scat, and which he had \ntold ten thousand times, probably without the least varia- \ntion. Thus : \" Do, pray, gentlemen, take a view of the \nriver from this artificial eminence ; see how it opens upon \nthat lawn, how picturesque that little wilderness of trees. \nNow cast your eye a little to the right, and observe that \nisland, seemingly afloat ; turn a step to the left and see \nthe monument, — you have certainly heard of that monu- \nment, how it breaks upon you when it is seen from the \nother side of the river, while the trees seem suddenly to \nretire. Fair Rosamond lived yonder, — you have certainly \nheard of Fair Rosamond.\" In the same manner he ran \nover everything which concerned his particular office. \n\nWhen we came to the bridge which is between the pal- \nace and the monument, I ventured to ask the servant if \nthe stream over which the bridge is built was always as \nwide as it is at present. He regarded me with a look of \nsuspicion, and replied in the negative. He may have sup- \nposed that I had seen the famous epigram on this bridge, \nmade in the time of the first Duke of Marlborough : \n\n\" This mighty bridge his great ambition shows. \nThe stream an emblem of his bounty flows.\" \n\nThe monument is a proud pile, distant from the palace \nabout half a mile. It celebrates on one side all Churchill's \nmerits as a soldier ; and on another side it gives an ex- \ntract from the Act of Parliament, presenting Blenheim \nHouse and domain to John Churchill, etc. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 291 \n\nWe now turned and approached the mansion. The pow- \ndered gentleman began to discourse on its architecture, \nwhich he thought rather too low and heavy, but added : \n\" It is in the usual sfyle of Sir John Vanbrugh,\" not for- \ngetting the epitaph : — \n\n\" Lay heavy on him earth ! for he \nLaid many a heavy load on thee.\" \n\nAt the gate of the palace there were five other visitors \nwaiting to view the apartments. Between the hours of \ntwo and four the family retire in order to accommodate \nstrangers. \n\nThere was nothing in the palace worthy of particular \nnotice except a collection of pictures, many of them by the \nItalian and Flemish masters, which had been presented to \nthe first Puke of Marlborough. A few of the paintings \nwere on a large scale, exhibiting his exploits. Here is the \nlargest library, except the Bodleian, which I have ever \nseen ; but the neglected appearance of the books confers \nvery little honor upon their authors. The dining-room and \ndining-table, which was set for dinner, were simply elegant, \nas was her Grace's bedchamber. \n\nThe powdered gentleman endeavored to persuade us to \nadmire the damask bed-quilt, the history of which con- \nsumed some time. He had now completed his usual cir- \ncuit, and having received the fees which he exacted. — the \namount of which would have maintained the first Puke of \nMarlborough a week, — we were dismissed into the hands \nof the keeper of the park, who finished his official duties \nwith a like demand. Here I had another opportunity of \nobserving how nearly the height of greatness is sometimes \nallied to the lowest meanness. I should despise that \nman in the United States who would condescend to raise \na revenue on the curiosity of his own countrymen or \nfrom strangers. \n\n\n292 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nThis system of exaction runs down from the royal palace \nto the waiter at the coffee-house or the more humble ordi- \nnary. It cannot be supposed that their Majesties or the \nDuke of Marlborough lease out these lucrative offices ; but \nin the lower ranks of society they are objects of specula- \ntion. One of the waiters at a London coffee-house in- \nformed me that to secure his place he paid to his master \nweekly the sum of eight shillings sterling! This needs \nno comment. I just add that with a few exceptions you \nfind in England but two sorts of people, beggars by privi- \nlege, and their co-relatives, beggars from necessity. \n\nAdieu. \n\n\nLETTER XXXIV. \n\nLondon, July 29. \nYou request a sketch of the state of society in England. \nThe few hundred miles westerly from London which I have \ntravelled, will hardly warrant my speaking generally ; be- \nsides society here is so diversified that if you speak gener- \nally you are in danger of falling into an exception, and if \nyou would speak particularly, you must enter into every- \nbody's kitchen. It is as difficult to describe the state \nof society as it is to delineate the characters of the Eng- \nlish ; for though they are slaves to the opinions which are \nheld by people of their own class, yet they object to being \nexactly like their neighbors. Hence you would see no \nDutch fashions which last a hundred years, no blind attach- \nment to an idol Lama, no uniform state of indifference as \nin Spain. In short, England is in a continual state of \nvarious experiment; everything seems inconsistent. The \nnobleman frequently forgets his peerage, and the plebeian \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 293 \n\nfrequently imagines himself a nobleman. You find a sin- \ngular compound of liberty and slavery, of dignity and ser- \nvility, some little degree of equality, yet every one despising \nthose below himself. Not an individual in the nation \nknows the form of government, or knows what it may be \nthree months hence. Under the mere form of law and of \nfreedom, it is a perfect political despotism ; and though \nthe people may protest that it is otherwise, they have no rep- \nresentatives in Parliament. The people, indeed, are fully \npersuaded they ought to be free, and the Parliament, fear- \nful lest they should resort to first principles, is willing to \npersuade them they are free. Hence while most other \ngovernments are supported by main force or passive con- \nsent, the English system is conducted by mutual conces- \nsion. Except at the beginning and conclusion of a war, \nthe king is nothing; yet he does not lose his dignity in \ntime of peace, though he may be little more than a King \nLog. \n\nThe private history of this people is a subject equally \nfor the philosopher and the buffoon. Their public history \nis a little more consistent and offers more uniformity, \nthough less honesty. You perceive the same spirit stream- \ning down from Jack Cade and Wat Tyler to John Hamp- \nden and William Beckford, though Cade and Tyler do \nnot rank in history with the latter, merely because they \nwere not gentlemen of education. It is true, however, that \nthe public history of a powerful people is no criterion of \ntheir domestic happiness. Like certain beautiful and \nmajestic women, such a people will show best at a dis- \ntance, ami possibly be most envied when least known. \n\nThe few notices which I am enabled to offer on the \npresent state of society will be partly drawn from my own \nobservation, and partly from as good intelligence as I \nhave been able to procure without seeming to seek it \n\n\n294 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\ndirectly, for the English have one very great foible, — if \nthey are ever disposed to deceive, it is in order to gain a \nstranger's good opinion ; yet all of a sudden they are per- \nfectly indifferent if you arc unwilling to admit their pre- \ntensions. Ho that if they do not pay, they do not exact \ndeference. \n\n1 shall state a few facts from which, with the help of a \nlittle imagination, you may draw a passably correct infer- \nence. The land in England is either possessed by the \nnobility, or monopolized in a great measure by private in- \ndividuals ; hence all the miseries of the feudal system. \nFrom this you will readily conclude that the tenants are \nin a state of slavery. The fruits of industry do not go \nto cheer the domestic hearth ; and although the English \npeasantry are not serfs, their condition is hardly more en- \nviable than that of serfs : every change of master would \nserve only to render them less respectable and more dis- \ntressed. It is for the interest of the landlord to retain his \npeasantry in a condition just above absolute want, and to \ndiscourage their removing from one master to another. \nShould they be permitted to attain a competency, the land- \nlords would be ruined. The next generation would lower \nthe price of leases ; the third would be capable of pur- \nchasing the fee simple, and the lands, unless sold, would \nlie uncultivated. The contemplation of this state of things \nwould burst the blood-vessel of New England ; but I am \nonly a spectator and can write with moderation. \n\nThe aspect of commerce will afford another insight into \nthe state of society. Rapid acquisitions of fortune, pomp, \nand luxury, attend commerce ; but in her train she carries \nmisery in a thousand shapes. Commerce is not so odi- \nous in monarchies, where aristocracy is essential ; bnt in \nsmall republics it is destructive, and in great republics it \nis an evil, unless its spirit be fully counteracted by agri- \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LOXDOX. 295 \n\nculture. In the scale of nations, England would be noth- \ning without commerce; therefore if commerce be an evil, \nit is a necessary evil. Besides, I think it doubtful if \nthe people be not happier in having the alternative of \ngleaning in the fields of their landlords, or of becoming \nthe drudges of merchants. \n\nOne misfortune allies itself to commerce without any \npossible remedy ; it creates the most odious of all aris- \ntocracies,— the unfeeling and unprincipled aristocracy of \nsudden wealth. Then, destitute of every generous senti- \nment, the man is disposed to retaliate on society for all \nthose hardships which he has suffered in his adversity. \nCommerce has the head of a serpent, the arms of a tyrant, \nand the feet of a slave. It soon beggars a part of society \nand flourishes in their ruin, while this miserable portion \nis reduced to the necessity of administering to their own \ndepression; for the more wealthy and powerful a few in- \ndividuals become, the more weak and miserable are their \nneighbors. This evil, which it is not in the power of the \nstatesman to remedy, necessarily flows from commerce. \nIf agriculture produces a similar effect, the effect is not \nnecessary but artificial. \n\nLegislation cannot operate on commerce in the light in \nwhich I am now considering it, but it can operate on land. \nThe law has only to abrogate the rights which attach to \nprimogeniture, and the face of Nature in England would \nimmediately wear a different aspect. Society in this par- \nticular would find its level as soon as the falling watcr- \nBponl finds its level with the ocean.' Such a law, if it were \nmade to operate at a certain future time, might take effect \nwithout injuring any individual. Legislation may operate \non land in a thousand ways. The people of Lucca so pro- \nportioned their taxes to the landed interest of each indi- \nvidual that when his land exceeded a certain number of \n\n\n296 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nacres, the tax on the supernumerary acres exceeded the \nrent.1 But these observations with respect to England are \naltogether futile ; for the abolition of the right of primo- \ngeniture would effect an entire change of the English sys- \ntem. The nobility will never suffer this. \" Quicquid \nenim Libertati plebis caveretur, id suis decedere opibus \neredunt.\"2 \n\nYou will think a country sufficiently wretched under \nthese circumstances ; but in this country there is another \nevil flowing from commerce, which one cannot contem- \nplate without pain. If the English merchants, like the \nHamburghers or the Dutch, traded in foreign merchandise, \nor, like most of the merchants of the United States, in the \nproduce of agriculture, commerce might not operate so de- \nplorably. The English merchant, like the spider, literally \nspins his web from the bowels of his fellow-subjects. Eng- \nland is the first, or among the first manufacturing coun- \ntries in Europe ; consequently among the most miserable. \nEvery nation is miserable in proportion to her manufac- \ntories. Commerce operates indirectly, but manufactories \ndirectly, against equality. They are the stone of Sisyphus, \nand the wheel of Ixion. The labor of thousands goes to \nenrich an individual. The daily bread of the workmen is \nprecarious ; if those employments to which they are edu- \ncated fail, they are reduced to the condition of your com- \nmon sort of gentlemen who have dissipated their property, \n— they arc fit for nothing. A manufactory cannot flourish \nunless the laborers sacrifice themselves to their employers ; \nfor the employers are as much interested to retain the \n\n1 Suppose there should be a law in our own country prohibiting any citizen \npossessing more than three, four, or five hundred acres of land, either for \nhimself or to his use, within the territory of his own Commonwealth > Such \na law is already desirable, and might be passed in prcesenti to operate in \nfuturo, suppose seven years, without prejudice to any individual. \n\n'- Livy, iii. 55. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 297 \n\nlaborers in indigence as are the landlords to impoverish \ntheir tenants. Nor is this all ; the bodies of the work- \nnun are not less distorted than are their souls contracted. \nTheir children are a lampoon on God's image, and carry \nthrough life the distortions of their parents. \n\nI have now given you the outlines of that state of so- \nciety which every nation would present under similar cir- \ncumstances. There is nothing in England of which I \nam aware, that substantially counteracts the operation of \ncommerce, manufactures, and the tenure of land. \n\nI know that every man has his own mode of reasoning, \nand sees things through a medium peculiar to himself. \nSome esteem that the happiest country which shows the \ncharming sight of a village peasantry ' in the vicinity of a \nmagnificent palace. Others, like the Chinese mentioned \nin a former letter, will esteem that country happiest where \nfive and twenty servants are attached to an individual \nmaster. Some will consider that the happiest country \nin which the labor of thousands enriches a few. Others, \nlike Lord Ellenborough, reasoning more abstractly, and \ntaking a more general view of things, will think that the \nhappiest country where a golden inequality 2 prevails. To \nsuch, the even surface and the waving harmony of a \nfield of corn convey no pleasure. I differ from all these \nauthorities, and believe that to be the happiest country \nwhere labor is most equally divided and the decencies of \nlife are most easily obtained. \n\nI know that man is disposed to give himself preference \n\n1 The English farmers all live in a gentlemanly style, much superior to \nthe farmers of New England ; but those who do the offices of agriculture in \nEngland are the peasants. Wu have no peasants in the United States, \nPeasants, or hinds, or lioors, are not dignified with the name of farmers. \n\n- At the trial of Despard, the following charge which his Lordship alleged \n■gains! the prisoner was not the least important, that \" he had conspired \nagainst their most desirable state of inequality.\" \n\n\n298 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nwhenever he can ; and when we look around on society \nwe see that this selfishness is in great danger of being \nincreased beyond toleration. We are ready to exclaim : \n\" This man ought to be a slave, that man was born to be \nsubservient, and the third, even from the dawn of reflection, \nwas unprincipled.\" But this mode of reasoning is not \nbetter than that of the West India planter, who complained \nhe had the worst slaves on the island, and yet he whipped \nthem the most. It is false reasoning to assert that, be- \ncause the majority of any people have lost the character of \nman, they were never capable of being good citizens. In \nthe United States human nature has often retrieved its \ncharacter when England has thought her subjects not \nworth hanging. In short, it is the part of most govern- \nments to render their subjects bad ; then they have a \npretext for rendering them still worse. The man who \ndies at Newgate between the hours of eight and nine in \nthe morning little thinks that possibly his crimes and his \nfate are a necessary part of that very system which has \ncondemned him. \n\nA citizen of the United States will naturally ask, \" How \nis it possible for such a state of things to exist? What \nconnecting principle is there to support a fabric so enor- \nmously disproportionate ? \" Is not the top of a pyramid \nas secure as the bottom ? Now, all civil society partakes \nin a greater or less degree of the form of the pyramid. \nThe broader the foundation the more weight it supports, \nand the more secure is the column. How can this evil in \nsociety be remedied ? It can be remedied only by counter- \naction. In my next letter 1 shall descend to particulars, \nand perhaps qualify in some measure the impression \nwhich this may give you. \n\nAdieu. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 299 \n\n\nLETTER XXXV. \n\nLondon, August 12. \n\nAmong the many millions who cover the face of this lit- \ntle spot of earth, there are many who enjoy all that mor- \ntals, circumscribed only by their own dispositions, can en- \njoy. If the Englishman frequently fortifies himself against \nhappiness, and sleeps on thorns in the midst of roses, it \nis his pleasure, whim, or madness. There is certainly \nsufficient affluence in England to give a stranger from a \ncountry like ours a lasting impression. The eye is not \ncontinually turned on misery, nor the ear always listening \nto the tale of distress, nor is the heart rendered more hard \nby unceasing calls to commiseration. \n\nThe sedate countenance, the rolling eyes, the careless \nswing of the arms, and the easy step prove that many of \nthe middling class are in easy circumstances, and have a \ncontented heart ; while the more guarded step, the more \ncostly though careless dress, and the more erect head of \nanother class show their affluence and self-complacency. \nThe simplicity of the Quakers does not forbid them to \ndisplay their general prosperity by the best apparel, which \nowing to its modest color docs not attract notice. \n\nThere is still another class, who never know a want \nwhich is not gratified too soon for the pleasure of full frui- \ntion. They command the four seasons. If they are not \nhappy, they are impious. Nor is this class of subjects \nBmall, though among nine millions it would be difficult \nto find them. \n\nThese are the natural conclusions of my last letter. \nFor if a few rich suppose many poor, the contrary is also \n\n\n300 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\ntrue, — many poor suppose a few rich. It is impossible \nthat a cultivated country should not be at least partially \nrich, or that an industrious people should be universally \npoor. And if such a people in general are necessitous, \nneither God nor Nature is to blame; for it was never \nmeant that man should suffer a double curse, — lose his \nsweat1 and then lose his bread. \n\nThe English system is not a little alleviated by the noble \ngenerosity of thousands. The sight of the poor does not \nalways offend the eye of the affluent. It is the part of \nmany to relent while oppressing ; and it frequently hap- \npens that those who are most interested in the support of \ncertain principles are the first to counteract their ten- \ndency. The merchants are celebrated for their mainten- \nance of charities 2 founded on voluntary subscription. The \nhighwayman sometimes returns a part of his plunder. \n\nThe condition in which most of the people of England \nare born, ought to be noticed as a further alleviating cir- \ncumstance. A citizen of the United States cannot have a \njust view of the state of society in this country unless he is \ninformed that the feelings of the poor are entirely different \nfrom the feelings of the people of the United States. The \nEnglish lose the disposition to reflect even before they ar- \nrive at the years of reflection. A situation, a hopeless situ- \nation, which one might suppose would awaken their souls \nto agony and rouse their feelings to rebellion, reduces \nthem to stupidity. Hence the condition which in the \nUnited States would be shunned as the greatest misfor- \ntune, is in England a state of contentment, and not infre- \nquently an object of desire. This is certainly a happy \n\n1 Moderate labor is the first dictate of Nature. The economy of man \nsufficiently proves this, — the circulation of the blood and the activity of \nthe mind. \n\n- A multitude of charities and hospitals are a sure mark of a nation's \nmisery. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 301 \n\ncircumstance since it saves society from the influence of \nthose persons who would otherwise become desperate. The \nman who is born heir to a wheelbarrow seldom aspires to \na handcart. \n\nYou will often see at the west end of London one, two, \nthree, and even four men, always more than decently and \nsometimes elegantly dressed, standing behind a carriage \nand supporting themselves with the holders. If it rains, \nthey arc indulged with umbrellas. Many of these men \nare not more than twenty or twenty-five years of age. \nTheir majestic height, broad shoulders, straight bodies, and \ntaper legs would have induced Hercules to enlist them in \nsome of his expeditions. These people have the appearance \nof the most perfect contentment. They are pleased with \ntheir party-colored clothes, and never seem more happy \nthan when they exhibit themselves to the public. Xor is \nthis all ; they claim a sort of distinction, and affect to \nlook down on the more respectable man who cries his \nwares. \n\nAnother numerous class spend their days behind the \ncounter. Such would be more respectably employed in fel- \nling wood in the Appalachian mountains. They do the \nwork of girls, and deprive them of bread. Such and many \nothers, however contemptible they may appear, do not in- \ncrease the national misery otherwise than as drones. \n\nThe condition of the lowest class of English women \nattracts particular notice. They are habitually occupied \nin the most laborious offices. I have seen a few making \nbricks ; others, chiefly Welsh women, carry yokes fastened \nto their shoulders, and from these yokes two pails of milk \narc suspended. Others act as porters, and not a few propel \nwheelbarrows, while sometimes the more hardy lade and \nunlade vessels, or work in the coal mines. Sad offspring \nof woman, of whom it is said, — \n\n\n8U2 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\n\" Grace was in all her steps, heaven in her eye, \nIn every gesture dignity and love.\" \n\nAll this, for aught I know, may be worse in other parts \nof Europe; but nothing of this was ever seen in New \nEngland. Do you think it strange that in such circum- \nstances women should wish to unsex themselves ? \n\nIn England the poor who are sufficiently honest to la- \nbor for their daily bread do not anticipate a comfortable \nold age, nor even look forward to the time when their daily \nbread will not be the price of daily labor. They forever \ntarry on the wrong side of Jordan. If they are sick, and \nthe laborious poor are most subject to sickness, they are \noverwhelmed by the tide of adversity and become a public \nburden. They are so sensible of this that many with a \ndetermined and abandoned purpose give themselves up \nto debauchery. \n\nIn passing through the suburbs of London, I had fre- \nquently observed a very industrious man and woman mak- \ning bricks. I had given them sixpence 1 and sometimes I \nhad stopped to talk with them. I knew their constant \nlabor and the amount of their daily pay ; yet I never heard \nthem complain. \" Surely,\" thought I, \" persons who are thus \ncontented to work all the year and lay up nothing, are \nvaluable subjects and very honest folk.\" On a Sunday \nmorning not long since, as I was passing by an inn I \nobserved both this man and his wife lying on the floor and \nburied in forgctfulncss. In the evening as I was returning, \nI called on the innkeeper, to inquire if that was their \nusual Sunday frolic. The man and his wife were still \nthere, senseless. I asked the publican if they had not \ncome to their senses since morning. \" Not quite,\" said he, \n\" that is the least of their concern ; they have recovered \nthemselves two or three times, just enough to call for more \n1 Laborers expect a small sum if you show them the least attention. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 303 \n\nliquor.\" In the course of the week I observed these people \nat work as usual and undertook to remonstrate. Far from \nbeing abashed, they hazarded a justification ; and how do \nyou think they reasoned ? They had long endeavored, they \nsaid, to better their circumstances, but found it altogether \nin vain, for some unforeseen accident had always deprived \nthem of the earnings of weeks ; that the surgeon ' would \nhave their money if the publican did not, and of the two, \nthey preferred to give it to the publican. \"But in case of \nsickness what would you do ? \" \" Oh,\" said the woman, \nrepeating the first couplet of an old song, — \n\n\" Hang sorrow, and cast away care, \nThe parish are bound to find us.\" \n\nAnother occurrence, not less to the purpose, made a \nsimilar impression on mo. It was at Bristol, where I \nlately spent a few days. I was purchasing a pair of boots \nof a woman whose husband kept a shoe-store. She ap- \npeared to be a worthy woman, and I congratulated her \non her seemingly flourishing circumstances. \" Ah, sir,\" \nsaid she, \" we should do very well, if the price of labor \nwas not so high. Indeed, sir, we are obliged to give \nour journeymen so much money that it ruins them, and \nthey are drunk one half of their time, and not fit to \nwork the other half.\" This was after I had purchased the \nboots. I have forgotten how much she told me the weekly \npay of the journeymen amounted to, but I endeavored to \nconvince her that it was impossible for them with double \nthe wages to maintain a small family. \" Ah,\" replied the \ngood woman, \" what would they do with a family ? They \ncannot take care of themselves.\" \" But do you think they \nwould do better if they had less wages?\" \"Certainly,\" \n\n1 The physicians are not answerable for the death of the poor ; that is the \nconcern of the surgeon or the apothecary. \n\n\n304 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nshe replied, \" they would then mind their business, and not \nget drunk.\" I said no more, and she thought she had \nthe best of the argument. \n\nNow, ought we to wonder if most of the laborers and \nmanufacturers are drunkards ? Those who drink most eat \nleast; and it costs them less to get drunk than it does \nto fill their bellies with wholesome provision. \n\nAnother instance is not less illustrative. I attended the \ntrials at the Old Bailey. A prisoner was tried on a capital \nindictment and acquitted. My own heart bounded with joy ; \nbut he heard the verdict \" Not guilty \" pronounced with as \nmuch indifference as I have seen others receive the sentence \nof death. Tbis surprised me, for his acquittal was un- \nexpected, and ought to have excited his happiest feelings. \nHe was immediately discharged, and I followed him out \nof court, and asked the cause of his apparent unconcern. \nHe replied with contemptuous apathy : \" How do I know \nthat I shall not soon have to go through this disagree- \nable business again ? \" This explained the secret why so \nmany criminals in England die heroically. They foresee \ntheir fate, and die their natural death. \n\nPerhaps in these notices I have descended too frequently \nto low life ; but the circles in which the great and the little \nmove are of very different circumference. If one frequent \nthe company of the great only, and bound his views within \nthe purlieus of St. James's, doubtless he would describe \nEngland as a paradise ; but he would know no more of the \npeople than he would of the Romans from reading the lives \nof Caesar, Cato, and Pompey.1 But if he should travel in the \nPythagorean style, conversing with every man he met, and \ncomparing the generality of Englishmen with their race of \nhorses, he would pronounce the condition of the latter \n\n1 No one from reading the history of these men would suppose Rome con- \ntained five hundred inhabitants; so easy is it to overlook a million of people! \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON'. 305 \n\npreferable to that of the former. I speak this with \nguarded caution, conscious of its reckless illiberality if it \nis not true ; but I believe no one who has ever made the \ncomparison will hesitate to pronounce the English horses \nbetter fed than the English subjects.1 \n\nA writer, Colquhoun. whom 1 have quoted before, says: \n\" The commutation of perpetual labor for the price of life \nis thought too severe by the legislature. A moment's re- \nflection, however, will show that in point of manual labor, \nthe hardship to be imposed is no more than every honest \nartisan who works industriously for his family must dur- \ning the whole course of his life impose on himself. The \ncondition of a convict would in some respects be superior, \ninasmuch as he would have medical assistance and other \nadvantages tending to the preservation of health, which \ndo not attach to the lowest classes of the people.\" I do \nnot coincide with all this, but I think it probable that had \nMr. Bruce in Abyssinia, or had Mr. Park in Africa, discov- \nered a people in the same situation as those of whom Mr. \nColquhoun speaks, the English would instantly open sub- \nscriptions, and send an expedition to the relief of that \npeople ; yes, even to the source of the Nile. \n\nI have found it impossible to avoid several seeming in- \nconsistencies. The English system is perhaps the most \nintricate labyrinth in which any people ever found them- \nselves involved. Man is the creature of the government \nunder which he lives : from that he takes his disposition, \nhis carriage, his sentiments, his vices and virtues. If the \ngovernment be complicated, the motives from which the \npeople act will often appear extraordinary, while in reality \nthe motives may be founded in secret reason or in absolute \nnecessity. \n\n1 In a late treatise, Dr. Buchan has given it as his opinion that hread \nis too good for the poor, and has offered a cheaper substitute. I wonder \nwhy the doctor did not propose saw-dust. \n20 \n\n\n306 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nI have told you the English are exceedingly humane and \ncharitable,1 yet the poor fare worse than the horses. 1 \nhave remarked that the merchants are naturally well dis- \nposed, yet their commercial spirit obliges them to become \nhard and oppressive. They would be among the first to \nsupport the cause of liberty at home ; so they would be \namong the first to support the cause of slavery abroad. \nTheir natural dispositions are good, but they are selfish \nfrom principle. \n\nIn former letters I have more than once observed that \nthe English populace frequently display marks of a free \npeople, while at the same moment you are ready to pro- \nnounce them slaves. No one can comprehend the cause \nof these inconsistencies, unless he takes an extensive view \nof the various operations of the English system, which dis- \ntorts the subject into more shapes than the imagination \ncan figure. \n\nWould to God I might be heard across the Atlantic ! \nI would proclaim to my fellow-citizens their proud pre- \neminence in the ranks of civil society. I would show them \nthe Constitution of England, fair in theory as the divine \nforms of Plato ; in its operation on the great mass of sub- \njects as different from the Constitution of the United \nStates as the condition of the English peasant is different \nfrom that of the Green Mountain farmer. I would im- \npress on them the futility of a government which affects \n\n1 The English claim the merit of being the most generous and humane \npeople in the world. Their public and private history certainly exhibit them \nunder very different aspects. If one knew nothing of this people except \nfrom their public history, he would suppose every Englishman walked the \nstreets with a club on his shoulder. The truth is, John Hull has a foible: \nyou must appeal to his humanity, if you wish to soften him ; otherwise, !■'■ \"ill \noften resist the soundest reason. Many of our own people are strongly pre- \njudiced against the English. This originated in the American Revolution ; \nbut it is not the English character that is detestable, it is the English \nsystem. . \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 307 \n\nliberty on the hereditary principle, reduces the people to \ny, and, like the crocodile, devours its own offspring. \nI would conjure them by past happiness and future pros- \npects, to cherish that Constitution which produces men, \nwhich is more powerful than despotism in restraining the \nworst, and all-efficient in exciting the best, tendencies of \nman. I would say to the citizens of the United States : \nBe constant to yourselves. You have nothing to fear from \nyour Constitution ; but your Constitution has everything \nto fear from you. Adieu. \n\n\nLETTER XXXVI. \n\nLondon, August 22. \n\nErskine, Gibbs, and Garrow are the three most powerful \nspeakers in the courts of law. \n\nThe person of Erskine is slender, his height not exceed- \ning the common size; his complexion is sallow; his hair \ndark ; his face oval and a little emaciated ; the lower part \nof his forehead prominent, yet gradually retreating ; his \neyebrows full and a little knitted ; his eyes are hazel, open, \nand conciliatory ; his nose is narrow between the eyes, yet \nneither too large nor too small ; his mouth is gently closed, \nseeming ready to await the dictates of his tongue, yet it is \nnot large enough to give his eloquence its just tone ; his \nlips are thin, meeting in union, and when irritated inclin- \ning to retreat rather than to project; his chin is gently \nretreating, and in conjunction with his forehead bespeaks \nthe man, — firm yet modest, positive yet ingenuous. \n\nWhen in a state of repose his countenance is prepos- \nsessing ; but when he speaks his gestures are rhetoric, \n\n\n308 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nhis looks persuasion, his voice eloquence. In the glow of \nanimation he is commanding ; but in the moment of passion, \nwhen self-convinced, he is pure intelligence. Disdaining \nevery by-road to conviction, he strips the cause of all \nextraneous circumstances, and places it on its own posi- \ntion, true to nature ; paints it visibly to the eye, and buries \nin oblivion every interfering particular. Both judge and \njury are prostrate in chains. It is the contention of prin- \nciple : no matter whose or what the interest, or if heaven \nwere concerned, it is still the contention of principle. Of \nall causes which could arise, the present seems to involve \nthe deepest consequences. There is no distinction now be- \ntween the great and the little ; everything but the point in \nquestion is forgotten, — Erskinc and his cause are sovereign \nover all. Now flows the fountain of justice, now the re- \ncesses of iniquity are explored, now the deep foundations \nof fraud are broken up. His eloquence becomes a torrent \nwhich sweeps away every defence which art or subterfuge \nhad raised. No longer has the law a single hard feature, \nno perplexities, no uncertainties, no idle evasions ! Satur- \nnian Jove descends with his equal scales, cunning retires \nin shame, oppression lets go its victim, and innocence is \nseated on the throne of equity. At length, by degrees \nErskine himself is forgotten, and forgets himself ; he rises \nto an effort not his own, and sinks under superior feelings, \nwhile the judge and the jury already convinced even to \nenthusiasm, impatiently withhold the verdict. \n\n0 sacred tribunal ! guarded in the spotless ermine of \njustice. 0 hallowed walls ! where party spirit never \nenters, where the oppressed breathe an ethereal element. \n0 glorious institution ! which chains the passions of men, \nand checks the exactions of self-interest ! 0 venerable \njudges ! whose sacred office knows no bias, whose sym- \npathy is never wakened but in the cause of humanity. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 309 \n\nI know not with whom of the orators of antiquity to \ncompare Erskine. He possesses neither the voice, nerve, \nnor vehemence of Demosthenes, but he has more cor- \ndiality. The audience of Demosthenes is driven, you see \nthe goad; that of Erskine follows its leader. While the \none shows both of his hands clinched, you see the arms of \nthe other extended. Demosthenes stamps with his feet, \nErskine folds his arms ; while the one assumes a look of \ndefiance, the other pauses a moment with open eyes. Ers- \nkine has all the grace and elegance of Tully, and, like \nTully, is anxious to round all the angular points of his \ncause in a qualifying exordium. He has less art, is more \nrapid, more earnest, more original than Tully ; and if the \nperiods of the Roman are more majestic than those of \nErskine, it is the fault of the English language. Erskine \nhas not Tolly's reach of learning, though I suspect that in \ncase of a surprise Erskine's readiness would extricate him, \nwhile the Roman would sink under the weight of his own \nerudition. Erskine has not the confidence nor the gran- \ndeur of Pericles, but he attaches you more quickly. \nPericles is willing to impose on you ; Erskine's first con- \ncern is to make friends. While Pericles is throwing the \ngauntlet, Erskine is on the defensive, watching the \nmoment of doubt or indifference. The one stands erect, \nimperative, and will take nothing which he cannot extort ; \nthe other is submissive, inclines forward, and appeals to \nimpartial justice. \n\nErskine will suffer nothing on being examined as a man : \nhis profession has not defaced his original features of \ngreatness. When engaged in a weak or unjust cause, he \nnever sacrifices his hardihood of honor to the views of his \nclient. He says all that ought to be said ; yet he never \ncompromises his dignity by urging a corrupt principle. \nYou see nothing of the attorney ; Erskine is a counsellor. \n\n\n310 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nYou see no attempt to take petty advantages ; Erskine is a \ngentleman. \n\nBy turns he is serious or witty, and when the occasion \noffers and he is disposed to descend, like Roscius, he can \nturn off a case by pantomime. Among the thousand \nactions which are presented to him, some on trial appear \nto have originated in mirth, and others in impudence ; this \nProteus is ready in a moment to throw off the professional \nbuskin and tread the sock. \n\nI have followed Erskine to the House of Commons, \nforming to my mind the attitude of a man treading em- \npires under his feet, and holding in his hands the destinies \nof the world. If, in a petty court of law, he could move \nheaven in behalf of a poor orphan or an oppressed widow, \nsurely in presence of the British Parliament, when the \nfate of nations is depending, the front of opposition must \ncower beneath his frown, or follow in the wake of his \ntriumphant progress. But the moment he enters Parlia- \nment he disappears. He is only one among five hundred. \nAn Arab would never kill Erskine, unless he caught the \ncounsellor in his gown, band, and wig;1 with these he \nseems to put off his whole virtue. As a statesman, Erskine \nis nothing. I do not say he is a great man in a little room; \nbut when he is addressing twelve men in a court of law, \nand when in the British Parliament he is addressing the \nspeaker in behalf of the nation, he is not the same man. \nHe begins, indeed, on a broad foundation, but he ascends \nlike a pyramid, and either produces an abortion or attains \nto a point, and terminates where he should have begun. \nIn Parliament he shows nothing of that copious precision, \nthat ascending order, that captivating fluency, that earnest \nconviction which at the bar stamp him Erskine. In Par- \n\n1 When in court, the English lawyers are dressed in a hlack gown, a hand, \nand a tie wig. \n\n\nLETTERS FKOM LONDON. 311 \n\nliaraent he labors with a harrow through the impediments \nof politics ; now it catches hold of Pitt, then it interferes \nwith a straggling limb of Hawkesbury, now it tears away \nthe skirts of Addiugton, presently it is to be lifted over \nthe body of Windham. He concludes, and the impression \nwhich he had made is quickly effaced. \n\nAdieu. \n\n\nLETTER XXXVII. \n\nLondon, August 28. \n\nThe person of Gibbs is diminutive, his appearance con- \ntemptible ; he has not a single strong mark of character, \nexcept a sagacious eye. There is nothing engaging in his \nlooks ; he repels rather than attracts, but all his defects \nare forgotten the moment he begins to speak. Doubtless \nGibbs is the greatest lawyer in England. In a common \ncase he is inferior to Erskine and Garrow ; but in a cause \nwhich involves first principles, where there is no room for \nthe trappings of eloquence, where passion is vain, where \ndon weakens, where embellishment begets suspicion, \nhe commands admiration, pens up Erskine in a corner, and \nnot infrequently makes him stammer. \n\nIn addressing a jury Gibbs is second, but second only \ntn Krskine and Garrow. He neither understands human \nnature so well as they do, nor can he sift character, nor \ncan he insinuate himself and take advantage of a fortunate \nmoment. He has no conception of the extremes of virtue \nand vice ; he measures everything with his compasses, but \nhe is sure of his dimensions. You make it merely a case \nof conscience to agree with him, yet he never lets you go \nuntil he has secured you, though he never thanks you for \n\n\n312 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\na verdict, well knowing you would not have given it had \nhe not compelled you. Sometimes, though rarely, he at- \ntains to eloquence not interior to Erskine's, and then he \nis sure of his cause, for what can resist the arguments of \nGibbs, backed with the eloquence of Erskiue ? Yet his \neloquence is not of the expansive order, because it is not \nthe eloquence of the heart, but that of the head. He can- \nnot look all the jury in the face at the same moment ; he \ndoes not regard the jury as one man ; he feels as though \nhe had twelve persons to convince, — in this respect differ- \ning from Erskine, who addresses the whole twelve, and \npersuades each individual that he is solicitous to convince \nhim in particular. \n\nGibbs knows that human nature varies in different men ; \nErskine finds the tie of connection which governs the \nwhole. While the one is laboring his point, the other has \nalready touched you with his wand. Like his countrymen, \nGibbs effects by main force all that he does effect. Erskine \nand Garrow are exulting on the top of the fortification, \nwhile Gibbs is mining the foundation ; and before Gibbs \nenters the city it is already sacked. \n\nI have spoken of these great men as addressing a jury ; \nin addressing the judges, before whom nothing but law and \nargument can avail or will be heard, before whom the most \neloquent might as well speak in the dark, Gibbs rises pre- \neminent. He assumes nothing, yet his very deportment \nbespeaks a man sure of himself, who has sounded his posi- \ntion and is able to grasp the whole common law of England. \nWhen Gibbs addresses the judges, Garrow is out of court, \nor sits with his calimanco bag tied up, and Erskine, his \nantagonist, fearful of a surprise, is as anxious and as busy \nas a general on the field of battle. \n\nThe deeper the case, the more perplexed, the more orig- \ninal and involved in law learning, the more firm is Gibbs \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 313 \n\nin his position ; he is secure in himself and less cautious of \nhis competitor. He rises with a solemnity and moderation \nwhich impress every one. His voice is strong and his utter- \nance is slow and well articulated, perfectly suited to a man \nwho in pursuit of the light of reason is willing that every \nword should be judged by the rules of precision. Without \nthe appearance of arrangement he has all the elegance of \nmethod. He is luminous ; you see his path through the \nwilderness of the law, while in his rear follows a stream of \nconnected discourse and reasoning. Thus securing all the \ninterest of historical order and logical process, he gradually \nconvinces until he challenges all he demanded. \n\nThe gestures of Gibbs arc moderate, his countenance is \nnever impassioned ; unlike Erskine, he is never agitated. \nHe uses but one arm, and that never in a waving line ; \nhis person is scarcely big enough to wield the weight of \nhis mind. He uses little illustration, depending on his \nlast argument to illustrate the former. He never conde- \nscends to be witty, despises embellishment, would trample \non all the flowers of rhetoric, displays no learning foreign \nto the case, and indulges in no sally, except a strong and \noverwhelming irony, correspondent with the strength of his \nreasoning. \n\nIn these moments Erskine's self retires before him like \nthe shadow which you have sometimes seen in a cloudy day \nretreating over the hills before the invading presence of the \nsun. But in his turn Erskine rallies himself, and easily \npersuades all that, except in that particular case, he is su- \nperior to Gibbs, and though vanquished, is prepared for \nanother combat. \n\nDoubtless the judges, as judges, have most reverence for \nGibbs ; it is evident they look up to him with veneration, \nand are disposed to suspect their own judgment rather \nthan his. This man, a plebeian, is a candidate for noth- \n\n\n314 LETTEBS FROM LONDON. \n\ning ; while Erskinc, the son of an Earl, is a candidate for \nthe Lord High Chancellorship. I do not say this in disre- \npect to Erskine, who honors England more than England \ncan ever honor him. Adieu. \n\n\nLETTER XXXVIII. \n\nLondon, September 5. \n\nGarrow is not a lawyer, nor in the full sense of the \nword, is he an orator ; yet as an orator he is not less extra- \nordinary than Erskine or Gibbs. His person is respectable, \nrather rawboned ; his face is square and flat ; his complexion \na dry, brown red ; his forehead is high, and appears higher \nthrough a total defect of eyebrows ; his chin is triangular \nand a little prominent. \n\nIf I have been correctly informed, the history of Garrow \nis singular. He is the son of a country clergyman, and in \nhis childhood was considered a dead weigbt on society. \nUntil the age of thirteen he was a cow-boy ; and his intel- \nlect promised nothing. About that period, his father sent \nhim, at a venture, to London. What occupation he fol- \nlowed I know not ; but he found his way at length to \nthe evening debating societies, where he soon showed a \nwonderful readiness in reply, and a copious flow of origi- \nnal matter, all the more remarkable in view of his lack of \neducation. \n\nI suspect that Garrow entered on the study of the law \nunder unfavorable circumstances, for he began at the Old \nBailey. Hence if human nature wore but one aspect, Gar- \nrow would naturally paint it black. If they have ability, \nmost men in the profession of law attain eminence by \ndegrees. A lawyer never appears full grown at once, like \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 315 \n\nan air-balloon or a newly created lord. He is obliged to \narrive at certainty through the labyrinths of uncertainty. \nAlthough Garrow became famous as soon as he showed \nhimself, yet bis celebrity did not depend on bis acquisitions. \n\nAs counsellor for felons1 at the Old Bailey, Garrow was \nnecessarily a spectator of human depravity from its first \nmoment of lax principle to the last degree of abandoned \npractice. The code of criminal law in this country is so \ndisproportioned, so barbarous, so unnatural, that Garrow \nmight frequently deem it a matter of principle to save \nthe accused. Hence the more desperate the situation of \nthe prisoner, the more severely would Garrow tax his \nown ingenuity. \n\nI will give you two instances, the latter of which I heard \nGarrow relate in the King's Bench. The first occurred in \na criminal action, the other in a civil. \n\nSome years ago, a servant was indicted for robbing his \nmaster. The penalty in this case is death, and in general \njustice is inexorable. The prisoner had no hope except in \nGarrow. He had robbed his master of several guineas ; \nthey were all found on his person, and, to render his \ncase desperate, they had been marked, and the master \nwas ready to attest their identity. Garrow asked the \nprisoner if he could mark another guinea in a similar \nmanner. The prisoner marked one, and Garrow told him \nhe might begin to repent, for his acquittal could not \nbe assured. \n\nOn the day of trial, just before the master of the aceused \nwas about to swear to the guineas, Garrow desired to \nlook at them, and cautioning the witness not to swear to \nmoney, as it was so frequently marked, requested the spec- \n\n1 I have already stated, that a felon is not allowed counsel to address the \njury in his hehalf ; but he is allowed counsel to cross-examine the witnesses, \nand to take every possible advantage which may offer. \n\n\n316 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\ntators if they had any guineas in their pockets, to lend \nthem to him. In a moment he had a handful, — it was \nso contrived. He shuffled them together, and presenting \nthem to the witness desired him to select his own. The \nwitness hesitated, and being pressed by Garrow, did not \nventure to identify. The prisoner was acquitted. It ap- \npeared afterward that Garrow in presenting the handful of \nguineas had withholden those which had been stolen. \n\nThe other instance was of late occurrence. A will sus- \npected to be a forgery was set up. One of the subscrib- \ning witnesses, in giving his evidence, stated that an \nEnglish shilling was placed under the seal. The judge \ncalled for the will, broke the seal, and found the shilling. \nIn Garrow's opinion this was not conclusive ; he desired \nto look at the shilling. Fortunately, it was not worn \nso smooth but that the date might be discerned ; by \nwhich it appeared that the shilling was coined long after \nthe will purported to have been made. \n\nWhile practising at the Old Bailey, Garrow was an im- \npediment to justice. The only remedy was to make him \na king's counsellor. This at once placed him in the King's \nBench, beside Erskine, Gibbs, Dallas, and Park. The saga- \ncity which distinguished him in criminal cases, followed \nhim to the more ample field of litigation. There, amidst \nthe intricacies of self-interest, fraud, and cunning, he di- \nvests the cause of every assumed color, or as readily ex- \ntricates suffering innocence from the fangs of the op- \npressor. His wonderful knowledge of human nature is \nonly equalled by his facility of entering into the feelings, \nviews, and conduct of mankind under all circumstances. \nHe is a perfect master of the theory of the probabilities of \nhuman conduct, while the variety of causes at the Guild- \nhall gives him a view as extensive and as broad as the re- \nlations of society. He is a metaphysician, and what is \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 317 \n\nmore, knows how to reduce his metaphysics to common \nsense and to the purposes of common life. No casuist \ncould enter more sagaciously into the theory of the will, \nmotive, and the degree of necessity ; no other could so \npalpably distinguish between the necessary, the indifferent, \nand the perverse of human action. \n\nGarrow's chief excellence consists in impressing on the \njury a full and distinct apprehension of the merits of the \ncase. It is the fault of some great lawyers to enter too \ndeeply into their causes ; they injure them by attempt- \ning to give them a false importance before the jury. Gar- \nrow, on the contrary, comprehends with a glance just how \nmuch the case will bear, and to what length he may pre- \nsume on the jury ; then, after a clear and precise opening \nof the cause, in which is contained the real outlines \nwhich he knows his evidence will support, he rises in \na moment to the middle style of eloquence, and with a \nfluency surpassing Erskine's, turns his back on the judge, \nand worms himself into the common sense of the jury, \nwith whom he never hazards a dubious point by urging it \nbeyond the fair bounds of plausibility. Here he takes his \nstand ; by resting his case on the jury's own competency, \nhe pays them deference, and engages their self-love, while \nwithout any considerable effort on their part, they fol- \nlow him at their ease. Never does lie, like Gibbs and \nErskine, address himself partly to the judge and partly to \nthe jury ; but forgetful of all the solemnities of his pro- \nfession, he seems to leap over the bar into the midst \nof the jury, his fellows. With him, a sagacious pointer, \nat their head, they are ready to follow from White Chapel \nto Hyde Park. \n\nNothing great, no sublime apostrophes, no appeal to \nthe passions, no distracting digressions, no learning, not \neven law learning, trouble the pure stream of Garrow's \n\n\n318 LETTERS FROM LONDON7. \n\neloquence. With extraordinary rapidity he touches on all \nthe important points, throwing out with one hand whatever \nis immaterial, and establishing with the other whatever is \nsubstantial, thus laying the marrow of the cause before \nthe jury ; and lest the cause should be obscured with cir- \ncumlocution, when he has said all that they can bear, he \nends in apparent exhaustion. \n\nGarrow attaches more surely than Erskine himself. \nThe latter sometimes strains the feelings too high ; amidst \na world of matter, he is in danger of losing sight of the \nquestion. Garrow never yet wantoned to the prejudice of \nhis client. He never ascends like the eagle to the sun, but \nhe never stops his pursuit in order to chase butterflies. \nThough his style of speaking and tone of voice are always \nthe same, yet his penetration is so subtle and his conclu- \nsions so natural that he succeeds in convincing the jury he \nis only elucidating their own sentiments. Thus whatever \nhe gains instantly becomes a part of the verdict, no \nmatter whether the verdict be right or wrong, — that is the \njudge's concern, not his. \n\nDoubtless Garrow is the first man at the bar, when the \naction is involved in dry matter of fact: for then, fearless \nof being put down by law authorities, he can give full \nplay to his own ingenuity ; and as no man ever had more \nproducible common sense, no man was ever so capable of \napplying it well. No man ever had a clearer mind, which, \nthough not deep, embraces the extremes of sagacity, fore- \nsight, and probability. He is like the beds of those rivers, \nof which, though you can see to the bottom, you see noth- \ning but golden sands. \n\nTo distinguish between Gibbs, Garrow, and Erskine, I \nshould say Gibbs is a man of a powerful mind, Garrow \nan extraordinary man, and Erskine a man of genius. To \ncompare them with our New England lawyers, 1 should \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 319 \n\nsay Dexter was the most like Gibbs, Otis most like Garrow, \nand Erskine — I know not with whom to compare him; \nhe is a partial assemblage of all the others. \n\nAdieu. \n\n\nLETTER XXXIX. \n\nLondon, September 15. \n\nOx the subject of the English orators I should prefer \nto be silent, rather than to confine myself within the \nbounds of a letter. However, I will attempt a sketch of \nthe principal speakers. \n\nFrom the predominant class of contending men in the \nHouse of Commons, I might select Pitt, Fox, Windham, \nSheridan, Wilbcrforce, Grey, Ticrney, Castlereagh, Hawkes- \nbury, Corry, and Addington. \n\nThe characters of these men, as orators, are well known \nin the United States, and particularly so to you. I shall, \ntherefore, confine myself to the first three, — Pitt, Fox, and \n\"Windham. Sheridan 1 would have included, but I have \nheard him speak only twice, and then he left no impres- \nsion. He has taken no part in any important debate \nwhich I have attended, but has kept his seat, — silent, \nreserved, looking earnestly toward the treasury bench, \nand seemingly dubious of his former principles, which \nhave left him as poor as his old client the Nabob of \nArcot. \n\nMr. Pitt still rises with an ease, composure, and assur- \nance, indicative of former influence, while the House, con- \nscious of his presence, are disposed to give him all that \nattention as a member which he once commanded as a \nminister. And though at present he is a fallen states- \n\n\n320 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nman, he sustains a character none the less ascendant as \na man ; so that his enemies are not willing to approach \nniglicr plain Mr. Pitt than they did the once arbiter of \nthe kingdom. \n\nThe station which Mr. Pitt has supported so long has \ngiven his eloquence a peculiar turn, and even rendered his \ncharacter ostensibly cold and hard. The political calcu- \nlator, always in search of expedients, habitually regards \nmankind mechanically, and sooner or later becomes impen- \netrable to the first dictates of nature, and sublimely over- \nlooks every obstacle which might impede his course. A \nprime minister of Great Britain, if he continues long in \noffice, must of necessity familiarize himself with deeds \nwhich in their extensive consequences render all the crimes \nof the decalogue comparatively harmless. In fact, Mr. Pitt's \neloquence shows a frigid, palliating, defensive, yet positive \ncharacter. It has ever been sufficient for him to maintain \nhis ground : not to be driven from his post has been to \ngain the victory. At this day, he addresses the Speaker as \nthough the conflict were still between himself and his great \nantagonist, Fox, while Addington is forgotten, and forgets \nthat he is minister. \n\nHad Mr. Pitt labored all his days in the opposition, he \nwould have been a much greater orator and a much nobler \nman. Ever on the defensive, he has naturally fallen into \na confined uniformity, which has seldom permitted him to \ntake excursion beyond the tedious business of office ; at the \nsame time the system of government, forcing the current \nof business to mingle itself with the sighs, tears, and groans \nof the nation, has rendered him officially obnoxious to the \npeople, and afforded his parliamentary enemies the fairest \nprovocations for attack. Once, indeed, Mr. Pitt found \nhimself on the side of humanity, and shone conspicuously \namong Fox, Burke, Wilberforce, and others. But, singular \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 321 \n\nas it may appear, he then, and then only, found himself in \na minority. I speak of the famous motion of Wilberforce \nfor the abolition of the slave trade. \n\nUnder these circumstances, the members of the opposi- \ntion have every advantage, not only of popular respect, but \nof humanity, and consequently of oratory ; for true elo- \nquence must be founded on the honest feelings of nature. \nBut a prime minister has already closed every pore to the \nglow of humanity, before he ventures to open the budget.1 \nHence he is cut off from the most fruitful source of elo- \nquence. Xo appeal to the passions, no earnest supplica- \ntion, no sympathy with distress, no palpitation of the heart, \nrender him dear to the people and soften his exactions. \nImpelled by inexorable necessity, he comes into the House, \nand knowing the final result of the question, boldly exposes \nhimself to the whole artillery of the opposition. But all \nthis confidence in his followers does not suffer him to re- \nmit the severest exercise of his own powers in order to \ngive plausibility to his most suspicious measures. Hence \nit may easily be imagined that before any important \nstep is taken, the treasury bench have already been sum- \nmoned to weigh every difficulty which the opposition might \npossibly raise. Thus such men as Fox, Sheridan, and Grey \nhave the honor of being answered twice. But Fox is so \nvarious, rapid, and overwhelming, that he frequently loses \nthe win ile ministry, who, long since ripe for the question, \nare happy to be released by the last resort of the minister, \n— I mean the vote of the majority. \n\nFrom these observations you will easily collect what the \nstyle of Pitt and of Fox will probably be ; still, each of \nthem preserves a distinct character. \n\n1 \" Budget : \" a political cant word for the yearly estimate of expenses \nI saw Mr. Addington open one of his budgets, and I imagined I heard the \ngroans of a hundred million people. \n\n21 \n\n\n322 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nMr. Pitt is the most cool, perspicacious, dignified, and flu- \nent speaker who ever rose in a deliberative assembly. The \nmoment he is expected, a solemn stillness pervades the \nHouse ; and while his presence is felt, his adversaries lose \nall their influence. His manner is gentle and unassuming; \nhis gestures, moderate and conciliatory ; his voice, musical, \nclear, and distinct ; his words, most happily selected with- \nout the least appearance of selection, flow in an unruffled, \nuniform stream, always sufficiently rapid to interest, and \nfrequently to command attention. With these advantages, \nhe opens upon the House a mind veteran in politics and as \nextensive as the various relations of the empire. Nor is he \ndeficient in illustrations drawn from modern science, or in \nembellishments derived from ancient literature ; but he uses \nboth illustrations and embellishments sparingly. With a \nmind thus adorned by nature, thus disciplined by art, and \nhabitually cool and determined, no wonder he displays on \nall occasions a reach far beyond the attainment of ordinary \nmen. While the fallen statesman is yet willing to hazard \nhis former immense responsibility, he still seems to support \na mighty kingdom, nor does he sink under the weight. \nDoubtless no member of the House of Commons could sup- \nport such a weight of character unless his pre-eminent abili- \nties had first given him the necessary strength, and then \nthat weight of character had seconded his abilities. \n\nHis chief excellence consists in inspiring a full confi- \ndence in his own capacity ; then he places you at a due \ndistance, perfectly at your ease, and whether he is right \nor wrong you are loath to interrupt the copious stream of \nhis eloquence, which flows with such a felicity of connec- \ntion and concludes with such an elegant compactness, that \nyou fancy you have been listening to an oracle, whose \nwords dictated in the harmony of numbers carry a divine \ninfluence. No breaks, no exclamations, no agitation, no \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 323 \n\nviolence of expression mark his course, ruffle his temper, \nor disturb the spell. Never does he astonish, like the \ncolumn df Niagara, by his headlong torrent, falling, spark- \nling, and spreading wide its foam, — he preserves his nat- \nural and deep channel. He fixes you, it is true, and you \nare satisfied while under the power of his words; but the \nmoment he concludes the impression is gone, and you are \nready to dispute him. The reason is, Pitt's eloquence is \nthe eloquence of the head, and not the eloquence of the \nheart. He is as cold as the polar regions, and as dry as \nthe deserts of Arabia. He is afraid to tempt his feelings, \nlest his heart should betray his head. Hence he is spar- \ning of ornament, suspicious of moral digression, and fear- \nful of an appeal to the passions. \n\nDestitute, at present, of the pioneers of the treasury \nbench, Pitt stands self-supported, and seems to plant him- \nself in a narrow defile, prepared to oppose all who may \ncome that way. Although he sees bis adversaries from \nafar — some, like Fox, approaching directly, others scour- \ning along the declivities, and a few subaltern partisans \nwho retreat the moment their heads are discovered above \nthe hills — he maintains his ground, notwithstanding his \naccustomed armor renders him incapable of varying his \nweapons, while his mechanical movements forbid him to \npursue the enemy. \n\nFox appears in the House of Commons under the most \nfavorable impressions which an ambitious orator can de- \nsire, nc commands the awe if not the admiration of the \nMinistry, steals into the affections of the indifferent, and \ncarries with him the enthusiasm of his friends. How can \nit be otherwise? His heart is full and laboring before \nhe rises. Consistent from the beginning, his sincerity is \nnever doubted, and thus he is always in possession of the \nforeground ; and though he frequently breaks out in sud- \n\n\n324 LETTERS FBOM LONDON. \n\nden abruptness, the beginning of his last speech always \nseems the conclusion of the preceding. His whole political \nlife has been one continued now of eloquence, — here only \na narrow stream, and there scarcely flowing at all, but on \nevery great occasion collecting itself like a torrent and \nrushing in a wide and lengthened volumo ; now breaking \nover rocks and precipices, and now making its own channel \nthrough the mounds which his busy competitors had labo- \nriously reared, sweeping all away, and not infrequently \noverwhelming his enemies, and leaving their dead bodies \nfloating far behind. \n\nIn vain will a king of Great Britain draw a line over the \nname of such a man as Fox. If no longer privy counsellor, \nhe is counsellor of the nation. It is impossible to oppress \nor humble such a man. Wherever he treads, he must \nleave an indelible impression ; whatever he does, becomes \na part of his country's history ; and whatever he says, must \ndescend to posterity. \n\nThough Fox is slovenly in appearance, unwieldy in per- \nson, and ungracious in manners, though his voice is dis- \nagreeably shrill, his words frequently indistinct, and his \naction generally embarrassed, yet he has scarcely begun be- \nfore you are solicitous to approach nearer to the man. In \nthe midst of passion, which sometimes agitates him until he \npants high, he displays so much gentleness of temper and \nso little personal feeling that a stranger might easily imag- \nine he saw this man among the gods, unencumbered with \nany mortal affection, debating for the good of mankind. So \nmuch pure principle, natural sagacity, strong argument, \nnoble feeling, adorned with the choicest festoons of ancient \nand modern literature, and all these issuing from a source \nhitherto inexhaustible, never before so distinguished a \nman. If nations were not suffered to go mad before they \nare destroyed, the voice of Fox, raising itself in the midst \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 325 \n\nof corruption, false politics, and the abuses of a full \ncentury, would yet be beard. \n\nWith these advantages of consistency, of integrity, of \npolitical sagacity, of irresistible and lengthened argument, \nno wonder if while he never condescends to personality, all \nthose over whom the influence of corruption has passed \nseem to shrink under bis presence. They have nothing to \nfear. Fox never descends from the summit of his reputa- \ntion. He knows that he has long been a spectacle to his \nown countrymen and to neighboring nations, and, as if \nstanding in the presence of all Europe, he seems to hold \nin his hand the record of his past life, while his eye pierces \ndown to posterity, in pledge of his future constancy to his \navowed principles. \n\nPitt you are willing to hear until he is exhausted. But \nFox first lays down an interesting position, fixes your earn- \nest regard, and attaches you wholly to himself ; then by the \nrapidity of his utterance hurries you on, not to immediate \nconviction, for he is sure the minds of all are pressing \nforward. Fearless of presuming on the patience of his \nhearers, he is enabled to give free play to his feelings, to \nhis genius, to his learning, — all which united give an irre- \nsistible force to his arguments, and would confound all \ndistinction between his friends and enemies, did not Pitt, \nthe sole support of his party at these moments, breaking \nin upon the calm and silence of the solemn impression, \nrecall to a new conflict the wavering majority. \n\nIn one respect, Fox will forever be esteemed above his \ncontemporaries. Though he has grown gray in the opposi- \ntion, he has never made one personal enemy. At the end \nof a twenty year's contention, he is still considered a man \nof a ooble disposition; and both in the moment of debate \nand with the nation at large, he still maintains the influ- \nence of his former days. \n\n\n326 LETTERS FROM LONDON. \n\nMr. Windham is not an orator of that commanding pres- \nence which fixes confidence or attaches a party. Though \nhardly an orator, lie is one of the most successful parti- \nsans who ever entered on the warfare of debate. His grace- \nful person, his serious air, his bald head, joined to his de- \nliberate, distinct utterance, give him at once a senatorial \ndignity independent of his various intellectual forces. \n\nI have seen Mr. Windham out of place only ; I have seen \nhim in pursuit of Mr. Addington. How he would appear \non the treasury bench, I can only imagine. In his pres- \nent seat he shows nothing but his talons ; and with all the \nunfeeling instinct of the bird of prey, he fixes on the neck \nof the minister, who, unlike Pitt, is vulnerable at every \npoint, and daily bleeds afresh. \n\nNothing great, nothing manly, nothing conciliatory mark \nthe course of Windham ; whether he rises in meditated or \ninstantaneous assault, he points out at once the object of \nhis destruction. No disguise : the man cannot hide his fea- \ntures ; it is forever the same inveterate spirit. \" Idem hab- \nitus oris, eadem contumacia in vultu, idem in oratione spir- \nitus erat.\" 1 Passing by the plausible Hawkesbury, the \nlaborious York, and the elegant Castlercagh, auxiliaries of \nthe minister, Windham never suffers one of his arrows to \nmiss the heart of Addington. He is as terrible to his \nenemy as those enormous serpents which carry with them \nthreefold terror, — whose fangs are not less fatal than the \nsqueeze of their bodies, nor this less fatal than the lash \nof their tails. His instant, downright attack precludes all \nescape ; while his close logic, lengthened out by the wind- \ning subtlety of metaphysical reasoning, leaves his enemy \nbound hand and foot. Not satisfied with this, and himself \nnot half exhausted, he collects all his sarcastic powers, \nand begins a new onset, the most ferocious of the muses \n\n1 Livy, ii. 61. \n\n\nLETTERS FROM LONDON. 327 \n\nwaiting his pleasure, and opening all the stores of ridi- \ncule, jest, and satire. \n\nNo wonder the Chancellor is chafed, no wonder he frets \nin his seat ; his ministerial dignity suffers under the daily \nridicule, while his self-love is touched to the quick under \nthe e\\-er new contempt of Windham, for no man ever pos- \nsessed a more insidious, villifying talent at reproach, which \ncan neither be warded off nor retorted. It is not a single \ntaunt, and then' a respite ; it is not a passing sneer which \nis presently forgotten, but the ceaseless assault of the \nfabled vulture. \n\nThough Windhani possesses a fine imagination, a strong \ncurrent of argument, and a various and extensive reach of \nmind, adorned with the best portions of classic literature, \n— add to these a fluency second only to Pitt's — yet the \nultimate requisite for a great orator is wanting, — I mean \npassion, of which Windham is wholly destitute. He is \nnot deficient in violence ; but he shows at once a cold \nheart and a passionate head, so that you follow him in- \ndifferently. Before you can feel with Windham, you must \nfirst hate the mau whom he attacks. \n\nHowever, Windham generally brings to the debate some- \nthing new, something dazzling, something original ; and \nwhen he does not add anything of his own, he displays the \nquestion in its best possible position. Always perspicacious \nand elegant, his words seem to flow from the press already \narranged, and exhibiting the fairest impression. In short, \nWindham is one of the most interesting speakers in the \nHouse ; and if he could suppress the black bile which con- \ntinually flows from his mouth, if he could conceal his \nbitterness, he would add new weight to his character, \nwould lose nothing of his senatorial dignity, and would \nbe the delight of the House of Commons. \n\nAdieu. \n\n\nTHE \n\nHUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST. \n\n\nADVERTISEMENT. \n\n\nThe following Essay, I am sensible, is but a sketch. If \nit have merit, it will be attributed to the design rather \nthan to the execution. The subject is worthy the hand \nof a master, and is still open to much philosophical re- \nsearch. I have endeavored to explore a new but indirect \nsource of argument in favor of the divinity of Jesus \nChrist. For my support, I have relied on human nature, \nand strengthened my proofs by illustration and parallel, \nso far as illustration and parallel could be applicable to \nthe character. I thought it possible to render the subject \ninteresting to piety. Let the public judge. \n\n\nTHE \n\nHUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST.1 \n\n\nEVERY age has produced heroes, enthusiasts, and im- \npostors. To rise pre-eminent over others is the \nfirst wish of the human heart. After man ceases to be \nwholly selfish, the predominant sensation expands itself \nin comparison, which gradually awakens the ardor of \nambition. This restless feeling has a governing influence \non man in early life, and never entirely forsakes him until \nhe loses all confidence in himself. If the nature be gen- \nerous and events propitious, they produce a great man ; \notherwise the disposition takes an eccentric turn. \n\nIt is not a singular circumstance in the annals of human \nnature that every one of those heroes, enthusiasts, and im- \npostors, the history of whose lives has been sufficiently \ninteresting to merit preservation, has been actuated by his \nparticular bias, and excited by motives which in his own \nestimation were powerful, however weak or criminal they \nwere in the opinion of mankind. One man, already a con- \nqueror, thinks he must subject the world before the world \nwill acknowledge him a hero. Another, already a sover- \neign prince and perfectly at ease, proposes more than \nmortal labors in order to enjoy a quiet old age. A third, \nfavored by the times, boldly associates himself with heaven \nin order to govern the earth. A fourth, more bumble \nthough not less ardent, clad in a hair shirt, is willing to \ntravel to Jerusalem, preaching a crusade. \n\n1 First printed in 1807, for William Peluam, Boston. \n\n\n332 THE HUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST. \n\nThe characters of these men were so distinctly marked \nin their own days, their inspiring motive was so apparent, \nthat succeeding ages have been contented to appeal to \nthem for illustration, or to raise commentaries on their \nlives. Doubtless they all thought themselves paramount \nto the common sense of mankind, and little less than \ninspired, however romantic or absurd their object of pur- \nsuit. Hence the questions of magnanimity or of selfish- \nness, of imposture or of enthusiasm, will forever arise \nwhile the pursuits of men tend to pre-eminence over their \ncontemporaries. \n\nThere is one person on record who has commanded the \nattention of every succeeding age ; and, what is not a \nlittle remarkable, it is not yet settled in what class of \ncharacter this person ought to be placed, notwithstanding \nhe has engaged the zeal, the curiosity, or the resentment \nof the divine, the philosopher, and the statesman. He was \na person whose singular fate it has been to be accred- \nited by some whose lives reflected no honor on the object \nof their adoration, and to be reviled by others whose moral \nworth was never questioned. How, then, are we to esti- \nmate a man whom many worship as a god, whom some \nconsider an enthusiast, and whom not a few revile as an \nimpostor ? \n\nIf the characters of all eminent men have been drawn \nand judged from their lives and actions, why may not \nwe, confining ourselves to the human character of Jesus \nChrist, reach the merits of the question by testing his \nlife and actions by the general principles of human nature, \nor at least by those principles which usually influence \ngreat men ? \n\nIn the reign of Augustus Cassar, and at a period famous \nin the history of that time for an universal peace, an \n\n\nTHE HUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST. 333 \n\ninfant, now universally known by the name of Jesus \nChrist, was born at Bethlehem, a village of Galileo, a \nRoman province. His parents, no doubt, moved in the \nhumblest walks of society, and during their whole lives, \nnotwithstanding the reputation of their son, remained in \nobscurity. Their poverty and humility may readily be \nsupposed ; for the child was born in a manger, a cir- \ncumstance which probably would not have been recorded \nif family pride had been studious to conceal it, — unless, \nlike the story of Romulus and Remus, it was designed to \nbe the groundwork of a romantic tale ; or, as the child \nappeared to be promising, to make his humble origin en- \nhance his personal merit. But as no such uses as these \nwere ever made of his remarkable birth, it seems rea- \nsonable to conclude that this was a well-known part of \ntheir family history. \n\nThe education of a boy thus situated is generally con- \ntracted and consistent with the narrow means of his parents. \nHence the adventures of Christ's childhood are singularly \nbarren of incident. Until the age of twelve years, it does \nnot appear whether he was grave or gay, ardent or reserved. \nThere is no mention of even one brilliant observation of \nhis sedate, nor one effusion of his more heedless, moments \nwhich can be regarded as prophetic of his future character. \nThe cause of this is open to two remarks, both plausible, \nthough offering different conclusions. It may be said he \nwas just like other children, and showed nothing worthy \nof particular notice. On the contrary, it may be replied, \nthat a more early revelation of himself might have dero- \ngated from the dignity and importance of his purposes. \nA boy-God could not so easily have supported a great mis- \nsion. But neither of these remarks has much weight ; for \nit seems he did exhibit himself to the world in early child- \nhood, and then commanded the attention of the public. \n\n\n334 THE HUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST. \n\nIf the first wish of an obscure, inconsequential, but \naspiring young man should lead him to associate with \nthe world, and to solicit public notice, it is nothing un- \ncommon. Obscurity connected with ambition usually in- \nspires the boldest confidence ; but it rarely happens that \na boy of real genius obtrudes himself on the busy world. \nIn the first moments of conscious, superior worth, the boy \nof genius undergoes sensations wholly averse to its public \nmanifestation. He trembles in the glare of observation, \nand tlies from the presence of those whose attention he \nis most anxious to arrest. This is natural ; the first open- \nings of a great mind overcome the heart. A new and \npowerful sensation oppresses him ; he is jealous of others \nand doubtful of himself. \n\nAt the age of twelve years, this boy found himself at \nJerusalem. His parents had taken him with them to cele- \nbrate an annual feast. To a child of common observation, \nthe city of Jerusalem must have been a source of much \nsurprise. How many questions and how many remarks \nsuch a journey must have raised in a young mind ! His \nsoul must have expanded in allusion and comparison. In \nthe midst of such a scene as Jerusalem presented to youth- \nful curiosity, every step would hare awakened reflection. \nYet strange, not a single observation on human life, on the \ncity, or on the inhabitants appears to have escaped him, \nwho was too young for an impostor, and too simple for a \nhypocrite. Stranger still, this ignorant boy, regardless of \nall the novelties of the city and truant to his parents (who \nhad already left Jerusalem on their journey home), without \nany introduction, alone, and probably in mean apparel, \nproceeds to the Temple, the most famous place in the city. \nThere he finds the most learned men in the country dis- \ncoursing on public affairs. He seats himself in the midst \nof them, and of a sudden enters into the debate. By the \n\n\nTHE HUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST. 335 \n\nsingular pertinence and depth of his observations rather \nthan by any artifice of eloquence, he draws on himself the \nattention of all. Soon they become astonished, and, drop- \nping their own concerns, regard the child with mixed feel- \nings of curiosity, awe, and wonder. \n\nOne might imagine that this early and brilliant success in \nhis first attempt to attract public admiration would have \nfixed the predominant character of the man. If the tremu- \nlous nerves of the Olympic victor were sometimes over- \npowered in supporting the laurel which his corporal \nstrength had won, what must be the nature of him who \nin youth receives with equanimity the more cherished and \nflattering distinction which a powerful mind commands \nfrom the willing, perhaps the unwilling, voices of his con- \ntemporaries ? Already, in imagination, the brightest \nscenes open upon his manhood. The obscurity of his \nfamily is forgotten. The trappings of honor will not \nonly clothe himself, but conceal the meanness of his \nparents. Who will not follow him in the ardor of riper \nyears whom they reverence in childhood ? \n\nWe know nothing more of Jesus until he is thirty years \nof age. Of this blank in his life, during a period of eigh- \nteen years, every man must judge agreeably to his own \nfeelings and views of human nature ; but it must be \nobvious to every one that this long obscurity is perhaps \nthe most extraordinary circumstance of his life. How- \ncould a young man, conscious of talents, and contemptible \nin that age both on account of his parentage and place of \nnativity, sacrifice so long the laudable pride of raising his \nfamily, or, possessed of more expanded feelings, of honor- \ning his native country ? Though age is slow and calcu- \nlating, youth is hasty and clamorous of the present. How \ncould a youth, who at the age of twelve commanded the at- \ntention of sages, preserve a silence during so many years ? \n\n\n336 THE HUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST. \n\nThough prudence measures everything with her compasses, \ngenius is more rapid. How could a young man like Jesus, \nwhose nation was the reproach of the earth, bury himself \nin the obscurity of Nazareth for so long a period of that \ntime when the passions are all alive, and when pleasure \nengrosses the current moment, or ambition lays plans for \nthe future ? \n\nAt about the age of thirty, Jesus appeared again in pub- \nlic. He was then in the ripeness of manhood, at a period \nequally distant from the levity of youth and the sobriety of \nage. He is reported to have been exceedingly beautiful in \nhis person, if you examined but one feature at a time ; but \nhis entire countenance raised in the beholder an interest \nwhich immediately affected the heart. Sympathy, awe, \nreverence, but chiefly reverence, were the prevailing senti- \nments he inspired. These were the features of his character \nin the moment of repose. His stature was rather above \nthe common size, as was his person, and that was finely \nproportioned. His hair was auburn, gracefully flowing \nover his shoulders ; his steps were slow and firm, bespeak- \ning a man of purpose. The most brilliant complexion of \nhealth adorned his cheeks, which, in conjunction with his \nflowing beard — the fashion of those times — and a pierc- \ning hazel, yet unassuming eye, would have rendered him \naltogether attractive, had not a high and gently retreating \nforehead of the most perfect symmetry restrained famili- \narity, and impressed the beholder with an emotion of re- \nspect. Though he appeared under every disadvantage, \nunder almost suspicious circumstances, it was impossible \nto behold him without being in doubt as to the true char- \nacter of the man. \n\nSuch is said to have been the personal appearance of \nJesus Christ. But who will undertake to portray the cast \nof mind of one who at every step of his public life ran \n\n\nTHE HUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST. 337 \n\ncounter to the ordinary pursuits of common sense ? Yet \nhis public movements and public counsels offer sufficiently \ndistinct outlines from which to draw a character, not the \nless to be mistaken for its entire originality. \n\nJesus Christ was endued not only with all those qualities \nof mind which arc considered the attributes of command, \nand insure a superior standing among men, but he was still \nmore noted for the milder virtues. These, though less \nsplendid, arc entitled to more merit, in that they are rarely \nassociated with strongly marked characters, are subjects of \nattainment rather than gifts of Nature, and require a habit \nof circumspection to preserve, and a constant exercise to \npractise them ; but in Jesus the most opposite traits \nseem to blend so naturally that you are in danger of \nmistaking two virtues for a single one. His habitual \nmeekness and undaunted firmness, his all-subduing wis- \ndom accompanied with a subtle sagacity, and his almost \nchildlike simplicity, never for a moment proved a foil to \none another. Perhaps no man ever possessed a more ready \nversatility. The lowly life in which he was educated, was \nnot more familiar to him than the more ceremonious com- \npany of the Scribes, the Pharisees, and the Doctors of Law. \nHis easy conformity bespoke on all occasions a knowledge \nof human nature which seemed to be intuitive. No man \never approached him without being improved, or at least \nlaid open to self-inspection ; while his habitual calmness \nand presence of mind gave him ascendency over the cap- \ntious, whom he put down not by the force of argument, \nbut by a moral appeal to the heart, or by a happy illus- \ntration of the matter in question, or frequently by the \nmethod employed by Socrates, — by compelling the cap- \ntious questioner to confute himself. It is worthy of re- \nmark, also, that whatever this man spoke was addressed \nto the heart and not to the head ; hence he was always \n22 \n\n\n338 THE HUMAN CHARACTER OP JESUS CHRIST. \n\nirresistible, while the simplicity of his appearance and his \nunassuming manners gave his wisdom a novel and all- \nattracting charm. Unembarrassed with the doctrines of \nthe day, unversed in the subtleties of the schools, contemn- \ning the formal processes of logic, he made no claim to \nlearning. Original in everything, he seemed superior to all \nhis predecessors in fertility of mind. Doubtless owing to \nhis lack of learning, the sciences of Greece or of Rome were \nnever subjects of his appeal. His own resources served \nhim instead of the light from other men ; and if he was \never at a loss to explain himself or illustrate his subject, \nthe nearest object generally afforded the most lively proof \nof his intuitive powers. The little child who happened to \nbe present is as strong an example of the readiness with \nwhich he converted surrounding objects to his purposes \nas the more ingenious, though artificial parable. Possessed \nof such resources, where was the necessity of a display of \nlearning, or to what profit could Jesus use the embellish- \nments of rhetoric, when to enforce his doctrine a grain of \nmustard-seed was ready to spring to a full-grown tree, in \nwhose branches all the fowls of the air might lodge ? His \nwas not the eloquence of the Sophists. True eloquence \nmust affect the heart; if the heart be not affected, how- \never deeply engaged the head may be, it is no longer elo- \nquence,— it is argument. If Christ was not a finished \norator by the rules of art, he was the first of orators by \nthe force of nature. Suffice it for others to insinuate \nthemselves, to watch the propitious turn of indifference, \nand gain in an hour what they cannot command in a \nmoment ; suffice it for others to beguile their hearers by \nthe subtleties of the schools, by splendid figures, by apt \nillustrations, by strong allusions. The orator, however suc- \ncessfully he may use these advantages, betrays only a bar- \nrenness of mind compared with the powers of him who \n\n\nTHE HUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST. 339 \n\nspeaks only to the heart, and can at one effort convert his \nhearers into disciples. \n\nNo doubt there was a pecidiar and agreeable manner of \naddress accompanying the discourses of Jesus. It cannot \nbe supposed but that the graces of his person, — his ruddy \ncomplexion, still more spiritual in the moment of anima- \ntion, his piercing eyes, mild or commanding at pleasure, \nhis fixed and ingenuous countenance, — added much to \nhis success ; yet there certainly was an unknown, secret \ncharm attending this man who was free from any affec- \ntation of applause. \n\nThere was nothing popular in his manner ; he never \nseemed to make an effort. How, then, was he always so \nascendant over his followers, or rather, how did he collect \nso many followers ? With the famous orators of that age \nand the preceding ages, graceful gestures, an animated \neye, frequent violence of action, passionate invocations \nand appeals were the by-road to persuasion ; with Jesus \nexpression rendered unnecessary any exertion of voice or \nof person. Expression in him was action, passion, man- \nner, address, — everything. This was the mighty power, \nthe unattainable power, which is said to have produced \nsuch strange effects, whether he rose upon the multitude \nin the terror of his wrath or addressed them in the tone \nof charity and compassion ; whether he overwhelmed the \nassuming Pharisee or raised the humble publican. It was \nthis inconceivable, this mysterious expression which so \nmuch perplexed his hearers as to the nature of the person. \n\nWhy, then, did not this man succeed in life ? \" He was \nnot ambitious.\" But was not his public appearance a suf- \nficient proof of his ambition? — for without ambition no \nman throws himself on the public. Why, then, did not this \nman succeed in life ? \" He knew not how to embody the \npassions of men, and to point their direction.\" Yet this \n\n\n340 THE HUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST. \n\nman, in a chance walk, in a first interview, could enlist two \nfishermen in his service, and fix them in his interest during \ntheir future lives. Why, then, did not this man succeed in \nlife ? \" He knew not how to adapt himself to the age in \nwhich he lived.\" Yet no man ever possessed an equal \nfacility of bending to times and circumstances, though in \ntruth no man — no, not Cato or Socrates — ever yielded \nless to the principles of his age. Besides, Cato and Socrates \ngained all their reputation and influence by resisting their \nage ; and it might have been pardonable in Jesus, a man \nof obscure birth, had he sacrificed a little to popularity, \nespecially as he did not associate himself with the Stoics, \nor profess himself an adherent of any one of the prevailing \nsystems of the day. The rigid Cato betrayed his prin- \nciples in some degree by carrying a servant with him, who \npointed out the citizens by name, lest in shaking hands \nCato might seem not to recognize his friends. Nothing of \nthis sort is attributed to Socrates ; yet it ought to be con- \nsidered that Socrates was a retired philosopher, while \nChrist and Cato were public characters. Nor, in my opin- \nion, is there so strong a resemblance between the Nazarene \nand Athenian as many have noticed. Socrates led a quiet, \ncontemplative, theoretical life, and either from indolence \nor contempt of foreign nations, closeted himself at Athens, \nand scarcely professed himself a public character, much \nless the reformer of his nation. \n\nThe short career of Jesus was the reverse of this ; and \nthough many have been at a loss to discover a substantial \nmotive for his action, no one has denied him an uncommon \nardor in his pursuits. Therefore his want of success cither \nsupposes a great defect of character, or throws a veil of \nmystery over the man ; for it cannot be concealed that a \nstrange and fatal inconsistency seemed to precede every \nstep of Jesus. What a contrast between the mind and the \n\n\nTHE HUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST. 341 \n\nactions of the man ! Never before was there seen Bach a \npowerful mind apparently counteracting itself. We search \nin vain to find the slenderest tie of connection between the \nmind and the conduct, the passions and pursuits of the \nman. Had he lived longer, he possibly might have \nunfolded himself. \n\nIf candor should temper suspicion over the grave of a \ncharacter we do not understand, the motives of Christ \nought not to be prejudged. That man must be a consum- \nmate hypocrite who lays down the fairest system of virtue \non which to raise a monument of usurped power. The \nman who clothes himself in humility in order to steal a \nrobe of State, must be superior to all his contemporaries. \nIn the road to sovereignty, who ever descended to the \noffices of a servant ? In pursuit of a royal crown, who \never underwent the public mockery of a crown of thorns ? \nFew have seriously charged Jesus with such motives. \nHuman nature is more consistent, and human motives \nare less refined. \n\nHowever, let the motives of Christ be estimated as vari- \nously as the various views of mankind, still his public life \nis not a less interesting subject of remark. We will draw \na little nearer the man, and accompany him to the end \nof his life, — it is but one year more, — to his singular \ncatastrophe. \n\nWe must now imagine to ourselves an original character, \nwho, conscious of his own extraordinary powers, had pur- \nposely reserved himself until he could appear the most as- \ncendant among men. As he was an obscure subject of a \nconquered nation which had sunk into a Roman province, \nwhatever were his views, he might esteem it most prudent \nto reserve himself until the moment of his mature charac- \nter. Hitherto he had conducted himself like a wary adven- \nturer ; and his succeeding movements were far from raising \n\n\n342 THE HUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST. \n\nsuspicion. lie neither forced himself, like an adventurer, \non opportunity, nor even calmly waited its approach. If it \nwas the first concern of Jesus to win to himself a numerous \nparty, the method that he took, though at first successful, \ndisplayed a total ignorance of human nature, and left a \nblemish which marks an incomplete character ; for it is a \nblemish in a great man to lend himself to half of the \ncommunity in despair of gaining the whole. \n\nThe first adventure of Jesus, though perfectly consistent \nwith the future tenor of his life, has no parallel. So extra- \nordinary is it, that had it been related of any other person, \nit must have disappeared long since among a thousand \nfleeting fictions, or at best have preserved itself in some re- \npository like the Arabian Nights. Alone, friendless, and \nmeanly clad, unassuming, and destitute of every means of \ninducement except that mysterious expression of which we \nhave already spoken, Jesus meets two fishermen, brothers, \nbusy with their nets. In all probability they had never \nseen him before, had never heard of him, and knew nothing \nof the man or of his designs. Possibly they were young \nmen in the rich enjoyment of domestic happiness ; prob- \nably they were poor men, to whose daily industry a help- \nless, affectionate family looked for daily support ; perhaps \nthey were desperate in their circumstances, of careless life, \nof reckless principles, and ready for any adventure. Yet \nJesus made them no promises, he awakened no passion, \nhe applied himself neither to their ambition, nor to their \navarice — no, nor to their love of pleasure, to such men the \npassion most present ; he neither revealed his designs nor \ntempted their curiosity. \" Follow me,\" said he, \" and I \nwill make you fishers of men.\" In a moment, without hesi- \ntation, sooner than reason could dictate a resolution, they \ndeserted all. In a moment, this world had dwindled in \ntheir estimation to a point, and a new scene opened to \n\n\nTHE HUMAN\" CHABACTEB OF JESUS CHRIST. 343 \n\ntheir imaginations, — which scene, though apparently as \nunsubstantial as a moonbeam, turned the future current of \ntheir lives. Although they fared hard and were generally \ndespised as vagabonds of a new kind, yet they never \nforsook him, until, become dubious of heaven and earth, \nthey saw the man arrested and led like a felon to a death \nmore ignominious than that of the gibbet. This was no \nmiracle ; but to me it is a miracle. It is a miracle in hu- \nman nature, and therefore less liable to suspicion than a \nwrought miracle in the natural world. \n\nThus this extraordinary man in a chance walk by the \nsea of Galilee, beckoned to two fishermen, and in a mo- \nment fixed them forever in his interest. With Mahomet \nit was a labor of three years to gain fourteen proselytes ; \nand Mahomet possessed all those attributes of man which \nare capable of winning an enemy, or of commanding a \nfriend. Before Mahomet spoke, says tradition, he was in \npossession of his audience, his presence charmed them, \nhis gracious smile won them, his majestic aspect com- \nmanded them, his piercing eyes fixed them, while his \ncountenance revealed every sensation of his soul, and his \ngestures enforced every expression of his tongue. Yet Ma- \nhomet distrustful as to his own eloquence, and doubtful \nof success, as soon as he had collected a few partisans \nfurnished himself with a sword, and proclaimed himself a \ncaptain. Christ, on the contrary, when most famous and \nsuccessful never fully expanded his views, but retained \nall his humility, and even condescended to wash the feet of \nhis disciples. Mahomet, like Christ, promised heaven to his \nfollowers ; but Mahomet, brandishing his sword, declared \nthat sword to be the key of heaven. Christ, on the con- \ntrary, opened the gates of heaven to the repentant. Here \nhe alarmed the conscience. \"With Mahomet, to conquer \nothers was the crown of glory ; with Jesus, to conquer one- \n\n\n344 THE HUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST. \n\nself. To the followers of the one, this world offered every- \nthing; to the followers of the other, this world promised \nnothing. Mahomet opened a new world to the imagina- \ntion, and added flame to fire. What oriental could hesi- \ntate to follow the banners of Mahomet, when the hourics \nof Paradise, dancing among the palm-trees, beckoned the \nfierce soldier to the delirium of eternal rapture ? Jesus, \nwith one hand laid on his heart, pointed upward with the \nother, and held his followers by no other tie than a sub- \nlime faith. Mahomet gained everything; Christ suffered \neverything. Mahomet lived a conqueror, and died glori- \nously; Jesus lived like a vagrant, and suffered a felon's \ndeath. Mahomet established a new religion by bribing the \npassions ; Jesus Christ by taxing the passions. \n\nPassing on, Jesus sees two other fishermen with their \nfather, on shipboard. They were mending their nets. \" Fol- \nlow me,\" said Jesus, and they left all and followed him. \nSoon the little company swells to a multitude. From all \nquarters, people of many descriptions flock to his presence. \nHis fame is already extended to distant regions, even to \nSyria. Does the man not perceive he is hastening his own \ndestruction ? Is it not treason under Tiberius to be found \nat the head of so many men in a Roman province ? What \nis his object ? Is it temporal power ? What weakness to \ncollect an army without one soldier! Is honest fame or the \nmore imposing attractions of false greatness the object of \nhis heart ? What folly to collect around him the most ig- \nnorant, the most obscure, and the most abandoned ! \n\nAt the head of this checkered multitude, few of whom \nknew the man, or knew the motives of one another ; at \nthe head of this suspicious collection of idle, curious, \nwondering followers, Jesus, himself in appearance not \nless suspicious, ascended an eminence, and there seating \nhimself, delivered a moral lecture. Never before was the \n\n\nTHE HUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST. 345 \n\nworld illuminated with such a discourse. Never before \ndid such sublime precepts distil from the lips of a mortal. \nFrom that day forth, the heathen sages lost their credit. \nTheir fine-spun casuistry sunk under the weight of a \nsublime moral ; their patch-work morality was trampled \nunder foot and disgraced forever ; all their good was \nmelted into this half-hour moral discourse. No won- \nder its force and novelty astonished the multitude. No \nwonder they stood looking to heaven in doubt, and were \nready to follow him at hazard. How could they help re- \nposing all their confidence in the man whose unpremedi- \ntated discourse entered into every precinct of their hearts, \nand in humbling them by bringing to light all that was \nbase, at the same time elevated them above this world by \ndisclosing to them a sublime affinity ? That man, who, \nafter laying open to men their hearts, can lead them at \nhis pleasure, has surely found the principle which governs \nmankind. At this day we can only imagine the expression \nof the man's countenance ; the power of his words all \nmen have felt. The charm of his words as uttered has \ndeparted, the beauty of his discourse is blemished by a \nhalting translation, and the order is broken by chapter \nand verse ; but the substance remains, and will forever \nremain, an object of curiosity to taste or of improvement \nto piety. \n\nHuman nature was thought to be raised by the Stoics to \na dignity scarcely its own. But their moral austerity \ncounteracted itself, and produced a pride and intolerance \nnot always compatible with social life. The discourse of \nJesus on the Mount gave a moral which, though built \non humility, transcended the severity of the Stoics, and \ntaught man what he ought to be rather than what he \nmight be. The Stoics made no allowance for human \nfrailty. Even the milder virtues were treated with con- \n\n\n34G THE HUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST. \n\ntempt. Pit}r was a weakness, compassion a crime ; and \nlove was divested not only of sentiment, but of heart. \nThey tied up the passions, and chastised the sensations. \nThough he struck at the root of man's pride, Christ \noffered no violence to man's nature. He offered no new \nsystem ; he who addresses the human heart should never \nthink of a system. \n\nBut why did not the civil authority arrest the progress \nof this man ? We have already told the cause. Christ \nnever offered a system. Of all men he was apparently \nleast solicitous of reputation ; for though he commanded \nat pleasure the passions of others, he never manifested a \npassion of his own. Besides, his public life was too un- \nsociable for popularity, rather inspiring reverence than \ncourting favor, — though in a private circle he was willing \nto adapt himself, and sometimes lent his presence to domes- \ntic assemblies. A man of this description, whose constant \ndoctrine seemed to impress on his followers the duty of \nobedience, and even of acquiescence under every form of \ngovernment, could not be obnoxious to the Roman author- \nity of that day. Patience and resignation to others, is the \ndoctrine most agreeable to a tyrant. Hence the cause of \nthe persecution of this man must have been more deep \nand insidious than any alarm on the part of the civil au- \nthority. But was Jesus an advocate for arbitrary power 1 \nNot Brutus was less so. With the feelings of a prophet, \nand with an unerring political foresight, he addressed \nhimself, in general, to that great body of the community \nwhich in all countries and in all ages can find little on \nwhich to repose but a naked faith. Did he side with the \nrich against the poor ? Not Aristides was more just. Did \nhe inspirit the poor against the rich ? Not Thurlow was \nmore austere. The sagacity of Jesus led him to foresee \nthat under every form of government the strong would prey \n\n\nTHE HUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST. 347 \n\nupon the weak ; that the rich would oppress the poor ; that \nhuman society was just like the pyramid, the bottom of \nwhich must forever support the whole weight ; and that \nunless there was a sympathy on the one part and a moral \nfeeling on the other, the union of men in society would \nbeget a system of aggression and antagonism. Xo, Jesus \noffered no new system ; he only sublimated the religion \nof Nature. Regardless of forms and ceremonies, in the \nmidst of the single institution, — the social board of bread \nand wine, — he taught his disciples to look directly to \nheaven. \n\nNor was the civil power alarmed at this man's sudden \nrenown. It was an admiration that followed rather than \na popularity that was courted. Jesus never remained in \none place a sufficient length of time for a sedition, much \nless for a conspiracy, to gain consistency. For whenever \nthe people assembled in multitudes, it was his constant \npractice to retire speedily to some other city or village ; \nso that a sedition, although most terrible in a despotic \ngovernment, in that it is never without cause, was not \nfeared by the Roman authority in Judea, from the public \ncarriage of Jesus. \n\nIn this manner Jesus travelled over the principal parts \nof his country, evidently devoted to some pursuit, the \nobject of which was doubtless in his own opinion superior \nto any of those attainments which usually excite the pas- \nsions of men ; for in the ardor of his purposes, Jesus \noverlooked all those objects which were most dear to the \ngreat men of antiquity, and likewise money, the passion of \nthe present day. With a mind at once solid and brilliant, \nwhich seemed to place its chief delight in the conception \nof the sublimest moral truths, he left all his fame as a \nphilosopher to the treacherous ears of an ignorant multi- \ntude, or to the care of a few associates who possibly could \n\n\n348 THE HUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST. \n\nnot write their names ! With a courage that never turned \nfrom an enemy, and with a firmness that encountered the \nwhole opposition of the Pharisees, this man submitted to be \nspit upon, to be buffeted, to be smitten, and to be scourged. \nWith pretensions to arrogate everything, this man claimed \nnothing; and only ouce complained that while the birds \nhad nests, and the foxes had holes, he himself had not \nwhere to lay his head. In the midst of a people who were \nready to worship him as a god, he was content to be derided \nas an impostor. In the midst of a people whose favor was \nready to outstrip the wings of his expectation, Jesus sunk \nupon the public below Barabbas the robber. Yet, what \nis no less extraordinary, he lived perfectly contented, — \nneither envying the rich nor despising the poor. Nor did \nhe endeavor to ameliorate the severity of his condition, or \neven to shun the ignominy of his fate, — a pathetic pre- \nsentiment of which he expressed a short time before his \ndeath. Yet this man, always in the depths of poverty, was \nreputed to work miracles ; but the greatest miracle of all \nis, he never wrought one in his own favor. In such a \ncase would not any other man have exerted his power to \ncontrol his wants, or even to insure his pleasures ? Would \nnot an Oriental have turned water into wine for his own \nuse ? Instead of a life of penance and penury would not \nthe congenial climate of Judea have inspired convivial \ngratifications ? Instead of practising complete abstinence \nand chastity would not an Oriental, whose blood usually \nflows in a fiery current or trembles in a voluptuous lan- \nguor, have converted the very cedars of Lebanon into \na harem ? Yet this temperate Nazarene preferred the \nbrook or the rivulet to the joys of the vintage. Yet this \nhumble Nazarene travelled over Judea on foot, and never \nrode but once, and then in a manner that seemed to \ncourt the contempt of the populace. Yet this self-deny- \n\n\nTHE HUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST. 349 \n\ning Xazarene frequented the tables of a Wapping and a \nSt. Giles. Yet this Xazarene was as exemplary in his \naffections as though he had been dipped every morning \nin the river Cydnus. \n\nThe fame of Jesus had now extended throughout Judea. \nMany of the genteel class, including not a few of the chief \nrulers, publicly whispered their doubts whether the man \nwas not a supernatural being. This suddenly alarmed the \nJewish hierarchy ; and this was the ruin of Jesus. The \ndisinterestedness of his morality, his simplicity of life, his \nquaker-like inoffensiveness, might have saved him from \npersecution had he foregone that attribute which claimed \nthe adoration of mortals, and which, in the opinion of the \nJewish authority, stamped him at once an impostor. This \nunprecedented pretension would alone have rendered him \ndangerous to all those who dreaded a change ; for when \nonce a religion is established, the presiding god is not \npermitted to interfere. The eloquence of Jesus was fre- \nquently directed against the chief priests, the Scribes, and \nthe Pharisees. Imprudent man ! He might have known \nthat every establishment, religious or civil, is cruel and \nunrelenting in the degree it is perverted. Yet Jesus pur- \nsued these hypocrites even into their sanctuaries, and over- \nwhelmed them in their own temples. This an effort of \nenthusiasm ? No ; their silence confirmed their conviction, \nand confessed the triumph of reason. If this man had \nseconded their views ; if this man had thrown off his \nsackcloth, and doubly fringed his garments ; if this man \nhad associated with the chief priests and the Jewish au- \nthority — and why did he not, if he was an impostor ? \n— if this man had only consented to become what his \ncountrymen were more than ready to make him, — doubt- \nless his abilities must have rendered him an illustrious \nadventurer. \n\n\n350 THE HUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST. \n\nThe character of that age is well known. The Jewish \nhierarchy was paramount to the law of Moses. The cere- \nmony of the tithe of mint, of annise, and of cummin was \nretained ; even the seat of Moses was respected, but the \nspirit of the lawgiver had departed. The mantle of Elijah, \nlong since worn threadbare, had been cast off for the line \nlinen of the East, — an emblem of hierarchical purity! \nImprudent man ! Did he not know that under such a sys- \ntem virtue is odious, and truth is treason ? Did he not \nknow that the man who dares attempt to bring back a cor- \nrupted age to first principles is worthy of death ? Surely \nif this man was an impostor, of all men he was most weak. \nHe associated with the people, who were nothing, and neg- \nlected the hierarchy, who, far more commanding than any \nhierarchy of the present day, were supposed to possess the \nfabulous key of the Roman Church. \n\nNow opens upon us a new trait in the character of Jesus. \nThe meek, the humble, the modest son of Mary is no longer \na wanderer from village to village, he no longer retires to \nthe mountains, or frequents the sea-shores, but boldly pro- \nceeds to the temple, — that very temple in which at the age \nof twelve years he had astonished all who heard him. \nThere, in the midst of a multitude of enemies, in the \ntemple of the Most High God, regardless of the reverence \nof the place, bis only weapon the law of Moses, be throws \nhimself in the face of the whole hierarchy. The Scribes \nand Pharisees, heartless as their own principles, are con- \nfounded ; for such is the dauntless attitude of the man, and \nsuch the noble frankness of his carriage, such the heart- \nappalling terror of his rebuke, and such the overbearing \nvehemence of his reproach, that every passion of the hie- \nrarchy, except love of office, sinks under his superior pres- \nence. Though these humbled, proud men were clothed in \nauthority, though an immediate apprehension was practi- \n\n\nTHE HUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST. 351 \n\ncable, not a whisper came from the lips of even one of the \nchief priests, not a motion from a Scribe, not a murmur \nfrom a Pharisee. They wondered at the deformity of one \nanother, but each retained his own features. In contem- \nplating the picture, they seemed for a moment to for- \nget the painter. The Scribe revolted at the moral aspect \nof the Pharisee, while the Pharisee looked coldly upon \nthe chief priests, and the latter, in turn, regarded both \nthe others with scorn. \n\nIt was no doubt a novel scene to behold a man whose \nromantic life and mysterious pursuits readily raised a \nsuspicion of enthusiasm or of imposture boldly enter, in \nthe character of a reformer, that temple which the Jews \neither from policy or superstition contended was the favor- \nite earthly residence of the Uncreated. It was no doubt \na novel scene to the hierarchy to behold this man not only \nusurp their office, but turn upon themselves with an unex- \npected violence and indignation. Doubtless truth and con- \nviction must have pointed every expression, or Jesus must \nhave raised a corresponding violence and indignation ; \ninstead of which, the eyes of the whole hierarchy, fearful of \nthe obscure Xazarene, are turned on themselves. Had Mo- \nses himself appeared in the temple, treading on sunbeams, \nhis head concealed in the dark cloud which once appeared \non Sinai, and holding in his hands a scroll of the decalogue, \nthey had not been more embarrassed, they had not been \nmore astonished. Never in Greece or Rome did any orator \nso readily triumph over his adversaries ; and never did any \norator — no, not Cicero nor Burke — venture to exhibit \na public criminal in such repellent colors as those in which \nthis carpenter's son presumed to portray the characters \nof fairest repute in Jerusalem. It was an overwhelm- \ning attack, not only on their system but on themselves. \nThey were unprepared with the least apology, and the \n\n\n352 THE HUMAN CHARACTER OP JESUS CHRIST. \n\ncharges were brought so completely home that all reply \nwas precluded. \n\nThis was one of those moral risks which reveal the man \nno less clearly than do the more brilliant actions of the \nhero; and perhaps this moral experiment on the Jewish \nhierarchy was at once the most sublime and successful \neffort of indignant virtue which the world ever witnessed. \nLet us contemplate it for a moment. \n\nIt demanded an uncommon firmness, I had almost said \na madness, of mind to pronounce in the face of the nation \nthe fiercest judgment on those who still arrogated to them- \nselves the seat of Moses, those whom ages had rendered \nsacred in the eyes of the people. There was in the pub- \nlic opinion, both in that and in all preceding ages, such \nan intimate connection between the emblem and the sub- \nstance of religion, between the priest and the national \ndivinity, that a contempt of the god was more readily par- \ndoned than an impiety to his priests. This indeed was \nnatural, as the priests governed the gods, not the gods the \npriests. Hence no less a man than Alcibiades, who at \nvarious periods of his life was the most popular man at \nAthens, excited the public horror from a bare suspicion \nof his having wantonly broken some of the statues of Mer- \ncury, and of his having acted in mockery at the conclu- \nsion of an entertainment (the awful Eleusincau mysteries), \n— not to mention Anaxagoras, and after him Protagoras, \nfamous philosophers, who were thought to merit banish- \nment for want of faith ; or Socrates, reposing in his old \nage on a life as venerable for its virtue as were his locks \nfor their whiteness, who was hurried before the tribunal \nof his country, and condemned to the hemlock for a sup- \nposed disrespect to the religious feelings of his country- \nmen. Yet Jesus, supported only by his own presence, \nregardless of common prudence, and more dauntless than \n\n\nTHE HUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST. 353 \n\neither of those Greeks, always reserved his most unwel- \ncome discourses for the ears of his enemies. Looking \naround on the hierarchy, who were watching an occasion \nfor a quarrel, Jesus colored with indignation; and while \nhe saw the abuses of many ages lie light on their hearts, \nhe did not wait for the tide of their malice to meet the \ngathering of his own rebuke, but he silenced them for- \never with a \" Woe unto you, Scribes, Pharisees, hypo- \ncrites!\" Yet his wrath, the wrath of a generous mind, \nsubsided in a moment, and like a sovereign judge who \npities while he condemns, he moderated his fierce judg- \nments in that most pathetic appeal : \" O Jerusalem, Je- \nrusalem, how often would I have gathered thy children \ntogether, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her \nwings, anil ye would not ! \" \n\nIt was sufficient glory for Demosthenes to deliver his \nphilippics in the midst of all Athens. Philip heard them \nnot at JIacedon ; and when the orator, in the character \nof an ambassador, waited on the king, the wretch was \nconfoimded. Cicero gained half his honors from Cati- \nline : yet Cicero, in the midst of the Roman senate, trem- \nbled in the face of his enemy. Burke had collected all \nthe indignant epithets of the East and the West, and \nsafely, in a British parliament, aimed them at the ob- \nnoxious Hastings. Where shall we find a man who, un- \nsupported and apparently disinterested, has hazarded so \nmuch as Jesus Christ 1 \n\nIt is impossible for such a man as this to flourish \nlong in a corrupted state of society. Passive, negative \nvirtue is not only tolerated, but sometimes applauded in \nthe most degenerate condition of man; but when an ad- \nministration of government lends itself to national de- \npravity, and the civil authority finds that it can gain \nmost in the worst times, a man of active public virtue \n\n23 \n\n\n354 THE HUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST. \n\nis more odious than any object whom positive law may \nreach. Such a man cannot be endured; the splendor of \nhis virtues darkens all around him ; the vital heat of \nhis influence withers up the artificial growth of the holi- \nday virtues of his contemporaries in power. To a barren \nsoil the early and latter rain is scarcely grateful ; the \nmeridian sun is death to the heartless verdure. Those in \npower soon become sick of hearing Aristidcs called the \njust. For the same cause the virtuous Gilbert Wakefield \nwas sacrificed in the prime of life, and the much en- \nduring Priestley hardly found respite on the frontiers of \nthe wilderness. \n\nJesus must have known that his feelings and prin- \nciples were wholly averse to the manners of his age, \nand that he could not long be endured. Yet how melan • \ncholy for a man in the bloom of manhood, before his \nmother had experienced the pleasure of a mother in par- \ntaking of the fame of her son ; before his associates, whose \nstrong faith laughed at the idea of his catastrophe, had \nwitnessed the public homage and consequent honors which \nthey thought due to his character, — how melancholy for a \nman, conscious of his claims on society, to die so young, \nand like a malefactor, while his dearest relatives must \nnecessarily partake of the ignominy of his fate! How \nabhorrent to his own nature to die so ignobly, while his \nheroic firmness was scarcely a counterbalance to the \nextreme sensibility of his moral feelings ! \n\n\" Yet Socrates died with equal fortitude, and perhaps \nwith greater resignation.\" Socrates was seventy-two \nyears of age, had outlived his contemporaries, was famous \nthroughout Greece, and in the sanction of the Oracle \nwas the best man of his times. To a philosopher, life \nhas few charms after seventy. Of this opinion was \nSocrates, and it mingled itself with the reasons of his \n\n\nTHE HUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST. 355 \n\nresignation. Among five hundred judges, Socrates was \ncondemned by a majority of three. lie was still in \npossession of his fame and virtue. \n\nSocrates lost nothing but his life, while Jesus suffered \nmany deaths. Where were his friends in the trying \nmoment ? Where was Peter ? Denying with an oath that \nhe had ever seen the man ! Where was the beloved John ''. \nThe beloved John had fled. To whom could Jesus look \nfor comfort ? To his wretched mother, who saw him \nnailed to the cross, and watched his last struggles. \n\nTo Socrates, life in a great measure was indifferent. \nTo Jesus this was impossible. At the age of thirty-three, \nthough the rosy fragrance of youth has departed, hope \nstill gladdens the heart; the substance of life remains \nin perspective although its brightness may be faded. So \nthat whether Jesus was possessed with the spirit of en- \nthusiasm, of imposture, or of pure virtue, life must have \nbeen exceedingly dear to him ; for whatever was his object \nhe left it apparently unaccomplished. He had neither \nreformed the age, conquered his enemies, nor advanced \nhimself. Apparently, his life was less useful than that \nof Socrates ; his virtue was too strong, too exacting for \nthe times. Socrates, on the contrary, was always per- \nsuasive; and this was necessary in the declining virtue of \nthe Athenians. Jesus was always Imperative, and spoke \nlike a god rather than like a man. This, seemingly, \nwas the height of imprudence; yet this was his man- \nner from the beginning, and in this he persevered to the \nmoment of his death. His last expressions, especially, \nindicated that he was an enthusiast, an impostor, or a \nHeaven-ordained messenger. \n\nThe hierarchy soon discovered their own emptiness. The \ncontempt which the unprotected inconsequence of Jesus \nwas ready to excite, gave a powerful effect to the earnest \n\n\n85G THE HUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST. \n\nsimplicity of his manner, and impressed his enemies with \na sort of mysterious terror. They well knew that a re- \nformer whose manners were serious, whose morals were \nunexceptionable, whose firmness prepossessed the confi- \ndence of the indifferent, and whose ready eloquence seemed \nto take in ideas with his eyes and impress them with his \nlooks, would soon effect a change of affairs. Hence \nthey naturally resolved on his death. It was ever the \nopinion of a majority, that an enemy however virtuous had \nbetter die than that they should lose their inllucnce. They \nseemed to say : \" The hlood of one man, imputed to many, \nwould scarcely stain their hands. In all human proba- \nbility, the miserable Nazarene would be forgotten in a \nshort time, and his disappointed associates, ashamed of \nhis fate, would be the first to revile the impostor, or \nlaugh at the enthusiast. Let his partisans behold him \ndead ; let them witness his terrible catastrophe, and the \ndelusion is over. No mortal ever worshipped a dead god, \nor erected a temple under a gibbet.\" Thou short-sighted \nScribe ! Thou blind Pharisee ! In the opinion of a thou- \nsand generations that dead man will revive again ; a frag- \nment of that infamous cross will be esteemed a sacred \nrelic ; that temple in which his presence confounded you \nshall one day be destroyed, and his presence shall be sup- \nposed to fill the temple of the universe. \n\nConsistent from the beginning, Jesus neither courted nor \nshunned his enemies. In the moment of his arrest he ex- \nhibited a magnanimity which has never been surpassed. \nThey approached him cautiously, but Jesus, suspecting \ntheir errand, first accosted them: \" Whom seek ye?\" \n\"Jesus of Nazareth.\" \"I am the man.\" There is the \nsublime in Nature, the sublime in sentiment, the sublime \nin action, and the sublime in character. Of all these \nthe sublime in character is most admirable. Nothing from \n\n\nTHE HUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST. 357 \n\nthe mouth of any other man under similar circumstances \nhas equalled this reply of Jesus. The \" Strike, but hear \n\nme \" of Themistocles has deservedly been celebrated ; \nthe expression of Socrates in a moment of anger charm- \ningly illustrates his presence of mind; the reply of the \nIndian savage, \" We are enemies,\" when asked his opinion \nof another, was perhaps an unconscious expression of sub- \nlimity : and the \"Myself\" of Corneille is more elevated \nthan either, but the whole merit of the latter is due to \nCorneille. It is nothing but a sublime conception of the \npoet fitted on a great character ; whereas \" I am the \nman\" embraces not only the sublime of character, but \nalso the sublime of action. \n\n\" I am the man,\" said Jesus, and surrendered himself. \nNo resistance, no evasion, no attempt to escape dishonored \nhis past life. Regardless of himself, he was apprehensive \nfor his friends only ; and when they were dismissed, this \neloquent man was dumb. The same presence of mind \nand the same dignity which had accompanied him during \nhis active life, accompanied him during the mockery of \na judicial process. A short time before he had silenced \nthe astonished hierarchy ; now he is arraigned a public \ncriminal, — his life and reputation are at hazard. Perhaps \nhe foresees his fate : yet surely he will make one last effort \nto redeem his own memory from suspicion, and render jus- \ntice to the motives of his followers. Surely, they may \nhave thought a man like Jesus, who had been so copious \nof promises, who had parcelled out twelve thrones in \nheaven to twelve poor men, would not in his last moments \ndesert those who had so honorably supported him, those \nwhose faith at all times was ready to surpass their \nsenses. Sorely, a man whose life had been devoted to \npartisans, whose sacrifices to him were perhaps greater \nthan his to them, would not desert his followers. \n\n\n358 THE HUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST. \n\nIt was magnanimous in Socrates to wrap himself up in \nhis past life. Socrates stood alone ; no one had risked his \nfortunes, his reputation, or his common sense on the char- \nacter or principles of Socrates. It was magnanimous in \nScipio, when unjustly accused, to preserve a contemptuous \nsilence. It was magnanimous and sufficient for Chatham, \nwhen it was insinuated in Parliament that the public \nmoneys had been plundered, to raise his trembling, death- \nwhite hand and shake it iii presence of the nation, signify- \ning that no gold had stuck to his fingers. \n\nThe case of Jesus was different ; no private individual, \nbefore or since, ever possessed such an easy and unlimited \ncontrol over his fellow-men. How, then, must his followers \nhave been astonished, when they heard the account of his \ndumb and passive death ! What less than a public ha- \nrangue, what less than an exposition of his principles \nand views could his disciples expect ? And what a field \nfor his own feelings ! The man might have carried his \nwhole soul into the eyes of his enemies. An emanation \nof his own virtue might have passed over and for a mo- \nment purified all his judges. His life was public ; and \nwould it have been derogatory in him to appeal to his \npublic life ? Might he not have proclaimed his own inno- \ncence, or at least have reasoned on the charges alleged \nagainst him ? Yet this eloquent man was dumb. He pre- \nserved to the last his mysterious character, and seemed to \ndie a natural death. The mystery ends not here : his dis- \nciples neither complained of his conduct nor sympathized \nin his fate. His own disciples still carried their faith be- \nyond their senses, and adored the man in heaven who, \nthey confessed, had died on a cross. Him they had fol- \nlowed ; for him they had forsaken all. Them he had appar- \nently deserted, and left to the contempt of all men ; yet \nthey followed this man beyond the grave, to place him on \n\n\nTHE HUMAN CHABACTEfi OF JESUS CHRIST. 359 \n\nthe throne of God. When the man was dead, those who \nknew him best, who had been for three years his bosom \ncompanions, worshipped him as the only true God, per- \nsisted he was a divine being, and not only suffered mar- \ntyrdom in the cause of this reputed malefactor, but in the \nmoment of their sufferings sometimes converted their \nenemies to their own faith ! \n\nHere an objection, indeed a powerful one, presents it- \nself ; and that freedom of remark which pervades these \npages requires a serious notice of the objection. If the dis- \nciples of Jesus were at first credulous, and afterwards \nfanatic, their conduct after his death was not only natural, \nbut politic. After the crucifixion, the disciples were on \nthe point of becoming the laughing-stock of all men. If \nduring the life of Jesus they vrere not only contented, but \ngloried in the humility of disciples, how deeply must they \nhave been disheartened after his strange and unexpected \ndeatli ! If their pride and self-love had not been greatly \nweakened under his discipline, their dubious feelings with \nthe help of a warm imagination would rise into the \nfiercest fanaticism. Peter seems to have been the most \nviolent of any of the disciples, and most capable of lead- \ning an adventure. Is it not possible then, is it not within \nthe limits of probability, that some one of these zealous \npartisans, when they saw the God whom they had wor- \nshipped dead and buried, should propose the bold design \nof establishing their novel system on its own ruins? \nWould it have been unnatural for them to say : \" Let us \ntell the world, and let us persist in it, that Jesus Christ \nthe crucified God finished his career agreeably to an \neternal decree, that his death shall prove the salvation \nof all who will believe in his divinity ; and to inspire the \nworld with new hopes of immortality, let us proclaim his \n\n\n360 THE HUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST. \n\nresurrection from the grave, and his ascension to heaven \namidst a host of angels. This doctrine of faith so agree- \nable to the laziness of mankind, and this doctrine of im- \nmortality so flattering to human pride, will gain upon the \nworld in proportion to our own apparent faith. We shall \nfirst gain the ignorant and abandoned ; their sincerity will \nsupply new zeal. Afterward the wise will follow from \nself-interest. \" \n\nA proposal like this might have arrested the attention of \nhonest men in like circumstances with the disciples ; for there \nis but a hair's-brcadth between fanaticism and falsehood. \n\nAn objection like this, which is entirely circumstantial, \nif indeed it is a mere objection, is most satisfactorily an- \nswered by a recurrence to the circumstances from which \nit has arisen. It would be departing from the design \nof this essay to give a full discussion to any objection. \nHowever, I cannot forbear to observe that the evangelists \nhave candidly intimated the disappointment and doubts of \nthe disciples at the death of Jesus, and in the simplicity \nof their narratives either did not anticipate any objections, \nor, what is more probable, they justly reflected that their \nown attempts to answer them would only render their re- \ncord suspicious ; so that mankind are left to choose be- \ntween attributing to the evangelists great simplicity or deep \ndesign. Now, there is certainly nothing on the face of \neither of the gospels which reveals the spirit of intrigue, \nof enthusiasm, or of selfishness. Not Xenophon, of all \nwriters the most artless, has more simplicity than Saint \nJohn. Hence if we cannot bring home to either of the \nevangelists the charge of enthusiasm or of selfishness, the \nobjection loses much of its weight ; especially, when we \nconsider that one of the disciples, who was afterwards a \nfamous preacher, denied his association with Jesus, an- \nother sold him, and a third, after the death of Jesus, \n\n\nTHE HUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST. 361 \n\nproved inflexibly incredulous of his resurrection until he \n■was convinced by the most perfect demonstration. \n\nThis looks very little like a conspiracy of fanatics. \nFanaticism is all passion ; it is bound as with a chain to its \nobject. But the disciples, confessedly, were in a state of \ndespondency for several days after the crucifixion. Judas, \nthe treacherous Judas, was rather a calculator than a parti- \nsan. It may justly be objected that it is impossible to sup- \npose that the trusted Judas could follow Jesus one year, lis- \ntening to his high pretensions, and, convinced of his divinity, \nbetray him to his enemies. This doubtless seems too absurd \nto credit. Yet so is the fact reported. Still, Judas himself \n■will best answer this objection. \" I have betrayed innocent \nblood,\" said he ; and in the pangs of remorse casting away \nthe unholy profit, he executed martyrdom on himself, — an \nact which bore witness for Jesus no less than did the death \nof Stephen. On the contrary, had the speculating Judas at \nany moment during his intimacy with Jesus discovered im- \nposture, the crafty man would have raised his own reputa- \ntion and acquitted a public duty in surrendering to the \nState a dangerous impostor; while the credulous, disap- \npointed disciples, ashamed of the disgraceful catastrophe of \nthe wretch whom they had honored as Lord and master, \nwould have turned upon the corpse in silent indignation, \nrather than carry on the imposture at such an imminent \nhazard. Otherwise, defenceless as they were, they must \nnecessarily have effected everything by the force of speech. \nDestitute of the swords of Ali and Omar, and hopeless of \nthe rewards of those conquering proselytes, the humble Gal- \nileans had to support two of the most difficult problems in \nnature, — the divinity of a man who had been crucified, \nand his resurrection from the dead. All this, without any \nhope of reward, either in this world or the next, unless we \nare willing to suppose the barren glory of martyrdom in \n\n\n362 THE HUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST. \n\nan unholy cause, or the dubious fame of giving currency \nto a daring imposture could influence those poor, inconse- \nquential men. To suppose this would surely be refining \non human motives beyond common experience. \n\n\" I am the man,\" said Jesus, and surrendered himself. \nIt is thought to be greatly to the honor of Socrates that he \ndisdained the proposal of his friends, who offered the means \nof escape. The proposition was derogatory, and the refusal \nclaims no merit. Socrates was constant to himself (this is \nhigh praise) ; but Socrates could not conduct himself other- \nwise. There are certain situations in which great men are \nsometimes placed that forbid them to descend from their \ncharacters. The sick lion suffers in silence, and calmly \nparts with life ; and the eagle in his descent turns his head \ntowards the sun. It was impossible for Cato to live under \nCaesar, or for Brutus to live under Anthony. In our own \ntimes it was equally impossible for the virtuous Moreau to \nlive under Buonaparte. \n\nThe situation of Jesus Christ was different. His name \nhad not become familiar, like that of Socrates, throughout \nthe world. No oracle had espoused the reputation of Jesus. \nHis fame had scarcely reached Rome, and that in a private \nletter. A young man like this might have fled from perse- \ncution, though capitally condemned, and have preserved his \ncredit. To Socrates this was impossible. He could have \nconcealed himself among the Scythians, yet had he done \nso the fugitive philosopher would have forgotten that he \nwas once Socrates. Whereas if Jesus had fled, his more \nmature years might honorably have retrieved his charac- \nter ; and if he were innocent, it was his duty to preserve \nhimself, if possible, in order to illuminate the moral world. \nInstead of which he flung himself away. In the prime of \nlife, without an effort, he flung himself away ; and with all \nhis faculties wrought up to their highest tone, he died in \n\n\nTHE HUMAN CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST. 363 \n\na manner too unprecedented to bear a rational discussion, \nunless we consider him an unfortunate adventurer. Then \nthe question which has raised this inquiry offers itself : If \nJesus Christ was an impostor, what were his motives ? If \nhe was an enthusiast, where were his passions ? If he was \na hero, where was his sword ? \n\nThe life and death of Jesus have marked his character \nwith too much precision to mistake him either for an enthu- \nsiast or a hero. The single question which will bear an \nexamination is, Was he a god or an impostor ? This ques- \ntion, on which the character of Jesus must forever rest, \nremains to be considered. I thought it more illustrative \nand more logical to reserve this point for the conclusion, as \nthe preceding remarks on his life and conduct have natur- \nally led to this inquiry, — an inquiry which is exceedingly \ndifficult, and which allies itself to the feelings or interest of \nmost men. Hence liberality in research may appear like \nlevity, and the least bias will look like bigotry. This in- \nquiry might be extended to any length, embracing human \nnature in all its motives, windings, prepossessions and \nself-delusions ; but the general reasoning may lie confined \nto a narrow compass. \n\nMankind have been detected so frequently in corrupt mo- \ntives, and have so often suffered a dereliction from the \navowed ties of moral necessity, that a profession of virtue, \nto the busy part of the world, has become more odious \nthan even wicked principles ; as herein the meanness of \nduplicity is spared, and the danger of deception more easily \navoided. So that the cloak of virtue has become the baize \nshirt of the sailor, — worn in winter to keep out the cold, \nin Bummer to keep out the heat. This bias of mankind to \nsuspicion is further strengthened from the S AN ORATION. \n\nfalse patriots in every age to disgrace it ; hence many have \ndenied its existence, and have defined it away to nothing. \nThis principle is indeed too noble, too superior to the accus- \ntomed feelings of nature, too sublime, to be common. Not \ninfrequently, whole nations are dead to its influence; but \nthe reality of its existence is unquestionable. It lias \nappeared in the world in different eras ; it appeared in \nGreece, — at Marathon, at Thermopylae, and at the Straits \nof Salamis. I do not know if it appeared among the Re imans ; \nfor this principle is not ambitious of conquest, nor has it \nany concern with politics, nor is it allied to motives of in- \nterest ; it detests the bloody laurels of systematic war, modi- \nfied into a barbarous commerce of loss and gain. Even \nnational glory is not its object, though national glory is ever \nits consequence. It is indispensably accompanied with an \nenthusiasm of valor. Yet valor is only a necessary incident ; \nneither your Alexanders, nor Caesars, nor the Swede, ever \nattained to this principle. It appeared, seventeen hundred \nyears ago, in Great Britain. In more modern days it ap- \npeared in the United Provinces, and rarified the congealed \nblood of their inhabitants. It once passed over Switzer- \nland, and in its transient passage left a lasting monument \nof its existence. In a still later period it appeared in \nall its glory, though unsuccessfully, in Poland, and glowed \nin the breast of Kosciusko. Shall we dare speak it or \nrefrain ? We believe this principle appeared lately in Ire- \nlaud. Need we offer another instance ? We might, but it \nis unnecessary. \n\n0 my countrymen ! excuse the fervor of enthusiasm ; \nthe occasion produces, and the subject warrants, the warm- \nest apostrophe to the noblest of principles. Then let me \nurge home this principle to the centre of your hearts, — the \nheart is its native home ; there it must inhabit. That laurel \nwhich adorns the brow of the hero, if not rooted in his own \n\n\nAX ORATION 389 \n\nhead, will soon wither. So this principle, to ennoble man, \n■ in him from the dust, to fix his character, must be \nrooted in his heart; otherwise it is but a counterfeit, a \nsplendid meteor, aspiring indeed to a place among the \nstars, but its earthly grossness shows itself long before it \nreaches the pure empyrean. Without this principle you \nmust be slaves ; with it, you must be freemen. This is \nreally that magic wand which turns wretchedness into fe- \nlicity, the deserts of America into a paradise, and man into \na human god. Neither records nor monuments nor en- \ngravings on brass and marble can preserve it. If you do \nnot keep it more sacredly, it will in time steal from your \nConstitution, and then your government is already changed, \nthough your Constitution may remain, like the freedom of \nRome, engraven on twelve tables, an honorable monument \nindeed to times past. \n\n0 ye shades of martyred heroes ! we will not profane \nthis day, sacred to you, with a suspicion that you offered up \nyourselves for one, two, or three, generations. The rich in- \nheritance which you purchased, your early fates forbade to \nenjoy. This inheritance came unimpaired into our posses- \nsion : and we trust, ever honored shades ! that the principle \nwhich purchased our freedom descended with it ! Before \nthis principle wings its flight to more happy climes, we will \nstill testify so much regard to your memories, as to destroy \nevery vestige of this monument ; if we cannot remove these \n. we will give them a new name, and erase from our \nannals every remembrance of this spot. We will forget \nthat we once were freemen ; we will deny that any battle \n□ tested here ; we will deny that any such man as \nWarren, ever died for his country. Yes, injured shades! \noblivion of your memories, denial of your deeds, destruc- \ntion of your monument, and contempt of freedom shall be \nsome little apology for us, before we deny the principle for \n\n\n390 AN ORATION. \n\nwhich you suffered. When those times come, — mortifying \nthought ! — perhaps some one not wholly degenerate, not \nperfectly renegade to the glory of his ancestors, whose \nbosom still glows with a flame in some degree true to the \nnative fire of his fathers, shall tread this scene ; and moved \nby the genius of the place, he will exclaim, \" On this spot, \nthough the annals of the country deny it, a famous battle \nwas once fought in support of freedom. It is said the pride \nof Britain was first humbled on these heights ; and that a \nfew brave men under the influence of a certain principle \nnow forgotten or despised, dared thrice the number of the \nenemy, and by their victorious deaths restored the falling \nfortunes of their country. Somewhere on this spot, though \nnow no memorial remains, it is reported a monument was \nerected to the memory of a hero called Warren, and his \ncompatriots. Such days were, though the date is now \nforgotten. Yes, the feeling which the scene inspires \ntells me such days were. Truly, our ancestors once reared \na most stupendous pyramid of glory on this spot, and \ncemented it with their blood ; their posterity, an unworthy \nrace, have made a mockery of their principles, have de- \nnied their deeds, have destroyed their monument, have \nforgotten their memories, and denied that they once were \nfree.\" \n\n0 God! before this period arrives, grant, — it is a last \neffusion of earnest supplication, — grant that some friendly \nconvulsion of Nature may rend these heights from their \nlowest foundation, and that the overflowings of the ocean \nmay embowel in the darkest recess of the sea all remem- \nbrance of our disgrace. \n\nAmericans ! this cruel jealousy of your posterity is un- \nworthy of you ; it will dishonor your own reputation. On \nthe contrary, we are proud to believe that as you in the \nday of your emergency \" rose from defeat, and strengthened \n\n\nAX ORATION. 391 \n\nwhile you bled,\" * so your posterity, if occasion should de- \nmand, would on these very heights revive the days of '75, \nemulate your deeds, bleed as you bled, rear a second \nmonument by the side of the present to the same prin- \nciple, and, in one word, renovate your own selves. No, \nAmericans ! there is only one view in which we are willing \nto contemplate this monument as having been reared in \nvain ; in one respect it was prematurely raised, — the spirit \nwhich it is designed to honor is not yet fled. \n\nWe have now secured the principle, we have seen the \naction, and honorably repelled the insults of our enemies. \nIt now remains to honor the memories of those who \nfought, who bled, who died, to repel the ungenerous in- \nsults of our enemies, and whose deaths have hallowed \nthe scene. \n\nThe celebration of those who have fallen in support of \nthe liberties of their country is ever esteemed among free- \nmen a solemn duty, nearly allied to piety. In the rudest \nages this custom had its origin. A simple pile of stones \nserved both to memorialize their deeds, and to advertise \nthe traveller not to profane the spot, for it was holy \nground. The tribute which a nation pays to such patriots \nis generally coeval with their liberties. When they cease \nto be respected, it is already too late to inquire the cause ; \nthe reign of despotism is already begun. It is dangerous \nto appeal to times past; it is the height of sedition, and \n\n1 This line, so appropriate to the American character of those days, is \nfrom M r. Story, author of the charming poem on \" Solitude,\" so well worthy \nof the days of Akenside and Armstrong. \n\n[The late Mr. .Instice Story, a classmate of the anthor, in one of the notes \nto his poem, entitled \" The Power of Solitude,\" published in 1804, in quoting \nfrom this Oration, writes: \"It deserves rememhrance from its impartiality, \nits spirit, an 1 its eloquence. It would not have disgraced the reputation of \nthose Grecian orators, of whom Cicero says, ' Grandes erant verbis, crcbri \nsententiis, compressione rerum breves.'\" — Ed.] \n\n\n392 AN ORATION. \n\neven worthy of death, to assert that Cassius was the last \nof the Romans.1 \n\nAmericans, how ought you to feel ? Under your benign \ngovernment no honors are more highly esteemed nor more \nliberally bestowed than those which are offered to the \nmemory of patriots who died for their country. How ought \nyou to feel when the principle for which your country- \nmen suffered, and to which you owe your past and present \ngreatness, allies itself to the religion of your country, and \nis asserted in the sacred temple of the Most High ? How \nought you to feel when the fall of those who dignified \nthese heights is not with their sons so great a cause of \nregret as envy of their fate ? Happy shades ! you con- \nvert our envy into the noblest passion ; for those who envy \nyou most do both you and themselves most honor. \n\nHappy shades ! on the morning of that day which this \nanniversary commemorates began your labors; before even- \ning they were finished. One day witnessed your glory ; \nthe same day it was perfected. Your laurels were green \non your brows ; they had not time to wither, and now they \nnever can. Happy shades ! you did not survive your \nglory ; your passport to fame was through the splendor of \nyour renown. The moment in which you were all you \ncould be, you ascended to heaven. Happy shades ! your \nmonument is more durable than marble, more honorable \nthan any trophy which human art has yet raised ; yours is \nerected in the hearts of your countrymen. Happy shades ! \nthough you fell in the morning of the Revolution ; though \nyou were forbidden to swell the triumphs of your fellow- \ncitizens ; though no heavenly vision of your country's \napproaching liberty softened the agonies of death and en- \n\n1 Cremutius Cordus, an impartial historian, had hestowed encomiums on \nBrutus, and called Cassius the last of the Romans. This was the height of \nseditiou, and the cause of his death. \n\n\nAN ORATION. 398 \n\nraptured your departing spirits, yet you did not depart \nwithout your glory ; you did not depart without your \ntriumph. The indignant genius of your country had de- \nclared that her sons had lived as long as life was honor- \nable; you were demanded a sacrifice; your obedience \nconsummated your glory ; your fall triumphed over death. \nHappy shades ! though you fell among the first, you shall \nbe honored among the greatest of our worthies. All that \nthe living can bestow on the dead shall be offered to your \nremains. Virgines, puerique, manibus date lilia plenis, \npurpureos spargite flores, animasque his saltern accumulate \ndonis. The Muses too shall bring you their richest offer- \nings. The majesty of History shall dignify you ; Poetry \nin your praises shall lay claim to new graces ; and Elo- \nquence shall aspire to new pathos in painting to your sons \nwhat their fathers were. Happy shades ! some bard shall \nyet arise to do you justice ; some orator shall yet appear \nworthy the subject, capable of feeling, capable of asserting, \nand capable of infusing into every breast that principle \nwhich you died to support. Happy shades 1 what more \ncan we say in your praise ? All your own sufferings and \nall the succeeding complicated miseries of your brethren \ndid not half satisfy the purchase which we enjoy.1 What \nmore can we say in your praise ? Should Heaven in wrath \nsink us this day into slaves, we have already been free, \nand you stand acquitted. \n\nCitizen soldiers! before we leave these heights, permit \nme to address one word to yourselves. While you testify \nyour own principles in commemorating the days of Anier- \n\n1 \" A day, an hoar, of virtuous freedom \nIs worth a whole eternity in bondage.\" \nThns Roman Cato thought, and thus Addison spoke. If the sentiment be \njust, our liberties were cheaply purchased with a seven-year war \n\n\n394 AN ORATION. \n\nican glory, your fellow-citizens are not regardless of an- \nother circumstance, equally interesting to their feelings. \nHow much is the pleasure of this day enhanced in con- \ntemplating the most dignified ohject which a free people \ncan witness, — the patriot soldier, equally ready to take up \nor lay down his arms in obedience to the laws ! Behold, \nsoldiers, what confidence your fellow-citizens repose in \nyou ! May you never — you never will — betray that con- \nfidence. But if these States ever do lose their liberties, it \nwill be when the soldier ceases to be the citizen. Cherish, \nthen, the principles of your fathers, and in peace you shall \nbe regarded not as soldiers, but citizens ; in war you \nshall be respected as the safeguard of the Republic. In \npeace you shall repose under the wing of our Constitution ; \nin war our Constitution shall repose under your protection. \nMay you ever be prepared to assume the soldier ; but \nnever, oh, never may you cease to be the citizen. \n\n\n14 DAY USE \n\nRETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED \n\nLOAN DEPT. \n\nThis book is due on the last date stamped below, \nor on the date to which renewed. Renewals only: \n\nTel. No. 642-3405 \nRenewals may be made 4 days prior to date due. \nRenewed books are subject to immediate recall. \n\n\nGeneral Library \n\nUniversity of California \n\nBerkeley \n\nBerkeley \n\n\n#<*/ \n\n\nCD31flS5M23 \n\n\niv;20962t ?*^ \n\nQuiz & \n\nTHE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY \n\n\n","title":"Literary Papers of William Austin, with a Biographical Sketch","updated_at":"2026-09-05T09:48:37.103344Z","urn":"urn:lemay:boston:document:literary-papers-of-william-austin-with-a-biographical-sketch","version":1,"withdrawn_reason":null},"urn":"urn:lemay:boston:document:literary-papers-of-william-austin-with-a-biographical-sketch","version_history":[{"change_note":"accessioned from the Internet Archive, item literarypapersof00austrich","changed_by":"archive-ingest 0.1.0","recorded_at":"2026-09-05T09:48:37.401401Z","version":1}]}