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PREFACE.

———

During my protracted experiences as a merchant’s clerk in New York, a newspaper man, an author and artist, and an official, in Washington, it has been my fortune to make many good friends among the noted men of the time, and it is to a portion of these that I have devoted this volume. My object has not been to write biographies, but merely to give such interesting revelations of character as have come under my own personal observation. In doing this, I have been obliged, occasionally, to be a little autobiographic in my methods; but there seemed to be no alternative, and the reader must not question my sense of delicacy. The personal records in my possession have by no means been exhausted in the following pages, and I cannot but hope that when the proper time arrives, some additional recollections will see the light, and be as warmly welcomed by the public as my literary efforts have always been in the days that are no more.

HAPHAZARD  PERSONALITIES.

——◆——

My acquaintance with this eminent man began in 1848, and was one of the silken threads in the warp of my life. With him and his family I boarded for a few months in the house of Henry R. Schoolcraft in Washington. He seemed, from the first, to take an interest in my welfare; and while he honored me with his advice on matters connected with my duties as a writer for the National Intelligencer, his wife treated me with the greatest kindness, so that my affection for the twain was most sincere.

This is not the place, even if the ability were mine, to comment upon his splendid career as a man of science, nor do I propose to repeat the record of his life which I prepared for my “Biographical Annals”; one or two incidents, however, connected with his boyhood, which were narrated to me by himself, may with propriety be mentioned here, for the purpose of showing his introduction to the worlds of literature and science.

Having lost his father, William Henry, when a mere child, he was early sent to live with his grandmother, in the village of Galway, Saratoga County, N. Y. When in his tenth year, while trying to capture a pet rabbit, he followed the animal into one of the air-holes under the village church; prowling about on his hand and knees, he was attracted by a gleam of light in one corner of the building, and after due investigation he found that it proceeded from a room where the flooring had been left unfinished, leaving a space sufficiently large for the body of a small boy to pass through. The opportunity was not neglected, and he soon found himself “alone in his glory,” in the village library. The books were not many, and were very dusty, but there was a charm in the silence of the place, as well as in the illicit exploration upon which he had entered. He took from the shelf a book, which happened to be “The Fool of Quality,” and, having forgotten his rabbit, he began to read. He became much interested, and read until nightfall, when he retired by the dark passage through which he had entered. He made a second and a third visit, and having been unmolested, continued his visitations until he had read and enjoyed every novel in the library. From that time until he attained his sixteenth year, and while acting as a clerk in a store, he was an inveterate novel reader, and excepting for the tendency of the habit to make young people unduly fond of the theatre, his later testimony was to the effect that novel reading may be of advantage to some minds, by way of strengthening the imagination.

His passion for novel reading ended quite as suddenly as it had begun, and the transition to a higher phase of culture happened after this manner. When in his sixteenth year he was living in Albany, where he was born Dec. 17, 1709. His mother, a noble and a handsome woman, here kept a private boarding-house for a time. Among the boarders was a gentleman of literary tastes, and by a mere accident one of his books fell into the hand of young Henry. The title of it was “Lectures on Experimental Philosophy, Astronomy, and Chemistry,” by George Gregory, D. D., London, 1808. He took the book, and on reading a passage about the motions of the earth around the sun, and the theory of gravitation, he threw it aside and denounced such doctrines as utterly false. He took up the volume a second time, however, when a light began to dawn upon his mind, as the light under the church had reached his vision a few years before; he soon became so much interested in the volume that its owner presented it to him, and it was ever afterward kept by Professor Henry as one of his treasures. His reasons for so highly appreciating it are set forth in the following words, which will be found written on the fly-leaf of the memorable volume:—

This was written in 1837, just before leaving for Europe, on his first visit; which tour, as he once told me, was of very great benefit to him in his various researches. After reading Dr. Gregory’s book, he began the study of science with avidity, and while laying the foundation for his subsequent fame, he assisted a relative, Mr. John F. Doty, silversmith, as a clerk for about two years, and he taught in a country school. It was about this time that he gained a local reputation as an amateur actor. A dramatic club to which he belonged occasionally gave the public an entertainment. The audiences were often quite large, and “Joe Henry,” as he was called, was noted as a “star,” and was popular in the characters of Hamlet, Damon, and Norvel. He also wrote two or three simple plays, and became the president of the dramatic club; and here, by way of further illustrating this dramatic episode, the writer takes pleasure in submitting the following, related by Thurlow Weed:—

“When I was a younger man, in Albany there was a young apprentice to Mr. Doty, a silversmith, who appeared to be a very bright fellow of seventeen years. He read books with avidity, but none with more pleasure and eagerness than Shakespeare and the works of other dramatic writers. He seemed to have an especial passion for such, indeed, coupled with an inclination for the stage. The time came soon for the indulgence of this taste, and he joined a company of young amateur actors who played at a little theatre called the Thespian. The young apprentice’s talent for dramatic impersonation became the talk of the town before long; and when Mr. Bernard, a noted manager in those days, came to Albany with his own strong company of professional actors, he was impelled to visit the Thespian Theatre to see the young amateur of whom he had heard so favorably. The play that night was ‘Hamlet,’ and the manager was so struck with the young actor’s ability and intelligence that he sent for him and made him a very tempting offer to join his own company and adopt the stage as a profession.

“Just before this,” explained Mr. Weed to his auditors, “the young man had received an offer of a gratuitous education from Dr. Beck, president of the Albany Academy, and the night the manager spoke to him he sought the counsel of two of his chums. One of these two was Master Thurlow Weed, then a young journeyman printer. Both advised him strongly to accept Dr. Beck’s offer. But the young apprentice was still in doubt. His inclination prompted him to go on the stage, while his judgment dictated the acceptance of Dr. Beck’s kind offer. He left at last, saying that he would talk with his employer about it.

“Silversmith Doty liked the lad, and believed that he had a career of usefulness before him in some learned profession; so when the lad told him of the two offers he had received, he said kindly, but firmly: ‘Joseph, you are under indentures to me for two years yet. If you will accept the offer of a free education, I will let you go freely. But if you conclude to go on the stage, you must make good to me the loss of these two years of service.’ This determined the lad, and he went to Dr. Beck’s, studied faithfully, graduated with honors, and became one of the first scholars of his day.

“Of course,” said the narrator, with a quiet smile, “you are curious to know who he was. I will tell you. The lad was Dr. Joseph Henry, the late president of the Smithsonian Institution, and whenever he came to see me in New York before his death, he and I used to recall how small an incident it was that turned the tide of his life into its current of widest usefulness. He was for three years a tutor in the family of Stephen Van Rensselaer, the patroon, and it was after he left this family that he obtained a position as surveyor and helped to run the route from West Point to Lake Erie.”

He afterwards became an assistant at the academy over which Dr. T. R. Beck presided, and had some difficulty with a brother of the doctor, arising out of a spirit of rivalry, and that circumstance made him very unhappy. At this particular time, while out walking, he met his warm personal friend, George Clinton, who inquired the cause of his apparent dejection, and on being informed, he made this remark, “Henry, it is your duty to leave Albany, as you know a prophet is not without honor save in his own country.” But the time for his departure had not arrived. It was at this period that he began, and put upon paper, some of the thoughts he had been cherishing, and printed them in the transactions of the Albany Institute, among them an article on the Galvanic Multiplier; and became a contributor to the “American Journal of Science and the Arts” in 1830, which was the year of his marriage to Harriet L. Alexander, of Schenectady, New York.

In 1832 he received a letter from one of the official heads of Princeton College, suggesting his appointment to a professorship. He replied that he would not ask for the position, but if it should be tendered to him, by election, he would probably accept; and all that he could do was, to refer for his moral character to the patroon, and for his scientific attainments to Prof. James Renwick, of Columbia College. He was duly elected, and how he built up his splendid fame in Princeton is well known to the scientific world. But, as he told me, one of the greatest trials of his life was his departure from Albany. He felt as if he could not possibly sever the ties which bound him to his early home, and the future was so uncertain. Such was the state of his mind, even when he had gone on board the steamboat which was to take him to New Jersey, and one incident connected with that departure I have heard him mention with the most tender feelings. As he sat in the cabin, in a very “brown study,” some one gently tapped him on the shoulder and spoke a kindly word. That friend was John Dunlap, and one of his remarks was this, “Don’t be depressed, my good fellow; the time will come when Albany will be proud to claim you as her son!” That right has since been heartily claimed, not only by the city of Albany, but by his native country. How Professor Henry afterward passed from Princeton to the head of the Smithsonian Institution is universally known; that transition was made with a reluctance allied to that which he felt on leaving Albany; and in these days of excessive office-seeking, it is worthy of remark that he never desired or solicited any official position in all his life, except that of a country schoolmaster, and never entered upon a new sphere of duty, without fear and trembling.

At the time of my first acquaintance with Professor Henry, and through all the intervening years, the great institution which he was called upon to organize seemed to be the absorbing theme of his thought, and I have been surprised to see how his enlightened and far-seeing plans have all been carried out. In those early days, there were many men in Washington who were worth knowing, and whose influence upon a young man was calculated to be of lasting benefit; and through such men as Professors Henry, and A. D. Bache, Gales and Seaton, and George P. Marsh, I had access to the most cultivated society. The refined and elevated gatherings which were held at the houses of all these noted men were a real blessing in my experience; and when Congress was in session, such men as Clay, and Webster, and Calhoun often stepped into those eddies of literary and scientific culture.

Although my relations with Professor Henry were only those of a personal friend, he was wont, occasionally, to call upon me to help him in matters of a purely literary character, and what very little I could do for him was paid for most liberally, by the information he communicated to me in a quiet way, and by admitting me into his entire confidence. He was so conscientious in the performance of his official duties, that he ever seemed disinclined to waste the hours of business in the formalities of social life; but when the cares of the day were ended, he took great pleasure in entertaining his friends at home, which he always did with surpassing dignity, kindness, and grace, and in attending the dinners and select receptions of his official friends. But of all the places where it was my privilege to meet him, none could compare with his private study in the Smithsonian Institution, when he was alone, and the silence of the place at night invited the mind into the higher realms of thought. Some of my interviews with him will always live in my memory; and if it were proper to do so, I might mention remarks there first uttered by the man of science, which I have known to culminate for the advantage and honor of deserving men in the literary and scientific world, who were perhaps unaware at the time that their abilities were appreciated by the great discoverer and philosopher. It was by him that the genius of Simon Newcomb was fostered; and I remember on one occasion, when he read to me a letter which he had just written to a noted astronomer of France, in which he spoke of Professor Newcomb in extravagant terms of praise, I said to him, “The young astronomer ought to see that letter”; but he replied, “Oh, no, he will never see it, but he is a remarkable man!”

Among the items of his conversation which I remember are the following: How strange it was that Presidents Lincoln and Grant could never be induced to visit the Smithsonian Institution; how, when the professor once made an allusion to A. D. Bache, the latter replied, “Oh, yes, you mean the man who gave away his fortune so foolishly to the Smithsonian Institution for scientific purposes;” how he met a man in 1872, who thanked him for his lecture on architecture which he had heard at Princeton thirty years before; and how no recommendation or scheme which he had originated had ever been unsuccessful.

Like Daniel Webster, he was an early riser and did much of his correspondence in the morning, and usually spent two or three hours in his library before breakfast.

The first note I ever received from him was written in December, 1848, and the substance of it was as follows: “I am sorry to learn that you are confined to your room, and that I have not been able to call to see you. Mrs. Henry bids me say that she will be glad to receive you into our house, and to administer in any way she is able to your comfort. The invitation to our house is not a mere complimentary offer, but one which is intended as a real expression of feeling. Please let us know by the bearer how you are.”

Another letter, illustrating his familiar style, is given entire:—

The allusion in this letter to Professor Bache reminds me of the fact that he was in the habit of receiving visits from his friends, in camp, when out upon his scientific tours in summer, and also that his most accomplished wife always accompanied him, and often assisted him in his triangulations. The railway accident alluded to was one of the most fatal that ever occurred in New Jersey. The person mentioned as Will, was Professor Henry’s only son, an admirable young man, who died in his early prime, but left behind him three charming and highly accomplished sisters to comfort and cheer his parents in their declining years.

The letters and notes which I received from Professor Henry were many, but I will only mention two of them in this place. Soon after Mr. Corcoran had suggested the idea of my having charge of his picture gallery, when organized, I naturally mentioned the circumstance to Professor Henry, and in the goodness of his heart he sent the following to the trustees of that institution:—

For me to print such a tribute from such a man may be deemed indelicate; but it is hard for me to play the hypocrite, and as I have always tried to merit the good-will of the best of men, I can only say that such testimonials afford me the most solid satisfaction, and I am not ashamed to confess the fact.

Not long after Professor Henry had thus volunteered to second the wishes of Mr. Corcoran (as expressed to me), I found that his influence with his own trustees seemed to have been lost; and when I saw that the real power lay with other men, and that their ideas of art were to rule the gallery, I withdrew my claims as a candidate. Not long afterwards a vacancy occurred in the Board of Trustees, when Professor Henry was called upon to fill it; and although several members of the board were men of real culture, they took no special or active interest in the gallery, and the only member of the board with a national reputation was Professor Henry. And here comes in a rather remarkable fact. When the time arrived for regularly organizing the art gallery, the only member of the board who was not notified to be present on the important occasion was Professor Henry; and whether the supposed forgetfulness had its origin with the active members of the board aforesaid, is a question which need not now be disturbed, as their own candidate was duly elected.

In June, 1871, a note came to me from Professor Henry, as follows:—

This note was received by me about one hour after I had returned home from my summer tour to the mountains and sea-shore, and at the particular time when I was undecided whether I should devote the coming winter to my pencil or my pen. I was promptly on hand, heard from the professor that he had been asked by Arinori Mori, the Japanese minister, to nominate some person to write a book about the United States for use in Japan; and thus began my long and very agreeable experiences with the Japanese government, which have elsewhere been recorded; convincing me, beyond all possible doubt, that there is an Omnipotent Hand directing all the affairs of men. The book here alluded to contained an article on scientific matters and as it also had an allusion to Professor Henry’s discoveries, I sent it to him for correction, when he returned the following answer:—

In August, 1872, there was a slight misunderstanding between Mr. Mori, the Japanese minister, and myself, and as I had been introduced to that gentleman by Professor Henry, I thought it my duty to notify him of what had happened,—he was then at the sea-shore,—and here is the reply he sent me:—

And here is another letter which will explain itself, and proves what a devoted friend I had in the professor:—

During the summer of 1875 it was my privilege to spend a few weeks in the daily companionship of Professor Henry at Block Island. Our several families were with us, and altogether we certainly had a “glorious time,” housed in the comfortable and elegant Ocean View Hotel. His business was to try a series of experiments with the fog-horns, which ended in his demolishing a pet theory of Professor Tyndall; and my occupation was to study and depict on canvas the beauties of the surf, along the shores of the island. On several occasions I waited upon him while trying his experiments, and was amazed to see, in view of his advanced age, with what persevering industry, supported by rare excitement, he followed up his investigations. But there was one incident which happened to us which made me well-nigh resolve that I would never again drive a span of horses, or a single one, in a carriage or wagon, when my companion was a great man. One morning, when taking the professor to the new lighthouse, where he was trying his experiments on the philosophy of sound, the traces of the harness became unfastened as we were going down a hill, and nothing but the hand of Providence prevented him, if not both of us, from being killed. The accident reminded me of the more serious one which happened to Daniel Webster and myself near Plymouth in 1852; and what added to the marvel of this escape was the fact that I was driving a very spirited and almost unbroken colt.

To have been with Professor Henry, when he was performing his important experiments on sound, was a circumstance to be remembered with gratitude, but it was a greater privilege to be with him on several occasions at the Centennial Exhibition in 1876. His comments upon the accumulated wonders of the place were full of interest and highly instructive, nor can I ever forget the character of our final meeting there, on the last day of my attendance. Having been told that he had returned to Washington, he was the last man that I expected to see, but my surprise was greatly enhanced by finding him more than half asleep, as he sat alone on one of the benches in a quiet nook of the Great Building. He was worn out with fatigue, but being aware of his self-reliant determination in going and coming when he pleased, I made no proffer of assistance, which I knew would be rejected. The throngs of people who passed along paid no more attention to him than they would to any respectable gentleman, for, though familiar with his name and fame, they did not recognize his person; and yet, there sat the man, sick, alone and unknown to the crowd around him, from whose brain had sprung the secret of the telegraph, and without whose various discoveries the great Centennial Exhibition, in many particulars, would not have been possible.

One of the most agreeable parties that I ever attended in Washington was given by Commodore Charles Wilkes many years ago. It was a most elegant affair in all its appointments, and many of the guests were famous for their high positions or their intellectual attainments. Professor Henry and his wife were among them. Thirty years afterwards, the commodore, after reflecting great honor upon his country, died, leaving his family poor. One of his daughters found it necessary to try and obtain an office, whereby she could support herself. She made many trials and did not succeed. In her extremity she went to Professor Henry and narrated all her trials. After listening to her story, he said that he appreciated her noble spirit in seeking the irksome employment of a clerk, and added, “Is it possible that a daughter of Charles Wilkes should be compelled to ask twice for a petty clerkship?” when the dear old man’s feelings overwhelmed him, and he wept like a very child. It was not long after that interview before the lady had obtained the position she desired.

During the year 1877 the friends of the professor frequently suggested that he needed and fully deserved some respite from his public labors. On one occasion his family physician, Dr. Grafton Tyler, intimated that he might at least give up his connection with the Lighthouse Board, and his sudden reply was, “Not that, not that; some other duties, perhaps, but not that.” His interest in scientific studies was unabated, but he did not work with his former vigor; and as of old, he went occasionally into society, where he was as dignified and agreeable as he had always been. After entering upon his eightieth year, he began to discuss with his intimate friends the propriety of resigning the position of president of the Academy of Sciences, at the annual meeting in April, 1878; and so, when the Academy met, he did submit his resignation, but, in terms that were highly complimentary, it was not accepted. And more than that, the eminent men composing the Academy made known the fact that a fund of forty thousand dollars had been raised, and was already in safe-keeping for the benefit of the grand old president and his family. It was indeed a worthy tribute of affection and admiration, honorable both to those who gave and to him who was the recipient,—one of those “scientific” performances which everybody could appreciate, and which will long be remembered with pride by the scholars of the land.

For many weeks before his death he was quite ill and suffered great pain, but he was at all times gentle and patient to the last degree, proving himself to be a noble Christian; and he retained his mental powers in full vigor until the end of life. His last words were, “Which way comes the wind?” and with his mind still echoing the spirit of inquiry into the realms of nature, he passed away in perfect peace. His death, on the 13th of April, 1878, closed a life of honor and of usefulness which will be remembered as one of the leading landmarks of the century.

His funeral took place on the 16th of April, at the New York Avenue Presbyterian Church and at the Oak Hill Cemetery in Washington, attended by large numbers of friends and the most eminent men connected with the government. The leading prayer was offered by his old friend, Dr. Charles Hodge, and the sermon delivered by Rev. S. S. Mitchell, both of them being all that could have been desired. It was my sad privilege, under instructions from his widow and children, to make all the arrangements for purchasing the beautiful ground where now repose the ashes of the great man, who had been my friend for thirty years. On the 16th of January, 1879, memorial services were held in the National Capitol by the two Houses of Congress, Chief Justice Waite presiding, at which were present the Supreme Court, the President and Cabinet, on which occasion eloquent addresses were made by not less than eight men of distinction in public affairs. Congress also made an appropriation for the erection of a bronze statue in the grounds of the Smithsonian Institution, which was duly finished, and also ordered a memorial volume to be prepared and published, which was accomplished in 1880.

———

I first met this eminent poet and scholar when he was on a visit to New York, and received from Park Benjamin the sum of twenty-five dollars for the poem entitled The Wreck of the Hesperus, the proof of which it was my privilege to read. That fact, combined with his kindly treatment of me, made a pleasurable impression on my mind which nothing has ever been able to dampen, excepting the knowledge that he received such a miserable pittance for one of the most admirable ballads in the language.

In 1842, the men of my literary idolatry were Hawthorne (then without fame), Dana, and Longfellow; and when my maiden volume, the “Essays for Summer Hours,” made its appearance, I forwarded a copy to each of them, the two former of whom sent me their acknowledgments at once, but it was twenty-seven years before I received a reply from Mr. Longfellow. When, in 1869, I sent him a copy of my “Dictionary of Congress,” for the reason that it contained a notice of his father, I improved the occasion to remind him of my former communication, and then he wrote me the following:—

In November, 1871, while exhibiting a portfolio of my sketches in oil to a nephew of the poet, W. P. P. Longfellow, we stumbled upon a view of Norman’s Woe, near Cape Ann, when he remarked, “My uncle should see that picture, for I know it would greatly interest him.” On the next day, accordingly, I packed up the picture, and with another (a view on the coast of Nova Scotia, the home of Evangeline), sent it off to Mr. Longfellow, accompanied by a note of explanation in which I recalled the fact of our meeting many years before at the house of Park Benjamin, in New York, who was the first to publish the poem about the “Hesperus,” and who paid for it the pittance of twenty-five dollars. The letter which Mr. Longfellow sent me in return, worth more than a thousand sketches, was as follows:—

By way of prolonging the delightful “gossip” just given in Mr. Longfellow’s letter, I submit the following, obtained from him during a personal interview. Among the considerations which induced him to write about the “Hesperus” was the “indescribably sad” name of Norman’s Woe, which the newspapers mentioned as the scene of the disaster. With regard to his poem of Excelsior, it was suggested to the poet by the lofty sentiments contained in a letter which he had received from his friend Charles Sumner. As his ideas developed, he resolved to display in a series of pictures the life of a man of genius, resisting all temptations, and casting aside all fears, heedless of all warnings of danger, pressing onward in the great purpose of his life. As the poet wrote to his friend C. K. Tuckerman, “He passes through the Alpine village, through the rough, cold paths of the world, where the peasants cannot understand him, and where his watchword is an ‘unknown tongue.’ He disregards the happiness of domestic peace and sees the glacier, this fate, before him. He disregards the warning of the old man’s wisdom and the fascinations of woman’s love. He answers to all, ‘Higher yet!’ The monks of St. Bernard are the representatives of religious forms and ceremonies, and with their oft-repeated prayer mingles the sound of his voice, telling them there is something higher than forms and ceremonies. Filled with these aspirations, he perishes without having reached the perfection he longed for; and the voice heard in the air is the promise of immortality and progress ever upward. You will perceive that ‘excelsior,’ an adjective of the comparative degree, is used adverbially; a use justified by the best Latin writers.”

Unlike the productions just mentioned, The Psalm of Life was the spontaneous outgrowth of his mind; and it is a singular fact that while he at first hesitated to give it to the public, when published, it immediately became one of the most popular of all his poems. It was this production, moreover, which induced an Englishman, when the poet was in England, to accost him when about to enter his carriage, and to ask the privilege of shaking by the hand the man who had afforded him so much pleasure; and it should put all American readers to the blush to learn that while the two poems entitled The Psalm of Life and the Reaper Death were both published in the old “Knickerbocker” magazine, the editor thereof did not think their author worthy of any remuneration; but the origin of Evangeline is also very interesting, and is here given in the poet’s own words:—

In July, 1872, after William L. Shoemaker, of Georgetown, D. C., had read to me one of his poems, he expressed a desire to know what Mr. Longfellow would think of it, whereupon I volunteered to send it to Cambridge, accompanied by a second poem, with an explanatory note. In due time the following pleasant letter was received:—

In December, 1872, I sent the poet a small picture executed by a Japanese youth, which he acknowledged with great kindness, wishing the young artist all prosperity.

During the summer of 1873, while spending a few weeks at Indian Hill, in Massachusetts, the delightful residence of Ben: Perley Poore, it was again my privilege to meet Mr. Longfellow. He had come down from Nahant, with his friend Charles Sumner, for the purpose of visiting, for the first time, the Longfellow homestead in Newbury. After that visit he came by invitation, with the senator, to Indian Hill, where they enjoyed an early dinner and a bit of old wine, after which Mr. Poore took us all in his carriage on a visit to the poet, John G. Whittier, at Amesbury. The day was charming, the route we followed was down the Merrimack and very lovely, and the conversation of the lions was of course delightful. We found Mr. Whittier at home, and it was not only a great treat to see him there, but a noted event to meet socially and under one roof three such men as Whittier, Sumner, and Longfellow. The deportment of the two poets was, to me, most captivating. The host, in his simple dress, was as shy as a school-boy while Mr. Longfellow, with his white and flowing hair, and jolly laughter, reminded me of one of his own vikings; and when Mr. Whittier brought out and exhibited to us an anti-slavery document which he had signed forty years before, I could not help recalling some of the splendid things which that trio of great men had written on the subject of slavery. The drive to Newburyport, whence Mr. Sumner and Mr. Longfellow were to return to Nahant, was not less delightful than had been the preceding one; and the kindly words which were spoken of Mr. Whittier proved that he was highly honored and loved by his noted friends, as he is by the world at large. Before parting from Mr. Longfellow, he took me one side and spoke with great interest of the old homestead he had that morning visited, and expressed a wish that I should make a sketch of it for him, as it was then two hundred years old and rapidly going to decay. On the following morning I went to the spot and complied with his request; a few weeks afterward I sent him a finished picture of the house, not forgetting the well-sweep and the old stone horse-block, in which he felt a special interest; and he acknowledged the receipt of the picture in these words:—

In the letter which I sent to the poet with my picture, after giving him certain particulars, I added the following:—

One of the most charming traits in Mr. Longfellow’s character was his love for children; and the child of the Orient, mentioned in his letter, whom he met at Indian Hill, will never forget the many pleasant things he said to her as he held her on his lap and played with her long black hair. And when, a few years afterwards, he was informed that his little friend was a great admirer of his writings, and could memorize a number of his poems, he probably became a more devoted child-lover than before.

Remembering, with rare pleasure, much of the conversation which passed between the poet and the statesman, on the occasion alluded to above, the Good-night sonnet, which the former published in 1875, in allusion to his departed friend, impressed me as wonderfully beautiful and affecting:—

When the poem of Keramos was published, in November, 1877, I had a translation made into Japanese, of that portion of it alluding to Japan, and forwarded it to the poet with an explanation as to how the transformation had taken place: the young gentleman who made the translation having been Mr. Amano Koziro, of the Japanese Legation. The acknowledgment sent me by Mr. Longfellow was as follows:—

When, in 1879, it was announced that Mr. Longfellow’s publishers were preparing a new edition of his works, to be extensively illustrated, I had some correspondence with him, commenced by himself, in regard to illustrations. I first suggested one of my pictures representing the schooner “Hesperus” driving on the rocks of Norman’s Woe (the original picture of which was already in his possession), and he replied as follows: “Mr. Osgood tells me that the pages containing The Wreck of the Hesperus are already printed; but he would like to see your illustration of “Daybreak,” if convenient for you to send it. In due time, I not only sent him the original picture of “Daybreak,” but with it a photograph from a picture of Fusiyàma, which I had painted for the Japanese government, and which I thought would suit a passage in Keramos. In answer to my letter transmitting the pictures, I received the following:—

In due time the illustrated edition of Mr. Longfellow’s poems was fully published, and the reader can imagine my surprise to find on the page, where my picture of Fusiyàma should have been, a kind of tea-tray concern, which was pronounced simply ridiculous by several well-informed gentlemen. Of course, I reported my surprise and disappointment to the poet, and to my note I received the following replies:—

The only comment that I have to make on the above is, that I am surprised this Boston engraver did not go to the North Pole and do a little hunting there for a stock of cool common-sense. Of course, with my great admiration for Mr. Longfellow, it would have gratified me to see one of my pictures wedded to a fragment of his poetry.

In November, 1881, when my work entitled “Curious Characters and Pleasant Places” was published in Edinburgh, because of the fact that it contained a chapter on Anticosti, where Mr. Longfellow’s first American ancestor lost his life (he who had built the Newbury homestead), I sent him a copy; and in my note I asked him for his views on the propriety of printing the private letters of living men without their consent. I had noticed in Barry Cornwall’s “Autobiography” several of Mr. Longfellow’s own letters, and as I was then examining the very interesting correspondence of the late Professor Samuel Tyler, with a view to publication, I desired to be fortified with the poet’s opinion, and the result of my application was as follows:—

From the time when the foregoing letter was written with its touching allusion to his illness, it became apparent to Mr. Longfellow’s friends that his health was beginning to decline; and on the 24th of March the startling information was flashed over the telegraphic wires, to every corner of his native land and of Europe, that he had died at his home in Cambridge, in the seventy-sixth year of his age. To paraphrase a sentiment from Homer, we may say of him that the fame of his beauteous song shall never be forgotten.

The poet’s father, Stephen Longfellow, was a lawyer and statesman of superior abilities and influence, and the former left a son, Ernest W. Longfellow, who ranks high as a landscape painter.

———

My acquaintance with these noted men began in 1847, when I published a series of Canadian letters in their journal. When I first visited Washington City in 1848, my intention was to remain only about a week, but circumstances which I did not wish to control compelled me to reside there permanently, and to become a regular contributor to the National Intelligencer; and one of the results of my intimacy with its editors was the following paper, printed in the “Atlantic Monthly,” while they were still living.

The families of Gales and Seaton are, in their origin, Scotch and English. The Seatons are of that historic race, a daughter of which (the fair and faithful Catherine) is the heroine of one of Sir Walter Scott’s romances. It was to be supposed that they whose lineage looked to such an instance of devoted personal affection for the ancient line would not slacken in their loyalty when fresh calamities fell upon the Stuarts and again upset their throne. Accordingly, the Seatons appear to have clung to the cause of their exiled king with fidelity. Henry Seaton seems to have made himself especially obnoxious to the new monarch, by taking part in those Jacobite schemes of rebellion which were so long kept on foot by the lieges and gentlemen of Scotland; so that, when, towards the close of the seventeenth century, the cause he loved grew desperate, and Scotland itself anything but safe for a large body of her most gallant men, he was forced, like all others that scorned to submit, to fly beyond the seas. Doing so, it was natural that he should choose to take refuge in a Britain beyond the ocean, where a brotherly welcome among his kindred awaited the political proscript. It is probable, however, that a special sympathy towards that region which, by its former fidelity to the Stuarts, had earned from them the royal quartering of its arms and the title of “The Ancient Dominion,” directed his final choice. At any rate, it was to Virginia that he came; settling there, as a planter, first in the county of Gloucester, and afterwards in that of King William. From one of his descendants in a right line sprang (by intermarriage with a lady of English family, the Winstons) William Winston Seaton, the editor, whose mother connected him with a second Scotch family, the Henrys,—the mother of Patrick Henry being a Winston. These last had come, some three generations before, from the old seat of that family in its knightly times, Winston Hall, in Yorkshire, and had settled in the county of Hanover, where good estates gave them rank among the gentry; while commanding stature, the gift of an equally remarkable personal beauty, a very winning address, good parts, high character, and the frequent possession among them of a fine natural eloquence, gave them as a race an equal influence over the body of the people. In William (popularly called Langaloo) and his sister Sarah, the mother of Patrick Henry, these hereditary qualities seem to have been particularly striking; so that, in their day, it seemed a sort of received opinion that it was from the maternal side that the great orator derived his extraordinary powers.

The Galeses are of much more recent naturalization amongst us,—later by just about a century than that of the Seatons, but alike in its causes. For they, too, were driven hither by governmental resentment. Their founder (as he may be called), the elder Joseph Gales, was one of those rare men who at times spring up from the body of the people, and by mere unassisted merit, apart from all adventitious circumstances, make their way to a just distinction. Perhaps no better idea of him can be given than by likening him to one, less happy in his death, whom science is now everywhere lamenting,—the late admirable Hugh Miller. A different career, rather than an inferior character, made Joseph Gales less conspicuous. He was born in 1761, at Eckington, near the English town of Sheffield. The condition of his family was above dependence, but not frugality.

Be education what else it may, there is one sort which never fails to work well, namely, that which a strong capacity, when denied the usual artificial helps, shapes out to its own advantage. Such, with little and poor assistance, became that of Joseph Gales, obtained progressively, as best it could be, in the short intervals which the body can allow to be stolen between labor and necessary rest. Now the writer is convinced, that, after this boy had worked hard all the day long, he never would have sat down to study half the night through, if it had not been a pleasure to him. In short, no sort of toil went hard with him; for he was a fine, manly youngster, cheerful and stalwart, one who never slunk from what he had set about, nor turned his back except upon what was dishonest. He wrought lightsomely, and even lustily, at his coarser pursuits; for in that sturdy household, to work had long been held a duty.

Thus improving himself at odd hours, until he was fit for the vocation of a printer, and looked upon by the village as a genius, our youth went to Manchester, and applied himself to that art, not only for itself, but as the surest means of further knowledge. Of course he became a master in the craft. At length, returning to his own town to exercise it, he grew, by his industry and good conduct, into a condition to exercise it on his own account, and set up a newspaper, the Sheffield Register.

Born of the people, it was natural that Joseph Gales should in his journal side with the Reformers, and he did so: but with that unvarying moderation which his good sense and probity of purpose taught him, and which he ever after through life preserved. He kept within the right limits of whatever doctrine he embraced, and held a measure in all his political principles; knowing that the best, in common with the worst, tend, by a law of all party, to exaggeration and extremes. Beyond this temperateness of mind nothing could move him. Thus guarded, by a rare equity of the understanding, from excess as to measures, he was equally guarded by a charity and a gentleness of heart the most exhaustless. In a word, it may safely be said of him, that amidst all the heats of faction, he never fell into violence; amidst all the asperities of public life, never stooped to personalities; and in all that he wrote, left scarcely an unwise and not a single dishonest sentence behind him.

Such qualities, though not the most forward to set themselves forth to the public attention, should surely bring success to an editor. The well-judging were soon pleased with the plain good sense, the general intelligence, the modesty, and the invariable rectitude of the young man. Their suffrage gained, that of the rest began to follow. For in truth, there are few things of which the light is less to be hid than that of a good newspaper. The Register, by degrees, won a general esteem and began to prosper. And as, according to the discovery of Malthus, prosperity is fond of pairing, it soon happened that our printer went to falling in love. Naturally again, being a printer, he, from a regard for the eternal fitness of things, fell in love with an authoress.

This was Miss Winifred Marshall, a young lady of the town of Newark, who to an agreeable person, good connections, and advantages of education, joined a literary talent that had already won no little approval. She wrote verse, and published several novels of the “Minerva Press” order (such as “Lady Emma Melcombe and her Family,” “Matilda Berkley,” etc.), of which only the names survive.

Despite the poetic adage about the course of true love, that of Joseph Gales ran smooth; Miss Marshall accepted his suit and they were married. Never were husband and wife better mated. They lived together most happily and long; she dying, at an advanced age, only two years before him. Meantime she had, from the first, brought him some marriage portion beyond that which the Muses are wont to give with their daughters,—namely, laurels and bays; and she bore him three sons and five daughters, near half of whom the parents survived. Three (Joseph the younger, Winifred, and Sarah, now Mrs. Seaton) were born in England; a fourth at the town of Altona (near Hamburg), from which she was named, and the rest in America.

To resume this story in the order of events. Mr. Gales went on with his journal, and when it had grown quite flourishing, he added to his printing-office the inviting appendage of a bookstore, which also flourished. In the progress of both, it became necessary that he should employ a clerk. Among the applicants brought to him by an advertisement of what he needed, there presented himself an unfriended youth, with whose intelligence, modesty, and other signs of the future man within, he was so pleased that he at once took him into his employment; at first, merely to keep his accounts, but by degrees, for superior things, until, progressively, he (the youth) matured into his assistant editor, his dearest friend, and finally his successor in the journal. That youth was James Montgomery, the poet.

On the 10th of April, 1786, Mrs. Gales gave birth, at Eckington, their rural home, to her first child, Joseph, the present chief (1860) of the Intelligencer. Happy at home, the young mother could as delightedly look without. The business of her husband throve apace; nor less the general regard and esteem in which he was personally held. He grew continually in the confidence and affection of his fellow-citizens; endearing himself especially, by his sober counsels and his quiet charities, to all that industrious class who knew him as one of their own, and could look up without reluctance to a superiority which was only the unpretending one of goodness and sense. Over them, without seeking it, he gradually obtained an extraordinary ascendency, of which the following is a single instance: Upon some occasion of wages or want among the working people of Sheffield, a great popular commotion had burst out, attended by a huge mob and riot, which the magistracy strove in vain to appease or quell. When all else had failed, Mr. Gales bethought him of trying what he could do. Driven into the thick of the crowd, in an open carriage, he suddenly appeared amongst the rioters, and, by a few plain words of remonstrance, convinced them that they could only hurt themselves by overturning the laws, that they should seek other modes of redress, and meantime had all better go home. They agreed to do so, but with the condition annexed, that they should first see him home. Whereupon, loosening the horses from the carriage, they drew him, with loud acclamations, back to his house.

Such were his prospects and position for some seven years after his marriage, when, of a sudden, without any fault of his own, he was made answerable for a fact that rendered it necessary for him to flee beyond the realm of Great Britain.

As a friend to Reform, he had, in his journal, at first supported Pitt’s ministry, which had set out on the same principle, but which, when the revolutionary movement in France threatened to overthrow all government, abandoned all Reform, as a thing not then safe to set about. From this change of views Mr. Gales dissented, and still advocated Reform. So, again, as to the French Revolution, not yet arrived at the atrocities which it speedily reached, he saw no need of making war upon it. In its outset, he had, along with Fox and other Liberals, applauded it; for it then professed little but what Liberals wished to see brought about in England. He still thought it good for France, though not for his own country. Thus, moderate as he was, he was counted in the opposition and jealously watched.

It was in the autumn of 1792, while he was gone upon a journey of business, that a king’s messenger, bearing a Secretary of State’s warrant for the seizure of Mr. Gale’s person, presented himself at his house. For this proceeding against him the following facts had given occasion. In his office was employed a printer named Richard Davison,—a very quick, capable, useful man, and therefore much trusted,—but a little wild, withal, at once with French principles and religion, with conventicles, and those seditious clubs that were then secretly organized all over the island. This person corresponded with a central club in London, and had been rash enough to write them, just then, an insurrectionary letter, setting forth revolutionary plans, the numbers, the means they could command, the supplies of arms, etc., that they were forming. This sage epistle was betrayed into the hands of the government. The discreet Dick they might very well have hanged; but that was not worth while. From his connection with the Register, they supposed him to be only the agent and cover for a deeper man,—its proprietor; and at the latter only, therefore, had they struck. Nothing saved him from the blow, except the casual fact of his absence in another county, and their being ignorant of the route he had taken. This his friends alone knew, and where to reach him. They did so, at once, by a courier secretly despatched; and he, on learning what awaited him at home, instead of trusting to his innocence, chose rather to trust the seas; and, making his way to the coast, took the only good security for his freedom, by putting the German Ocean between him and pursuit. He sailed for Amsterdam, where arriving, he thence made his way to Hamburg, at which city he had decided that his family should join him. To England he could return only at the cost of a prosecution; and though this would, of necessity, end in an acquittal, it was almost sure to be preceded by imprisonment, while, together, they would half ruin him. It was plain, then, that he must at once do what he had long intended to do,—go to America.

Accordingly, he gave directions to his family to come to him, and to Montgomery that he should dispose of all his effects and settle up all his affairs. These offices that devoted friend performed most faithfully, remitting him the proceeds. The newspaper he himself bought and continued, under the name of the Sheffield Iris. Still retaining his affection for the family, he passed into the household of what was left of them, and supplied to the three sisters of the elder Joseph Gales the place of a brother, and, wifeless and childless, lived on to a very advanced age, content with their society alone. The last of these dames died only a few months ago.

At Hamburg, whence they were to take ship for the United States, the family were detained all the winter by the delicate health of Mrs. Gales. This delay her husband put to profit, by mastering two things likely to be needful to him,—the German tongue and the art of short-hand. In the spring they sailed for Philadelphia. Arrived there, he sought and at once obtained employment as a printer. It was soon perceived, not only that he was an admirable workman, but every way a man of unusual merit, and able to turn his hand to almost anything. By and by, reporters of Congressional debates being few and very indifferent, his employer, Claypole, said to him, “You seem able to do everything that is wanted: pray, could you not do these Congressional reports for us better than this drunken Callender, who gives us so much trouble?” Mr. Gales replied, with his usual modesty, that he did not know what he could do, but that he would try.

The next day he attended the sitting of Congress, and brought away, in time for the compositors, a faithful transcript of such speeches as had been made. Appearing in the next morning’s paper, it of course greatly astonished everybody. It seemed a new era in such things. They had heard of the like in Parliament, but had scarcely credited it. Claypole himself was the most astonished of all. Seizing a copy, he ran around the town, showing it to all he met, and still hardly comprehending the wonder which he himself had instigated. It need hardly be said that here was something far more profitable for Mr. Gales than type-setting.

But to apply this skill, possessed by none else, to the exclusive advantage of a journal of his own, was yet more inviting; and the opportunity soon offering itself, he became the purchaser of the Independent Gazetteer, a paper already established. This he conducted with success until the year 1799, making both reputation and many friends. Among the warmest of these were some of the North Carolina members, and especially that one whose name has ever since stood as a sort of proverb of honesty, Nathaniel Macon. By the representations of these friends, he was led to believe that their new State capital, Raleigh, where there was only a very decrepit specimen of journalism, would afford him at once a surer competence and a happier life than Philadelphia. Coming to this conclusion, he disposed of his newspaper and printing-office, and removed to Raleigh, where he at once established the Register. Of his late paper, the Gazetteer, we shall soon follow the fortunes to Washington, where it became the Intelligencer; meantime we must finish what is left to tell of his own.

At Raleigh he arrived under auspices which gave him not only a reputation, but friends, to set out with. Both he soon confirmed and augmented. By the constant merit of his journal, its sober sense, its moderation and its integrity, he won and invariably maintained the confidence of all on that side of politics with which he concurred (the old Republican), and scarcely less conciliated the respect of his opponents. He quickly obtained, for his skill, and not merely as a partisan reward, the public printing of his State, and retained it until, reaching the ordinary limit of human life, he withdrew from the press. In the just and kindly old Commonwealth which he so long served, it would have been hard for any party, no matter how much in the ascendant, to move anything for his injury. For the love and esteem, which he had the faculty of attracting from the first, deepened, as he advanced in age, into an absolute reverence the most general for his character and person; and the good North State honored and cherished no son of her own loins more than she did Joseph Gales. In Raleigh there was no figure that, as it passed, was greeted so much by the signs of a peculiar veneration as that great, stalwart one of his, looking so plain and unaffected, yet with a sort of nobleness in its very simplicity, a gentleness in its strength, an inborn goodness and courtesy in all its roughness of frame,—his countenance mild and calm, yet commanding, thoughtful, yet pleasant, and betokening a bosom that no low thought had ever entered. You had in him, indeed, the highest image of that stanch old order from which he was sprung, and might have said, “Here’s the soul of a baron in the body of a peasant.” For he really looked, when well examined, like all the virtues done in rough-cast.

With him the age of necessary and of well-merited repose had now come; and judging that he could attain it only by quitting that habitual scene of business where it would still solicit him, he transferred his newspaper, his printing-office, and the bookstore which he had made their adjunct in Raleigh, as in Sheffield, to his third son, Weston, and removed to Washington, in order to pass the close of his days near two of the dearest of his children,—his son Joseph and his daughter Mrs. Seaton,—from whom he had been separated the most.

In renouncing all individual aims, Mr. Gales fell not into a mere life of meditation, but sought its future pleasures in the adoption of a scheme of benevolence, to the calm prosecution of which he might dedicate his declining powers, so long as his advanced age should permit. A worthy object for such efforts he recognized in the plan of African colonization, and of its affairs he accepted and almost to his death sustained the management in chief; achieving not less, by his admirable judgment, the warm approval and thanks of that widespread association, than by the most amiable virtues of private life winning in Washington, as he had done everywhere else, from all that approached him, a singular degree of deference and affection.

But the close of this long career of honor and of usefulness was now at hand. In 1839 he lost the wife whose tenderness had cheered the labors and whose gay intelligence had brightened the leisure of his existence. She had lived the delight of that intimate society to which she had confined faculties that would have adorned any circle whatever; and she died lamented in proportion by it, and by the only others to whom she was much known,—the poor. Her husband survived her but two years, expiring at his son’s house in Raleigh, where he was on a visit in April, 1841, at the age of eighty. He died as calm as a child, in the placid faith of a true Christian.

Still telling his story in the order of dates, the writer would now turn to the younger Joseph Gales. As we have seen, he arrived in this country when seven years old, and went to Raleigh about six years afterwards. There he was placed in a school, where he made excellent progress, profiting by the recollections of his earlier lessons, received from that best of all elementary teachers, a mother of well-cultivated mind. His boyhood, as usual, prefigured the mature man; it was diligent in study, hilarious at play; his mind bent upon solid things, not the showy. For all good, just, generous, and kindly things he had the warmest impulse and the truest perceptions. Quick to learn and to feel, he was slow only of resentment. Never was man born with more of those lacteals of the heart which secrete the milk of human kindness. Of the classic tongues he can be said to have learnt only the Latin; the Greek was then little taught in any part of our country. For the positive sciences he had much inclination; since it is told, among other things, that he constructed instruments for himself, such as an electrical machine, with the performances of which he much amazed the people of Raleigh. Meantime he was forming at home, under the good guidance there, a solid knowledge of all those fine old authors whose works made the undegenerate literature of our language and then constituted what they called Polite Letters. With these went hand in hand, at that time in the academies of the South, a profane amusement of the taste. In short, our sinful youth were fond of stage plays, and even wickedly enacted them, instead of resorting to singing-schools. Joseph Gales the younger had his boyish emulation of Roscius and Garrick, and performed “top parts” in a diversity of those sad comedies and merry tragedies which boys are apt to make, when they get into buskins. But it must be said that, as a theatric star, he presently waxed dim before a very handsome youth, a little his senior, who just then had entered his father’s office. He was not only a printer, but had already been twice an editor,—last, in the late North Carolina capital, Halifax; previously, in the great town of Petersburg,—and was bred in what seemed to Raleigh a mighty city, Richmond; in addition to all which strong points of reputation, he came of an F. F. V., and had been taught by the celebrated Ogilvie, of whom more anon. He was familiar with theatres, and had not only seen, but even criticised the great actors. He outshone his very brother-in-law and colleague that was to be. For this young gentleman was William Seaton.

Meantime, Joseph, too, had learnt the paternal art,—how well will appear from a single fact. About this time his father’s office was destroyed by fire, and with it the unfinished printing of the legislative Journals and Acts of the year. Time did not allow waiting for new material from Philadelphia. Just in this strait he that had of old been so inauspicious, Dick Davison, came once more into play, but this time not as a marplot. He, strange to say, was at hand and helpful. For after his political exploit, abandoning England in disgust at the consequences of his gunpowder plot, he, too, had not only come to America, but had chanced to set up his “type-stick” in the neighboring town of Warrenton, where having flourished, he was now the master of a printing-office and the conductor of a newspaper. Thither, then, young Joseph was despatched, “copy” in hand. Richard—really a worthy man after all—gladly atoned for his ancient hurtfulness by lending his type and presses; and falling to work with great vigor, our young Faust, with his own hands put into type and printed off the needful edition of the Laws.

He had also by this time, as an important instrument of his intended profession, attained the art of stenography. When, soon after, he began to employ it, he rapidly became an excellent reporter; and eventually, when he had grown thoroughly versed in public affairs, confessedly the best reporter that we ever had.

He was now well prepared to join in the manly strife of business or politics. His father chose, therefore, at once to commit him to himself. He judged him mature enough in principles, strong enough in sense; and feared lest, by being kept too long under guidance and the easy life of home, he should fall into inertness. He first sent him to Philadelphia, therefore, to serve as a workman with Birch & Small; after which he made for him an engagement on the National Intelligencer, as a reporter, and sent him to Washington in October, 1807.

To that place, changing its name to the one just mentioned, the father’s former paper, the Gazetteer, had been transferred by his old associate, Samuel Harrison Smith. Its first issue there (triweekly) was on the 31st of October, 1800, under the double title of The National Intelligencer and Washington Advertiser. The latter half of the title seems to have been dropped in 1810, when its present senior came, for a time, into its sole proprietorship.

More than twice the age of any other journal now extant there,—for the Globe came some thirty, the Union some forty-five years later,—the Intelligencer has long stood, in every worthy sense, the patriarch of our metropolitan press. It has witnessed the rise and fall around it of full a hundred competitors, many of them declared enemies; not a few, what was more dangerous far, professed friends. Yet in the face of all enmity and of such friendship, it has ever held on its calm way, never deserting the public cause, as little extreme in its opposition as in its support of those in power; so that its foes never forgot it, when they prevailed, but its friends repeatedly. To estimate the value of its influence, during its long career, would be impossible, so much of right has it brought about, so much of wrong defeated.

Though it came hither with our Congress, a newspaper had once before been set up here, either upon the expectation created by the laying of certain corner-stones, in 1792, that the government would fix itself at this spot, or through an odd local faith in the dreams of some ancient visionary dwelling hard by, who had, many years before, foretold this as the destined site of a great imperial city, a second Rome, and so had bestowed upon Goose Creek the name of Tiber, long before this was Washington. The founder of this preadamite journal was Mr. Benjamin Moore, its name, The Washington Gazette, its issue, semi-weekly, its annual price, four dollars, and the two leading principles which, in that day of the infancy of political “platforms,” his salutatory announced, were, first, “to obtain a living for himself,” and secondly, “to amuse and inform his fellow-mortals.” How long this day-star of our journalism shone before night again swallowed up the premature dawn, cannot now be stated. It must have been published at what was then expected to be our city, but is our penitentiary, Greenleaf’s Point.

To the Intelligencer young Mr. Gales brought such vigor, such talent, and such skill in every department, that within two years, in 1809, he was admitted by Mr. Smith into partnership; within less than a year from which date, that gentleman, grown weary of the laborious life of the press, was content to withdraw, and leave him sole proprietor, editor, and reporter. An enormous worker, however, it mattered little to him what tasks were to be assumed; he could multiply himself among them and suffice for all.

In thus assuming the undivided charge of the paper, the young editor thought it becoming to set forth one main principle that has, beyond a question, been admirably the guide of his public life. He said to his readers, “It is the dearest right and ought to be cherished as the proudest prerogative of a freeman, to be guided by the unbiassed convictions of his own judgment. This right it is my firm purpose to maintain, and to preserve inviolate the independence of the print now committed into my hands.” Never was pledge more universally made or more rarely kept than this.

It was towards the close of Mr. Jefferson’s presidency that Mr. Gales had entered the office of the Intelligencer, and it was during Mr. Madison’s first year that he became joint editor of that paper. Of these administrations it had been the supporter, only following, in that regard, the transmitted politics of its original, the Gazetteer, derived from the elder Mr. Gales. Bred in these, the son had learnt them of his sire, just as he had adopted his religion or his morals. Sprung from one who had been persecuted in England as a republican, it was natural that the son should love the faith for which an honored parent had suffered.

The high qualities and the strong abilities of the young editor did not fail to strike the discerning eye of President Madison, who speedily gave him his affection and confidence. To that administration the Intelligencer stood in the most intimate and faithful relations, sustaining its policy as a necessity where it might not have been a choice. During the entire course of the war, the Intelligencer sustained most vigorously all the measures needful for carrying it on with efficiency; and it did equally good service in reanimating, whenever it had slackened at any disaster, the drooping spirit of our people. Nor did its editors, when there were two, stop at these proofs of sincerity, nor shrink when danger drew near from that hazard of their own persons to which they had stirred up the country. When invasion came, they at once took to arms as volunteer common soldiers, went to meet the enemy, and remained in the field until he had fallen back to the coast; and during the invasion of Washington, moreover, their establishment was attacked and partially destroyed, through an unmanly spirit of revenge on the part of the British forces.

In October, 1812, proposing to himself the change of his paper into a daily one (as was accordingly brought about on the first of January ensuing), Mr. Gales invited Mr. Seaton, who had by this time become his brother-in-law, to come and join him. He did so; and the early tie of youthful friendship which had grown between them at Raleigh, and which the new relation had drawn still closer, gradually matured into that more than friendship or brotherhood, that oneness and identity of all purposes, opinions, and interests which has ever since existed between them without a moment’s interruption, and has long been to those who understood it a rare spectacle of that concord and affection so seldom witnessed, and could never have come about except between men of singular virtues.

The same year that brought Gales and Seaton together as partners in business, witnessed an alliance of a more interesting character; for it was in 1813 that Mr. Gales married the accomplished daughter of Theodorick Lee, younger brother of that brilliant soldier of the Revolution, the “Legionary Harry.”

But at this point the writer must go back for a while, in order to bring down the story of William Seaton to where, uniting with his associates, the two thus flow on in a single stream.

He was born Jan. 11, 1785, on the paternal estate in King William County, Virginia, one of a family of four sons and three daughters. At the good old mansion passed his childhood; there, too, according to what was then the wont in Virginia, he trod the first steps of learning, under the guidance of a domestic tutor, a decayed gentleman, old and bedridden, for the only part left him of a genteel inheritance was the gout. But when it became necessary to send his riper progeny abroad for more advanced studies, Mr. Seaton very justly bethought him of going along with them; and so betook himself with his whole family to Richmond, where he was the possessor of houses enough to afford him a good habitation and a genteel income. Here, then, along with his brothers and sisters, William was taught through an ascending series of schools, until at last he arrived at what was the wonder of that day, the academy of Ogilvie, the Scotchman. He, be it noted, had an earldom, that of Finlater, which slept while its heir was playing pedagogue in America,—a strange mixture of the ancient rhapsodist with the modern strolling actor, of the lord with him who lives by his wits. Scot as he was, he was better fitted to teach anything rather than common-sense. The writer must not give the idea, however, that there was in Lord Finlater anything but eccentricity to derogate from the honors of either his lineage or his learning. A very solid teacher he was not. A great enthusiast by nature, and a master of the whole art of discoursing finely of even those things which he knew not well, he dazzled much, pleased greatly, and obtained a high reputation; so that, if he did not regularly inform or discipline the minds of his pupils, he probably made them, to an unusual degree, amends on another side. He infused into them, by the glitter of his accomplishments, a high admiration for learning and for letters. Certainly the number of his scholars who arrived at distinction was remarkably; and this is, of course, a fact conclusive of great merit of some sort as a teacher, where, as in his case, the pupils were not many. Without pausing to mention others of them who arrived at honor, it may be well enough to refer to Winfield Scott, William Campbell Preston, B. Watkins Leigh, William S. Archer, and William C. Rives.

The writer does not know if it had ever been designed that young Seaton should proceed from Ogilvie’s classes to the more systematic courses of a college. Possibly not. Even among the wealthy, at that time, home education was often employed. The children of both sexes were committed to the care of private tutors, usually young Scotchmen, the graduates of Glasgow, Edinburgh, or Aberdeen, sent over to the planter, upon order, along with his yearly supply of goods, by his merchant abroad; or else the sons were sent to select private schools, like that of Ogilvie, set up by men of such abilities and scholarship as were supposed capable of performing the whole work of institutions.

At any rate, our youth, without further preparation, at the age of eighteen, entered earnestly upon the duties of life. He fell at once into his vocation; impelled to it, no doubt, by the ambition for letters and public affairs which the lessons of Ogilvie usually produced. Party ran high. Virginia politics, flushed with recent success, had added to the usual passions of the contest those of victory.

Into the novelties of the day our student accordingly plunged, in common with nearly all others of a like age and condition. He became, in short, a politician. Though talent of every other sort abounded, that of writing promptly and pleasingly did not. Young Seaton was found to possess this, and therefore soon obtained leave to exercise it as assistant editor of one of the Richmond journals. He had already made himself acquainted with the art of printing, in an office where he became the companion and friend of the late Thomas Ritchie, and it is more than probable that many of his youthful “editorials” were “set up” by his own hands. Attaining by degrees a youthful reputation, he received an invitation to take the sole charge of a respectable paper in Petersburg, the Republican, the editor and proprietor of which, Mr. Thomas Field, was about to leave the country for some months. Acquitting himself here with great approval, he won an invitation to a still better position,—that of the proprietary editorship of the North Carolina Journal, published at Halifax, the former capital of that State, and the only newspaper there. He accepted the offer, and became the master of his own independent journal. Of its being so he proceeded at once to give his patrons a somewhat decisive token. They were chiefly Federalists; it was a region strongly Federal; and the gazette itself had always maintained the purest Federalism but he forthwith changed its politics to Republican.

There can be no doubt that he who made a change so manly conducted his paper with spirit. Yet he must have done it also with that wise and winning moderation and fairness which have since distinguished him and his associate. William Seaton could never have fallen into anything of the temper or the taste, the morals or the manners, which are now so widely the shame of the American press; he could never have written in the ill spirit of mere party, so as to wound or even offend the good men of an opposite way of thinking. The inference is a sure one from his character, and is confirmed by what we know to have happened during his editorial career among the Federalists of Halifax. Instead of his paper’s losing ground under the circumstances just mentioned, it really gained so largely and won so much the esteem of both sides, that, when he desired to dispose of it, in order to seek a higher theatre, he easily sold the property for double what it had cost him.

It was now that he made his way to Raleigh, the new State capital, and became connected with the Register. Nor was it long before this connection was drawn yet closer by his happy marriage with the lady whose virtues and accomplishments have so long been the modest yet shining ornament and charm of his household and of the society of Washington. After this union, he continued his previous relationship with the Register, until, as already mentioned, he came to the metropolis to join his fortunes with those of his brother-in-law. From this point, of course, their stories, like their lives, become united, and merge, with a rare concord, into one. They have had no bickerings, no misunderstanding, no difference of view which a consultation did not at once reconcile; they have never known a division of interests; from their common coffer each has always drawn whatever he chose; and, down to this day, there has never been a settlement of accounts between them. What facts could better attest, not merely a singular harmony of character, but an admirable conformity of virtues?

The history of the Intelligencer has, as to all its leading particulars, been for fifty years spread before thousands of readers, in its continuous diary. To re-chronicle any part of what is so well known would be idle in the extreme. Of the editors personally, their lives, since they became mature and settled, have presented few events such as are not common to all men,—little of vicissitude, beyond that of pockets now full and now empty,—nothing but a steady performance of duty, an exertion, whenever necessary, of high ability, and the gradual accumulation through these of a deeply felt esteem among all the best and wisest of the land. Amidst the many popular passions with which nearly all have, in our country, run wild, they have maintained a perpetual and sage moderation; amidst incessant variations of doctrine, they have preserved a memory and a conscience; in the frequent fluctuations of power, they have steadily checked the alternate excesses of both parties; and they have never given to either a factious opposition or a merely partisan support. Of their journal it may be said, that there has, in all our times, shone no such continual light on public affairs, there has stood no such sure defence of whatever was needful to be upheld. Tempering the heats of both sides; re-nationalizing all spirit of section; combating our propensity to lawlessness at home and aggression abroad; spreading constantly on each question of the day a mass of sound information,—the venerable editors have been, all the while, a power and a safety in the land, no matter who were the rulers. Neither party could have spared an opposition so just or a support so well measured. Thus it cannot be deemed an American exaggeration to declare the opinion as to the influence of the Intelligencer over our public counsels, that its value is not easily to be overrated.

Never, meantime, was authority wielded with less assumption. The Intelligencer could not, of course, help being aware of the weight which its opinions always carried among the thinking; but it has never betrayed any consciousness of its influence, unless in a ceaseless care to deserve respect. Its modesty and candor, its fairness and courtesy, have been invariable; nor less so, its observance of that decorum and those charities which constitute the very grace of all public life. On the score of dignity it has never had a superior and seldom an equal in any country, and numerous instances might be cited, attesting the fact that no sums of money ever had the power to make them publish insincere opinions or admit to their columns improper advertisements.

From the time of their coming together down to the year 1820, Gales and Seaton were the exclusive reporters, as well as editors, of their journal; one of them devoting himself to the Senate, and the other to the House of Representatives. Generally speaking, they published only running reports; on special occasions, however, giving the speeches and proceedings entire. In those days they had seats of honor assigned to them directly by the side of the presiding officers, and over the snuff-box, in a quiet and familiar manner, the topics of the day were often discussed. To the privileges they then enjoyed, but more especially to their sagacity and industry, are we now indebted, as a country, for their “Register of Debates,” which, with the Intelligencer, has become a most important part of our national history. As in their journal nearly all the most eminent of American statesmen have discussed the affairs of the country, so have they been the direct means of preserving many of the speeches which are now the acknowledged ornaments of our political literature. Had it not been for Mr. Gales, the great intellectual combat between Hayne and Webster, for example, would have passed into a vague tradition, perhaps. The original notes of Mr. Webster’s speech, now in Mr. Gales’s library, form a volume of several hundred pages, and, having been corrected and interlined by the statesman’s own hand, present a treasure that might be envied. At the period just alluded to, Mr. Gales had given up the practice of reporting any speeches, and it was a mere accident that led him to pay Mr. Webster the compliment in question. That it was appreciated was proven by many reciprocal acts of kindness and the long and happy intimacy that existed between the two gentlemen, ending only with the life of the statesman. It was Mr. Webster’s opinion, that the abilities of Mr. Gales were of the highest order; and yet the writer has heard of one instance in which even the editor could not get along without a helping hand. Mr. Gales had for some days been engaged upon the grand jury, and, with his head full of technicalities, entered upon the duty of preparing a certain editorial. In doing this, he unconsciously employed a number of legal phrases; and when about half through, found it necessary to come to a halt. At this juncture he dropped a note to Mr. Webster, transmitting the unfinished article and explaining his difficulty. Mr. Webster took it in hand, finished it to the satisfaction of Mr. Gales, and it was published as editorial.

But the writer is trespassing upon private ground, and it is with great reluctance that he refrains from recording a long list of incidents which have come to his knowledge, calculated to illustrate the manifold virtues of his distinguished friends. That they are universally respected and beloved by those who know them; that their opinions on public matters have been solicited by Secretaries of State and even by Presidents opposed to them in politics; that their journal has done more than any other in the country to promote a healthy tone in polite literature; that their home-life has been made happy by the influences of refinement and taste; and that they have given away to the poor money enough almost to build a city, and to the unfortunate spoken kind words enough to fill a library,—are all assertions which none can truthfully deny. If, therefore, to look back upon a long life not uselessly spent is what will give us peace at last, then will the evening of their days be all that they could desire; and their “silver hairs,” the most appropriate crown of true patriotism,

P. S. As a kind of sequel to the foregoing article which was written shortly before the death of Mr. Joseph Gales, in 1860, the writer submits the subjoined in memoriam paragraphs respecting the National Intelligencer and its famous editors:—

Between the years 1825 and 1859, both inclusive, the monthly expenses of the National Intelligencer averaged $4,000, or $1,680,000 for the whole period. The amount drawn out by Mr. Gales during that time for his personal expenses was $617,270, and by Mr. Seaton, $219,371; making together $836,642, or a grand total of moneys disbursed by the office in thirty-five years, $2,516,641. Of course these were not the earnings of the Intelligencer alone, but were greatly enhanced by the various Congressional publications which bore the imprint of Gales & Seaton. After the death of Mr. Gales, the office was found indebted to Mr. Seaton in the sum of $70,000, which claim was presented by him to the widow of his late partner and brother-in-law.

The chief business man and bookkeeper of the Intelligencer establishment, and the warm personal friend of the editors, was Mr. Thomas Donoho. He was born in Maryland, and was connected with the journal for about fifty years, and during all that time made but one visit to the Capitol. Like Gales and Seaton, he won and commanded the highest respect of all those who had business with them, and the devotion of the former to the welfare of their country has only been equalled by the faithfulness of the latter to the interests of his distinguished friends. When the Intelligencer office had been sold, and an entire change made in its affairs, Mr. Donoho was asked to continue there on duty, to which request he made this characteristic reply: “No, I cannot be happy over the grave of the Intelligencer.” Nor has he, as we understand, ever had the heart even to make a visit to the old quarters. He asked one boon of the new proprietors, however, which was that they would give him the old sign-board of the office, under which so many famous men in the olden times had passed into the sanctums of the editors. The request was granted, and, true to his character, Mr. Donoho deposited it in a safe place at the shop of a cabinet-maker, with the injunction that it should form a part of his coffin when he came to die.^[1]

While it is true that the heavier political work of the Intelligencer was performed by Mr. Gales, it is also true that many very able articles emanated from the pen of Mr. Seaton. The former made it his business to manage the artillery guns, while the latter chose rather to devote himself to infantry tactics. During the greater part of their long partnership they occupied adjoining rooms, and met at least once every day for consultation. The office dress of Mr. Gales was commonly a loose morning-gown, while that of Mr. Seaton was a dark flannel roundabout. A perennial courtesy prevailed throughout their establishment; they received their visitors with equal urbanity and kindness, and the friends of the one editor were also the friends of the other. In recalling Mr. Gales’s room, as I knew it, three features come out in bold relief: at one end of it were some wooden cases, tilled with carefully arranged letters and manuscripts, confidential communications addressed to the editors on public affairs, from all the leading statesmen and politicians of the country, and of which Mr. Gales was wont to speak as invaluable materials for history; another thing that I remember was a mammoth tumbler, from which the editor enjoyed a daily drink of cool soda water; and finally a single oil painting, which hung upon the wall directly in front of the editorial chair. This picture represented a storm at sea, with one poor little steamer fighting its way against the wind and tide and blinding rain; and once, when I was looking upon it with special attention, Mr. Gales suddenly dropped a letter that he was reading, and made this comment: “I keep that picture there for my daily comfort. It is not valuable as a work of art, but its teachings are precious to me. I know that the little steamer will reach its destined haven in spite of the storm, and so, when I am in trouble and in want of money, I have but to look upon this picture, brace my courage anew, do the best I can, and be happy, for the storm cannot last forever.”

On entering Mr. Seaton’s room, the first object which invariably attracted the visitor’s attention was a noble pointer dog, lying by the side of his master’s chair. Here, as in the adjoining room, were packed away many autographic treasures; but the books scattered about were more numerous, and the walls were literally covered with maps and charts, as if the occupant loved to let his fancy roam, while smoking his cigar, to the remotest corners of the earth; and in their appropriate places might be seen a newly invented gun, a case or two of stuffed game birds, and a few engravings of English hunting scenes. Holding, as Mr. Seaton did for many years, the offices of Mayor of Washington, and treasurer of the Smithsonian Institution, as well as many others of equal responsibility, it was natural that his visitors should be more numerous and multifarious than those who usually had business with Mr. Gales, and it was because of his pressing official duties that he was unable to do as much writing for his journal as he desired and the public expected. The very last time I visited his sanctum before the old office building was replaced by the new one, his splendid old dog still lay upon the rug at his feet, and in answer to some casual allusion which I made to woodcock shooting, he remarked, “Oh! yes, I know that game is abundant, but the old dog and the old man, I fear, will never hunt any more.”

As already intimated, the statesmen who have occasionally contributed to the National Intelligencer comprise a large proportion of the more famous men of the country, including such giants as Webster, Clay, and Calhoun; but the list of purely literary men who have from time to time made it the medium of communicating with the public is also very large. Of all its regular European correspondents, Mr. Robert M. Walsh was undoubtedly the most able, and his contributions extended through a series of many years; and the man who gave it the highest literary tone was Mr. Edward William Johnston, who was a man of rare scholarship and ability, and his collected writings would make a volume of very superior excellence. At a subsequent period the reviews and political editorials of James C. Welling did much to keep up the reputation of the old journal.

Eckington was the name by which the country seat of Mr. Gales was known, and it was situated just on the northeastern border of the city of Washington. It was named by him after the native town of his father in England, and I remember that he once pronounced Johnston’s “Universal Gazetteer” the best work extant, of its kind, because it was the only one which had mentioned the town of Eckington. The house was unpretending in its architecture, though truly elegant. All its appointments and surroundings were home-like, and a number of huge oak-trees extended their limbs over the roof, from one of which, during a summer night that I once spent there, a venerable owl amused itself with melancholy hootings.

The visit here alluded to was made at a time when Mr. Gales was in excellent health, and the delightful impressions which it left upon me can never be forgotten. The wines which sparkled in our glasses at the dinner-table were rich and rare; but the wit and wisdom and numerous anecdotes of the great men of the time, which the host condescended to utter for my gratification, were far more exhilarating than the product of any vintage. And then when Mr. Gales piloted me from room to room, and brought out the treasures of his extensive library, among which was the original manuscript of Webster’s Reply to Hayne, which he had reported, and scores of illustrated books by Gavarni and other famous French artists, for whose productions he had a special fondness, it seemed to me that I had never before enjoyed such a splendid collection of intellectual luxuries. When his hour for retiring arrived, and he found that I was not disposed to waste any time by sleeping, he fixed me in a large arm-chair under a brilliant light, piled up quarto and folio volumes of rarest value on the carpet around me, and then bade me good night. And in what a wonder-world did I then revel! Nor was it strange that, after I had sought my pillow, I heard the hootings of the guardian owl until the dawn. I left my bed as early as four o’clock in the morning, and on entering the private study of the great editor, I found him hard at work upon one of those political leaders which were the foundation of his fame.

As Mr. Gales had his Eckington, where he quietly resided during all the vernal months, so did Mr. Seaton have his shooting-box, where he was wont annually to spend a few weeks in the enjoyment of wild life, when anxious to get away from the cares of business. This spot was called “The Mountain Retreat,” and consisted of a plain farm-house, planted in the midst of several hundred acres of land on the top of the Alleghany Mountains in Virginia. When he went there to be free and happy he invariably took with him a few chosen friends; and then it was that deer hunting and trout fishing were engaged in to their greatest perfection; as well as midnight suppers, with game from the wilderness, washed down with wines all the way from the Rhine; and the countless stories of wild adventure which were first told at the Mountain Retreat became household words among his friends in their city homes during the ensuing winter. The intensity of Mr. Seaton’s love of nature was something rare, and was the precious gift, undoubtedly, that kept his physical and mental qualities in perfect trim until he had passed his three-score years and ten, and preserved his mind as clear as a diamond until the close of life. The wild scenery and the bracing air of the mountains were among his greatest blessings.

I do not remember when it was, exactly, that Mr. Seaton gave up the use of the shot-gun, but I do know that as late as the autumn of 1863 he bagged a fair proportion of birds. At that time he was looking almost as hale and hearty as a young man of twenty. Even during the coldest weather of that season he occasionally left his bed before dawn, roused his splendid dog, and, accompanied by a single servant, drove off some fifteen or twenty miles to parts unknown, returning home with one or two dozen birds in time for a late dinner, having taken exercise enough to keep him in good condition until again tempted to make another foray “on the moors.”

On one occasion when Mr. Webster was in the Senate, he had, in company with a brother senator, waited upon the editors of the National Intelligencer, and when the interview terminated and the visitors were about entering their carriage, Mr. Webster was heard to make this remark: “Those, sir, are two of the wisest and best heads in this country; as to Mr. Gales, he knows more about the history of this government than all the political writers of the day put together.”

Mr. Seaton had a special fondness for horticulture; and for a great many years he cultivated an extensive garden, which was acknowledged to be the most elegant affair of the kind in Washington; and in this delightful taste he enjoyed the hearty sympathy and co-operation of his accomplished wife. Indeed, his love of nature in all its aspects, combined with a fondness for sporting, constituted a leading feature of his character.

That he left not a stone unturned to make this garden interesting is proven by the fact that where he expended dollars he reaped only pennies, and also by the following circumstance: During one of his visits to New England, he tarried a day in Hartford for the sole purpose of obtaining a few acorns from the Charter Oak, and having been successful, planted and nourished them with care; and one or two years before his death he had the pleasure of presenting to his friends a number of saplings from the famous tree. He was always fond of making little presents to those whom he esteemed, and his delicate manner of making them invariably enhanced their value.

Although the intimacy which existed between the editors of the Intelligencer and Mr. Webster was most cordial and of long standing, there was something like brotherly affection in that between Mr. Seaton and the great statesman. They sympathized with each other in all their pleasures; read the same books, cherished the same friends, recalled to a great extent the same memories connected with public men and events, had their sporting moods in common, and probably enjoyed as many good dinners together as any other men of their time. During the twenty or thirty years of Mr. Webster’s residence in Washington, there was no private individual there with whom his relations of intimacy were so close as those with Mr. Seaton. It might be added, too, that there was no person, out of his family, to whom he was so much attached. A part of almost every evening, when not engaged at home or elsewhere, he spent in the drawing-room of Mr. Seaton, with the ladies of his family, or tête-à-tête with him in winter at the fireside, or in evening strolls in summer.

The evening preceding the delivery of the speech in reply to Colonel Hayne by Mr. Webster, he spent with Mr. Seaton at his residence. When, near midnight, the former was about to leave, the latter took his arm, and they had a pleasant walk to Louisiana Avenue. On arriving at his home Mr. Webster took Mr. Seaton’s arm, and insisted upon seeing him home. The scene was amusing, but Mr. Webster’s object seemed to be to take exercise, enjoy the conversation of his friend, and look upon the star-studded sky, now descanting upon the wonders of astronomy and then repeating passages from the Bible, Virgil, Shakespeare, and Milton, while not an allusion was made to the impending event of the morrow.

But as I am not writing a book, I must put a curb upon my memory, and bring these personal recollections to a close. As Gales and Seaton spent their lives in writing for the public welfare, they had but little time to indulge in the pleasures of letter-writing, and yet a collection of their letters to personal friends would be read with great gratification; but when the correspondence addressed to them, on all sorts of subjects, by men of distinction from every part of the country, shall be collected and published, as it should and probably will be, the historical lore of the Republic will be enriched to a rare degree.

———

I was a lover of this famous man, even in my boyhood, and he was my friend and counsellor in later years when I had the audacity to follow his footsteps in the world of literature. A day that I once spent with him in Washington City I remember as one of the most delightful of my whole life. In a private letter which I wrote to my friend, Peter Force, I gave him an account of my experiences, and several years afterwards he printed the letter in the National Intelligencer, under the heading of “A Day with Washington Irving,” as follows:—

The subjoined correspondence is intended chiefly for my personal friends, and for those who feel so great an interest in Washington Irving that they read everything from his pen with pleasure. Should my modesty be questioned for printing it in this place, I can only reply that it was the “Sketch-Book” which originally incited me to venture upon the pleasures and the dangers of authorship; and that, next to doing some little good, my limited ambition has been to please my readers; and having succeeded in pleasing the Father of American Literature, I have a right to be gratified and thankful. But the letters which follow, exhibiting the writer as a friend, bring out here and there a few interesting points of character which I consider the rightful property of the public, and I submit them precisely as they were written and without any comments of my own:—

———

My acquaintance with this eminent scholar and statesman began in 1844 during one of my summer tours through Vermont; and soon afterwards I had the pleasure of publishing a brief notice of him in one of my books.

From the first, and probably because he had known some of my family in Connecticut, he took an interest in my literary plans, gave me much sound advice in regard to the study of the English language, and also on matters connected with art; and when I removed to Washington in 1848, and he was in Congress, his house became to me one of the most agreeable and profitable resorts in the metropolis. Indeed, his treatment of me was so uniformly kind, that I consulted him in regard to all my personal as well as literary affairs; and as I continued to enjoy his friendship, often found it difficult to decide whether his great learning, his sound practical common-sense, rare integrity, or his warm-hearted nature was the predominating element of his character. His knowledge of art, in all its phases, and especially the history of engraving, was most complete; and there was a time when his collection of proofs, after the great masters in that branch of art, was the most complete and valuable one in this country; and it has always seemed to me since then that there was a special propriety in his being permitted to spend so many years of his life in Italy as it was his privilege, and where his services were eminently honorable and valuable to his country. As a linguist,—for he could write and speak all the leading ancient and modern languages,—and especially as a Scandinavian scholar, his fame has reached the cultivated people of all climes; but it is not so generally known that his library of Scandinavian literature was at one time quite unique. To what extent that collection has been scattered I cannot tell; but a portion of it at least was presented by himself to the University of Vermont, and it will be my privilege presently to give an idea of its character as it existed before its owner entered the diplomatic service. Another portion of his rare library consisted of several thousand volumes, and was also presented to the University through the liberality of Frederick Billings, of Woodstock.

For more than thirty years after 1833, Mr. Marsh kept up a constant correspondence with the secretary of the Royal Society of Northern Antiquarians at Copenhagen,—Prof. C. C. Rafn. His first letter was written in English, but all his subsequent letters were in Danish; and the professor once remarked that he had discovered but one error in Mr. Marsh’s letters, and that was a mistake in the gender of a noun. He was one of those rare men whose books do not fully represent the man; in his gifts and character he was above them all; and it was the general opinion of his friends that he possessed one of the broadest minds and a most absorptive memory. It is also said of him that men of science, army and navy men, skilled mechanics, naturalists, and farmers have all expressed surprise at his knowledge of the affairs to which their lives were devoted. During his residence in Greece, he was authorized by his government to defend Dr. Jonas King from the unjust restrictions put upon him by the Eastern authorities; and when he delivered a certain speech in modern Greek, in Athens, the people were astounded, and his knowledge of their language added greatly to his influence.

His sympathies were so completely with the Goths that he traced to their presence whatever was great and peculiar in the character of the founders of New England. In his work on the Goths he contrasted the Gothic and Roman characters, which he regarded as the great antagonistic principles of society at the present day. He was not only a lover of Scandinavian history, but the legends and myths and weird mythology of Northern Europe, as well as its ocean, coast, and mountain scenery, had a strange fascination to his mind, and he was entirely familiar with them all. Very few men have exercised so great and important an influence on American literature as Mr. Marsh; and when we add to his character as an author what he has accomplished in the field of diplomacy, we may safely class him with the very best and most useful public men of his time. As minister to Turkey and Greece, to which posts he was appointed by Presidents Taylor and Fillmore, and to Italy, he served his country with rare success for more than twenty-four years, rendering essential service to the cause of religious toleration in the Turkish Empire.

One of the best appointments made by President Lincoln was that of Mr. Marsh as minister to Italy, in 1861. When he came to Washington to receive his credentials, I met him frequently, and was honored by receiving again from him much valuable literary advice. Many hints that he gave me about my “Dictionary of Congress” were especially important. I very well remember his advice in regard to style in writing, to the effect that I should study, without ceasing, the books on English synonymes by Crabb, Blair, Whately, Mackenzie, and others; and, if it had been published at the time, he might have added the great work on the English Language by himself. His kind interest in my welfare continued without ceasing, and on the day preceding his final departure from Washington he wrote of his own accord an earnest letter to the Secretary of State, William H. Seward, recommending my appointment as librarian of the Department of State.

At the time of his death, which occurred at Vallambrosa, Rome, on the 24th of July, 1882, he was in the eighty-second year of his age, having been born in Woodstock, Vt., March 15, 1801. He graduated at Dartmouth College in 1820; adopted the profession of law, but paid more attention to books than to the practice of his profession, which he might have made lucrative; entered the State Legislature in 1825, and Congress, as a representative, in 1842; first went abroad as minister to Turkey in 1849; went to Greece on a special mission in 1852; and represented the United States as a diplomat for a longer period—continuously—than any other man, not excepting Benjamin Franklin; and while the heroic State of Vermont may well be proud of such names as Allen, Bradley, Collamer, Everett, Foot, Hall, Lyon, Phelps, and Edmunds, the name of Marsh will do more to perpetuate her literary fame than those of all her other children combined.

My correspondence with Mr. Marsh was quite extensive, and from the many letters in my possession I submit the following, which contains a description of his Scandinavian library; and although it may not interest the average reader, as a catalogue written out at one heat, from memory, it is to my mind a most remarkable production:—

With regard to the final disposition of his library and proof engravings, a part of them was secured by the Smithsonian Institution, at the time he went to Europe to reside, but the largest and most valuable part, I believe, was retained in his possession.

The allusion to Danville, in the foregoing letter, recalls to my mind one of the most delightful mountain trips of my long experience in such matters. It was inaugurated by Mr. Marsh himself, who was accompanied by his wife and her sister, and also by Senator S. S. Phelps, and the grateful deponent. With all his natural sedateness, Mr. Marsh was the life of the party, but the famous senatorial orator said many things which were enjoyable in the extreme. The scenery that we passed through, made up of views along the Connecticut valley, and of the Green and White Mountains, was very beautiful, and every locality of special interest, like Danville itself, was made doubly interesting by some historical fact or story or personal incident related by Mr. Marsh. Everything in nature attracted his attention,—hills, rivers, trees, wayside plants and flowers, the birds, and even the butterflies that flitted in the sunbeams; and when not talking after the manner of an artist, his comments were those of a philosopher. When, as was sometimes the case, the senator made an allusion to public men and affairs, he would expatiate upon the doings of Congress; and when he mentioned certain prominent names, I wondered, in my boyish simplicity, whether Senator Phelps was an average specimen of the great men of America, not knowing that very few of them were his equal in intellect and character; and it now seems to me like a dream that it should have been my fate, in process of time, to “take the lives” of at least five thousand of those wonderful congressmen, before the class had degenerated to what we see it in these demagogue days.

In the way of art criticism, the following letter, with its amusing parentheses, may be deemed interesting, and is certainly instructive:—

In the following letter he continues his criticisms on art:—

Having sent a copy, soon after its appearance, of Mr. Marsh’s book on the “Camel,” to the London “Athenæum,” and the review which followed having been sent by me to the author, he returned the following reply:—

When, in 1858, I was preparing for publication the first edition of my “Dictionary of Congress,” I appealed to Mr. Marsh for some facts about certain Vermont men, and he sent me the following reply:—

As a man, a citizen, and a husband, aside from his intellectual acquirements, Mr. Marsh was all that could be desired. He was liberal with his means, too much of a nobleman to be narrow-minded and selfish, and always ready to do his utmost to promote the welfare of his fellow-men. When he took an interest in politics, it was as a statesman, and the hem of his garment was never stained by contact with the debasing demagogism of the times; and, although he had no children, he was thrice blessed in the possession of a most noble wife. Her maiden name was Caroline Crane, and she was his faithful helpmate for forty-four years. That she was capable of sympathizing with him in his intellectual pursuits is abundantly proven by the fact that she translated a novel from the German, called “The Hallig,” which was successful, and also published a volume of poems. For many years her health was exceedingly delicate, and I very well remember that, on a certain day prior to their leaving Washington for Europe, she was brought by her husband, in his arms, into the drawing-room; and it was chiefly owing to his long-continued and tender care that her subsequent life was comfortable and happy. During her long residence in Italy, she spent very much of her time and thoughts and money in the cause of charity, and often administered to the needy by proxy, when too ill to leave her own bed.

Having noticed that some curious errors have crept into the papers in regard to the books published by Mr. Marsh, I submit a list of them which I presume will be found accurate: His Icelandic grammar was printed in 1838, but never published; “The Camel, etc.,” appeared in 1856; “Lectures on the English Language” and “Wedgwood’s Etymology, Annotated,” in 1861; “Origin and History of the English Language,” 1862; “Man and Nature,” 1864; and it was this last production which the author amplified and published, in 1874, under the title of “The Earth as Modified by Human Actions,” and which was translated into Italian. But the reviews, essays, and speeches which were published in pamphlet form would make many additional volumes; and there are reasons for believing that other valuable productions from his pen will hereafter be given to the world. A course of lectures that he delivered before the post-graduates of Columbia College have been commented upon as unequalled by any others ever delivered in this country, and yet he used to say that his audiences on those occasions were almost invisible,—a sad commentary on the intellectual tastes of our people.

Among the many warm personal friends of Mr. Marsh, there was not one who remained more devoted than Senator George F. Edmunds. It was partly through his influence, undoubtedly, that the diplomatic scholar was permitted to spend so many years in foreign countries. And thereby hangs this little story: As Mr. Marsh was not a political partisan, but known to have a contempt for all demagogues, repeated efforts were made to have him recalled, but his faithful senatorial friend always squelched the unworthy efforts. This feeling of animosity, it is said, at one time permeated the Department of State. In one of his despatches from Italy the minister thought proper to append in cipher his very decided and unfavorable opinions in regard to the Italian government, which were, of course, intended to be confidential; but when this despatch made its appearance in the regular volume of published correspondence, it was found that the cipher despatch alluded to had been translated and published. From every point of view this conduct was improper; but the motive at the bottom of the whole business (and selfish motives are very common in Washington) was, that the Italian government would be angry and naturally insist upon the recall of Mr. Marsh; the excuse given for this improper publication having been that it was a mistake. It was a mistake, and of the sort allied to a crime. In the mean time, however, Mr. Marsh continued to perform his diplomatic duties without fear or favor, and after the manner of a true man.

When I recall the career of this eminent scholar, I am impressed with the harmony of his life as well as of its ending. He left college fired with a desire to acquire knowledge from the study both of books and nature, and, whether following the profession of law, or serving his country as a statesman or diplomat, he never varied from his original purpose. He first saw the light in one of the beautiful valleys of Vermont, and he died in an equally beautiful valley among the Apennines, almost within the shadow of the most ancient seats of learning. In his early prime, his mind revelled among the historical records and wild scenery of Scandinavia; it was then his privilege to travel extensively through the countries bordering on the Mediterranean; and when the shadows of his life were lengthening, Providence gave him a pleasant home under Italian skies, where he died, and where his grave is certain to be visited with love and veneration by thousands of his countrymen in future years.

———

I first became acquainted with this celebrated poet and noble gentleman in the year 1838, and the affection I felt for his writings as a boy has ever remained unchanged. Many of his poems are so pure and true to nature, that the old and young, and especially the thoughtful in every sphere of life, have acquired a regard for them allied to their love of flowers and bright skies, the woods and mountains, and the various charms which characterize the seasons of the year. But he also attained the highest rank as a writer of prose, whether giving his impressions as a tourist, delivering addresses on subjects connected with literature and art, or commenting upon the politics of the day, in the journal which he conducted, with unsurpassed judgment and ability. The fact that he should have been the editor of a single newspaper, the Evening Post, for about half a century, is unparalleled in the history of journalism in this country, excepting in the case of Joseph Gales and the National Intelligencer; and when we remember that, during all this period, his sincerity of purpose in advocating his political opinions, and his integrity, were never questioned, it is not to be wondered at that his name should have become a household word throughout his native land. And as to his well-known love for the fine arts, it was only on a par with the affection which the artists of the country always entertained for him as one of their best friends.

Soon after the appearance, early in 1846, of a work called “Altowan,” written by an Englishman and edited by J. Watson Webb, I happened to be in the office of the Evening Post when the book came up for discussion. I hinted to the editor that the work and the anonymous author deserved a lashing, and after giving my reasons, with which he was impressed, he asked me to take the work in hand, for his journal. I told him I should be too severe, and he would not print my opinions, but he replied that he would publish every word. I thanked him for the compliment; reviewed the book, forthwith, as it deserved; and, whatever may have been the cause, it was never heard of any more. Indeed there never was a time, since its foundation, when the Evening Post was not a power in the land. From that time forward I had a free passport to its columns; and during my residence in New York I not only enjoyed the privilege of consulting Mr. Bryant on matters literary and artistic, but received from him many favors, and was afterwards an occasional contributor to his journal.

In the summer of 1846 I met Mr. Bryant at the Sault St. Marie, on my return from a trip to the head-waters of the Mississippi River, and in one of his letters to the Post he honored me with this notice:—

When the “Letters of a Traveller” were published in book form, in 1851, the foregoing paragraph was omitted. I was surprised to notice this, but, suspecting the cause, wrote to Mr. Bryant on the subject. He frankly told me, in a kind letter, that discredit had been thrown upon my story, in his mind, by a savage assault upon me printed in the “North American Review”; but, with my explanation before him, he regretted that he had manifested a want of confidence in my narrative. On seeing it announced in 1869 that a new edition of the “Letters of a Traveller” was about to appear, I wrote again to Mr. Bryant, and after reminding him of the old trouble, took the pains to prove to him, by reference to certain geological reports, that, in the main, my statements about the Cascades on the river St. Louis were true. To that letter I received a friendly reply, and when the new edition of the book came out the excluded paragraph was restored to its proper place, and my position was thus fully vindicated. And this is only another instance of that integrity of purpose which always characterized the conduct of the distinguished poet and journalist, in his dealings with his fellow-men.

As to the attack in the “Review,” it was written to order by Francis Bowen, of moral philosophy fame, and paid for by the “American Fur Company,” for the sole reason that I had deemed it my duty to expose some of the outrageous dealings of that company with the Indians of the Northwest.

Long before the days of photography, or before it had become common for artists to make elaborate sketches of American scenery, I used to exhibit my portfolios to Mr. Bryant, and my unpretending productions seemed to afford him pleasure. In my boyish ambition, and while yet a Pearl Street clerk, I painted a small picture in illustration of one of his own poems, and presented it to him, when he sent me the following note, which ought to have encouraged me to become an artist by profession:—

The other letters which it was my privilege to receive from Mr. Bryant were all in keeping with the above, and here is one in which he alludes to the omission in the first edition of his “Letters of a Traveller.”

During the twenty-eight years between 1843 and 1871 my time was occupied in writing for the press, in looking after the custody of books or in writing them, and in painting an occasional picture for my amusement; and when, in the latter year, William W. Corcoran asked me if I would like to become the director of the Corcoran Gallery of Art, and told me to place credentials before the trustees of that institution, giving me reason to believe by this voluntary mention of the subject that he would use his personal influence in my behalf, I wished him to be fortified with a few testimonials, and I mentioned the matter to several prominent friends, including Mr. Bryant, and his letter to the trustees was as follows:—

In Mr. Bryant the reader will see a specimen of that class of friends who have been among the leading comforts of my life, and I need not the advice of Shakespeare, to “grapple them to my soul with hooks of steel”; nor is there any danger of my ever mentioning their names without a feeling of gratitude. By way of showing what my feelings towards Mr. Bryant were, twenty years prior to the date of the preceding letter, I submit the following which appeared as the Dedication of my book entitled “Records of a Tourist,” first published in 1850:—

When, in the early part of 1874, it was announced that Mr. Bryant would superintend the publication of a new “History of the United States,” as he had done the work entitled “Picturesque America,” I sent him two or three volumes of my own, which I thought might be of use to him, and I took occasion to speak of the treatment which I had received in the publication last named, in which my account of the French Broad River had been printed without credit, and this was his reply:—

A few months after the above date (in the month of June) I had occasion to write a letter to the distinguished poet, in which I informed him that my Japanese ward, Ume Tsuda, then a child of less than ten years, had been winning many honors, at the private school which she attended; that she was fond of poetry and had recited before a large audience the poem of the “White-footed Deer,” in a most effective manner and without making a single mistake, and that she permitted me to send her card picture to the great man she had learned to love. To that letter I received the following beautiful reply:—

Soon after Mr. Bryant had attained his eightieth year, and when thousands of people were manifesting their regard for him in a variety of ways, I sent him, with a small painting of my own, a letter which contained this paragraph:—

A reply to my letter was soon returned; and while the penmanship was as careful and beautiful as that which came from the same hand half a century before, the sentiment was as follows:—

The printed tributes of regard which heralded Mr. Bryant’s eightieth birthday were very numerous and eloquent, but among them all there was not one which covered the whole ground more completely in few words, than the following from the New York Observer, written, I presume, by my old friend, Dr. Prime:—

In a note addressed to Mr. Bryant, in 1876, I mentioned the fact that I had seen a poem in a school book, attributed to him, on the subject of “Immortality,” and had been greatly puzzled about it, as I thought it could not have come from his pen. In his reply he wrote as follows:—

In the death of Mr. Bryant our country lost one of its purest and most gifted citizens; the literary world, one of its best poets; and the press, one of its brightest and most influential ornaments. As if in answer to one of his poetic prayers, he died in the month of “flowery June”; the tributes to his memory, which were published immediately after his departure, were quite unparalleled in their number, their affectionate spirit and high character; and I can now fancy that all the characters in Leutze’s exquisite illustration of “The Catterskill Falls,” as they mournfully sweep in circles around their moonlit and icy home, are forever singing the praises of the poet who called them into being. The fact that, as “time and chance determined,” he was in the habit of attending both the Unitarian and Presbyterian churches, is to my mind only an evidence of his sincerity and rare liberality as a true Christian, and yet it is one which has led some people to doubt his orthodoxy. On that point I have only this to say, that I want no better evidence of his soundness on the subject of religion than what is found in his two poems entitled “He hath put all Things under His Feet,” and “Receive Thy Light,” and in the “Prayer” which he and his betrothed wife uttered together in 1821, which was so touchingly recalled by the poem in memory of his wife found among his papers after his own death. But more important than all was the Preface he wrote for the work entitled “The Religious Life,” by his friend Joseph Alden, the beauty and value of which cannot be overrated; and yet in the authorized “Biography of the Poet” there is not one allusion to this priceless bit of autobiography, nor to the clergyman in Roslyn, who was the friend and pastor of Mr. Bryant. Indeed, taking Mr. Bryant’s writings as a whole, in connection with the religious manifestoes of his old age, his purpose would seem to have been, not only to purify the human heart, but to make his fellow-beings happy, both in this world and that beyond the grave. With the materials that were placed in the hands of Parke Godwin, it would have been impossible for him to make an uninteresting book, but it was unfortunate that he should have proven himself in this, as in his preceding publications, to be without the more delicate sympathies of the human heart, and incapable of being just when discussing the religious position of the man he was anxious to honor.

———

I have never been a politician, but in 1844 I had a terrible attack of the Whig fever in the city of New York; it lasted for perhaps six weeks, and then it was that I cast my first and only vote in a Presidential election, and, of course, my ideal was Henry Clay. My father and grandfather had both been attached to him as personal friends, and I did not then, and never wished to be, less devoted than they were. I first saw Mr. Clay in New York in 1835, on the occasion of one of his visits to that city, and I remember that there was not much dignity in the manner in which the enthusiastic people literally carried him over their heads from Broadway into the Astor House. I afterwards heard him speak in the Senate, visited him frequently at his hotel in Washington, and at the time of his last sickness had the pleasure of hearing Mr. Webster, at his own table, speak of his great rival in these terms:—

If in the case of Mr. Clay I cannot recall any incident within my personal knowledge illustrative of his character, it so happens, however, that I can lay before the reader a few of his letters. The first in the order of date, and addressed to my father, in 1817, will explain itself, and is as follows:—

A letter which Mr. Clay wrote to my grandfather in 1820, who as a senator had voted for the admission of Missouri as a State, is also in my possession. Mr. Clay was at that time in Kentucky, and his correspondent in Washington, and the object of the letter was to introduce the two newly elected senators from the new State of Missouri, David Barton and Thomas H. Benton, and the letter was as follows:—

When in 1850 I first met Mr. Benton in Washington, he forthwith began to talk in very pleasant terms about my grandfather, telling me that he remembered his knee-breeches and powdered hair; that he was an admirable horseman, and daily took an airing in the saddle. With regard to Mr. Benton himself, he had a similar passion for a fine horse; and while I do not class him with such men as Mr. Clay, he had many of the characteristics of a grand old Roman senator, and was a distinguished honor to his country. His place of residence in Washington I remember as the perfection of a home. Nor do I wonder at this when I recollect that, according to a promise he made to his mother when a mere boy, he never participated in a game of chance, nor indulged in the use of tobacco and spirituous beverages. That he was, however, sometimes a little intemperate is proven by the public records. When Mr. Clay wrote the above letter of introduction, little did he imagine that thirty years afterward he would be falsely charged by Mr. Benton with writing a calumnious letter; and that in repelling the charge on the floor of the Senate, he would be forced to use the language which caused him, for the only time in his life, to be called to order by the President of the Senate.

With regard to the subjoined letters addressed to myself, I print them with this one remark, that at the time they were received, excepting one, I was connected with the New York Daily Express.

Among the volumes in my library upon which I place a special value is one containing the private correspondence of Mr. Clay, presented to me by William W. Seaton, and the mention of his name recalls an interesting incident which occurred at his own table. During the period when William Gaston and Henry Clay were both in Congress, they had an oratorical contest, which was not satisfactory to the latter, and resulted in a prolonged alienation between the two statesmen. Forty years after the aforesaid debate these two men met at the table of Mr. Seaton. At first, they were both disposed to be very dignified towards each other, and the moment Mr. Seaton observed this, he remembered the long-forgotten difficulty between the champions of North Carolina and Kentucky, and at once propounded this sentiment, “Friendship in marble, enmities in dust”; and from that hour Gaston and Clay were warm friends until they were parted by death.

Another incident in the life of Henry Clay, which came to my knowledge from the Rev. Dr. J. T. Wheat, a man himself of very superior abilities, it seems to be my duty to preserve in this place. It was long ago, and the reverend gentleman just named had visited Washington, his native city, on a begging expedition in behalf of a church in Ohio, and among his letters of introduction was one to Mr. Clay. On visiting the reception-room at the Senate, Mr. Wheat sent his card to the senator, and after he had delivered the letter he was told by Mr. Clay that he was about to participate in a debate, and that he would be very happy if Mr. Wheat would call at his house in the evening and take tea with his family, when they would discuss the pending business. The invitation was accepted, and the result, to use Mr. Wheat’s own language, was as follows:—

Mr. Wheat not only enjoyed his cup of tea, and obtained a handsome donation from his host, but before leaving the house heard one of the children make the remark, “We do not have a chance to read our Sunday-school books, because grandpa is always taking them away from us for his own pleasure.”

That Henry Clay was a great man—as orator, statesman, and patriot—is the universal tribute of his countrymen; but that there was much in his character calculated to win the affection of those who knew him, is conclusively proven by the fact, that, among the latest words uttered by him, when dying, were these, “My mother, my dear wife,” showing that, while passing through the dark valley, his heart was cheered by the memory of those whom he had tenderly loved, and were awaiting him in the better land. As I recall the splendid tributes that he paid to religion, and how his two great rivals, Calhoun and Webster, uttered similar sentiments, my thoughts naturally revert to the crowning neglect of Macaulay in that particular, and I feel, in a far higher sense than Shakespeare intended, “how sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is, to have a thankless child.” The great essayist may have been a lover of children, but it often seemed as if he failed to recognize a Father in the Creator of the world.

———

My intercourse with this eminent man was one of the many pleasant results of my connection with Daniel Webster as his private secretary. That he honored me with his confidence and friendship is a fact which I fully appreciated, and his kindness to me is proven by the following selection from his correspondence.

In view of the foregoing, and of the letter from Mr. Webster to Mr. Everett, about to follow, a brief statement must here be made. The engraving alluded to did not make its appearance in Mr. Webster’s works, but in the place of it the view of a farm-house adjoining the birthplace. The genuine picture was published in the “Private Life,” and also in Putnam’s “Homes of American Statesmen”; and when the original drawing was made, Mr. Webster sat by the side of the author and sanctioned it on the spot. Shortly afterward the house was demolished. When the farm-house view made its appearance, Mr. Webster pronounced it a “miserable mistake.”

Mr. Webster to Mr. Everett.

The Enclosure.

The above was intended for the first edition of the “Private Life,” but was omitted out of regard for the opinion which Mr. Everett subsequently expressed, that “it would be out of taste” for him to permit its publication at that time. There were other reasons also, which soon afterward transpired, calculated to keep back from the printer certain other letters, already in the possession of the author; and the two following letters from Mr. Everett, touching their disposition, are not without interest:

A letter which the writer happens to have in his possession, written by Mr. Everett to Mr. Webster, gives such a pleasing insight into the editorial labors of the former, that no apology is needed for preserving it in this place:—

With regard to the great mass of letters addressed by Mr. Webster to Mr. Everett, it may here be stated that the largest proportion of them are to be found in the “Private Correspondence” of the former, published in 1857. And now, by way of showing how Mr. Everett never omitted to do a kind action when in his power, and more especially when it was in any way connected with Mr. Webster, the following note is appended. It should be stated, by way of explanation, that when Mr. Everett was Secretary of State the writer had charge of the Copyright Bureau in that department; that there was a messenger in the same department who had been devotedly attached to Mr. Webster; that he was eminently qualified to perform the duties of a copying clerk, and was exceedingly anxious for promotion; and when the writer set forth these facts in a note to Mr. Everett, in connection with an existing vacancy, the following was his reply:—

The letter which follows will speak for itself:—

When the collected writings, mentioned above, were published, I sent Mr. Everett a copy, and he returned the following:—

His opinion of my “Dictionary of Congress,” a copy of which I sent him in March, 1859, was as follows: “I am much obliged to you for the present of a copy of this valuable publication. It must prove an extremely convenient and useful book of reference. You will be pleased to accept my thanks for your friendly notice of myself.”

I have many other letters from Mr. Everett, but they do not come within the limits of my present plan.

———

Among those who, by their profession and genius, have exerted an extensive and a happy influence on the literature of the United States, and especially the weekly press, Park Benjamin must always be numbered. His family came originally from Wales, and was of the highest respectability. His father, whose name he inherited, was a leading merchant in Demerara, British Guiana; but as a branch of his house was located in New England, he was wont to spend much of his time in Boston or New Haven; and it was while making a voyage to South America, in one of his own ships, that he was lost at sea, no tidings having ever been heard from the vessel or her princely owner. His mother, while residing in Boston, and after a prolonged widowhood, became the second wife of the Hon. James Lanman, and settled in Norwich, Conn., where, while a widow for the second time, she died from the effects of her clothes taking fire when she was alone in her chamber. Park had one brother younger than himself, and possessing rare accomplishments, who, in the enjoyment of a handsome patrimony, spent the most of his life in Europe, and died in Italy. He left behind him two sisters, one of whom lost her husband, a gentleman of superior culture and many virtues, named Louis Stackpole, by a railway accident; while the other sister became the wife of the eminent historian, John L. Motley.

The birthplace of Park Benjamin was Demerara, and the year of his birth, 1809; and although he only spent his childhood in Guiana, he brought away to New England one recollection which followed him to the grave. The physician who had him in charge, while yet a babe, subjected him to an injudicious and baneful process of bathing, thereby bringing upon him a permanent lameness. When quite young, that is, in 1825, he entered Harvard University, but on account of his health was obliged to leave it before the close of his second year; but soon regaining it, he entered Washington College at Hartford, and after graduating with the highest honors in 1829, he went through a course of legal studies at Cambridge, and also at New Haven, and was admitted to the bar both in Connecticut and Massachusetts. Among his intimate associates while in college at Hartford was no less noted a personage than N. P. Willis, at that time a student at Yale College. These birds of a feather, on the score of genius, were quite intimate, but at a certain dinner party in New Haven a quarrel sprung up between them which resulted in a life-long alienation. An opinion had been expressed by Willis which Benjamin thought outrageous, and, as a lady was involved in the affair, the latter felt it to be his duty to destroy the matrimonial aspirations of the former, and so for a time the trouble seemed to have been forgotten by all the parties concerned. Many years afterwards, however, and while yet rankling under the supposed wrong which he had endured, Willis thought proper to revenge himself in a manner that would be likely to quiet his animosity forever. He did this by writing and printing a dramatic poem entitled “Don Pedro and his Two Sisters,” in which he so far forgot himself as to ridicule the lameness of his old enemy, and by that act, in my opinion, he greatly injured his own fair fame. Should any of those who have since then suffered from the critical pen of Park Benjamin make the retort that he was justly served by Willis, they ought to remember that while it is excusable in a critic to condemn a stupid or unworthy book, it is against the laws of nature and of civilized society for any one to make sport of the physical misfortunes of a fellow-man.

Prompted by his tastes, and perhaps by his inability to move about like other men, Mr. Benjamin early determined to devote himself to literary pursuits, not so much for the purpose of making money, for he inherited a handsome fortune, but for his own personal amusement. In 1835 he purchased the New England Magazine of its able and distinguished founder, Joseph T. Buckingham, and during the closing year of its existence, edited it with discretion and ability. It was at that time that he formed the acquaintance of such men as Charles Sprague, Richard H. Dana, Henry W. Longfellow, and Oliver Wendell Holmes, and I happen to know that all these gifted poets always commanded his veneration and esteem. The touching lyrics of the first, he knew by heart; the “Buccaneer” was his particular friend; the “Voices of the Night” sank deeply into his soul, and he had a yearning affection for “The Last Leaf,” and was wont to shout like a wild boy as “The Old Ironsides” passed across his vision.

In 1836 the New England Magazine was joined to the American Monthly Magazine, published in New York, of which periodical he was the chief editor for two years, although receiving valuable aid from its preceding editor, Charles F. Hoffman. He also acted for a time as reader for the house of Dearborn & Co. From that time he became a resident of New York, and continued to make his home there during nearly all the remainder of his life. In 1838 he joined Horace Greeley in the editorship of the New Yorker, a weekly journal devoted to politics and literature. They remained together only about two years, when the paper, though ably conducted, died for the want of profitable support, and Mr. Greeley turned his mind upon the Daily Tribune, and Mr. Benjamin, with the old publisher of the New Yorker to help him,—Mr. J. Winchester,—proceeded to establish a mammoth weekly called The New World. This journal he conducted for five years with an enterprise, a gusto, and an ability which greatly extended his reputation as an editor, and gave the American people some new ideas in regard to periodical literature. He gathered about himself a host of the best writers of the day, paid them handsomely, and, for the time being, ruled the town as its “guide, counsellor, and friend” in all matters appertaining to popular literature. Among those whose productions he published were such men as John O. and Epes Sargent, James Aldrich, Wm. M. Evarts, H. C. Deming, Edgar A. Poe, H. W. Herbert, Rufus W. Griswold, John Neal, I. D. Hammond, W. A. Duer, E. S. Gould, Charles Eames, H. W. Longfellow, Oliver W. Holmes, and many others. He also originated the plan of republishing in cheap form the most popular books issued in England, and thereby made a decided inroad for a time upon the book-publishing business of several leading firms. The idea of being in constant communication with the great reading multitude throughout the land, instead of a select literary public, as had hitherto been his fortune, haunted him for a time like a passion. He carried his enterprise so far as to issue an edition of the valuable but almost forgotten “Chronicles of Froissart,” and employed the ablest writers he could command to supply him with early translations of Eugene Sue and other popular French authors. The five years during which he wielded the sceptre of the World were the busiest of his life. He was a bachelor at the time, and lived in handsome style. When at his office he worked without ceasing, and very hard, but the moment he emancipated himself from business, off he started in his gig to enjoy fresh air and amuse himself with the novelties of the town. He was fond of a handsome horse, and was expert in driving; he also loved a good dog, and always had one for a companion. He knew everybody, and was fond of entertaining his friends, and his little dinner parties were delightful in the extreme. His house was filled with books and pictures, and all the fresh publications of the world were constantly deposited in his home library, as if by magic. He was an admirable reader, and talked magnificently; and when in the mood, after a repast that could not well be excelled, and he happened to have some special friends at table, one of whom was the rising lawyer, William M. Evarts, he would wheel his chair into his favorite position and pour forth a flood of wit and poetry, selected and original, which always seemed to be inexhaustible, and not likely ever to be forgotten by those who listened to him. On one occasion that I remember—a Sunday evening—while he was cutting the leaves of a new edition of Coleridge’s poems, three gentlemen called in, merely to make a momentary visit. One of them was a clergyman, and engaged to preach a sermon at St. Paul’s in about an hour; another was a lawyer who had promised to take a lady to hear the preacher; and the other was a young gentleman who had a special engagement with his lady-love. Not one of them, it so happened, was familiar with “The Ancient Mariner,” and when Mr. Benjamin found this out by accident, he directed his visitors to be quiet, and said that he would read it to them. They remonstrated and pleaded their several excuses, but his “glittering eye” fixed them in their seats, and they were silent. He read with a power that was as marvellous as the poem itself; he “had his will,” and the guests all listened, oblivious of everything but the weird form of “The Ancient Mariner.” Of course the programme at St. Paul’s was changed, and a dozen years thereafter the aforesaid clergyman was wont to speak of Mr. Benjamin as “that rascally Park.”

With the winding up of the New World terminated the only really successful business career which he ever experienced. Those who knew him best were astonished that he had continued in it for even five years. He subsequently made one or two other ventures in the periodical line, but was not successful. His last effort was made in Baltimore. Then it was that he had the good sense to take unto himself a wife, and from that time until his death he occupied his time in a quiet manner, with the pleasures of literature, with the education of his children (all of whom inherited a goodly portion of his rare talents), and with the congenial employment of delivering an occasional lecture or poem. He died at his residence in New York, Sept. 12, 1864.

As a man he commanded the respect of all who knew him. Though impulsive and somewhat domineering in his manners, he delighted in doing good with kind words and with his purse. He respected religious men, but despised the hypocrite and pretender. He was, indeed, quite popular with the clergy; and once, when Henry Ward Beecher asked him why he did not come and hear him preach, he replied, “I do not visit places of amusement on Sunday.” As a scholar his acquirements were very extensive, but he was too impulsive by nature to make the best use of them. As a critic he was disposed to be severe; he did not always spare even his friends when an opportunity offered to say a smart thing at their expense; and when he thought an author really unworthy, he took pleasure in covering him with ridicule.

In all this there was no real malice, for it resulted chiefly from a love of fun. In the epigrammatic style of his prose, he resembled William Hazlitt. That he was a decided wit was universally conceded by his friends and acquaintance; and as a public speaker, whether delivering an ordinary lecture, or reciting one of his satirical poems, he was sometimes exceedingly eloquent. His personal appearance, when seated, was imposing. His head was large, eyes of a light hazel, and his bust massive; but his lameness was of such a character as to make the use of two crutches constantly necessary. He had a ringing but musical voice, and when he felt well, and was on the “high horse” of excitement, he used it very much after the manner of a stalwart mariner in a gale of wind, and oftentimes to the great amusement of his friends. He died after a brief illness, of an inflammatory disease, deeply lamented by a large circle of personal and literary friends.

The ruling traits of Mr. Benjamin’s character are to be found in his poetry. While it may be true that a greater part of his critical writings were thrown off upon compulsion, and in obedience to the printer’s cry for “copy,” his poetry was generally the offspring of his heart. No collection of his poetical writings was ever made by himself, and hitherto they have been enjoyed by those only who had the opportunity to consult the files of the New England Magazine, the American Monthly, the Knickerbocker, the Democratic Review, the New Yorker, the New World, the Southern Literary Messenger, and also several leading daily journals of the day. It is true, that R. W. Griswold, in his compilation of “American Poetry,” gives us about twenty of his pieces, but they do not begin to do him justice.

A poem entitled “The Meditation of Nature,” which he delivered before the Alumni of Washington College, in 1832, stamped him from the start as a man of genius and a poet. His next elaborate poem was a satire on the subject of “Poetry,” which he delivered before the Mercantile Library, of New York, in 1842, which was received with great applause, and had an extensive circulation in pamphlet form. In 1845 he appeared before a Boston audience with a poem on “Infatuation.” This was also a satire, and an improvement, perhaps, on his previous effort in the same style.

But the lyrical writings of Park Benjamin occupy a higher ground than his satires, and they are, at the same time, much more extensive. It is through them, moreover, that we gain the best insight into his character. The sentiment of love inspired many of his shorter poems, but, in the great majority of his effusions, he could not help giving expression to a love which embraced the whole of human kind. Although it was not his fortune to see much of the ocean, in his maturity, the fact that he had voyaged on the Atlantic when a child inspired him with a love of the sea, and it made him happy to sing of the “Nautilus,” the “Stormy Petrel,” and the “Mariners,” whose homes were on the deep. With wit and fun his nature was overflowing, and his satires give us a taste of his quality in those particulars; in his lyrics he seldom ventured beyond the bounds of quiet humor; but in efforts of this kind he was always happy. When the Rebellion of 1861 broke out, his sympathies flew at once to the Union cause, and some of his poems, bearing upon the war, are full of spirit and nobly patriotic. But, after all, he was most at home when dealing with the beautiful in nature, and especially with the holier emotions of the heart. While I think that he did well in all that he wrote, and much better than many of his competitors, in some particulars I do not hesitate to say that he excelled all his American rivals as a writer of sonnets. He had a special fondness for this peculiar branch of the poetic art, and was never more happy than when rolling out, in his winning and flexible tones, to willing auditors, some of the masterly sonnets of Shakespeare or Milton, Sydney, Bowles, or Wordsworth. In what he attempted to do he generally succeeded. He wielded the critic’s pen for the public weal, and accomplished much good undoubtedly, but when his efforts in that line are all forgotten, his poetry will have found a permanent resting-place in the minds and hearts of all those who can appreciate the productions of true genius. He left a son bearing his own name, who seems to have inherited much of his father’s literary ability.

Of the many letters sent to me by Mr. Benjamin, I submit only the following, the first containing an allusion to my connection with the Cincinnati Chronicle, and when he was conducting The American Continent:—

There is, in Professor Longfellow’s “Outre Mer,” an affecting incident, beautifully told, of the death of a young Irishman, who had come to Italy to study at the Jesuit College in Rome, and had taken the orders of a Capuchin friar. The original draft of a poem written by Mr. Benjamin on this subject, entitled “The Capuchin Friar,” was presented to me, and I print it with great pleasure.

While dying, the Friar knew of his situation, but would not give up the hope of reaching his own home before his decease. He spoke of his return to his native land with childish delight. This hope had not deserted him. It seemed never to have entered his mind that even this consolation would be denied him, and that death would thwart even these fond anticipations. “I shall soon be well enough,” said he.

Park Benjamin.

Norwich, Aug. 14, 1837.

———

To use the language of Wordsworth in regard to another, the soul of Horace Greeley “was like a star, and dwelt apart,” but his star passed into a cloud, and the temporary eclipse saddened the entire nation which his life had honored. I first became acquainted with him when he was publishing the New Yorker and before he had started the Tribune, for both of which journals I wrote some of my first newspaper paragraphs. I used to meet him at the house of my kinsman, Park Benjamin, and the impressions that I then received of his high character and rare benevolence, from personal observation, steadily followed me through life down to the time of his lamented death. I never agreed with him in his religious views and all his various schemes of reform and benevolence, nor could I always agree with him in politics; but, as a man of mind and of the strictest honor, he commanded my admiration, and I loved him as a friend.

His first letter to me was written in 1846, and the last in 1872; and it was in the former year that he recommended me in a most flattering manner for the librarianship of the Mercantile Library in New York. In 1863, after my friend, Emerson Etheridge, had written a political letter which attracted much attention, Mr. Greeley reviewed it in severe terms, and I was induced to defend the motives of my friend, if not his argument. To that letter he sent me the following reply, which shows with what fearlessness and earnestness he was always ready to battle for what he considered right:—

On two occasions I took the liberty of consulting Mr. Greeley in regard to my “Dictionary of Congress,” and the two following letters were the result:—

In a friendly letter which I addressed to Mr. Greeley, about the time of his nomination for the Presidency, I alluded to the old times in New York—about one third of a century before—when we first became acquainted, and in view of his position and popularity, I made the remark that “the people knew an honest man when they saw him,” and this was Mr. Greeley’s reply:—

A few weeks after Mr. Greeley’s nomination for the Presidency, one of his political supporters, who knew my friendship for him personally, but who also knew that I was nothing of a politician, asked me to give him a batch of reasons why he should be elected, and this was my reply:—

In the way of coincidences the following are a little curious: It was Mr. Greeley who virtually nominated Emerson Etheridge for the position of clerk of the House of Representatives; it was Mr. Etheridge who, at the request of fifty congressmen, appointed me librarian of the House of Representatives; and the man who succeeded me as librarian was Whitelaw Reid, who subsequently became the editor of the Tribune.

———

The American historian whose library was for many years to the bookworm the sunniest spot in Washington was born in New Jersey, Nov. 26, 1790. When a child he was removed to New York City, where he acquired the art of a printer, and practised it until his twenty-fifth year. While yet an apprentice, his love for books was so strong that all his weekly earnings were regularly expended at the book auctions of Robert McMenome, who kept a shop on Water Street, near the Tontine coffee-house, and who, in the kindness of his heart, was wont to knock down a book to his youthful patron, when he knew that the boy had expended his last penny. When the second edition of “Knickerbocker’s History of New York” was printed, young Force was foreman of the office where the work was done. One morning, while reading a lot of proofs before sending them to Mr. Irving, he came to the list of old Dutch names, and by way of a joke, he added some half-dozen other authentic names, that the author had probably forgotten or never heard of; and the proofs were returned to the office by Mr. Irving with these words, “Very good, let them go in”; and they have all been retained in the subsequent editions of the work.

In 1815, Mr. Force removed to the city of Washington, with whose prosperity, and the history of the general government, he was long and honorably identified. In 1820 he became the compiler as well as printer of the “Biennial Register,” commenced by act of Congress in 1816, and this work he continued to edit and print until 1828; for his services as compiler he received nothing, while the same work is now performed by a clerk in the Department of the Interior, who receives extra compensation. The term “Blue Book,” as applied to the “Biennial Register,” was not recognized until 1820, the new title having been suggested by Mr. Force, since which period the work has invariably been bound in blue leather. His idea was to have something different from the English books of similar character, which were bound in red, and called “Red Books”; and it is worthy of remark that, within the last twenty or thirty years, the English government has borrowed the American idea, and now publish what they call a “Blue Book.” At the time that he took charge of the “Register,” in 1820, Mr. Force began the publication, as editor, of a “National Calendar,” which was issued on the first day of every year, until 1836, and was pronounced by the best men of the country a work of great utility. In 1823 he also became the proprietor of a daily paper, called the National Journal, which he published and edited until 1830, the same having been the official paper during the administration of John Quincy Adams; from 1836 to 1840 he was mayor of Washington; and for many years he was the honored president of the National Institute, located in the metropolis. He was also for many years a leading officer of the district militia.

In 1836, prompted by a desire to extend the knowledge of American history, Mr. Force published, in four volumes, a series of “Tracts and other Papers” relating to the origin, settlement, and progress of the North American Colonies. The original material from which this work was compiled was widely scattered, very rare, and of intense interest to all those who take pleasure in tracing, step by step, the progress of the Colonies in population, wealth, and power, from the landing of the first white man to the establishment of a free and independent government; and the work has ever been considered an invaluable addition to our historic lore.

But the great work with which Mr. Force is identified is the publication known as “American Archives: a Documentary History of the English Colonies in North America,” from 1774 to the Declaration of Independence. The idea originated with him, was compiled by him, and published by him in conjunction with Matthew St. Clair Clarke, under the authority of Congress and at the expense of the general government. The act of Congress was passed in 1833, and the first volume of the work, which is a large folio, was printed in 1837; and, up to the present time, nine volumes have been published, at a cost of twenty thousand dollars per volume, or one hundred and eighty thousand dollars for the set thus far completed. In the prosecution of his labors the compiler began by making a personal examination of the public archives in the thirteen original States of the Union; and, in carrying out his great design, he spared no pains nor research nor money in obtaining such printed and original documents and such correspondence as would form a perfectly consecutive history of the vital period in our national life. What the compiler claimed for the work was strictly due, and it unfolds and develops the whole foundation of American principles, and exhibits to the world the most conclusive evidence that they were, without exception, grounded in strict right, based upon constitutional law, and upon the well-settled doctrines of the English government; the practical truth deducible from these premises being that, if such be the foundations, they must ever constitute the support of our institutions. When completed, according to the plan of the compiler, the “Archives” would make twenty volumes, and the material for the unpublished eleven volumes is all in the possession of his family, awaiting the further action of the government.

And this brings us to the consideration of Mr. Force’s library. It contained about fifty thousand titles, and was unquestionably the most valuable collection of books bearing upon American history in existence. It was arranged in seven rooms of an old, dingy brick building, adjoining the owner’s residence, in the central portion of Washington, and the few volumes which formed its nucleus were purchased more than fifty years ago. Excepting when visited by the friends of its proprietor, members of Congress addicted to historical pursuits, or literary pilgrims from abroad, its silence was only broken by the presence of an assortment of dogs and cats, which enjoyed the full range of the establishment, and whose characters seemed to have been influenced by the solemn wisdom of the tomes among which they lived. If you chanced to see a mouse gnawing at a volume three hundred years old, and worth fifty times its weight in gold, you had but to speak to one of the feline creatures, and it would rush to the rescue. If you happened to take up an old folio covered with the dust of years, and make a little too much fuss in trying to blow it off, perhaps one of the dogs would rub against your knee, as if to say, “Not too much of that, sir. We have respect in this place for everything that is old.” Nor were these nooks and corners without guardians which were beyond the reach of the cats and dogs. In every direction, almost, might be found happy colonies of spiders, and

did they spread their network of protection; and they not unfrequently frightened away, by their manœuvres, the more timid hunters of knowledge who trespassed on their domain. No catalogue of this vast collection was ever attempted, but the precise location of each particular volume was known to its fortunate proprietor, who was always willing to assist those who wished to obtain information, and approached him in a proper manner, but who naturally had not much patience with those who visited him out of mere curiosity. If De Maistre could make a delightful book about a “Journey Round his Room,” what a book could have been made out of a journey through this splendid library! In one obscure corner, for example, might be seen no less than fifty volumes of original manuscripts, with scores upon scores of intensely interesting letters from such men as Washington and the other patriots of the Revolution; all of which material was to be published for the first time in the future volumes of the “American Archives.” In another place were eleven volumes devoted to the correspondence of such a man as Paul Jones; as many more to the letters of John Fitch, of steamboat memory; and hundreds of odd volumes devoted to the correspondence of other men who have made their mark in the history of their country. While standing before one set of shelves, filled with thin volumes of every size and shape, but decked out in substantial bindings, we might have taken one at random, and find it to be “Carvjal’s Oration,” containing the first printed notice of the discovery of America by Columbus to be found in any language, and printed in 1493. If one had a fancy for Arctic literature, one might have found there everything almost that was ever published in regard to the northern regions; and it is worthy of note that there was not a man in the country better posted than Mr. Force in this particular department of knowledge, nor any one who, as a scholar, rendered greater assistance to the more recent navigators in the far north. If there are any who doubt the statement that one hundred newspapers have been born and died in the city of Washington, they could have been satisfied by consulting the files collected in this library; and there they came also who would have the pleasure of looking over the New York and Philadelphia and Boston journals published during the Revolution. Among the treasures to be found there was the identical copy of the Federal Constitution which was submitted to the committee on the revisal of its language. It was printed in folio, and contains all the alterations in manuscript which were made by the very able and distinguished chairman of that committee, William S. Johnson, of Connecticut. Another treasure, not yet alluded to, was a manuscript volume from the pen of Washington, containing his plan for Sullivan’s expedition, together with numerous queries that he sent to his correspondents, and their replies, whereby he fully posted himself in regard to the Indian country. And directly by the side of this volume was another from the same pen, consisting of a private diary, not a syllable of which has ever yet appeared in print. Among the foreigners who travelled through this country for their amusement during the Revolution was one Count Memin, from France. He was a good engraver, and employed himself by taking profile portraits of all such persons as were willing to remunerate him for his trouble. The only complete collection of these portraits ever made was made by the artist himself, and this was one of the attractions of Mr. Force’s library. They numbered no less than three hundred and fifty, are admirably executed, and among them are many of the fathers of the Republic. The black-letter volumes in this library numbered several hundred; but those here alluded to refer to African slavery in America. Everything calculated to throw light on the subject was here collected. A most important feature of this library also was its pamphlets relating to America. The titles may be counted by the thousand, and there were gathered together extensive collections made by such men as William Hazzard, William Duane, Jonathan Smith, Oliver Wolcott, Israel Thorndike, John Bailey, I. B. Moore, James Madison, as well as Mr. Force himself, and among these volumes were to be found many highly interesting autographs.

Another, and the last representative item to be mentioned in this connection, is a set of ten volumes of hand-bills, printed in the leading cities during the Revolution. In those days newspapers were published not more frequently than once a week, and these printed bills fill up the gaps in the history of the time, and are, of course, very valuable. In looking over these old papers, one fact came to the knowledge of the writer, which is of special interest to the New-Yorkers of the present day. When the news of the repeal of the Stamp Act arrived in New York, in their great joy the people dismantled a ship and planted her largest mast on a conspicuous plot of ground, and at the top of this mast they affixed a wooden bust of the king and of Pitt, and between the two a liberty cap. It was not long before the effigies of the two Englishmen were taken down, while the emblem of the goddess was left alone in its glory. And this was the origin of that truly American institution—the liberty pole.

With the remark that the works of art to be found in Mr. Force’s library were quite as valuable and unique in their way as the books themselves, we shall conclude our brief account with an allusion to one other very decided novelty associated therewith. The back windows of the library building all opened upon rather an extensive yard, which the proprietor called his wilderness. This spot of ground was not for many years touched by the hand of improvement, and was as perfect a specimen of vegetation run wild as could anywhere be found. Its area was insignificant, but a walk in its tangled paths could not fail to recall all those fresh emotions which we are wont to experience in the lonely woods. Though the roar of business tumbled in upon it from every quarter, it was just such a place as would delight an imaginative writer like Alphonse Karr, and enable him to write a new book quite as charming as his famous “Tour Round my Garden.” With almost a religious zeal Mr. Force protected his “wilderness” from sacrilegious hands; and, after an hour’s ramble among the treasures of the library, enlivened with the many agreeable reminiscences of his experiences in this intellectual world of his own creation, a walk with him in the “wilderness” was a pleasure not soon to be forgotten.

In 1867 the collection of books and manuscripts belonging to Mr. Force was purchased by the government for one hundred thousand dollars and added to the library of Congress; and for several months after their removal, as if loath to part with his old familiar volumes, he was in the habit of making a daily visit to the Capitol, for the purpose of offering suggestions as to their arrangement in their new home. He died in Washington, Jan. 23, 1868, universally lamented as a sterling patriot, a learned scholar, and one of the best and purest of men.

———

I would submit to the public a few words of affection in honor of this gifted and distinguished painter. He was my friend and correspondent for more than twenty-five years, and I feel that I have a right to join his admirers in their regretful recollections. He was the last of a trio of brothers, all of whom were painters and men of ability, all identified with the city of New York, and honored students and officers of the National Academy of Design. The first, Henry S., died in January, 1841; the second, Shepard A., in September, 1867; and the third, William S., at Setauket, Long Island, on the 19th of the present month, November, 1868. They were the sons of a substantial yeoman, who died in the prime of life, and the incidents of their lives were very much alike,—in their experiences as youthful farmers, their early struggles with fortune, their high character as men and citizens, and in their success as artists in the city of New York.

William S. Mount was born in Setauket, Long Island, Nov. 20, 1807, and his education was chiefly obtained from common schools. While yet a mere boy, he dabbled with the colors of a sign-painter in New York for his amusement; but having stumbled into the gallery of the old American Academy, he was fascinated by the pictures of Benjamin West and John Trumbull, and fired with the impulse to become a painter. His first picture was a portrait of himself, painted in his twenty-first year; and his first composition, painted in the year following, represented the “Daughter of Jairus”; and by the time he had attained his twenty-fourth year he had produced a sufficient number of portraits and composition pictures to call forth from Washington Allston the commendation that he exhibited great power of expression, had a firm, decided pencil, and that if he would apply himself to the study of such men as Ostade and Jan Steen, nothing would prevent him from becoming a great artist. After profiting by models from the antique, and the few good pictures to which he had access, as well as by the friendly advice of John Trumbull, he began to look to Nature alone for his inspiration; and from that time until the day of his death she was his only guide and teacher. He was unquestionably one of the most original artists of his day, and exerted a happy influence on the public taste. He was the pioneer, and continued the unequalled master in his special department; and he accomplished, to some extent, for American country life what David Wilkie did for the country life of Great Britain, or David Teniers for his fatherland. In a few instances, the mere execution of his pictures was quite equal to that of the famous Scotchman; but he contented himself with a single humorous thought, instead of touching the heart with the elevating sentiments born of rustic life. Unlike the Flemish painter, he was never vulgar, and we can only regret that he did not pay more respect to the higher and better feelings of our nature. By many, his coloring was considered cold, but he counted upon the warming and softening influences of time; in accurate drawing, however, and the delineation of character, he was emphatically a man of rare powers. He was an enthusiastic American in his feelings, and a lover of fun and humor, and these qualities were almost invariably visible in his productions. He never visited Europe, and while touching on this subject in one of his letters to me, written at a time when he was without a rival, he said: “I have always had a desire to do something before I went abroad. Originality is not confined to one place or country, which is very consoling to us Yankees. The late Luman Reed, of New York, desired me to visit Europe at his expense; Jonathan Sturges, Esq., has also made me an offer of friendship if I desired to visit Europe; and the firm of Goupil, Vibert & Co. have offered to supply me with ample funds if I would spend one year in Paris and paint them four pictures. I have a plenty of orders, and I am contented to remain awhile longer in our own great country.”

With regard to the number of his productions I cannot speak positively, but in 1850, as he told me himself, they numbered fifty compositions, with an equal number of portraits, at least. He was frequently paid a much larger sum for his pictures than he had asked; and I had it from his own lips that he had spent days and weeks, and even months, without painting, and that in his opinion there was a time to think and a time to labor. In a brief paper like the present I cannot pretend to describe the pictures which have given him an enviable fame, but the following list will convey to the uninitiated an idea of his style and what he accomplished, namely, “Husking Corn,” “Cider-making,” “Raffling for a Goose,” “The Tough Yarn,” “Fortune-telling,” “Bargaining for a Horse,” “Gamesters Surprised in a Barn,” “Winding Up,” “Ringing Hogs,” “Artist’s Studio,” “The Last Clam,” “Hoeing Corn,” “Rustic Dance,” “Rabbit Catching,” “Farmers Nooning,” “Turning the Grindstone,” “The Power of Music,” “Dance of Haymakers,” “Turning the Leaf,” “Farmer Sharpening his Scythe,” “The Well by the Wayside,” “Just in Tune,” and “The Berry-Hunter.” Of these pictures, more than one half of them have been engraved; and among the men who have honored themselves by giving the artist orders were Luman Reed, Jonathan Sturges, James Lenox, Edward C. Carey, Marshall O. Roberts, Gideon Lee, Charles M. Leupp, A. M. Cozzens, and the art publishers of Paris, Goupil, Vibert & Co. Of William Mount’s portraits I can only say that many of them were of a high order of merit, and of distinguished persons; but he had no love for this branch of the art, and he seldom painted portraits excepting for his friends, or to oblige those for whom he had a special regard. In this connection I have two or three anecdotes. His first commission in this department came from a Long Island shoemaker, who gave him a pair of brogans for a likeness of himself, size of life and painted in oil. On one occasion he painted the portrait of a distinguished member of the moneyed aristocracy, and during its execution he was the invited guest of the would-be nobleman. The picture was a decided hit, and universally admired. When Mount was about to leave, the patron called him into his office and remarked, in a quiet way, that he thought at least fifty dollars ought to be deducted from the original stipulated price, as he (the artist) had been treated with elegant hospitality. To this insult Mount replied, “I thank you, sir, for your hospitality, but, as I have but one price for my portraits, if you cannot afford to pay me what was agreed upon, I will make you a present of the picture.” This reprimand cut the upstart patron to the quick, and he at once drew a check for the full amount. To give an idea of the facility with which Mount sometimes painted, I may mention the fact that in my own collection of pictures is an admirable portrait of a lady which he painted in two hours, and with a palette that he had never seen until the moment when he commenced his task.

For many years it was whispered among those who knew him not that William Mount was something of an idler, and did not make the best use of his talents. The charge was most unjust. His whole life was a continuous battle against the encroachments of delicate health; and while standing guard, for months at a time, over a body all alive with quivering nerves and harassed with the pains of indigestion, it was quite impossible for him to execute the pictures he was always designing. If we are to judge the productions of the poet and painter by the yardstick, he may have been delinquent; but if we depend upon ideas and the beauty of their expression, then must we give Mount the credit of having accomplished his full share of honors. His time for work was limited, and so, also, were his means, and hence the necessity of his devoting a portion of his strength to the drudgery of portrait painting. Some of his efforts in this line were of a very high order, especially those of Bishops Onderdonk and Seabury, but there was something almost comical in the demands made upon him by persons bereaved of their friends, to depict the dead in the fresh colors of life. Such appeals were commonly respected, and it verily seemed at times that he delighted in thus attempting the apparently impossible. This class of portraits did not add to his fame, perhaps, but they were always successful, and greatly extended his circle of devoted friends. If it be true that he did not paint as many composition pictures as he might, it is also true, and the fact is a telling tribute to his genius, that he has been more popular with the engravers than any other American of the same exalted rank in art. Among the publishers of our earlier gift books his name was considered a trump card, and the very best engravers on steel were employed to reproduce his conceptions of rural character. As time progressed his pictures were sought out and reproduced on steel in the best possible manner, and in larger styles for circulation among print collectors and for the adornment of our drawing-rooms; and when he produced his original and unsurpassed delineations of negro character, the noted Paris house of Goupil & Co. reproduced a number of them in lithograph, and circulated them very extensively in Europe and this country. Judging his pictures, therefore, by their popularity and quality, rather than by their numbers, it would appear that the lamented Mount was not only a faithful worker but eminently successful.

While Mount was never married, he was a lover of home and domestic life, and he found much of his happiness in loving intercourse with his mother and sisters. During his whole life, the paternal mansion at Stony Brook, Long Island, was his dwelling-place. It was his affection for this quiet retreat that probably influenced him more than anything else to quit New York, where he once attempted to settle; but while the country was his home, he found pleasure in frequently visiting the great city, where he had many devoted friends, and where he came in direct contact with the world of art. He was a creature of impulse, and loved to wander about into out-of-the-way places, studying character and amusing himself with the novelties of the town. In these prowlings he always had a companion with whom he could talk freely, and on many days and nights it was my rare privilege to be that companion. On one occasion that I remember, after spending the day at some of the private picture galleries, where he was always freely admitted, we had a quiet dinner at Delmonico’s, where he sketched a funny waiter; at seven o’clock we attended a wedding at St. Thomas’s Church, where he took an outline of the bride’s sweet face; from eight to ten we lounged in the exhibition-room of the National Academy of Design; from ten to twelve we enjoyed the music and the dancing at a large and fashionable party; and wound up the round of entertainment by visiting a terrible place, within a stone’s throw of the City Hall, where we passed ourselves off as “roughs,” for the purpose of witnessing in safety the spectacle of a bear baiting, and where poor humanity could be studied in many of its most melancholy phases. Mount’s visits to the city, excepting when professionally engaged, seldom lasted more than two or three days, for he very well knew that they were not calculated to improve his health; and the same rusty old sloop which, in the days of our frolicking, brought him to town from Stony Brook, was the one to take him back again. There were many places in the city where a bed and a seat at table were always at his service, but he liked to be free and independent, and usually occupied lodgings at the Tammany Hall Hotel, in the olden times. Accident originally took him there, but as it was the grand headquarters of the Democracy, and he was a strong Democrat in politics, he continued a patron of that hotel to the last. Although an uncommonly practical man in his habits of thought and acting, he never tired of talking about art and artists, about music and musicians, and about the characteristics of individual men and the beauties of inanimate nature. He looked upon all his fellow-artists with established reputations as his superiors, and took great pleasure in fostering the talents of the young. In looking at a picture he always pointed out and talked about its beauties, leaving the defects to themselves. His abilities as a player on the violin were remarkable; he composed much fine music, and a piece entitled “The Babes in the Wood,” which he was wont to execute on his violin in some strange way with an ordinary door key, seldom failed a bring a tear into the eyes of his listeners. Though not a religious man by profession, he had a high sense of honor, and venerated the Bible and respected its expounders, and possessed a charity and love for his fellow-men allied to that which his warm friend Bryant has so eloquently attributed to Schiller. He was a true man, a full-blooded American, and an artist whose name must always be mentioned with honor in the annals of American painting.

Without taking time just now to recall and record the many traits of William Mount’s beautiful character as a man, his habits as an artist, and especially his novel adventures, modes of studying nature, and rare powers as a player on the violin, I have thought that the following disconnected extracts from his many letters to me might be read with pleasure. I give them merely as a taste of his quality.

During several of the later years of his life William Mount was a visionary, and some of his conceits bordered closely upon spiritualism. But this blight upon his intellect was the result, undoubtedly, of his long-continued bad health. He is now a disembodied spirit, and it will not become any of us, who are still grovelling here below, to sit in judgment upon his weaknesses and motives.

———

He was my friend, and I sincerely mourn his untimely departure from among the living. I first became acquainted with him in 1847, when he gave me a position in his editorial office, as an assistant writer for the Express. One of my duties, under his direction, was to look after the interests of the poor of the city; and a series of descriptions that I printed about life in the old Bowery and its vicinity caused many donations to be sent to Mr. Brooks for distribution among the inmates of that house of woe, and subsequently resulted in an entire reformation of its character. Another line of observation that I prosecuted was among the medical fraternity; and as it was my privilege to know all the doctors and surgeons (for whom I have always had a fancy), and to chronicle their exploits, I succeeded in making the Express their pet newspaper. But the particular department, which I worked up with a special gusto, was that of the fine arts. I chronicled all the doings of the artists; and it was in the Express and at that time that the custom was commenced, in this country, of criticising and minutely describing the pictures of the artists, prior to their public exhibition. The credit of doing this, whether deserved or not, was given to me by Mr. Brooks, in his journal and in private letters.

Early in the year 1848, Mr. Brooks called me to his writing-table, and asked me if I had ever visited Washington. I replied that I had not. “Would you like to go?” he continued. I answered, “Yes.” “When?” “At once,” I said. Whereupon he added, “You may go to-night, if you please. Public affairs are taking an interesting turn down there, and you must send us some good letters; but one thing I wish you to remember, don’t believe anything that you hear, and not more than one half that you see.” I obeyed orders, wrote a series of “Waifs from Washington,” which I concluded with a letter of resignation, and then joined the National Intelligencer, and became permanently settled in the District of Columbia. It would seem, therefore, that Mr. Brooks was the unconscious instrument in shaping my destiny at the most important period of my humble life. Is it not therefore natural that, during all the following years, I should have cherished a warm regard for my distinguished friend?

My personal intercourse with Mr. Brooks, taken in connection with his public career, has given me an exalted opinion of his character. He was a man of culture, and in all his intercourse with his fellow-men, whether of high or low degree, deported himself like a true gentleman; as a politician, he cherished an earnest desire to promote the broadest liberty for all men; as a journalist, his career was long, brilliant, and successful; and as a member of Congress, he served his constituents with fidelity, took an active part in general legislation, and was the leader or representative man of his party. He also used the pen with remarkable facility and power, and was an eloquent speaker. He was in his tastes very much of a cosmopolite, and his experiences as a traveller were somewhat remarkable. After seeing nearly everything in his own country that was worth seeing, he travelled through Europe with a knapsack, and at a subsequent period he visited Egypt and the Holy Land, and less than ten years before his death made the circuit of the globe for the benefit of his health; and his descriptive writings, if brought together and republished as a whole, would probably prove that he was not surpassed by any other writer in that particular department of literature. Upon his whole career as a public man there rested but one single shadow, and that, in my own opinion, was nothing but the natural result of associating with the demagogues of this notoriously corrupt age; and it must ever be a source of regret, that the one assault that was made upon his integrity was made when he was in reality a dying man; but though his chief desire for prolonged life—so that he might answer his accusers—was not granted, peace and hope were at his bedside at the final hour.

In looking over the letters which I have received from Mr. Brooks, I find only one, and the copy of one addressed to the trustees of the Corcoran Art Gallery, which I desire to produce in this place; the first exhibits him as a friend, and the second simply gives me credit for inaugurating a style of art criticism in New York, which is associated with many pleasant recollections.

Mr. Brooks was born in Portland, Me., in 1810; in the eleventh year of his age became a clerk in a store; was a school-teacher when sixteen; and at the age of twenty-one graduated at Waterville College. He served in the Legislatures of Maine and New York, and was a representative in Congress from the latter State. Established the New York Express in 1836; and he died at Washington in April, 1873. A blessing on the memory of my departed friend.

———

It was about the year 1828 that I first saw General Cass in Detroit; and the last time was at his house in Washington, in 1860, just before he resigned the office of Secretary of State. In that early time, as it was to the end, his home was on the Detroit River, just without the limits of the city of Detroit, and adjoining the estate of William Woodbridge. I had been sent up from the river Raisin to make a visit at the Woodbridges’, and was thus enabled, during my visit, and while playing with the sons of the two big men, to see and know the “great governor.” He had for many years before been a warm, personal friend of my father, and so continued until his own death. Like that of Mr. Woodbridge, his home was surrounded with every comfort, and many of the elegances of life, but they were as unlike in character as were the modes of thinking and the habits of the two men. In the house of the governor, the eye was attracted by numerous things connected with the Indians and the wilderness; but in the house of the lawyer, the various evidences of literary culture predominated. The former was military, official, and political; the latter, peaceful, legal, and scholarly.

As one or two elaborate lives of General Cass have been published, it cannot be expected that I should give any freshness to an outline sketch of his career; but as he was the friend of three generations of my family, and is lovingly remembered by the survivors, I must be indulged to the following extent: He was born in Exeter, N. H., Oct. 9, 1782. Having received a limited education in his native place, at the early age of seventeen he crossed the Alleghany Mountains on foot, to seek a home in the Great West, then an almost unexplored wilderness. He settled at Marietta, O., studied law, and was successful. Elected at twenty-five to the Legislature of Ohio, he originated the bill which arrested the proceedings of Aaron Burr, and, as stated by President Jefferson, was the first blow given to what is known as Burr’s conspiracy. In 1807 he was appointed by Mr. Jefferson marshal of the State, and held the office till the latter part of 1811, when he volunteered to repel Indian aggressions on the frontier. He was elected colonel of the Third Regiment of Ohio Volunteers, and entered the military service of the United States at the commencement of the War of 1812. Having by a difficult march reached Detroit, he urged the immediate invasion of Canada, and was the author of the proclamation of that event. He was the first to land in arms on the enemy’s shore, and, with a small detachment of troops, fought and won the first battle, that of the Tarontoe. At the subsequent capitulation of Detroit he was absent on important service, and regretted that his command and himself had been included in that capitulation. Liberated on parole, he repaired to the seat of government to report the causes of the disaster and the failure of the campaign. He was immediately appointed a colonel in the regular army, and soon after promoted to the rank of brigadier-general, having in the mean time been elected major-general of the Ohio volunteers. On being exchanged and released from parole, he again repaired to the frontier, and joined the army for the recovery of Michigan. Being at that time without a command, he served and distinguished himself as a volunteer aide-de-camp to General Harrison at the battle of the Thames. He was appointed by President Madison, in October, 1813, governor of Michigan. His position combined, with the ordinary duties of chief magistrate of a civilized community, the immediate management and control, as superintendent, of the relations with the numerous and powerful Indian tribes in that region of country. He conducted with success the affairs of the Territory under embarrassing circumstances. Under his sway peace was preserved between the whites and the treacherous and disaffected Indians, law and order established, and the Territory rapidly advanced in population, resources, and prosperity. He held this position till July, 1831, when he was, by President Jackson, made Secretary of War. In the latter part of 1836, President Jackson appointed him minister to France, where he remained until 1842, when he requested his recall, and returned to this country. In January, 1845, he was elected to the Senate of the United States; which place he resigned on his nomination, in May, 1848, as a candidate for the Presidency by the political party to which he belonged. After the election of his opponent (General Taylor) to that office, the Legislature of his State, in 1849, re-elected him to the Senate for the unexpired portion of his original term of six years. When Mr. Buchanan became President, he invited General Cass to the head of the Department of State, which position he resigned in December, 1860. He devoted some attention to literary pursuits, and his writings, speeches, and state papers would make several volumes; among which is one entitled “France; its King, Court, and Government,” published in 1840. He died in Detroit, June 17, 1866, and will long be remembered as the most eminent and successful statesman of Michigan.

As it is my intention, in all my notices of the public men I have known, to give the reader some particulars which could not be given by another, I now proceed to submit what little I have in regard to General Cass; and, as on many other occasions, I shall draw upon the private correspondence which happens to be in my possession.

When my grandfather, James Lanman, was in the United States Senate, it was his pleasure, as well as privilege, to do all in his power to promote the prosperity of the Northwest, and especially of the Territory of Michigan. From the numerous letters which passed between himself and the governor, I have selected one, written by the latter to the former, which, if nothing more, will give the reader an idea of the writer’s graceful and interesting style. It is dated Detroit, March 24, 1821, and is as follows:—

The treaty here alluded to was made at Chicago, and was one of about twenty which were negotiated by General Cass. The kind invitation which he extended in the above letter could not be accepted, but several of like character were accepted by my father, and often described to strangers at his fireside. The jurisdiction of General Cass, while he was governor, extended over thirteen tribes of Indians, numbering in all more than forty thousand souls; and few Americans have done as much as he did to enrich the government at the expense of the poor aborigines; but, to the extent of his ability, he always treated them with kindness. After an experience of seven or eight years in dealing with them, his views in regard to the policy which should be adopted by the United States were fully matured, and then it was that he addressed a letter to my father on the subject; it is long, but historically valuable, was written from Detroit, Jan. 19, 1820, and is as follows:—

When, in 1821, the question was discussed about establishing a land office in the Territory of Michigan, General Cass took an active part in designating the proper persons for the new offices of register and receiver. His candidate for the former position was Charles Noble, of whom, in letters addressed to Martin Van Buren and Benjamin Ruggles, he said, “He is a young man of handsome talents, natural and acquired, and with the fairest character and best principles.” The letters in question were borne to Washington by my father, who also threw his influence in the same direction, but without avail, for an ex-member of Congress, and a most excellent man, Robert Clark, received the appointment. As my grandfather had frequently consulted the wishes of General Cass in regard to the affairs of Michigan, he took it upon himself to recommend my father for the office of receiver, and surely no true-hearted reader will rebuke me for printing the following letter:—

This letter, which was supported by another on the same subject from William Woodbridge, had the intended effect, and my father was duly appointed, holding the office eight years. During the period of nearly fifty years, the friendship which existed between him and General Cass was unbroken, and of course, a large number of letters were exchanged between them, but what have already been presented will suffice as specimens.

The letters which it was my privilege to receive from General Cass were also numerous, but they were mostly upon passing topics, and in looking over them, I find few passages which are either characteristic or of public interest. One or two of them, however, may be quoted perhaps as coming within the plan of the personal recollections which form the staple of the present volume. In acknowledging the receipt of a copy of my “Adventures in the Wilds of America,” this friend of my early days sent me the following note:—

When my “Dictionary of Congress” was published, among the friends to whom I sent copies was General Cass, and he very much more than paid me for the volume by sending me the following:—

This friend of departed years was an honor to his native country, and, as the leading landmark in the history of my native Michigan, he must always be remembered by me with pride and affection.

———

Now that this good man has passed away into the land of peace, the spirit moves me to give the public a single glimpse of his character from my own humble standpoint. He was an honored bishop for thirty years; and yet I knew him before his promotion. During my Pearl Street days in New York, I had a habit of attending the Church of the Ascension on Sunday evenings; and some of the wise and loving sermons which I there heard can never be forgotten. One of them, especially, made a very deep impression on my mind; and it was from this text, “We have piped unto you, and ye have not danced; we have mourned unto you, and ye have not lamented.” Among the congregation, but not one of the listeners, on that occasion, was one of the students of the General Theological Seminary. He was accompanied by a lady, occupied a conspicuous seat in the gallery, near the pulpit, and, by his talking and laughing, conducted himself after the manner of a very foolish boy; so improper was his conduct indeed, that one of the congregation spoke of him afterwards as “a disgraceful sprig of divinity.” But the dancing days of that young man and poet came to an end; and he is, to-day, a bishop of the Episcopal church. The sermon alluded to had a power in it I could not resist; and, although my leanings, both as boy and man, have been towards the Presbyterian form of worship, I wrote a letter to Mr. Eastburn on the subject of religion, and it is his reply which I now wish to print. Whatever may be thought of the late bishop’s imperious manners, or of his independence and church prejudices, his sermons prove him to have been an eloquent preacher, his books display scholarship of a high order, his personal friends will always sing his praises because of his kind heart and his fidelity, and the following letter will exhibit him as an earnest Bible Christian:—

That I subsequently became personally acquainted with the writer of this noble letter, and, prior to his removal to Boston, was privileged to enjoy his friendship, were a natural result. In his manners and air of authority he always seemed to me to be a model bishop and Christian gentleman; and my affections were with him in all his public life. In the early part of 1866, while endeavoring to have a clerical friend of mine transferred from a Southern parish to one in Massachusetts, I wrote the bishop a letter on the subject. In his reply, which was very kind and minute, he promised to do what he could for my friend, and concluded the business part of it with these words:—

Another paragraph of the same letter was as follows:—

The last time I saw Bishop Eastburn was in 1871, when he attended the general convention at Baltimore, and came over from that city to preach in Georgetown, on which occasion he spent a night under my roof, and greatly delighted me with a long talk about the olden times in New York, and with anecdotes of his several visits to England, the land of his nativity. As I recall the manly presence and exalted character of the departed bishop, the words of Thomas Fuller come into my mind, when speaking of the faithful minister: “He was moderate in his tenets and opinions; and, lying on his death-bed, he bequeathed to each of his parishioners his precepts and example for a legacy.”

———

While my sympathies have always been with the Presbyterians, several of my most intimate friends have been clergymen of the Episcopal church. Their number corresponds with that of the “seven golden candlesticks” of the Bible; and they will all be remembered as shining lights, each one a blessing in the community where he resided.

The familiar letters which these men have written to me during the last forty years are very numerous, and chiefly associated with literature and art, the works of nature and religion. Indeed, it has occurred to me that, under the title of “My Seven Friends,” I could publish a very valuable and delightful volume, composed of their correspondence, as they were and are all men of genius and high culture. The names of these goodly friends are: Louis L. Noble; John S. Kedney, author, and professor at Faribault, Minn.; A. Frank Olmstead, clergyman at Hyde Park, N. Y.; A. Beach Carter, clergyman in New York City; Johannes A. Oertel, artist, and clergyman of North Carolina; John H. C. Boute, clergyman, and secretary of the University of California; and Octavius Perenchief, who died at Bridgeport, Penn., in April, 1877.

I first met Mr. Noble in the city of New York, in 1839, at the house of Park Benjamin, when he was a student at the General Theological Seminary, and I a Pearl Street clerk. As he had spent a part of his boyhood in the wilds of my native State, Michigan (although born in New York, in 1812), we became intimate from the start. I frequently visited him at the seminary, where I formed the acquaintance of his fellow-students, Kedney and Olmstead; and the night discussions, sustained by moderate feasting, which we were wont to enjoy, did much to direct me into the path of literature, which I have since pursued in spite of my want of a college education. In one of his first letters, written to me from the seminary to Pearl Street, he said: “We drink cocoa Friday eve, at nine of the time-teller. Do come and drink with us. You are the only one in Babylon who could be admitted to come.”

After his admission to orders, he was settled over parishes in Albany, Elizabeth City, N. C., Catskill, Chicago, Glen’s Falls, Fredonia, and Hudson City, N. J., after which he became a professor of English literature at St. Stephen’s College, Annandale, New York. He was born a poet, and when he began to publish in the magazines, and especially in the old “American Monthly,” I prophesied for him, in one of my earliest essays, a very brilliant career; but devotion to his sacred profession, and a perverse habit of pruning his writings to excess, combined to prevent him, in my opinion, from attaining the position as a poet which he deserved. His only volume of verse, entitled “The Lady Angeline,” etc., was published in 1856, and, although abounding in beautiful passages, I think it will be found that several of the poems are not as perfect in their revised shape as when originally published. His poems of “Nimahmin,” “Pewatem,” and “Home” will always be read with pleasure. By the public generally, however, he is better known as a prose writer; and his “Life of Thomas Cole” and “After Icebergs with a Painter” were both successful productions. To have been the intimate friend—the executor and biographer—of Thomas Cole, and the travelling companion of Frederick E. Church, aside from all other considerations, are quite sufficient to give him a lasting reputation among men of culture. His love of nature was a kind of passion, which he had the good fortune to indulge to a degree uncommon with men of his profession; and one of the pleasantest summer tours that I remember was made with him into the wilds of Canada, when we were accompanied by our wives, and an account of which he published in The Literary World. As a writer of familiar letters, judging from the large number that I have received, I think him uncommonly brilliant. They illustrate the many sides of his character in a most charming manner; and the facility with which he runs from bathos to pathos, and from the broadest fun to the higher regions of thought, give his letters an unspeakable charm. In those addressed to me there are, of course, many things which it would not be proper for me to publish; but the following disconnected extracts will give the reader an idea of my friend’s qualities.

The first letter he sent me after his arrival in North Carolina contained a description of Harvey’s Neck, in November, 1840, and here is a single paragraph:—

On another occasion, after mentioning the fact that he had just received letters from his heart-friends, Olmstead, Kedney, and myself, he thus exclaims:—

During the time that he was located in North Carolina, Mr. Noble made two or three summer visits to the Catskill Mountains; and in one of his letters from that region, where he was sojourning with Kedney and Olmstead, he gives this glowing description:—

In 1843, Mr. Noble’s life in the lowlands of North Carolina seemed to be injuring his health, and in a letter, headed “Durant’s Neck Creation,” occurs this great mixture in a little space:—

In July, 1843, Mr. Noble left the sea-coast of North Carolina, and with his friends, Kedney and Olmstead, visited the mountains in the western part of that State; and the following is from one of his first letters from that region, which he subsequently celebrated in his poem entitled “Angeline,” and which it was my own privilege to visit and describe about five years afterwards:—

In the latter part of 1844 I took it upon myself to give Mr. Noble some of my ideas on the growing follies, if not evils, of the Episcopal church, and the tone of his reply may be gathered from the following extract, written from Catskill:—

This theological breeze lasted through several letters, and one of my good friend’s last onslaughts was to this effect: “You know nothing, nothing about Puseyism. Do not join the hue and the cry of the many, lest you be found in company with those of whom you may be ashamed one day, when you see yourself on the side opposite to splendid genius, learning, and holiness. I know deeply some of Dr. Pusey’s and most of Mr. Newman’s writings. We shall not look upon more wondrous pages, very soon, than those of Mr. Newman. Bishop Onderdonk is a good old man. He has been imprudent, but not guilty. The church will yet destroy the power of your popular heresies. You may live to see it. I wish you would do me the favor to read Mr. Newman’s ‘Sermons’ and the ‘Oxford Tracts.’ The first especially. They will add lustre to your mind, though they should settle your heresies deeper in your soul.” And again: “If you ever expect to make a great painter, you will have to renounce your crude, new-born dissent, and embrace the old church. There’s where you belong. I claim you.”

When the above was written, I entertained a deep and true affection for the Episcopal church, and have been a communicant therein for more than thirty years; but I grieve to say that, since it has partially leagued itself with foreign heresies, I have frequently been tempted to bid farewell to all its goodness. With regard to Newman’s “Parochial Sermons,” I have read them with pleasure and profit, and can only wonder how such a man could have wandered from his earlier beliefs.

The one man who did more than any other to make Noble a rabid churchman was the then Professor Whittingham, and he was earnestly engaged in that line of business, as a bishop, through all the intervening years.

In the old days alluded to above, I used to write a good deal about the artists; and, because of some opinions that I published about Thomas Cole, my friend Noble wrote to me as follows: “You do Cole real injustice. He is a man of the most delicate feelings imaginable,—a singular man in many things. I think I never knew so modest a man in my life, who has his right to be immodest. He moves much in a world of his own; meditates sublime things, which, once in a while, he uncovers for a moment; looks forward to some great picture which will live in after ages, but which there is not love of art to appreciate now. He seems not at all pleased by usual newspaper criticisms. He has his faults, I know; but they are as little understood as his virtues. As to his not painting a great picture, you will see. He may not paint as popularly as heretofore; but that will arise from his painting above the popular power of judging. All true genius is ever beyond the eyes and the minds of the many. Cole, if he never touches pencil again, cannot cease to be what he is,—a poet of a very sublime cast. I know him better than any other man. I do flatter myself; and I do know that he is a greater painter, to-day, than he ever was before. You will all see this to be the truth. I am only more and more delighted the more I see and know of him.”

I was never one whit behind Noble in my admiration for Cole, as a man and an artist; and his “Life,” from the pen of my friend, I consider a very charming volume indeed, highly creditable both to the artist and author.

A few months before my marriage, in 1849, Mr. Noble wrote a beautiful letter to my intended wife, and about that time he sent me the following little prayer, which he said was for a good man at any time:—

After skipping over a host of very charming letters, which I find cannot be mutilated, and are too personal in their character, I submit the following written by Mr. Noble in 1852:—

The following, taken from a letter written at Catskill, in April, 1852, is charming for its variety: “The clock is beating twelve, and Thedy Cole will soon come into his Latin; then comes dinner; and then footsteps forth among my parishioners. My measure is heaped up, daily, with like business. So let it be till I die. I ask not to be a man of leisure. I can afford to wait for the leisure of heaven. I would rather be a saint of leisure in paradise, than a gentleman of leisure on earth.

Having invited Noble to go with me upon a little tour to Lake George, he thus touched upon the programme that we were to follow: “And now about that delightful jaunt up to Lake George. It has set us on fire; my wife is kindled. Yes, we will go, Providence giving leave and freedom. . . . We will stop and see Kedney, at Saratoga, where he is now the rector of the church. Won’t we use him up? We will camp out in his parlor and fish in his cistern. We will tap his vinegar, and eat up his sourcrout. Oh, we’ll have a season, and then quit him for Hamilton’s,—is that the name of your friend on the lake? It’s Alexander Hamilton, I suppose. He has gone into the dairy business up there since he wrote Washington’s papers all up. I shall be glad to see him,—Sandy was always a good fellow. . . . But if we are well carried and companioned on our way by good angels, shall we not have a nice time? We’ll have some fun too. We’ll go back to boy-and-girl times. No harm in being children, I guess; more in not being. Bag me up that man or woman for the Bosphorus, right straight off, who has lost out of life’s pockets all the popcorn of childhood.”

In one of his letters, written from Glen’s Falls in 1856, and when in one of his more serious moods, he thus exclaims: “The world narrows as we grow older, socially, and widens as a place of pilgrimage and trouble and disappointment. I imagine the rationale of this is, that we carry along with us all our sad recollections and the remembrances of sorrow and suffering, the sense of injured feelings and wounded pride. But our life speeds. We go. The cars of life fly along the track! By faith we are getting glimpses now and then, through the thinning forests of eternity. Let us, let us live like men, not like fools, as the crowd are living. What scenes of desperate folly and crime are now being enacted in our country! My God, save us from ourselves! A war flaming and thundering on our borders seems almost the only thing to save us from the sin and crime and fierceness of ourselves!”

From a letter written in 1857, at Fredonia, I cull the following: “I am truly thankful for your free expression as to the unprofitableness of my artistic and poetic tastes. They have been the evil genius of my life. But I am less in the ways of art and poesy than you suppose, and far more a plain, plodding workman in the field of God. I am no more, practically, a poet; I have scarcely written poetry for years. I shall most likely write no more. I read a little Spenser and Milton. I read some of Spenser to a Buffalo clergyman the other evening, ‘Una and her Lamb,’ and he went to sleep and snored. He was right. . . . The poetic, artistic life is behind me; a more simple work-life is around and before me. I am in heart for the great work of God,—over which I have nodded as the clergyman did over the poetry. . . . As you say, in your letter, we have been friends nearly twenty years. Long time in this brief and changing world. Let us, by all means, now cherish this friendship to the end. Be true to each other,—loving to the last. I am, I trust, wiser and better than in the beginning of our days. And so are you. We cannot well afford to part, at this advanced point of our journey. It would be poor economy.”

The above was written in 1857, and I am writing this in 1882, so that our friendship lasted forty-four years.

Soon after the war for the Union had fairly commenced in 1861, Mr. Noble, who had spent so many happy days in the South, wrote to me in a most desponding mood. On one occasion he says: “I have just come home from the baptism of a dying child. Would I had died in childhood also. Not that I am particularly unhappy; but I would rather have had each of my passing years in heaven than on earth. Who would go back for the few straws of happiness that have dropped upon his path? Who would reverse his life and walk right back on the same old track, meeting nothing but his old experience until he tumbled into his cradle? I have seen about enough of this, my native planet. Hard times make a lean salary and an anxious spirit. Let me go forward.”

I give the above for its originality, and not because I sanction any such unmanly philosophy. My friend here forgot himself, and, as I probably answered at the time, no honest Christian man has any business to talk after this manner.

In 1866 he made a summer tour through New Brunswick and Canada, over one of my own beaten routes, and this was his first report on reaching home: “Had a fine time. Went the complete round. Came out on the St. Lawrence at Metis. There is a fine road now from Frazer’s, along the Matapedia. We caught salmon and trout in the Nepisiquit, at the chain of rocks and the Grand Falls. Had your old canoe-men,—the Chamberlains. They all remember you,—said you were a splendid fisherman. To throw a fly for salmon well is the art of few fishermen. I cannot do it. We came home by Quebec and the White Mountains. Had a splendid sunset and sunrise on Mount Washington. But, after all, you must have had the best of it. I prefer a more quiet life than the one we have had. Black flies, rain, leaky tents, and all that; a great deal of rain. That kills one’s pleasure.”

In 1867 he wanted me to make him a visit in New Jersey, and this was his way of tempting me: “Hold a council of war; have a long talk; light your pipes at your weekwaum’s flame, and resolve. Paint up your faces; sing your big war song, and dance your most complicated dance. Shake all the scalps and trophies of past conquests, achieved on the bloodless path of travel, and decide. And look ye,—decide on a visit to the lodge of this Chemokeman, with your squaw. This here Ne-she-nam-bam and his squaw desire to minister their biggest bowl of succotash to their brother and sister of the Great Potomac.”

Here is a bit of nonsense, bearing upon a solemn truth:—

In 1869, Mr. Noble’s daughter made us a visit in Georgetown. She was a beautiful, bright, and good girl, and fond of a little gayety. Fearing that she was going to too many parties, he became troubled, and wrote a savage letter on the subject of fashionable life, from which I copy the following: “But a round of nightly routs is miserable. All nonsense, this perpetual dancing; and all wrong, these fops and beaux. A man needs a purse as long as a hose, and filled, too, with money to keep a young Miss Silly in rig for tomfool flatterers. We know there is not the virtue of air in the talk and praise of young fellows. I do believe women are half idiots. I like fun and frolic; but just look at the solemn, and often distressed faces of these decorated asses while dancing. See their red pig-visages, as they whirl in waltzes and get dizzy. Bah! No wonder the nation is going to the dogs, when fashion, folly, and extravagance reign. I have no respect for such a government and country as ours. I would get out of it, if I could, and live in Turkey among grave people. Pretty women for wives,—these dancing trollops. Nice men for husbands,—these whirling, money-spending monkeys! Humbug this boasted American people. Africa will give as many saints to heaven as the United States of America. Well, I mean to spend my days in abusing such a land, and will find a deal of satisfaction in doing it.”

In 1871, Mr. Noble lost his lovely daughter, and his letters on that sad event, though very beautiful, are too sacred to submit to stranger eyes. He had lost his only son many years before, and he was nearly overwhelmed by his great sorrow. The burden of his prayer was, “God help us home to heaven.”

As time passed on, my friend and I arranged to visit the Centennial Exhibition together in 1876, but we were disappointed. His letters, written to me in 1877, had not the snap of the old time; and the feeling seems to have settled upon our souls that we were both passing into the evening of our lives. In the summer of that year I paid him a visit at Annandale, N. Y., with my wife and Japanese ward, and we ran over again the story of our lives, and enjoyed ourselves as only men can who appreciate the beauties of this world and hope to live together in a happier world in the presence of their Redeemer.

In February, 1878, he communicated to me the sad news that his wife—a most charming Christian lady—was ill; and then he proceeds: “I should be delighted to have you close by me. We are of those who never grow old in spirit. Just as young and as frolicsome as ever. We are more, because we carry the jovial soul into the shade of life, and make loud merriment on those slopes of time where most men grow sour and spiritless. Thus let youth go hand in hand with age to the solemn end.” Also, in the same letter, after alluding to the death of one of my own friends, he says:—

During the month of April, Mrs. Noble was taken to New York City and went through the trial of a surgical operation. In a note, written to me a few hours afterwards, describing what had happened and expressing his anxious hopes, Mr. Noble says: “On the whole, ‘life is thorny’ for man or woman. Death is the last and the long thorn that pierces quite through. After that no more thorns. What a strange experience is this human life here! What does it all mean? What are the purposes of God,—all wise and all good? He will himself tell by and by.” But Mrs. Noble did not recover, and in one of her husband’s subsequent letters he wrote these words: “My dear wife’s remains sleep by the side of Louis and Mary in the graveyard of Catskill, and her spirit is in the blessed rest of God, rejoicing in eternal light. . . . All has been to me like wandering through a strange dark dream. . . . I am out in a driving snowstorm and very poorly clad.”

In that last sentence, we see the evidences of a broken heart; and it were better, for many reasons, that the curtain should now fall upon the life of my long-loved friend. He subsequently re-entered the pulpit, was settled at Ionia, in Michigan, the region where he had spent his boyhood. He died, at that place, in February, 1882, and was buried by the side of his wife and children at Catskill, in the shadow of the mountains he so dearly loved.

———

A good and a great man! Born in 1795, and died in 1876, leaving to his country a spotless name. His “Lectures to Young People” was one of the first books that led me to think of the importance of true religion; and from the year 1836 until his death, I followed his splendid career with interest, and ever felt for him a sincere affection.

In 1865, for some reason that I have now forgotten, I sent him an article which I had written about the charming village of Stratford in Connecticut; and the following note came to me in return:—

The persons here alluded to were my father and grandfather.

The collection of autographs which was made by this eminent man was perhaps unsurpassed by any other in the country; and its historical value was probably greatly enhanced by his acquisitions during the time that he was writing his “Annals of the American Pulpit.” In 1867 he made an appeal to me to help him in filling up some gaps in his “List of Letters by Prominent Politicians”; and I forthwith forwarded to him those he wanted, when he acknowledged their receipt as follows:—

These are mere trifles, I know; but any memento of such a man has a value of its own; and this paragraph will not have been written in vain if the reader (who has not seen it) will only obtain and read the tribute to the memory of William B. Sprague which was printed in the New York Observer, by the devoted friend of the departed, S. Irenæus Prime.

———

Any event that has a tendency to recall the presence and charming character of Washington Irving ought not to be unheeded; and the death of William Jerdan is particularly suggestive on that score. The latter was born in Scotland, in 1782, one year before the former, and died in London, in 1869, aged eighty-seven years. His career of thirty-five years as editor of the Literary Gazette, his long-continued and intimate association with the literature of England for more than half a century, and his highly interesting autobiography, are quite sufficient to give him a high rank among the men of the time; but we Americans must always venerate his memory for having been the first to introduce the papers of the “Sketch Book” to the public. The writer of this notice had it from Mr. Irving’s own lips, that such was the case; that the idea of collecting them in a volume came from the same source, and that he always remembered the editor as one of his earliest and best friends. And here is what he says on the subject in the revised edition of the “Sketch Book” itself:—

In a note to Mr. Jerdan himself, he also wrote as follows:—

In his autobiography, Mr. Jerdan, after speaking of Mr. Irving as the most charming of American authors, proceeds as follows:—

Many years ago, while upon a salmon expedition through Northern New Brunswick, I stumbled upon a very interesting and curious character, named Robert Egar, whom I described at the time as “The Hermit of Aroostook.” He was the brother-in-law of William Jerdan, who had married his sister. As the noted editor had been very kind in reviewing one or two volumes from my pen, I sent him a copy of the “Hermit” article, with inquiries respecting some other matters; and, in due time, I received the subjoined letter:—

From the above note, my good friends of the Express will perceive that, in the good old times when I was connected with their office, very many years ago, I was not unmindful of their interests. And what wonderful changes have taken place in New York during that period! Its noble citizens, who laid deep and broad the foundations of its prosperity, have passed away by the hundred; and the story of its success, as a commercial mart, is allied to those visionary tales of industry and opulence which have come to us from the far East. The manner in which the city of New York has fostered the fourth estate must ever be remembered with peculiar satisfaction; and the Gothamite of to-day may point to the Express, the Evening Post, the Journal of Commerce, the Herald, the Commercial Advertiser, the Tribune, and the Times, in spite of their multifarious and useless politics, and safely assert that no other seven journals in the world have exerted such a widespread influence throughout all its borders. If, however, we were called upon to mention the one particular man who, by his pen, has done more than all others to give New York its brilliant reputation, we should be compelled, and all men would acquiesce, to write the name of Washington Irving.

———

When the poet of “Sweet Home” was sojourning in Washington, after his recall as consul-general to Tunis, and before his reappointment to the same position, it was my privilege to see him frequently. He had been badly treated by Mr. Marcy and Mr. Clayton, both of whom had promised their influence for his reinstatement; and it remained for Mr. Webster, in 1851, to recognize his high character, and secure his return to Tunis. The eras of his strange life, upon which I mostly desired to hear him converse, were those connected with his “boyhood’s home,” where his father had been a schoolmaster, at East Hampton, Long Island, and his adventures among the Indians of North Carolina. For the former place he manifested the warmest affection, but he left it while yet a mere child and returned to New York City, where he was born. One incident connected with his life, which, I believe, has never been published, was to this effect: He went to the South, in a semi-official capacity, when there was much excitement in regard to the removal of the Cherokees, and as might have been expected, he espoused the cause of the Indians, so far, at least, as his sympathies could go. The result was, that he gave great offence to a squad of roaming “Georgia crackers,” who had declared their hostility to the Indians. They arrested him, and kept him for several days as a prisoner; and, one night, when housed in a log-cabin, they held a carouse and amused themselves by singing songs. One of the songs they sang was “Sweet Home,” and when they had finished it, they asked the prisoner what he thought of the music. He said, in reply, that when he wrote that song he never expected to hear it sung under such peculiar circumstances. The “crackers” were astonished, and seemed inclined to doubt his words; but they soon became convinced of the asserted fact, and with great gusto applauded the unknown poet, and forthwith told him that he was a free man, and that they would forever be his friends through thick and thin, and that if he should happen to get into trouble, he might count upon their sympathy and help.

When Mr. Payne was last in Washington, I was a frequent writer for the National Intelligencer, and that fact will explain the following letter which I received:—

The subject of the poem here mentioned had entirely escaped my memory; but I subsequently heard from Mrs. Anna C. L. Botta that it was entitled “Nightfall in Hungary,” and was published in 1851 instead of 1850. The interest manifested by Mr. Payne for Miss Lynch was interesting, and for one reason seemed to me especially well deserved. I had formed the acquaintance of this lady during my residence in New York, and a note which she sent to me, in 1847, was to this effect:—

The lectures delivered by Mr. Giles, in New York (if I may wander out of my way a little), were truly admirable; but one that he had previously delivered in St. Louis, for my special benefit, was beyond all praise, and this was the way it happened: It was in 1846, and while on my way to the Upper Mississippi, I had made a halt at the Planters’ Hotel in St. Louis. It was Sunday evening, and near the hotel stood a church, into which I strolled to hear a sermon. The preacher was Henry Giles, and having caught my eye, when he stepped down from the pulpit, he came forward to speak to me, introduced me to some pleasant ladies, who had accompanied him to church, and then went with me to the hotel. Over a glass of wine we commenced a quiet conversation, which was soon conducted entirely by himself; and then was delivered the lecture already mentioned. It was on every possible topic, from the religion of the Bible to those of Mahomet and Joe Smith, and from the poetry of Shakespeare down to that of George P. Morris, and lasted until near daybreak, and, taken as a whole, was the most wonderful talk I ever enjoyed.

But to return to my poet friend.

Mr. Payne’s style of conversation was less weird and fascinating than that of Mr. Giles, but it was delightful and instructive. Some additional facts bearing on his own life, which I remember, were as follows: That when a clerk in his native city, and only thirteen years of age, he wrote for the papers, and conceived the idea of editing a literary journal, which was partially successful; that his reception as an actor in New York was simply astounding to himself and friends, but that the people of Boston were even more enthusiastic; that he was only twenty years of age when he went to seek his fortune in Europe as a tragedian in 1813; that his tragedy of “Brutus” was written for Edmund Kean, and produced in London in 1818; that while this play really saved Drury Lane Theatre from a collapse, the amount of his compensation from that source was less than one thousand dollars; that Charles Lamb was not only one of his best friends, while in London, but frequently sent him a spicy letter, in one of which he said that his booksellers were constantly cheating him; that while other actors were making money in London, he was on the borders of starvation; that for a book he wrote on “The Neglected Geniuses of America,” he could never obtain a publisher; that the song of “Sweet Home” was suggested to him by an air which he had heard from the lips of an Italian peasant-girl; that it had always seemed a great mystery to him that while he had done all he could to make pleasant the homes of other people, he had never been able to have a home for himself; that it had always been a source of gratification to him, that such men as Edmund Kean, Charles Kemble, Edwin Forrest, and J. W. Wallack had all represented some of his characters on the stage; and that no man had ever been blessed with better or more devoted friends. And here, for the benefit of those who can appreciate an incident which seems almost unique in its pathos, I submit the following: One winter night in London, Payne was without money or credit, had not where to lay his head. He tried to quiet the pangs of hunger and homelessness by looking in at the windows, and from the areas scenting good cheer. It was Christmas eve, the snow fell fast, the wind was sharp and keen. At one luxurious house the hungry man stopped and watched the lighting of the Christmas tree. Its candles streamed brightly on the pavement, and among the evergreens he could see the red berries of holly, the toys and garlands, and the pretty heads of children. They danced and clapped their hands while the presents were being distributed, and the air rang with shouts of laughter and screams of delight. When the merriment had spent itself a little, one young girl went to the piano and warbled “Sweet Home,” while the family joined in a rousing chorus. And what a story! John Howard Payne—“Home, Sweet Home”—not a penny in the world—a lonely grave overlooking the ruins of Carthage—a death journey of several thousand miles—and a monument in the metropolis of his native land!

It was Daniel Webster who sent Payne as a consul to Tunis, and who subsequently appointed R. S. Chilton to a clerkship in the Department of State; and it is an interesting incident that the touching words which were formerly on the tombstone at Tunis were written by Chilton, and were as follows:—

In 1882, a movement was made by William W. Corcoran, for the removal of Payne’s remains from Tunis to the Oak Hill Cemetery in Washington; and an account of that rare act of kindness I have recorded in an unpublished biographical sketch of Mr. Corcoran. The following coincidence, however, may be mentioned here: It was an air that Payne heard in Italy which inspired his song of “Sweet Home”; and it was the music of this song, heard by Mr. Corcoran, in Washington, which suggested the thought of having the remains of the poet removed from Carthage to the American metropolis, where, with special honors, they were duly deposited, on the 9th of June, 1883. That the motive of Mr. Corcoran was creditable, on the score of liberality, and the idea poetical, none can deny. But the parade which attended the second burial was out of place and unfortunate. The manner in which an injudicious choir, in singing the song of “Sweet Home,” substituted for the original music some insipid variations of their own, was a sickening mistake to me, and threw a shadow over all the proceedings. The two beautiful thoughts, mentioned to me by Mr. Corcoran himself, that the ashes of the poet were to find a final resting-place under a beautiful tree in his native land, and that his famous song should be sung over his grave, to the dear old tune which the poet loved, were both ignored by meddlesome friends. More than that, what should have been a beautiful commemoration, was marred by an inappropriate military parade. It is a pleasure to know, however, that when the follies of this occasion are forgotten, the people will be glad to remember Mr. Corcoran’s liberality, the funeral oration of Mr. Leigh Robinson, and the commemorative poem written by the author of the Tunis epitaph, and from which I quote two verses that are in every way worthy of the author of “Sweet Home,” as follows:—

It was the poor and unhappy Payne who wrote, “Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home”; and I have thought that if he could have had a voice in regard to his final burial, and had known that none were to be admitted to the ceremonies excepting those who were invited, he would have said, “Not so; no matter how poor and humble, let the common people come freely, through the iron gates, to my burial.” But let his ashes rest in peace; he is at home now, and the windows are all closed forevermore.

———

The unexpected death, in Boston, of this distinguished and eloquent clergyman revived in my mind two or three recollections which are worth mentioning. I met him for the first time in the good old days, when the Mercer Street Church in New York was under the care of Thomas H. Skinner. I was a member of that congregation, and it was there that Mr. Kirk preached a series of sermons which attracted immense crowds, exerted a very remarkable influence, and gave him a position in the front ranks of the Presbyterian church as an orator. His dignity and learning, his rare command of language and power of illustration, his knowledge of human nature, and his sincerity placed him very far in advance of the great herd of the so-called revival preachers who have caught the public ear in later days. Some of the stories connected with his early life are especially interesting. For example, when, in 1828, he was suddenly expelled from a church in Albany, because he would not submit to the dictation of certain rich men, and when he heard that a part of the congregation had determined to stand by him and build a new church, he said, “I would go to the gates of hell with such a band of followers.” At a later period, when settled over another church, his popularity was so great that the patroon Van Renssalaer declared that Mr. Kirk had doubled the value of his property in Albany. After he had fairly made his mark as a revival preacher, he became unpopular with the reprobate classes, and for that reason, and because the steeple of his church was rather queer in shape, he was called the “Pepper-box preacher.” And one of the stories related of him, connected with the cause of temperance, was this: He had met a man on a country road, who was going home in a state of gross intoxication. He reasoned with the poor drunkard in such earnest and pathetic terms that he became sober under the influence of his feelings, and consented to fall upon his knees, with Mr. Kirk, in the corner of a fence, while the latter uttered an earnest prayer for restoration of the poor man to a happier condition in life.

By way of illustrating the persuasive character of his eloquence, the following incident may be related: On one occasion, Mr. Kirk made an appeal to the people in behalf of some benevolent institution, the effect of which was to secure, in a few moments, a large amount of money. Among those who had no money at hand, but who had been deeply impressed, was a charming lady whom I had accompanied to church, and when the plate reached our pew, my astonishment knew no bounds, as I saw her put into it all the valuables that happened to be on her person. I remonstrated with her for her folly, but she was obdurate. In due time, however, she reconsidered the matter, and on the next day permitted her father to redeem the pledges of her liberality, which he was only too glad to do.

The effect of Mr. Kirk’s eloquence upon my mind and feelings was probably quite as great as upon any other person; and I am thankful that even the third of a century has not been able to efface it from my memory. My Sunday-school days, even at that time, were linked with a more remote period of my life, but I took a class in the Mercer Street Church, and made a desperate attempt to teach a dozen rosy little boys. I soon found, however, that I could not answer one half of their innocent but exceedingly wise questions (and which I find the great divines of the world cannot answer to-day), and so I resigned my position as teacher and entered the Bible class. The man at whose feet I now sat as a pupil was Benjamin F. Butler, the Ex-Attorney-General of the United States, who had been one of Mr. Kirk’s supporters in Albany. He was very amiable and gentlemanly in his manners; and when I subsequently became acquainted with his history, I was filled with amazement that such a man should have been so famous a politician. Whatever became of the young people who listened to Mr. Butler’s religious teachings I cannot tell; but at the time in question there was a young man in his law office who was talked about a great deal, and who became a famous general, killed a fellow-being in cold blood, and obtained the position of minister plenipotentiary.

The last time that I had the privilege of hearing Mr. Kirk preach was in 1852, and at the little church in Duxbury, Mass. He had been invited to come down from Boston for that purpose; and when it was ascertained that he would accept, the news was sent to Marshfield, and at the appointed time Mr. Webster, and all the friends who were there visiting him, were present in the Duxbury church. The sermon, to quote from my “Private Life of Daniel Webster,” was on the efficacy of prayer, and was distinguished not only for its eloquence but for its arguments. It dealt in nothing but pure Bible doctrines, as understood by the Orthodox church. Mr. Webster listened with marked attention to the whole discourse, and, after the service was closed, went up and congratulated the preacher. On our return home, his conversation turned upon the sermon, and he said it was remarkable, a great effort. He said the arguments adduced were unanswerable, and that if a man would only live according to the lessons of such preaching, he would be a happy man, both in this world and the world to come. He said, moreover, “There is not a single sentiment in that discourse with which I do not fully concur.” And this remark, when appended, as it ought to be, to the sermon when hereafter published, will serve to convince the world that his views of religion were most satisfactory. During the whole of our drive home, he conversed upon matters contained in or suggested by the discourse, and I deeply regret that I did not take more ample notes of what he said on the occasion.

A short time after Mr. Webster’s death, I wrote Mr. Kirk about the Duxbury meeting, giving him some particulars, and asking for the privilege of reading the sermon on the death of Webster he had just delivered in Boston, and which I thought might be gratifying, and the following reply was the result:—

Mr. Kirk, who honored the title of doctor of divinity, was born in New York, graduated at Princeton, was the author of five books and a large number of sermons published in pamphlet form, had at heart for many years the cause of the Evangelical Society, was for a time a regular preacher in the city of Paris, and died at the good old age of seventy-two.

———

Elisha Kent Kane was unquestionably one of the most remarkable men of his age. Having published a review or synopsis of his later and more important discoveries,^[4] I have thought that a few particulars about the man himself, and a short account of his earlier exploits, might be acceptable to my readers. What little I have to say is uttered in a spirit of patriotic satisfaction, and yet I cannot divest myself of the thought that our Arctic hero has gone abroad (this was written while the doctor was still living) for the restoration of his health, which has been pronounced exceedingly precarious. Indeed it is thought by some that he may never again be permitted to see his native land. Such a fate would be most deeply lamented, and I must cherish the hope that he will not only return, but live to spend many happy and peaceful years in the land where his name has become a much-loved household word.

Dr. Kane was born in Philadelphia, on the 3d of February, 1820, and graduated at the University of Pennsylvania, in 1843, first in the collegiate and subsequently in the medical department; and when he started upon his active career of adventure he was esteemed a good classical scholar and a good chemist, mineralogist, astronomer, and surgeon. His frame, even from boyhood, was delicate; and with a view of strengthening his constitution, he solicited an appointment in the navy as surgeon, and obtained it, and was attached to the first American embassy to China. This position gave him opportunity to explore the Philippine Islands, which he effected mainly on foot. He was the first man who descended into the crater of Tael, lowered more than a hundred feet by a bamboo rope from the overhanging cliff, and, clambering down some seven hundred more through the scoriæ, he made a topographical sketch of the interior of this great volcano, collected a bottle of sulphurous acid from the very mouth of the crater; and, although he was drawn up almost senseless, he brought with him a sketch of this hideous cavern and the wonders which it contained. Before returning home from this remote expedition, he had ascended the Himalayas and triangulated Greece on foot; he had visited Ceylon, the Upper Nile, and all the mythologic region of Egypt; traversing the route, and making the acquaintance of the learned Lepsius, who was then prosecuting his archæological researches. He also traversed Greece on foot, and returned to the United States through Europe. Soon after his arrival he was again ordered on duty, this time to the western coast of Africa. He now attempted to visit the slave marts of Whydah; but, having taken the African fever, he was sent home in a precarious state of health. He recovered, however, and we next find him a volunteer in the Mexican war. His adventures in Mexico proved him to be the possessor of lion-like courage, and of a most generous and noble heart; but he fell a victim to one of the fevers of the country, and was very near dying. When he recovered and returned, he was employed in the Coast Survey Department, from which he was transferred by the Secretary of the Navy to the post of surgeon on the Grinnell Arctic expedition. His history of that expedition gave him a high position as an author. Not yet satisfied, however, he scarcely gave himself time to recover from the hardships of that cruise before he set on foot the second Grinnell or Kane expedition; the results of which have been pronounced by the highest European authorities as among the wonders of the present century. That Dr. Kane has accomplished much for the honor of his country is acknowledged by all men of all parties; and, at the last session of Congress, the House of Representatives passed a resolution for the purchase of fifteen thousand copies of his valuable work, the Secretary of the Navy having investigated the whole subject, and suggested the propriety of passing the resolution. That resolution is now before the Senate, and we are pleased to learn that, in spite of their ideas of retrenchment, many senators think Dr. Kane’s appeal a peculiar one, and it is quite probable a large majority of them are in favor of the resolution.^[5] Contrary to an opinion that we have seen expressed, we are glad to be able to state that very much the largest proportion of the profits of the work will go into the hands of the explorer. When we remember the character of his great discoveries, and the fame he has so justly acquired, and then think of him worn to a skeleton by diseases contracted while heroically serving his country; yesterday, as it were, quitting his home to find health in England, and to-day sailing for a more genial clime in the same pursuit,—we cannot but believe that it would rejoice his heart, and do much towards restoring his health, to learn that the government of his country had recognized his services in some substantial manner, whereby the remainder of his life might be spent in pleasantness and peace. Numerous learned societies, says a contemporary, and the whole body of savants, with Humboldt at their head, and all the commercial nations, with the English admiralty in the van, have loudly declared their generous appreciation of Dr. Kane’s labors, and by flattering testimonials have sought to do honor to the gallant American explorer.

When I penned the foregoing, the heroic Dr. Kane was on his way from England to Cuba; and, in the city of Havana, on the 16th of February, 1857, he breathed his last. His mother was with him, and he died a Christian. The Spanish authorities manifested their sorrow by every suitable demonstration, and his remains were brought to his native city, through the Gulf of Mexico, up the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers, and over the mountains; the inhabitants of every city on the route doing all in their power to honor his memory. His remains arrived in Philadelphia on the 11th of March, and the obsequies took place on the following day. The entire city was in mourning, and there were many distinguished men from all parts of the country who participated in the sad ceremony.

The funeral car was surmounted by a canopy and dome, having the flags of England, France, Spain, and the United States at the corners. The prominent gentlemen who attended it as pall-bearers were, of course, objects of interest; but no persons in the line excited more general attention than the surviving comrades of Dr. Kane, who followed immediately after the remains of their late commander, bearing among them the weatherbeaten flag of the “Advance.”

This party was led by William Morton, a name which will be familiar to all who have read the account of the last Arctic expedition, under the command of the lamented Kane. Mr. Morton was born in Ireland, but left his native land at a very early age, and has now been in America about seventeen years. He first became acquainted with Dr. Kane in California, and after one voyage to the Polar Seas, joined the Arctic expedition under the doctor, and on the ill-fated “Advance.” Mr. Morton was the one who volunteered with the Esquimaux boy to go north in search of the open sea; and after a circuitous and fatiguing route of three hundred miles, dragging their sledges over the icebergs, the great Polar Sea was discovered. He is the only living white man who has ever seen the great open Polar Sea, whose waters wash the icebergs of the far-distant north. He is now but thirty-five years of age, and has the appearance of one who could well undergo the fatigues of an Arctic winter.

The religious services took place at the Second Presbyterian Church. They were preceded by the singing of a hymn; and the prayer was pronounced by the Rev. C. W. Shields, after which the remains were conveyed to Laurel Hill for interment.

Shortly after my review was printed, and just before Dr. Kane took his departure for Europe, I was honored and much gratified by receiving a handsomely bound autograph copy of the “Explorations,” accompanied by the following note:—

On the very day that the foregoing letter was written, Mr. George W. Childs wrote me as follows: “Dr. Kane has just returned home, and is completely broken down in health. He says, ‘his book, poor as it is, has been his coffin.’ He is nervously awaiting your review, and will write you after he has seen it. He comes in this morning to put your name in one of Ashmead’s copies. As a last resort, to build up his health, he leaves for Europe in a week or two. He is suffering from scurvy.”

As the success of Dr. Kane’s book was something remarkable, even for these days of remarkable events, the following letter from his publishers, addressed to the writer, may be worth printing as a fragment of literary history:—

In another letter which Mr. G. W. Childs sent me, he informed me that Dr. Kane had left directions that one of the guns which he had used in the Arctic seas should be presented to me; but I never received it, which, of course, was a great disappointment.

In another letter, alluding to a notice I had published in London, Mr. Childs wrote me as follows: “The review in the Athenæum is of great moment, as it will tone a certain portion of the press here.” On the 29th of September he sent me the following:—

———

It is with rare pleasure, indeed, that I remember the occasional sermons which I was wont to hear from the lips of this eloquent divine; but it was not my good fortune to know him personally. I record the circumstance with thankfulness, however, that he recognized my friendship by presenting me with a copy of his published sermons; and when, in 1847, he was preparing for the press a second edition of his “Walton,” he requested me to furnish him with a paper on fly-fishing in America, but which, on account of my newspaper duties on the New York Express at that time, I could not prepare. Out of that circumstance grew the following very beautiful letter:—

The departed friend alluded to in the above letter was the writer’s brother-in-law, John Williams; and a more beautiful tribute to a good man’s memory is not often met with. The piscatorial library which Dr. Bethune collected and cherished numbered about seven hundred volumes, and was thought to be the largest in the world; and his edition of “Walton” is conceded, in England, to be the best one ever issued, so far as the notes are concerned. From what we know of this good man, we gather that he followed the art of angling because of his intense love of nature, and with a view of fortifying his health for the sedentary duties of his sacred profession. Although a genial man, and fond of a good joke, he was always the true Christian gentleman, and seems never to have omitted any opportunities to do good. A noble illustration of this fact we find in the mission church which he originated at Alexandria Bay, which he loved to speak of as his “pet child of the Thousand Islands,” and in which a mural tablet was erected to his memory, by loving friends who had there heard his musical voice preaching the precious truths of the Bible.

———

Those of us who knew Leutze in the full vigor of manhood, and are familiar with the brilliant creations of his brain, find it difficult to realize his death. He died on Saturday last, the 18th inst. (July, 1868), in a room which looked out upon the national Capitol, where his painting of “Westward Ho!” is a leading attraction; and the only member of his family who attended his death-bed was his youngest daughter. His remains were deposited on Tuesday last in a vault in Greenwood Cemetery, with a view to their ultimate removal to some other locality. My acquaintance with this accomplished man commenced in 1851, in Washington City, where it was my privilege to dine with him at Mr. Webster’s table, and who, by the way, entertained a very high opinion of the artist. The last time I saw him was on Pennsylvania Avenue, near the Treasury Department. While we were chatting together, Walt Whitman, the eccentric writer, passed by; and I remarked, “Do you know that man?” He said no; and when I told him who he was, he replied, “Is that so? I am anxious to have a look at him,” and, excusing himself, hurried off; and, in a moment, I saw him adroitly scanning the features of the author as they both passed into the department building.

The business which called him to Washington in 1851 was to look after the exhibition of his “Washington Crossing the Delaware,” and to paint one or two portraits for Mr. George W. Riggs, who afterward ordered for his gallery the picture of “The Venetian Maskers.” It was then, also, that he received orders from Mr. W. W. Corcoran for two of the best pictures in his gallery, viz., “Milton entertaining Cromwell” and “The Amazon and her Children”; and, at the same time, he painted for the writer of this letter “A Mounted Pioneer,” which was the original of the leading figure in the national painting of “Westward Ho!”

At the time in question I asked Mr. Leutze for the leading events of his life, partly for my own gratification and partly with a view of eventually printing them; and, from the notes then taken, I submit, with a few later facts, the following particulars: He was born in Gmund, Würtemberg, May 24, 1816; and, when a mere child, his parents emigrated to this country, settling in Philadelphia. During his boyhood he bore the name of Emanuel Gottleib, but subsequently abandoned the second name. In that city he received the rudiments of a good education, and acquired the preliminary knowledge of an art which he fancied from his earliest boyhood. It was while attending at the bed of his sick father that he first began to draw, by way of beguiling his leisure moments. In his fifteenth year he produced a portrait, which was his first effort in oil; and his first composition piece was the figure of an Indian contemplating the setting sun, which won for him the friendship of Edward S. Carey, and eventually resulted in his illustrations of the poems of William C. Bryant, one of which, “The Catterskill Falls,” is, in my opinion, unsurpassed for its exquisite beauty and sentiment among the productions of that class. In 1836 he visited Washington, under orders from a Philadelphia publisher, for the purpose of painting portraits of certain famous men; but, as the project failed, he bolted for the interior of Virginia, where, as a wandering painter of portraits, he remained until 1841. In the early part of that year, assisted by his friend E. L. Carey, he went to Europe, studied for a time as a pupil of the famous Lessing, in Dusseldorf, visited the most celebrated galleries of art between London and Constantinople, won and married a German wife, and finally settled down to hard work in Dusseldorf. The kindness of the German heart to strangers, and especially to Americans, and the German blood in his veins, naturally caused him to fraternize with the artists and people of Dusseldorf, so that he immediately felt at home; and, during his several lengthened sojourns in Europe, that city was always his home. With the types of national character in Europe he became sufficiently well acquainted to grapple successfully with any idea that suggested itself to his mind; and among the European subjects which he depicted with rare skill and power may be mentioned the following: “Henry VIII. and Anne Boleyn,” “The Court of Queen Elizabeth,” “The Puritan and his Daughter,” “The Iconoclasts,” “The Amazon and her Children,” “The Image Breaker,” “Columbus before the Council of Salamanca,” “Columbus in Chains,” “Columbus before Ferdinand and Isabella,” “John Knox and Queen Mary,” “Landing of the Northmen in America,” “Cromwell and his Daughter,” “Knight of Syme,” “Frederick the Great entreating his Father’s Pardon,” “Milton before Cromwell,” “Raleigh in Prison,” and “Venetian Maskers,” together with a variety of purely imaginative illustrations of the poets. Many of the above pictures were purchased by patrons of art in this country; but, while the artist’s American friends were pleased to know that he was accomplishing so many admirable things illustrative of European history, many of them publicly expressed their regret that he should have so completely exiled his pencil as well as his person from the land where he spent his boyhood.

But in thus censuring the young artist, those who knew him not were doing him a wrong. The truth was, at that very period, instead of forgetting his adopted country, Leutze was studying almost nothing but its history and characteristics, animated by the noble and the single hope that he would yet be able to portray, in a worthy manner, upon his canvas, some of the more splendid events of its history. After making two or three prolonged visits to this country, he finally settled in New York in 1859, where he continued to reside until a few months before his death, when he came to Washington to carry out, in a quiet studio, certain extensive plans in regard to one or two pictures connected with our Pacific possessions. Several years before he entered upon the execution of his American pictures, he identified himself, in a most creditable manner, with the history of South America, by producing his “Attack on the Temple of the Aztecs by Cortez.” Although, when true to himself, his power of drawing and knowledge of color were well-nigh consummate, he had one great difficulty to contend with, which was the want of a type of American character, especially a type that would help him to delineate the men whose characters were moulded by the Revolution. While all the more prominent countries of the world were old enough in civilization to be characterized by a type, he saw that the United States, though marching on to immense power and greatness, was without this symbol of distinction. He discovered the type for which he was seeking in a peculiar contraction of the brow and a brilliant eye, and a mouth which denoted indomitable perseverance, industry, energy, and fearlessness. No sooner had he made this discovery than it appeared to him as plain as a solved riddle. This type was, indeed, the enigma of his life, and absorbed his thoughts for a period of six years. In less than nine months after his mind had settled itself upon his new ideas, he painted his first American picture of “Washington Crossing the Delaware.” This was followed by “Washington rallying his Troops at Monmouth,” “Washington at Princeton,” “Washington at Monongahela,” “News from Lexington,” “Sergeant Jasper,” “Battle of Yorktown,” by a number of full-length historical portraits, by Hester Prynne and Little Pearl, from Hawthorne’s “Scarlet Letter,” and finally by his great picture of “Westward Ho!” painted for the general government. While it is true that his purely American pictures are sufficiently numerous and meritorious to give him a lasting reputation, it is also true that what he accomplished in that direction was only the beginning of what he hoped to perform. But a full account of Leutze’s productions cannot even be catalogued in this brief letter, and of course this is not the time nor place to enter upon an analysis of his exalted genius. That he was an artist of very superior ability has been acknowledged by the best European and American critics; and that he was remarkably industrious is proven by the large number of his pictures extant, a majority of which are owned in this country. His personal appearance and nervous manner denoted him a man of genius, and his attainments as a scholar were decidedly creditable; but, gifted as he was in intellect, he was also a man of rare physical courage and endurance, as the following incidents will illustrate: He once accomplished, within the limits of a single day and unattended by a guide, the ascent of one of the highest mountains of Switzerland; and, although he suffered exceedingly from fatigue and cold and thirst, he returned to his lodgings in the valley without the least injury. On another occasion, when about to journey down the Rhine, the little boat in which he was to sail went off without him; whereupon, as the case was urgent, he recklessly jumped into the water and attempted to swim to the boat. It was in the month of October, the water was bitter cold, and that portion of the Rhine was a continual whirlpool or rapid. The result was that the current obtained the mastery over him, and swept him down the stream a distance of five miles, when he regained the boat, which had been detained by an accident, and was taken on board in safety. My present object, however, is not to indite a biography of the lamented Leutze, but simply to throw a wreath of “sorrowing rue” upon his grave, betokening my admiration and love for one who, as an artist, was without a superior, in many particulars, either in this or any other country.

———

This is the name of the only well-known poet identified with Canada, and he is one whose intellect, in some particulars, is not surpassed in North America. In 1860 the writer of this paper prepared a notice of him for the New York Evening Post, which was the first recognition of him published in this country, although, through Nathaniel Hawthorne (then in England), a criticism on his poetry had appeared in the “North British Review,” two years before. In the “Atlantic Monthly” there subsequently appeared another review of the new poet, written by Bayard Taylor. The tone of this criticism was kind, manly, and appreciative, but in regard to matters of fact connected with the personal history of the poet it contains a few errors, which I think proper to correct. For doing this I have two reasons: the poet has honored me with his correspondence for several years past, and my admiration of his ability borders on enthusiasm.

He resides in Montreal. By the people generally of that goodly city he is spoken of as a cabinet-maker, but until recently he has been in reality a carver of wood; by men of cultivation who know him, or have read his works, he is recognized as a true poet. He was born in the county of Yorkshire, England, in 1816; was reared by a religious mother; received a limited education, and, from the age of nine years until quite recently, it has been his lot to labor at his trade, usually from ten to thirteen hours daily, and with few intervals of relaxation. In 1843 he was married; in 1853 he emigrated to Canada and settled in Montreal, and is at the present time, 1870, connected with the daily press of that city.

Though always a close observer of man and nature, and ever feeling the strivings of poetry within, he has been deprived almost entirely of those opportunities derived from leisure and books which are deemed indispensable to the moulding or nourishment of the intellect. What time he had to spare has been devoted to the study of the Bible and Shakespeare. In a literary sense, fortune has hitherto been to him only a step-mother; but his skies are now brightening, and it must be that the time is at hand when he is to be everywhere acknowledged as a poet. In speaking of his most elaborate production, the “North British Review” says that “it is indubitably one of the most remarkable English poems ever written out of Great Britain,” and one of its characters is said to be “depicted with an imaginative veracity which has not been equalled in our language by any but the creator of Caliban and Ariel.” Nor is the “Atlantic Monthly” less complimentary, for it says, in regard to his last production, “Much of it might have been written by a contemporary of Shakespeare”; and, in view of his ability, that “never was so much genuine power so long silent.”

The first poem published by Mr. Heavysege was a juvenile effort, entitled “The Revolt of Tartarus,” which long ago disappeared from public view. His second appearance was as the author of fifty sonnets, published, like the foregoing, anonymously. The subjects thereof are high toned and various, and their style subtle, tasteful, and vigorous. The glimpses they give us of the poet’s heart are calculated to win our affection; and, while none of them can be pronounced perfect, and evidently are not as highly finished as they might be, yet they abound in fine ideas (such as Lamb claimed for the sonnets of Sydney), and in expressions of great beauty and power. Hear, for example, how the heart of the poet speaks of celestial music:—

And again, when looking sadly into the darkness of a starless night, the poet himself says:—

But mere flights of fancy are not all that we find good in these sonnets, for, after an allusion to the dawning day, we have the following:—

It is due to the author, however, that we should give one or two of his sonnets entire, and we therefore select one on “Death” and another on “Night”:—

The third and far more important of our poet’s productions was “Saul: A Drama in three Parts.” As the title indicates, it is founded upon the career of the great Hebrew king, occupies no less than fourteen acts, and makes a volume of three hundred and twenty-eight octavo pages. It was first published in Montreal in 1857, and a second edition in 1859. Though very long, no lover of genius can read the first act of the drama without reading to the last page; and numerous as are the scenes and characters portrayed, the unity of its purpose will be apparent, and the artistic yet simple management of the whole cannot but elicit admiration. Many passages remind me of the older English dramatists, and since the appearance of “Philip Van Artevelde” and “Ion,” I have met with nothing in modern dramatic literature which has afforded me the real enjoyment I have derived from “Saul.” It is not wanting in dramatic effect, though some conventional critics might find fault with certain passages on this score, and it is remarkably free from the mannerism and egotism so common in similar productions. The author displays a most delicate appreciation of inanimate nature, has a strong sympathy for the ordinary feelings of humanity; and there is no sameness or monotony in his delineations of human character. He seems to have emulated the master minds of the past, and gives us lessons of deepest import without sanctimonious pretensions on his part.

To a messenger who had expressed the hope that Saul would not fail his people in battle, he gives utterance to these clarion words:—

Before a battle the king thus moralizes:—

And when flushed with victory, with what a splendid thought does he compliment the valor of his people:—

Further on, after commenting upon the bravery of Jonathan, Saul thus speaks:—

The fortunes of war have turned against the king; and, in the following how like the broken-hearted Lear does he bewail his fate:—

The general scope of this drama is in keeping with the Bible history of Saul and the leading personages associated with him; but of course the filling up, as it might be termed, is all original. The boldest attempt of our poet, perhaps, is that of introducing supernatural characters; and in one or two of his evil spirits he has been eminently successful. Indeed we fully concur with the “North British Review” when it says that “seldom has art so well performed the office of handmaiden to religion as in the extraordinary character of Malzah, in whom we have the disembodiment of the soul of the faithless, sophistical, brave, and generously disposed king of Israel, and a most impressive poetical exposition of the awful truth, that he who is not wholly for God is against him.”

Soon after the horrible death of Agag, two demons make their appearance in the drama, when one of them, satisfied with what he had witnessed, suggests to his companion that they should return to hell, when the other replies as follows:—

In keeping with the above, which would be a fit subject for the pencil of Doré, on the score of horror, is the subjoined soliloquy, uttered by Saul when first fully possessed by his evil spirit, Malzah:—

A few pages further on, and after Saul has recovered from one of his dreadful paroxysms, he has an interview with his physician, and a part of that dialogue is too pathetic to omit in this compilation:—

As I have mentioned the name of Malzah, it is proper that I should give the reader a taste of his qualities. With the following words, for example, does he conclude one of his infernal songs:—

Again does he exclaim in devilish delight:—

And again:—

And how vivid is this description of the poor king as he lies asleep upon a bed at midnight:—

Leaving this demon to carry on his warfare against the monarch of Israel, we run over the pages hastily to pick out such brief sentences as are particularly striking and need no explanation, concluding with one more quotation from the hero of the drama. Read the following:—

Let us listen to the poor king sighing for sleep, and then, after enduring many troubles more, see him sink into that sleep that knows no waking:—

He has been mortally wounded in battle, and these are his last words:—

The next production printed by Mr. Heavysege was a drama in five acts, entitled “Count Filippo; or, The Unequal Marriage.” The scenery and personages are Italian, though very different in character from the other works of the author, but is nevertheless well worthy of his gifted pen. The plot is painful and somewhat overstrained, but the story, and the manner of telling it, have a strange power over the reader. It was not until after he had published this poem that the press of Canada condescended to recognize the poet as of sufficient capacity to furnish them with an occasional communication on the topics of the day. While filling their papers with fulsome praise of snobby lordlings from England, they have not, for the most part, had time to recognize the fact that the wood-carver of Montreal was the leading intellect of their Dominion. And as to encouragement from the United States, I have never seen a single copy of his writings in any library in this country, excepting my own.

After “Filippo,” Mr. Heavysege published an “Ode on Shakespeare.” It is in blank verse, contains nearly eight hundred lines, but is hardly worthy of the author of “Saul.” His last production, published in Montreal in 1865, is a sacred idyl of fourteen hundred lines, entitled “Jephthah’s Daughter.” As in the case of “Saul,” the poet here follows the narrative of the Bible. By many this poem will be considered the greatest and most perfect of his productions; but I have read “Saul” so many times, and with so much pleasure, that I am loath as yet to yield the palm to the new-comer. If I had not already exceeded my limits, nothing would afford me more pleasure than to give my readers a score or two of splendid passages from this poem; but I must be content with submitting a single extract, in which I find the unhappy daughter pleading with her more unhappy mother:—

If the fragments here submitted from the pen of Charles Heavysege do not win for him a host of friends from the intellectual circles of this country, then, indeed, shall I be surprised and disappointed.

After writing the above, a new edition of “Saul” was published in Boston, and, in 1876, this most gifted poet died in Montreal. From the correspondence with which he has honored me, I submit the following:—

———

He was my friend, good and true; and I only obey the impulse of my heart when I speak a loving word in his memory. He was a pure, gifted, high-toned, and noble Christian gentleman; and I am proud to record the fact that, by the ties of marriage, he was allied to my father’s family, having married one of his sisters. He was born in Franklin, New London County, Conn., Nov. 22, 1806, and died at Norwich, Sept. 19, 1880. His father, Daniel Foster, served with honor as a captain in the Revolutionary war, and was a direct descendant of Miles Standish. His mother was a woman of rare excellence, and worthy of her noted son; and it is a pleasant recollection that, before removing into the elegant house in which he died, he provided for that mother and a sister a comfortable home wherein to spend their days in peace. While preparing himself for college, he taught in one of the schools of Norwich; graduated at Brown University in 1828; and, while preparing himself for the life of a lawyer, taught in an academy in the State of Maryland, in which State he was admitted to the bar, and afterwards admitted to that of Connecticut. In 1835 he had the editorial charge of a newspaper in Norwich; but the employment was not congenial, and he soon relinquished the position. In 1837, after a long intimacy with the family, he married Joanna Boylston Lanman, daughter of the Hon. James Lanman, by whom he had three children, all of whom died at an early age; and his wife also died in 1859. She was a most accomplished and amiable woman,—for several years my own especial guardian,—and did much to promote her husband’s interests and happiness, not only in Connecticut, but, also, while he was a resident of Washington. The calamities which befell his domestic circle, however, notwithstanding his marked Christian character, had a depressing effect on his subsequent life. In 1839 he was elected to the State Legislature, to which he was six times re-elected, and was Speaker for three years. In 1846 he visited Europe, and in 1851 was made a doctor of laws by Brown University. In 1854 he was elected to the United States Senate, where he was a recognized leader for twelve years, serving on the most important committees, and two years as President pro tem and acting Vice-President. Before the Rebellion, he was ready to make many concessions; but after the war had commenced, he was a most earnest defender of the Union, though never bitter in his feelings. He was present at the battle of Bull Run, but only as a spectator; and it is not yet a settled question whether he, Zachariah Chandler, and Alfred Ely returned to Washington all on the same horse, or on foot with rare rapidity. From what subsequently happened, that little affair at Bull Run would seem to have inspired a regular spirit of adventure; for, a few years afterwards, as the head of a Senate committee, he went on an expedition among the Indians, and actually hunted the Buffalo bulls on the Western prairies; and the stories which Senator Doolittle used to tell of their exploits, for he was on the same committee, were amusing in the extreme.

In 1870, Mr. Foster was again elected to the State Legislature, and soon afterwards was made a justice of the Supreme Court of the State, having retired in 1876. After the close of his first term as a judge, he visited Europe; and so careful was he not to neglect his duties that he came home to sit out a second term of the court, and then went back to finish his European tour. He was offered a professorship in Yale College; and, though he declined the honor, he subsequently delivered a series of law lectures before the students of the college, and by his will endowed a professorship on English law in that institution. He took a special interest in all the local affairs of his native county, bequeathed his law library for the benefit of the public, and the valuable property which was his home to the Free Academy of Norwich. He took an active part in many religious organizations; did not think it beneath his dignity to teach a Bible class in the church to which he belonged; and the last of his addresses to the public was delivered on the 6th of September, 1880, at the Fort Griswold celebration, only thirteen days before his death.

The collected speeches, orations, and lectures delivered by this model statesman and lawyer would be a great acquisition to our national literature; and it is to be hoped they will be published in due time. He was one of those who never went out of his way to gain popularity, and though cautious in all his public acts and sayings, he was always honest and independent.

My acquaintance with Mr. Foster began in the year 1833, when I frequently met him in Norwich, at the Saturday family dinners of my grandfather, James Lanman, one of whose daughters, as already stated, subsequently became his wife, and under whose loving protection it was my lot, as a boy, to live for two or three years. His early career as a lawyer was most satisfactory, and he rose with rapidity to the position of a leader at the Norwich bar. He was chiefly engaged in the higher class of cases, in the whole of Eastern Connecticut; and his habit was to prosecute them with the utmost energy. As a pleader he was argumentative and serious; and, while his fees with rich men were highly remunerative, he was always ready to protect or assist a poor client without remuneration.

His prolonged services as a State legislator were of such a character that his transition, without passing through the national House of Representatives, to the Senate of the United States was the most natural of events; and how he conducted himself, both as a senator and as President of the Senate, is a part of our honorable national history; and it was according to the fitness of things, that he should have passed from the Senate to a seat on the bench of his native State.

It was while he resided in Washington, however, that I met him most frequently, and had the best opportunities to study his character. As a senator he was industrious, conscientious, and never left any of his public duties undone, as is the almost universal and very pernicious habit of the average senator and representative of the present day. He was proud of the State which he represented, and its humblest citizens, who might visit the metropolis, were treated with the utmost consideration. His habits were those of the scholar and man of culture, but he always had a pleasant word for those who occupied more humble spheres in society. As a presiding officer he was dignified, quick, fully posted in regard to all parliamentary rules, and strictly impartial in his decisions. For the high-living customs of Washington, which have so frequently brought disgrace upon men in high positions, he had a perfect abhorrence. As a party man he was true to principle, and had the boldness and the integrity, when necessary, to condemn what he thought wrong in the conduct of his own party; and I very well remember his scathing rebuke of a certain official of the Senate, whom he had discovered to be directly interested in a measure which had passed into a law ostensibly for the public welfare. He never made any sanctimonious professions, but he was a practical believer in the religion of the Bible. With men of thought, on suitable occasions, he delighted to converse upon all those themes which naturally attract the true statesman. On the other hand, when in the company of ladies, and the occasion was suitable, nothing delighted him more than to have a frolic in the way of repartee, when his pleasantries and harmless wit were sure to surprise and delight all who happened to be present. Generally speaking, his conversation was sedate, however, and in the seat of the Vice-President often cold and solemn; but his enjoyment of a good laugh was something almost unique, convulsive in its character, and magnetic in its effects upon others. When in a frolicsome mood he did not wait for something ridiculous to give him a start, and a description which I once heard him recite of a truly fearful railroad accident in one of the Southern States, when he came within an ace of being killed, was as good as a comedy. In all particulars, he was an exalted and well-balanced character, and his death was a national calamity.

The correspondence with which Mr. Foster honored me during our long acquaintance was quite frequent; but in looking over his letters, I find that they would not interest the public, or throw any light upon his character, as they are all connected with business or family affairs. I regret this circumstance most sincerely; but I have no doubt that there is ample correspondence in other hands, which will be utilized in any memorial of his life which may be prepared hereafter, a volume for private circulation having already been printed by his second and surviving wife.

———

The friendship which existed between these two distinguished authors was intimate and long continued, and as free from the alloy of selfishness as anything of the kind recorded in literary history. What little I happen to know concerning their kindly feelings for each other, and now propose to submit to the public, may be considered as a happy conclusion to the story of their intimacy as contained in their correspondence, hitherto published.

The intercourse between them commenced in 1841, when Mr. Irving was in his fifty-eighth year, and Mr. Dickens had attained precisely half that number of years, twenty-nine. The American took the lead and wrote a letter expressing his heartfelt delight with the writings of the Englishman, and his yearnings toward him. The reply was minute, impetuously kind, and eminently characteristic. “There is no man in the world,” said Mr. Dickens, “who would have given me the heartfelt pleasure you have. . . . There is no living writer, and there are very few among the dead, whose approbation I should feel so proud to earn. And with everything you have written upon my shelves, and in my thoughts and in my heart of hearts, I may honestly and truly say so. If you could know how earnestly I write this, you would be glad to read it, as I hope you will be, faintly guessing at the warmth of the hand I autobiographically hold out to you over the broad Atlantic. . . . I have been so accustomed to associate you with my pleasantest and happiest thoughts, and with my leisure hours, that I rush at once into full confidence with you, and fall, as it were naturally, and by the very laws of gravity, into your open arms. . . . I cannot thank you enough for your cordial and generous praise, or tell you what deep and lasting gratification it has given me.”

In the winter of 1842, and while the literary public of New York was congratulating Mr. Irving on his appointment as minister to Spain, the tide of excitement suddenly turned toward Mr. Dickens, who just then arrived in the city of Boston. Then it was that the two lions first met face to face; and for a few weeks, at Sunnyside, and in the delightful literary society which was a striking feature of New York life at that time, they saw as much of each other as circumstances would allow. Professor C. C. Felton, in his remarks on the death of Mr. Irving, before the Historical Society of Massachusetts, gave us some interesting recollections of this winter in New York. Among other things, he said: “I passed much of the time with Mr. Irving and Mr. Dickens; and it was delightful to witness the cordial intercourse of the young man, in the flush and glory of his fervid genius, and his elder compeer, then in the assured possession of immortal renown. Dickens said, in his frank, hearty manner, that from his childhood he had known the works of Irving; and that before he thought of coming to this country, he had received a letter from him, expressing the delight he felt in reading the story of Little Nell.”

But the crowning event of the winter in question was the great dinner given to Mr. Dickens by his admirers at the old City Hotel. I was a mere boy at the time, a Pearl Street clerk, but through the kindness of certain friends the honor was granted to me of taking a look from a side door at the august array of gifted authors before they were summoned to the sumptuous table. It was only a glimpse that I enjoyed; but while Mr. Irving, as presiding host, was sacrificing his sensitive nature for the gratification of his friend, and was, by breaking down in his speech of welcome, committing the only failure of his life, I retired to the quiet of my attic room, and spent nearly the whole of that night with “Little Nell,” the “Broken Heart,” and “Marco Bozzaris,” and drinking in the beauty and the comforting philosophy of “Thanatopsis,” all of them the matchless creations of authors whom it had just been my privilege to see. The little speech which Mr. Dickens delivered on that occasion was happy in the extreme, proving not only that he was familiar with the writings of Mr. Irving, but that he placed the highest value upon them; and before taking his seat he submitted the following toast: “The Literature of America: She well knows how to honor her own literature, to do honor to that of other lands, when she chooses Washington Irving as her representative in the country of Cervantes.”

Soon after the New York dinner, business called Mr. Irving to Washington, and Mr. Dickens made his arrangements to be there at the same time. At that place they renewed their friendly intercourse, laughed together at the follies of the politicians, enjoyed the companionship of the great triumvirs, Webster, Clay, and Calhoun, and were of course victimized at the President’s receptions. On one occasion the honors were certainly divided between the two authors; and while we know that Mr. Dickens had no reason to complain of any want of attention on the part of the people, it is pleasant to read his comments upon the conduct of the assembled company toward Mr. Irving. “I sincerely believe,” said he in his “American Notes,” “that in all the madness of American politics, few public men would have been so earnestly, devotedly, and affectionately caressed as this most charming writer; and I have seldom respected a public assembly more than I did this eager throng, when I saw them turning with one mind from noisy orators and officers of state, and flocking, with a generous and honest impulse, around the man of quiet pursuits; proud in his promotion as reflected back upon their country, and grateful to him with their whole hearts for the store of graceful fancies he had poured out among them.” From Washington, Mr. Dickens went upon a trip to Richmond, and on his return he made a doubtful appointment to meet Mr. Irving in Baltimore, and to that meeting I shall presently recur. In the mean time I must quote a single paragraph from a letter that he wrote as a reminder to Mr. Irving: “What pleasure I have had in seeing and talking with you I will not attempt to say. I shall never forget it as long as I live. What would I give if we could have but a quiet week together! Spain is a lazy place, and its climate an indolent one. But if you ever have leisure under its sunny skies to think of a man who loves you, and holds communion with your spirit oftener, perhaps, than any other person alive,—leisure from listlessness I mean,—and will write to me in London, you will give me an inexpressible amount of pleasure.”

In 1853 it was my privilege to spend a day with Mr. Irving during his last visit to Washington, and in an account of it which I published in Once a Week, in London, occurs the following: “He touched upon literary men generally, and a bit of criticism on Thackeray seemed to me full of meaning. He liked the novelist as a lecturer and a man, and his books were capital. Of his novels he liked ‘Pendennis,’ most; ‘Vanity Fair’ was full of talent, but many passages hurt his feelings; ‘Esmond’ he thought a queer affair, but deeply interesting. Thackeray had quite as great genius as Dickens, but Dickens was genial and warm, and that suited him.”

And now comes a letter addressed to me by Mr. Dickens, during his last visit to this country, and as introductory to which the preceding paragraphs have been written. In view of the allusion to myself, I must plead the saying that “it is sometimes almost excusable for a man to commit a little sin for the purpose of securing a greater good.”

Mr. R. Shelton Mackenzie, in a pleasing comment on this letter, makes this remark: “The enchanted julep was a gift from the proprietor of Guy’s Hotel, Baltimore, and, ‘having held out far into the night,’ must have been on a magnificent scale at first; large enough for Gog and Magog, were they alive, to have become mellow upon. George Cruikshank or H. L. Stevens, no inferior should dare attempt it, might win additional fame by sketching the two authors, so much akin in genius and geniality, imbibing the generous, mellifluous fluid from a pitcher which, like the magic purse of Fortunatus, seemed always full.”

———

I would throw a single flower upon this good man’s grave. I first heard of his illness about ten days before his death, and my first impulse was to write to him a sympathizing letter; and his reply, written in February, 1875, contained the following paragraph:—

In view of the present aspect of our national affairs, I look upon the death of such a man as a great calamity. He was an honest man, pure, unselfish, clear-minded, a lover of his fellow-men, charitable, ever influenced by lofty aspirations, a true Christian, an eminently useful citizen, and an honor to his State and country. My acquaintance with him began when I was a boy and attended a Sunday school in Norwich, Conn., of which he was for many years the superintendent. His winning manners as a speaker, his kind admonitions to the wayward boys, and his knowledge of the Bible, all made such a deep impression on my mind that I have never forgotten them during the intervening forty years. Long afterwards, when upon a trouting expedition among the hills of his native Lebanon, I chanced to meet him under the roof where he was born; and I well remember with what careful consideration he treated his aged parents, and, by his presence, filled their home with sunshine, which home, by the way, the lightning had a chronic habit of assaulting, but without ever doing any special harm.

During the days of the old Whig party, Mr. Buckingham took an interest in public affairs, and the speeches he was wont to utter always had the ring of pure metal; and his influence, which was paramount, caused him to be frequently elected mayor of Norwich. For a short time, when he kept the most extensive dry-goods store in Norwich, I was one of his clerks; and I remember that his careful and upright way of doing business was most influential, both within and without his establishment. When he subsequently became eminently successful as a manufacturer, he spent his money with marvellous liberality in promoting the cause of religion and education, and in secretly helping the deserving poor. As one of the “war governors” during the Rebellion, he had no superior; and he made his wisdom and patriotism felt throughout the length and breadth of the land. As a senator, he was dignified, kind, always anxious to be right, bold in following the line of duty, and in all his sympathies was far removed from the crowd of common partisans and demagogues.

The good deeds of this departed man might be counted by the hundred, but his negative qualities will be remembered to his credit. He was too unsuspecting in his nature to be useful in that extensive department of modern American legislation known as investigating committees; he never used his influence as a public man to put money in his own pockets or those of his family and friends; he was not one of those who could take pleasure in any kind of fashionable debauchery; nor was he one of those men who pretend to be what they are not, or to know about things of which they are ignorant; he never delivered speeches when he had nothing to say; and long, commonplace rigmaroles, permeated with the narrow spirit of the demagogue, were things for which he had a holy horror. It would seem as if, for the sake of our country, such men as Senator Buckingham “should be living at this hour”; and the conclusion of Wordsworth’s sonnet on Milton was as applicable to the unpretending but highly honored American citizen, as it was to the great poet:—

———

Numerous and very pleasant are the recollections which I cherish of this accomplished man. He first came to Washington as chargé d’affaires, from England, in 1847; was subsequently made a full minister, received the honor of knighthood, and after an honorable career in Russia and in Spain, was retired upon a pension, and settled in his native Ireland for the balance of his days. His father, Philip Crampton, was an eminent surgeon in Ireland, and he had a brother who stood high as a clergyman in the Established Church of England.

I became acquainted with him in 1850, at Mr. Webster’s table, and I was perhaps the last friend who shook his hand prior to his sudden departure from Washington. The fact that we were both fond of fishing and of painting drew us together from the start, and both of those pursuits we enjoyed in company during his entire sojourn in this country. If I could pilot him to the best pools in the Potomac for fly-fishing, he, on the other hand, had the power of rewarding me in a princely manner by his conversation on the fine arts; but as to the sketching grounds where we studied nature, I think our discoveries were about equal, for he was a famous explorer of retired and beautiful nooks in the local scenery. On many occasions, when the weather was favorable, we visited the Little Falls before breakfast (and once, I remember, he captured not less than thirty rock-fish); on the afternoon of the same day we have taken a drive in his open carriage, and each produced a sketch; and in the evening would follow an elegant dinner at the legation, and a long and, to me, very instructive conversation upon art, illustrated with his treasures in the way of engravings, etchings, drawings, and paintings. His ability as an artist was remarkable, and he produced water-color drawings and oil paintings with equal facility, and that facility was great. He painted pictures chiefly for the pleasure the employment afforded, and I have seen him destroy his productions by the dozen; and among the pictures which I now possess, and which I rescued from the floor of his studio, I may mention a seaside and a view of Killarney in water colors, two market-women in the rain, and a portrait of himself in oil. The only things from his own pencil which he seemed to value were a series of effects in color which he had copied from the old masters in the leading galleries of Europe.

The state dinners which Mr. Crampton gave were grand affairs; big men, senators and foreign diplomats, attended them, and of course they were often stupid; but the private dinners were enjoyable. It was at one of these that I met young Bulwer, before he had blossomed into a poet as Owen Meredith; he was at that time an attaché to the legation, and when I afterwards read his first book of poetry, I was simply astonished, for I had not anticipated a mind of such strength in such a quiet little body as he had appeared to me; and when I afterwards saw him gazetted as the viceroy of India, and head and front of the Afghanistan war, my amazement knew no bounds. That all the world do not think him a great man is proven by the fact that the erratic poet, Swinburne, calls him “Pretty little Lytton, with his muse in muff and mitten.” The two gentlemen who acted as Mr. Crampton’s chief secretaries, during his residence in Washington, were John Savile Lumley and Philip Griffith, both of whom have since distinguished themselves in the diplomatic service. The first was an artist and an angler, and accompanied me in one of my fishing tours to New Brunswick. Mr. Griffith was a man of high culture and distinguished for his conversational powers.

Among the men of note whom I met at Mr. Crampton’s table was Sir Edmund Head, whom I had seen before at Frederickton, New Brunswick, and from whom I had received some favors bearing upon the salmon streams of the Province. He was fond of art, and an adept with the pencil; and one day, after he had been looking over my sketches from nature, he joined Mr. Crampton in complimenting them, and told this truth,—that my finished pictures did not by any means equal my studies in the fields and woods. Some of my autumn subjects he fancied in particular, and my vanity was such, at the moment, that I told him to help himself to all he wanted. He promptly and cordially complied with my request; and since then I have frequently had occasion to regret my fit of liberality, although glad that anything from my pencil should have been taken to England.

Among the hobbies that Mr. Crampton employed to gratify his taste, while in this country, was the forming of a collection of European caricatures; and when W. M. Thackeray was in Washington, two large boxes of these comical pictures were received by Mr. Crampton, and the novelist was present at the opening. Fresh as he was from London, Mr. Thackeray found many things in this collection which he had never before seen; and, for two days, he devoted almost his entire time to their examination. The result was, that at a subsequent dinner, given by Mr. Crampton, the deponent enjoyed a most learned and entertaining conversation, between the host and his distinguished guest, on the history of pictorial sarcasm; and, in a few months thereafter, an article made its appearance on the subject, in one of the British quarterlies, from the pen of the celebrated wit and novelist. Another thing which attracted the special attention of Mr. Thackeray, during his visit to the metropolis, was the residence itself of Mr. Crampton, on the Heights of Georgetown. The building was large, and had all the comforts of an old-fashioned mansion; and it stood in the midst of a grove of splendid oak-trees, commanding a superb view of Washington and the broad bosom of the Potomac. It was for many years the home of the late John Carter. After Mr. Crampton left it, it was occupied by the French ministers, Count Sartiges and M. Mercier, having been burned while in the possession of the latter, and the locality became the property of Henry D. Cooke, the governor of the District of Columbia.

The art treasures which Mr. Crampton delighted to gather around him consisted chiefly, as already intimated, of line engravings, etchings, and water-color drawings. His engravings were numerous, some of them exceedingly fine; but the entire collection was not equal to that which formerly belonged to George P. Marsh; his collection of etchings, however, was unsurpassed in this country, and was especially rich in Rembrandts; and in the way of water-colors, his collection was very valuable and rare. His favorites were David Cox and Copeley Fielding, and he owned some of their best productions. The arrival of a new picture from England, for he was constantly receiving them, was quite an important event at the legation, and connected with one of them I have this anecdote. On the day it was received, Mr. Crampton wrote me, “The David Cox is arrived, and my cook has discovered a live lobster, which I shall be glad if you will partake of in the shape of a salad, at seven o’clock this evening.” I went, and almost the first thing he told me was the story of the unpacking. At the moment the picture was taken out of the box at the front door, one of our stalwart Western senators made his appearance, rolling up in a splendid carriage with coachman in livery. He looked at the picture and was greatly pleased; he thought it the finest colored engraving he had ever seen, and as he presumed they could be obtained for about ten dollars each, he asked Mr. Crampton to order three or four of these pictures, as they would “look beautiful” in his wife’s best parlor. Now the picture which had inspired this wonderful liberality from the “Yahoo,” represented a lonely scene among the mountains of Wales, with two bulls about to meet in a combat; and the sum paid for it, by Mr. Crampton, was one thousand dollars. The fearful ignorance of that American senator would have been startling even in a flashy novel.

Mr. Crampton’s admiration of that English master was most intense; the simplicity of his subjects and his bold handling were all that could be desired; and yet his love of Copeley Fielding was intense, and the second place of honor in his drawing-room was assigned to that artist, and to a magnificent coast scene with passing storm. Mr. Crampton’s idea of pictures was that they should be so painted that they could be enjoyed from a distance, even from a chair in the centre of the room. He also admired the coarse brown paper upon which Cox painted, and he repeated some amusing comments uttered by a London tradesman, who had laughed at the idea of selling his trashy paper to the great artist.

The notes and letters which I received from Mr. Crampton were numerous; and, whilst I would not overstep the bounds of propriety, I will venture to submit in this place a few characteristic sentences.

Between Mr. Crampton and Mr. Webster there existed a most cordial intimacy, and I presume it is no secret that our secretary had much to do with the promotion of his friend to the rank of minister plenipotentiary. It was a letter which Mr. Webster wrote to Lord Palmerston that probably did the business; but, of course, the British government was quite aware of the fact that the honor was well merited.

During the summer preceding his death, Mr. Webster invited Mr. Crampton to visit Marshfield “with as many adjuncts as he pleased.” The object of this meeting was to consult about the fishery questions which threatened trouble; and the minister and his secretary, Mr. Griffith, were prompt in accepting the invitation. It was my good fortune to be at Marshfield at the time; and, for about a fortnight, the twelfth sign of the zodiac was complete master of the situation. With Mr. Crampton, early on one particular morning, I caught trout in a neighboring stream. During the middle of the day, all the visitors joined Mr. Webster and Seth Peterson in a sail over the blue waters to the haddock or codfish grounds; and during the evening, at dinner, or on the piazza, fish stories and serious talk about the threatened troubles with Canada were the order of the time.

With Mr. Everett, during his brief service as Secretary of State, Mr. Crampton was also intimate; but between him and the next Secretary of State, Mr. Marcy, there was no intimacy and no friendship. With all his ability and knowledge of books, Mr. Marcy was really nothing but a politician; and this was proven by his official treatment of Mr. Crampton on account of the alleged enlistment of men in this country for the Crimean war. That Mr. Crampton left Washington suddenly and in disgust is not to be questioned; and the last thing that he did before his departure was to present me with his whole stock of fishing tackle and much of his studio furniture. It was the opinion of Mr. George Ticknor that the British ministry was responsible for that enlistment business, not Mr. Crampton; and he has reported the following characteristic opinion, uttered by one of Mr. Crampton’s particular friends: “Thackeray, who has a strong personal regard for him, was outrageous on the matter, and cursed the ministry, by all his gods, for making him, as he said, their scapegoat.”

But my recollections of Mr. Crampton are so intimately associated with his two official friends, that I must allude to them again. Mr. Griffith first came to Washington as secretary of legation, had full charge for about one year, and was subsequently transferred to Brazil as chargé d’affaires. He was a most genial and accomplished man, and very fond of riding; and I remember that, during one of my rides in his company, he told me that if a man who was obliged to travel on horseback in the rain would carefully keep his knees covered with a leathern pad, it would greatly add to his comfort, and keep him from taking cold. A very beautiful bronze inkstand which he presented to me I have had in constant use for the third of a century.

With regard to Mr. Lumley, he also had charge of the Washington legation for a time, and was so rapidly promoted that he was the British envoy to Saxony, Switzerland, Belgium, and Spain. Having been interested in some of my salmon-fishing adventures, he proposed to accompany me on one of my expeditions to the Nepisiquit in New Brunswick. After we had been on the river for about a week, and domiciled in a log-camp which had been built for me during a previous summer, I was obliged to leave on account of sickness, and return home; and among the letters which he wrote to me from the wilderness soon afterwards were the following, preceded by one from Washington:—

Mr. Lumley’s skill as an artist was perhaps not equal to that of Mr. Crampton; but many of his sketches from nature were really exquisite. While regretting that the trio of noble British gentlemen, just mentioned, have long been beyond my ken, the many very happy days that I was privileged to spend in their society will long be treasured among my choicest memories.

———

Having been requested by the family of the late Samuel Tyler, of Maryland, to prepare his life and letters for publication, I cheerfully consented to do so; and all the available materials were placed in my hands. As to when that labor can be accomplished, it is impossible for me to say, because of the pressure of my ordinary duties. It has occurred to me, however, that I might, with propriety, give the public a foretaste of what they may hereafter expect, and hence the subjoined sketch of my friend’s antecedents as a philosopher, a lawyer, and author.

He was born on the 22d of October, 1809, in Prince George’s County, Maryland, on the estate where his father, Grafton Tyler, and his ancestors resided for several generations. His brother, Dr. Grafton Tyler, two years his junior, and long a distinguished physician in Georgetown, D. C., and he were the only children of their parents; and, until he was twelve years of age the twain attended school near the patrimonial home; after which they were sent to a school in Georgetown, D. C., kept by Dr. James Carnahan, who was soon afterwards elected president of Princeton College. The position vacated by Dr. Carnahan was filled by the Rev. James McVean, of the State of New York. It was to this excellent man that Mr. Tyler felt himself indebted for most of the instruction he ever received from a teacher, which was of any value; and he manifested his gratitude by joining his brother and other pupils in erecting a monument over the grave of their friend and teacher. Mr. Tyler thought him the best Latin and Greek scholar he had ever known, and said of him that, with fatherly pride and kindness, he labored to make his pupils scholars like himself. During the last eight months of his schooling in Georgetown, Mr. Tyler studied Greek at least fourteen hours of every day. The Greek modes of thought became his own; and he was far more familiar with Greek literature than with the English. The class to which he and his brother belonged was called “The Tenth Legion.” Besides composition in English, Latin, and Greek, public speaking, and some mathematics, the classic languages were their chief study.

He remained in this school until October, 1827, when he was strangely persuaded to go to Middlebury College, in Vermont; but he remained there only one quarter, having found the scholarship of the classes in the college very far below the private school of Georgetown. At Christmas he went out to Lake Champlain, to amuse himself by hunting, hoping that, after a while, he might feel like returning to the college; but he was out of his element, and soon returned to his home in Maryland.

Though conscious of his imperfect education, he had formed so low an estimate of the American colleges, that he determined to begin the study of law. His father placed him in the office of John Nelson, then a resident of Frederick, Maryland. He there began an extensive course of study to make amends for his defective education; and devoted himself to the study of law, history, political science, theology, the physical sciences, and all the branches of medicine. He was his own guide in all these studies, excepting the law.

His health having been impaired by overwork, he was advised to abandon his studies and devote himself to some active employment; but his reply was that he would die rather than give up an intellectual life. With great loss of time, from nervous prostration, he continued his studies, and was admitted to the bar in 1831.

Politics he eschewed from the beginning. His professional success was as great as it could well be, for one who mingled so little with the crowd. He had unusual facility for public speaking, his manners were those of a man of the world, and his appearance as far as possible from everything bookish; but his reputation for literary tastes did not do him the full measure of damage, professionally, which it has the power to do generally.

In the year 1836, a book on universal salvation, called “Balfour’s Inquiry,” was left at his office, with a request that he would read it, and record his opinion of its arguments. Whether the person who left it was, as indictments charge, “instigated by the devil,” he knew not, but certain it was that the Greek put into his head by James McVean baffled the devil, if indeed he had anything to do with the matter. Mr. Tyler wrote a notice of the book, which was published in the “Princeton Review” for July, 1836. Thus commenced his authorship, by fighting the arch heresy in religion.

He had now become engaged in the study of mental philosophy. Reid’s “Inquiry on the Principles of Common-Sense” had fallen into his hands while he was a student of law, and gave him the first glimpse of the philosophy of the human mind. He had never before read a word on the subject. The next work which he took up was Cousin’s “Introduction to the History of Philosophy,” which was put into his hands by a person who said, “he could make neither head nor tail of it.” He, however, was more successful; for he “made tales of it,” in a criticism contained in a letter to a friend, which was published in a Baltimore magazine.

In July, 1840, he published, in the “Princeton Review” an article on the “Baconian Philosophy”; and, in the same month and year, an article on Brougham’s “Natural Theology,” in the literary and religious magazine, edited by Rev. R. J. Breckenridge, in Baltimore. The doctrines of both these articles had been embraced in one, and sent by him to the New York “Review,” then edited by Rev. C. S. Henry. Mr. Henry so deported himself in regard to the article, that he addressed to him a letter, which was published in “Breckenridge’s Magazine” for March, 1840. The various papers from his pen, which followed, were as follows: “Lenhart, the Mathematician,” “Princeton Review,” July, 1841; “Rauch’s Psychology,” “Breckenridge’s Magazine,” August of the same year; “Psychology; or, Locke and Reid,” “Princeton Review” for April 1843; “Influence of the Baconian Philosophy,” “Princeton Review” for July; “Agricultural Chemistry,” same journal, October, 1844; “Connection between Philosophy and Revelation,” same journal, July, 1845; also “Bush on the Soul,” July, 1846; and “Humboldt’s Cosmos,” July, 1852; and in the “American Quarterly Review,” about that period, he published an article on “Whately’s Logic.” In speaking of the above, and other similar productions, he was wont to call them “withered leaves that strew the Vallombrosa of literature.”

In 1844 he published the first edition of his “Discourse on the Baconian Philosophy,” a second edition two years afterwards, and a third edition more recently. Soon after its first appearance, the True Catholic, a journal published in Baltimore, under the auspices of Bishop Whittingham, took such notice of it as to call forth a letter from Mr. Tyler to the bishop, which was far from being obsequious in its character. The bishop, in his reply, disavowed all responsibility for the article, but refused to make the disavowal through the journal itself, after which the correspondence between the parties was published in the newspapers. In this state of the affair, Hugh Davey Evans, of the Baltimore bar, addressed Mr. Tyler a letter, avowing himself the author of the notice. In answer to that letter, he published another communication, which induced Dr. Breckenridge to say that “he thanked his stars that it was not addressed to him”; while the “Princeton Review” was induced to speak of the bishop as a kind of Rip Van Winkle; and the “North American Review” to say that Mr. Tyler had given the Puseyite faction the greatest castigation they had ever received. Mr. Tyler’s reputation was not at all damaged by “the apostolic blows and knocks” which he received; but, on the contrary, the highest praise was awarded to him by the first men of science in America for the book he had published. Even Sir William Hamilton bore flattering testimony to its merits; and, as evidence of Mr. Tyler’s capacity for philosophy, did him the honor to send him each edition of his “Discussions” as they issued from the press. In all candor, however, it should be stated that Mr. Tyler did not think the work worthy of so much commendation. It was written when he was very young, and in his own opinion its chief interest lay in its being the production of a person untutored in philosophy, and, therefore, furnishing only a favorable augury of better things in the future from the same mind.

In 1848, his work entitled “Burns as a Poet and a Man” was published in this country; and, in the following year, it was republished in Dublin and also in London. It was written at night, during the winter of 1848, at the suggestion of an excellent lady, who had asked Mr. Tyler why he did not write something about his favorite poet. In his criticism on “Death and Doctor Hornbook,” a most ludicrous mistake occurred in regard to the Scotch word gully, he having made it mean, not a knife, but a cavity in the earth. The proof-reader allowed it to be so printed; and, strange to say, the European editions did not correct the blunder. When he discovered the mistake, it seemed to him such a good joke, that he at once divulged it.

It was perhaps this circumstance, I have supposed, which so sharpened Mr. Tyler’s critical eyesight as to discover an error in a letter written by Daniel Webster. It was his letter written to Lord Campbell, about the chief justices of England, the original draft of which had been presented to me as a keepsake; and on showing it to Mr. Tyler, he pointed out the mistake which had been made in one paragraph, where, by the use of two negatives, Mr. Webster actually said the very reverse of what he intended.

In the year 1841, when the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal Company was almost in bankruptcy, and by a sudden turn in politics, the old officers, who had been in the company from the first, were displaced, and new ones put in their positions, it was found impossible for these officers to make their annual report to the Legislature. This was during the time of the construction of the canal, and while all the negotiations with the bankers of Europe, in the sale of these bonds, were unknown to the public, and the great question was to learn what loss had been sustained by the sale of these bonds. In this state of things, Mr. Tyler was called upon to undertake the task of putting the business of the company in order. The old officers thought none but themselves could do it. Doubtless many persons thought, that to go to Mr. Tyler to do such work was like going to Parnassus, instead of Wall Street, for a financier. As he had a partner in the practice of the law, he undertook the task, and went before the Legislature and explained, to the satisfaction of all, the financial affairs, from first to last, of the company; and there was no further trouble.

When the convention assembled in 1850 to form a new constitution for the State of Maryland, Mr. Tyler addressed a letter to that body on the subject of law reform. The new constitution, which was already formed, required two commissions to be appointed: one, consisting of two persons, to digest the statutes of the State; and the other, consisting of three persons, to simplify the procedure in all the courts of the State. Mr. Tyler was elected by the Legislature one of the simplifiers. Their first report, on the general subject of law, law reform, and pleading, was prepared exclusively by Mr. Tyler.

In the mean time there was no abatement in Mr. Tyler’s philosophical, scientific, and literary studies. Among the works that he then projected was one entitled “The Blossoms of Science”; but it was not published. Up to that period his attention had been so divided between law and science, that he really displeased two classes of his friends. The lawyers said, Give up science; the scientists said, Give up law; and so, as he was wont to say, he pleased neither class of friends.

Mr. Tyler’s work entitled “The Progress of Philosophy in the Past and the Future” was first published in 1859, and a second edition in 1868; in 1872 appeared “The Memoir of Roger B. Taney”; and, two or three years afterwards, his “Theory of the Beautiful.” Among his legal writings, all of which are held in high repute by the profession, are “A Treatise on Pleadings in the Court of Chancery,” “A Commentary on the Law of Partnership,” and “Treatise on Preliminary Procedure and Pleadings in the Maryland Courts of Law”; and he also edited, with copious notes, “Stephens on Pleading.” But the crowning work of his life was “An Introduction to Statesmanship as shown in the Progress of European Society, in Relation to Government and Constitutional Law, from the Foundation of Rome by Romulus,” not published.

Of all the books published by Professor Tyler, perhaps the most important, and the one which gives us the best characteristics of his mind, is the “Discourse on the Baconian Philosophy.” But we allude, especially, to the revised edition, which is in reality a new work. “It is so changed in form and so much fuller in its scope, bringing down, as it does, all the important discoveries in the physical sciences to the present time, and their application to the arts; and also showing all the successive steps taken by the discoverers, from the first inductive suggestions, through all their experiments and reasonings, to the complete development of the scientific truths into established theories.” The edition was prepared as an introduction to the study of the physical sciences, and as a guide to discoveries in the true path of induction, at the solicitation of Professor Henry, of the Smithsonian Institution, and other scientists. The “Discourse” “takes a theistic view of physical science; and without making it a special and separate topic shows, incidentally, by its reasonings in the development of strictly and purely scientific doctrines, that the theistic is the one perennial view of the inductive method from the beginning of true science.” It shows that evolution, when considered as an all-comprehending doctrine accounting for the origin of things, as well as subsequent evolution, is self-contradictory in thought and absurd in expression.

The distinction made in the “Discourse” between philosophical and rhetorical analogy, the first being the basis of inductive inference, and the last being only the basis of illustration, and philosophical analogy itself being inductive evidence, and not a species of reasoning as Aristotle and even Sir William Hamilton had assumed, is an important advance in the doctrine of inductive method. It was adopted by Professor Henry, in his lectures on natural philosophy delivered at Princeton College, and is retained in the syllabus of those lectures published in the Smithsonian publications. It was this “Discourse” which induced Sir William Hamilton to write, in 1848, to the author, to give up the practice of the law, and devote himself exclusively to philosophy. This the author never did, but yet continued philosophical investigations, until his path of thought and that of Sir William became so much one, that, on the death of Sir William, Lady Hamilton presented the author with a beautiful portrait of her husband, as a token of esteem of herself and her family.

The work on European society was not quite finished at the time of his death; but I am glad to mention the fact that, in his own opinion, expressed to a friend, it could be published in the condition it then was, without any great detriment; and it is understood that, in due time, it will appear, under the editorship of Mr. James C. Welling, the learned and accomplished president of the Columbian University.

My personal acquaintance with Mr. Tyler commenced when he became a resident of Georgetown; and one of the last evening visits that he made before his death was at my house. He was the most brilliant and edifying talker I ever heard; and I doubt whether even the poet Coleridge was more than equal to him in that particular. That he had one weakness, however, cannot be denied; but it was one by which his auditors were always benefited, viz., a disposition to monopolize the conversation. His “subject themes” were well-nigh unlimited. The grasp of his mind was such that he could infuse into things obsolete the spirit of the living present. When led in the direction of the beautiful, he talked like a poet about woman and art, the charms of nature and the experiences of the human heart; with the records of history and of jurisprudence he was as familiar as most men are with their daily avocations; the depth and extent of his knowledge on all the manifold phases of philosophy was simply marvellous; and he had the power of discoursing upon the Bible in such a manner as to make his hearers almost believe that he had never studied any other volume. For women who were handsome, brilliant, and good, he had a kind of passion; and it was to one of these, Miss Esmeralda Boyle, that he dedicated his “Theory of the Beautiful.” His love of truth in literature was such that it induced him to try and prove by documents that the poem of “Barbara Frietchie,” by Whittier, was founded upon a pure fiction instead of a fact. If vulnerable on the score of self-conceit, it may be asserted with entire truth that very few in any age have ever received a larger number of highly complimentary letters from famous men in the various departments of learning. For political controversies he had no taste; and while always ready to exercise an impartial judgment, his sympathies were generally with the doctrines and the statesmen of the section of country in which he was born, but he cherished no feelings of unkindness towards any portion of our common country, every part of which he felt should be dear to the true patriot. In religion he was entirely orthodox, but made no pretensions; and, on the fly-leaf of a little German Testament which he always kept upon his writing table, I have found written the subjoined translation of a passage from the will of M. Guizot, to which was appended his signature:—

In the opinion of one of his friends, the ruling thought in his mind was the Christian revelation considered as an element and factor in human history.

The men of thought for whom he felt a special regard, he “grappled them to his soul with hooks of steel,” having a fancy for covering his study walls with their portraits; and I remember that one of his best pictures, occupying the place of honor, was the portrait of Sir William Hamilton, already mentioned, which had been presented to him by Lady Hamilton. His exploits as an advocate before the courts of Maryland are a marked feature in the legal history of the State. As law professor in the Columbian University, he was always popular with the students, and held in the highest esteem by the Faculty. As an author, his chief vehicle for communicating with the public, as already intimated, was the “Princeton Review”; and the essays which he published therein, between the years 1836 and 1855, would form a most interesting and valuable volume. His remarkable versatility is exemplified by the diverse character of his published and unpublished productions. It is true that they are not numerous; but they are so distinguished for their ability that his reputation as an author is even more widely recognized in Europe than in this country.

As an evidence of his influence among men of thought, it may be mentioned that he was made a doctor of laws in 1858 by Columbia College of South Carolina, and by Columbia College of New York in 1859, when the president, Charles King, wrote that the honor was conferred “in token of admiration for his character and for his legal and literary attainments.” It was in June, 1867, that he was unanimously elected professor of law in the Columbian College of Washington, in which position he continued until his death, and from which he also received the degree of doctor of laws. But the very high estimation in which he was held by leading men in Europe was something most unusual. Although he had never crossed the Atlantic, he was, by means of correspondence, on the most intimate terms with the philosophers of Scotland; and it was upon his nomination, made by request, that two of the chairs of philosophy in the University of Edinburgh were filled by men who have proved themselves eminently worthy of the honor conferred upon them.

The death of Professor Tyler took place in Georgetown, D. C., on the 15th of December, 1877. He left a widow and one son, his only daughter having died several years before. During the protracted illness which proved to be his last, he made several attempts to resume his labors on his unfinished book; but his brother, Dr. Grafton Tyler, told him to throw it aside at once, as he was killing himself, whereupon he replied, “I have killed myself,” and never again took up the pen which he had wielded with most consummate skill and success. For many months his friends were apprehensive that he was overworking himself; and the result of this overwork was that he died from paralysis of the brain.

He was a man of fine personal appearance; always dignified and agreeable in his manners; fond of seeking relaxation from his life of intellectual toil in cultivated society; and, as already stated, his conversational powers were remarkable. His name, as one of his friends has said, belongs to the catalogue with Thales, Socrates, Aristotle, Descartes, Bacon, Locke, Whewell, Reid, Hamilton, Cousin, Kant, and Hegel; and when the human mind completes the cycle, and returns, after the changes of the present time, to the study of philosophy, it will render well-deserved homage to the intellect of Samuel Tyler.

———

Among the men of mark with whom it was my good fortune to be personally acquainted, there were none for whom I entertained a greater affection than General Scott. He had been the friend of my father; and when I first saw him in 1849, he treated me with great kindness. The place where I most frequently met him was the Library of the War Department, of which I was then the librarian. He was a frequent visitor, and we had many pleasant talks about books and authors. His love of literature was strong, and his knowledge and taste decidedly uncommon,—far in advance of public men generally. He was partial to French books; and many of the more valuable publications in the War Department Library were purchased at his suggestion; and he had a special fondness for the great English reviews. When Kendall’s description of the war with Mexico, with large pictures of the principal battles, made its appearance, an early copy was obtained for the library; and one of the first men who looked over it there was General Scott. His comments were full of sharp criticism, but it was evident that the scenes in which he had borne a conspicuous part inspired considerable pleasure.

When, in 1851, General Scott began to be talked about as a candidate for the Presidency, a Philadelphia publisher asked me to prepare a campaign life of the war-worn hero. I consulted the general, and accepted the commission. He helped me somewhat in my labors; the little book was duly published, and hence, perhaps, the election of Franklin Pierce. “I never loved a bird or flower,” etc., nor did I ever try to help a political friend into the Presidency, without blasting his prospects forevermore; the moral of which is, that I was never intended for the arena of politics. And it may be mentioned in this connection that, after Pierce became President, I had the honor of dining at the White House, when the two most prominent guests were Winfield Scott and Jefferson Davis.

Another incident that I remember, connected with General Scott, had reference to a speculation in horse-flesh. He mentioned the fact to me, one day, that he had a charming little mare, which he had purchased for his daughter, but that the animal was altogether too lively for the saddle, and he wished to sell her. I told him I would purchase her, myself, if I had the money, as I wanted just such a creature for my amusement. “Give me your note,” said he, “for one hundred and fifty dollars, and it will be all right.” I duly forwarded the valuable consideration to him, when he returned this little missive to me:—

This mare was one of the most beautiful creatures of the horse kind I ever saw, but she had one habit that made her ladyship rather disgusting; it was that of getting up a regular dance whenever she passed a carriage; whereby she invariably prevented her rider from making a graceful bow to any lady friends that he might happen to know, and compelled him to appear in rather a ridiculous plight. It was not long, therefore, before I parted with the “Lady Ella,” for the sum of two hundred dollars; and she was subsequently sold, in Baltimore, for seven hundred dollars.

When my “Dictionary of Congress” was first published, among the friends to whom I sent copies was General Scott, who then had his headquarters in New York; and, in return, he sent me the following pleasant note:—

One of the most agreeable interviews that I had with General Scott was on the deck of a North River steamboat, when he was going to make one of his frequent visits to West Point. He seemed to know the history of every bay, headland, ledge, hill, and farm that we sighted; and his talk abounded in anecdotes connected with them, and the famous men of the Revolution. But the two or three persons who immediately surrounded him were not the only ones who enjoyed his conversation; for there was constantly a larger group collected within the sound of his soft and gentle voice, who looked upon the venerable hero with pride and affection, and who seemed delighted with his conversation. He smiled at the curiosity that was evinced, but withstood the piercing glances with accustomed fortitude.

The last time that I saw the grand old general was a few days preceding his final departure from Washington, on which occasion he alluded in pathetic terms to the existing national troubles. And as to the parting between Scott and McClellan at the railway station, on that famous morning, it was to my mind one of the most poetical events of the war. The dimly lighted hall, the silent hour before daybreak, the two chieftains with their military staffs,—one of them old and rounding a life of glory and passing into retirement; the other young, full of the most brilliant promise, and passing into a field of military action almost without a parallel,—all combined to make an impression on the public mind not soon to be forgotten. The events which General Scott witnessed, during his eventful career, were numerous and wonderful; but none of them were more remarkable than that he should have seen his successor hounded out of his military power by a pack of unscrupulous demagogues; and it was a blessing to the veteran warrior that he should have lived long enough to witness the triumphant conclusion of the war for the preservation of the Union, and the final extinction of slavery on the American continent.

———

It was through this well-known author and poet that I became, in 1857, a correspondent of the Illustrated London News, in which I published a series of illustrations of American scenery. During his first visit to this country I saw much of him and admired him as a poet, a lecturer, and a man. In Washington he received marked attention from our public men, and was more warmly greeted there as a lecturer than anywhere else, excepting Cincinnati, where he had an audience of two thousand; while the city of Philadelphia sent less than twenty persons to hear him on the subject of “National, Historical, and Popular Songs.” In Washington, a card was published thanking him for one of his lectures; and among the forty persons who signed it were John J. Crittenden, Lord Napier, Jefferson Davis, W. H. Seward, and A. H. Stephens.

Among the many things that he told me about the men with whom, as a journalist, he had been intimate, I remember these: That Herbert Ingram, who founded the London News, in 1842, and who was subsequently a member of Parliament, commenced his career as a news-vender; that he knew Charles Dickens when he began to write his “Sketches of Character,” for which he received two guineas each from the Chronicle, the paper with which Mr. Mackay had been connected for about ten years; that Sidney Smith was an occasional contributor to the Chronicle, having himself brought his famous letter to the Pennsylvanians to the office, and who was such a bad penman that what he wrote had to be guessed at by the proof-readers. Mr. Mackay also told me that Thomas Moore and Thomas Campbell were both in the habit of printing spicy squibs in the columns of the Chronicle. It was from him, also, that I first heard of Thackeray’s singular indifference to the works of nature; and that he did not have the curiosity to visit Niagara, when in this country. I had always been amazed at my own inability to wade through the novels of this famous author, but that information settled the whole question. He could, of course, describe a fashionable and heartless woman to perfection; but, for myself, I have no fancy for society follies when gone to seed.

Mr. Mackay had known Samuel Rogers quite intimately, and while he praised him highly, I became impressed with the idea that the banker-poet was as much a cynic as Thackeray, and the possessor of other qualities not calculated to add to the pleasures of memory, on the part of those who knew him best. But what Mr. Mackay told me about William Wordsworth was decidedly amusing as well as pathetic. Happening to be at Ambleside on one occasion, he improved an offered opportunity to visit Rydal Mount, and, although kindly welcomed by the great poet, Mr. Mackay received two compliments that were unique. In the first place, Wordsworth told him that he had never read one of his poems, and never intended to do so, giving as a reason that he never read any but his own; and, in the second place, he persisted, on several occasions, in calling Mr. Mackay, Laman Blanchard (who had recently committed suicide), and continued to do so until they parted; proving that the good and grand old author of the “Ode to Immortality” was simply in his dotage.

Another incident narrated to me by Mr. Mackay was even more sad than the one last mentioned, because it reflected on the bad taste, if nothing more, of an American official, who at the time was superintendent of the Capitol extension in Washington, while T. W. Walters was the architect. That gentleman had presented to Mr. Mackay, as editor of the Illustrated London News, a complete set of photographs from the original drawings of the new dome; and when the superintendent chanced to hear of the circumstance, he sent a note to Mr. Mackay, asking that he might be permitted to examine the designs, to see if they were all right, and for authentication. Of course the request was complied with; and, when they were returned, it was found that the name of the architect on each photograph had been erased, and in its place was substituted that of the superintendent. When this mutilation was submitted to my inspection, and I heard the comments of the foreigner on the conduct of my countryman, I did not feel like making an allusion to the “Star-Spangled Banner” or any other patriotic song.

During Mr. Mackay’s sojourn in Washington he was invited to dine with President Buchanan; and, by the merest accident, the day fixed for the entertainment was the anniversary of the surrender of the British at New Orleans. After the fact of the dinner had been mentioned in the papers, several particularly zealous, if not intelligent Englishmen, wrote to Mr. Mackay, complaining that he should have submitted to such an insult from the President of the United States; but the poet had the good sense to ridicule all such suggestions. He saw quite as much of Mr. W. H. Seward as of any noted American, and the opinions attributed to the then senator were certainly entertaining; one of them was that France ought to be overthrown; another, that Ireland, Hungary, and Poland should be made free; another, that he despaired of ever seeing slavery abolished; and lastly, that he hoped he might live to see the time when there would be a divided American Republic, with three confederacies. It was perhaps to prevent this calamity that, at a subsequent period, Mr. Seward fixed his mind on the Presidency, and thought that his cause might be assisted if the Illustrated London News should publish his portrait, with a sketch of his life, as was kindly done by Mr. Mackay.

During his stay in Washington, Mr. Mackay was frequently entertained at dinner by persons who esteemed the man and admired his poetry; and it was at one of these entertainments that he delivered the following poem, which I print from the manuscript presented to me by the author, and now in my possession:—

JOHN AND JONATHAN.

Read in the light of our civil war, and of the subsequent financial troubles of England, these lines are especially interesting, and not without a moral for whom they may concern. I now submit the following notes:—

———

Clark Mills was born in the State of New York, Dec. 1, 1815. In consequence of the death of his father, he was placed, at the early age of five years, with an uncle by marriage, whom he left between the age of twelve and thirteen for imagined ill-treatment. The following spring he worked on a farm and drove a wagon. He went to school that winter, working night and morning, before school hours, for his board. The next spring he went to Syracuse, N. Y., in search of work, and found employment at five dollars a month with board. He worked nine months, and received only five dollars: his employer failed in the fall, and he lost all that was due him. He worked during the winter at a different employment, and in the spring drove a wagon hauling lumber at Syracuse, where he remained one year at eight dollars a month and board. The horses were finally sold, and oxen substituted. Finding an ox team too slow for his “go-ahead” disposition, he left his employer, and worked on the canal till the fall, and went to school that winter. In the spring he tended canal locks. The following winter he worked in a swamp, cutting cedar posts, and got his feet so badly frozen that he was unable to wear shoes for several months, which suffering determined him never to work again as a common laborer. He then procured a situation with a cabinet-maker, working first for instruction and then for board. He next learned the millwright’s trade, and worked at that about two years, and left the employment to take charge of a plaster and cement mill.

His next move was for New Orleans, La., where he stayed about one year, and then went to Charleston, S. C., and learned the stucco trade, which business he followed until 1835, when he commenced modelling busts in clay. He soon discovered a new method for taking a cast over the living face, which enabled him to take busts so cheaply that he soon had as much work as he could do. He then resolved to try cutting in marble; and, after procuring a block of native Carolina stone, he commenced the bust of John C. Calhoun. At that time he was not familiar with the rules for cutting a bust, and was compelled to adopt a rule of his own, which was a very tedious process, requiring extraordinary care. He soon, however, succeeded in producing what was then considered the best likeness ever taken of Mr. Calhoun. The bust was purchased by the city council of Charleston; and he was also awarded a gold medal, on one side of which was inscribed the following:—

On the other side:—

Soon after this, means were offered him by the wealthy gentlemen of Charleston to study in Europe. This circumstance found its way into the newspapers; and, in a few days, he received a letter from the Hon. John Preston (the gentleman who sent Hiram Powers to Italy), which stated that he had seen the notices about his visit to Italy, and that he would like to have him come to Columbia, S. C., and take the busts of himself and wife; also, that Colonel Wade Hampton desired the busts of himself and daughters; and that he might cut them in marble when he had further advanced in the art.

He took the advice of friends, and went to Columbia. After taking ten busts, he returned to Charleston. A little incident occurred at this time which seemed to change his whole course. When he called to take leave of William C. Preston, whose acquaintance he had formed, he remarked to the artist that he should see the statuary at Washington before visiting Europe. He replied that “if he should spend his means in travelling about, he would not be able to accomplish his object.”—“As for expense,” said Mr. Preston, “if you will go to Washington, and take the busts of my friends Webster and Crittenden, I will pay your expenses there and back, and pay you for the busts also.” He readily accepted the offer, started for Washington, stopping in Richmond, Va., to see the statue by Houdon, which was the first statue he had ever seen. The first thing he did after his arrival in Washington was to visit the Capitol, that he might feast his eager eyes on the statuary there. He saw much to admire, and much which, even to his unpractised eye, appeared imperfect. The drapery on the “Statue of Peace” seemed to surpass human skill; and the “Muse of History,” recording the events of time, he thought was the grandest and most sublime idea ever conceived. Of the statue of Washington, by Greenough, he thought the anatomy perfect, though he could not associate Washington with the statue. The crowd of visitors, so far as he could learn, invariably condemned it for want of historical truth. He came to the conclusion, while standing there, that, should he ever have an order for a statue, the world should find fault for his giving too much truth, and not for want of it.

An accidental circumstance here gave rise to the order for the Jackson statue. He was introduced to the Hon. Cave Johnson, then postmaster-general, and president of the Jackson Monument Committee, who, on learning his intention to visit Europe, proposed that he should give a design for a bronze equestrian statue of General Jackson. Never having seen General Jackson or an equestrian statue, he felt himself incompetent to execute a work of such magnitude, and positively refused. The incident, however, made an impression upon his mind; and he reflected sufficiently to produce a design which was the very one subsequently executed, and which now adorns the public square in front of the White House. He concluded to accept Mr. Johnson’s offer; and, after nine months of patient labor, he succeeded in bringing out a miniature model, on a new principle, which was, to bring the hind legs of the horse exactly under the centre of his body, which of course produced a perfect balance, thereby giving the horse more the appearance of life; the model was adopted by the committee. A contract was made for the sum of twelve thousand dollars, the bronze to be furnished by the committee. Two years’ labor and hard study, and he finished the plaster model. After waiting nearly nine months, Congress appropriated the old cannon captured by General Andrew Jackson; and, under various disheartening circumstances, the breaking of cranes, the bursting of furnaces, after six failures in the body of the horse, he finally triumphed, and on the 8th of January, 1853, the statue was dedicated. Soon after, Congress voted him twenty thousand dollars to remunerate him for his services. The sum of fifty thousand dollars was afterward voted for an equestrian statue of General George Washington; and that also occupies a central position in the metropolis. In the following spring, the city of New Orleans voted thirty-five thousand dollars for a duplicate of the Jackson statue. A farm was purchased on the Baltimore and Washington Turnpike, about three miles from Washington, for the purpose of erecting the necessary buildings, studio, and foundry.

Having completed the buildings, he was about to commence work when a gale destroyed the studio. Before it was rebuilt, the foundry was destroyed by fire; but it was rebuilt as soon as possible. After finishing the statue for New Orleans, he commenced the statue of Washington, which was completed and dedicated on the 22d of February, 1860. The living horse after which this statue was modelled was captured on a prairie near Fort Leavenworth, and was considered a remarkably fine animal. He was subsequently purchased of the artist by his friend James H. Hammond, of South Carolina, as an acquisition to his extensive stud. In June, 1860, Mr. Mills commenced the work of casting the statue of freedom, after Crawford’s design, which was completed in 1863, and now stands above the dome of the Capitol.

Such, in brief, is the story of another self-made man, and one of the most fortunate of American artists. That he possessed genius of a high order cannot be doubted; and if his works do not display all the conventional graces of European art, he has certainly produced two statues which are original, and in keeping with the manly vigor of the great Republic. And this I take pleasure in saying, if for no other reason than this, that a number of upstart critics have attempted to disparage his productions. In 1866, Mr. Mills invented a second method for taking busts in a manner peculiarly his own; and while he was assisted by one son, who inherited his father’s genius, he received at the same time the gratifying news from Munich that another son, who had been studying there the art of the sculptor, had been honored with the first prize of the Academy, and was the first American who had ever received a prize from that institution. And I chronicle the fact with pleasure, that those two sons were a great comfort to their father in his later years.

Mr. Mills died in Washington, on the 12th of January, 1883, after a protracted illness, and was buried with all the honors due to his reputation as a most honorable and worthy man, and a self-taught artist of uncommon abilities.

———

The death of this eminent man, March 12, 1873, reminded me of the fact that I became acquainted with him more than forty years before. It was before he was consecrated a bishop, and whilst he was visiting the country which was to become his see. He happened to be in the village of Monroe, on the river Raisin, in Michigan, on the occasion of a school exhibition, and when the present writer “spoke his first piece.” It was a little poem entitled “The Orphan Boy,” by Mrs. Opie; and because it was a pathetic piece, and the speaker cried from fear, during its delivery, the effect was striking; the audience thought the boy a good actor, and the embryo bishop patted him on the head, and spoke a kindly word, which the latter has never forgotten. To say that he has been a McIlvaine man from that time, would be superfluous; and what is a little singular, the residence of the writer is to-day within a two-minutes’ walk of the church in Georgetown, D. C., where the bishop commenced his ministry.

That Bishop McIlvaine was a noble Christian gentleman, an impressive orator, a successful author, a most useful and influential prelate, and rendered the world very great service by his writings on the Christian religion, are facts that cannot be doubted, and he must be remembered as one of the most eminent of Americans.

When engaged in compiling my “Dictionary of Congress,” it became my duty to call upon Bishop McIlvaine, for some information in regard to his father, who had been a senator in Congress; and two letters which he sent me, at the time, have a historical value, and I submit them to the public for their edification. In one of them he gives us a very decided opinion of what he thought of the American Congress in 1860; and it was perhaps a blessing to him that he died in Florence, before he could be fully informed as to the disgrace which fell upon the Forty-second Congress, when a large number of its members placed themselves upon the roll of disloyalty. The letters alluded to are as follows:—

Bishop McIlvaine was consecrated in October, 1832, and therefore, at the time of his death, had held his high office more than forty years. As an author, his reputation will probably be quite equal to any of his predecessors in the church; but it has been said of him that he had no equal in his power for illustrating the truths of Scripture by its own records.

The strength and simplicity of his character were in keeping with the purity of his life and his abilities; and when we remember the variety and importance of his experiences, there is something very charming in a reference that he once made to his favorite hymn as follows:—

At the time Mr. McIlvaine was located in Georgetown (as I have learned from one of the oldest residents), it was not customary for the white citizens to teach the slave population; but among those who thought proper to perform that task in Georgetown was a very worthy young Quaker, named George Shoemaker. The Sunday school over which he presided was evidently connected with Christ Church, and for that reason the pastor thereof one day said to Mr. Shoemaker that he must remember the souls of the colored people were, in one sense, in his keeping; that he was responsible for their ultimate happiness. This, of course, was only intended as a friendly warning, but the worthy Quaker took offence at the remark, and forthwith gave up the position of religious instructor. The subsequent career of the bishop proved conclusively that he was not only a liberal man in his religious opinions, but a good friend of the slaves. As to Mr. Shoemaker, he died in Georgetown, at an advanced age, and is remembered as one of the most worthy and benevolent men who were ever identified with the place.

———

My acquaintance with this noted author was only such as may be enjoyed through a friendly correspondence, and that on my part was most gratifying. I was introduced to him by N. P. Willis, and he did me various favors which deserved and received my gratitude. One of them had reference to the republication, in England, by Richard Bentley, of my “Tour to the River Saguenay.” It came out with an error in its title, which had been changed, and with a portrait of the author that was not satisfactory; and in one of his letters, Mr. Tupper made an allusion to those particulars, and also gave me a bit of his “Philosophy” on the subject of criticism, which is especially interesting, in view of the fact that he has been more savagely and persistently criticised than any other respectable author, during the last quarter of a century, resulting in a popularity almost unequalled in the annals of literature. The letter was as follows:—

Nearly every review, magazine, and critical journal, published in his time, had its say about this famous writer, but his friends have certainly outnumbered his enemies, and have carried the day. The motive which prompted his “Proverbial Philosophy” was creditable and Christian-like; it was not equal to Shakespeare, nor did it aspire to such a position; it carried pure and comforting thoughts into thousands of domestic circles, without leaving behind it the poisonous slime which emanates from the popular or fashionable press; and I have thought that I would much prefer to be shut up from the world with that curious book than with a thousand and one of the novels and scientific dissertations which flood the bookstalls and libraries of the present day. In 1838 the London Athenæum spoke of “Proverbial Philosophy” as a failure, and destined to have merely a family circulation, and it continued its spiteful warfare until 1867, when it made itself ridiculous by drawing a comparison between Tupper and King Solomon. In 1848 the London Literary Gazette said of Tupper that he was an original thinker and a genuine poet; and in 1855 spoke of his popularity as a healthy symptom of the prevailing taste in literature, and of his style as irresistibly pleasing by its earnestness and eloquence. Heartless men of the world and literary snobs have always been against this writer, but he acquired a fortune by his pen, and lives in a quiet and luxurious style, which has long been the envy of his detractors.

With regard to Mr. Tupper’s visit to this country during the centennial year, and the publication of his “Drama of Washington,” I can say nothing, for at this present writing I have seen neither the man nor the poem.

———

It was in the month of January, 1848, that I first visited Washington, and the first man that I heard deliver a speech in the House of Representatives was Alexander H. Stephens. His attenuated form, shrill and peculiar voice, and wonderful earnestness riveted my attention, and as he proceeded in his remarks, I said to a friend seated near me that I did not believe the speaker would live to finish his speech. Thirty-five years had passed away since then, and Mr. Stephens was not only living, but after a strange, eventful history, became, in 1883, the governor of the State of Georgia.

My introduction to this noted man came through Gales & Seaton, who were anxious that I should consult with him prior to my going to the Southern States as their correspondent in 1848. Among the many letters that I published in the Intelligencer were two, about Tallulah and Dahlonega, which contained some tolerably large stories about the people of that portion of Georgia. By way of testing my integrity as a writer, Mr. Gales called upon Mr. Stephens and questioned him as to the correctness of my assertions in one of my letters, and the reply, as afterward reported to me by Mr. Gales as well as Mr. Stephens, was as follows: “That letter is true from beginning to end, and I am surprised that any stranger could have written such faithful descriptions.” It was that criticism and the letters in question, I have always thought, which won for me, more than anything else, the long-continued friendship of Gales & Seaton and of Mr. Stephens.

During the ten years preceding the great Rebellion, I saw much of Mr. Stephens, and not only enjoyed his friendship, but greatly profited by his wisdom as a scholar and statesman, and his influence as a man. Such a clear intellect, such a kind and loving heart, such gentle manners and unselfishness, and such rare integrity, I have seldom if ever seen combined in any human being. With regard to his course when the war commenced, I can only say that I regretted it, as well as the inevitable necessities of his position; and yet while the war was progressing I looked upon him as a better patriot than thousands of those who shouted for the Union, remained at home, and filled their coffers to repletion. Among those who assisted me while engaged in compiling my “Dictionary of Congress,” Mr. Stephens was conspicuous, and he manifested his interest in my success by making a proposition in the House of Representatives that I should be patronized by the government, while a similar effort was made in the Senate by William H. Seward.

The return of Mr. Stephens to the United States Congress in December, 1873, was an event which impressed the whole community, and caused as great an excitement as did the return to the same position of John Quincy Adams after he had served as President; and it may be new to many persons to learn that one of the most graceful poems which the ex-President ever penned was in honor of his friend, Mr. Stephens, as follows:—

TO A. H. STEPHENS, ESQ., OF GEORGIA.

John Quincy Adams, of Quincy, Mass.

H. R. U. S., 14th June, 1844.

I was among the first to call and pay my respects to him, at his hotel, and he welcomed me as if I had been a long-lost friend. He talked about the past in rather a pensive mood, and although he was too feeble in body even to rise from his chair without help, he alluded to his bad health, but did not utter a word of complaint. During the interview, a colored man was announced, when he asked to be excused for a moment while he attended to a little matter of business, which was, to give the man a letter whereby he might obtain a position as messenger in one of the departments. A few weeks afterwards, when it was announced that Mr. Stephens would deliver a speech in the House of Representatives, the galleries were more densely packed than they had been during the whole winter, and the words of the great Southern statesman had the same clarion ring which distinguished them in the old times. His subject theme was interesting, but what chiefly impressed those of his audience who were familiar with his history were the leading facts of that history, viz., how he was the son of a farmer, and was left an orphan at the age of fourteen; how he earned the money by hard work which enabled him to obtain a thorough education; how he had suffered from bad health all his life, and had seldom weighed more than one hundred pounds; how he had acquitted himself as a lawyer and a scholar, as a State legislator and a member of Congress; how he had escaped death from the assaults of brutal opponents in politics as well as from railway accidents; how he became vice-president of the ephemeral Confederacy, and was lodged as a prisoner of war in a Northern fortress; how he was elected by his restored State to the United States Senate and refused admittance; and how he was re-elected to the National House of Representatives, serving in all the Congresses down to the year 1882.

After the adjournment of the Forty-third Congress, Mr. Stephens’s health was so poor that his friends despaired of his reaching Georgia alive, but, as on numberless occasions before, his indomitable will carried him through to his home in safety. All along his route of travel his presence was hailed with shouts of gladness and respect by a loving people. Not long after his arrival at Crawfordsville, and as soon as his strength would permit, he gave a grand reception, not to politicians and starched-up fashionable women, but to more than a thousand Sunday-school children. He received them standing on the porch of his pleasant residence, and while supported on his crutches, and, after he had given them a feast, he favored them with an address, and when they parted he shook hands affectionately with every one of the children. The speech that he delivered stands alone in its religious character among all those that were ever uttered by Mr. Stephens, and some of the sentiments are of such very great interest that I am constrained to submit the following extracts:—

He then discoursed upon modern rationalism, saying:—

Having exposed with great ability the sophistries of these writers, he concluded his address by saying:—

Should the foregoing not be sufficient to establish the religious character of Mr. Stephens, the following very explicit declaration made in 1879 will be sufficient: “I am a member of the Presbyterian church, and have been since my boyish days. They have never turned me out, and I have tried to live so that they could never have occasion to do so. I am trusting in the atonement of Christ for its cleansing efficacy. All is clear through the blood of the covenant.”

On the occasion of one of my visits to Mr. Stephens’s rooms at the old National Hotel, I obtained the following: After the adjournment of Congress in 1859, he foresaw with regret the coming troubles; and, having declined a renomination for Congress, he left Washington for Crawfordsville with a heavy heart. As he was going down the Potomac in a steamboat, to take the cars at Aquia Creek, some of his companions noticed that he seemed to cast a lingering look at the Federal Capitol. “You are looking at that,” said one of them, “thinking of the time when you will return to it as a senator.” “Not at all,” replied Mr. Stephens, “I am taking my farewell view, knowing that I shall not see it again until I am brought to the North, a prisoner of state.” And this prophecy was literally fulfilled when he was sent to Fort Warren, where he was confined for a period of five months.

By way of illustrating the unwearied industry of Mr. Stephens, it may be stated that, in addition to his arduous labors as a congressman, and while constantly suffering from ill health, he wrote a history of the Rebellion and one or two school-books, and contributed to Johnson’s Cyclopædia a large number of biographical and other articles. Indeed, he was so important a contributor as in reality to become one of its editors, and the compensation he received for his services he gave away in charity. Prior to the meeting of the second session of the Forty-fourth Congress his health was so poor that he could not, for a time, even leave his bed; but his indomitable pluck still prevailed, and with great difficulty he made another journey to Washington, and, in the early part of 1877, had one of the most severe attacks of illness that he ever experienced, and was able only on a few occasions to occupy his seat in the House of Representatives. For many weeks he was so feeble that he could hardly turn in his bed without the help of his nurse; yet he received all his visitors with a smile or kindly word,—talking with statesmen about the sad condition of the country, with men of letters about new books, and with clergymen about the mysteries of life and death, and, like a true Christian, expressing his entire confidence in the promises of the Bible, and his willingness to die when the final hour should arrive.

But from this attack of illness, as on many occasions before, was it his fortune to rally; and I saw him at his hotel in April, 1877, when he was sitting in his chair, and really looked about as well as when I had first seen him in 1848. During that visit, moreover, he was more talkative than usual, and some of his conversation was really interesting. On being questioned as to the effect of so much sickness upon his nerves and feelings, he replied as follows:—

In speaking of his servants, he said that in 1850 a young girl who had been born on his plantation came to him and said that she wanted to marry a man residing on another estate. He gave her his consent, inquired into the character of the man, purchased him of his master, and from that time until the moment he was speaking, that man and his wife had been the sole managers of all his home affairs, keeping his house and looking after the cultivation of his crops. The only special privilege that this faithful man-servant has ever asked of his employer was that he might be permitted to accompany Mr. Stephens to Washington, and to come after him when ready to return home; and this privilege was invariably granted.

During the long period of illness here mentioned, Mr. Stephens’s most constant companion was a dog which he had raised from a puppy, and which had recently died. For nearly four years that animal was never absent from the side of his master’s bed for a single night, and, because of one peculiar trait, was known throughout the region of Crawfordsville as the “crying dog.” Mr. Stephens told me that, by calling this dog to his side, and speaking of himself in a desponding tone, the poor creature would actually shed tears; and, when the complaint was continued, would soon begin to utter a mournful howl. The affection and intelligence of the animal he considered very remarkable.

In the course of his conversation on public affairs, Mr. Stephens made two remarks which filled me with surprise: first, that in 1860 the State of Georgia was the wealthiest State in the Union; and, secondly, that, at the time he was speaking, the country between Washington City and the Rio Grande was one vast region of desolation, instead of being what the Almighty intended it to be, the brightest garden on the surface of the globe. Of many public men whom he had opposed in politics, he spoke in the kindest terms; and, in commenting upon events that transpired a quarter of a century before, he displayed a strength of memory which filled me with amazement.

In November, 1877, I saw Mr. Stephens a number of times; and, as usual, I timed my visits so as to avoid, as far as possible, the stream of visitors which seemed always to be setting towards his hotel. During one of those interviews, he talked much about the great authors and statesmen of the past, and hardly a word on politics. He spoke of Washington as one of the wisest of men, and went over the story of how the Farewell Address was written with the help of Hamilton and Madison. He spoke of his then recent visit to New York, by invitation of Mr. A. J. Johnson, as one of the brightest incidents of his life, and contrasted it with his passing through the city a prisoner of war. He had gone there for a little quiet, but his visit turned out to be a continuous ovation, for which he was exceedingly grateful, as he was latterly enjoying the heart-world more than ever. A visit that Mr. Hayes had recently made he highly appreciated, and spoke of him in very kind and complimentary terms.

In his appearance and manners Mr. Stephens was often compared with John Randolph, but in their hearts the two men were very different. With all his sincere love for his fellow-men, it was sometimes possible for Mr. Stephens to make a sharp retort, and perhaps one of the best he ever uttered was the following, when the noted John P. Hale once remarked to him that he might be tempted to swallow him whole if he did not take care, the prompt reply was, “You would then have more brains in your belly than you have in your head.”

In February, 1882, I visited Mr. Stephens with my Japanese ward, Miss Ume Tsuda, who expressed a wish to see the famous statesman. He treated her with the utmost kindness, asked her for her autograph, said many pleasant things, and on hearing that she had never visited the extreme Southern States, he gracefully branched off into a description of the Midway district, where he had once been a schoolmaster for about one year. The place, he said, was settled by Puritans from Massachusetts, in 1697, but was now called one of the dead towns of Georgia. Although these Puritans went to the South to promote the cause of religion, they were in constant fear of being killed by the Indians; and although they were Northern people, they owned slaves, and in the district where there were only three hundred and fifty white people, there were fifteen hundred slaves. In those days people went to church on foot or horseback, and were always armed with guns. The number of men who signed the Declaration of Independence from Georgia was three; and yet, strange to say, two of them were from the town of Sunbury, in the district of Midway, which was one of the most enlightened and purest communities that ever existed. During the year 1832, when he taught school there, he never heard a single oath from a white or black man, nor knew of a single instance when spirituous liquors were sold. Every man in the community attended church, excepting one, and he was about half deranged, and it was common to see four thousand negroes attending religious services on Sunday, on the banks of the river Midway.

The experiences of Mr. Stephens, first as an orphan boy and then as a young man in bad health and struggling in poverty, had a tendency to increase the natural charity of his nature. It is a well-known fact that he never refused an appeal for help from those who were more needy than himself. The instances in which he took young men by the hand to help them on in life are numerous, and here is one of them that I now recall. One of them called upon him in Washington, on a certain occasion, and stated that he wanted to be an artist, but was too poor to get along without doing common work. Mr. Stephens asked him to bring a specimen of his skill in drawing. This was done, and as Mr. Stephens was pleased with it, he sent the young man to a boarding-house, gave him a little spare money and paid all his expenses; and that young man is now a successful artist.

The following is a brief summary of the leading points in the useful and distinguished life of Mr. Stephens: He was born in Taliafero County, Ga., Feb. 11, 1812, and on the plantation previously occupied by his father and grandfather, and where he himself always resided. That estate contained eight hundred and fifty acres, and at one time was valued at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. His mother was Margaret Grier, and sister of the famous almanac maker, Robert Grier; and his father’s name was Andrew B. Stephens, who died when the son was fourteen years of age. After that event the home plantation was sold, and was subsequently purchased by the son from his own earnings. He had one sister and four brothers, none of whom are now living. His grandfather served in the Revolution, and was present at the defeat of General Braddock. He graduated at Franklin College in 1832, standing at the head of his class; adopted the profession of law, and entered public life in 1836. He was elected to Congress in 1843, serving therein for twenty-six years, and was almost constantly in public life until his death. His “Life and Speeches” were published in 1867, edited by Henry Cleveland, and in 1878 a more elaborate account of his career as a statesman was published. He wrote a work on the “Political History” of the United States, of which, it is said, more than one hundred thousand copies were sold.

In 1882, and while holding his seat in the House of Representatives, he was elected governor of Georgia. The last letter with which he honored me was dated the 3d of February, 1883, and in it he speaks of his contemplated visit to Savannah, where he was to deliver an address about Oglethorpe, and from that visit he returned to his executive residence in Atlanta, where he died, on the 4th of March, 1883, leaving a spotless name, which will continue to blossom with the coming years. Tributes of respect and regret were printed from one end of the country to the other; and the mourners who attended his remains to their final resting-places are said to have numbered one hundred thousand, the whole of whom looked upon him as a personal friend.

My correspondence with Mr. Stephens was quite frequent, and in looking over his letters I have found several of them which are characteristic of the man, and submit them as follows:—

Another letter which has a bit of politics in it is as follows:—

Passing over a number of letters which are either too private to print or unimportant, I now give one which I have reason to believe was the last which Mr. Stephens wrote to a Northern man prior to the Rebellion, excepting the famous one to Abraham Lincoln, on the 14th December, 1860:—

The following letters need no explanation:—

In June, 1885, the remains of Mr. Stephens were removed from Atlanta to Crawfordsville and deposited in a vault at Liberty Hall, formerly the residence of the eminent statesman, and hereafter to be utilized as an academy for boys, under the auspices of a memorial association. On the day in question, the Hon. G. T. Barnes delivered an eloquent eulogy on the departed; and, in speaking of his courage, said that Mr. Stephens “was afraid of nothing upon earth, save to do wrong”; thereby placing him far in advance of the great mass of American politicians and so-called statesmen.

———

My acquaintance with this noted friend of the red man was commenced under my father’s roof, when he was a member of the Territorial Legislature of Michigan, and I was a boy hunter on the river Raisin. I knew him afterwards in New York, and for many years while a resident of Washington City. Indeed, it was my privilege to reside for a time in his home, when Professor Joseph Henry and his family enjoyed the same privilege.

My innate love of the Indians was greatly fostered by my intercourse, as a boy and man, with Mr. Schoolcraft; and the many long talks that I was wont to have with him, about his life in the wilderness, can never be forgotten. And it has always seemed to me a singular circumstance that the boy, whose head he patted on the river Raisin, should have been the means of introducing the author to the publisher of his great work on the “History of the American Indians.” Such was the case, however, and this is how it all happened: I was the librarian of the War Department, and one day Mr. Schoolcraft came to my desk and said that the government had appropriated a large sum of money to publish his forthcoming work, and he wanted me to introduce him to a suitable publisher. Lippincott & Co., of Philadelphia, had just issued a small volume from my pen, and I naturally fixed upon that firm as the most suitable one to bring out the Indian work, and so I gave Mr. Schoolcraft a friendly introduction. He went to Philadelphia, was treated with marked attention by the aforesaid publishers, and a satisfactory arrangement was made between the parties, which eventuated in the expenditure of several hundred thousand dollars of government money.

In view of Mr. Schoolcraft’s eminent success as an author, the subjoined leading facts of his life cannot but be interesting to the reader of this notice.

He was born in Albany, N. Y., March 28, 1793; educated at Middlebury College; in 1817 he visited the West, and published a work entitled “A View of the Lead Mines of Missouri”; in 1820 he was appointed geologist of the exploring expedition, under General Cass, to Lake Superior and the head of the Mississippi, and published an account of it in 1821; made a second tour to the West, and published “Travels in the Central Portions of the Mississippi Valley”; in 1822 he was appointed an Indian agent for the Northwest; from 1828 to 1832 he was a member of the Territorial Legislature of Michigan; in the former year founded the Michigan Historical Society at Detroit, and in 1831 the Algic Society; in 1832 he made another expedition to the West, and discovered the source of the Mississippi, of which he published an account in 1834; in 1836 he made an Indian treaty, which secured sixteen million acres of land to the United States; removed to New York City in 1841; visited Europe in 1842; published, by authority of the State of New York, in 1848, “Notes on the Iroquois”; about that time published a book of Indian legends, entitled “Algic Researches”; commenced the publication in 1850, for the government, of “Historical Information respecting the History, Condition, and Prospects of the Indian Tribes of the United States,” which resulted in six quarto volumes, illustrated by Captain Seth Eastman; and after many years of suffering from rheumatic affections, which he bore with rare Christian fortitude, he died at his residence in Washington City, Dec. 10, 1864. The total number of his publications, as his widow informed the writer, was thirty-one; and as the historian of the American Indians, he will always be considered the leading authority. While he did not aspire to the title of poet, he nevertheless wrote verses occasionally; and one of his poems, because of its association with Michigan and the fate of its aborigines, may with propriety be appended to this notice. It is entitled “Geehale, an Indian Lament.”

My correspondence with Mr. Schoolcraft was limited, but the few notes from his pen that I have retained are as follows:—

Having asked his advice about the title for a book, he writes:—

Mr. Schoolcraft was twice married, his first wife having been a beautiful and worthy Chippewa woman of Lake Superior, and his second an accomplished lady of South Carolina, who greatly assisted him in his literary pursuits in Washington, and survived him only a few years.

———

My feelings of admiration for General McClellan, as a man and a soldier, were enthusiastic; and a summer afternoon that I once spent in his company can never be forgotten. It was in August, 1863, after he had retired from the army, and was recruiting his health in Connecticut and enjoying the companionship of his old and attached friend, William C. Prime. It was my privilege to take a drive with him along the banks of the Thames, when we visited the fortifications on the heights of Groton and the monument. On hearing of his untimely death at Orange, N. J., I ferreted out from my papers some notes that I took at the time, and the substance of which may not be uninteresting to those who considered him one of the most eminent men of his time.

While taking a view of Fort Trumbull, as we passed upward from the Pequot Hotel, he expressed surprise that the former should have been built where it is. He thought it would have been better to place it where the Pequot House stands, and that Fort Griswold should have been built on a hill nearly opposite. For this he gave two reasons,—first, that an enemy would thus be kept farther off from New London; and, secondly, that any gun fired from a ship at Fort Trumbull would be sure to hit the exposed city.

Having recently visited Montauk Point and Block Island, he spoke enthusiastically of both of them. He thought the former one of the most interesting places he had ever visited; its lonely grandeur had impressed him deeply. He went to the latter place with a friend, in his admirable yacht, from Stonington,—going in one hour and fifty minutes, and returning in one hour and forty minutes. The sea was rough, but he managed to take forty bluefish with the hand-line, mutilating his hands very severely. During his stay at the island it was whispered to a native that General McClellan had arrived. “Where is the man?” was the inquiry. “I should like to see him, because I have a son in the war, and perhaps he knows him. Some time ago, my son sent me a photograph of a soldier that he thought everything of, and the general may tell me his name.” The picture was subsequently produced, and it proved to be a picture of the general himself.

The old and abandoned military works on the heights of Groton were minutely examined, with all the enthusiasm of an engineer hired to do a specific work. He spoke of the old fort and of the water battery as very creditable to those who designed them; pointed out what he thought one mistake, touching the approach from the northeast, and made several sketches of the plan of the fort. As we stood within the battery, looking up at the fort, I was reminded of a famous French picture, representing the assault on the Redan at Sebastopol; he said that the Redan was not as high as the fort before us, but that the Malakoff was, perhaps, a little higher. As in his “Crimean Report” he gave much the greater credit to the French army, he incidentally mentioned this anecdote. At some place on the Black Sea, an Englishman was talking with a French officer about the siege of Sebastopol, and took pains to claim most of the credit for his countrymen; to which the Frenchman replied, in his own tongue, with a little profanity, “I don’t recollect that I saw a single Englishman in the Crimea.”

Having questioned him in regard to the scenes in his own eventful military life which he thought best adapted for the pencil, he designated the following as those which made the deepest impression on his mind. The first was his arrival at the field of Antietam just before the battle, when, as is well known, he was welcomed by the troops in a manner that has seldom been equalled in history. The particular moment to be selected was when the first fire of the enemy was heard, and, without speaking a word, he involuntarily rose slightly in his stirrups, and pointed toward the enemy; which movement was answered by a shout that was loud as the roaring of the sea on a rocky shore. Another scene was that when he bade the army farewell at Warrenton, and when, as many officers present have testified, he might, by saying one word, have taken his army to Washington as dictator. Another subject suited for a picture was a view of the Pamumky River, where his headquarters were, upon a commanding hill; while on the right was spread out a highly cultivated country, perfectly beautiful and peaceful, and without a single object to remind one of war; and on the left hand was massed his whole army of, I think, eighty thousand men. He spoke of the whole scene as one of great novelty, and as eloquently illustrating the past and present condition of our country,—peace and war. But of all the sad scenes that he described with photographic accuracy, his arrival at Harrison’s Landing was the most touching. Night was coming on, and hungry, worn out with fatigue, and without any order, his heroic troops were literally lying in the mud, like cattle mired in a swamp. Then it was that one of his officers came up to him to consult him on some subject, but fell asleep before he could finish his speech, and could not be shaken out of his stupor. Before twelve o’clock that night, the general had visited every one of his regiments, had looked in the face of every man, and in all the multitude did not observe a single sullen countenance. Such heroism as his troops then manifested, and had always manifested, he frequently mentioned as wholly unsurpassed in the history of modern warfare. Speaking of the enthusiasm which his troops had always felt for him, he said it was unaccountable, unless it arose from the fact that they knew he was their friend.

On entering the Groton monument, he looked over the names of those who were killed, while bravely fighting for their country, and among them were no less than five persons who were his own kinsmen.

The Rebellion was discussed at some length, and he was as decided in his hatred of it as any man could be. He thought the people, both North and South, were all still lovers of the Union, and was hopeful as to the final result. Two things, however, must of necessity be accomplished, before we could enjoy a lasting peace,—the destruction of the abolition party by the conservatives of the North, and the political extinction of all the leading secessionists and partisans of the South, by the conservative population of that section. When the people of the South were willing to lay down their arms and come back under the old flag, he would be glad to give them a warm and cordial welcome and all their rights under the Constitution. Of course the blow that had already been given to the institution of slavery, no earthly power could undo. The mismanagement of the war by the administration received his most earnest condemnation; and he thought that none of its members seemed to have had a realizing sense of the impending troubles or of their enormous responsibilities. Political selfishness had been the primary cause of the war, and demagogue passions had thus far controlled all our military as well as civil measures for bringing it to an end.

But what chiefly interested me in the conversation of General McClellan were his unreserved opinions of the great and notorious men of the country, dead and living. Webster he spoke of as the greatest American intellect of the age, and of Clay as a statesman of the highest order; and, in view of the Presidency, what a shame it was that such men should have been set aside to give place for men deplorably inferior to them in all those characteristics which make men truly great. He spoke of Scott in the most affectionate terms as a man, and as a patriot and general most enthusiastically.

Speaking of Farragut’s exploits on the Mississippi he said, “He must be a grand old fellow; I should like much to see him.”

The sudden and excessive zeal of General Lorenzo Thomas in organizing negro troops seemed to him most amazing; but there was undoubtedly a suggestive reason for it. Time would prove that his position in the army hung by a slender thread, and, when ordered to perform the unique work assigned to him, it was not believed he would consent; but love of office prevailed.

In all that he uttered about the men who, as many allege, acquitted themselves unhandsomely during the war, he was perfectly kind; but the facts he submitted seemed to me very telling in their character. He generally alluded to the erring men as misguided, not attributing unworthy motives to them. If there was an exception, it was in the case of a noted general, who did not send on the promised supplies when the Army of the Potomac was ragged and barefooted. The squabbles in the Cabinet he ridiculed more in sorrow than in anger. The personal hostility of Secretary Chase he depicted in the most graphic manner, but attributed it to fanaticism, arrogance, and overweening ambition. His pictures of President Lincoln in society were very interesting, and he praised him highly as a true man and statesman. Secretary Bates he thought the most upright and sensible man in the Cabinet. Seward was great in the cunning line; Stanton, just what the world thought him; and Blair, Welles, and Smith altogether unfit for their positions, though highly respectable as gentlemen.

During our conversation on military affairs, the general asked me how it was that I was not numbered among the defenders of my country; and I brought a smile to his face by this reply: that I had served as a prisoner of war for three hours, when Secretary Stanton had me arrested because I happened to be an occasional Washington correspondent for the good old Journal of Commerce of New York, and caused my release when he found out that I had not printed any unpatriotic opinions. Another remark that I made to the general was as follows: That when the business of recruiting was at its height, I had a dream in which I had shouldered a musket and joined his forces in Virginia; and that, on entering a battle, I threw down my gun and ran toward the rear like a deer; whereupon I became convinced that I could never do anything in that line to save my country. His comment on my confession was that warriors were not made out of such material as I represented myself to be.

The correspondence with which General McClellan honored me during our long acquaintance was in keeping with his high character as a friend and gentleman; and the three letters which I now submit to my readers will not only explain themselves, but also give an insight into the working of his mind on certain important topics of the day.

The fact is very suggestive that General McClellan should have died only a few weeks after General Grant, his prominent rival for military glory and in the political world. In life they were personally divided, and were both associated with the strife of human passions; but they are now in a happier land, where peace and love reign supreme. Whatever may be the verdict of the present generation in regard to the merits of these two men, it is certain that posterity will cherish the name of McClellan as one who had no superior as a model American, on the score of genius, pure and elevated character, and unselfish patriotism. The character of the man was exemplified by the fact that, when he thought that his death was approaching, he made a special request that there should be no more display at his funeral “than that of a simple citizen.” He had witnessed too much of the mockery of woe to desire a military requiem over his grave, confident that he had, what he wanted, a place in the hearts of his countrymen, whom he had tried to serve to the extent of his ability.

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When a man of mark has been dead for the third of a century, and left to the world a full and interesting autobiography, it must, of necessity be a difficult task to write anything new of him; but, in the case of John Trumbull, the time has not yet passed when a general but brief survey of his personal characteristics as an artist and a man may not be both interesting and profitable.

He was the son of Jonathan Trumbull, the colonial governor of Connecticut, endearingly called by Washington “Brother Jonathan.” He was born in Lebanon, Connecticut, June 6, 1756; and though, from a malformation of his head, it was thought he could not live, he manifested a love for books at an early age. He graduated at Harvard College in 1773, and having formed the acquaintance of the artist John Singleton Copley in Boston, he forthwith turned his attention to painting. He however deemed it his duty to join the army in 1775, as an adjutant, and having rendered some special service by drawing plans of the English fortifications, was made aide-de-camp to Washington; served with Gates in the Northern Army as adjutant-general, but resigned his commission in 1777. Having resumed the pencil, he went to Paris in 1780; thence to London, where he studied art with Benjamin West, by whom he was highly appreciated. While there he was suspected as being a spy, and having been arrested was imprisoned for nearly eight months, amusing himself in prison by painting. When arrested, and questioned as to his antecedents, he made this reply: “I am an American, and my name is Trumbull. I am a son of him you call the rebel governor of Connecticut. I have served in the rebel army. I have had the honor of being an aide-de-camp to him you call the rebel George Washington. I am entirely in your power; treat me as you please; always remembering that as I may be treated, so will your friends in America be treated by mine.” On being released through the influence of West and such men as Charles James Fox and Edmund Burke, he returned to America in 1782. He again visited England, and returned in 1789. In 1794 he went to England as secretary to John Jay, and passed about ten years in the diplomatic service. In 1811 he once again visited England and remained four years; he then returned to New York City, where, with the exception of a brief sojourn in New Haven, he remained until his death, Nov. 10, 1843. In addition to the positions already mentioned, he held that of president of the American Academy of Fine Arts, and as such did much to foster the love of art in the United States. As he advanced in years, he collected his unsold paintings into a gallery, which he disposed of to Yale College, on the condition that he should receive an annuity of fifteen hundred dollars during the balance of his life, which arrangement enabled him, with other income, to reach the end in comfort and peace.

During this long period, Colonel Trumbull was constantly studying, if not practising his favorite art. Aside from the many portraits, and small miscellaneous pictures that he painted for his friends,—of which sixty-eight were painted before he was twenty-five years of age,—there are many always accessible to the public in Washington, Hartford, New Haven, New York, and Boston, or Cambridge, ranging in size from miniatures in oil to large productions. Of the portraits, the largest proportion are not only excellent as works of art, but invaluable as contributions to history. The larger historical paintings in the national Capitol, in spite of some deficiencies, must always be highly esteemed, because of their subjects; while the eight smaller productions connected with the Revolution, and forming a part of the New Haven collection, cannot but command the applause of competent critics. In technical skill Colonel Trumbull was of course greatly behind such men as Meissonier and others of that stamp, who are merely successful rivals of the photograph; but so far as the higher objects of art are concerned, the American will always stand on a much higher plane than the famous Frenchman. That Trumbull was a great master cannot, however, be reasonably claimed; but in view of the pioneer times in which he lived, and of the work accomplished by him, he must of necessity always command the highest respect of his countrymen, notwithstanding the clap-trap doings and pernicious influence of certain New York picture dealers. That he was a conscientious worker is proved by the fact that he travelled from one end of the country to the other to collect likenesses of the men he proposed to depict on canvas. That he should have conceived the idea of perpetuating the great events of the Revolution with his pencil, gives evidence of a superior mind; that he should have undertaken such a task proves his courage; and that he should have accomplished it so successfully, under the most adverse circumstances, exhibits him as possessed of rare pluck and perseverance.

A leading characteristic of this soldier-artist was his apparent sense of superiority over other men. It is true that he belonged to a family whose escutcheon had never been sullied by an unworthy act, and that he numbered among his personal friends such men as Washington, Jefferson, John Adams, and Monroe, if not Madison; but he was in reality a lover of his fellow-men, and his seeming haughtiness was merely a physical peculiarity. Nor was it true that his dignity always militated against his influence. When, in 1777, the Continental Congress treated him with seeming neglect in not promptly sending him a commission for promotion, according to the advice of General Gates, he returned the commission with a letter of explanation, in which he made this manly remark: “If I have committed any crime, or neglected any duty, since I engaged in the service of my country; if I have performed any action, or spoken any word in my public character, unworthy of my rank, let me be tried by comrades and broke; but I must not be thought so destitute of feeling as to bear degradation tamely.” If that language proved him to be an aristocrat, the more of such people we have in public life the better will it be for the country.

The special member of Congress who acted for him in this matter hastened to inform him that a mistake had been committed, and that his character was unblemished in the opinion of those who should have promptly forwarded the commission. He also intimated that Colonel Trumbull had better write another letter, and ask for his commission. In reply to this suggestion, he said: “I have never asked any office in the public service; nor will I ever do so. The very request would acknowledge and prove my unworthiness.”

Colonel Trumbull had a reputation for rudeness among the artists; but it need not by any means follow that he was rude; for artists are proverbially sensitive, and may have misjudged him. For example, he entered a young painter’s studio one morning and inquired, “Young man, how fast do you paint?” The answer was given. “And how much do you get for your portraits?” “Only fifteen dollars, sir.” “And quite enough,” observed the visitor, and then added: “Young man, remember this, nine painters out of ten, great and small, err in drawing”; and went his way. It was an excellent piece of advice; but it made that artist an enemy to the critic for the balance of his days. He told another young artist he had better become a shoemaker, and that youth afterwards admitted that the colonel’s philosophy was true. It was long a proverbial expression, originally uttered by Trumbull, that the frame-maker usually made more money than the painter, thereby indicating that many people had no business with the pencil.

For thorough, old-school politeness and courtliness Colonel Trumbull had few equals. Lafayette, one of his most intimate friends, said that his works should be the first, if not the only, ornaments of his dwelling. John Jay, Alexander Hamilton, Stephen Van Rensselaer, and other men of that stamp took pleasure in his companionship; and with David Hosack, DeWitt Clinton, Robert R. Livingston, and other noted New-Yorkers, he was intimately associated in promoting a taste for the fine arts, and in conducting the affairs of the old American Academy. And, so far as the estimation in which he was held by the public generally, both as a man and an artist is concerned, there is nothing that can speak more eloquently than the three hundred and forty-four names which were subscribed for a series of engravings from his paintings as far back as the year 1790. It is a royal list of names which would never have been recorded in favor of a common man. Horace Walpole spoke of his painting of Gibraltar as the finest he had seen north of the Alps; and when Sir Joshua Reynolds uttered some of his petty criticisms, he did not dream that some of his own pictures would one day be ridiculed for their feebleness and fading qualities.

In the autumn of 1815, Colonel Trumbull returned to America with his English wife, a lady of rare beauty and elegant manners; but the story of her origin has always been involved in mystery. She died in 1824; and for nearly nineteen years her devoted husband kept her portrait, which he had painted, closely veiled at the head of his bed. This portrait was bequeathed by Colonel Trumbull to his niece, Miss Abby T. Lanman, of Norwich, Conn. In alluding to the death of his wife, he once wrote as follows: “She was the perfect personification of truth and sincerity, wise to counsel, kind to console, by far the better moral half of me, and withal beautiful beyond the beauty of women.”

The winter of 1819, Colonel Trumbull spent in Hartford, at the house of Daniel Wadsworth, using the small tower upon the house as a studio, where he prepared some of his historical studies. He was an elegant conversationist, and, especially in his family, generous and gentle. As a colorist he was not equal to Stuart, nor could he rival Copley in drawing, both of whom were his friends; but in the higher attributes of art, many would say that he excelled them both. Connecticut may well be proud that he was born on her soil, that most of his best productions are in her possession, and that his ashes and fame are in her keeping.

My personal recollections of Colonel Trumbull were limited to my acquaintance with him during the last two years of his life. I was at that time a “Pearl Street clerk,” and used to visit him occasionally to hear him discourse on the fine arts, and recount his adventures in foreign lands, as well as to gather anecdotes about our several families, between which there had long before been an alliance by marriage. He always treated me with the utmost kindness; seemed indeed to be a warm-hearted lover of his race everywhere; but while he forgave, he could not always forget that he had been the victim of bad treatment from some of his fellow-artists; chief among those he censured being William Dunlap and Thomas S. Cummings. The artistic battle which was waged between him and the men who really founded the National Academy of Design was more bitter than it should have been; but as neither of the parties were immaculate, the bitterness which was manifested, and has been perpetuated in print by the two artists just named, will ever remain inexcusable. Dunlap, we all know, had ability, but was crotchety; but when we remember that Cummings was never anything more than an ordinary miniature painter, it is refreshing to recall his statement, that the faults of Trumbull were due to his education. When he died, however, even the National Academy, through Professor S. F. B. Morse, honored itself by paying him the homage to which he was so justly entitled.

On one occasion, I remember, while seated with him in his parlor, he suddenly pointed to a blank wall and said:—

Among the many engravers with whom Colonel Trumbull had business transactions, there were none of them with whom he was on more pleasant terms than Mr. John F. E. Prud’homme, but their first acquaintance was not particularly edifying. When he was young and working for another engraver already established, he was requested one day to call on Colonel Trumbull, and tell him that the proof of an engraving was then ready to be seen, which the engraver had been making from one of the painter’s portraits, and after Prud’homme had delivered the message, the painter suddenly exclaimed, “It is the business of Mr. Blank to send that proof to me, and I shall not submit to his impudence.” Sixteen years afterwards, when Mr. Prud’homme had occasion to engrave a portrait by the same painter, he went in person to submit a proof of his work, when he was very kindly received by the colonel, who, as he placed his name upon the proof, took occasion to compliment the engraver in high terms. Not only that, but, in a playful manner, he recalled the original interview between the parties, asserting that there were always certain proprieties to be observed even between men who were quite equal in all particulars.

In the various conversations that I had with this eminent man, he touched upon so great a variety of personal incidents, that I felt myself to be in the presence of a most remarkable character. I was with him in fancy, as he struggled with his books in college; as he talked with military men about the better plans for overcoming a wily enemy on the battle-field; while struggling with adverse circumstances in painting the pictures by which he hoped to perpetuate the honor of his country, and the personal appearance of our greatest heroes; as he went to prison, defying the power of the British government; as he feasted with the great men of England and France, discoursing with them on liberty and law, religion and art; while battling for the best interests of art with men who could not appreciate his ability and goodness; and I saw him, an old man, almost alone in the world which he had helped to elevate by his sword, his pen, his pencil, and the example of a brilliant and useful life.

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KNOW WHAT YOU ARE DRINKING.

HANDBOOK OF WATER ANALYSIS. By Dr. George L. Austin. Cloth. 50 cents.

“It condenses into fifty pages what one would have to wander through a small chemical library to find. We commend the book as worthy of a wide circulation.”—Independent.

EVERY LADY HER OWN FLORIST.

THE PARLOR GARDENER. A Treatise on the House-Culture of Ornamental Plants. Translated from the French, and adapted to American use. By Cornelia J. Randolph. With eleven illustrative cuts. 50 cents.

It contains minute directions for the “mantel-piece garden,” the “étagère-garden,” the “flower-stand garden,” the “portable green-house,” the “house-aquarium,” the garden upon the balcony, the terrace, and the double window, besides describing many curious and interesting experiments in grafting.

“HELLO, CENTRAL!”

THE TELEPHONE. An Account of the Phenomena of Electricity, Magnetism, and Sound, as involved in its action, with directions for making a Speaking-Telephone. By Professor A. E. Dolbear of Tufts College. 16mo. Illustrated. Price 50 cents.

“An interesting little book upon this most fascinating subject, which is treated in a very clear and methodical way. First we have a thorough review of the discoveries in electricity, then of magnetism, then of those in the study of sound,—pitch, velocity, timbre, tone, resonance, sympathetic vibrations, etc. From these the telephone is reached, and by them in a measure explained.”—Hartford Courant.

A PRACTICAL PROOF-READER’S ADVICE.

HANDBOOK OF PUNCTUATION, and other Typographical Matters. For the use of Printers, Authors, Teachers, and Scholars. By Marshall T. Bigelow, Corrector at the University Press, Cambridge, Mass. 18mo. Cloth. 50 cts.

“It is intended for the use of authors and teachers; while business men who have occasion to print circulars, advertisements, etc., can hardly afford to be without a copy of it for reference.”—Schenectady Daily Union.

“A USEFUL LITTLE MANUAL.”

HANDBOOK OF LIGHT GYMNASTICS. By Lucy B. Hunt, Instructor in Gymnastics at Smith (Female) College, Northampton, Mass. 50 cents.

“It is designed as a guide to teachers of girls; but it will be found of use, also, to such as wish to practise the exercises at home.”—New-York World.

LOOK OUT FOR SQUALLS.

PRACTICAL BOAT-SAILING. By Douglas Frazar. Classic size. $1.00. With numerous diagrams and illustrations.

“Its directions are so plain, that, with the aid of the accompanying pictorial illustrations and diagrams given in the book, it does seem as if ‘anybody,’ after reading it, could safely handle a sailboat in a squall.”—Times, Hartford.

“A HELPFUL LITTLE BOOK.”—Springfield Republican.

HANDBOOK OF WOOD-ENGRAVING. With Practical Instructions in the Art for Persons wishing to learn without an Instructor. By William A. Emerson, Wood-Engraver. New Edition. Illustrated. $1.00.

“A valuable handbook, explanatory of an art which is gradually attracting the attention of amateurs more and more, and which affords, not only a pleasing pastime, but an excellent means of procuring a livelihood.”—Cleveland Sun.

“A LITERARY TIDBIT.”

SHORT STUDIES OF AMERICAN AUTHORS. By Thomas Wentworth Higginson. 50 cents.

“These ‘Studies’ are rather those of the characters themselves than of their works, and, written in Mr. Higginson’s best analytical style, fill up a leisure hour charmingly.”—Toledo Journal.

“NO LITTLE BOOK IS CAPABLE OF DOING BETTER SERVICE.”

HANDBOOK OF ELOCUTION SIMPLIFIED. By Walter K. Fobes, with an Introduction by George M. Baker. Cloth. 50 cents.

“This valuable little book occupies a place heretofore left vacant, as a digest of elocution that is both practical and methodical, and low in price.”—New-York Tribune.

ARE YOU INTERESTED IN BUGS?

INSECTS; How to Catch and how to Prepare them for the Cabinet. Comprising a Manual of Instruction for the Field Naturalist. By Walter P. Manton. Illustrated. Cloth, 50 cents.

“Nothing essential is omitted: every boy who has any taste for natural history should have this neat little volume. The many “Agassiz Clubs” which have sprung up amid the youth of the country, should add it to their libraries.”—Chicago Advance.

“OF INESTIMABLE VALUE TO YOUNG BOTANISTS.”—Rural New-Yorker.

FIELD BOTANY. A Handbook for the Collector. Containing Instructions for Gathering and Preserving Plants, and the Formation of a Herbarium. Also Complete Instructions in Leaf Photography, Plant Printing, and the Skeletonizing of Leaves. By Walter P. Manton. Illustrated. 50 cents.

“A most valuable companion. The amount of information conveyed in the small compass is surprising.”—Demorest’s Monthly.

“EVERY NATURALIST OUGHT TO HAVE A COPY FOR IMMEDIATE USE.”

TAXIDERMY WITHOUT A TEACHER. Comprising a Complete Manual of Instruction for Preparing and Preserving Birds, Animals, and Fishes; with a Chapter on Hunting and Hygiene; together with Instructions for Preserving Eggs and Making Skeletons, and a number of valuable Recipes. By Walter P. Manton. Illustrated. 50 cents.

“We would be glad if all teachers would take this little book, study it faithfully, become interested themselves, and interest their pupils in this wonderful art.”—Practical Teacher.

HOW TO ENLARGE THE ANT TO THE SIZE OF AN ELEPHANT.

BEGINNINGS WITH THE MICROSCOPE. A Working Handbook, containing simple Instructions in the Art and Method of using the Microscope and preparing Objects for Examination. By Walter P. Manton, M.D. Small 4to. Cloth, 50 cents.

Uniform with the author’s “Handbooks of Natural History,” and equally valuable.

PARLEZ VOUS FRANÇAIS?

BROKEN ENGLISH. A Frenchman’s Struggles with the English Language. By Professor E. C. Dubois, author of “The French Teacher.” Cloth, 50 cents; cheap edition, paper, 30 cents.

The Professor’s famous lecture, delivered all over the country. Amusing as a narrative, instructive as a handbook of French conversation.

AN EMERGENCY HANDBOOK.

WHAT IS TO BE DONE. A Handbook for the Nursery, with useful Hints for Children and Adults. By Robert B. Dixon, M.D. Small 4to. Cloth, 50 cents.

Dr. Dixon has produced a work that will be gladly welcomed by parents. His “remedies” are indorsed by many prominent medical men.

SHORT-HAND WITHOUT A MASTER.

HANDBOOK OF UNIVERSAL PHONOGRAPHY; or, Short-hand by the “Allen Method.” A self-instructor, whereby more speed than long hand writing is gained at the first lesson, and additional speed at each subsequent lesson. By G. G. Allen, Principal of the Allen Stenographic Institute, Boston. 50 cents.

“By this method one can, in an hour a day for two or three months, become so expert as to report a lecture verbatim.”

THE STUDY OF GEOGRAPHY MADE PRACTICAL.

HANDBOOK OF THE EARTH. Natural methods in geography. By Louisa Parsons Hopkins, Teacher of Normal Methods in the Swain Free School, New Bedford. 50 cents.

The work is designed for the use of teachers and normal-school classes as a review and generalization of geographical facts, and for general readers as a guide to right methods of study and instruction.

DAILY FOOD FOR THE MIND.

PRONOUNCING HANDBOOK of 3,000 words often mispronounced, and of words as to which a choice of pronunciation is allowed. By Richard Soule and Loomis J. Campbell. 50 cts.

“This book can be carried in a gentleman’s vest-pocket, or tucked in a lady’s belt, and we wish several hundred thousand copies might thus be disposed of, with a view to daily consultation.”—Congregationalist.

ABOUT 40,000 SYNONYMOUS WORDS.

HANDBOOK OF ENGLISH SYNONYMS, with an appendix showing the correct use of prepositions, also a collection of foreign phrases. By Loomis J. Campbell. Cloth. 50 cents.

“Clearly printed, well arranged, adapted to help any one who writes much to enrich his vocabulary, vary his expressions, and secure accuracy in conveying his thoughts.”—Boston Journal.

“A BOOK OF INCALCULABLE VALUE.”

HANDBOOK OF CONVERSATION. Its Faults and its Graces. Compiled by Andrew P Peabody, D.D., LL.D. Comprising: 1. Dr. Peabody’s Lecture. 2. Mr. Trench’s Lecture. 3. Mr. Perry Gwynn’s “A Word to the Wise; or, Hints on the Current Improprieties of Expression in Writing and Speaking.” 4. Mistakes and Improprieties in Speaking and Writing Corrected. Cloth. 50 cents.

“It is worth owning, and ought to be studied by many who heedlessly misuse their mother tongue.”—Boston Beacon.

“WE COMMEND IT HIGHLY.”—Chicago Herald.

HINTS AND HELPS for those who Write, Print, or Read. By Benjamin Drew, Proof-reader. 50 cents.

“The information is imparted in a very lively and remembering way.”—Boston Commonwealth.

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Sold by all booksellers, and sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of price.

THE DOUGLAS NOVELS.

A WOMAN’S INHERITANCE.

“Like all the romances of Miss Douglas, this story has a fascination about it which enchains the reader’s attention until the end.”—Baltimore News.

OUT OF THE WRECK; or, was it a Victory?

“Bright and entertaining as Miss Douglas’s stories always are, this, her new one, leads them all.”—New-Bedford Standard.

FLOYD GRANDON’S HONOR.

“Fascinating throughout, and worthy of the reputation of the author.”—Philadelphia Methodist.

WHOM KATHIE MARRIED.

Kathie was the heroine of the popular series of Kathie Stories for young people, the readers of which were very anxious to know with whom Kathie settled down in life. Hence this story, charmingly written.

LOST IN A GREAT CITY.

“There is the power of delineation and robustness of expression that would credit a masculine hand in the present volume, and the reader will at no stage of the reading regret having commenced its perusal. In some parts it is pathetic, even to eloquence.”—San Francisco Post.

THE OLD WOMAN WHO LIVED IN A SHOE.

“The romances of Miss Douglas’s creation are all thrillingly interesting.”—Cambridge Tribune.

HOPE MILLS; or, Between Friend and Sweetheart.

“Amanda Douglas is one of the favorite authors of American novel-readers.”—Manchester Mirror.

FROM HAND TO MOUTH.

“There is real satisfaction in reading this book, from the fact that we can so readily ‘take it home’ to ourselves.”—Portland Argus.

NELLY KINNARD’S KINGDOM.

“The Hartford Religious Herald” says, “This story is so fascinating, that one can hardly lay it down after taking it up.”

IN TRUST; or, Dr. Bertrand’s Household.

“She writes in a free, fresh, and natural way; and her characters are never overdrawn.”—Manchester Mirror.

CLAUDIA.

“The plot is very dramatic, and the dénoûment startling. Claudia, the heroine, is one of those self-sacrificing characters which it is the glory of the female sex to produce.”—Boston Journal.

STEPHEN DANE.

“This is one of this author’s happiest and most successful attempts at novel-writing, for which a grateful public will applaud her.”—Herald.

HOME NOOK; or, the Crown of Duty.

“An interesting story of home-life, not wanting in incident, and written in forcible and attractive style.”—New-York Graphic.

SYDNIE ADRIANCE; or, Trying the World.

“The works of Miss Douglas have stood the test of popular judgment, and become the fashion. They are true, natural in delineation, pure and elevating in their tone.”—Express, Easton, Penn.

SEVEN DAUGHTERS.

The charm of the story is the perfectly natural and home-like and such as pervades it.

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Sold by all booksellers, and sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of price.

J. T. TROWBRIDGE’S NOVELS.

NEW UNIFORM EDITION.

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FARNELL’S FOLLY.

“As a Novel of American Society, this book has never been surpassed. Hearty in style and wholesome in tone. Its pathos often melting to tears, its humor always exciting merriment.”

CUDJO’S CAVE.

Like “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” this thrilling story was a stimulating power in the civil war, and had an immense sale. Secretary Chase, of President Lincoln’s cabinet, said of it, “I could not help reading it: it interested and impressed me profoundly.”

THE THREE SCOUTS.

Another popular book of the same stamp, of which “The Boston Transcript” said, “It promises to have a larger sale than ‘Cudjo’s Cave.’ It is impossible to open the volume at any page without being struck by the quick movement and pervading anecdote of the story.”

THE DRUMMER BOY.

A Story of Burnside’s Expedition. Illustrated by F. O. C. Darley.

“The most popular book of the season. It will sell without pushing.”—Zion’s Herald.

MARTIN MERRIVALE: His X Mark.

“Strong in humor, pathos, and unabated interest. In none of the books issued from the American press can there be found a purer or more delicate sentiment, a more genuine good taste, or a nicer appreciation and brighter delineation of character.”—English Journal.

NEIGHBOR JACKWOOD.

A story of New-England life in the slave-tracking days. Dramatized for the Boston Museum, it had a long run to crowded houses. The story is one of Trowbridge’s very best.

COUPON BONDS, and other Stories.

The leading story is undoubtedly the most popular of Trowbridge’s short stories. The others are varied in character, but are either intensely interesting or “highly amusing.”

NEIGHBORS’ WIVES.

An ingenious and well-told story. Two neighbors’ wives are tempted beyond their strength to resist, and steal each from the other. One is discovered in the act, under ludicrous and humiliating circumstances, but is generously pardoned, with a promise of secrecy. Of course she betrays her secret, and of course perplexities come. It is a capital story.

12mo. Cloth. Price per volume, $l.50.

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Sold by all booksellers, and sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of price.

Miss Virginia F. Townsend’s Books.

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Uniform Edition.  Cloth.  $1.50 Each.

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BUT A PHILISTINE.

“Another novel by the author of ‘A Woman’s Word’ and ‘Lenox Dare,’ will be warmly welcomed by hosts of readers of Miss Townsend’s stories. There is nothing of the ‘sensational,’ or so-called realistic, school in her writings. On the contrary, they are noted for their healthy moral tone and pure sentiment, and yet are not wanting in STRIKING SITUATIONS AND DRAMATIC INCIDENTS.”—Chicago Journal.

LENOX DARE.

“Her stones, always sunny and healthful, touch the springs of social life, and make the reader better acquainted with this great human organization of which we all form a part, and tend to bring him into more intimate sympathy with what is most pure and noble in our nature. Among the best of her productions we place the volume here under notice. In temper and tone the volume is calculated to exert a healthful and elevating influence.”—New-England Methodist.

DARYLL GAP; or, Whether it Paid.

A story of the petroleum days, and of a family who struck oil.

“Miss Townsend is a very entertaining writer, and, while she entertains, at the same time instructs. Her plots are well arranged, and her characters are clearly and strongly drawn. The present volume will not detract from the reputation she has heretofore enjoyed.”—Pittsburg Recorder.

A WOMAN’S WORD, AND HOW SHE KEPT IT.

“The celebrity of Virginia F. Townsend as an authoress, her brilliant descriptive powers, and pure, vigorous imagination, will insure a hearty welcome for the above entitled volume in the writer’s happiest vein. Every woman will understand the self-sacrifice of Genevieve Weir, and will entertain only scorn for the miserable man who imbittered her life to hide his own wrong-doing.”—Fashion Quarterly.

THAT QUEER GIRL.

“A fresh, wholesome book about good men and good women, bright and cheery in style, and pure in morals. Just the book to take a young girl’s fancy, and help her to grow up, like Madeline and Argia, into the sweetness of real girlhood; there being more of that same sweetness under the fuss and feathers of the present day than a casual observer might suppose.”—People’s Monthly.

ONLY GIRLS.

“This volume shows how two persons, ‘only girls,’ saved two men from crime, even from ruin of body and soul; and all this came about in their lives without their purpose or knowledge at the time, and not at all as they or anybody else would have planned it; but it comes about well and naturally enough. The story is ingenious and graphic, and kept the writer of this notice up far into the small hours of yesterday morning.”—Washington Chronicle.

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Sold by all booksellers, and sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of price.

LEE & SHEPARD, Publishers, Boston.

SOPHIE MAY’S “GROWN-UP” BOOKS.

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Uniform Binding.  All Handsomely Illustrated.  $l.50.

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JANET, A POOR HEIRESS.

“The heroine of this story is a true girl. An imperious, fault-finding, unappreciative father alienates her love, and nearly ruins her temper. The mother knows the father is at fault, but does not dare to say so. Then comes a discovery, that she is only an adopted daughter; a forsaking of the old home; a life of strange vicissitudes; a return; a marriage under difficulties; and a discovery, that, after all, she is an heiress. The story is certainly a very attractive one.”—Chicago Interior.

THE DOCTOR’S DAUGHTER.

“Sophie May, author of the renowned Prudy and Dotty books, has achieved another triumph in the new book with this title just issued. She has taken ‘a new departure’ this time, and written a new story for grown up folks. If we are not much mistaken, the young folks will want to read it, as much as the old folks want to read the books written for the young ones. It is a splendid story for all ages.”—Lynn Semi Weekly Recorder.

THE ASBURY TWINS.

“The announcement of another work by this charming and popular writer will be heartily welcomed by the public. And in this sensible, fascinating story of the twin-sisters, ‘Vic’ and ‘Van,’ they have before them a genuine treat. Vic writes her story in one chapter, and Van in the next, and so on through the book. Van is frank, honest, and practical; Vic wild, venturesome, and witty; and both of them natural and winning. At home or abroad, they are true to their individuality, and see things with their own eyes. It is a fresh, delightful volume, well worthy of its gifted author.”—Boston Contributor.

OUR HELEN.

“ ‘Our Helen’ is Sophie May’s latest creation; and she is a bright, brave girl, that the young people will all like. We are pleased to meet with some old friends in the book. It is a good companion book for the ‘Doctor’s Daughter,’ and the two should go together. Queer old Mrs. O’Neil still lives, to indulge in the reminiscences of the young men of Machias; and other Quinnebasset people with familiar names occasionally appear, along with new ones who are worth knowing. ‘Our Helen’ is a noble and unselfish girl, but with a mind and will of her own; and the contrast between her and pretty, fascinating, selfish little Sharley, is very finely drawn. Lee & Shepard publish it.”—Holyoke Transcript.

QUINNEBASSET GIRLS.

“The story is a very attractive one, as free from the sensational and impossible as could be desired, and at the same time full of interest, and pervaded by the same bright, cheery sunshine that we find in the author’s earlier books. She is to be congratulated on the success of her essay in a new field of literature, to which she will be warmly welcomed by those who know and admire her ‘Prudy Books.’ ”

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Sold by all booksellers, and sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of price.

LEE & SHEPARD, Publishers, Boston.

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur.

[The end of Haphazard Personalities, Chiefly of noted Americans by Charles Lanman]