Atlantic Monthly, Volume 3, Issue 17, March, 1859 by Various (page 2)

The time that he passed at the desk of the India House was time in which he did not live; or perhaps, while he autographed the mercantile books, there was a higher half-conscious life of the fancy which lightly flitted round and round the steady course of his pen. He thus exults, after his emancipation from his clerkship upon a pension:–“I came home FOREVER on Tuesday in last week. The incomprehensibleness of my condition overwhelmed me. It was like passing from life into eternity. Every year to be as long as three; that is, to have three times as much time that is real time–time that is my own–in it. I wandered about thinking I was happy, but feeling I was not. But the tumultuousness is passing off, and I begin to understand the nature of the gift.” For this one-third of his waking time, to have and to hold unhampered by any dependence, he had most willingly consigned the rest to drudgery. The value which he set upon it appears from the following answer which he made to Bernard Barton, who thought of abandoning his place in a bank and of relying upon literary labor for support:–“Throw yourself on the world without any rational plan of support beyond what the chance employ of booksellers would afford you! Throw yourself, rather, my dear Sir, from the steep Tarpeian rock, slap-dash, headlong, upon iron spikes. If you have but five consolatory minutes between the desk and the bed, make much of them, and live a century in them, rather than turn slave to the booksellers. Hitherto you have been at arm’s length from them,–come not within their grasp. I have known many authors want for bread,–some repining, others enjoying the blessed security of a counting-house, all agreeing that they would rather have been tailors, weavers,–what not?–rather than the things they were. I have known some starved, some go mad, one dear friend literally dying in a madhouse. Oh! you know not–may you never know!–the miseries of subsisting by authorship.” Thus he esteemed of priceless worth honestly-earned independent time for the pursuits that were dearest to him.

His literary and social avocations were so intimately blended that they seem to have been almost the same. He was as thoughtful in his evening parties as he was in the act of composition, and as gentle and kindly in writing as he was to his friends. He gathered about him not many of the most famous, but many of the most original and peculiar men of his time. His Wednesday-evening parties were assemblies of thinkers. They were composed in large part of men who were not balanced by a profession, who were devoted only to wit, fancy, or speculation, who cultivated each a peculiar field and cherished each peculiar tastes and opinions, who were interested in different quarters of the heavens, and yet who came together, prompted by the spirit of sociality and kindliness, to lay perhaps the backs of their heads together, and to talk always sincerely and wisely, but in the form of sense or nonsense, as the case might be. Lamb and his sister were always ready to appreciate every variety of goodness, and doubtless their guests received an order something like that which was addressed to the dwellers in Thomson’s enchanting castle:–

“Ye sons of Indolence! do what you will, And wander where you list, through hall or glade; Be no man’s pleasure for another stayed: Let each as likes him best his hours employ, And cursed be he who minds his neighbor’s trade!”

To these parties sometimes came Coleridge, who in conversation seems to have been a happy mixture of a German philosopher and an Italian _improvvisatore_. Here Hazlitt learned to utter the philosophic criticisms which he most passionately believed in; and Lloyd, whose intellect was one of peculiar refinement, discoursed modestly of metaphysical problems, analyzing to an extent that Talfourd says was positively painful. Here the social reformer Leigh Hunt came, and for the moment forgot that social reforms were needed. Here the Opium-Eater came, and his cloudy abstract loves and hates and visions were exploded by the sparks of Elia’s wit. Here the philosopher Godwin developed philosophy out of whist. Here the pensive face of the Quaker poet, Bernard Barton, shed a mild light upon the scene; and here the lawyer Thomas Noon Talfourd came to admire the finest characters that he knew of.

Having thus noticed the painful experience and unfaltering devotion to noble aims which marked the career of Charles Lamb, we leave him with his friends, and pass to notice the same elements in the life of his brother wit.

Sydney Smith preferred the legal profession, and esteemed himself a victim in entering the Church. His practical wisdom informed him, that, from the beginning even until then, qualities like his had not found a happy sphere of action in the pulpit, but, on the contrary, had rusted or grown ugly in it. He had as much sentiment as Sterne, and perhaps as much political sagacity as Swift, yet the finest instincts within him recoiled from following in the path of either the one or the other. With a subtile and exuberant wit,–he knew that wit touches not sacred things. With great practical prudence and a brilliant speculative capacity,–in a clergyman, prudence is less than faith, and brilliancy of thought than the glow of the heart. In his rich composite character he had, indeed, the qualities which make the clergyman; his disposition was religious, his heart was tender and Christian, he could give the best advice to the people; and though his appearance was not quite saint-like, it was at least suggestive of a good man who was walking in the way which he pointed out to others. But these qualities were not those with which he was most highly endowed. Energy and sterling common-sense, which he had inherited from his father, an elastic, mercurial, and passionate nature, which had come to him from his Huguenot mother,–these were the strong points in his character, and it belongs to neither of them to take the lead in the Church. Sydney had scanned the whole field. Having questioned well his desires, examined well his blood, derived what wisdom he could from history and observation, he deliberately chose the law. Why, then, did he take to theology? We read that his father had incurred so much expense in educating his eldest son for the legal profession, and in fitting out two others for India, that he could not well furnish the means for Sydney’s education, and strongly recommended him to go into the Church; and that the son sacrificed his own to his father’s inclination.

We may imagine Sydney Smith’s reflections. With his versatile talent, honorable ambition, and consciousness that he could have made a shining name in political life, his object now was to find a sufficient sphere for the exercise of all his powers in the Church. It was no fault of his that he was unwilling to settle as curate and have no aim beyond his parish except to go to heaven at last. With his superfluity of human nature, for him to become a saint was out of the question. What then? Should he enter the realm of dogmatics, and become a learned and redoubted champion of the faith, passing his life amid exegesis? Should he renounce thorough thinking, and become a polished and popular pastor, an ornament of the pulpit and of society? Should he signalize himself for gravity, orthodoxy, and ability, seek the earthly prizes of his profession, and perhaps become Archbishop of Canterbury? Should he become a jolly, vinous, and Friar-Tuck sort of clergyman? God forbid! he said to each of these queries, and rushed forward into his profession. Regarding himself as a lamb for the slaughter, yet tremendously in earnest not to be sacrificed, he went into the Church groping and fearing, but resolute. Trembling lest he should not do his duty both to himself and to his sacred office, he yet determined to try. Thus the thorn which troubled Sydney Smith was not an affliction, but was what he regarded as a danger; and, though less patent and pointed than that in the life of Charles Lamb, probably had not less influence in the discipline of character.

Behold, then, the long and venerable line of the clergy opening to receive him, and behold him entering it! The clergy, the priesthood, the holy fathers, the strong bishops, the monks, the ghostly race, the retired enthusiasts, now melancholy, now rapt, now merry-making, the consolers of sorrow, the divine heroes in an earthly life,–even one of this family does Sydney propose to be. At the age of twenty-four he becomes curate in the little hamlet of Salisbury Plain,–the young graduate of Oxford sent into the country to be pastor to the inmates of half-a-dozen hovels! Then he writes his description of a curate:–“The poor working man of God,–a learned man in a hovel, good and patient,–a comforter and a teacher,–the first and purest pauper of the hamlet; yet showing that in the midst of worldly misery he has the heart of a gentleman, the spirit of a Christian, and the kindness of a pastor.” He regards himself as almost excluded from his kind, and quotes (or originates) the proverb, that there are three sexes, men, women, and clergymen. He took long solitary walks over the plains of Salisbury, reflecting upon the manifold activities of the world, in which he had no part. The only society that he had was during the occasional visits of the squire to the neighborhood, who, surprised to find the curate so interesting a person, gave him frequent invitations to dinner. Thus passed two years, when the squire consigned his son to the curate to be educated, and Sydney Smith, starting with the young man for the Continent, was driven by stress of war to Edinburgh.

There he met Horner, Jeffrey, Brougham, and others, young thinkers and full of matter,–Horner the philosopher, Jeffrey the critic, Brougham the statesman, and Sydney Smith the divine,–and the divine was unsurpassed by any of the others in wit, energy, or decision of character. While the events with which the times were rife were striking fire in all their brains, it was the divine who first turned their thoughts to account by suggesting that they should start a review, The suggestion was acted upon, and under his editorial care the first numbers of the “Edinburgh Review” appeared. His prudence and remonstrances saved it from manifold excesses; for Jeffrey was not a man to be moderate in times like those. The brilliant critic received not a few such lectures as the following:–“I certainly, my dear Jeffrey, in conjunction with the Knight of the Shaggy Eyebrows [Homer], do protest against your increasing and unprofitable skepticism. I exhort you to restrain the violent tendency of your nature for analysis, and to cultivate synthetical propensities. What is virtue? What’s the use of truth? What’s the use of honor? What’s a guinea but a d–d yellow circle? The whole effort of your mind is to destroy. Because others build slightly and eagerly, you employ yourself in kicking down their houses, and contract a sort of aversion for the more honorable, useful, and difficult task of building well yourself.” It was the boast of Sydney Smith in old age that he had very little to change in the opinions which he had at various times advanced,–that he had seen every important measure which he had advocated passed and become recognized as beneficent. The variety of the review suited the versatility of his talent; the problem, What worthy thing shall I employ myself in doing? was solved; and an ample public career was opened to him. When, after five years, he passes from Edinburgh to London, he is not only a poor clergyman, but a famous Edinburgh reviewer. He becomes popular in society and as a preacher, and delivers pictures on Moral Philosophy to crowded houses of the _elite_ of the metropolis.

When he is again exiled as a curate, his solitude is not unbroken, but he receives and returns the visits of the most eminent people. His neighbors ran to him one day, shortly after his arrival, exclaiming, –“Please your honor, a coach! a coach! a coach!” Sydney saw in the distance the equipage of Lord Holland, and challenged the admiration of his parishioners by boldly answering,–“Well, my good friends, _stand firm_; never mind, even if there should be a coach; it will do us no harm;–let us see.” A simple pastor and an eminent man, with flashing energy he approves himself a good man. Sunday he preached, Monday he doctored the sick, Tuesday Sir James Mackintosh visited him for a week, Wednesday he read Ariosto, Thursday he began an article, Friday he reviewed his patients, Saturday he repaired his barn. Now he is laying down a rule that no day shall pass in which he will not make somebody happy; now he is fixing a bar whereon it shall be convenient for his cows to scrape their backs; now he is watching by the side of his sleeping baby, with a rattle in hand to wake the young spirit into joyousness the moment its sleep breaks. He goes through the parish as doctor, wit, and priest, guide, philosopher, and friend, studying the temper and needs of the simple congregation to which he preaches on Sunday, while his brain is racking with great thoughts. With these higher thoughts he has to do as he sits at his desk and writes an article for the larger parish of the United Kingdom. With a wild play of wit and fancy and laughter he graces the sturdy column of his virtue and fidelity. He lived in what was said to be the ugliest and most comfortable house in England, admired by every visitor for his independence, manliness, refinement, and liveliness. When he visited London, as he often did, and when in later years he lived there and was _lionne_, his simplicity of character remained. To the last he was one of the sincerest and most active of clergymen and of men.

It is probable that there were not living at the time two more serious men than the two wits whose careers we have outlined. Indeed, it is quite a mistake to suppose that wit has anything to do with temper or sentiment at all. A man may be perpetually sulky, and yet habitually witty,–may smile, and smile, and smile, and yet be a most melancholy individual. Wit is simply a form of thought, and is as intellectual as scientific study. It differs from other thought only in being a little _outre_,–a little in excess; it overdoes the thing only because it has so much energy in it. It is what Charles Lamb said a pun was,–“a sole digest of wisdom.” All great thoughts are at first witty, and afterward come to be common and flat. When Pythagoras discovered the theorem of the squares erected on the sides of a right-angled triangle, it had the effect on him of a most preposterous joke. The apple dropping on the head of Newton struck him like a very far-fetched pun. Show a child the picture of a wild Tartar, and his first motion will be to laugh at it. We have seen a man while reading Kant, the dryest of metaphysicians, slap his knee, leap upon his feet, and swear, in exuberance of mirth, that Kant had said a good thing. If it were discovered to-morrow to be a scientific truth that this world is wrong side out, and if inventive genius should discover a way to put the other side out, we should all of us think it a funny thing, but our transversed descendants would regard the matter as a commonplace. New proposals in the arts, and new discoveries in the sciences are always at first laughed at. Thus wit is only thought that is beyond the present capacity of the listeners, thought of whose meaning they can catch only a glimpse; it is the forerunner of what our very stupid race, which is always a little behind the times, is wont to call wisdom. If the race should ever become completely sage, nothing less than a joke would ever be uttered.

The likenesses of Charles Lamb and Sydney Smith make them both very severe-looking men. Like marble, which in costume takes the appearance of the finest lace, so that it seems as if it would yield to the touch of a finger, their delicate fancies and sentiments were but the surface of a solid and thorough character.

They lived in different spheres, corresponding to the difference in their genius. Sydney Smith had the more versatile and fruitful mind. With restless energy he supported various characters, being equally famous as a wit, Whig, Edinburgh reviewer, eloquent preacher, brilliant man of society, and canon of Saint Paul’s. His biographer well describes him as a rough rider of subjects, and with surpassing good sense he overran every problem with which the public mind was occupied. He was a reformer, but it was after the English and not the French fashion. He had unbounded respect for existing human blessings, believed in things substantially as they were, and couldn’t have been persuaded to try an experiment that had much of hazard in it. A Frenchman is always at home amid earthquakes and volcanoes and hurricanes, and the immediate prospect of an end to everything that is and a beginning of something the like of which never has been. The spirit of the great French Revolution was to exterminate all the results of time up to that point, and, having made a clear field, to begin over again. Hence heads went off, religion was proscribed, thrones were burned, the calendar was changed; even the heavenly bodies should no longer bear down their freight of old associations, and Orion received the name of Napoleon. Could the earth have in any way been transformed, could grass possibly have been made blue and the heavens green, or could man have been done over into any other sort of animal, there is not the slightest doubt that those Frenchmen would have undertaken it. In comparison with such men, Sydney Smith sank into insignificance as a reformer. He lived under a religion, government, and system of manners, all of which he was desirous to retain. He did not wish for his children any institutions very much more comfortable than England offered at the moment. He regarded the advantages of life with great complacency, thinking, doubtless, that men had better opportunities than they availed themselves of; and the chief intensity of his purpose was not to make better opportunities, but to improve them better. He probably did not approve of all the men and customs that he saw, was decidedly opposed both to wickedness and stupidity; but he did not propose, like a Frenchman, at the first fault, to blot out the heavens and the earth. He demonstrated in his life how genial, under existing institutions, a clergyman could be, how discreet a young enthusiast could be, how widely active a curate could be, how acceptable in society an honest man could be, how brilliant a plain Englishman could be. A great reformer he was, –but the spirit of his reform consisted chiefly, not in changing, but in making better use of the blessings which we already possess. Compared with this prevailing spirit of personal reform, the reformatory public measures which he was prominent in advocating were of slight consequence. Merry on the surface, with an iron core of stubborn resolution within, he equally delighted his most homely and his most elegant friends, and while he sympathized with humble life, he had a profound respect for the technically best society.

Charles Lamb lived within a narrower and peculiar range. With more of concentration, he had a less abounding energy than Sydney Smith. His character was an odd and elegant miniature, while that of Sydney Smith was voluminous. He loved a particular sort of men, and that sort was honest men; while the merry divine could deal with politicians and even with Talleyrand himself. Sydney was playing a part in the Whig party, among the advocates of reforms; the sympathies of Elia went for the reform of the United Kingdom, and of the universe, too, if possible,–but he was more interested in a profound thought, brought forth from the struggling breast of Hazlitt, than in any bill introduced into Parliament. He was occupied with his old books, his sincere friends, his beloved sister. He cared little for the _beau monde_, would rather not look upon a duke or a duchess without a grating between; but, turning from the current into an eddy, content with the many thoughtful and original persons whom he had about him, he delighted to fish for the shyest tenants of the stream and to dive for strange pearls. He loved remote thoughts, quaint expressions, fantastic ideas. He especially attached himself to any violent symptoms of human nature. Being in a picture-gallery, he observed a stout sailor in towering disgust at one of the old masters, spit his tobacco-juice at it, and swear, with an expletive, that he could do better himself. The honest opinion honestly expressed, the truth and vigor of the man, delighted Lamb, and he rushed up to him to shake hands. Whenever the sailor, after that, wrote to his friends in London, he wished to be particularly remembered to Mr. Charles Lamb, who wouldn’t be humbugged about that old painting.

It was this strong sympathy with human character which made Elia rather a contemner of the worship of Nature. He liked things that were as definite as the works of men, and found great difficulty in sympathizing with a landscape. There was nothing on Fleet Street for which he did not feel a personal attachment; all the hurry and majestic order of a great city, all the little by-ways and hedges of city life, the wealth, the poverty, the splendor, the rags, the men and women, all acting under the stern discipline of an immense society, the boys, the beggars, the chimney-sweeps, the hilarious and the sorrowful, the fine ladies and noble lords, were all duly appreciated by him. If he had been taken up to the pinnacle of a mountain, instead of entertaining one of Wordsworth’s sublime contemplations, he would have been very likely to flap his arms and crow like chanticleer. Indeed, in middle age he was accustomed to boast that he had never seen a mountain. Born in London, and always residing in London till the last years of his life, esteeming man the crown and purpose of the universe, he was much inclined to regard the love of Nature, which figures so largely in modern literature, as a popular delusion. He would have sympathized with the French philosopher who, after accompanying a young lady to the Highlands of Scotland, surprised her raptures by saying to her,–“_Aimez-vous les beautes de la nature? Pour moi, je les abhorre_.”

The diverse religious character of these two men may be illustrated by an allusion to their different habits with respect to Art. Sydney Smith, visiting Paris, satisfied himself by a fifteen-minutes’ observation in the galleries of the Louvre. His mind, almost orbicular in its various capacity, took in the scene at a glance. There were pictures from almost every country, statues from almost every age, representations of the finest imaginations of the mind and of the noblest labors of history. He was not a barbarian with respect to the Louvre, but understood all about it, and knew its excellence and value; yet he mingled his sentiment and common-sense well together, and took a rapid walk from chamber to chamber. He probably entertained large views of Art during his impetuous progress through the ages, from battle-field to battle-field, from saint to saint, from philosopher, poet, and hero, to landscape, shepherdess, and domestic scene. He took in thought with lightning swiftness, and lived for fifteen minutes amid statues and paintings which collected scenes from all the universe. He went forth, satisfied that the Louvre was a fine gallery of Art, that Art was a very fine thing, that painters and sculptors ought to be encouraged, and that he had been looking at many things which were worthy a man’s consideration. If he had been called upon at once to preach a sermon, there is no doubt that he would have made very judicious reflections upon the spectacle which he had beheld.

Charles Lamb, too, visited Paris, and though it is not recorded that he went into the Louvre, yet we can hardly be mistaken in conjecturing that he did, and the thoughts with which he went. He would have entered those galleries with timid ecstasy. He would at first have shrunk away from the full splendor, and made acquaintance with some modest painting in a corner. Happy would some friend near him be to hear the half-tender, half-witty, yet most appreciative conceit which should first come stammering from his lips. He would have advanced slowly, and only after much delay would have ventured to stand before the great masters, and to look up eye to eye at the spirit of the Louvre. After taking his departure, he would never have thought familiarly of the scene, but it would have remained in his mind as terrible and sacred an episode as was the descent into Hades to Virgil’s hero.

Not only in the Louvre, but in the world, Charles Lamb was the more timid worshipper. The whole character of his mind, the intensity of his thought within a narrow sphere, made him reverent of the Infinite. The thought of departure from the life which he now lived was to him a very solemn one. Religious ideas were so sacred to him that he never referred to them lightly, and seldom at all. When he did mention them, it was with peculiar impressiveness. No one can read the account of his share in a conversation on “persons one would like to have seen,” without admiring the energy and pathos with which he alluded to one Person, whose name, however, he did not utter. Discussions on religious subjects he never tolerated in anybody but Coleridge. One evening, after he and Leigh Hunt had returned from a visit to Coleridge, Hunt began to express his surprise that a man of so much genius as the Highgate sage should entertain such religious opinions as he did, and mentioned one of his doctrines for especial reprobation. Lamb, who was preparing the second bowl of punch, answered, hesitatingly, with a gentle smile,–“Never mind what Coleridge believes; he is full of fun.” He was an humble, sinful worshipper, and while he bowed his head tremblingly before Heaven, he poured out the stream of his affections to his sister and his friends.

The religious character of Sydney Smith was less peculiar than that of Elia. An earnest Christian, with a will too resolute to allow the aid of the punch-bowl in vanquishing trouble, professionally wielding the religious and moral ideas, and habitually obeying them, he stood erect and looked at the life to come with a firm eye. “The beauty of the Christian religion,” he says, “is that it carries the order and discipline of heaven into our very fancies and conceptions, and, by hallowing the first shadowy notions of our minds, from which actions spring, makes our actions themselves good and holy.” This central and vital beauty he had cultivated in a very diversified life, and he looked with confidence for the prize which is laid up for the well-doer.

Probably, if any successful life were examined, it would be found to consist of a series of hairbreadth escapes. Every movement would be the crossing of the Rubicon. That man is of little account who at every step that he has taken has not been weighing matters as nicely as if he were matching diamonds. How narrowly did Coleridge escape being the greatest preacher, philosopher, poet, or author of his time! Almost everything was possible to him; and one can but marvel how he went through life avoiding in turn each of his highest possibilities. It is the glory of Charles Lamb and Sydney Smith, that, as far as it can be said of any men, they did the best that was possible with their circumstances and endowments. The old fancy which says of every person, that there is an ideal character which he can attain, in which he shall be peculiar and unsurpassed, was in their cases realized.

Their characters were projected into literature, where they remain as permanent blessings. The style of writing of both of them approaches to the simplest way of saying things. Elia employed the choicest language of the seventeenth century, and the divine used the plainest English of the day. The perpetual danger of literature is of becoming rhetorical; and hardly fares vigor of thought when long words and periods are preferred to short ones, and when the native shape and properties of ideas are less cared for than the abundant drapery. The style of the “Essays of Elia” is as admirable as their fancy. The author hated a formal sentence as much as he disliked stately and insipid society. Unlike Thomas Carlyle, in avoiding the faults of rhetorical culture, he did not become a literary barbarian. In refusing to comb his hair like a prig, he did not go to the extreme of making himself horridly uncomely. His sentences are unsurpassed for neatness, are as graceful as they are quaint and clear. The writings of Sydney Smith rarely attain the perfect grace which uniformly distinguishes Elia; yet he never attempts magnificence, and he so unites brilliancy and plainness as to make his statements seem equally felicitous to the rude and the scholarly ear. His Peter Plymley letters are remarkable examples of the way in which one yeoman speaks to another. His literary bequest, however, is neither so valuable nor so charming as that of Charles Lamb. His powers were too various, and he engaged in too many fields of labor, to attain supreme success in any direction. The best result of his life is his own exuberant and unresting character, which harmonized all the diversities in his career; and adequately to behold this there is needed a fuller and more philosophical biography of him than has yet been written.

BULLS AND BEARS.

[Continued.]

CHAPTER XV.

On the morning of the day which brought the downfall of Stearine and his indorsers, Sandford and Fayerweather, with the Vortex, whose funds they had misappropriated, Monroe came to the counting-room unusually cheerful. His anxiety respecting his little property was relieved, for he thought the monetary crisis was past, and that thenceforth affairs would improve. He had reasoned with himself that such a pressure could not last always, and that this had certainly reached its limit. The clear, bracing air of the morning had its full influence over his sensitive nature. All Nature seemed to rejoice, and he, for the time, forgot the universal distress, and sympathized with it. But the thermometer fell rapidly as he caught the expression which the face of his employer wore. Mr. Lindsay, of the house of Lindsay & Co., was usually a reserved, silent man.–in business almost a machine, honest both from instinct and habit, and proud, in his quiet way, of his position and his stainless name. He had a wife and daughter, and therefore was presumed to have affections; but those whom he met in the market never thought of him, save as the systematic merchant. Well as Monroe knew him, being his confidential clerk, he never had seen more than the case in which the buying, selling, and note-paying machinery was inclosed. He respected the evident integrity and worth of the head of the house, but never dreamed of a different feeling; he could as easily have persuaded himself into cherishing an affection for the counting-house clock.

This morning, Mr. Lindsay’s face wore an unusually sleepless, anxious look. The man of routine was but a man, after all, and, in his distress, he longed for some intelligent, friendly sympathy. Monroe recognized the mute appeal, but, from long habits of reticence, he was at a loss how to approach his stately chief. Determined, however, to give him an opportunity to speak, if he chose, Monroe asked after the news, the day’s failures, and the prospects of business. The merchant needed only a word, and broke out at once,–

“Prospect? there is no prospect but ruin. If a whirlwind would bury the city, or a conflagration leave it a heap of ashes, it would be better for all of us.”

“But don’t you think the darkest time has past?”

“Not at all; the pressure will continue until scores more are brought down. Better fail at once than live in dread of it.”

“You surprise me! Why, you are not in danger?”

“Did you ever consider? Look at the bales of goods in our lofts,–goods which nobody will buy and nobody can pay for. And our acceptances have been given to the manufacturers for them,–acceptances that are maturing daily. Up to this time I have taken up all our paper, as it became due; but God knows how the next payments are to be made.”

“I had not thought of that.”

“The house of Lindsay & Co. has never known dishonor”–

The merchant wiped his spectacles,–but it was the eyes that were dim, not the glasses. His lips quivered and his breath came hard, as he continued,–

“But the time has come; the house must go down.”

“I hope not,” said Monroe, fervently. “Can nothing be done?”

“Nothing. Every resource has been used. The banks won’t discount; and I suppose they can’t; they are fully as weak as their customers.”

“I don’t know but the offer may be useless, contemptible, even; but I have a small sum, in good notes, that may be available.”

The merchant shook his head.

“Whatever it is, you are welcome to it. Perhaps ten thousand dollars”–

“Ten thousand dollars!” exclaimed Mr. Lindsay,–“_you_ have that sum?”

“Yes,–the little property that was my father’s. Let me go and get the notes, and see if I can’t get some money upon them.”

Mr. Lindsay rose and took the clerk’s hand with a heartiness that astonished him.

“God bless you, Monroe,” he said. “I may be saved, after all. Ten thousand dollars will be enough for the present pinch, and before the next acceptance is due some relief may come.”

“Don’t speak of thanks. I’ll get the notes in a moment.”

Tears stole silently down the unaccustomed furrows; the gateway of feeling was open, but the tremulous lips refused to speak. Before he could recover his self-possession, Monroe was gone. Mr. Lindsay tried to read the newspapers, but the print before his eyes conveyed no idea to his preoccupied brain. Then his thoughts turned to his beautiful villa in Brookline, and he remembered how that morning his daughter stepped lightly into the brougham with him at the back piazza, rode down the winding path between the evergreen-hedges, and, after giving him a kiss, sprang out when they reached the gate. He knew, that, when he returned in the evening, he should find her in her place under the great horse-chestnut, at the foot of the hill, ready to ride to the house. How could he meet her with the news he would have to carry? how crush the spirits of his invalid wife? Humiliating as the idea of failure was when considered in his relations with the mercantile world, the thought of home, with its changed feelings and circumstances, and the probable deprivation of habitual indulgences, was far more poignant.

It was not long before Monroe returned, but with a less buoyant air. Mr. Lindsay’s spirits fell instantly. “I see it all,” said he, “you can’t do anything.”

“Perhaps I may, yet. The notes I spoke of, though due to me, are in the hands of Mr. Sandford, Secretary of the Vortex Insurance Company. I have been there, and cannot see him. His shutting himself up, I am afraid, bodes me no good. However, I’ll go again an hour hence.”

“No harm in trying. Did you indorse the notes to him?”

“No. They were merely left with him for convenience’ sake, as he was my agent in loaning the money.”

“Then he can’t make way with them,–honestly.”

Monroe seemed hurt by the implied suspicion, but did not reply, thinking it best, if possible, to change the subject of conversation.

Mr. Lindsay sat in silence, a silence that was broken only once or twice during the morning, and then by some friend or business acquaintance asking, in hurried or anxious tones, “Anything over to-day?” A mournful shake of the head was the only answer, and the merchant sunk into a deeper gloom.

Again Monroe went to see Mr. Sandford, but with no better success. The third time he naturally spoke in a peremptory tone, and, giving his name and business, said, that he must and would see Mr. Sandford, or get the notes. The weight of his employer’s trouble rested on him, and gave an unwonted force to his usually kind and modest temper. The clerk, not daring to break his instructions, and seeing that it was not far from two o’clock, intimated, in a half-confidential tone, that he would do well to ask Mr. Tonsor, the broker, about them. Nervous with apprehension, Monroe walked swiftly to Tonsor’s office. At the door he met Fletcher coming out with exultation in every feature. Within stood Bullion, his legs more astride than usual, his chin more confidently settled over his collar, and the head of his cane pressed against his mouth. As Monroe entered, Tonsor ceased the conversation, and, looking up, said, blandly, “My young friend, can I do anything for you?” Bullion at the same time turned the eyes that might have been only glittering petrifactions, and pointed the long eyebrow at him inquiringly.

“I hope so,” was the reply. “Have you some notes in your possession payable to Walter Monroe?”

“Who asks the question?”–very civilly.

“My name is Monroe.”

“Ah! Mr. Sandford is your agent, I presume?”

“Yes. I left the notes with him.”

“And you wanted to raise some money on them?”

“Yes, that is what I wish.”

“Then you’ll be pleased to know that Mr. Sandford has anticipated you. I loaned him eight thousand dollars upon them this morning.”

“Loaned _him_ eight thousand dollars?”

“Certainly. Is it extraordinary that your agent has done what you desired?”

“I never asked him to borrow for me; and I never authorized him to transfer the notes.”

“He hasn’t transferred them; he has only pledged them.”

“He couldn’t pledge them; he had no legal right in them.”

“But he _has_ pledged them, and they are in my safe, subject to the repayment of the sum I loaned.”

“If you have loaned Mr. Sandford money, that is your affair.”

“And yours, too, my friend, you will find, if he doesn’t pay it.”

“You haven’t a right to detain the notes a moment.”

“I have the possession, which will answer as well as the right. And let me advise you,–don’t get excited and conclude that everything is wrong. You are not so well posted as you might be. Go and see Mr. Sandford, and I haven’t a doubt you’ll find the money ready for you.”

“I shall go. But I wish you to understand, that, if I am not ‘posted,’ as you say, I do know my rights, and I shall take proper measures to get possession of my property. You have no more hold upon it than a pawnbroker has upon a stolen spoon.”

Trembling with the unusual excitement, and despairing of being able to aid his employer, Monroe did not wait for a reply, but rushed to the Vortex again. Mr. Sandford had gone out on business, was the answer. He had not gone far, if the truth were known; for his position commanded the office-door, and he saw every visitor.

Time did not lag that eventful day; the hands seemed to sweep round the dial on the Old State House as though they had been swords in pursuit of some dilatory debtor. It now lacked only fifteen minutes of two, and Monroe, sick at heart, turned his steps towards Milk Street, to announce the utter failure of his plan. Mr. Lindsay received the intelligence with more firmness than might have been expected.

“Monroe, my friend,–for I can truly call you so,–you have done what you could. It was not your fault that your agent deceived and swindled you. You generously offered me your all. I shall never forget it. I can’t say more now. Please stay and inform the notary, when he comes, that he must take the usual course. Tell John, when he comes with the brougham, that he may drive back. I shall take the cars to-day, and shall not be at home, probably, until after tea. I pray God, Monroe, that you may never go home as I do now. O Clara, my daisy, my darling! how can I tell you?”

Still murmuring to himself, Mr. Lindsay slowly walked out of the counting-room.

It was not strange, that, under the pressure of his own calamity, Mr. Lindsay had no thought for the losses of others. He forgot that Monroe was really in a far worse position, since, if the ten thousand dollars were lost, it was his all. Neither did Monroe, at first, reflect upon his own impending misfortune; he had been so intent upon preserving the credit of the house, that his own interest had been lost sight of.

Presently the notary came with the inevitable demand. He was a cheerful fellow in his sorry business, blithe as an old stager of an undertaker at a first-class funeral. He chatted about the crisis, and, as a matter of course, brought all the latest news from State Street. Monroe listened to one piece of news, but had ears for no more. “Sandford and Fayerweather had failed, and the old Vortex, which they had managed, was dead broke, cleaned out.”

Mr. Lindsay was not the only heart-stricken man who left the counting-room that day.

CHAPTER XVI.

Monroe was walking sorrowfully homeward, when he met Easelmann near the corner of Summer Street. He was in no humor for conversation, but he could not civilly avoid the painter, who evidently was waiting to speak to him.

“Glad to see one man that isn’t a capitalist. You and I, Monroe, are independent of banks and brokers.”

Monroe faintly smiled.

“This is a deadly time here in Boston,–a horrible stagnation. Every man avoids his neighbor as though he had the plague; and we have no Boccaccio to tell us stories while the dead-carts go by.”

“The dead-cart went through our street to-day.”

“You don’t tell me! Who is the lucky corpse that is out of his misery?”

“Mr. Lindsay. Our house is shut up, and I am a vagrant.”

“A pair of us! For the last month I have performed the Wandering Jew all by myself. Now I have company. What shall we do to be jolly?”

“_Jolly!_”–with a tone of melancholy surprise.

“When should a man be jolly, if he can’t when he’s nothing to do? I am the slave of gold, you understand. If any rich magician rubs his double-eagles before me, woe is me, if I don’t paint! When the magicians send their eagles on other errands, I am free from their drudgery. Meanwhile, I live on air, flattened out and packed away, like a Mexican horned-frog, or a dreaming toad, in a fissure of a preadamite rock.”

“I am sorry I haven’t your art of making misfortune comfortable.”

“Misfortune? My philosophical friend, there isn’t any such thing. The true man is superior to circumstances or accidents. (Some old fellow, I believe, has said that; somebody always says my good things before me; but no matter.) Nothing can happen amiss to the wise and good.”

“Then I am neither wise nor good, for I have lost my all, and it comes confoundedly amiss to me.”

“Your all? That’s what the shoemaker said; but he bought a new one for six-pence. But, how happened it?”

“By my folly.”

“I knew that, of course; but I wanted to know what folly in particular.”

“I trusted it to a man whom I thought not only honest, but my friend, and he has proved a scoundrel.”

“You shouldn’t have led him into temptation. You are _particeps criminis_, and the partaker is as bad as the thief. Don’t trust without taking security, my friend; it’s offering a premium to crime. Consider your guilt now! Think of the family into whose innocent bosom you have brought sin and remorse! Who is the luckless person?”

“Sandford!”

“I knew it. I expected it. He was too good by half. I didn’t blame him for his widow-and-orphan business; somebody must do it; but I made up my mind some time ago that he would come to grief.”

“Prophets are always plenty after the event.”

“True, my friend. But just think! He passed by my pictures in the Exhibition, and bought the canvas of my friend Greenleaf,–a man of genius, doubtless, but young, you understand, young. Can you conceive of the wickedness? I felt sure from that moment, that, if he were not totally depraved, he at least had a moral inability, as the preachers call it, that would be his ruin.”

“Well, he is ruined effectually; but the worst of it is, that he has dragged innocent people down with him.”

“‘Innocent,’–yes, you have the word. A man that cares for money at all, and trusts all he has without security to any fair-spoken financier, is an innocent, truly.”

“Well, there is no use in lamenting, and just as little in the consolation of thinking how the loss might have been avoided.”

“I don’t know. I don’t admit that. I am not to be deprived of the rights of a freeborn American. The ‘I told-you-so’ is a fine balm for all sorts of wounds,–rather more soothing to physician than patient, perhaps. Combined with the ‘You-might-have-known-it,’ it gets up a wholesome blister in the least possible time, especially where ‘a raw’ has been established previously.”

“I don’t think I was prudent.”

“Of course not; if you had been, you wouldn’t have lost. There are no such things as mistakes in the world.–But to look at affairs. _Imprimis_.–Lindsay smashed, house closed, salary stopped.”

“I suppose so.”

“_Item_,–private funds gone; owner taken in by the patent-safe game.

“_Item_,–dwelling-house standing; so much gain,–but

“_Item_,–the dweller is not alone, having other mouths to feed.

“But don’t be discouraged. I don’t doubt you will find something to do in good time.”

“But when is the good time coming? I must earn something at once.”

“The danger of being made to work isn’t pressing. Ships will have time to get well rested. Truckmen are actually growing civil with a little starvation. The beggars don’t hold out their hands for coppers; they make more money by hauling out their old stockings and lending at five per cent. a month.”

“You will laugh me out of my misery in spite of myself.”

“I hope so; but I am not sure that a man can be laughed out of a thing he wasn’t laughed into. Now, Monroe, I am going to surprise you. I am going to bore you, annoy you; for I am to see you every day for the next week. Can you bear it? I shall be worse than the balm of ‘I-told-you-so.'”

Monroe pressed his friend’s hand.

“Come, by all means. And now we are near my house; go in and take tea with us.”

“No, not to-day. It is _dies nefastus_. Good-bye!”

Twirling his grizzly moustaches and humming to himself, Easelmann turned back. He did not go to his room, however, but went down a quiet street, apparently guided by instinct, and rang the bell at a well-known door.

“Is Mr. Holworthy at home?”

The servant-girl nodded and smiled, and Easelmann entered. Mr. Holworthy was emphatically at home, for he was on all-fours, his three children riding cock-horse, with merry shouts, varied by harmless tumbles and laborious clamberings up. Mr. Holworthy rose with a flushed and happy face, and the children rushed at once to clasp the knees of their familiar old friend.

“We all have to come down at times, I believe,” said Mr. Holworthy, smoothing the few thin hairs on his handsomely arched crown.

“Certainly; a man that can’t be a boy with his children deserves to have none. Now the reason I am a bachelor is that I feared I could never unbend, being somewhat remarkable for my perpendic”–

The word was cut off by a sudden movement; the children in their playful struggles had, in fact, thrown him down. In a moment more they were on his back and he trotting round the room with the grace of an elephant.

“Come, children,” said the father, “that was a rough joke. Get off, now, and go for your bread and milk.”

Rather reluctantly they obeyed, casting wishful glances backward to the grown-up boy with whom they had hoped to have a frolic.

“Glad to see you,” said Mr. Holworthy. “You have been unsocial, lately.”

“Yes; all the effect of the panic. I am such a butterfly that I seem out of place in a work-a-day community. I am constantly advised, like the volatile person in the fable, to learn wisdom from my aunt; but I can’t, for the soul of me.”

“You ought to visit the more, to cheer the wretched and downcast.”

“Oh, but it’s a fearful waste of magnetism. Five minutes’ talk with a man who has notes to pay draws all the virtue out of me. It lowers my vital tone like standing in an ice-house. You feel such a man from afar like a coming iceberg. _You_ don’t have notes to pay? I thought not. I should go at once.”

“No, my little shop pays its way. I buy for cash. I pay my hands when they bring in their work, and I have customers enough who ask me for no credit.”

“Happy man! most fortunate of tailors!–I have been thinking, Holworthy, among your many benevolent projects, why you never devised some means of relieving people who are supposed to be in good circumstances,–a society for ameliorating the condition of the rich.”

“Bless me! the poor are quite numerous enough, and are in unusual straits just now.”

“I know, and for that reason they are better off than usual. People say, ‘How the poor must suffer in these pinching times!’ So they double their charities.”

“Poverty is an ocean without bottom, my friend. All that is given is like emptying stones into the sea; the waves swallow them and sweep over as before.”

“True, you can’t satisfy the beggars till you drown ’em. Wouldn’t a gentle asphyxia by water, now, be the best thing for some of the Broad-Street cellarers?”

“Very likely; but they would probably object to the remedy.”

“But to return to my project. I see some forms of distress that seem to me far more painful than utter poverty. I won’t expatiate, but state a case. I know a man of good sense and culture, able and willing to do his part in the world. His employer has failed, so that his salary will stop. He is unmarried, but has a mother, an invalid, who never stirs out of doors; and besides has some poor relation or other to support. He has a house, it is true; so they needn’t sleep in the street; but how are the mouths to be fed, the backs to be clothed?”

“Let him sell his house and wait till better times for employment.”

“It is easy to say _sell_; but who will buy? A house won’t fetch half its value, and there isn’t any money to be had. Besides,–and this is the hardship,–the pride and the feelings of association cling round a house that has been consecrated by years of affection and by the memory of the dead.–I believe I am making an oration; but I despair of expressing myself.”

“I understand you perfectly; it is sad, indeed.”

“Excuse me, you don’t understand me. Some men put off old houses and put on new ones, like their clothes, without a thought. Others grow into their habitations and become a part of them. You might as well say to a lobster, ‘Get out of your shell,’ when you know that the poor wretch will die when his naked, quivering members are exposed to the sharp-edged stones. A delicate nature, proud, but gentle, too sensitive to accept charity, and doubtful of a friendly service even, suffers more anguish in one hour, under such circumstances, than your brazen beggar feels from his dirty cradle to his nameless grave.”

Mr. Holworthy mused.

“He has nothing to do, then?”

“Nothing, but to suck his thumbs.”

“Is he willing to work, even if the task should appear irksome?”

“I haven’t a doubt. He has no _false_ pride. Anything honorable would be welcome.”

“Perhaps I can find something for him to do; it will be temporary, but its continuance will depend upon himself.”

“And what is it?”

“In visiting the district which has been allotted to me, I have found an unusual number of ignorant, vicious boys, cared for by no one, growing up for the prison or the gallows. I have thought of making some effort to gather them together and start a ragged school. Some friends have agreed to provide the means. But the pay would necessarily be small, and the labor and difficulty great.”

“A teacher of tatterdemalions! It _isn’t_ an inviting field of labor.”

“No, to a refined man it must be repulsive. Nothing but the idea of doing good would make it a pleasure or even endurable.”

“I confess myself utterly without any such motive. I hate poor people, and ragged children, and sick women, the forlorn wives of drunken brutes. I shut my eyes to all such odious sights. They say, in a hotel you must never go into the kitchen, if you would keep your appetite; and I am sure one must avoid these wretches in the cellar, if he would have a cheerful view of life in his attic.”

“You are not so hard-hearted as you would have me believe. Somebody must relieve their distresses.”

“Somebody, too, must cut off legs, and sew up spouting arteries, and extirpate cancers. Ugh! but I shan’t. I leave such jobs to the doctors, whose ears are familiar with shrieks, and whose appetites are not disturbed by the sight of blood.”

“So the Levite left the wounded man by the wayside, in disgust at his bruises: but still the good Samaritan who helped him hadn’t a doctor’s degree.”

“Oh, I know. You have me, I acknowledge. But I can’t change my temper, and I shrink from suffering as from death. I would rather bear it than see it. Society always provides its good Samaritans; and you are one of them. Don’t look modest. I went once through some of those damnable alleys near Half-Moon Court, the agreeable place where you spend so much of your leisure. I was looking for a subject to paint. For curiosity, I asked an urchin if he knew you. He flung his ragged cap twenty feet into the air, turned a somerset, and came up smiling as well as he could through the dirt,–‘Don’t I, though? He brung us meal an’ ‘taters when dad broke his leg, and he fetched oranges in his pocket when marm had the fevers. He’s one of ’em, he is.’–Don’t interrupt me.–An old woman, whom I asked, said, ‘Do I know Mister ‘Olworthy? A blissed saint in the flesh; my poor ol’ bones would ‘ave hached many a cold night but for the blankets he brought me. God in ‘eaven reward ‘im for that same!’ I spare you the rest of the answers. Oh, you are a saint, without robe or wings.”

“Hadn’t we better come back to the subject,” said Mr. Holworthy, in a mild voice. “We shan’t aid your friend in this way.”

“Right, my considerate Mentor. But talk is tempting. I believe I should forget my errand and let a friend hang, if I got into an argument with the Governor while he was filling out the pardon.”

“I hope the gentleman you speak of is not so much afraid of contact with what is disagreeable as you are?”

“Perhaps not; he has an artistic temperament, and therefore loves what is comely; but he would go through fire to what he thought his duty.”

“And wouldn’t you?”

“What a question! Go through fire? No, I should bawl for the engine.”

“It’s plain, then, that he will answer better than you for the place.”

“No doubt. I shouldn’t answer at all. I tell you I never talk with these creatures. I can’t. If an old woman stops me, with her dried-apple face and whining voice, I give her a sixpence and tell her to hush up and go about her business. I fling coppers to the boys with slit breeches before they ask me, for I know they will tell me of mothers sick with consumption. Their devilish tears are contagious; and I can’t cry; it chokes me. So I buy apples and oranges from the imploring-looking girls; it’s the easiest way of getting rid of them. The little change don’t amount to much in a day, and I save my nerves and my digestion at a cheap rate.”

Mr. Holworthy smiled at Easelmann’s notion of his own hard-heartedness, and said, hesitatingly,–

“I am afraid that some professedly charitable persons don’t do so much.”

“Of course they don’t. I don’t mean that I do anything. It’s pure selfishness on my part, as I told you. But you may feel pretty sure, that, if a man’s name is always in the papers, as ‘our estimable fellow-citizen, President This, Director That, and Treasurer T’other,’ he ‘does not give indiscriminate alms’:–I believe that is the phrase. Perhaps he won’t rob, like my friend Sandford; but his ‘disinterested labors’ are an economical substitute for substantial charity, and his desire for a place in the public eye is the mainspring of all his actions.”

“Most of the distress in the community is relieved by organized effort; individual charities, however well meant, would be entirely inadequate. Besides, you should not be severe upon all because one prominent person has proved unworthy.”

“Sandford is a type of the class. If there is anybody I hate worse than a sick beggar, it is a man who makes a trade of philanthropy.”

“And yet you are consenting to your friend’s earning a living by teaching a ragged school.”

“True, one may stop at any place in a storm, just for shelter.”

“And you can console yourself further with the assurance that your friend won’t make enough in this place to induce him to take up the ‘trade,’ as you call it.”

“I hope not. Starve him judiciously. If he should come out, after a year or so, with a white neckcloth, spectacles, and a sanctified face, soliciting aid for his school, in Pecksniffian tones, I should regret that I hadn’t furnished him with a cord and a bag of stones to drop himself into the dock with.”

“I don’t know why a teacher or a street-missionary may not be a gentleman.”

“Sure enough, why not? Whatever Walter Monroe is, he will always be a gentleman.”

“Suppose you bring him to see me to-morrow or next day; we will talk about this.”

“I will. Now, good-bye! My regrets to the children that we couldn’t finish our romp.”

“Good-bye,” said Holworthy. “Come again; the children will be glad to see you.”

CHAPTER XVII.

As Mr. Sandford walked homeward, the streets seemed to close up behind him; he was shut out from the scenes of his activity, no more to return; State Street was henceforth for him a thing of memory. He had played his game there, while admirers and friends watched his far-seeing moves. He had lost; and now, after checkmate, he must resign his place. How he struggled against the idea! He could not bring himself to acknowledge that the past was irretrievable. His spirit seemed in prison, shut in as by the bars of a dungeon, against which he might tug and rage in vain.

At home, dinner was on the table, waiting for him. As he entered the hall, he met his sister-in-law. She saw the fatal news in his face, and with a sinking heart gave him her usual greeting. Marcia took her place at the table, but with less animation than usual. Charles sat down with his studied indifference. Each one seemed to be absorbed in separate spheres of thought, and the courses came on and were removed in painful silence. At last Mr. Sandford spoke.

“I suppose I need not tell you that it is all over.”

“All over!” exclaimed Marcia.

“Yes,–I have failed; so has Fayerweather; so has Stearine.”

“Failed?” said Marcia, in an incredulous tone. “I thought it was the great people,–I mean people in business, or with estates, that failed.”

“Well, have I not been in business?”

“Yes,–as secretary, and you have a salary. How can a man with a salary fail?”

“Quite easily. Suppose the Vortex fails? My salary would stop.”

“That isn’t failing, is it? Then Pompey might fail, if he didn’t get his pay for brushing your boots.”

Mr. Sandford gave a contemptuous look.

“That shows how much you know about business.”

“I never did know about your business; nor does anybody, I believe. I never could understand how, with your little property, you had these ‘transactions,’ as you call them, where you owed people and people owed you so many thousands.”

“It is not necessary for you to know. Women can’t understand these things.”

“But women feel their effects, and it’s a pity they could not learn about what concerns them.”

“Will it change your situation at once?” asked Mrs. Sandford of her brother.

“I can’t say; probably not at once; but without some aid, all I have must go.”

“What! the house?” exclaimed Marcia.

“Yes,–the house, Marcia, and the furniture. We shall be stripped.”

“The deuse!” said Charles.

“Heaven help us! what shall we do?”

“I haven’t had time to form any plan. I trust, indeed, that Heaven will help us, as you rather lightly wished.”

His face wore a touching look of faith and resignation, while at the same time his hand rested with secret satisfaction upon his pocket-book.

The conversation was disagreeable to Charles, and he sauntered off to the drawing-room.

Mrs. Sandford inwardly determined to return to her home, or at least to go elsewhere in the city, so as not to be a burden to her brother-in-law; but she remained silent. Mr. Sandford balanced his knife, sliced his bread into figures, then hummed and beat a tattoo upon the table,–sure indications of forgetfulness in one so scrupulous as he. At length, with a bland voice, but a sharp, inquiring eye, he said,–

“How is it about this painter, Marcia? Are you going to marry him?”

She looked fixedly, as she replied,–

“Why do you ask? You know I am going to marry him.”

“Oh, it’s settled, is it? You know, sister, you have had similar intentions before,–several times, in fact,–intentions that haven’t come to much.”

She did not answer further; a flush of anger came, then went, leaving her pale face with a rather sterner expression.

“While I was prosperous, I was not disposed to be mercenary; though I did think you were not worldly-wise. Now that I am destitute, you can see that to marry a man not worth a dollar, and with a precarious profession, is not what it would have been.”

“Mr. Greenleaf earns a good income, doesn’t he?”

“He hasn’t sold a picture, except to friends whom I persuaded to buy.”

“You have friends and influence still?”

“I don’t know; a man’s friends don’t last long after his money is gone. Besides, nobody wants to buy now. Raphael himself couldn’t sell a picture here till times improve. A painter is a pretty butterfly for fine weather; what is he to do with his flimsy wings in such a hurricane as this?”

“I think I understand you, Brother Henry. You begin afar off; but I know what you are coming to. You want to bring up that odious Denims again,–a man whom I hate, and whom you yourself would show out of doors, like a vagrant, if it were not for his money!”

The effort exhausted her, and she breathed painfully.

“You think yourself quick. I haven’t mentioned Denims. In fact, you have treated him in such a way that I am quite sure he would never trouble himself to be even civil to you again.”

“I am glad of it,–the fool!”

“Sister Marcia, I have borne much from your turbulent temper. You are a spoiled child. Fortune has let you have your own way hitherto; so much the worse for you. But circumstances have changed. I can no longer supply you as though you were a duchess. In fact, I don’t know what may be before us. I hope no actual want. [_Another grip of the pocket-book_.] But I advise you to consider whether it is for the interest of a dependent woman to go out of her way to thwart and insult me.”

“You would compel me, then, and threaten starvation as the alternative?”

“What odiously blunt language you use!”

“I only translated your roundabout phrases as I understood them.”

“You need not be violent.”

“You cannot cajole me by soft words, when your purposes are so obvious. You think Denims may save the wreck of your fortune; and you are willing to sacrifice me, if he were ten times the brute he is, to further your ends. But I shall marry Greenleaf.”

“Greenleaf will be a powerful protector! I doubt if he can raise money enough to pay the clergyman for marrying you! He will be without a shilling in a month, if he is not now. Go to him, Sister Marcia. I would, now. You can live in his attic studio, you know. In such a romantic place you would never be hungry, of course.”

Mrs. Sandford interposed,–

“Don’t, Henry! This is not the way.”

Marcia’s eyes flashed through her tears, as she answered,–

“You say _you_ are ruined,–that the house and furniture must go. How much better off shall I be here?”

“Well, you have your choice.”

“And when the time comes, I shall take it.”

Sobs and tears followed, but her lips were firm and her hands clenched.

“As you please, sister.”

“You come home ill-tempered, and the rage which you could not or dared not give vent to in the street you pour out here.”

“Perhaps you would have been pleased, if I had not come home at all?”

“I’m sure we should have been quite as happy without you.”

“Very well. I may leave you, yet.”

“I don’t care how soon.”

New sobs and a firmer pressure of the lips.

Oddly enough, at that moment, Mr. Sandford was summoned to the drawing-room, where a man was waiting for him. Fearful of the result, he went to his own room, first, and left the precious pocketbook, and then descended to the hall.

Notwithstanding the words she had spoken, Marcia waited with breathless anxiety her brother’s return; for the sound of voices, in earnest, if not angry, conversation, rose through the house. Presently he came back with a look his face seldom wore,–a fierce look that transformed his handsome features to a fiend’s.

“You have your wish, Sister Marcia,”–and the words were shot out like fiery arrows,–“I am to leave you, and go to jail.”

“To jail?” exclaimed both at once, in terror.

“Yes,–to jail. Gratifying to you, I suppose. ‘Tis to me,–very.”

“What is the meaning of this?” asked Mrs. Sandford.

“It means, that one of my creditors pretends to believe that I am about to abscond, and has had me arrested, that I may give bail not to run away with an empty pocket.”

“Can’t you get out?”

“Some time, undoubtedly; but not till I give bail.”

“For how much?”–

“Twenty thousand dollars.”

“Can’t you get some one to become security?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps I might get Greenleaf!”

Marcia winced, but did not answer the taunt.

“Good-bye, my dear and independent sister!”

Marcia turned her back upon him, confounded between sorrow and resentment.

Crowding his hat over his eyes, Mr. Sandford left his house and walked with the officer towards Cambridge Street.

“Gone to jail!” exclaimed Charles, returning, “How doosid awkward! What a jolly wow it will make when it gets about town! By gwacious, if you aren’t cwying! Go to bed, both of you; I’ll go to the club.”

He went accordingly; and the women, who could ill console each other, were about to go to their own rooms when the door-bell rang again.

“What next, I wonder?” asked Marcia, in despair.

“Please, Ma’am,” said the servant, “there’s a man at the door, who looks quare, and says, if he can’t see Mr. Sandford, he must see you.”

“Tell him I am ill,–and besides, I don’t transact my brother’s business.”

“Yes’m.”

But she soon returned with a new message. The man would not go. Mrs. Sandford at once went to the hall to learn what was the matter, leaving Marcia trembling in every limb. The conversation was not carried on in whispers; in fact, Marcia heard every word.

“Sorry to disturb you, Ma’am, especially as Mr. Sandford isn’t at home; but duty is duty, and must be ‘tended to. My orders is, to ‘tach the furnitur’, and stay till I git a receipter.”

Mrs. Sandford’s reply was inaudible. The voice proceeded:–

“Can’t help it, Ma’am. Won’t be back to-night, won’t he? Bad, cert’in. But duty is duty, as I said afore. I’ll bunk here on the sofy, an’ to-morror we’ll see what’s to be done.”

Another pause.

“Oh, you won’t run off ‘ith anythin’? I s’pose not. But duty is duty, as I said afore, and I must mind orders. ‘Stick by till you git a receipter,’ sez he. ‘I will,’ sez I,–an’ I must.–Never mind about bedclose. I c’n sleep jest ez I be. You jest go up-stairs. I’ll make myself ‘t home.”

Glad to be out of the society of the officer, Mrs. Sandford started to go upstairs, but was recalled by the voice.

“I say, Ma’am! A long night afore a chap, all by himself.”

Mrs. Sandford trembled with mingled terror and rage.

“No ‘bjection to light the gaas, I ‘spose, so’s’t a feller can read a paper? Thought o’ that, and brought the ‘York Herald’ and ‘Clipper.’ If you don’t like tobarker, you c’n shet your doors and the smell won’t git in.”

“Do what you like. I can’t prevent you.”

“Oh, well, no ‘fence, I hope? Good-night, Ma’am.”

Mrs. Sandford found Marcia walking about the room in great excitement.

“The odious wretch!” exclaimed Marcia. “If Henry were only here, or even Charles, he should be horsewhipped, pitched out of the house. To sleep with his dirty clothes on my sofa! I’m glad it’s to be sold. I never could touch the filthy thing again. Then his pipe! Good heavens, what is to be done? The abominable wretch! I smell the tobacco now, worse than an Irishman’s. The smoke will be all through the house. Faugh! it suffocates, nauseates me!”

“Be calm, Marcia. We will go to the upper chambers, shut the doors, and open the windows for fresh air. It’s only for one night. We can’t go away, you know; and we can’t get the fellow away, of course.”

“I wish I had died when I was sick. This disgrace, this infamy, this shocking barbarity, is worse than death. What are we to do? and where are we to go? Ruin is a light thing to talk about, I have read of ruin in the papers, until it has become a matter of course;–I begin to know what it means.”

It was a changeful, terrible beauty that beamed on her face. She looked like an inspired priestess before the altar,–then like Norma in her despair,–then like the maddened Medea in Rachel’s thrilling impersonation. Then disgust and fright overcame her, and her sensitive womanly nature bore sway. It was more than she could bear, this accumulation of misfortune, disgrace, and insult. Her soul rebelled, contended desperately with fate, till, overcome, she sank into her chair, and suffered herself to be led to her room.

Shut up in their retreat, the women waited for the morning with sleepless eyes, or with only transient lapses of consciousness. Sometime after midnight, they were startled by the sound of a body falling heavily in the hall, and, an instant after, by the shout of “Burglars! thieves!” They rushed to the staircase in extreme fright, and soon learned the cause. The wary officer evidently did not believe the tale that had been told him respecting the absence of Mr. Sandford; and, that nobody should go out or in without his knowledge, he had drawn the sofa across the hall, completely cutting off all passage. A small jet of gas was left burning. Charles, returning late from the club in a mild stage of inebriation, entered the house by means of his latch-key, not without difficulty, and at once fell headlong over the sofa, and the worthy official sleeping thereon. When he heard the cry of “Burglars!” it occurred to him that he must have been knocked down by one of the gang; and he joined his own voice to the uproar,–

“BuggLARS! buggLARS!”

An instant after, there was a grip on his collar.

“Now I got ye, ye vill’in! What ye doin’ on here?”

“What _you_ doin’ on, you rasc’l, inagen’l’m’n’shouse thistim’o’night?”

“Arnswer me, you scoundrel, breakin’ into a peaceful dwellin’!”

“Tha’swhat_I_wan’to know.–How’d _you_com’ere? What’syerbusiness? Le’gomycollar. I’lsen’forp’lice. Le’go!”

Tipsy as he was, he managed to give his assailant a pretty substantial token of regard under the ear, with his knuckles.

“Now young’un, you’re drunk! I won’t hit you back, ’cause a case for manslaughter might be expensive. How’d you break in here, when you are so drunk you can’t stand? I don’t see how you could get in with the door open.”

“Noneo’yerimp’r’ence! Cl’out! Adecen’bugglar’sbad’nough; yousmokerot’nt’baccah. G’off! youdirtybugg_lar!_”

“Young chap, it’s time to stop this nonsense, or I’ll have you in the watch-house in no time. Who are you? and how came you here?”

“Tha’sit; who _are_ you? tha’swhat_I_wan’know.”

“Charles!” (_from above_.)

“WhocallsCh’rl’s? HereIam. Igott’afellah, the bugg_lar_. Callp’lice! P’LICE!”

“Charles!” (_once more_.)

“Do you belong here, young chap?”

“B’long’ere? ‘vcourseIdo; wherethedevilsh’dIb’long?”

“You are not Mr. Sandford?”

“Howd’yeknowIa’n’t? I _am_ Mis’rr-Sanf’d.”

“You are Mr. Sandford’s brother, are you?”

“No, Mis’rr Sanf’d’s _my_ bro’rr.”

“Well, if you’ve got brains enough to understand, listen to me.”

“I’m all ‘tensh’n, ‘s Balaam said to th’ass. G’on, ol’ fellah!–an’ then g’off!”

“I am an officer, sent to ‘tach your brother’s furnitur’ and stuff; and as there’s nobody here to go bail, I hed to stay and look arter things.”

“H’mushbailyewant? I’llgi’bail. An’ I’ll plankzemoney. I’vegotsev’ndollars’n’alf.”

“Charles!” (_the third time_.)

“Wha’nyewant?”

“They want you to go to bed, where you b’long.”

“Gotobed? ‘llseeyoudam’f’st! Leave’nofficer’nth’ouse? Guessnot!”

“Young’un, I say, take your hand out of my neckhan’kercher! Hold up! None o’ yer chokin’ games! Quit, I say! or, by hokey, I’ll settle ye!”

“_Thought_sh’dmakeyesquawk, ol’t’bacc’worm! Go’n’tocl’out? Go’n’tovacateprem’scs?”

“Ooo-arr-awkk!” said the man, under the pressure of a tightening cravat, at the same time giving the assailant “a settler,” as he had threatened. The two unfortunate women had hitherto looked down upon the conflict, as celestial beings might upon the affairs of men, with no small degree of interest, but clad in robes too ethereal to descend. But when they saw Charles felled to the floor, and a deathlike silence ensued, they forgot their fears, and rushed down the stairs. The officer had already raised Charles up. He was stunned, senseless, and his face was covered with blood.

“You brute! you have murdered him!” exclaimed Marcia.

“Guess not, Ma’am. Wet his head in col’ water, put him to bed, an’ he’ll sleep it off.”

“It’s useless to talk to such a fellow,” whispered Mrs. Sandford; “besides, we want his aid to carry Charles upstairs.”

“Ye see, I couldn’t help it, Ma’am. He nigh about choked me to death, and I give him fair warnin’.”

“Never mind now about the quarrel,” said Mrs. Sandford; “you help him upstairs to his room, and we’ll bathe his head.”

While the officer was carrying the young man up-stairs, Mrs. Sandford put on a shawl, and, by the time he had reached the second flight, she opened a door, and lighted the gas with a taper, saying,–

“In here, if you please. My brother Henry’s room is the most convenient.”

The officer’s eyes twinkled.

“So this is Mr. Sandford’s room?”

“Yes, but he is absent, as you were told before. Lay Charles on the bed, if you please. There, that will do. I will attend to him now. You can return to the lower story.”

“In a minit, Ma’am. Duty is duty, and this ‘ere accident saves some trouble,” casting sharp glances around the room.

The facts, that Sandford had drawn from the bank, and that he had borrowed from Tonsor, were known to the creditors. The officer had determined, therefore, to make what search he could for the money. The unlooked-for accident had given him the opportunity he wanted.

“What do you mean, Sir? Go back to your place.”

“Softly, Ma’am, softly! Duty is duty; an’ ‘f any damage is done, I’m responsible.”

His eyes fastened upon a dressing-case that lay on a table near the mirror,–apparently the last article handled by the occupant of the room.

“No robbery, Ma’am,” said he, opening the case, and taking out its contents. “Razors and brushes, and such like, is personal, and not subject to levy; but these, Ma’am, you see, air.”

He held up a pocket-book full of bank-notes.

“I’ll count ’em before you, Ma’am, if you please, so’s there’ll be no mistake. Thirteen thousand! A pretty good haul! I’ll go down, now. If anythin’s wantin’ for the chap when he comes to, jest le’me know.”

With a gleam of intense satisfaction on his sharp and vulgar features, the officer descended the stairs.

CHAPTER XVIII.

John Fletcher sat by his fireside, reading the evening papers. The failures of the day, of course, engaged his attention; among them, those of Sandford and his associates were not unexpected. His little wife sat by him, fondling the weakly baby.

“Old Sandford has gone by the board, ducky. Good enough for him! He’s come to grief, as he deserved. He’ll never trouble me any more.”

“I’m afraid a good many more’ll come to grief, as you say, before this panic is over.”

“Some, of course; the dead trees, and the worm-eaten, powder-posted ones, will fall in the high winds, naturally. But old Bullion is safe. No rotten hollow in his old white-oak trunk;–sound as a ship’s mainmast.”

“Is it Bullion who owes you?”

“Yes. I have his notes for ten thousand dollars; and our next settlement, I calculate, will give me as much more.”

“Why don’t you get your pay?”

“What should I do with it, my duck? I couldn’t lend it to anybody safer. If I deposit, the bank is as likely to fail as be. As long as he has the whole capital to swing, he will make the more for us both.”

“I would rather have the money.”

“That shows how little you know about it.”

“I know, if you had it, and didn’t lend it nor speculate with it, you couldn’t lose it.”

“Now, ducky, don’t interfere. You take care of babies nicely. Let me manage my own affairs.”

“You always treat me like a child that has to be petted with sugar-plums.”

“That’s because you are a child. What the devil does a woman know about business?”

The “ducky” cried a little, and was quite sure that John would go on and risk what he had, till he lost all.

“Little woman, none of your blubbering! It annoys me. Am I to be harassed by business all day, and have no peace when I come home?”

He settled himself to read the papers, once more, and the wife picked up the fretful, puny infant, and retreated to the kitchen, where she could indulge her sorrow without rebuke or interruption.

Presently, Bullion entered, though not unexpected; for he had given Fletcher an intimation, that, in order to have a private interview, he would endeavor to see him at home.

“Nice little box,” said the capitalist, looking around. “Any babies?”

“One,” said Fletcher.

“Boy or girl?”

“A girl.”

“Bad. Girls always an expense. Dress, piano, parties, and d–d nonsense. Boys, you put ’em into harness and work ’em till they’re willing to _eat_ their wild oats; he! he!”

The eyebrow flourished over the jocose idea; the stony eye glittered a moment like a revolving light, and then relapsed into darkness.

“However, I have but one, and I think I can make her comfortable.”

“Yes, my boy, quite comfortable. Let me see, I owe you ten thousand. How does the new account stand?”

“Here are the figures, taken from Tonsor’s book,” said Fletcher. “Seventy-nine thousand eight hundred and forty-three. Ten per cent. to me is seven thousand nine hundred and eighty-four.”

“A big pile of money, Fletcher.”

“Yours, you mean? Yes, seventy thousand and odd is a big pile.”

“Yours,–I meant yours.”

“Why, yes,” replied Fletcher, indifferently, “a good fair sum, for a man that hadn’t any before.”

“Don’t you think, now, Fletcher, that the ten thousand pays you for all you’ve done? Isn’t it enough for a month or two’s work?”

“I think I am paid when I get what was agreed on,” replied Fletcher, stoutly.

The eyebrow was raised with a deprecatory, inquiring look.

“Why, Fletcher, sharp’s the word, is it?”

“That’s what you said, when we started.”

“Suppose I pay you the notes and a thousand or two more, and we call it square? Then you salt down what you got.”

“And you propose to haul off from operating?”

“Well, no, I can’t say I do. I may try the bulls another fall or two. But you haven’t anything else. If we lose, you are smashed. I have other property to fall back on.”

“So it’s merely to do me a kindness and make me safe and snug that you propose to keep back the six thousand that belong to me?”

“You put it rather strong, youngster. I didn’t agree to pay till the scheme was carried out. But we’ve done better than we ‘xpected, and, to take you out of danger, I offered to pay part down. In a business as ticklish as stocks, you don’t expect a man to come down with the ready without a consideration?”

“You know you could never have kept the run of the market, if it hadn’t been for me; and the ten per cent. is no more than a fair share. This isn’t a matter of dollars altogether, though dollars are useful, but of information, activity, brains.”

“Well, remember, young man, I offer you now twelve thousand. If anything happens, don’t squawk nor play baby.”

“Why, you’re not going to fail?”

“No,–not if the world don’t tip over.”

“And you’re going on with your operations?”

“Yes,–till the wind shifts. It’s due east yet.”

“Well, I think the ship that carries you is safe enough for me. Make me the notes, and let the operations go on another week.”

With an increased respect for his agent, when he found that he could neither humbug nor frighten him, Bullion filled out and signed the notes. Next they reviewed the stock-market, and decided upon the course to be pursued. Bullion then fell into a profound meditation, and did not speak for five minutes, though the busy eyebrow showed that his mind was not lost in vacancy. At last he started up, saying,–

“I must go. But, Fletcher, any _reason_ why you particularly wanted to pay Sandford that thousand, to-day?”

Fletcher turned pale, and his heart rose in his mouth.

“No,–no reason,–that is–he wanted it–I–I was willing to oblige”–

“No matter about reasons,” said Bullion, with a quiet air. “I never tread on people’s corns. Only when it’s wanted let me know. You see he went by the board. He begged me to save him. How could I? I’ve done enough for other people. Must take care of number one, now. Kerbstone, he begs, too. I shan’t help him.”

Fletcher felt relieved; at the same time he determined without delay to make a new effort to get the fatal evidence of his former crime into his own possession.

“Oh,” said Bullion, as if he had forgotten something, “the wife and baby, let’s see ’em.”

Fletcher called his wife, who came in timidly, and shrank from the fierce look of the man of money.

“How d’e do, Ma’am? Your servant, Ma’am. Glad to see you. But the baby?”

“Fetch the baby, lovey,” said Fletcher.

Baby was brought, smiling with as little reason as possible, and winking very hard in the light.

“Pretty dear!” said Bullion, chucking her under the chin.

“I wonder what the devil this means,” thought Fletcher.

How was his surprise increased when, after a moment, Bullion inquired,–

“Teeth cut yet? Some of ’em, I see. More to come. Want something to bite, little one?”

He pulled out his purse and gave the child three or four large gold pieces. The little hands could not hold them, and they fell on the carpet, rolling in different directions. Bullion left hastily, with a quick nod and a clipped “Good-bye.”

“Well, I vow!” said Fletcher, with a long breath. “It’s well he didn’t stay to pick ’em up; they’d ‘ave stuck to his fingers like wax. He couldn’t have let ’em alone.”

“What a good man he is!” said the overjoyed little woman.

“_Good_ man! He’s crazy. Old Bullion giving away gold pieces to a baby! He’s lost his wits, sure. He never gave away a sixpence before in his life. Oh, he’s cracked, without a doubt. I must keep watch of him. When _he_ grows generous, there’s something wrong.”

[To be continued.]

THE WATERFALL.

Down across the green and sunny meadow, Where the grass hangs thick with glistening dew,– In the birch-wood’s flickering light and shadow, Where, between green leaves, the sun shines through,–

Plunging deeper in the wood’s dark coolness, Where the path grows rougher and more steep, Where the trees stand thick in leafy fulness, And the moss lies green in shadows deep:–

Hark! the wind amid the tree-tops rushing In a sudden gust along the hills!–
No,–the leaves are still,–’tis water gushing From some hidden haunt of mountain-rills.

Upward through the rugged pathway struggling, Loud and louder yet the music grows;
Near and nearer still, the water’s gurgling Guides me where o’er moss-grown rocks it flows.

Breathless, for its welcome coolness thirsting, On I haste, led by the rushing sound,
Till upon my full sight sudden bursting, Lo, the forest’s hidden treasure found!

See the gathered waters madly leaping, Plunging from the rocks in headlong chase, Boiling, eddying, whirling, downward sweeping All that meets them in their foaming race!

From the broken waters riseth ever,
Fresh and cool, a soft and cloud-like spray; And where through the boughs slant sunbeams quiver, On the mist the sudden rainbows play.

On a branch high o’er the torrent swinging Sits a bird, with joyful-swelling throat;– Only to the eye and heart he’s singing; Through the roar below I hear no note.

All the forest seems as if enchanted, Seems to lie in wondrous stillness bound; Hushed its voices, silenced and supplanted, Interwoven with this ceaseless sound.

Gazing on the whirl of waters meeting, Dizzy with its rush, I stand and dream, Till it almost seems my own heart’s beating, And no more the voice of mountain-stream.

THE WINTER-BIRDS.

We are prone to set an extraordinary value upon all sources of pleasure that arrive in a season when they are few and unexpected. Hence the peculiar charm of the early flowers of spring, and of those equally delightful flowers that come up to cheer the short and melancholy days of November. The winter-birds, though they do not sing, are, on the same account, particularly interesting. The Chicadees and the little speckled Woodpeckers, that tarry with us in midwinter, and make the still cold days lively and cheerful by their merry voices, are, in animated nature, what flowers would be in inanimate nature, if they were found blooming under the snow. Nature does not permit, at any season, an entire dearth of those sources of enjoyment that spring from observation of the external world; and as there are evergreen mosses and ferns that supply in winter the places of the absent flowers, in like manner there are chattering birds that linger in the wintry woods; and Nature has multiplied the echoes at this season, that their few and feeble voices may be repeated by their lively responses among the hills.

To those who look upon Nature with the feelings of a poet or a painter, we need not speak of the value of the winter-birds as enliveners of the landscape. Any circumstance connected with scenery, that exercises our feelings of benevolence, adds to the picturesque charms of a prospect; and no man can see a little bird, or any other animal, at this time, without feeling a lively interest in its welfare. The sight of a flock of Snow-Buntings descending, like a shower of meteors, upon a field of grass, and eagerly devouring the seeds contained in its drooping pannicles that extend above the snow-drifts,–of a company of Crows rejoicing with noisy sociability over some newly-discovered feast in the pine-wood,–of the party-colored Woodpeckers winding round the trees and hammering upon their trunks,–all these, and many other sights and sounds, are associated with our ideas of the happiness of these creatures; and while our benevolent feelings are thus agreeably exercised, the objects that cause our emotions add a positive charm to the dreary aspects of winter. These reflections have always led me to regard the birds and other interesting animals as having a value to mankind not to be estimated in dollars and cents, and which is entirely independent of any services they may render to the farmer or the orchardist by preventing the over-multiplication of noxious insects.

The greater number of small birds that remain in northern latitudes during winter, except the Woodpeckers and their congeners, are such as subsist chiefly upon seeds. Those insectivorous species that gather their food chiefly from the ground are under a particular necessity of migrating. Hence the common Robin, living entirely on insects and a little fruit, that serves him rather as a dessert than as substantial fare, a bird that never feeds upon grain or seeds of any kind, but devours the insects that are found upon the surface of the soil, cannot subsist in our latitude, except in open winters. During such favorable seasons, the Robins are able to collect vast quantities of dormant insects from the open ground. These birds always endeavor to keep on the outside of extensive snows; and if in any year, very early in November, a large quantity of snow should fall in the latitude of New Jersey and Pennsylvania, while north of it the ground remained uncovered, the Robins would be retarded in their journey and tarry with us in unusual numbers. A great many of them must perish of hunger, or be reduced to the necessity of feeding on the berries of the Viburnum and Juniper, should they be overtaken by an extensive and enduring snow that cuts off their journey of emigration.

The Woodpeckers and their allied species, though insectivorous, are not thus affected by the winter. Gathering all their food, consisting of larvae and insects, from the bark and wood of trees, the snow cannot conceal it or place it beyond their reach. The quantity of this kind of food is less than in summer, but the birds can obtain it with about the same facility at all times, because other species of birds are diminished, which in summer divide with them this spoil. Hence, Woodpeckers, Creepers, and Tomtits do not migrate. They simply scatter more widely over the country, instead of keeping in the woods, and thus accommodate themselves to their more limited supplies of food. The Swallow tribes, that catch their food in the air, are the first to migrate, because the swarms of insects are vastly diminished by the early frosts of autumn.

It is not often that we are led to reflect upon the extreme loneliness that would prevail in all solitary places in winter, were all the birds to migrate at this season to a warmer climate, or to sink into a state of torpidity, like frogs, dormice, and other small animals. But Nature, to preserve the pleasantness of this season, has endowed certain birds with power to endure the severest cold, and with the faculty of providing for their wants at a time when it would seem that there was not sustenance enough among the hidden stores of the season to keep them from starvation. The woodman, however insensible he may be to the charms of all such objects, is gladdened and encouraged in his toils by the sight of these sprightly creatures, some of which, like the Jay and the Woodpecker, are adorned with the most beautiful plumage, and are all pleasantly garrulous, filling the otherwise silent woods with constant and vociferous merriment.

In my early days, for the supposed benefit of my health, I passed a winter in Tennessee, and, being unoccupied, except with my studies, I spent a great portion of my time in botanical and zooelogical excursions in the woods adjoining the city of Nashville. It was during that season I experienced the full power of the winter-birds to give life and beauty to the scenes of Nature; for, though not one was heard to sing, they seemed as active and as full of merriment as in the early summer. The birds that most particularly attracted my attention at this time were the Woodpeckers, of which several species were very numerous. Conspicuous among them was the Pileated Woodpecker, (_Picus pilcaius_,) a bird with rusty-black plumage, a red crest and moustaches, and a white stripe on each side of the neck,–one of the largest of the tribe. His loud croaking note was heard at all times in the deep woods, and his great size and his frequent hammering upon the resounding boles of the trees attracted every one’s attention.

A more beautiful, but smaller species, was the Redheaded Woodpecker, (_P. erythrocephalus_,) with head, neck, and throat of crimson, and other parts of his plumage variously marked with white and changeable blue. This species, though never seen in Eastern Massachusetts, is a common resident in this latitude, west of the Green-Mountain range. The birds of this species were very numerous, during my excursions, and the woods were constantly flushing with their bright colors as they flitted among the trees. They were sometimes joined by another species, hardly less beautiful, the Redbreasted Woodpecker (_P. Caroliniensis_).

It is impossible to describe the charm which these birds afforded to the otherwise solitary woods. The loud croaking of the Log-cock, the cackling screams of the Redheaded Woodpecker, and the solemn, tolling note of the Redbreast, blended with the occasional cooing of Turtle-doves, formed a sylvan charm, that made my winter-rambles, at this period, as interesting as any I ever pursued in summer or autumn.

In our latitude, after the first flight of snow has covered the ground, the winter-birds, pressed by hunger, are compelled to make extensive forages in quest of food. Hence our attention is more closely attracted to them at this time, as many parties of them will visit our neighborhood in the course of the day, when if no snow had fallen, they would have confined themselves to a more limited range. One of the most attractive sights on such occasions is caused by the flocks of Snow-Buntings, which are particularly gregarious in their habits. In Sweden they are called “Bad-Weather-Birds,” because they are mostly seen when the fallen snow has caused them to roam from place to place, in quest of their subsistence. They are far from being birds of ill-omen, however, as we see them commonly when the storm is past. Few sights are more picturesque than these flocks of Snow-Buntings, whirling with the subsiding winds, and moving as if they were guided by an eddying breeze, now half-concealed by the direction in which they meet the rays of the sun, then suddenly flashing with a simultaneous turn they present the under white side of their wings to the light of heaven. The power which these diminutive creatures seem to possess, of enduring the cold of winter, and of contending with the storm, attaches to their appearance a quality which is allied to sublimity. I cannot look upon them, therefore, in any other view than as important parts in that ever-changing picture of light, motion, and beauty, with which Nature benevolently consoles for those evils which are assigned by fate to all the inhabitants of the earth.

The common Snow-Birds (_Fringilla nivalis_) are more interesting as individuals, but they are never seen in compact flocks. They go usually in scattered parties, and appear in Massachusetts about the middle of autumn, arriving from Canada and Labrador, where they spend the summer. They have many of the habits of the common Hair-Bird, (_Fringilla socialis_,) assembling around our houses and barns, and picking up crumbs of bread and other fragments of food. They differ entirely from the Buntings in their appearance, the latter being called White Snow-Birds, to distinguish them from the others, which are slate-colored. These birds are quite as remarkable, however, for their power of enduring the cold, and of sustaining the force of the tempest. In the midst of a snow-storm, they may often be seen sporting, as it were, in the very whirlpool of the driving snows, and alighting upon the tall sedges and weeds, and eagerly gathering the produce. The Hemp-Bird often joins their parties, and his cheerful and well-known twitter may be heard, as he hurriedly flits from one bush to another, hunting for the seeds of the golden-rods and asters.

The cause of the migration of these birds from their native northern latitudes is not, probably, the severe cold of those regions, but the deep snows that bury up their cereal stores at a very early period. But even if the grounds in those cold latitudes were only partially covered, these birds must scatter themselves over a wide extent of territory, in proportion as their food becomes less abundant. They live principally