The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 14, No. 86, December, 1864 / A Magazine of Literature, Art, and Politics

by Various

FOOTNOTES:

[A] The light-house has since been rebuilt, and shows a Fresnel light.

---

ENGLISH AUTHORS IN FLORENCE.

Bella Firenze, "Flower of all Cities and City of all Flowers," is not only the garden of Italy's intellect, but the hot-house to which many a Northern genius has been transplanted. The house where Milton resided is still pointed out and held sacred by his venerators; and Casa Guidi, gloomier and grayer now that the grand light has gone out of it, is of especial interest to every cultivated traveller. A gratified smile, born of sorrow, passes over the stranger's face, as he reads the inscription upon the tablet that makes Casa Guidi historical,—a tablet inserted by the municipality of Florence as a grateful tribute to the memory of a truly great woman, great enough to love Truth "more than Plato and Plato's country, more than Dante and Dante's country, more even than Shakspeare and Shakspeare's country."

Quì scrisse e morì
Elisabetta Barrett Browning
Che in cuore di donna conciliava
Scienza di dotto o spirito di poeta
E fece del suo verso aureo anello
Fra Italia e Inghilterra
Pone questa memoria
Firenze grata
1861

Here wrote and died Elizabeth Barrett Browning!

Tradition says that years ago Casa Guidi was the scene of several dark deeds; and after having wandered through the great rooms, for the most part perpetually in shadow, one's imagination puts full faith in a time-worn story. Whatever may have been the stain left upon the old palace by the Guidi, it has been removed by an alien woman,—by her who sat "By the Fireside," and toiled unceasingly for the good of man and the love, of God. Casa Guidi heard the whispering of "One Word More," the echo of which is growing fainter and fainter to the ear, but subtiler to the soul; and looking up at her house, we hear the murmur of a poet's voice, saying,—

"God be thanked, the meanest of His creatures
Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with,
One to show a woman when he loves her."

The unsuspected prophecy of "One Word More" has been fulfilled,—

"Lines I write the first time and the last time,"—

for Destiny has given to them other than the author's meaning: because of this destiny, we pass from the shadow of Casa Guidi with bowed head.

It is a beautiful custom, this of Italy, marking the spot where noble souls have lived or died, that coming generations may learn to venerate the greatness of the past, and become inspired thereby to exalted deeds in the present. We of America, eagerly busy jostling the elbows of To-Day, have not even a turn of the head for the haunts of dead men whom we honor. No tablets mark their homes; and indeed they would be of little profit to a country where mementos of "lang syne" are never spared, when the requirements of commerce or of real estate issue their universal mandate, "Destroy and build anew!" America shakes all dust from off her feet, even that of great men's bones; though indeed Boston, which is not wanting in esteem for its respectable antecedents, has made a feeble attempt to do honor to the Father of his Country. The tablet is but an attempt, however, which has become thoroughly demoralized by keeping company with attorneys' signs and West-India goods; the bouquet of law-papers, plus coffee and tobacco, has deprived the salt of its savor.

Far different is it in Florence, where the identical houses still remain. Almost every street bears the record of a great man. To walk there is to hold intimate communion with departed genius. What traveller has not mused before Dante's stone? The most careless cannot pass Palazzo Buonarotti without giving a thought to Michel Angelo and his art. An afternoon's stroll along the Lung' Arno to drink in the warmth of an Italian sunset is made doubly suggestive by a glance at the house where set another sun when the Piedmontese poet-patriot, Alfieri, died. We never passed through the Via Guicciardini, as clingy, musty, and gloomy as the writings of the old historian whose palace gives name to the street, without looking up at the weather-beaten casa dedicated to the memory of that wonderfully subtile Tuscan, Niccolò Macchiavelli; and by dint of much looking we fancied ourselves drawn nearer to the Florence of 1500, and read "The Prince," with a gusto and an apprehension which nothing but the old house could have inspired. This, at least, we believed, and our faith in the fancy remains unshaken, now that Mr. Denton, the geologist, has expounded the theory of "Psychometry," which he tells us is the divination of soul through the contact of matter with a psychometrical mind. Had we in those days been better versed in this theory of "the soul of things," we should have made a gentle application of forehead to the door-step of Macchiavelli's mundane residence, and doubtless have arisen thoroughly pervaded with the true spirit of the man whose feet were familiar to a stone now desecrated by wine-flasks, onions, cabbages, and contadini.

Mrs. Somerville, to whom the world is indebted for several developments in physical geography, is almost as fixed a Florentine celebrity as the Palazzo Vecchio; and Villino Trollope has become endeared to many forestieri from the culture and hospitality of its inmates. It is the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Adolphus Trollope, earnest contributors to the literature of England, and active friends of Cavour's Italy. Justice prompts us to say that no other foreigner of the present day has done so much as Mr. Trollope to familiarize the Anglo-Saxon mind with the genius and aspirations of Italy. A constant writer for the liberal press of London, Mr. Trollope is also the author of several historical works that have taken their place in a long-neglected niche. "A Decade of Italian Women" has woven new interest around ten females of renown, while his later works of "Filippo Strozzi" and "Paul the Pope and Paul the Friar," have thrown additional light upon three vigorous historical characters, as well as upon much Romish iniquity. "Tuscany in '48 and '59" is the most satisfactory book of the kind that has been published, Mr. Trollope's constant residence in Florence having made him perfectly familiar with the actual status of Tuscany during these important eras in her history. The old saying, "Merit is its own reward," to which it is usually necessary to give a Pre-Raphaelite interpretation, has had a broader signification to Mr. Trollope, whose efforts in Italy's behalf have been appreciated by the Rè Galantuomo, Victor Emanuel, by whom he has been knighted with the Order of Saints Maurice and Lazarus. As the decoration was entirely unsolicited,—for Mr. Trollope is a true democrat,—and as he is nearly, if not quite, the only Englishman similarly honored, the compliment is as pleasing as it is flattering.

Historian though he be, Mr. Trollope has more recently made his mark as a novelist. "La Beata," an Italian story, published three years ago, is greatly praised by London critics, one strong writer describing it as a "beatific book." The character of the heroine has been drawn with a pathos rare and heart-rending, nor can the reader fail to be impressed with the nobility of the mind that could conceive of such exceeding purity and self-sacrifice in woman. Mr. Trollope's later novels of "Marietta" and "Giulio Malatesta" have also met with great success, and, although not comparable with "La Beata," give most accurate pictures of Italian life and manners,—and truth is ordinarily left out of Anglo-Italian stories. "Giulio Malatesta" is of decided historical interest, giving a side-view of the Revolution of '48 and of the Battle of Curtatone, which was fought so nobly by Tuscan volunteers and students. It is a matter of regret to all lovers of Italy that Mr. Trollope's works have not been republished in America, as no American has labored in the same field, nor do Americans en masse possess very correct ideas of a country whose great future is creating an additional interest in her promising present and wonderful past. Mr. Trollope's "History of Florence," upon which he is now at work, will be his most valuable contribution to literature.

Mrs. Trollope, who from her polyglot accomplishments may be called a many-sided woman, has been, both by Nature and education, most liberally endowed with intellectual gifts. The depressing influence of continual invalidism alone prevents her from taking that literary position which good health and application would soon secure for her. Nevertheless, Mrs. Trollope has for several years been a constant correspondent of the London "Athenæum," and in all seasons Young Italy has found an enthusiastic friend in her. Many are the machinations of the clerical and Lorraine parties that have been revealed to the English reader by Mrs. Trollope; and when, some time since, her letters upon the "Social Aspects of Revolution in Italy," were collected and published in book-form, they met with the cordial approbation of the critics. These letters are marked by purity of style, quaint picturesqueness, and an admirable couleur locale. As a translator, Mrs. Trollope possesses very rare ability. Her natural aptitude for language is great. A residence in Italy of seventeen years has made her almost as familiar with the mother-tongue of Dante as with that of Shakspeare; and we make bold to say that Giovan Battista Niccolini's most celebrated tragedy, "Arnaldo da Brescia," loses none of its Italian lustre in Mrs. Trollope's setting of English blank-verse,—Ah! we cannot soon forget the first time that we saw this same Niccolini, the greatest poet of modern Italy! It was in the spring of 1860, upon the memorable inauguration of the Theatre Niccolini,—ci-devant Cocomero, (water-melon,)—when Florence gave its first public reception to the poet, who was not only Tuscan, but Italianissimo, and rendered more than a passing homage to his name in the new baptism of a charming theatre. Since 1821 Niccolini had been fighting for the good cause with pen as cutting as Damascus blade; the goal was not reached until the veteran of eighty-two, paralyzed in body and mind, was borne into the presence of an enthusiastic audience to receive its bravos. So lately as the previous year the Ducal government had suppressed a demonstration in Niccolini's favor: this night must have atoned for the persecutions of the past. It was then that we heard Rossi, the great actor, declaim entire scenes from "Arnold of Brescia"; and though he stood before us as plain citizen Rossi in a lustrous suit of broadcloth, the fervor and intensity with which he interpreted the master-thoughts of Niccolini forced the audience to see in him the embodiment of the grand patriot-priest. We have witnessed but few greater dramatic performances; never have we been present at so impassioned a political demonstration. Freedom of speech was but just born to Italy, and Florence drew a long breath in the presence of a national teacher. Eighteen months later Niccolini gazed for the last time upon Italy, and saw the fulfilment of his prophecies.

We wish there were a copy of Mrs. Trollope's translation of "Arnaldo da Brescia" in America, that we might make noble extracts, and cause other eyes to glisten with the fire of its passion. We can recall but one passage, a speech made by Arnaldo to the recreant Pope Adrian. It is as strong and fearless as was the monk himself.

"Adrian, thou dost deceive thyself. The dread
Of Roman thunderbolts is growing faint,
And Reason slacks the bonds thou'dst have eternal.
She'll break them; yet she is not well awake.
Already human thought so far rebels,
That tame it thou canst not: Christ cries to it,
As to the sick of old, 'Arise and walk!'
'T will trample thee, if thou precede it not:
The world has other truths than of the altar,
Nor will endure a church which hideth Heaven.
Thou wast a shepherd,—be a father: men
Are tired at last of being called a flock;
Too long have they stood trembling in the path
Smit by your pastoral staff. Why in the name
Of Heaven dost trample on the race of man,
The latest offspring of the Thought Divine?"

It is not strange that the emancipated Florentines grow wild with delight when Rossi declaimed such heresy as this.

Mrs. Trollope's later translations of the patriotic poems of Dall' Ongaro, the clever Venetian, are very spirited; nor is she unknown as an original poet. "Baby Beatrice," a poem inscribed to her own fairy child, that appeared several years ago in "Household Words," is exceedingly charming; and one of her fugitive pieces, having naturally transformed itself into "la lingua del sì," has ever been attributed to her friend Niccolini.

It was as a poet that Mrs. Trollope, then Miss Garrow, began to write,—and indeed she may be called a protégée of Walter Savage Landor, for through his encouragement and instrumentality she first made her appearance in print as a contributor to Lady Blessington's "Book of Beauty." There are few who remember the old lion-poet's lines to Miss Garrow, and their insertion here cannot be considered mal-à-propos.

"To Theodosia Garrow.

"Unworthy are these poems of the lights
That now run over them, nor brief the doubt
In my own breast if such should interrupt
(Or follow so irreverently) the voice
Of Attic men, of women such as thou,
Of sages no less sage than heretofore,
Of pleaders no less eloquent, of souls
Tender no less, or tuneful, or devout.
Unvalued, even by myself, are they,—
Myself, who reared them; but a high command
Marshalled them in their station; here they are;
Look round; see what supports these parasites.
Stinted in growth and destitute of odor,
They grow where young Ternissa held her guide,
Where Solon awed the ruler; there they grow,
Weak as they are, on cliffs that few can climb.
None to thy steps are inaccessible,
Theodosia! wakening Italy with song
Deeper than Filicaia's, or than his,
The triple deity of plastic art.
Mindful of Italy and thee, fair maid!
I lay this sear, frail garland at thy feet."

Mrs. Trollope is still a young woman, and it is sincerely to be hoped that improved health will give her the proper momentum for renewed exertions in a field where nobly sowing she may nobly reap.

Ah, this Villino Trollope is quaintly fascinating, with its marble pillars, its grim men in armor, starting like sentinels from the walls, and its curiosities greeting you at every step. The antiquary revels in its majolica, its old Florentine bridal chests and carved furniture, its beautiful terra-cotta of the Virgin and Child by Orgagna, its hundred oggetti of the Cinque Cento. The bibliopole grows silently ecstatic, as he sinks quietly into a mediaeval chair and feasts his eyes on a model library, bubbling over with five thousand rare books, many wonderfully illuminated and enriched by costly engravings. To those who prefer (and who does not?) an earnest talk with the host and hostess on politics, art, religion, or the last new book, there is the cozy laisser-faire study where Miss Puss and Bran, the honest dog, lie side by side on Christian terms, and where the sunbeam Beatrice, when very beaming, will sing to you the canti popolari of Tuscany, like a young nightingale in voice, though with more than youthful expression. Here Anthony Trollope is to be found, when he visits Florence; and it is no ordinary pleasure to enjoy simultaneously the philosophic reasoning of Thomas Trollope,—looking half Socrates and half Galileo,—whom Mrs. Browning was wont to call "Aristides the Just," and the almost boyish enthusiasm and impulsive argumentation of Anthony Trollope, who is a noble specimen of a thoroughly frank and loyal Englishman. The unity of affection existing between these brothers is as charming as it is rare.

Then in spring, when the soft winds kiss the budding foliage and warm it into bloom, the beautiful terrace of Villino Trollope is transformed into a reception-room. Opening upon a garden, with its lofty pillars, its tessellated marble floor, its walls inlaid with terra-cotta, bas-reliefs, inscriptions, and coats-of-arms, with here and there a niche devoted to some antique Madonna, the terrace has all the charm of a campo santo without the chill of the grave upon it; or were a few cowled monks to walk with folded arms along its space, one might fancy it the cloister of a monastery. And here of a summer's night, burning no other lights than the stars, and sipping iced lemonade, one of the specialties of the place, the intimates of Villino Trollope sit and talk of Italy's future, the last mot from Paris, and the last allocution at Rome.

Many charming persons have we met at the Villino, the recollection of whom is as bright and sunny to us as a June day,—persons whose lives and motive-power have fully convinced us that the world is not quite as hollow as it is represented, and that all is not vanity of vanities. In one corner we have melodiously wrangled, in a tempo decidedly allegro vivace, with enthusiastic Mazzinians, who would say clever, sharp, cruel things of Cavour, the man of all men to our way of thinking, "the one man of three men in all Europe," according to Louis Napoleon. Gesticulation grew as rampant at the mention of the French Emperor, who was familiarly known as "quel volpone," (that fox,) as it becomes to-day in America at the mention of Wendell Phillip's name to one of the "Chivalry." Politics ran high in Italy in these days of the Renaissance, and to have a pair of stout fists shaken in one's face in a drawing-room for a difference of opinion is not as much "out of order" as it would be on this more phlegmatic side of the Atlantic, where fists have a deep significance not dreamed of by expansive Italians. In another corner we have had many a tête-à-tête with Dall' Ongaro, the poet, who is as quick at an impromptu as at a malediction against "il Papa," and whose spirited recitations of his own patriotic poems have inspired his private audiences with a like enthusiasm for Italian liberty. Not unlike Garibaldi in appearance, he is a Mazzini-Garibaldian at heart, and always knowing in the ways of that mysterious prophet of the "Reds" who we verily believe fancies himself author not only of the phrase "Dio ed il Popolo," but of the reality as well. When Mazzini was denied entrance into Tuscany under pain of imprisonment, and yet, in spite of Governor Ricasoli's decree, came to Florence incognito, it was Dall' Ongaro who knew his hiding-place, and who conferred with him much to the disgust and mortification of the Governor and his police, who were outwitted by the astute republican. Mazzini is an incarnation of the Sub Rosa, and we doubt whether he could live an hour, were it possible to fulminate a bull for the abolition of intrigue and secret societies. Dall' Ongaro was a co-laborer of Mazzini's in Rome in '48; and when the downfall of the Republic forced its partisans to seek safety in exile, he travelled about Europe with an American passport. "I could not be an Italian," he said to us, "and I became, ostensibly, the next best thing, a citizen of the United States. I sought shelter under a republican flag."

It was at Villino Trollope that we first shook hands with Colonel Peard,—"l'Inglese con Garibaldi," as the Italians used to call him,—about whose exploits in sharp-shooting the newspapers manufactured such marvellous stories. Colonel Peard assured us that he never did keep a written account of the men he killed, for we were particular in our inquiries on this interesting subject; but we know that as a volunteer he fought under Garibaldi throughout the Lombard campaign and followed his General into Sicily, where, facing the enemy most manfully, Garibaldi promoted him from the rank of Captain to that of Lieutenant-Colonel. It is good to meet a person like Colonel Peard,—to see a man between fifty and sixty years of age, with noble head and gray hair and a beard that any patriarch might envy surmounting a figure of fine proportions endowed with all the robustness of healthy maturity,—to see intelligence and years and fine appearance allied to great amiability and a youthful enthusiasm for noble deeds, an enthusiasm which was ready to give blood and treasure to the cause it espoused from love. Such a reality is most exhilarating and delightful, a fact that makes us take a much more hopeful view of humanity. We value our photograph of Colonel Peard almost as highly as though the picturesque poncho and its owner had seen service in America instead of Italy. His battle-cry is ours,—"Liberty!"

There, too, we met Frances Power Cobbe, author of that admirable book, "Intuitive Morals." In her preface to the English edition of Theodore Parker's works, of which she is the editor, Miss Cobbe has shown herself as large by the heart as she is by the head. That sunny day in Florence, when she, one of a chosen band, followed the great Crusader to his grave, is a sad remembrance to us, and it seemed providentially ordained that the apostle who had loved the man's soul for so many years should be brought face to face with the man before that soul put on immortality. Great was Miss Cobbe's interest in the bust of Theodore Parker executed by the younger Robert Hart from photographs and casts, and which is without doubt the best likeness of Parker that has yet been taken. Its merits as a portrait-bust have never been appreciated, and the artist, whose sad death occurred two years ago, did not live to realize his hope of putting it into marble. The clay model still remains in Florence.

Miss Cobbe is the embodiment of genial philanthropy, as delightful a companion as she is heroic in her great work of social reform. A true daughter of Erin, she excels as a raconteur, nor does her philanthropy confine itself to the human race. Italian maltreatment of animals has almost reduced itself to a proverb, and often have we been witness to her righteous indignation at flagrant cruelty to dumb beasts. Upon expostulating one day with a coachman who was beating his poor straw-fed horse most unmercifully, the man replied, with a look of wonderment, "Ma, che vole, Signora? non è Cristiano!" (But what would you have, Signora? he is not a Christian!) Not belonging to the Church, and having no soul to save, why should a horse be spared the whip? The reasoning is not logical to our way of thinking, yet it is Italian, and was delivered in good faith. It will require many Miss Cobbes to lead the Italians out of their Egypt of ignorance.

It was at Villino Trollope that we first saw the wonderfully clever author, George Eliot. She is a woman of forty, perhaps, of large frame and fair Saxon coloring. In heaviness of jaw and height of cheek-bone she greatly resembles a German; nor are her features unlike those of Wordsworth, judging from his pictures. The expression of her face is gentle and amiable, while her manner is particularly timid and retiring. In conversation Mrs. Lewes is most entertaining, and her interest in young writers is a trait which immediately takes captive all persons of this class. We shall not forget with what kindness and earnestness she addressed a young girl who had just begun to handle a pen, how frankly she related her own literary experience, and how gently she suggested advice. True genius is always allied to humility, and in seeing Mrs. Lewes do the work of a good Samaritan so unobtrusively, we learned to respect the woman as much as we had ever admired the writer. "For years," said she to us, "I wrote reviews because I knew too little of humanity." In the maturity of her wisdom this gifted woman has startled the world with such novels as "Scenes from Clerical Life," "Adam Bede," "Mill on the Floss," and "Silas Marner," making an era in English fiction, and raising herself above rivalry. Experience has been much to her: her men are men, her women women, and long did English readers rack their brains to discover the sex of George Eliot. We do not aver that Mrs. Lewes has actually encountered the characters so vividly portrayed by her. Genius looks upon Nature, and then creates. The scene in the pot-house in "Silas Marner" is as perfect as a Dutch painting, yet the author never entered a pot-house. Her strong physique has enabled her to brush against the world, and in thus brushing she has gathered up the dust, fine and coarse, out of which human beings great and small are made. It is a powerful argument in the "Woman Question," that—without going to France for George Sand—"Adam Bede" and the wonderfully unique conception "Paul Ferroll" are women's work and yet real. Men cannot know women by knowing men; and a discriminating public will soon admit, if it has not done so already, that women are quite as capable of drawing male portraits as men are of drawing female. Half a century ago a woman maintained that genius had no sex;—the dawn of this truth is only now flashing upon the world.

We know not whether George Eliot visited Florence con intenzione, yet it almost seems as though "Romola" were the product of that fortnight's sojourn. It could scarce have been written by one whose eye was unfamiliar with the tone of Florentine localities. As a novel, "Romola" is not likely to be popular, however extensively it may be read; but viewed as a sketch of Savonarola and his times, it is most interesting and valuable. The deep research and knowledge of mediaeval life and manners displayed are cause of wonderment to erudite Florentines, who have lived to learn from a foreigner. "Son rimasti" to use their own phraseology. The couleur locale is marvellous;—nothing could be more delightfully real, for example, than the scenes which transpire in Nello's barber's-shop. Her dramatis personæ are not English men and women in fancy-dress, but true Tuscans who express themselves after the manner of natives. It would be difficult to find a greater contrast than exists between "Romola" and the previous novels of George Eliot: they have little in common but genius; and genius, we begin to think, has not only no sex, but no nationality. "Romola" has peopled the streets of Florence still more densely to our memory.

It would seem as though the newly revived interest in Savonarola, after centuries of apathy, were a sign of the times. Uprisings of peoples and wars for "ideas" have made such a market for martyrs as was never known before. Could we jest upon what is a most encouraging trait in present humanity, we should say that martyrs were fashionable; for even Toussaint L'Ouverture has found a biographer, and Frenchmen are writing Lives of Jesus. Yet Orthodoxy stigmatizes this age of John Browns as irreligious:—rather do we think it the dawn of the true faith. It is to another habitué of Villino Trollope, Pasquale Villari, Professor of History at Pisa, that we owe in great part the revival of Savonarola's memory; and it must have been no ordinary love for his noble aspirations that led the young Neopolitan exile to bury the ten best years of his life in old Florentine libraries, collecting material for a full life of the friar of San Marco. So faithfully has he done his work, that future writers upon Savonarola will go to Villari, and not to Florentine manuscripts for their facts. This history was published in 1859, and it may be that "Romola" is the flower of the sombre Southern plant. Genius requires but a suggestion to create,—though, indeed, Mr. Lewes, who is a wonderfully clever man, au fait in all things, from acting to languages, living and dead, and from languages to natural history, may have anticipated Villari in that suggestion.

Villino Trollope introduced us to "Owen Meredith," the poet from melody,—one far older in experience than in years, looking like his poetry, just so polished and graceful, just so sweetly in tune, just so Gallic in taste, and—shall we say it?—just so blasé! We doubt whether Robert Lytton, the diplomate, will ever realize the best aspirations of "Owen Meredith," the poet. Good came out of Nazareth, but it is not in our faith to believe that foreign courts can bear the rare fruit of ideal truth and beauty.—Then there was Blumenthal, the composer, who talked Buckle in admirable English, and played his own Reveries most daintily,—Reveries that are all languor, sighs, and tears, whose fitting home is the boudoirs of French marquises. Blumenthal is a Thalberg in small.—We have pleasant recollections of certain clever Oxonians, "Double-Firsts," potential in the classics and mathematics. A "Double-First" is the incarnation of Oxford, a masterpiece of Art. All that he knows he knows profoundly, nor does it require an Artesian bore to bring that knowledge bubbling to the surface. His mastery over his intellect is as great as that of Liszt over the piano-forte,—it is a slave to do his bidding. He is the result of a thousand years of culture. A "Double-First" never gives way to enthusiasms; his heart never gets into his head. Impulse is snubbed as though it were a poor relation; and argument is carried on by clear, acute reason, independent of feeling. Woe unto the American who loses his temper while duelling mentally with a "Double-First"! Oxford phlegm will triumph. Of course a "Double-First" is conservative; he disbelieves in republics and universal suffrage, attends the Established Church, and won't publicly deny the Thirty-Nine Articles, whatever maybe his very private opinion of them. He writes brilliant articles for the "Saturday Review," (familiarly known among Liberals as the "Saturday Reviler,") and ends by being a learned and successful barrister, or a Gladstone, or both. Genius will rarely subscribe to the Thirty-Nine Articles. With all his conservatism and want of what the French call effusion, a "Double-First" can be a delightful companion and charming man,—even to a democratic American.

We well remember with what admiring curiosity the Italians regarded Mrs. Stowe one evening that she passed at Villino Trollope. "È la Signora Stowe?"—"Davvero?"—"L'autrice di 'Uncle Tom'?"—"Possibile?"—were their oft-repeated exclamations; for "Uncle Tom's Cabin" is the one American book in which Italians are deeply read. To most of them, Byron and "Uncle Tom" comprehend the whole of English literature. However poorly informed an Italian may be as regards America in other respects, he has a very definite idea of slavery, thanks to Mrs. Stowe. To read "Uncle Tom's Cabin" aloud in Italian to an Italian audience is productive of queer sensations. This office an American woman took upon herself for the enlightenment of some contadine of Fiesole with whom she was staying. She appealed to a thoroughly impartial jury. The verdict would have been balm of Gilead to long-suffering Abolitionists. So admirable an idea of justice had these acute peasant-women, so exalted was their opinion of America, which they believed to be a model republic where all men were born free and equal, that it was long before the reader could impress upon her audience the fact of the existence of slavery there. When this fact did take root in their simple minds, their righteous indignation knew no bounds, and, unlike the orator of the Bird o' Freedom, they thanked God that they were not Americans.

Then——But our recollections are too numerous for the patience of those who do not know Villino Trollope; and we shut up in our thoughts many "pictures beautiful that hang on Memory's walls," turning their faces so that we, at least, may see and enjoy them.

But ere turning away, we pause before one face, now no longer of the living, that of Mrs. Frances Trollope. Knowing how thoroughly erroneous an estimate has been put upon Mrs. Trollope's character in this country, we desire to give a glimpse of the real woman, now that her death has removed the seal of silence.

Frances Trollope, daughter of the Reverend William Milton, a fellow of New College, Oxford, was born at Stapleton, near Bristol, where her father had a curacy. She died in Florence, on the sixth of October, 1863, at the advanced age of eighty-three. In 1809 she married Thomas Anthony Trollope, barrister-at-law, by whom she had six children: Thomas Adolphus, now of Florence,—Henry, who died unmarried at Bruges, in Flanders, in 1834,—Arthur, who died under age,—Anthony, the well-known novelist,—Cecilia, who married John Tilley, Assistant-Secretary of the General Post-Office, London,—and Emily, who died under age.

Mr. Thomas Anthony Trollope married and became the father of a family as presumptive heir to the good estate of an uncle. The latter, however, on becoming a widower, unexpectedly married a second time, and in his old age was himself a father. The sudden change thus caused in the position and fortune of Mr. Trollope so materially deranged his affairs as to necessitate the breaking-up of his establishment at Harrow-on-the-Hill, near London. It was at this time that Miss Fanny Wright (whom Mr. and Mrs. Trollope met at the country-house of Lafayette, when visiting the General in France) persuaded Mrs. Trollope to proceed to America with the hope of providing a career for her second son, Henry. Miss Wright was then bent on founding an establishment, in accordance with her cherished principles, at Nashaba, near Memphis, and the career marked out for Henry Trollope was in connection with this scheme, the fruit of which was disappointment to all the parties concerned. Mrs. Trollope afterwards endeavored to establish her son in Cincinnati; but these attempts were ill managed, and consequently proved futile. Both mother and son then returned to England, the former taking with her a mass of memoranda and notes which she had made during her residence in the United States. These were shown to Captain Basil Hall, whose then recent work on America had encountered bitterly hostile criticism and denial with respect to many of its statements. Finding that Mrs. Trollope's account of various matters was corroborative of his own, Basil Hall for this reason, as also from friendly motives, urged Mrs. Trollope to bring out a work on America. "The Domestic Manners of the Americans" was the result, and so immense was its success that at the age of fifty Mrs. Trollope adopted literature as a profession.

In the eyes of the patriots of thirty years ago Mrs. Trollope committed the unpardonable sin, when she published her book on America; and certainly no country ever rendered itself more ridiculous than did ours, when it made the welkin ring with cries of indignation. The sensible American of to-day reads this same book and wonders how his countrymen lashed themselves into such a violent rage. In her comments upon America Mrs. Trollope is certainly frequently at fault, but unintentionally. She firmly believed all that she wrote, and did not romance, as Americans were wont to declare. When she finds fault with the disgusting practice of tobacco-chewing, assails the too common custom of dram-drinking, and complains of a want of refinement in some parts of the country, she certainly has the right on her side. When she speaks of Jefferson's dictum, "All men are born free and equal," as a phrase of mischievous sophistry, and refers to his posthumous works as a mass of mighty mischiefs,—when she accuses us of being drearily cold and lacking enthusiasm, and regards the American women as the most beautiful in the world, but the least attractive,—we may naturally differ from her, but we have no right to tyrannize over her convictions. That she bore us no malice is the verdict of every one who knew her ever so slightly; and her sons, who were greatly subjected to her influence, entertain the kindest and most friendly sentiments towards the United States.

Mrs. Trollope's works, beginning with the "Domestic Manners of the Americans," published in 1832, and ending with "Paris and London," which appeared in 1856, amount to one hundred and fourteen volumes, all, be it remembered, written after her fiftieth year. Of her novels perhaps the most successful and widely known were the "Vicar of Wrexhill," a violent satire on the Evangelical religionists, published in 1837,—"Widow Barnaby," in 1839,—and "The Ward of Thorpe Combe," in 1847. "Michael Armstrong," printed in 1840, was written with a view to assist the movement in favor of protection to the factory-operatives, which resulted in the famous "Ten-Hour Bill." The descriptions were the fruits of a personal visit to the principal seats of factory-labor. At the time, this book created considerable sensation.

Two works of travel and social sketches, "Paris and the Parisians," and "Vienna and the Austrians," were also very extensively read. With regard to the second we deem it proper to observe that Mrs. Trollope suffered herself to be so far dazzled by the very remarkable cordiality of her reception in the exclusive society of Vienna, and by the flattering intimacy with which she was honored by Prince Metternich and his circle, as to have been led to regard the then dominant Austrian political and social system in a more favorable light than was consistent with the generally liberal tone of her sentiments and opinions.

Though late in becoming an author, Mrs. Trollope had at all periods of her life been inclined to literary pursuits, and in early youth enjoyed the friendship of many distinguished men, among whom were Mathias, the well-known author of the "Pursuits of Literature," Dr. Nott, the Italian scholar, one of the few foreigners who have been members of the Della Crusca,—General Pepe, the celebrated defender of Venice, whom she knew intimately for many years,—General Lafayette,—and others.

Both before and after she achieved literary celebrity, Mrs. Trollope was very popular in society, for the pleasures of which she was especially fitted by her talents. In Florence she gathered around her persons of eminence, both foreign and native, and her interest in men and things remained undiminished until within a very few years of her death. Even at an advanced age her mind was ready to receive new ideas and to deal with them candidly. We have in our possession letters written by her in '54 and '55 on the much-abused subject of Spiritualism, which was then in its infancy. They are addressed to an American literary gentleman then resident in Florence, and give so admirable an idea of Mrs. Trollope's clearness of mental vision and the universally inquisitive tendency of her mind that we insert them at large.—Dec. 21st, 1854, Mrs. Trollope writes: "I am afraid, my dear Sir, that I am about to take an unwarrantable liberty by thus intruding on your time, but I must trust to your indulgence for pardon. During the few minutes that I had the pleasure of speaking with you, the other evening, on the subject of spiritual visitations, there was in your conversation a tone so equally removed from enthusiasm on one side and incredulity on the other that I felt more satisfaction in listening to you than I have ever done when this subject has been the theme. That so many thousands of educated and intelligent people should yield their belief to so bold a delusion as this must be, if there be no occult cause at work, is inconceivable. By occult cause I mean, of course, nothing at all analogous to hidden trickery, but to the interference of some power with which the earth has been hitherto unacquainted. If it were not taking too great a liberty, I would ask you to call upon me,... that I might have the pleasure and advantage of having your opinion more at length upon one or two points connected with this most curious subject." The desired interview took place, and a week later Mrs. Trollope returned a pamphlet on spiritual manifestations with the following note: "Many thanks, my dear Sir, for your kindness in permitting me a leisurely perusal of the inclosed. It is a very curious and interesting document, and I think it would be impossible to read it without arriving at the conviction that the writer deserves to be listened to with great attention and great confidence. But as yet I feel that we have no sure ground under our feet. The only idea that suggests itself to me is that the medium is in a mesmeric condition; and after giving considerable time and attention to these mysterious mesmeric symptoms, I am persuaded that a patient liable to such influence is in a diseased state. It has often appeared to me that the soul was partially, as it were, disentangled from the body. I have watched the —— sisters (the well-known patients of Dr. Elliotson) for more than a year, during which interval they were perfectly, as to the mind, in an abnormal state,—not recognizing father, mother, or brothers, or remembering anything connected with the year preceding their mesmeric condition. They learned everything which was submitted to their intellect during this interval with something very like supernatural intelligence. Emma, another well-known patient of Dr. Elliotson, constantly described herself, when in a mesmeric state, as 'greatly better than well,' and this was always said with a countenance expressive of very sublime happiness,—but as if her hearers were not capable of comprehending it. I shall feel very anxious to hear the results of your own experience; for it appears to me that you are in a state of mind equally unlikely to mistake truth for falsehood, or falsehood for truth." Upon receiving a second pamphlet treating on the same subject, Mrs. Trollope wrote as follows: "The document you have sent me, my dear Sir, is indeed full of interest. Had it been less so, I should not have retained it so long. In speaking of a state of mesmerism as being one of disease, I by no means infer that the mesmeric influence is either the cause or effect of disease, but that only diseased persons are liable to it. I have listened to statements from more than one physician in great practice tending very clearly to show that the manifestations of this semi-spiritual state are never observed in perfectly healthy persons. One gentleman in large practice told me that he had almost constantly perceived in the last stage of pulmonary consumption a manifest brightening of the intellect; and children, at the moment of passing from this state to that which follows it, will often (as I well know) speak with a degree of high intelligence that strongly suggests the idea that there are moments when the two conditions touch. That the region next above us is occupied by the souls of men about to be made perfect, I have not the shadow of a doubt. The puzzling part of the present question is this,—Why do we get a dark and uncertain peep at this stage of existence, when philosophy has so long been excluded from it? and I am inclined to say in reply, 'Be patient and be watchful, and we shall all know more anon.'"—Such is the character of notes that Mrs. Trollope wrote at the age of seventy-five.

Mrs. Trollope realized from her writings the large sum of one hundred thousand dollars; but generous tastes and a numerous family created as large a demand as there was supply, and kept her pen constantly busy. She wrote with a rapidity which seems to have been inherited by both her sons, more particularly by Anthony Trollope. One of her novels was written in three weeks; another she wrote at the bedside of a son dying of consumption, she being bound by contract to finish the work at a given time. Acting day and night as nurse, the overtasked mother was obliged to stimulate her nervous system by a constant use of strong coffee, and betweenwhiles would turn to the unfinished novel and write of fictitious joys and sorrows while her own heart was bleeding for the beloved son dying beside her. It was no doubt owing to this constant taxation of the brain that her intellect was but a wreck of its former self during the last four years of her life. During this time her condition was but a living death, though she was physically well. She was watched over and cared for with the most unselfish devotion by her son Thomas Adolphus and his wife, who gave up all pleasures away from home to be near their mother. The favorite reading in these last days was her son Anthony's novels.

And Thomas Trollope, writing of his mother's death, says: "Though we have been so long prepared for it, and though my poor dear mother has been in fact dead to us for many months past, and though her life, free from suffering as it was, was such as those who loved her could not have wished prolonged, yet for all this the last separation brings a pang with it. She was as good and dear a mother as ever man had; and few sons have passed so large a portion of their lives in such intimate association with their mother as I have for more than thirty years."

This is a noble record for both mother and son. To her children Mrs. Trollope was a providence and support in all time of sorrow or trouble,—a cause of prosperity, a confidant, a friend, and a companion.

A grateful American makes this humble offering to her memory in the name of justice.

There is a villa too, near Florence, "on the link of Bellosguardo," as dear from association as Villino Trollope. It has for a neighbor the Villa Mont' Auto, where Hawthorne lived, and which he transformed by the magic of his pen into the Monte Bene of the "Marble Faun." Not far off is the "tower" wherein Aurora Leigh sought peace,—and found it. The inmate of this villa was a little lady with blue-black hair and sparkling jet eyes, a writer whose dawn is one of promise, a chosen friend of the noblest and best, and on her terrace the Brownings, Walter Savage Landor, and many choice spirits have sipped tea while their eyes drank in such a vision of beauty as Nature and Art have never equalled elsewhere.

"No sun could die, nor yet be born, unseen
By dwellers at my villa: morn and eve
Were magnified before us in the pure
Illimitable space and pause of sky,
Intense as angels' garments blanched with God,
Less blue than radiant. From the outer wall
Of the garden dropped the mystic floating gray
Of olive-trees, (with interruptions green
From maize and vine,) until 't was caught and torn
On that abrupt line of dark cypresses
Which signed the way to Florence. Beautiful
The city lay along the ample vale,—
Cathedral, tower and palace, piazza and street;
The river trailing like a silver cord
Through all, and curling loosely, both before
And after, over the whole stretch of land,
Sown whitely up and down its opposite slopes
With farms and villas."

What Aurora Leigh saw from her tower is almost a counterpart of what Mrs. Browning gazed upon so often from the terrace of Villa Brichieri.

Florence without the Trollopes and our Lady of Bellosguardo would be like bread without salt. A blessing, then, upon houses which have been spiritual asylums to many forlorn Americans!—a blessing upon their inmates, whose hearts are as large and whose hands are as open as their minds are broad and catholic!

---

A TOBACCONALIAN ODE.

O plant divine!
Not to the tuneful Nine,
Who sit where purple sunlight longest lingers,
Twining the bay, weaving with busy fingers
The amaranth eterne and sprays of vine,
Do I appeal. Ah, worthier brows than mine
Shall wear those wreaths! But thou, O potent plant,
Of thy broad fronds but furnish me a crown,
Let others sing the yellow corn, the vine,
And others for the laurel-garland pant,
Content with my rich meed, I'll sit me down,
Nor ask for fame, nor heroes' high renown,
Nor wine.
And ye, ye airy sprites,
Born of the Morning's womb, sired of the Sun,
Who cull with nice acumen, one by one,
All gentle influences from the air,
And from within the earth what most delights
The tender roots of springing plants, whose care
Distils from gross material its spirit
To paint the flower and give the fruit its merit,
Apply to my dull sense your subtile art!
When ye, with nicest, finest skill, had wrought
This chiefest work, the choicest blessings brought
And stored them at its roots, prepared each part,
Matured the bud, painted the dainty bloom,
Ye stood and gazed until the fruit should come.
Ah, foolish elves!
Look ye that yon frail flower should be sublimed
To fruit commensurate with all your power
And cunning art? Was it for such ye climbed
The slanting sunbeams, coaxing many a shower
From the coy clouds? Ye did exceed yourselves;
And as ye stand and gaze, lo, instantly
The whole etherealized ye see:
From topmost golden spray to lowest root,
The whole is fruit.
Well have ye wrought,
And in your honor now shall incense rise.
The oaken chair, the cheerful blaze, invite
Calm meditation, while the flickering light
Casts strange, fantastic shadows on the wall,
Where goodly tomes, with ample lading fraught
Of gold of wit and gems of fancy rare,
Poet and sage, mute witnesses of all,
Smile gently on me, as, with sober care,
I reach the pipe and thoughtfully prepare
The sacrifice.

O fragile clay!
Erst white as e'er a lily of old Nile,
But now imbrowned and ambered o'er and through
With richest tints and ever-deepening hue,
Quintessence of rare essences the while
Uphoarding, as thou farest day by day,
Thou mind'st me of a genial face I knew.
At first it was but fair, nought but a face;
But as I read and learned it, wondrous grace
And beauty marvellous did grow and grow,
Till every hue of the sweet soul did show
Most beautiful from brow and lip and eye.
And thus, O clay,
Child of the sea-foam, nursed amid the spray,
Thy visage changes, ever grows more fair
As the fine spirit works expression there!
Blest be the tide that rapt thee from the roar
And cast thee on the far Danubian shore,
And blest the art that shaped thee daintily!
And thou, O fragrant tube attenuate!
No more in the sweet-blooming cherry-grove,
Where the shy bulbul plaintive mourns her love,
Shalt thou uplift thy blossoms to the sky,
Or wave them o'er the waters rippling by;
No more thy fruit shall stud with jewels red
The leafy crown thou fashionedst for thy head.
Not this thy fate.
When the swart damsel from thy parent tree
Did lop thee with thy fellows, and did strip
From off thee, bleeding, leaf and bud and blossom,
And bind the odorous fagot carefully,
And bear thee in to whom should fashion thee
And set new fruit of amber on thy tip,
More grateful than the old to eye and lip,
Ambrosial odors thou didst then exhale,
Leaving thy fragrance in her tawny bosom.
Thou still dost hold it. Nothing may avail
To rob thee of the odorous memory
Thou sweetly bearest of the cherry-grove,
Where blossoms bloom and lovers tell their love.
Bright amber, fragrant wood, enamelled clay,
Help me to burn the incense worthily!
Thou fire, assist! Promethean fire, unbound,
The azure clouds go wreathing round and round,
Float slowly up, then gently melt away;
And in their circling wreaths I dimly spy
Full many a fleeting vision's fantasy.
Alas! alas!
How bright soe'er before my view they pass,
Whether it be that Memory, pointing back,
Doth show each flower along the devious track
By which I came forth from the fields of youth,—
Or bright-robed Hope doth deck the sober truth
With many-colored garments, pointing on
To lighter days and envied honors won,—
Or Fancy, taking many a meaner thing,
Doth gild it o'er with bright imagining,—
Alas! alas!
Light as the circling smoke, they fade and pass,
What time the last thin wreath hath faintly sped
Up from the embers dying, dying, dead!
So earth's best blessings fade and fleet away,—
Nought left but ashes, smoke, and empty clay.

Awake, my soul! 't is time thou wert awaking!
For radiant spirits, innocent and fair,
Walking beside thee, hovering in the air
Adown the past, thronging thy future way,
Wait but thy calling and the thraldom's breaking,
Which, all unworthily, to sense hath bound thee,
To bless thy days and make the night around thee
As bright and beautiful and fair as day.
Call thou on these, my soul, and fix thee there!
Name nought divine which hath not godlike in it;
And if thou burnest incense, let it be
That of the heart, enkindled thankfully;
And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out,
Nor let it poison all thy sight forever;
Whate'er thou hast to do of worth, begin it,
Nor leave the issue free to any doubt,
Forgetting never what thou art, and never
Whither thou goest, to the far Forever.
And then shall gentle Memory, pointing back,
Show blessings scattered all along thy track;
And bright-robed Hope, shaming thy dreams of youth,
Shall lead thee up from dreaming to the truth;
And Fancy, leaving every meaner thing,
Shall see fulfilled each bright imagining.
Then shall the ashes of thy musing be
Only the ashes of thy naughtiness;
The smoke, the remnant of thy vanity
And thorny passions, which entangled thee
Till thou didst pray deliverance; the clay,
That empty clay e'en, hath a power to bless,—
Empty for that a gem hath passed away,
To shine forever in eternal day.

---

HALCYON DAYS.

"Peace and good-will."

Who hath enchanted Goliath? He sleeps with a smile on his face, but his secret is hid from the charmer. The treacherous will looks abashed on the calm of his slumber, and laments, "The thing that I would I do not!"

Now while the halcyon broods through the Sabbath-days of winter, and, looking from her nest, sees the waves of a summer calm and brightness,—now while she meditates, with the eggs under her wings, of a fast-approaching time when she shall teach her song to the little flock that's coming,—let us also dream. The thing that hath been shall be. Contentment, peace, and love! Fairy folk shall not personate this blessedness for us. Who is your next-door neighbor? One face shines serenely before me, and says, "The world is redeemed!" One voice, sounding clear through all discords, has an echo, fine, true, and eternal, in the midst of the Seraphim's praise.

Therefore, thou blue-winged halcyon, shall I sit beneath the dead sycamore in whose topmost branches thy great nest is built,—finding death crowned here, as everywhere, with life; here shall be told the Christmas tale of contentment, peace, and love.

No tremulous tale of sorrow, of wrong endured and avenged; no report of that Orthodox anguish which, renouncing the present, hopes only by the hereafter; no story of desperate heroic achievement, or of long-suffering patience, or even of martyrdom's glory. The sea is calm, and the halcyon broods, and only love is eternal.

Let us not stint thee, as selfishness must; nor shame thee with praise inadequate; nor walk with shod feet, as the base-bred, into thy palaces; nor as the weak, nor as the wise, who so often profane thee, but as the loving who love thee, holy Love, may we take thy name on our lips, and lay our gift on thine altar! It is a Christmas offering, fashioned, however rudely, from an absolute truth. If thou deem the ointment precious, when I break the unjewelled box, I pour it on thy feet. Let others crown, I would only refresh thee.

Children play on this white, shining, sandy beach, under the leafless sycamore; they look for no shade, they would find no shade; there is neither rock, nor shrub, nor evergreen-tree,—nothing but the white sand, and the dead sycamore, and in the topmost branches the halcyon's great nest.

Is it not a place for children? A little flourish of imagination, and we see them,—Silas, who beats the drum, and Columbia, who carries the flag, manifest leaders of the wild little company, mermen and mermaids all; and the music is fit for the Siren, and the beauty would shame not Venus.

Suppose we stroll home to their fathers, like respectable earth-keeping creatures: the depths of human hearts have sometimes proved full of mystery as the sea; and human faces sometimes glisten with a majesty of feeling or of thought that reduces ocean-splendor to the subordinate part of a similitude.

There is Andrew, father of Silas,—Andrew Swift, says the sign. He dwells in Salt Lane, you perceive, and he deals in ship-stores,—a husband and father by no means living on sea-weed. A yellow-haired little man, shrewd, and a ready reckoner. Of a serious turn of mind. Deficient in self-esteem; his anticipations of the most humble character. A sinner, because fearful and unbelieving: for what right has a man to be such a man as to inspire himself with misgiving? But his offences offset each other: for, if he doubted, Andrew was also obstinate. And obstinacy alone led him into ventures whose failure he expected: as when he laid out the savings of years in the purchase of goods, wherewith he opened those ship-stores in Salt Lane. Ship-stores! that sounds well. One might suppose I referred to blocks of marble-faced buildings, instead of three shelves, three barrels, and their contents! The obstinacy of Andrew Swift was the foundation of his fortune. Men have built on worse.

His opposite neighbor was one Silas Dexter, a flag- and banner-maker, who went into business in Salt Lane sometime during that memorable year of Andrew's venture. Apparently this young man was no better off than Swift, between whom and himself a friendly intercourse was at once established; but he had the advantage of a quick imagination and a sanguine temperament; also the manly courage to look at Fortune with respectful recognition, as we all look at royalty,—even as though he had sometime been presented,—not with a snobbish conceit which would seem to defy her Highness.

Indeed, he was such a man as would find exhilaration of spirit even in the uncertainties of his position. The sight of his banners waving from the sign-post, showing all sorts of devices, the flags flowing round the walls of his shop, enlivening the little dark place with their many gorgeous colors, sufficed for his encouragement. Utter ruin could not have ruined the man. He could not have failed with failure. Some sense of this fact he had, and he lived like one who has had his life insured.

Not a creature looked upon him but was free to the good he might derive. The sparkling eyes, quick smile, and manly voice, the active limbs and generous heart, seemed at the service of every soul that breathed. Trashy thought and base utterance could not cheat his soul of her integrity; the vileness of Salt Lane had nothing to do with him.

And I cannot account for this by bringing his wife forward. For how came he by this wife, except by the excellence and soundness of the virtue which preferred her to the world, and made him preferred of her? Still, you see the ripe cherry, one half full, beautiful, luscious, the other a patch of skin stretched over the pit, worthless and sad to view. This, but for his choice and hers, might have served as an emblem of Dexter.

She was her husband's partner in a twofold sense: for it was Dexter & Co. on the sign-board, and Jessie was represented by the Company. Of that woman I cannot refrain from saying what was so gracefully said of "the fair and happy milkmaid,"—"All the excellences stand in her so silently, as if they had stolen upon her without her knowledge."

The effect of these diverse influences, his wife Jessie in the house, and his neighbor Andrew to the opposite, kept the spirit of Silas Dexter at work like a ploughing Pegasus. He was full of pranks as a boy, but malice found poor encouragement of him. Andrew was his garden, and he was Andrew's sun: he shone across the lane with a brightness and a warmth sufficient to quicken the poorest earth; and the crops he perfected were various, all of the kind that flourish in heavy soil, but various and good. Do you think the good Samaritan could take the leprosy?

The sort of connection a man is bound to make between the everlasting spirit-world and this transient mortal state Dexter proved in his humble way. I doubt if spiritualists would have accepted his service as a medium. He was neither profane nor imbecile; but he sat at the foot of a ladder the pure ones could not fail to see, and by which they would not disdain to descend. If they chose to come his way, the white robes would take no taint.

Success attended Dexter with a modest grace, and Swift shared in the good fortune. I do not say the profits of either shop were forty millions a year. "Keep the best of everything," said Silas to Andrew; "don't be too hard on 'em; they'll come after they've found your way." And Swift proved the wisdom of such counsel, and tried to get the better of his grim countenance while waiting on the customers Dexter directed to his side: gradually succeeding,—proving down there in Salt Lane the truth of that ancient saying, "Art is the perfection of Nature."

So these two men lived like brothers; and if it was a pleasant thing to listen to Dexter's jokes and laughter, scarcely less profitable was it to hear Swift praise the flag- and banner-maker when he was out of sight.

Dexter's popularity had a varied character. Sea-captains and ship-builders, circus-men, aëronauts, politicians, engineers, target-companies, firemen, the military, deputies of all sorts, looked over his goods, consulted his taste, left their orders. His interest in the several occupations represented by the men who frequented his shop, his ingenuity in devising designs, his skill and expedition in supplying orders, his cheerful speech, and love of talk, and fun, gave the shopman troops of "friends." He could read the common mass of men at a glance, and he was justifiable in the devices he made use of in order to bring his customers into the buying mood: for what he said was true,—they could satisfy themselves in his store, if anywhere.

Dexter understood himself, and Jessie understood him: such folk make no pretences; they are ineffably real.

"Principles, not Men," was the banner-maker's motto. You might have seen the flag on which it was painted with a mighty flourish (and very poor result) in his old shop in the old time. That painting was his first great effort, that flag his first possession; he could not have parted with it, so he said, and so he believed, for any sum whatever.

"Principles, not Men": he studied that sentiment in all his graver moments, when he chanced to be alone in his shop,—you may guess with what result, moral and philosophical.

Andrew Swift used to say to his wife, that, when Dexter was studying his thoughts, it was better to hear him than the minister: and verily he did put time-serving to shame by the distinct integrity of his warm speech, and his eloquence of action.

Dexter married Jessie the day before he opened his flag-shop. She had long been employed by his employer, and when she promised to be his, she drew her earnings from the bank, and invested all with him. This was not prudence, certainly, but it was love. Dexter might have failed in business the first year,—might have died, you know, in six months, or even in three, as men do sometimes. It was not prudence; but Jessie—young lady determined on settlements!—Jessie was looking for life and prosperity, as the honest and earnest and young have a right to look in a world God created and governs. And if failure and death had in fact choked the path that promised so fair, clear of regret, free of reproaches, glad even of the losses that proved how love had once blessed her, she would have buried the dead, and worked for the retrieval of fortune.

They began their housekeeping-romance back of the shop in two little rooms. Do you require the actual measurement? There have been wider walls that could contain greatly less.

"How big was Alexander, pa?
The people called him great."

They considered the sixpences of their outlay and income with a purpose and a spirit that made a miser of neither. But there was no delusion indulged about the business. Jessie never mistook the hilarity of Silas for an indication of incalculable prosperity. Silas never understood her gravity for that of discontent and envy. They never spent in any week more than they earned. They counted the cost of living, and were therefore free and rich. "She was never alone," as Sir Thomas Overbury said of that happy milkmaid, "but still accompanied with old songs, honest thoughts, and prayers, but short ones." And Dexter loved her with a valiant constancy that spoke volumes for both.

His days were spent, according to the promise advertised, in endeavors to please the public; but, oh, if the public that traded with and liked to patronize him, if the young lads and the old boys who hung about his counters, could have seen him when he shut his shop-door behind him, and went into the back-room where Jessie and he devised the patterns, where she embroidered and lived, where she cooked and washed and ironed, where she nursed Columbia, their daughter, one glance at all this, made with the heart and the understanding, would—ah! might, have been to some of them worth more than all Dexter's pleasant stones, and all the contents of the shop, and all the profits the flag-maker would ever make by trading.

For I can hardly believe, though this story be but of "common life," when I take up the newspapers and glance along the items I am constrained to doubt, that such people as Silas and Jessie live in every house, in every alley, lane, and street, in every square and avenue, on every farm, wherever walls inclose those divine temples of which Apostles talked as belonging to God, which temples, said they, are holy! I can hardly believe that Love, void of fear and of selfishness, speaks through all our domestic policy, and devises those curious arrangements, political, theological, social, whose result has approval and praise, it may be, in the regions of outer darkness.

Dark faces, whose sleekness hides a gulf of waters more dead than those of the dreadful Dead Sea, rise between me and the honest, brave face of Silas,—dreary flats, whose wastes are not figured in utter barrenness by the awful African deserts, where ranks upon ranks of women, like Jessie at least in love and fidelity, must stand, or—"where is the promise of His coming?"

The daughter of Silas and Jessie was called Columbia in honor of some valiant enterprise, nautical or other, which charmed the patriotic spirit of the father; and as he was not a fighting man or a speaking man, he offered this modest comment on the brilliant event by way of showing his appreciation.

Columbia Dexter was a great favorite with the children of Salt Lane for various reasons, and among them this, that in all parades and processions she supplied the banners. Columbia's friend of friends was Silas, son of Andrew Swift,—and thus we come among the children of the neighbors.

They were not dependent on Salt Lane for a play-ground. They had the Long Wharf. Ships from the most distant foreign shores deposited their loads of freightage there, and the children were free to read the foreign brands, to guess the contents, and to watch the sailors,—free to all brain-puzzling calculations, and to clothes-soiling, clothes-rending feats, among the treasures of the ship-hold and the wharf: no mean privileges, with the roar of ocean in their ears, and great ships with their towering masts before their eyes. They had the wharf for bustle, confusion, excitement,—and for this they loved it; but the beach that stretched beyond they had for quiet, and there, for miles and miles, curious shells and pretty pebbles, fish-bones and crabs and sand, sea-weed fine and fair, and the old sycamores, the old dead trees, in the tops of whose white branches the halcyon built its nest. Well the children knew the winter days, so bright and mild, when the brave birds were breeding. Well they knew when the young kingfisher would begin to make his royal progress, with such safe dignity descending, branch by branch, until he could no longer resist Nature, but must dash out in a "fine frenzy" for the bounding waves!

Silas Swift, Dexter's namesake, was a grave, sturdy, somewhat heavy-looking fellow, whose brain teemed with thoughts and projects of which his slow-moving body offered no suggestion. Whoever prophesied of them did so at his hazard. Let him play at his will, and the children even were amazed. But this could not happen every day. Set him at work, and the sanguine were in despair. This was because, when work must be done, he deliberated, and did the thing that must be; so that, while misapprehension fretted gently sometimes because of his dulness, he was preparing for that which was not hoped. Celerity enough when he had come to a decision, but no sign or token till he had come to that.

The first exercise of his imagination trusted to the inspection of others was in behalf of Columbia Dexter, with intent to moderate her grief over a dead kitten which they buried in the sand under the sycamore-tree, the procession carrying banners furled and decorated with badges of mourning. Silas made a monument then and there in the high noon of a halcyon day: carved on a pine board which had served for a bier was the face of Tabby, surrounded with devices intended to represent the duration of her virtues. His work consoled Columbia, and inspired him to a more ambitious enterprise, namely, the carving of the same in a block of gypsum, which work of art Dexter obtaining sight of declared that it would have done credit to an artist, and set it on his mantel-shelf between two precious household cards lettered in gilt as follows "Union is Strength," and "Principles, not Men."

I suppose no children ever led a happier life,—the special joy of childhood being in sport, and food, and liberty, and the love of those who own them. They basked in the sun; they were busy with sport, fretted by no cares; kind words directed them. They lived in the midst of illusions, like princes, or fairies, or spirits,—like children. They followed about with processions, training in the rear of every train-band, keeping time with the march of the happy Sunday-schools, when they had their celebrations. Young Silas could be trusted with the care of Columbia, and hand in hand, like brother and sister, they went. Especially were they proud, if the procession carried one of Dexter's flags. Silas, no doubt, had suggested a point of the device, or Columbia had worked a corner.

When Dexter would go on board ship, or to some lodge, with the flags which had been ordered of him, in anticipation of voyages and processions, the children often accompanied him. I see them walking shyly in the rear, and looking up to the father of the little girl with the reverence he deserved. By-and-by would they grow wise and feel ashamed of this? Will you see the fair Columbia, whom the captain pats so kindly on the head, smiling broadly when he hears her name, will you see her, a woman grown, attending her father on such errands? And if you see her not, will the reason be such as proves her worthy to be old Dexter's daughter? Will you hear her saying to her friends, as now, "Guess who worked those flowers," while the target-shooters march past, carrying their blue silk banner, royal with red roses? She and Silas often run panting in the wake of great processions; they would not for the world miss seeing the wide, fluttering folds of the Stars and Stripes, or it might be the conquering St. George, or the transparencies they were all so busy over a day or two ago. Their speed will soon abate, and why?

Human beings are not children forever. Maturity must not manifest itself as childhood does. Ah, but "Principles, not Men"! Is any truth involved in that beyond what Silas recognizes in his trade? Is there another reason which shall have power to make Columbia some day stand coolly on the sidewalk, while her heart is beating fast,—which shall induce her to point out the mottoes on the banners, and the various devices, to another, without trembling in the voice or tears in the eye? If ever she shall glide along the streets, she whose early race-course was Salt Lane, if ever like a lady she shall walk there, will it be at the price of forgetfulness of all this humble sport and joy,—as a sustainer of feeble "social fictions," and a violator of the great covenant?

To the boy and girl it was not a question whether all their lives these relations should continue, and this play go on; but even to them, as children, a question that seriously concerned them, and in whose discussion they bore serious part, arose.

The old building Dexter occupied was becoming unfit for tenants. It had been patched over and over, until it was no longer safe, and agents refused to insure it. The proprietor accordingly determined to pull it down.

A change to a better locality had often been suggested to Dexter; but his invariable reply was, that "people shouldn't try to run before they were able to walk,—he was satisfied with Salt Lane and his neighbors": though of late he had made such replies with gravity, thinking of his daughter.

And now that the necessity was facing him, he met it like a man. He talked the matter over with his wife, and the claim of their child was urgent in the heart of each while they talked, and it could not have surprised either when suddenly their hopes met in her benediction. For Columbia's sake they must find a pleasant place for the new nest, some nook where beauty would be welcome, and gentle grace, and quiet, and light, and fair colors, and sweet odors would be possible; so pure and fair a child she seemed to father Dexter, so did the mother's heart desire to protect her from all odious influences and surroundings, that, when the prospect of change was before them, it was in reference to her, as well as trade, that the Company would make it.

Swift was taken into their confidence, and he walked with the pair around the streets one evening to see the shop Dexter's eyes had fixed on. It was a modest tenement in a crowded quarter, on whose door and windows "To Let" was posted. Silas had been out house-hunting in the afternoon, and this place appeared to meet his wishes; he had inquired about the rent, it did not seem too high for a house so comfortable, and it was probable that by to-morrow night the family would, after a fashion, be settled within those walls.

They sat down on the door-step and talked about the change with serious gravity, mindful that the old tenement they were about to leave had sheltered them since their marriage-day, that they had prospered in Salt Lane, and that the change they were about to make would be attended with some risk. Andrew Swift sighed dolefully while Jessie or Silas Dexter alluded to these matters of past experience: it was no easy matter to talk him into a cheerful mood again; but the brave pair accomplished it on their way home, when certainly either of them had as much need of a comforter as he.

To have heard them, one might have supposed that no tears would be shed when the tenement so long occupied by the flag-maker should come down. Old Mortality will not be hindered in his thinking.

Andrew offered his son Silas to assist his neighbors in the labor of removal, and his wife came with her service; and the rest of Salt Lane was ready at the door to lend a helping hand, when it was understood that the life and soul of the lane was going away to High Street.

Dexter's face was unusually bright while the work of packing went on. He knew that for everybody's sake more light than usual must be diffused by him that day. You know how it is that the brave win the notable victories, when their troops have fallen back in despair, and would fain beat a retreat. It is the living voice and the flashing eye, the courage and the will. What is he, indeed, that he should surrender,—above all, in the worst extremity?

How is death even swallowed up in victory, when the beleaguered spirit dashes across the breach, and, unarmed, possesses life!

Dexter told Andrew Swift that Silas was worth a dozen draymen, and in truth he was, that day; for he, and every one, were animated by the spirit of the leader. Courage! at least for that day, though they dared not look beyond it.

Thus these people went to High Street: into the house with many rooms, four at least; into the rooms with many windows, and high ceilings, which you could not touch with your uplifted hand,—rooms whose walls were papered, and whose floors should have carpets, for Dexter said the house was leased for ten years, and they would make their home comfortable. What ample scope they had! Many a fancy they had checked before it became a wish in the old quarters, they were so cramped there, though never in danger of suffocation, Heaven knows. Grandly the great arch lifted over the old moss-grown roof. But now they need stifle no fancy of all that should come to them; there was room in the house, and behind it,—yes, a strip of ground in the rear, and against the brick wall an apricot-tree and a grape-vine! Very Garden of Eden: was it big enough for the Serpent?

It was a sight to see the happy family while they talked over their possessions.

Over the shop, fronting the street, was a large apartment, by common consent to be used for parlor and show-room: young Swift was to decorate this, Dexter said, Columbia should be his helper, and he and his wife would criticize the result. Dexter talked with a purpose when he made these arrangements, but he kept the purpose secret until the work was done.

In the three windows ornamental flags were hung, which should serve for signs from the street: this was young Swift's design. In the middle window, Columbia responded, should be the George Washington flag. Yes, and to the left Lafayette, with Franklin for the right. Even so. Then above the middle window they secured the gilded American eagle. Oh, the harmony that prevailed among the young decorators!

Then "Principles, not Men" remained to be disposed of. They did it in such a way that the gilded motto shone on the white wall. The mantel was a masterpiece of arrangement, and solely after Columbia's suggestions. There was the monumental cat for a centre-piece, with the more recent creations of Silas Swift for immediate surroundings, and a banner at either end floating from the shelf.

You can imagine, if your imagination is genial and kindly, how very queer and fanciful the room looked with these decorations; and the gentle heart will understand the loving humility, the pleasure, with which Jessie surveyed all, when the children's work was done.

It was a pretty scene when Dexter came up, sent by Silas for an opinion, while the latter kept the shop. At first he laughed a little, and exclaimed, while he walked about; then Jessie turned away, and gave him an opportunity to brush the tears from his eyes unobserved; but presently she began to circle round him, unconsciously it seemed, till she stood close beside him; then he took her hand and held it, and she knew what he was thinking, and that he was proud and happy.

"It beats all!" he said more than once. And Columbia was talking of Silas, showing his work, and repeating his words, till Dexter broke out,—

"We must keep Silas! We can't get along without Silas! He mustn't go back to Salt Lane. I'll teach him business in High Street."

And the father did not seem to notice when his child slipped away down the stairs, to the shop, to the lad, who was thinking rather sadly, that, now his work was done, there was no more chance for him here: she had come to make him smile as much by her own delight as by his satisfaction.

But all this excitement must pass off. And in spite of the general gladness and gratulation, probably a more lonely, homesick party could not have been easily found than the Dexter family in their new home.

Dexter could not reproach himself for his removal, as he thought the matter seriously over. It was a forced removal, and certainly he would have been without excuse, had he gone into worse quarters instead of better, since better he could afford. It was not extravagance, but homesickness, that tormented him.

He was too generous, when all was done, to torment his wife with such misgivings as he had; and erelong the trouble, for want of nursing, died, as most of this life's troubles will, after their shabby fashion. But, indeed, how can they help it? that, too, is the will of Nature.

And was not Dexter himself, in the new neighborhood as in the old? His customers were still of the same class. But his surroundings were of a superior character,—there was a better atmosphere prevailing in High Street, and more light in his house. He did not love darkness better.

Pretty and well-dressed women were to be seen in High Street, and they never, except by mistake or disaster, wandered through Salt Lane. Standing in his door, and observing them according to his thoughtful fashion, Dexter remembered that his daughter was growing rapidly into a tall, handsome girl, and foresaw that she could not always be a child. He saw young misses going past with their school-books in their hands, and if he followed them with his eyes as far as eyes could follow, it was not for any reason save such as should have made them love and trust the man. He was thinking so seriously about his daughter, up-stairs at work with her mother, embroidering scarfs and banners.

He had only Columbia. She learned fast, when she went with Silas Swift to the school in Salt Lane,—so they all said, and he knew she was fond of her book. He had no ambition to make a lady of Columbia,—oh, no! But he was looking forward, according to his nature, and—who could tell what future might wait on her? He based his expectations for his child on his own experience. Neither he nor Jessie had ever looked for such good fortune as they had; and a step farther, must it not be a step higher, and accordingly new prospects?

Prophecy is unceasing. In what does the prescience of love differ from inspiration?

One morning Dexter was sent for by the principal of the seminary of the town, to assist in the decoration of her school-room preparatory to the examination and exhibition of her pupils.

While at work there, aided by Silas Swift, who was now his assistant in business, and notable for his skill as a designer and painter and painter of transparencies, and whatsoever in that line was desired for public festivities, processions, illuminations, and general jubilation of any character,—while at work in the great school-room, Mr. Dexter was unusually silent.

This was no occasion for, there was no need of, much speaking or of merriment. It was not expected of him. He was not dealing with, while he worked for, others now, but he was dealt with constantly, to an extent that confounded and embarrassed him. He did not make the demonstrations people sometimes do in such a case, but was silent, and half sad. Everything that passed before him he saw, it made an impression rapid and deep on his mind. The pictures drawn and painted by the pupils, and hung around the walls for exhibition, the pupils themselves, passing in and out,—girls of all ages, ladies to look at, all of them,—suggested anew the question, Why should his daughter be shut off from the privileges of these? He felt ashamed when he asked. Yet the question would be answered; and without palliation, self-excusing, or retort, he meditated.

Finally he said to Silas Swift, who worked with him in silence broken only by question and answer that referred merely to their business,—

"Look!"—and his eyes followed a young girl who had been hunting for several minutes among the desks for a book.

The youth obeyed,—he looked, but seemed not to understand the flag-maker as quickly or as clearly as was expected of him.

"Columby," said Dexter, with a wink and a nod, that to his mind expressed everything.

"Oh, yes," said Silas, as if he understood.

His penetration was not put to further proof. The mere supposition of his apprehension satisfied his employer, who could now go on without embarrassment.

"She ought to come to school," said Dexter.

"Oh!" exclaimed Silas, with surprise sufficient to convince the father that the young man had not attempted to practise a deceit.

"Yes," said Dexter, "she ought, she's old enough,"—as if that were all he had been waiting for.

"I think so," answered Silas Swift, with a decision encouraging to hear, and final as to influence.

"You do? Yes, I ought to afford it, if I lived on a crust to manage the bills. Why not? What's the difference 'twixt her and the rest, I'd like to know?"

"She could beat the whole batch at her books," said Silas, not doubting that he spoke with moderation.

"Pretty quick, wasn't she?" said the pleased father. "Yes, I know Columby!"

"And she deserves it."

"Deserves! You don't think I've been waiting to find that out! Well, Sir, put it that way, I say, Yes, she does deserve it."

Dexter and young Swift, having spoken thus far, thought on in their several directions, with serious, steady, strong, far-reaching looks into the future.

Thus it was that Columbia Dexter took her place in the great school, where girls, it was said, were regarded and taught as responsible human beings.

Silas Swift looked so grave, whenever the families mentioned Dexter's resolution, that Columbia, who had made him repeat already many times his reflections and observations in the school-room that day when he and her father were employed in its decoration, said to him one morning, when they happened to be alone together,—

"I'm afraid you don't think well of what we're going to do."

Whereupon he, somewhat proudly for him, answered,—

"I told your father, when he asked me, what I thought, before he had made up his mind."

"What did you say?" she asked,—though she could have guessed correctly, had he insisted upon it, but Silas was not in the mood.

"I said it should be done," he answered, seriously.

"I should go to school?"

"Yes, it is but right."

"Then why do you look so solemn?"

"You're going away from us."

Her hand was lying quietly in his, when she answered,—

"Going away? I shall see you three times every day. What do you mean?"

"When there was your father and mother and me, 'us four, and no more,' there were not dozens to think about. You'll have dozens now."

"I hope they will be pleasant," she said, looking away, that he should not see how bright her eyes were, when his were so grave.

"I hope they will. And I'm sure of it. Never fear. I suppose, too, they must make you like themselves, some ways. I'd be glad, if I thought you'd make any of them like you."

"How's that?" she asked, half laughing, but she trembled as well. What would honest Silas say next, he was making such a very grave business out of this school-going?

"True,—modest,—sensible,—respectful,—a lady, ten times more than those they make up so fine," said he, slowly. And still he held her hand as quietly as if it did not thrill with quickening pulses; and his speech and composure showed what power of self-control the young man had,—for he was fearful when he looked forward, anticipating the change this year might bring to pass in and for Columbia Dexter.

But Dexter and Company looked forward with no forebodings, when they bought the needful school-books, and saw their daughter fairly occupied with them. They had not been ashamed to reveal their hopes and fears to the principal. She really listened in a way that made them love her, you will know how,—as if she had the interest of the girl at heart,—as though she would not deal so sacrilegiously with their dear child as to paste a few flashing ornaments upon her, worthless as dead fish-scales, and swear she was covered with pearls. Honest and loving sponsors! virtuous, confiding parents! they were ready to promise for Columbia; she went from their hands a pure, industrious, obedient girl, only fourteen; they were sure she would take pride in making good all deficiencies of her past education. And the woman promised in turn,—chiefly thinking, I infer, that here at least were responsible paymasters. Why not? She taught for a living. Only we never like to suppose that poets sing merely for money, or that kings reign for the sake of the crown; we do not imagine a statesman delights in his martyrdom for eight dollars a day. I know one woman who teaches because it is her vocation; she loves the work God allows her. But even the worst school that's used as a hot-bed could not have ruined a plant like this bearing the Dexter label.

Thus this great fact of the flag-makers' married life transpired,—their child went to school with the children of gentlemen. Dexter could tell that figure among dozens of girls; under one modest bonnet was a young face with brown eyes and brown hair, a fair, sweet countenance, which he loved with a love we will not dwell upon. In the sacred narrative, as in the sacred temple, is always a place hid from the eyes and the feet of the congregation. We may be all Gentiles here.

Like responsible sentinels, Dexter and Jessie stood at their post. Like debtors to the great universe, they made their calling sure. They were living thus peacefully while nations went to war, while panics taught the people it was not beneath their wisdom to look to the foundations they built their pride upon,—thus, while great world-events were going on that must concern every soul under the whole heaven. But never shall the man be lost in the multitude; and was it not, is it not, of incalculable importance that mortals by their own firesides should learn to believe in peace and good-will,—else how shall come the universal harmony?

Therefore I dwell thus on Dexter's humble fortunes. Let us not fear too much reverence, too patient observation; every living creature is one other evidence, speaking his yea or nay,—by joy or sorrow, shame or honor, testifying to the eternal laws of God.

Sometime during the last six months of Columbia's second year at the seminary among the books and new associates, Silas Swift had some strange secret experiences, which came to their inevitable expression when he told Mr. Dexter that he must leave his service. He perceived, he said, that he could not spend life in a shop,—he must have other employment. He hinted about the sea, but on that subject was not clear; but he was clear in this,—tired of his life, sick, and knew not the physician. Was a serpent distilling poison under the apricot-tree?

Dexter was amazed. Silas anticipated everything he said,—was prepared to answer all; and he answered in a manner that showed the flag-maker something instant and effective must be done. He talked the matter over accordingly with Andrew Swift, and the two men were at their wits' end; they did not understand, and knew not what to prescribe for the case, so desperate it seemed. But Jessie said, "Take him in for a partner, Silas. Let him stand for Company. You and I are one; so the sign, as it goes, is a fib, you know."

The two men looked at Jessie as if she had been an oracle. This very promotion of their son had long seemed to Swift and his wife the most desirable issue, of all their expectations; but they had not thought to look for it these many years. However, Andrew was ready to pay down, any day, whatever sum Silas Dexter should specify in order that his son might be admitted to equal partnership.

So they waited together till young Swift came into the little room back of the shop, where they were all looking for him. They laid their plan before him. What could he do? Neither explain himself, nor yet defy them all. He surrendered; and the next day the old sign, Dexter & Co., meant what it had not meant the day before. The word of any one of these people was as good as a bond to the others; therefore no papers of agreement were made out, but Andrew paid down the money, because that was his way of satisfying himself,—and son Silas was now a partner.

Everybody concerned was so well pleased with this arrangement, that he whose pleasure in it was specially desired had not the heart to speak his mind, or to resolve further than that he would do his duty. Indeed, he soon began to believe that he was satisfied.

Young Silas thought he saw good reason for bringing forward his partner's motto into fresh conspicuity in these days: he believed in that motto, he purposed to work by it, but it was not merely his policy to give his faith manifestation. He made several efforts, after his own odd, original style, to impress the pretty Columbia with the significance of that sentiment. Often his talk with the young lady had the gravity and weight of a moral essay, and she took it well,—was not impatient,—would answer him as a child, "I know it is so, Silas,"—did not imagine how much these very lectures cost him, or that he delivered them with as much inward composure as an orator might be supposed to feel on the brink of a precipice, where the awful rocks and depths gave echo to his utterance.

Why should he so much disturb himself on her account?—she was so studious, so blameless, what great need of this oversight he was exercising continually?

Young Alexander, now Midshipman Alexander, once a cabin-boy, promoted step by step on the score of actual merit and brave service performed,—Midshipman Alexander, son of an old sailor's old widow, who lived in Salt Lane, to whom Andrew Swift and Silas Dexter and other well-disposed men had lent a helping hand when poverty had brought her to some desperate strait,—this young Alexander, who had been coming home once in every three years since his twelfth birthday, and who in the course of many years of voyages came to look on Dexter's house as his home on land, after his mother died,—he interfered with the peace of Silas Swift.

He returned from service, after every voyage, a taller, stronger, nobler, wiser, handsomer man. He had a career open before him; he could not fail of honorable fortune. Every inch a hero Alexander looked, and was; nobody ever tired of hearing his adventures; no one grew unbelieving, when he spoke of the future,—all things seemed so possible to him; and then he was really not possessed of the demon of vanity, the ill-shaped evil monster, but was straightforward, and earnest, and determined, and capable.

And Dexter, any one could see, was growing dreadfully proud of his Columbia.

Silas Swift felt the sands moving under his feet. He dared not build on a foundation so insecure. But, oh, he wished himself away from High Street, ten thousand, thousand miles! He fell into dreaming moods that did not leave him satisfied and cheerful. Surely, other quarters of the globe had other circumstances than these which kept him to a life so dull, under skies so leaden. Alas! the waving of the banners did not any more uplift him, leading him on as a good soldier to battles and victories. He tried to get the better of himself,—after the last visit of this Alexander, he was tolerably successful; he studied hard, ambitious to keep at least on an equality of learning with Columbia,—and he went far ahead of her, for certain desperate reasons. But when Dexter began to treat him with profound respect, as a man of learning should be treated, according to his notions, the poor young fellow, mortified and miserable, put away his books, and loathed his false position.

The old time to which through all prosperity Silas clung with fond fears, the dear old time was all over, he said to himself one day, when Columbia called him up into the parlor, clapping her hands ever suspecting that the theme might please another less,—there was but one for him as if he had been a slave, a signal he well understood, and was proud to understand,—when she asked him to bring the step-ladder, and to help her, for the curtains must come down from the show-room, it was going to be a parlor now, and no show-room again forever. With heavy misgivings, with a feeling that they were hard on to "the parting of the ways," Silas obeyed her.

Even so, according to her will was it that the drapery, the flags rich in patriotic portraiture, the Washington, the Franklin, and the Lafayette, must come down. Some pictures she had painted, some sketches she had made, were to take their place: her father had insisted on having them framed, and now they should hang on the walls.

He assisted Columbia without a word of comment. Now the room, she said, would no longer look hot and uncomfortable. There would be less dust to distract one on the walls. But Silas, the stickler for old things, thought jealously, "There's always a reason ready to excuse every change. It's pride that's to pay now,—she's getting ashamed of the shop."

And he remembered the queer look Alexander had cast around him the last time he entered that room; and he knew that this same Alexander was now expected home daily.

This was the rock, then, against which the sturdy craft of Silas was destined to strike and go to pieces! This was the whirlpool which should uproot the fairest tree and swing it to final ingulfing! Dark foreboding! sad fear! his heart was so concerned about Columbia Dexter. Alas for the halcyon days! it was winter indeed, but a winter worthy of Labrador.

So much she rejoiced in this midshipman's advancement, so proud of it she seemed,—she was so bold in prophecy where he was concerned, so manifestly fitted to appreciate a hero's career,—she could talk so long about him without every suspecting that the theme might please another less,—there was but one end likely, or desirable, for all this.

Then Alexander came. And his popularity waxed, instead of waning. So Silas at last gravely said to himself, after his sensible, moderate manner of dealing with that unhappy person, "If she and the young man were only married and settled, there the business would end; he should no longer be distracted, as he did not deny he had long been, on her account." That admission was fatal. It compelled him to ask himself sharply why he should be distracted. "What business was this of his? Did he not, above all things, desire that Columbia should be happy? Must she not be the best judge of what could make her happiness?" He tried to deal honestly with himself.

This endeavor led him to remark one morning to Columbia,—

"You and Alexander seem to be getting on finely."

"Oh, yes," said she,—"of course."

"I hope you always will," he continued, with a tragic vehemence of wish.

"Thank you, Silas; we shall, I think," she replied, with such an excess of gratitude, so he deemed it, that the poor fellow attempted no more.

All that day he thought and thought; and at night Silas Swift looked back from a corner of High Street at a building over whose door a flag was waving, and said to himself, "I was born as free as others,"—and he walked on silently, with himself for his dismal company.

It made no difference to him where he went, which path he took, he said; but he passed Salt Lane, and crossed Long Wharf, and walked down the beach, under the old sycamores, and wandered on. There was another seaport-town some miles down the coast; he was walking in that direction, but he did not acknowledge a purpose.

How splendid was the night! a night of magnificent constellations, of flashing auroras, of many meteors; and he saw the comet, which he and Columbia had looked for since its first announcement. But the heavens might as well have been "hung in black." Chilled by more than the wintry wind, he went his way. When the sun rose, he was still wandering on. Light, heaven-deep, shone on land and sea. He sat down to rest, and to order himself for future movements: for the town was now in sight; in an hour or two he should come to the busy streets; already he could discern the lofty spires, and the tall masts of the great vessels.

Yes,—he would find a situation on one of those ships. He would go out as supercargo to China, or India, or Spain. He could get a situation without difficulty, for he was well known in the town. Then, after he had sailed, word could go back to his father and mother.

So, then, he should go to sea? Of course. It was now arranged,—to foreign ports. He should see foreign people, and visit ancient places. The strange would have advantage over the familiar. He did not desire death. He had not that weakness, not being worn out by sickness, and having never used this life as abusing it. The friends he loved were living; his affections were strong. No, he could not think of death without a shudder, for Love was on the earth. Yet—what had he to do with Love? By her own election she was no more to him than a hundred others as good and fair might prove. Must he be so weak as to go through life regretting? Not he, Silas Swift!

By-and-by he rose up from the sand. I think his face must have resembled, then, the face of Elijah when the Lord inquied, with the still, small voice, "What dost thou here?" For, as he arose, he looked back on the waste by which he came,—his face turned homewards. Ay, and his steps likewise; and not with indecision, as though fearing when he surrendered to himself and One mightier.

Do they tell us filial reverence is a forgotten virtue? Silas was going home. Child, do you call him coward? Perhaps he was that,—no, not even yesterday, for the yesterday was capable of to-day! Do you, then, say, with a doubting smile, "Love! Love!" Yea, verily, Love! The mount of God takes up your word, so feebly and falsely spoken, and the echo is like thunder whose fire can destroy. Yea, Love! Two old faces, wrinkled, anxious. Eyes not so bright as once, dimmer to-day for tears; hair sprinkled with gray. Prayers broken by sobbing; trust disappointed; confidence violated. Ay, hearts that loved him first, and would surely love him always. Smiles first recognized of all he has ever seen, that could not change to frowns. They call him with tremulous tenderness, and the heart of Silas breaks with hearing. Bleed, poor heart, but let not those old hearts bleed!

The music of the inviting waves is not so soft as the sound of those feeble voices,—the freedom they promise is not powerful to tempt him; behold the arms that hang powerless yonder, and the hearts whose tides are more wondrous than those of the sea! The halcyon days shall never break through eternal ages on him, if he will walk on now in darkness.

"I will arise and go to my father."

The everlasting gates lift up their heads. The full-grown man reënters. Love drove him forth with stripes; there may have been who rejoiced and thought of fainting Ishmael. But against no man should this youth's hand be lifted. No son of the bond-woman he. Isaac, not Ishmael.

Love drove him forth with stripes; but a holier drew him home. By his past life's integrity the man was bound,—by the honor of a good name, that waited to be justified.

He went home to ask forgiveness of Love. Not of Youth and Beauty, but of Age and Trust.

He went home to souls which had proved themselves, each one, before the divine messenger in the hours of his absence.

Back, once more to break on a little circle gathered in an obscure corner of the town, talking his case over with distressed perplexity: to women disturbed with fears incredible to them,—to three, save one who did not seem distracted, and who looked around her with something like triumph, as a prophet might gaze when his word was verified. She was the youngest and the fairest of them all. How many times she had said, "He can explain. He will come soon. How can you fear for Silas?"

He went back to the dead silence that fell with his appearing. His mother was first to break it. With a faltering voice she spoke, but with the authority of maternal love and faith,—through sobs, but with authority.

"There! there! I told you! Now speak, Silas! quick! Did you find him?"—and, half fainting, she threw her arms about her son.

The father would fain speak with severity, but he failed in the attempt; he could no longer harbor his cruel fear, with the lad there before him.

"Silas, what do you mean, Sir? Here's Mr. Dexter's shop broke in, and his till robbed, and you off, and the Devil to pay! But Columby, there, said you had gone in search of the thief. Oh! oh!"

"Of course!" cried Dexter, the words rolling out as a cloud of smoke from a conspicuous safety-valve,—"I knew 't was all right. I'd expect the world to bu'st up as quick as for you to cheat us. I said it, I did, fifty times." And there Dexter choked, and was silent.

Ay, time for him to return! "Glory to God!" said Silas, and he looked around him, scanning every face, as a man might scan the faces of accusers.

More than any said or thought he saw in Columbia's eyes. Silent, pale, she merely sat gazing at him steadfastly. Oh, powers of speech, surrender! It was a gaze that made the young fellow turn from all, that the spasm of joy might pass, and leave him breath to declare himself like a man in the hearing of those present.

The words he spoke might not disturb the dreaming halcyon, but they must have brought angels nearer,—so near that not one there in the little back-room could escape the heavenly atmosphere.

Was Love born in a stable? Is Nature changed since, that a little room back of a shop should not be heaven itself, and the inmates kings and priests, though without the ermine and ephod?

Shall we sing the halcyon's song?

---

ON TRANSLATING THE DIVINA COMMEDIA.

Oft have I seen at some cathedral-door
A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat,
Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet
Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor
Kneel to repeat his pater-noster o'er;
Far off the noises of the world retreat;
The loud vociferations of the street
Become an undistinguishable roar.
So, as I enter here from day to day,
And leave my burden at this minster-gate,
Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray,
The tumult of the time disconsolate
To inarticulate murmurs dies away,
While the eternal ages watch and wait.

---

HOUSE AND HOME PAPERS.

BY CHRISTOPHER CROWFIELD.