II.
A right intellectual education presupposes three essential features: the selection of the most suitable subjects for study; the proper presentation of these, in the order of their dependence, and in view of the gradual growth of the pupil's powers of comprehension; and, not less important than either of these, the finding out and following of the best method and order of presenting the truths belonging to each subject to be studied. These are the problems with which, as something apart from Metaphysics or Logic, the possible but yet unachieved pedagogical science has to deal. To the first of these questions, What shall we teach? or, as he phrases it, 'What knowledge is of most worth?' Mr. Spencer (presuming the child already supplied with his bare implements, reading, spelling, and penmanship) is led, after a long discussion, to conclude that 'the uniform reply is, Science.' The 'counts' on which he bases this verdict, are, the purposes of self-preservation; the gaining of a livelihood; the due discharge of parental functions; qualification for political responsibilities; the production and enjoyment of art; and discipline, whether intellectual, moral, or religious. Taken at his own showing, Mr. Spencer seems to contemplate, as his model of an educated man, a prodigiously capable and efficient mute. But can he deny that the ability to express what one may know, and in speech, as well as in production, is at once the final proof, and in a very real sense the indispensable consummation of such knowing? Language is the counterpart and complement of Science. The two are but two sides, and either separately an incomplete one, of one thing; that one thing we may name definite and practical knowledge; and it is the only sort of knowledge that has real value. Language is yet larger than all the sciences proper which it embodies, namely, those clustering about Philology, Grammar, and Rhetoric. Of these, all deal with words, or those larger words—sentences; but under these forms they deal, in reality, with the objective world as perceived or apprehended by us, and as named and uttered in accordance with subjective aptitudes and laws. In language, then, there stands revealed, in the degree in which we can ascend to it, all that is yet known of the external world, and all that has yet evolved itself of the human mind. Can we decry the study of that which, whether as articulate breath, or through a symbolism of visible forms, mirrors to us at once all of nature and all of humanity? But if we yield this claim in behalf of language, noting meanwhile that the mathematics are already well represented in our courses of instruction, then much of Mr. Spencer's eloquent appeal is simply wasted by misdirection. All that he had really to claim is, that a disproportionate time is now surrendered to the studies of the symbols, as such, and too often to characteristics of them not yet brought in any way into scientific coördination, nor of a kind having practical or peculiarly disciplinary value. If Mr. Spencer had insisted on a more just division of the school studies between the mathematical, physical, biological, and linguistic sciences, he would have struck a chord yielding no uncertain sound, and one finding response in a multitude of advanced and liberal minds. If he had gone yet deeper, and disclosed to his readers the fact that the fundamental need is, not that we study what in the more restricted sense is known as Science, but that we begin to study all proper and profitable subjects, as we now do hardly any of them, in the true scientific spirit and method, he would not merely seem to have said, but would have succeeded in saying, something of the deepest and most pressing import to all educators.
The volume of republished papers from Mr. Barnard's able Journal of Education—the first of a series of five under the general title of 'Papers for the Teacher'—will afford to those desirous of investigating the second of the problems above proposed, some useful material and hints. Especially will this be true, we think, of the first series of articles, by Mr. William Russell, on the 'Cultivation of the Perceptive, Expressive, and Reflective Faculties;' and of the second, by Rev. Dr. Hill, now President of Antioch College, upon the 'True Order of Studies.' In the outset of his first essay, (which appeared in March, 1859,) Dr. Hill takes it 'for granted [postulating, we think, a pretty large ground, and one that analysis and proof would better have befitted] that there is a rational order of development in the course of the sciences, and that it ought to be followed in common education.' The order he finds is that of five great studies, Mathesis, [mathematics;] Physics, or Natural History; History; Psychology; and Theology. 'We also take it for granted,' he continues, 'that there is a natural order of development in the human powers, and that studies should be so arranged as to develop the powers in this order.' Here two very difficult problems are undertaken—the hierarchy of the sciences, and the analysis of the intellect—and though we seem to find in the elucidation of the subject traces of that 'harmony of results of the two lines of inquiry,' on which the author relies as one source of confirmation of the results themselves, yet we can not admit that the solutions given us remove all, nor even all the main difficulties of the case. While we regard the mathematics, physics, psychology, and theology as quite well individualized and distinct lines of scientific research, we can not help feeling that the day has hardly come for embracing physiology under either physics or psychology; the forming of the bile and the growing and waste of brain are yet, to our apprehension, too far removed from the gravitation of planets or the oxidation of phosphorus, on the one hand, as they are from the scintillations of wit or the severe march of reason on the other, for ready affiliation with either. We question decidedly whether Theology proper can, at the most, be more than a very restricted subject; and quite as decidedly whether the heterogeneous matters grouped under History, namely, Agriculture, Trade, Manufactures, the Fine Arts, Language, Education, Politics, and Political Economy, are or can be shown to be linked by any principle of essential unity. Most of these have their historical side; but their unhistorical and scientific side most interests the great body of learners. And this latter aspect of some of them, Education and Politics especially, belongs after, not before Psychology. Then, the great fact of expression—Language—has not adequate justice done it by the position it is here placed in. Want of space is the least among our reasons for forbearing to attempt here a classification of the sciences—a work which Ramus, D'Alembert, Stewart, Bentham, and Ampère successively essayed and left unfinished. But the principle that the faculties in their order are called out by the branches named in their order, is quite given up as the writer proceeds, and distinctly so in his Tabular View of the studies adapted to successive ages. In actual life, usually the first set teaching the infant receives is in language; and even though it previously is and should be getting its ideas of forms, colors, and other qualities, in the concrete, yet it remains far from true that we should 'pay our earliest attention to the development of the child's power to grasp the truths of space and time.' Dr. Hill has, however, taken in these papers a step in a needful direction; and perhaps the best we could at first expect, are hints and an approximation toward a much desired result.
We may fairly assume that Mr. Willson's answer to the question, What to teach? is in some good degree embodied in his elaborate series of 'School and Family Readers,' of which the first six of the eight contemplated volumes have already appeared. These Readers aim to replace in a good degree the more purely literary materials of most of their predecessors, with a somewhat systematic and complete view of the more generally useful branches of human knowledge. They begin, where the child is sure to be interested, with studies of animals, illustrated with good and often spirited drawings, and proceed through Physiology, Botany, Architecture, Physical Geography, Chemistry, etc., up at last, as is promised, to Mental and Moral Philosophy, Natural Theology, Rhetoric, Criticism, Logic, the Fine Arts, including that one of those arts, as we presume we may class it, with which pupils of the rural schools will have best cause to become acquainted, namely, Gardening! Readers on this plan have long been known in the schools of Prussia and Holland, and are even lately well received in England, in the form of Mr. Constable's popular series; though apparently, when finished, the American series will be more full and complete in topics and treatment of them than any preceding one. Of course, restricted space, and the range of maturity of talents addressed, compel the presentation in simplified form of scarcely more than 'a little learning' under the several heads; and the compiler sensibly tells us his aim is not to give a full exposition of any theme, but rather, 'to present a pleasing introduction to science.' We may grant, in the outset, that most pupils will really comprehend, in and through the reading of it, but a modicum of all the high and large fields of knowledge here intimated to them; but who that can now look on his school-days as in the past, does not remember how many grandiose sentences he was then called on to utter in cadence duly swelling or pathetic, but of the meaning of which he had not the most distant approach to a true comprehension? It was ours once to be of a class whose enunciative powers were disciplined by repeated goings 'through' of the 'Old English Reader,' and well do we remember how the accidental omission of the full pause after 'shows' in the quotation ending the piece entitled 'Excellency of the Holy Scriptures,' caused a certain teacher to understand(!) and direct us to read the whole sentence thus: 'Compared, indeed, with this, all other moral and theological wisdom
Now, it is true, the whole sentence, in its best state, would have shown to our green understandings like enough to 'folly,' if we had once made the effort to find meaning of any sort in it; nor can it be considered the most profitable use of school time, thus to 'like folly show' to unknit juvenile brains the abstract and high thought of mature and great minds, who uttered them with no foolishness or frivolity in their intentions! We see reasons to expect substantial advantages from Mr. Willson's books; and we believe teachers will appreciate and use them. We could wish they had not gone so far to mechanicalize the pupil's enunciation; by too freely introducing throughout the points of inflection; but it is safe to predict that most pupils will take up with interest the simplified readings in science; that they will comprehend and remember a useful portion of what they read; that the lessons will afford both them and the teachers points of suggestion from which the mind can profitably be led out to other knowledge and its connections; and that they who go through the series can at least leave school with some more distinct ideas as to what the fields of human knowledge are, and what they embrace, than was ever possible under the régime of merely fine writing, of pathetic, poetic, and generally miscellaneous selections.
The educational interest that grew up in our country between the years 1810 and 1828, about the year 1835 gave place to a stagnation that has marked nearly the whole of the period intervening between the last-named and the present date. In the year 1858, the New-York Teacher was made the first medium of some thoughts in substance agreeing with those set forth in the earlier part of this paper, claiming the indispensableness to true education of a more true and liberal work on the part of the learner's intellectual faculties, and of a more true and logical consecution than has yet been attained, and one corresponding to the natural order of the intellectual operations, in the books and lessons through which the usual school studies are to be mastered. 'Make'—said the first of the articles setting forth this thought—'the [form of the] facts and principles of any branch of study as simple as you choose, and unless the order of their presentation be natural—be that order, from observation to laws and causes, in which the mind naturally moves, whenever it moves surely and successfully—the child, except in the rare case of prodigies that find a pleasure in unraveling complexity, will still turn from the book with loathing. He will do so because he must. It is not in his nature to violate his nature for the sake of acquiring knowledge, however great the incentives or threatenings attending the process.' 'The child's mind ... with reference to all unacquired knowledge ... stands in precisely the attitude of the experimenters and discoverers of riper years. It is to come to results not only previously unknown, but not even conceived of. Because their nature and faculties are identical, the law of their intellectual action must be the same.' 'Study is research.' In subsequent articles, it was claimed that the law here indicated is for intellectual education, the one true and comprehensive law; and it was expressed more fully in the words: 'All true study is investigation; all true learning is discovery.'
We say, now, that when the first of these articles appeared, the leading thought it contained, namely, that our pupils can and should learn by a process of re-discovery, in the subjects they pursue, had not in distinct nor in substantial statement in any way appeared in the educational treatises or journals; and further, that it was not, so far as their uttered or published expressions show, previously occupying the attention of teachers or of educational writers, nor was it the subject or substance of remarks, speeches, or debates, in the meetings of Teachers' Associations. We say further, and because history and justice require it, that in our country, especially in the educational movements in the State of New-York, and in the several national associations of educators, a marked change and revolution in the course of much of the thought and discussion touching matters of education has, since the year 1858, become apparent, and that to the most casual participant or observer, and in the precise direction in which the thought above referred to points. The essential issue itself—the practicability and desirableness of casting our studies into the form of courses of re-discovery is somewhat distantly and delicately approached, incorporated into speeches by an allusion or in the way of apercû, or thrown out as a suggestion of a partial or auxiliary method with the younger learners, all which is of a fashion highly patronizing to the thought, spite of the scruples about confessing who was the suggester of it. But other questions, which spring up in the train of this, which by themselves had received attention long since, but had been mainly dropped and unheard of among us during the past twenty-five years, have come again into full and unconcealed prominence. Such are the questions about the natural order of appearance of the faculties in childhood, as to what are the elementary faculties of the mind, as to the adaptation of the kinds and order of studies to these, etc. And thus, all at once, is disclosed that Education itself, which many had thought quite a 'finished' thing, well and happily disposed of, or at least so far perfected as to leave no work further save upon the veriest outskirts of details, is in truth a giant superstructure with foundations in sand, or so almost visibly lacking underneath it, that it threatens to fall. For, in the name of the simplest of all common sense, how are we to educate to the best, not yet knowing—and that is now acknowledged—what are the FACULTIES of the very minds we are dealing with, nor what are the PROCESSES by which those minds begin and keep up their advance in knowledge? So, also, those who in the most charitable mood could see in education only something too hum-drum and narrow for their better fancies, find it now rising and expanding into a new and large field for intellectual effort, full of interesting problems, and fraught with realizations as yet undreamed of.
It may be said, that the young mind had always learned what it did learn, by discoveries; we answer, our methods and our books have not in any sufficient degree recognized the fact, provided for it, nor taken advantage of it. It may be said, that writers had previously acknowledged that the mind learns well—some of them even, that it learns best—when it discovers: we answer, that nevertheless, no one had recorded it as a well-grounded, universal conclusion and positive law, that the mind only can learn, in all strictly scientific matters, as it discovers, and that hence, the canons of the method of discovery become rules for directing, in studies of this character, the education of the young. Aristotle and Bacon have recognized and enforced upon the adult mind its two master methods of advance by reasoning. But our children have their knowing also to attain to, their discoveries to make, their logic of proof, on occasions, to employ. Shall we lavish all the treasures of method on those who have passed the formative stage of mind, and acquired the bent of its activities? Rather, we think, the true intellectual method—combining both Baconian induction and Aristotelian deduction—yet waits to realize some of the best of the application and work for which its joint originators and their co-workers have been preparing it; and that perhaps one of the highest consummations of this one method of thought may yet appear in the carrying forward, with more of certainty, pleasure, and success in their attaining of knowledge, the lisping philosophers of our school-rooms and our firesides.
From one source, disconnected latterly from those to which I have thus far called attention, there has arisen a decidedly progressive movement in the direction of right teaching, and one that, at least in geographical studies, promises soon to result in a consummation of great importance. Though Pestalozzianism, as further developed by the Prussian educators and schools, has never yet realized the completely inductive and consecutive character here contended for, it has been tending in a degree toward such a result; and this is perhaps seen in the most marked way in the method of teaching geography developed by Humboldt and Ritter, and represented in this country by their distinguished pupil, Professor Guyot. This method subordinates political to physical geography, proceeding from facts to laws, and by setting out with the grand natural features of the globe, leads the learner to comprehend not only the existence, boundaries, capitals, and strength of nations, but the reasons why these have come to be what they are. As tending in the same true direction, we should not fail to mention also the faithfully-executed series of raised or embossed maps of the late Mr. Schroeter, presenting not only the profile but the comparative elevations of the land-surfaces or continents and islands, and, in detail, of the several political divisions of the globe, thus at once making the ocular study of geography real, and not as formerly, leaving the right conception of the land-surfaces to the pupil's unaided imagination.
Among the decisive and important steps marking the revival of educational interest among us, is that looking to the introduction into our primary schools of the simple lessons for what is called the 'education of the senses,' and what is in fact the solicitation of the perceptive faculties, and the storing of them, with their proper ideas, through the avenues of sense. When employed about observing or finding and naming the parts or qualities and uses of objects, as glass, leather, milk, wood, a tree, the human body, etc., this sort of teaching takes the name of 'Object Lessons;' when it rises to philosophizing in the more obvious and easy stages about natural phenomena, as rain, snow, etc., or about parts of the system of nature, as oceans, mountains, stars, etc., it is sometimes termed 'Lessons in Common Things.' In the year 1860, Mr. E.A. Sheldon, the enterprising superintendent of the schools of that city, first introduced with some degree of completeness and system, this sort of teaching into the primary schools of Oswego. In March, 1861, under the leadership also, as we infer, of their superintendent, Mr. William H. Wells, the Educational Board of the city of Chicago adopted a still more minutely systematized and more extensive course of instruction of this sort, arranged in ten successive grades, and intended to advance from the simple study of objects, forms, colors, etc., gradually to the prosecution of the regular and higher studies. The greater naturalness, life-likeness, and interest of this kind of mental occupation for young learners, over the old plan of restricting them mainly to the bare alphabet, with barren spelling, reading, definitions, and so on, is at once obvious in principle and confirmed by the facts; and for the younger classes—a stage of the utmost delicacy and importance to the future habits of the learner—the fruits must appear in increased readiness of thought and fullness of ideas, and in a preparation for more true and enlarged subsequent comprehension of the proper branches of study; provided, we must add, that these also, when reached, be taught by a method best suited to their subject-matter and to the higher range of mental activity required to deal with it. Whether, now, the object-lesson system and plan is the one competent to carry on the learner through those later studies, is another and larger question, and one to which we shall presently recur.
Under the recall of the minds of educators among us to fundamental principles of methods and tendencies in teaching, which we have pointed out, it was but natural to expect attempts to be made toward remedying the defects and supplying the needs that could not fail to be detected in our teaching processes. Naturally, too, such attempts would result in the bringing forward, sooner or later, of novelties in the topics and form of the school-books. What the pen—which, in the outset, proposed the necessity of molding the school-work into a course of re-discoveries of the scientific truths—should reasonably be expected to do toward supplying the want it had indicated; or what it may, in the interim, have actually accomplished toward furnishing the working implements requisite to realizing in practice the possible results foreshadowed by the best educational theories, it may be neither in place nor needful that we should here intimate. Sometimes, indeed, there is in our social movements evidence of a singular sort of intellectual catalysis; and a mute fact, so it be a fact, and even under enforced continuance of muteness, through influence of temporary and extraneous circumstances, may yet, like the innocent platinum in a mixture of certain gases, or the equally innocent yeast-plant vegetating in the 'lump' of dough, take effect in a variety of ways, as if by mere presence.
We shall remember how even Virgil had to write:
And the veriest bumpkin knows the force of the adage about one's shaking the tree, for another to gather up the fruit. But Virgil was patient, and did well at the last; though the chronicles do not tell us how many pears ever came to the teeth of him that did the tree-shaking. At all events, it is satisfying to know that time spins a long yarn, and comes to the end of it leisurely and at his own wise motion!
The English object-lesson system being now fairly and successfully domesticated among us, and to such an extent as to call for the invitation and temporary residence among us, in the city of Oswego, of a distinguished lady-teacher from the English Training Schools, it is again but natural that the system should call forth books adapted to its purposes; and it was scarcely possible, under the circumstances we have now shown to exist, that such books should come forth without presenting a more conscious aim toward embodying something of the principle and order of discovery than has marked even their English prototypes. These anticipations we find exactly realized in the first book of the new pattern that has yet made its appearance—the 'Primary Object-Lessons' of Mr. Calkins. Of this book, issued June, 1861, the author thus states the motive: 'With an earnest desire to contribute something toward a general radical change in the system of primary education in this country—a change from the plan of exercising the memory chiefly to that of developing the observing powers—a change from an artificial to a natural plan, one in accordance with the philosophy of mind and its laws of development, the author commenced the following pages.'
Acknowledging his indebtedness to the manuals of Wilderspin, Stow, Currie, the Home and Colonial School Society, and other sources, the author tells us that the plan of developing the lessons 'corresponds more nearly to that given in Miss Mayo's works than to either of the other systems;' and we understand him to claim (and the feature is a valuable one) that in this book, which is not a text-book, but one of suggestive or pattern lessons for teachers, he directs the teacher to proceed less by telling the child what is before it and to be seen, and more by requiring the child to find for itself what is present. Again, an important circumstance, the purpose of the book does not terminate in describing right processes of teaching, but on the contrary, 'in telling what ought to be done, it proceeds to show how to do it by illustrative examples,' (sic.) Now, spite of some liberties with the President's English, which may properly be screened by the author's proviso that he does not seek 'to produce a faultless composition,' so much as to afford simple and clear examples for the teacher's use, we are compelled to inquire, especially as this is matter addressed to mature and not to immature minds, which it is the author really meant us to understand; that is, whether, in fact, the book 'proceeds to show how to do it by illustrative examples;' or whether, in reality, it does not aim to show by illustrative examples how to do it—that, namely, which ought to be done. If we still find Mr. Calkins's philosophy somewhat more faultless than his practice, perhaps that is but one of the necessary incidents of all human effort; and we can say with sincerity that, in some of its features, we believe this a book better adapted to its intended uses—the age it is designed to meet being that of the lowest classes in the primary schools, or say from four to seven or eight years—than any of its predecessors. It will not, we hope, therefore, be understood as in a captious spirit, that we take exception to certain details.
The author is clearly right in his principle that 'The chief object of primary education is the development of the faculties;' though doubtless it would have been better to say, to begin the development of the faculties; but then, he recognizes, as the faculties specially active in children, those of 'sensation, perception, observation, and simple memory,' adding, for mature years, those of 'abstraction, the higher powers of reason, imagination, philosophical memory, generalization,' etc. But that any one of all these is in the true psychological sense, a faculty—save, it may be, in the single instance of imagination—we shall decidedly question; and Mr. Calkins will see by the intent of his very lessons, that he does not contemplate any such thing as 'sensation' or 'observation,' as being a faculty: but, on the other hand, that he is so regarding certain individual powers of mind, by which we know in nature Color and Form and Number and Change and so on.
We must question whether 'in the natural order of the development of the human faculties, the mind of the child takes cognizance first of the forms of objects.' Form is a result of particular extensions: evidently, extension must be known before form can be. But again, visibly, form is revealed through kinds and degrees of light and shade; in one word, through color. Evidently, then, color also must be appreciated before visible form can be. But this 'natural order of the development of the human faculties,' is a seductive thing. In phrase, it is mellifluous; in idea, impressively philosophical. It would be well if this book, while cautiously applying developing processes to the little learner, were to dogmatise less to the teacher. But when the development-idea is carried into the titles of the sections, it becomes, we think, yet more questionable. Thus, a section is headed, 'To develop the idea of straight lines.' First, would not the idea of a straight line come nearer to the thing actually had in view? Again, 'To develop the idea of right, acute, and obtuse angles.' 'The idea,' taking in all these things, must be most mixed and multifarious; it could not be clear, though that is a quality mainly to be sought. Is not the intention rather, to develop ideas of the right, the acute, and the obtuse angle? Instances of this sort, which we can not understand otherwise than as showing a loose way of thinking, are numerous. But then, again, it is assumed that the lessons develop all the ideas successively discoursed about. Far otherwise, in fact. In many instances, of course, a sharper, better idea of the object or quality discussed will be elicited in the course of the lesson. This is, at best, only a sort of quasi-development, individualizing an idea by turning it on all sides, comparing with others, and sweeping away the rubbish that partly obscured it. In others of the topics, the learner has the ideas before we begin our developing operations. But the great misfortune of the usage of the term here is, that develop properly implies to unroll, uncover, or disclose something that is infolded, complicate, or hidden away; but mark, something that is always THERE before the developing begins, and that by it is only brought into light, freedom, or activity! Thus, we may develop faculties, for they were there before we began; but we simply can not develop objective ideas, such as this book deals with, but must impart them, or rather, give the mind the opportunity to get them. First, then, this term thus employed is needlessly pretentious; secondly, it is totally misapplied. Would it not help both teacher and pupil, then, if we were to leave this stilted form of expression, and set forth the actual thing the lessons undertake, by using such caption as for for example, To give the idea, of a triangle, or to insure, or to furnish the idea of a curve? We think the misnomer yet greater and worse, when we come to such captions as 'To develop the idea of God, as a kind Father;' especially when the amount of the development is this: 'Now, children, listen very attentively to what I say, and I will tell you about a Friend that you all have, one who is kind to all of you, one who loves you better than your father or your mother does,' and so on. All this, and what precedes and follows, is 'telling,' as the author acknowledges; of course, then, it is not developing. How is the child here made to find and know that it has such a Friend?—that this Friend is kind to all?—that this Friend loves it better than do parents, or, in fact, at all? This is the way the nursery develops this and kindred ideas, and if the child be yet too young for its own comprehension of the most obvious truths of Natural Theology, then better defer the subject, or at least cease to call the nursery method by too swelling a name!
As to arrangement of topics, though the geographical lessons properly come late, as they stand, the idea of place, as well as those of weight and size, all belong earlier than the positions they are found in; and number, later. Such mental anachronisms as talking of solids before the attempt has been made to impart or insure the idea of a solid, should, where practicable, be avoided; and more notably, such as bringing a subsequent and complex idea, like that of 'square measure,' before scarcely any one of the elementary ideas it involves, such as measure, standard, or even length or size, is presented. As to the substance of the teaching, we will indicate a few points that raise a question on perusal of them. What will the little learner gain, if the teacher follows the book in this instance? 'Where is the skin of the apple? On its surface.' ' This is in the lesson for 'developing the idea' of surface. When, by and by, the young mathematician gets the true idea of a surface, as extension in two dimensions only, hence, without thickness, then will follow this surprising result, that the whole thickness of the apple-skin is on—outside—the apple's surface, and hence, is nowhere: a singular converse of the teaching of those smart gentlemen who waste reams of good paper in establishing, to their own satisfaction, that even the mathematical surface itself has thickness! In the lesson on 'perpendicular and horizontal,' the definition of perpendicular is correct; but all the developing, before and after, unfortunately confounds the perpendicular with the vertical—a bad way toward future accuracy of thought, or toward making scientific ideas, as they should be, definite as well as practically useful. If we judge by the brevity and incompleteness of the lesson on 'Developing ideas of Drawing'(!), ideas of that particular 'stripe' must be scarce. The Object Lessons at the close of the book we find generally very good models of such exercises, clear and to the purpose. Once in a while there is a lapsus, as in this: The criterion of a liquid is presented as being in the circumstances that it does not 'hold together' when poured from a vessel, but 'forms drops.' Now, since it forms drops, it has cohesion, and the criterion is wrongly taken; In fact, the same thing appears in that the liquid, even in pouring out, does hold together in a stream, and a stream that experiments with liquid jets show it really requires considerable force to break up.
Finally, Mr. Calkins's book, in the bands of discerning and skillful teachers, can be made the instrument of a great deal of right and valuable discipline for primary classes; but without some guarding and help from the teacher's own thought, it will not always do the best work, nor in the best way. It is an approach to a good book for early mental development; but it is not the consummation to be desired. Many of its suggestions and patterns of lessons are excellent; but there is too large a lack of true consecution of topics, of accuracy of expression, and of really natural method of handling the subjects. We say this with no unkindly feeling toward the attempt or the author, but because, though no matter by how fortuitous circumstances, it comes to us as in this country the first effort toward a certain new style of books and subjects, and certain more rational teaching; and we hold it, as being the privilege of teachers whose time may be too much consumed in applying, to criticise minutely, as no less our right and duty, and that of every independent man, to recognize and point out wherein this new venture meets, or fails to meet, the new and positive demand of the pupils and the teachers in our time. If, in a degree, the working out shows defects such as we have named, is it not yet a question, whether we have in the book an illustration 'how this system of training may be applied to the entire course of common school education'?—to say nothing now of the question whether, even in its best form, it is a system that ought to be so applied.
After the author of a book for young learners is sure of the comprehensibility of his subjects, and the accuracy of his ideas and expressions of them, the highest need—and one the lack of which is fatal to true educative value—is that of a natural and true synthesis and consecution of the successive steps of fact and principle that are to be presented. We would not be understood that every successive lesson and every act of voluntary thinking must thus be consecutive: to say this, would be to confine the mind to one study, and to make us dread even relaxation, lest it break the precious and fragile chain of thought. Our growth in knowledge is not after that narrow pattern. We take food at one time, work at another, and sleep at a third: and so, the mind too has its variations of employment, and best grows by a like periodicity in them. This is our point—that it is a peculiarity and law of mind, growing out of the very nature of mind and of its knowings, that no truth or knowledge which is in its nature a consequent on some other truths or knowledge, can by any possibility be in reality attained by any mind until after that mind has first secured and rightly appreciated those antecedent truths or knowings. No later or more complex knowledge is ever comprehensible or acquirable, until after the elements of knowledge constituting or involved in it have first been definitely secured. To suppose otherwise, is precisely like supposing a vigorously nourishing foliage and head of a tree with neither roots nor stem under it; it is to suppose a majestic river, that had neither sufficient springs nor tributaries. Now, for the pupil, the text-book maker, the educator, no truth is more positive or profoundly important than this. He who fails of it, by just so much as he does so, fails to educate. Let the pupil, as he must, alternately study and not study—go even on the same day from one study to a second, though seldom to more than a third or fourth. By all this he need lose nothing; and he will tax and rest certain faculties in turn. But then, insist that each subject shall recur frequently enough to perpetuate a healthy activity and growth of the faculties it exercises, usually, daily for five days in a week, or every other day at farthest; that each shall recur at a stated period, so that a habit of mind running its daily, steady and productive round with the sun may be formed; and that in and along the material of every subject pursued, whether it be arithmetic, or grammar, or chemistry, or an ancient or modern language, the mind shall so be enabled to advance consecutively, clearly and firmly from step to step—from observation to law, from law to application, from analysis to broader generalization, and its application, and so on—that every new step shall just have been prepared for by the conceptions, the mental susceptibility and fibre, gotten during the preceding ones, and that thus, every new step shall be one forward upon new and yet sure ground, a source of intellectual delight, and a further intellectual gain and triumph. Need we say, this is the ideal? Practice must fall somewhat short of it; but Practice must first aim at it; and as yet she has scarcely conceived about the thing, or begun to attempt it. In truth, Practice is very busy, dashing on without a due amount of consideration, striving to project in young minds noble rivers of knowledge without their fountains; and building up therein grand trees of science, of which either the roots are wanting, or all parts come together too much in confusion.
First, then, we are not to make the presentation of any topic or lesson, even to the youngest learner, needlessly inconsecutive; but with the more advanced learners—with those in the academic and collegiate courses—we should insist on the display, and in so doing best insure the increase of the true robur of the intellect, by positive requirement that all the topics shall be developed logically; that sufficient facts shall come before all conclusions; and rigid, sharp, and satisfactory analysis before every generalization or other synthesis. So, the more advanced mind would learn induction, and logic, and method, by use of them upon all topics; it would know by experience their possibilities, requirements, and special advantages; and it would be able to recognize their principles, when formally studied, as but the reflex and expression of its own acquired habitudes. Such a mind, we may safely say, would be educated. But secondly, the foregoing considerations show that we are not unnecessarily to jumble together the topics and lessons; to vacillate from one line of study to another; to wander, truant-like, among all sorts of good things—exploiting, now, a color; then milk; then in due time gratitude and the pyramids; then leather, (for, though 'there's nothing like leather,' it may be wisest to keep it in its place;) then sponge, and duty to parents, lying, the points of compass, etc.! And here, for all ages above nine or ten years, is a real drawback, or at the least, a positive danger, of the Object-Lesson and Common-Things teaching. Just here is shadowed forth a real peril that threatens the brains of the men and women of the—we may say, 'rising' generation, through this fresh accession of the object-lesson interest in our country. Objects, now, are unquestionably good things; and yet, even objects can be 'run into the ground.'
We had put the essential thought here insisted on into words, before object-lessons had acquired the impetus of the last and current year.
'The 'object lessons' of Pestalozzi and his numerous followers, had, in a good degree,one needed element—they required WORK of the pupil's own mind, not mere recipiency. But they have [almost] wholly lacked another element, just as important—that of CONSECUTION in the steps and results dealt with. In most of the schools in our country—in a degree, in all of them—these two fundamental elements of all right education, namely, true work of the learner's mind, and a natural and true consecution in not only the processes of each day or lesson, but of one day on another, and of each term on the preceding, are things quite overlooked, and undreamed of, or, at the best, imperfectly and fragmentarily attempted. But these, in so far as, he can secure their benefits, are just the elements that make the thinker, the scholar, the man of real learning or intellectual power in any pursuit.—New-York Teacher, December, 1859.
A like view begins to show itself in the writings of some of the English educationists. The object-teaching is recognized as being, in most instances, at least, too promiscuous and disorderly for the ends of a true discipline and development, and certainly, therefore, even for securing the largest amount of information. It too much excludes the later, systematic study of the indispensable branches, and supplants the due exercise of the reasoning powers, by too habitual restriction of the mind's activities to the channels of sense and perception. Isaac Taylor, in his Home Education, admits the benefits of this teaching for the mere outset of the pupil's course, but adds: 'For the rest, that is to say, whatever reaches its end in the bodily perceptions, I think we can go but a very little way without so giving the mind a bent toward the lower faculties as must divert it from the exercise of the higher.' This thought is no mere fancy. It rests on a great law of derivation, true in mind as in the body; that inanition and comparative loss of one set of powers necessarily follows a too habitual activity of a different set. Thus it is that, in the body, over-use of the nervous, saps the muscular energies, and excessive muscular exertion detracts from the vivacity of the mind. Logically, then, when carried to any excess over just sufficient to secure the needed clear perceptions and the corresponding names for material objects and qualities, the object-lesson system at once becomes the special and fitting education for the ditcher, the 'hewer of wood,' the mere human machine in any employment or station in life, where a quick and right taking to the work at the hand is desirable, and any thing higher is commonly thought to be in the way; but it is not the complete education for the independent mind, the clear judgment and good taste, which must grow out of habits of weighing and appreciating also thousands of non-material considerations; and which are characteristics indispensable in all the more responsible positions of life, and that in reality may adorn and help even in the humblest. In a recently published report or address on a recommendation respecting the teaching of Sciences, made by the English 'Committee of Council on Education,' in 1859, Mr. Buckmaster says:
'The object-lessons given in some schools are so vague and unsystematic, that I doubt very much if they have any educational or practical value. I have copied the following lessons from the outline of a large elementary school; Monday, twenty minutes past nine to ten, Oral Lesson—The Tower of Babel; Tuesday, The Senses; Wednesday, Noah's Ark; Thursday, Fire; Friday, The Collect for Sunday. What can come of this kind of teaching, I am at a loss to understand. Now, a connected and systematic course of lessons on any of the natural sciences, or on the specimens contained in one of Mr. Dexter's cabinets, would have been of far greater educational value, and more interesting to the children. This loose and desultory habit of teaching encourages a loose and desultory habit of thought; it is for this reason that I attach great value to consecutive courses of instruction.... I think, it will not be difficult to show that the study of almost any branch of elementary science not only has a direct bearing on many of the practical affairs of every-day life, but also supplies all the conditions necessary to stimulate and strengthen the intellectual faculties in a much greater degree than many of the subjects now taught in our elementary schools.'
All the lines of our investigation, as well as the most competent testimony, thus converge in showing that the object-lesson and common-things teaching is but a partial and preliminary resource in the business of education; that, to avoid working positive harm, it must be restricted within due limits of age, capacity, and subject; that it is not, therefore, the real and total present desideratum of our schools; and that, subsequently to the completion of the more purely sensuous and percipient phase of the mind, and to the acquirement of the store of simpler ideas and information, and the degree of capacity, that ought to be secured during that period—hence, from an age not later than eleven, or according as circumstances may determine, thirteen years—all the true and desirable ends of education, whether they be right mental habits and tastes, discipline and power of the faculties, or a large information and practical command of the acquisitions made—all these ends, we say, are thenceforward most certainly secured by the systematic prosecution, in a proper method, of the usually recognized distinct branches or departments of scientific knowledge. Let then, 'common things,' et id genus omne, early enough give place to thorough-going study of the elements of Geometry, of Geography, Arithmetic, Language, (including Grammar,) of Natural Philosophy, Chemistry, Botany, Physiology, and something of their derivations and applications. Thus shall our schools produce a race not of mere curious gazers, but of conscious and purposive investigators; not a generation of intellectual truants and vagabonds, but one of definitely skilled cultivators of definite domains in handicraft, art, or science.
We are compelled to take issue, therefore, with Mr. Spencer's recommendation, indorsed in the Chicago Report, to the effect that object-lessons should, after a 'different fashion,' 'be extended to a range of things far wider, and continued to a period far later than now.' Not so: after any possible fashion. But let us, as early as the child's capacity and preparation will allow, have the individualized, consecutive studies, and the very manner of studying which shall be made to do for the higher and the lower intellectual faculties together, what well-conducted object-lessons can and now do perform, mainly for the lower. Of all school-method, this we conceive to be the true end and consummation. This would be the ultimate fruitage of the Baconian philosophy, and of philosophy larger than the Baconian—by as much as the whole is greater than any part—in the school-life and work of every boy and girl admitted to the benefits of our courses of instruction.
Thus we have endeavored, with some particularity of examination and detail, to find and state not only what are, but what should be, the tendencies of educational thought and effort in our country and times. And we seem to find that those tendencies are, in spite of a stand-still conservatism or perplexed doubt in some quarters, and of a conflict of views and practices in others, largely in the direction in which the ends to be sought show that they should be. The Education to be, as far as the intellectual being is concerned, when time and study shall better have determined the conditions, and furnished the working instrumentalities, is to be, not in name merely, but in fact, an education by simply natural employment and development of all the perceiving, reasoning, originative, and productive faculties of the mind. It is to be such, because it is to insist on proceeding, after proper age, and then upon every suitable topic, by observation and investigation, and so, by discovery of the principles and results the mind is desired to attain; because it will be an education by rigidly consecutive, comprehended and firm lines of advance, employing processes analytic and synthetic, inductive and deductive, each in its requisite place and in accordance with the nature and stage of the topics under investigation. For the like reasons, it will have become, what we have long foreseen and desired that education should be, rightly progressive in form, and in character such as must develop, strengthen, and store the mind; such as must best fit, so far as the merely scholastic education can do this, for practical expression and use of what is learned, showing all our acquired knowledge in the light of its actual and various relationships, and conferring true serviceableness and the largest value, whether for enjoyment or execution.
Such an education would be real in its method as well as in its substance. We have fairly entered upon the era in which education must be, and, spite of any temporary recoil of timorous despotisms, must continue to be, popular and universal. But many are too apt to forget that, upon our planet, this thing of popular and universal education is comparatively a new and untried experience; that, so far as its mode and substance are concerned, it is, in truth, still in course of experiment. There is at present a very general and but too just complaint of the popular education, as tending to inflate rather than to inform; as prompting large numbers of young men especially to aim at scaling to positions above those in which the school found them, a thing that would be well enough were it not inevitable that, in the general scramble, the positions aspired to are at the same time too frequently those above their capabilities, and quite too full without them: as, in few words, inspiring youth with a disrelish for those less responsible pursuits to which a large majority should devote their lives, rather than with a desire to qualify themselves for their proper work. The tendency is admitted; and it has become, in overcrowded professions and commercial pursuits, the fruitful source of superficiality, of charlatanry, of poverty at once of pocket and of honor, of empty speculations, and of the worst crimes.
But, appreciating the unquestionable fact that universal education is to be henceforth the rule in the most advanced nations, and that, in spite of its apparent consequences or our fears, and remembering also that the experience is, for the world, a new one, is there not some hope left us in the thought that possibly the alarmists have been attributing to the fact of popular education itself what in truth is only a temporary consequence of a false, an abnormally-educating method and procedure on the part of our schools? Nay, more; does not the latter afford the true solution of the evil? We believe it has been shown that our teaching methods not only fail in great part, but in a degree positively mis-educate; that the very 'head and front' of this failure and non-developing appears in the want of bringing into just prominence the discriminating and the applicative powers of the mind, the judgment, and reason; in a word, the thinking as distinguished from the merely receptive and retentive powers. Now, what are we to expect from a people too many of whom are put in possession of stores of fact quite beyond the degree in which their capacities to discriminate clearly, to judge wisely, and to draw conclusions rationally have been strengthened and furnished with the requisite guiding principles? What but a shallow shrewdness that should run into all the evils we have above named? But discipline all to think and reason more and more justly and assuredly upon their facts, and to men so educated, the very thought of an inordinate crowding of the so-called genteeler avocations, to the neglect of the more substantial, becomes appreciated in its true light, as absurd and unfortunate in every way, and, in all its bearings upon the individual as well as the social welfare.
So, let us have popular education; and let a due proportion of fit minds enter the professions, the posts of office, and commercial pursuits; let a few even live by mere work of thought; but let all enjoy the luxury of a degree of thought and rationality that shall forbid their richest blessing turning to their rankest curse. That such must be the result of a true education, our faith in a wise Providence forbids us to doubt. Such an education being real, and appealing to all the faculties, does not eventuate in vain aspirings; but fits each for his place and work—fits for making that great and happy discovery, that the best talents and the most complete cultivation of them can not only find in every employment scope for real exercise, but in the commonest and simplest occupations will be more expert and successful than uncultured ignorance can possibly be. In this view, the true education tends not to level but to utilize, to make the most of every man's special aptitudes for his special field. Such an education monarchy and aristocracy might dread, and reäctive tendencies have already, indeed, blighted the once pattern school-system of Prussia, while they are believed to threaten a like step in England. But the idea of such an education as we have striven to portray, harmonizes with the spirit and objects of a commonwealth, and if we mistake not, to the perpetuity and perfection of free institutions it may yet be found the condition precedent.
TRAVEL-PICTURES.
A QUIET COURT IN PARIS.
No lodging on a village street could be quieter than my room in Paris, and yet the court it opened upon was not more than an easy stone's throw from the gayest part of the Boulevards. Once within the great wooden gate and up the narrow lane conducting to the court, and you seemed to have left the great world as completely behind you as if it had been a dream. It was one of the smallest of Parisian courts, and—to me its chief recommendation—one of the neatest. With its two or three small stuccoed houses built around, it reminded one rather of inclosures that you see in provincial towns in France than of the damp, high-walled courts, so common in the capital. In one of these small houses, looking out upon the sunny, cheerful yard, I had my room, and as I often sat at the window, I began by degrees to take some interest in the movements of my neighbors, as we can hardly help doing when the same persons pass in and out before our eyes for many days in succession. The house was rented or owned by an elderly lady, who, with her niece and an old servant-woman, seemed to be its only occupants, with the exception of two American boys, attending school by day at one of the large Pensions so numerous in Paris. Kinder people can not be found any where, and fortunate indeed is the sojourner in a strange land who falls in with such good hearts. Their history was a singular one, and I did not really learn it till my return to Paris, after a long absence. They interested me very much, from the first day. The lady and her niece had seen better days, and were notable partisans of the Orleans family, whose memory they deeply reverenced. Politics, indeed, could make but little difference to them, passing, as they did, most of their lives in their quiet rooms; but such interest as they had in it clung to what they considered the model royal family of Europe, a family that carried its affections and virtues equally through the saddest and most splendid experiences. They could not sympathize with the oppressive and military character of the present dynasty and the crowd of time-serving adventurers that swarmed around it. The life of the younger lady was devoted to her aunt, and all the spare hours that remained to her from those occupied by the lessons she was compelled to give, to increase their scanty income, were passed in her society. I have seldom seen a life of such entire self-denial as that led by this refined and delicate woman. The third figure of this family group, the old servant, Marie, was a character peculiar to France. She seemed rather a companion than a servant, though she performed all the duties of the latter, keeping the rooms in neatest order, and making better coffee than I found at the most splendid restaurants. She had a clear blue eye, with one of the most faithful expressions I ever saw on human face, and seemed to take as much interest in me and the two American boys as if we had been her children. She was the housekeeper, buying all their little supplies; but when her labors were over, passing her leisure hours in the society of the ladies she had so long served. I soon saw that the connection between these three beings would be terminated only by death. The chief difference in the two ladies and their faithful old bonne, beyond the circumstance of better education and greater refinement, was that for the former the outer world no longer had much interest, while the old Marie still seemed to retain a keen relish for what was going on around her, and often amused me by the eagerness with which she would enter into trifling details of gossip and general news. After sight-seeing all day, and the experiences of a stranger in Paris, I was often glad to join the trio in their little parlor, and talk over the Paris of former days, during its revolutions and fétes, or answer their questions about my every-day ramblings or my American home. I felt, during these evenings, a relief from the general routine of places of amusement, enjoyed their home-like quiet, and knew I could always give pleasure by varying the monotony of these ladies' every-day life. So the three, so devoted to each other, lived quietly on, winning my respect and sympathy. I left them, with many regrets on their part and my own, and on my return, after an absence of nearly a year, one of my first visits was to these kind-hearted people. To my sorrow, I learned that death had removed the elder lady some months before. I could hardly imagine a death that would longer or more painfully affect a family group than this, for they had so few outward circumstances to distract their thoughts. They received me cordially; but grief for their irreparable loss was always visible in every subsequent interview I had with them. Meeting again one of the school-boys who had lodged there, he told me the following circumstances of the death of the lady, and of the relationship existing between them, which was so different from what I had always imagined. Madame de B—— was the widow of a French officer of high rank, during whose life she had been in affluent circumstances; but through various causes, she had lost most of the property left her at his death, and retained at last only enough to keep them in the humble style I have described. The manner of her death was very singular. In her better days, she had lived with her husband in a handsome house near the Champs Elyseés. On the day of her death, she was walking with a gentleman from Boston, a friend of the two pupils I have mentioned, and was speaking to him of her more affluent days, when, as they were near the house where she had once lived, she proposed to walk on a little further, that she might point it out. He consented, and as they drew near to it, she exclaimed, 'Ah! nous l'apercevons,' and, without another word, fell suddenly in a sort of apoplectic fit, not living more than half an hour longer. The circumstance of this lady dying suddenly so near the place where she had once lived, and which she so seldom visited, was certainly very singular. To my surprise, I learned that the younger lady was the daughter of old Marie, having been adopted and educated by the person she had always supposed to be her aunt; she having no children of her own. What made it more singular was, that the younger lady had herself been in possession of this family secret only a few years. It reminded me somewhat of Tennyson's Lady Clare, though in this case no one had been kept out of an estate by the fiction. It was merely to give the young lady the advantage of the supposed relationship. This, then, accounted for the strong affection existing between them, and lest any reader might think this conduct strange, I must again bear witness to the kindness and true affection always displayed toward the real mother. I would not narrate this true story, did I not feel how little chance there is of my humble pen writing any thing that would reach the ears of this family, living so obscurely in the great world of Paris.
Just opposite us, in the court, lived another lady, who has played many fictitious parts, as well as a somewhat prominent one, on the stage of real life. This was Madame George, the once celebrated actress; in her younger days, a famous beauty, and at one time mistress of the great Napoleon. Though long retired from regular connection with the stage, she still makes an occasional appearance upon it, almost always drawing a full audience, collected principally from curiosity to see so noted a personage, or to remark what portion of her once great dramatic power time has still left her. One of these appearances was made at the Odéon, while we were in Paris. Marie informed us of the coming event before it was announced on the bills, and seemed to take as much interest in it as if it had been the débût of a near relative. We had sometimes caught a glimpse of the great actress, tending her geraniums and roses at the window, or going out to drive. On the evening in question, a very large audience greeted the tragedienne, and she was received, with much enthusiasm. She appeared in a tragedy of Racine, in which she had once been preëminently distinguished. Magnificently dressed, and adorned with splendid jewels, trophies of her younger days, when her favors were sought by those who could afford to bestow such gifts, she did not look over thirty-five, though now more than twice that age. I am no admirer of French tragedy, but I certainly thought Madame George still showed the remains of a great actress, and in some passages produced a decided impression. Her tall, commanding figure, expressive eyes, and features of perfect regularity, must have given her every natural requisite for the higher walks of her profession. As I watched her moving with majestic grace across the stage, irrepressible though trite reflections upon her early career passed through my mind. What audiences she has played before, in the days of the first empire! How many soldiers and statesmen, now numbered with the not-to-be-forgotten dead, have applauded her delivery of the same lines that we applaud to-night. Napoleon and his brilliant military court, the ministers of foreign nations, students such as are here this evening, themselves since distinguished in various walks of life, have passed across the stage, and made their final exit, leaving Madame George still upon it. And the not irreproachable old character herself—what piquant anecdotes she could favor us with, would she but draw some memory-pictures for us! Women in Europe, in losing virtue, do not always lose worldly prudence, as with us, and go down to infamy and a miserable old age. Better, however, make allowance for the manners of the time—French manners at that—and contemplate the old lady from an historical point of view, regarding her with interest, as I could not help doing, as one of the few remaining links connecting the old Napoleon dynasty with the new. How strange the closing of a life like hers! Except for the occasional reäppearance on the scene of her old triumphs, not oftener than once or twice a year, how quiet the life she now leads! what a contrast to the excitement and brilliancy that mark the career of a leading actress in the zenith of her reputation! Then, from the theatre she would drive in her splendid equipage through streets illuminated perhaps for some fresh victory gained by the invincible battalions of her imperial lover. Now, in a retired house, she probably sometimes muses over the past, pronouncing, as few with better reason can, 'all the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players,' such changes has she witnessed in the fortunes of the great actors by whom she was once surrounded. So here were the histories of two of the occupants of our court. The others may have had experiences no less strange; and in many another court in this great city, from the stately inclosures of the Rue de Lille to the squalid dens of the Faubourg St. Antoine, (if the names have not escaped me,) lives well worth the telling are passing away. Such is a great city.
THE COUNTRY OF EUGENE ARAM
There is a little river in England called the Nidd, and on its high banks stand the ruins of a castle. There is much in this part of it to remind one of the Rhine; the banks rise up in bold, picturesque form; the river just here is broad and deep, and the castle enough of a ruin to lead us to invest it with some legend, such as belongs to every robber's nest on that famous river. No hawk-eyed baron ready to pounce on the traveler, is recorded as having lived here; all that seems to be remembered of it is, that the murderers of Thomas À Becket lay secreted here for a time after that deed of blood, ere they ventured forth on their pilgrimage, haunted by the accursed memory of it all their lives. This is something, to be sure, in the way of historic incident, but the real interest of this immediate region arises from the fact of its being the home and haunt of Eugene Aram. A great English novelist has woven such a spell of enchantment around the history of this celebrated criminal, that I could not help devoting a day to the environs of the little town of Knaresboro', in and around which the most eventful portion of Aram's life was passed. A famous dropping-well, whose waters possess the power of rapidly petrifying every object exposed to them, is one of the most noticeable things in the neighborhood. There are also one or two curious rockcut cells, high up on precipitous slopes, which were inhabited years ago by pious recluses who had withdrawn from the vanities of the world. Some were highly esteemed here in their lives, and here their bones reposed; and the fact of their remaining undiscovered sometimes for many years, was ingeniously used by Aram in his defense, to account for the discovery of the bones of his victim in the neighboring cave of St. Robert. This latter is one of the few places connected with Aram's history that can be pointed out with certainty. It lies about two miles below the castle before mentioned. It is even now a place that a careless pedestrian might easily pass without remarking, notwithstanding that its entrance is worn by many curious feet. The entrance is very narrow, and the cavern, like caverns in general, exceedingly dark. The river flows by more rapidly here than above; the grass grows long and wild, and there is a gloomy air about it that would make it an unpleasant place for a night rendezvous even without the horrid associations connected with it. The exact place where Clark's hones were discovered is pointed out, and probably correctly, as the space is too narrow to admit of much choice. Here they lay buried for years, while according to Bulwer, this most refined of murderers was building up a high name as a scholar and a stainless reputation as a man. A field not far off is pointed out as the place where were found the bones which led to the detection of Aram. Though but few places can now be indicated with certainty in connection with his tragic story, a vague outline of the character of the man before the discovery of his crime, is preserved in the neighborhood. As we read the true story of Eugene Aram, lately published by an apparently reliable person, our sense of the poetic is somewhat blunted; we feel that the lofty character drawn by Bulwer is in many respects a creation of the novelist, while the whole story of his love is demolished by the stern fact of his having a wife, of no reputable character, with whom he lived unhappily; but he was still a man of talent, of great mental, if not moral refinement, and of indomitable ardor in the pursuit of learning. The chief fault of his character until his one great crime was discovered, seems to have been recklessness in pecuniary transactions, by which he was often involved in petty difficulties. He seems to have had a tenderness amounting to acute sensibility, for dumb animals, and to have dreaded killing a fly more than many a man who could not, like him, be brought to kill a fellow-being His mental acquirements, though remarkable for an unaided man of obscure origin, would not probably have attracted wide attention, had it not been for the notoriety caused by the detection of his crime. How many fair girls have shed tears over 'his ill-starred love' and melancholy fate, who little dreamed that he was a husband, in a very humble rank of life. Bulwer speaks of his favorite walks with Madeline, and of a rustic seat still called 'The Lovers' Scat.' It is not, I think, now pointed out, nor is the account of his love probably more than an imaginary one, but it may be founded upon fact, and some high-souled English girl may really, in his early life, or when separated as he was for a long time from his wife, have called forth all his better feelings and revealed glimpses of the beauty of the life of two affectionate and pure beings keeping no secrets of the heart from each other. How it must have tortured him to think that such a life never could be his, well fitted for it as in some respects he was, and ever haunted by the fear that the poor sham by which he was concealed must some day be torn away, and an ignominious fate be apportioned him! No situation can be more deplorable than that of a man of refined and lofty nature, who has made one fatal mistake connecting him with men far worse than himself, who are masters of his secret and ever ready to use it for their own base purposes. Are there not many men so situated—men near us now, who walk through life haunted by the dreadful spectres of past misdeeds hastily committed, bitterly repented—a phantom that can blast every joy, and from whose presence death comes as a friendly deliverer?
THE GREAT ST. BERNARD.
We reached the Hospice about an hour after dark, somewhat stiff, and very wet from the rain and snow that commenced falling as we entered the region of clouds. We had passed unpleasantly near some very considerable precipices, and though unable to distinguish the ground below, knew they were deep enough to occasion us decided 'inconvenience' had we gone over them. The long, low, substantial-looking building finally loomed through the mist, and alighting, we were shown into a room with a cheerful fire blazing on the hearth, and were soon joined by a priest of cordial, gentlemanly manners and agreeable conversation. So this was the famous monastery of St. Bernard, which we had read of all our lives, and the stories of whose sagacious dogs had delighted our childish minds. A substantial supper was provided for us, to which was added some excellent wine, made in the valley below. Conversation was pretty general in French, and somewhat exclusive in Latin; two of our party understanding the dead language, but ignorant of the living, framed with great difficulty ponderous but by no means Ciceronian sentences, which they launched at our host, who replied with great fluency, showing that for conversational purposes, at least, his command of the language was much better than theirs. Being anxious to attend the early mass in the morning, and tired from our ride, we were soon shown to our rooms. Walking along the passages and viewing the different apartments, we saw the house would accommodate a great number of persons. The rooms were long and narrow, many of them containing a number of beds; but in this bracing mountain air there is no fear of bad ventilation. No crack of my window was open, but the wind blew furiously outside, and there was a decidedly 'healthy coolness' about the apartment. The room was uncarpeted and scantily furnished, but every thing was spotlessly clean, and in pleasant contrast with the dirty luxury of some of the Continental inns. A few small pictures of saints and representations of scriptural subjects graced the white walls and constituted the only ornaments of the room. Looking from my window I saw that the clouds had blown away, and the brilliant moon shone on the sharp crags of the hills and on the patches of snow that lay scattered about on the ground. The scene was beautiful, but very cold; the wind howled around the house, and yet this was a balmy night compared with most they have here. I thought of merciless snow-drifts overtaking the poor blinded traveler, benumbed, fainting, and uncertain of his path; of the terrors of such a situation, and then glancing around the plain but comfortable room, I could not but feel grateful to the pious founders of this venerable institution. Long may it stand a monument of their benevolence and of the shelter that poor wayfarers have so often found within its hospitable walls!
At daybreak we made our way to the chapel, a large and beautiful room with many pictures and rich ornaments, gifts of persons who have shared the hospitality of the place. At the altar the brother who had welcomed us on our arrival was officiating in his priestly robes, assisted by several others. A few persons, servants of the establishment and peasants stopping for the night, with ourselves, composed the congregation. Two of the women present, we were told, were penitents; we asked no further of their history, but at this remote place the incident gave us cause for reflection and surmise. Heaven grant that in this sublime solitude their souls may have found the peace arising from the consciousness of forgiveness. I have never been more impressed with the Catholic service than I was this morning, when the voices of the priests blending with the organ, rose on the stillness of that early hour in one of the familiar chants of the Church. It seemed, indeed, like heavenly music. Here with the first dawn of morning on these lofty mountaintops, where returning day is welcomed earlier than in the great world below, men had assembled to pour forth their worship to God, here so manifest in his mighty works. The ever-burning lamp swung in the dim chapel, and it seemed a beautiful idea that morning after morning on these great mountains, the song of gratitude and praise should ascend to Him who fashioned them; that so it has been for years, while successive winters have beat in fury on this house, and the snows have again and again shut out all signs of life from nature. As my heart filled with emotion, I could not but think of the aptness to the present scene of those beautiful lines of our poet:
'At break of day as heavenward
The pious monks of St. Bernard
Chanted the oft-repeated prayer.'
Time and place were the same, and the service seemed as beautiful and solemn as might have been that chanted over the stiff, frozen body of the high-souled but too aspiring boy. The service ended, and we were left alone in the chapel. In one corner of it is the box in which those who can, leave a contribution for the support of the establishment. No regular charge is made, but probably most persons leave more than they would at a hotel—and our party certainly did. I believe that the money is well applied; at any rate, for years the hospice afforded shelter before travel became a fashionable summer amusement, and in those days it expended far more than it received.
Our breakfast was very simple, and the Superior of the establishment confined himself to a small cup of coffee and morsel of bread. They have but one substantial meal a day. I was interested in observing our host. His appearance and manner were prepossessing and agreeable, but this morning something seemed to weigh anxiously on his mind. He was abstracted in manner, and once as I looked up suddenly, his lips were moving, and he half checked himself in an involuntary gesture. Had the confession of the penitents, perhaps, troubled him? I believe he was a sincere, self-sacrificing man, and I have often thought of his manner that morning.
We were, of course, very anxious to see the dogs, but were told they are now becoming exceedingly scarce. They can not be kept very long in the piercing air of the mountains, its rarefaction being as injurious to them as to human beings. Most of them are therefore kept at Martigny, or some other place below. We were told, however, that two 'pups' were now at the hospice; and as we sallied out for a walk over the hills, we heard a violent scratching at an adjoining door, which being opened, out burst the pups. They were perfect monsters, though very young, with huge paws, lithe and graceful but compact forms, full of life and activity, and faces beaming with instinct. Darting out with us, they seemed frantic with joy, snuffed the keen air as they rushed about, sometimes tumbling over each other, and at times bursting against us with a force that nearly knocked us down. They reminded me of two young tigers at their gambols. I have never seen nobler-looking brutes. What fine, honest, expressive countenances they had! At times a peculiar sort of frown would ruffle the skin around their eyes, their ears would prick up, and every nerve seem to be quickened. The face of a noble dog appears to me to be capable of almost as great a variety of expression as the human countenance, and these changes are sometimes more rapid. The inquisitive and chagrined look when baffled in pursuit of prey, the keen relish of joy, the look of supplication for food, of conscious guilt for misdemeanor, the eyes beaming with intense affection for a master, and whining sorrow for his absence, the meek look of endurance in sickness, the feeble, listless air, the resigned expression of the glassy eye at the approach of death, blending even then with indications of gratitude for kindness shown! These dumb brutes can often teach us lessons of meek endurance and resignation as well as courage, and few things call forth more just indignation than to see them abused by men far more brutish than they.
Accompanying one of the younger brethren on an errand to the valley below, we watched them dashing along till the intervening rocks hid them from our view. In the extensive museum of the Monastery we found much to interest us. Many of the curiosities are gifts of former travelers, and some of them are of great value. There is also a small collection of antiquities found in the immediate neighborhood, where, I believe, are still traces of an ancient temple. The St. Bernard has been a favorite pass with armies, and is thought by many to have been that chosen by Hannibal.
Not very far from the house is the 'morgue' so often noticed by travelers, containing numerous bodies, which, though they have not decayed, are nevertheless repulsive to look upon. The well-known figures of the woman and her babe show that for once the warm refuge of a mother's breast chilled and fainted in the pitiless storm.
After cordial well—wishes from the brethren, we left the hospice, bringing away remembrances of it as one of the most interesting places it has been our privilege to visit. It has, of course, changed character within half a century, and there is now less necessity for it than formerly. Many travelers complain of it as now wearing too much the appearance of a hotel; but we were there too late in the season to find it so; and even if true at other times, the associations with the Monastery and the Pass are so interesting, the scenery so bold, and the welcome one meets with so cordial, that he who regrets having made the ascent must have had a very different experience from ourselves.
A few hours' ride brought us to the valley, where we met peasants driving carts and bearing baskets piled up with luscious grapes. A trifle that the poorest traveler could have spared, procured us an ample supply.
THE HUGUENOTS OF STATEN ISLAND.
Staten Island, that enchanting sea-girt spot in the beautiful Bay of New-York, early became a favorite resort with the French Protestants. It should be called the Huguenot Island; and for fine scenery, inland and water, natural beauties, hill, dale, and streams, with a bracing, healthful climate, it strongly reminds the traveler of some regions in France. No wonder that Frenchmen should select such a spot in a new land, for their quiet homes. The very earliest settlers on its shores were men of religious principles. Hudson, the great navigator, discovered the Island, in 1609, when he first entered the noble river which bears his undying name. It was called by its Indian owners, Aquehioneja, Manackong, or Eghquaous, which, translated, means the place of Bad Woods, referring, probably, to the character of its original savage inhabitants. Among the very earliest patents granted for lands in New-Netherland, we find one of June 19th, 1642, to Cornelius Melyn, a Dutch burgomaster. He thus became a Patroon of Staten Island, and subsequently a few others obtained the same honor and privileges. They were all connected with the Dutch Reformed Church, in Holland; and when they emigrated to New-Netherland, always brought with them their Bibles and the 'Kranek-besoecker,' or 'Comforter of the Sick,' who supplied the place of a regular clergyman. Twice were the earliest settlers dispersed by the Raritan Indians, but they rallied again, until their progress became uninterrupted and permanent.
Between the Hollanders and the French Refugees, there existed an old and intimate friendship. Holland, from the beginning of the Middle Ages, had been the asylum for all the religious out-laws from all parts of Europe. But especially the persecuting wars and troubles of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, brought hither crowds of exiles. Not less than thirty thousand English, who had embraced the Reformed faith, found here a shelter during the reign of Mary Tudor. Hosts of Germans, during the 'Thirty Years' War,' obtained on the banks of the Amstel and the Rhine, that religious liberty, which they had in vain claimed in their own country. But the greatest emigration was that of the Walloons, from the bloody tyranny of the Duke of Alba, and the Count of Parma. For a long period the Reformed faith had found adherents in the Provinces of the Low Countries. Here the first churches were under the Cross, or in the Secret, as it was styled, and they concealed themselves from the raging persecution, by hiding, as it were, their faith, under mystic names, the sense of which believers only knew. We will mention only a few. That of Tournay, 'The Palm-Tree;' Antwerp, 'The Vine;' Mons, 'The Olive;' Lille, 'The Rose;' Douay, 'The Wheat-Sheaf;' and the Church of Arras had for its symbol 'The Hearts-Ease.' In 1561, they published in French, their Confession of Faith, and in 1563, their Deputies, from the Reformed Communities of Flanders, Brabant, Artois, and Hainault, united in a single body, holding the first Synod of which we have any account. These regions were an old part of the French Netherlands, or Low Countries; and a small section of Brabant was called Walloon; and here were found innumerable advocates of the Reformed faith. The whole country would probably have become the most Protestant of all Europe, were it not for the torrents of blood poured out for the maintenance of the Roman religion by the Duke of Alba.
Welcomed by the States General, Walloon Colonies were formed from the year 1578 to 1589, at Amsterdam, Harlaem, Leyden, Utrecht, and other places. But new persecutions arising, the Reformed French retired to Holland, where new churches arose at Rotterdam, in 1605, Nimeguen, 1621, and Tholen, in 1658. It was natural, therefore, that the Huguenots of France should afterward settle in a country of so much sympathy for the Walloon refugees, whom they regarded as their brethren. When Henry III. commanded them to be converted to the Romish Church or to leave the kingdom in six months, many of them repairing to Holland, joined the Walloon communities, whose language and creed were their own. After the fall of La Rochelle, this emigration recommenced, and was doubled under Louis XIV., when he promulgated his first wicked and insane edict against his Protestant subjects. From that unfortunate period, during a century, the Western Provinces of France depopulated themselves to the benefit of the Dutch Republic. Many learned men and preachers visited these Walloon churches, while endeavoring to escape the persecuting perils of every kind, to which they were exposed. Among the ministers we may mention the names of Basnage, Claude, Benoit, and Saurin, who surpassed them all, by the superiority of his genius, who was the patriarch of 'The Refuge,' and contributed more than all the rest to prevail on the Huguenots to leave France.
During the last twenty years of the seventeenth century, the French Protestant emigration into Holland rose to a political event, and the first 'Dragonades' gave the signal in 1681. The Burgomasters of Amsterdam soon perceived the golden advantages which the Hollanders would derive from the fatal policy of Louis XIV. The city of Amsterdam announced to the refugees all the rights of citizenship, with an exemption from taxes for three years. The States of Holland soon followed the example of Amsterdam, and by a public declaration, discharged all refugees who should settle there, from all taxes for twelve years. In less than eight days all the Protestants of France were informed of this favorable proclamation, which gave impulse to new emigration. In all the Dutch provinces and towns collections were taken up for the benefit of the French refugees, and a general fast proclaimed for Wednesday, November 21st, 1685, and all Protestants were invited to thank God for the grace he gave them to worship Him in liberty, and to entreat him to touch the heart of the French King, who had inflicted such cruel persecutions on true believers.
The Prince of Orange attached two preachers to his person from the church of Paris, and the Huguenot ladies found a noble protectress in the Princess of Orange. Thanks to her most generous care, more than one hundred ladies of noble birth, who had lost all they possessed in France, and had seen their husbands or fathers thrown into dungeons, now found comfortable homes at Harlaem, Delft, and the Hague. At the Hague, the old convent of preaching monks was turned into an establishment for French women. At Nort, a boarding-house for young ladies of quality received an annual benefaction of two thousand florins from her liberal hands. Nor did she forget these pious asylums, after the British Parliament had decreed her the crown. Most of the refugees came from the Southern provinces—brave officers, rich merchants of Amiens, Rouen, Bourdeaux, and Nantes, artisans of Brittany and Normandy, with agriculturists from Provence, the shores of Languedoc, Roussillon, and La Guienne. Thus were transported into hospitable Holland, gentlemen and ladies of noble birth, with polished minds and refined manners, simple mechanics and ministers of high renown, and all more valuable than the golden mines of India or Peru. Thus Holland, of all lands, received most of the French refugees, and Bayle calls it 'the grand ark of the refugees.' No documents exist, by which their numbers can be correctly computed, but they have been estimated from fifty-five to seventy-five thousand souls, and the greatest number were to be found at Amsterdam, Rotterdam, and the Hague. In 1686, there were not less than sixteen French pastors to the Walloon churches at Amsterdam.
Thus intimately, by a common faith, friendship, and interest, did the Huguenots unite themselves with the people of Holland, who, about this period, commenced the establishment of New-Netherland in America. We have traced this union the more fully for the better understanding of our general subject. The Walloons and Huguenots were, in fact, the same people—oppressed and persecuted French Protestants. Of the former, as early as the year 1622, several Walloon families from the frontier, between Belgium and France, turned their attention to America. They applied to Sir Dudley Carleton, for permission to settle in the colony of Virginia, with the privilege of erecting a town and governing themselves, by magistrates of their own election. The application was referred to the Virginia Company,[1] but its conditions seem to have been too republican, and many of these Walloons looked, toward New-Netherland, where some arrived in 1624, with the Dutch Director, Minuit.
At first, they settled on Staten Island, (1624,) but afterward removed to Wahle Bocht or the 'Bay of Foreigners,' which has since been corrupted into Wallabout. This settlement extended subsequently toward 'Breukelen,' named after an ancient Dutch village on the river Veght, in the province of Utrecht; so that Staten Island has the honor of having presented the first safe home, in America, and on her beautiful shores, to the Walloons or Huguenots. The name of Walloon itself is said to be derived either from Wall, (water or sea,) or more probably, the old German word Wahle, signifying a foreigner. It must be remembered that this is a part of the earliest chapter in the history of New-Netherland, which the 'West-India Company' now resolved to erect into a province. To the Chamber of Amsterdam the superintendence of this new and extensive country was committed, and this body, during the previous year, had sent out an expedition, in a vessel called the 'New-Netherland,' 'whereof Cornelius Jacobs of Hoorn was skipper, with thirty families, mostly Walloons, to plant a colony there.' They arrived in the beginning of May, (1623,) and the old document, from which we quote, adds:
'God be praised, it hath so prospered, that the honorable Lords Directors of the West-India Company have, with the consent of the noble, high, and mighty Lords States General, undertaken to plant some colonies,'[2] ... 'The Honorable Daniel Van Kriecke-beeck, for brevity called Beeck, was commissary here, and so did his duty that he was thanked.'
In 1625, three ships and a yacht arrived at Manhattan, with more families, farming implements, and one hundred and three head of cattle. Hitherto the government of the settlement had been simple, but now, affairs assuming more permanency, a proper 'Director' from Holland was appointed, and Peter Minuit, then in the office, was instructed to organize a provincial government. He arrived in May, 1626, and to his unfading honor be it recorded, that his first official act was to secure possession of Manhattan Island, by fair and lawful purchase of the Indians. It was estimated to contain twenty-two thousand acres, and was bought for the sum of sixty guilders, or twenty-four dollars! Lands were cheap then, where our proud and princely metropolis now stands, with her millions, her churches, palatial stores, residences, and shipping.
As yet there was no clergyman in the colony, but two visitors of the sick, Sebastian Jansen Keol and Jan Huyck, were appointed for this important duty, and also to read the Scriptures, on Sundays, to the people. Thus was laid, more than two hundred years ago, the corner-stone of the Empire State, on the firm foundation of justice, morality, and religion. This historical fact places the character of the Dutch and French settlers in a most honorable light. They enjoy the illustrious distinction of fair, honest dealing with the aborigines, the natural owners of the lands.
The purchase of Manhattan, in 1626, was only imitated when William Penn, fifty-six years afterward, purchased the site of Philadelphia from the Indians, under the famous Elm Tree. The Dutch and Huguenot settlers of New-Netherland were grave, firm, persevering men, who brought with them the simplicity, industry, integrity, economy, and bravery of their Belgic sires, and to these eminent virtues were added the light of the civil law and the purity of the Protestant faith. To such we can point with gratitude and respect, for the beginnings of our western metropolis, and the works of our American forefathers.
The Rev. Joannes Megapolensis, as early as the year 1642, took charge of the Dutch Reformed Church in Albany, under the patronage of the Patroon of Renssaelaerwick, and five years afterward became 'Domine' at Manhattan. In 1652, he selected for a colleague, Samuel Drissius, on account of his knowledge of French and English, and from his letters we learn that he went, once a month, to preach to the French Protestants on Staten Island. These were Vaudois or Waldenses, who had fled to Holland from severe persecutions in Piedmont, and by the liberality of the city of Amsterdam, were forwarded to settle in New-Netherland. We wish that more materials could be gathered to describe the history of this minister and his early Huguenot flock upon Staten Island. His ministry continued from 1652 to 1671, and I have recorded all that I can find respecting him and his people. About the year 1690, the New-York Consistory invited the Rev. Peter Daille, who had ministered among the Massachusetts Huguenots, to preach occasionally on Staten Island.
In August, 1661, a number of Dutch and French emigrants from the Palatinate obtained grants of land on the south side of Staten Island, where a site for a village was surveyed. In a short time its population increased to twelve or fourteen families, and to protect them from the Indians, a block-house was erected and garrisoned with three guns and ten soldiers. Domine Drissius visited them, and from a letter of his to the Classis of Amsterdam, we learn the names of these early emigrants, and some are familiar ones [3] Jan Classen, Johannes Christoffels, Ryk Hendricks, Meyndert Evertsen, Gerrit Cornelissen, Capt. Post, Govert Lockermans, Wynant Peertersen, etc., etc. Previous to this period, the island had been twice overrun by the savages and its population scattered; but now its progress became uninterrupted and onward. Crowds of people from Germany, Norway, Austria, and Westphalia had fled to Holland, and their number was increased by the religious troubles of the Waldenses and Huguenots. Several families of the latter requested permission to emigrate with the Dutch farmers to New-Netherland, at their own expense. They only asked protection for a year or two from the Indians; and the English, now in possession of the New-York colony, were most favorably disposed toward them. This transfer from the Dutch to the British rule took place in 1664. Fort Amsterdam became Fort James, and the city took its present name, imposed as it was upon its rightful owners. Staten Island was called Richmond County, and the province of New-Netherland New-York, the name of one known only in history as a tyrant and a bigot, the enemy of both political and religious freedom.
From 1656 to 1663, some Protestant emigrants from Savoy came to Staten Island, and a large body of Rochelle Huguenots also reached New-York during the latter year. This fertile and beautiful spot, with its gentle hills and wide-spread surrounding waters, became a favorite asylum for the French refugees, and they arrived in considerable numbers about the year 1675, with a pastor, and erected a church near Richmond village. I have visited the place, but all that remains to mark the venerable and sacred spot is a single dilapidated grave-stone! The building, it is said, was burned down, and none of its records have been discovered. At that period, there were only five or six congregations in the province of New-York, and this must have been one of them. The Rev. David Bonrepos accompanied some of the French Protestants in their flight from France to this country, and in an early description of New-York, the Rev. John Miller says: 'There is a meeting-house at Richmond, Staten Island, of which Dr. Bonrepos is the minister. There are forty English, forty-four Dutch, and thirty-six French families.' In 1695-1696, letters of denization were granted to David Bonrepos and others. Among my autographs is a copy of his; he wrote a fair, clear hand.
Under the tolerant rule of 'Good Queen Anne,' many French refugees obtained peaceful abodes in Richmond county. In their escape from their own land, multitudes had been kindly received in England, and afterward accepted a permanent and safe shelter in the Province of New-York. What a noble origin had the Staten Island Christian refugees! Their ancestors, the Waldenses, resided several centuries, as a whole people, in the South of France, and like the ancient Israelites of the land of Goshen, enjoyed the pure light of sacred truth, while Egyptian darkness spread its gloom on every side. In vain have historians endeavored to trace correctly their origin and progress. All, however, allow them a very high antiquity, with what is far better, an uncontaminated, pure faith. A very ancient record gives a beautiful picture of their simple manners and devotions:
'They, kneeling on their knees, or leaning against some bank or stay, do continue in their prayers with silence, as long as a man may say thirty or forty paternosters. This they do every day, with great reverence, being among themselves. Before meat, they say, 'Benedicite.' etc. Then the elders, in their own tongue, repeat: 'God, which blessed the five loaves and two fishes, bless this table and what is set upon it. In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen.' After meat, they say: Blessing, and worship, and wisdom, and thanksgiving, honor, virtue, and strength, to God alone, for ever and ever. Amen. The Lord which has given us corporeal feeding, grant, us his spiritual life; and God be with us, and we always with him. Amen.' Thus saying grace, they hold their hands upward, looking up to heaven; and afterward they teach and exhort among themselves.'
To Staten Islanders it must be a pleasant reminiscence, that among their earliest settlers were these pious Waldenses.
Like their brethren in Utrecht, the descendants of the Huguenots on the Island sometimes occupy the same farms which their pious ancestors obtained more than a century and a half ago. The Disosways, the Guions, the Seguines, on its beautiful winding shores, are well-known examples of this kind. The Hollanders, Walloons, Waldenses, and the Huguenots here all intermarried, and the noble, spiritual races thus combined, ever have formed a most excellent, industrious, and influential population. Judges, Assemblymen, members of Congress, and ministers, again and again, in Richmond county, have been selected from these unions. During the Revolutionary struggle, the husband of Mrs. Colonel Disosway had fallen into the hands of the common enemy; she was the sister of the well-known and brave Captain Fitz-Randolph, or Randell, as commonly called, who had greatly annoyed the British. When one of their officers had consented to procure her husband's release, if she would persuade her brother to quit the American ranks, she indignantly replied: 'If I could act so dastardly a part, think you that General Washington has but one Captain Randolph in his army?'
The early history of some of the emigrants is almost the reality of romance. Henri de La Tourette fled from La Vendee, after the Revolution, and to avoid suspicion, gave a large entertainment. While the guests were assembled at his house, he suddenly left, with his wife, for the sea-coast. This was not far off, and reaching it, he escaped on board a vessel bound for Charleston. The ship was either cast away upon the shores of Staten Island, or made a harbor in distress. Here La Tourette landed, and a long list of exemplary, virtuous people trace their origin to this source, and one of them has been pastor to the 'Huguenot,' a Dutch Reformed church on the Island, and is now a useful minister among the Episcopalians of the Western States. A branch of this family still exists at the chateau of La Tourette, in France, and some years since, one of them visited this country to obtain the 'Old Family Bible.' But he was unsuccessful, as the holy and venerable volume had been sent long before to a French refugee in Germany. But few of such holy books can now be found, printed in French, and very scarce; wherever met with, they should he carefully perused and preserved.
Dr. Channing Moore for a long time was the faithful pastor of St. Andrew's, the Episcopal Church at Richmond. Afterward he was consecrated the Bishop of Virginia. He was connected by marriage with an old Huguenot family of the Island, and his son, the Rev. David Moore, D.D., succeeded him here, living and dying, a striking example of fidelity to his most important duties. That eloquent divine, the late Rev. Dr. Bedell, of Philadelphia, was a Staten Islander by birth, and of the same French origin on the maternal side.
His son is the present Bishop Bedell of Ohio. There are scarcely any of the original Richmond county families but claim relationship to the French Protestants either on the father or mother's side. In all the official records are to be found such names as Disosway, Fontaine, (Fountain,) Reseau, Bedell, Rutan, Poillon, Mercereau, La Conte, Britten, Maney, Perrin, (Perrine,) Larselene, Curse, De Puy, (Depuy,) Corssen, Martineau, Morgane, (Morgan,) Le Guine, (Leguine,) Journey, Teunise, Guion, Dubois, Andronette, Winant, Totten, La Farge, Martling, De Decker, (Decker very numerous,) Barton, Ryers, Menell, Hillyer, De Groot, Garretson, Vanderbilt, etc., etc.
Few communities are blest with a better population than Richmond county, moral, industrious, thrifty, and religious, and they should ever cherish the remembrance of their virtuous and noble origin. The island is not more than twelve or fourteen miles long, and about three wide, with some thirty thousand inhabitants; and within these small limits there are over thirty churches, of various denominations, each having a regular pastor; and most of the official members in these congregations are lineal branches of the first settlers, the French Protestants. What a rich and glorious, harvest, since the handful of Holland, Walloon, Waldenses, and Huguenot emigrants, two centuries and a half ago, first landed upon the wilderness shores of Staten Island!
RECOLLECTIONS OF WASHINGTON IRVING.
BY ONE OF HIS FRIENDS.
The appearance of the first volume of the long-expected Life of Washington Irving has excited an interest which will not be satisfied until the whole work shall have been completed. Its author, Pierre M. Irving, sets forth with the announcement that his plan is to make the patriarch of American literature his own biographer. It is nothing new that this branch of letters is beset with peculiar difficulties. Some men suffer sadly at the hand of their chronicler. Scott misrepresents Napoleon, and Southey fails equally in his Memoirs of Cowper and of the Wesleys. Friendship's colors are too bright for correct portraiture, and prejudice equally forbids acuracy. Mr. Pierre M. Irving, though an admirer of his distinguished kinsman, (and who that knew him could fail of admiration?) avoids the character of a mere eulogist, while at the same time he exhibits none of the obsequiousness of a Boswell, fluttering like a moth about a huge candle. Being a man of independent mind and of high culture, he brings out the character he portrays in aspects true to life, and not exaggerated by excess of tone, while he fully exhibits its exquisite finish.
Among the many incidents of deep interest which are contained in this volume, the episode of Matilda Hoffman stands forth in most striking relief. While lifting the veil which for a half-century covered the most pathetic event in Irving's life, his biographer touches with a scrupulous delicacy a theme so sacredly enshrined in a life-long memory. In referring to this affair, which gave a tender aspect to Irving's subsequent career, and in fact changed its whole tenor, we may remark that the loves of literary men form a most interesting and, in some cases, moving history. Some, like Petrarch, Earl Surrey, Burns, and Byron, have embalmed the objects of their affection in the effusions of their muse, while others have bequeathed that duty to others. Shakspeare says but little about his sweetheart, while Milton, who was decidedly unsuccessful in matters of the heart, seems to have acted on the motto, 'The least said, the soonest mended.' Poor Pope, miserable invalid though he was, nervous, irritable, and full of hate and spleen, was not beyond the power of the tender passion, and confessed the charms of the lonely Martha Blount, who held the wretched genius among her conquests. Swift, although an ogre at heart, had his chapter of love matters, which never fail to give us the horrors when we bring them to mind, and the episodes of Stella and Vanessa are among the minor tragedies in life's great drama. Johnson had a great heart, and was born to love, though, like the lion, he needed to have his claws pared, to fit him for female society. What a tender attachment was that which he bore 'Tetty,' and with what solemn remembrance he preserved her as his own, even after death had robbed him of her presence!
The loves of these men exercised the strongest influence on their destinies, while, on the other hand, disappointment and consequent celibacy have done the same to their victims. To the bachelor list of modern days, which can boast of Charles Lamb and Macaulay, America adds the proud name of Washington Irving, whose early disappointment made him an author.
My impressions of Irving's boyhood and youth are alive with the freshness of an early memory, which conserves along with him the Crugers, Clintons, Livingstons, Ogdens, and other old and honored names of New-York. The biography which inspires this reminiscence gives a sketch of the early history of the family, and as its author has thus opened the subject, it will not, we presume, be considered an intrusion if I pursue the thread of domestic incident a little farther than he has done.
The Irving homestead, in William street, was, in its day, a place of some pretension, when contrasted with the humble dwellings which surrounded it. The street on which it stood was miserably built, but here, in the suburb of the city, was a house whose appearance corresponded with the solid and high-toned character of its owner. Old Mr. Irving was, at the time to which I refer, a hale citizen of about three-score and ten, of grave and majestic bearing, and a form and expression which, when once fixed in the mind, could not easily be forgotten. As I remember him, his countenance was cast in that strong mould which characterized the land of his birth, but the features were often mellowed by a quiet smile. He was a man of deep piety, and was esteemed a pillar in the Brick Church, then the leading Presbyterian church of the city.
His mode of conducting family worship was peculiarly beautiful, and even to his last days he maintained this service. On such occasions, it was a most touching spectacle to see the majestic old man, bowed and hoary with extreme age, leaning upon his staff, as he stood among his family and sung a closing hymn, generally one appropriate to his condition, while tears of emotion ran down his checks. One of these hymns we well remember. It runs in these lines,
'Death may dissolve my body now,
And bear my spirit home;
Why do my moments move so slow,
Nor my salvation come?
'With heavenly weapons I have fought
The battles of my Lord;
Finished my course, and kept the faith,
And wait the sure reward.'
In a few years, the words of this exquisite hymn were fulfilled; the old man fell asleep, full of years and of honors, going to the grave like a shock of corn in its season. His funeral was one of imposing simplicity, and he was buried just at the entrance of that church where he had been so long a faithful attendant.
Mrs. Irving, who survived him several years, was of a different type of character, which, by its peculiar contrast, seemed to perfect the harmony of a well-matched union. She was of elegant shape, with large English features, which were permeated by an indescribable life and beauty. Her manners were full of action, and her conversational powers were of a high order. All of these graces appeared in the children, and were united with the vigor of intellect which marked the character of the father.
It would have been surprising if the offspring of such a union should not have been distinguished, and it is only the peculiar relation which the biographer sustains to it which prevents him from bringing this feature out more prominently.
It was, however, acknowledged, at an early day, that the family of William Irving had no equal in the city, and when we consider its number, its personal beauty, its moral excellence, its varied talents, without a single deficient or unworthy member, we can not wonder at the general admiration which it commanded. From the eldest son, William, and Ann, the eldest daughter, whom her father fondly termed Nancy, to Washington, the youngest, all were endowed with beauty, grace, amiability, and talent, yet in the latter they seemed to effloresce with culminating fullness. Nancy Irving was the cynosure of William street, concerning whose future destiny many a youth might have confessed an impassioned interest. Her brother William had become connected commercially with a young revolutionary soldier, (General Dodge,) who had opened a trading-station on the Mohawk frontier, and the latter bore away the sister as his bride. The union was one of happiness, and lasted twenty years, when it was terminated by her death. Of this, Washington thus speaks, in a letter in 1808: 'On the road, as I was traveling in high spirits, with the idea of home to inspire me, I had the shock of reading an account of my dear sister's death, and never was a blow struck so near my heart before.... One more heart lies cold and still that ever beat toward me with the warmest affection, for she was the tenderest, best of sisters, and a woman of whom a brother might be proud.' Little did the author of this letter then dream of that more crushing blow which within one year was to fall upon him, and from whose weight he was never wholly to recover.
William Irving, the brother of the biographer, was a model of manly beauty, and early remarkable for a brilliant and sparkling intellect, which overflowed in conversation, and often bordered on eloquence. Had he been bred to the law, he would have shone among its brightest stars; but those gifts, which so many envied, were buried in trade, and though he became one of the merchant-princes of the city, even this success could not compensate for so great a burial of gifts. As one of the contributors to Salmagundi, he exhibits the keenness of a flashing wit, while, in subsequent years, he represented New-York in Congress, when such an office was a distinction.
Peter Irving, like his brother, united personal elegance with talents, and conducted the Morning Chronicle, amid the boisterous storms of early politics. This journal favored the interests of Burr; but it must be remembered that at that time Burr's name was free from infamy, and that, as a leader, he enjoyed the highest prestige, being the centre of the Democracy of New-York. Burr's powers of fascination were peculiarly great, and he had surrounded himself with a circle of enthusiastic admirers. Indeed, such was his skill in politics, that in 1800 he upset the Federalists, after a pitched battle of three days, (the old duration of an election,) which was one of the most exciting scenes I ever witnessed. Horatio Gates, of Saratoga fame, was one of his nominees for the State Legislature, (Gates was then enjoying those undeserved laurels which posterity has since taken away,) and it was surprising to see the veterans of the Revolution abandoning their party to vote for their old comrade and leader. The result was, that the Federalists were most thoroughly worsted, and the party never recovered from the blow. Such were the exciting events which identified the young politicians of the metropolis, and which inspired their speeches and their press. Burr's headquarters were at Martling's Tavern, 87 Nassau street. On being torn down, the business was removed to Tammany Hall, which has inherited a political character from its predecessor. Besides this, he used to meet his friends in more select numbers at a Coffee-house in Maiden Lane. His office was Number 30 Partition street, (now Fulton,) and his residence was at Richmond Hill. This place has lately been pulled down; it stood far away from the city, in a wild, secluded neighborhood, and in bad going was quite an out of the way spot, though now it would be in the densest part of the city. As there were no public vehicles plying in this direction, except the Chelsea (Twenty-eighth street) stage, which was very unreliable, one either had to hire a coach or else be subjected to a walk of two miles. But such as had the entrée of this establishment would be well rewarded, even for these difficulties, by an interview with Theodosia Burr, the most charming creature of her day. She was married early, and we saw but little of her. From the interest which the Irvings felt in Burr's fortunes, it might have been expected that they should sympathize with him in his subsequent reverses.
The biographer presents Washington Irving as an attendant at the famous trial at Richmond, where his indignation at some of Burr's privations are expressed in a most interesting letter. This sympathy is the more touching from the fact that Washington was a Federalist, and in this respect differed from his brothers. We have an idea that his youthful politics were in no small degree influenced by those of that illustrious personage for whom he was named. Another of the sons was John T., who became a successful and wealthy jurist, and for many years presided at New-York Common Pleas, while Ebenezer was established in trade at an early day. Such was the development of that family, which in rosy childhood followed William Irving to the old Brick Church, and whose early progress he was permitted to witness. The biographer passes lightly over the scenes of boyhood, and there was hardly any need for his expatiating on that idolatry which surrounded the youngest. He was no doubt the first child ever named after the father of his country, and the touching incident of Lizzie's presenting the chubby, bright-eyed boy to Washington, is hit off in a few touches. It was, however, in itself a sublime thing. Nearly seventy years afterward, that child, still feeling the hand of benediction resting upon him, concludes his Life of Washington by a description of his reception in New-York, of which he had been a witness. Why does he not (it would have been a most pardonable allusion) bring in the incident referred to above? Ah! modesty forbade; yet, as he penned that description, his heart must have rejoiced at the boldness of the servant who broke through the crowd and presented to the General a boy honored with his name. Glorious incident indeed!
As the family grew up, the young men took to their different professions, which we have briefly designated. Peter read medicine, and hence received the title of 'doctor;' though he hated and finally abjured it, yet, as early as 1794, he had opened an office at 208 Broadway. This, however, was more a resort for the muses than for Hygeia, notwithstanding its sign, 'Peter Irving, M.D.' In 1796, William Irving, who had been clerk in the loan office, established himself in trade in Pearl—near Partition—street, and from his energy and elegance of manners, he became immediately successful, while farther up the street, near Old Slip, John T. opened a law office, which was subsequently removed to Wall street, near Broadway. We mention these facts to show that Irving entered life surrounded by protecting influences, and that the kindness which sheltered him from the world's great battle had a tendency to increase his natural delicacy and to expose him to more intense suffering, when the hand of misfortune should visit him. One who had 'roughed it' with the world would have better borne the killing disappointment of his affections; but he was rendered peculiarly sensitive to suffering by his genial surroundings.
This fact sets off in remarkable contrast, the noble resolution with which such an one as he, when he had buried all the world held in the tomb with the dead form of his beloved, rose above his sorrows. It is well observed by his biographer, that 'it is an affecting evidence how little Mr. Irving was ever disposed to cultivate or encourage sadness, that he should be engaged during this period of sorrow and seclusion in revising and giving additional touches to his History of New-York.' Those who may smile at the elegant humor which pervades the pages of that history, will be surprised to learn that they were nearly complete, yet their final revision and preparation for the press was by one who was almost broken of heart, and who thus cultivated a spirit of cheerfulness, lest he should become a burden to himself and others. As he writes to Mrs. Hoffman: 'By constantly exercising my mind, never suffering it to prey upon itself, and resolutely determining to be cheerful, I have, in a manner, worked myself into a very enviable state of serenity and self-possession.'
How truly has Wordsworth expressed this idea:
'If there be one who need bemoan
His kindred laid in earth,
The household hearts that were his own,
It is the man of mirth.'
We are glad to know that in time Irving sought a better consolation.
But to return from this digression, or rather anticipation of our subject. At the time of which we now write, New-York was comparatively a small town; true, it was the chief commercial city in America, and yet its limits proper could be described by a line drawn across the island some distance below Canal street. Yet even then New-York was full of life, and seemed to feel the promise of subsequent greatness. Her streets echoed to the footsteps of men whom the present generation, with all its progress, can not surpass. At Number 26 Broadway, might have been daily seen the light-built but martial and elegant form of Alexander Hamilton, while his mortal foe, Aaron Burr, as we have stated, held his office in Partition street. John Jacob Astor was just becoming an established and solid business man, and dwelt at 223 Broadway, the present site of the Astor House, and which was one of the earliest purchases which led to the greatest landed estate in America. Robert Lenox lived in Broadway, near Trinity Church, and was building up that splendid commerce which has made his son one of the chief city capitalists. De Witt Clinton was a young and ambitious lawyer, full of promise, whose office (he was just elected Mayor) was Number 1 Broadway. Cadwallader D. Colden was pursuing his brilliant career, and might be found immersed in law at Number 59 Wall street. Such were the legal and political magnates of the day; while to slake the thirst of their excited followers, Medcef Eden brewed ale in Gold street, and Janeway carried on the same business in Magazine street; and his empty establishment became notorious, in later years, as the 'Old Brewery.'
About this time young Irving was developing as one of the most interesting youth of the city. His manners were soft without being effeminate, his form finely molded, and his countenance singularly beautiful. To this might be added the general opinion that he was considerably gifted in the use of the pen. Yet with all these promising features, the future was clothed with shadows, for his health was failing, and his friends considered him too lovely a flower to last. Little did his brothers and sisters think that that delicate youth would, with one exception, outlive the whole family. It was at this time that he first went abroad; and his experiences of travel are given by Pierre Irving in the sparkling letters which he wrote to his brothers.
In 1807 I used to meet him once more in social gatherings in the city, for he had returned in full restoration of health, his mind expanded, and his manners improved by intercourse with the European world, while Salmagundi had electrified the city and given him the first rank among its satirists. The question of profession crowded on him, and he alternated between the law and the counting-room, in either of which he might find one or more of his brothers. The former of these was a road to distinction, the latter was one to wealth; but feeling the absence of practical business gifts, he shrank from trade, and took refuge in the quiet readings of an office. Josiah Ogden Hoffman, of whose daughter so much has recently been written, was a family friend, as well as a lawyer of high character. He lived first at Number 68 Greenwich street, but afterward moved up-town, his office being in Wall street, first Number 47, and afterward Number 16. Young Irving finished his studies with Mr. Hoffman, and immediately took office with his brother John, at Number 3 Wall street. To these two was soon added the presence of Peter, who was still connected with the press, and thus might have been found for a short time a most interesting and talented, as well as fraternal trio.
Washington was still, to a considerable degree an habitué of Mr. Hoffman's office, and it seems quite amusing that one who was so dull at reading law that he makes merry with his own deficiencies, should have a connection with two offices. But the name of Matilda was the magnet which drew him to one where he vainly struggled to climb Alp on Alp of difficulties in hope of love's fruition, while at the other he might smile at the bewilderments of Coke, brush away the cobwebs from his brain, and recreate himself with the rich humors of Salmagundi.
The place and time where this remarkable attachment had its inception, are not known; but like all such affairs, it arose, no doubt, from felicitous accident. In one of his sketches, Irving speaks of a mysterious footprint seen on the sward of the Battery, which awoke a romantic interest in his breast. This youthful incident comes to our mind when we remember that Mr. Hoffman lived at Number 68 Greenwich street, not a stone's throw from the Battery, and we have sometimes thought that the mysterious footprint might have been Matilda's. At any rate, the Battery was at that day a place of fashionable resort, and hence the fair but fragile form of Matilda Hoffman could almost any day have been seen tripping among bevies of city girls in pursuit of health or pleasure. But whatever be the history of its origin, the attachment became one of mutual strength; and while young Irving was surrounded by piles of lawbooks and red tape, his hope of success was identified with the name of Matilda. My remembrance of Matilda (her name was Sarah Matilda, but the first was dropped in common intercourse) revives a countenance of great sweetness, and an indescribable beauty of expression. Her auburn hair played carelessly in the wind, and her features, though not of classic outline, were radiant with life. Her eye was one of the finest I have ever seen—rich, deep-toned, and eloquent, speaking volumes in each varying expression, and generally suggestive of pensive emotion. Irving was about eight years her senior, and this difference was just sufficient to draw out that fond reliance of female character which he has so beautifully set forth in the sketch of 'The Wife.' The brief period of this courtship was the sunny hour of his life, for his tender and sensitive nature forbade any thing but the most ardent attachment. What dreams of future bliss floated before his intoxicated vision, soon to change to the stern realities of grieving sorrow!
In 1809, Mr. Hoffman removed to a suburban residence in Broadway, (corner of Leonard street,) and the frequent walks which the young lover took up that sequestered avenue may have suggested some of the descriptions of the same street in the pages of the History of New-York, and his allusions to the front-gardens so adapted to ancient courtship. While at this mansion, amid all the blandishments of hope, Matilda's health began to fail beyond the power of restoratives, and the anxious eye both of parent and betrothed, marked the advance of relentless disease. The maiden faded away from their affections until both stood by her bed and saw her breathe her last.
The biographer informs us that after Mr. Irving's death, there was found in a repository of which he always kept the key, a memorial of this affair, which had evidently been written to some friend, in explanation of his single life. Of the memorial the following extract is given:
'We saw each other every day, and I became excessively attached to her. Her shyness wore off by degrees. The more I saw of her the more I had reason to admire her. Her mind seemed to unfold itself leaf by leaf, and every time to discover new sweetness. Nobody knew her so well as I, for she was generally timid and silent, but I, in a manner, studied her excellence. Never did I meet more intuitive rectitude of mind, more native delicacy, more exquisite propriety in word, thought, or action, than in this young creature. I am not exaggerating; what I say was acknowledged by all who knew her. Her brilliant little sister used to say that people began by admiring her, but ended by loving Matilda. For my part, I idolized her. I felt at times rebuked by her superior delicacy and purity, as if I was a coarse, unworthy being, in comparison.
'This passion was terribly against my studies. I felt my own deficiency, and despaired of ever succeeding at the bar. I could study any thing else rather than law, and had a fatal propensity to belles-lettres. I had gone on blindly like a boy in love, but now I began to open my eyes and be miserable. I had nothing in purse or in expectation. I anticipated nothing from my legal pursuits, and had done nothing to make me hope for public employment, or political elevation. I had begun a satirical and humorous work, (The History of New-York,) in company with one of my brothers; but he had gone to Europe shortly after commencing it, and my feelings had run in so different a vein that I could not go on with it. I became low-spirited and disheartened, and did not know what was to become of me. I made frequent attempts to apply myself to the law; but it is a slow and tedious undertaking for a young man to get into practice, and I had, unluckily, no turn for business. The gentleman with whom I studied saw the state of my mind. He had an affectionate regard for me—a paternal one, I may say. He had a better opinion of my legal capacity than it merited. He urged me to return to my studies, to apply myself, to become well acquainted with the law, and that in case I could make myself capable of undertaking legal concerns, he would take me into partnership with him and give me his daughter. Nothing could be more generous. I set to work with zeal to study anew, and I considered myself bound in honor not to make farther advances with the daughter until I should feel satisfied with my proficiency with the law. It was all in vain. I had an insuperable repugnance to the study; my mind would not take hold of it; or rather, by long despondency had become for the time incapable of any application. I was in a wretched state of doubt and self-distrust. I tried to finish the work which I was secretly writing, hoping it would give me reputation and gain me some public employment. In the mean time I saw Matilda every day, and that helped distract me. In the midst of this struggle and anxiety, she was taken ill with a cold. Nothing was thought of it at first, but she grew rapidly worse, and fell into a consumption. I can not tell you what I suffered. The ills that I have undergone in this life have been dealt out to me drop by drop, and I have tasted all their bitterness. I saw her fade rapidly away—beautiful and more beautiful, and more angelic to the very last. I was often by her bedside, and in her wandering state of mind she would talk to me with a sweet, natural, and affecting eloquence that was overpowering. I saw more of the beauty of her mind in that delirious state than I had ever known before. Her malady was rapid in its career, and hurried her off in two months. Her dying-struggles were painful and protracted. For three days and nights I did not leave the house, and scarcely slept. I was by her when she died. All the family were assembled around her, some praying, others weeping, for she was adored by them all. I was the last one she looked upon. I have told you as briefly as I could, what, if I were to tell with all the incidents and feelings that accompanied it, would fill volumes. She was but seventeen years old when she died.
'I can not tell you what a horrid state of mind I was in for a long time. I seemed to care for nothing; the world was a blank to me. I abandoned all thoughts of the law. I went into the country, but could not bear solitude, yet could not enjoy society. There was a dismal horror continually on my mind that made me fear to be alone. I had often to get up in the night and seek the bedroom of my brother, as if the having of a human being by me would relieve me from the frightful gloom of my own thoughts.
'Months elapsed before my mind would resume any tone, but the despondency I had suffered for a long time in the course of this attachment, and the anguish that attended its final catastrophe, seemed to give a turn to my whole character, and threw some clouds into my disposition, which have ever since hung about it. When I became more calm and collected, I applied myself, by way of occupation, to the finishing of my work. I brought it to a close as well as I could, and published it; but the time and circumstances in which it was produced rendered me always unable to look upon it with satisfaction. Still, it took with the public, and gave me celebrity, as an original work was something remarkable and uncommon in America. I was noticed, caressed, and for a time elevated by the popularity I had gained. Wherever I went, I was overwhelmed with attentions. I was full of youth and animation, far different from the being I now am, and I was quite flushed with this early taste of public favor. Still, however, the career of gayety and notoriety soon palled upon me. I seemed to drift about without aim or object, at the mercy of every breeze; my heart wanted anchorage. I was naturally susceptible, and tried to form other attachments, but my heart would not hold on. It would continually revert to what it had lost; and whenever there was a pause in the hurry of novelty and excitement, I would sink into dismal dejection. For years I could not talk on the subject of this hopeless regret; I could not even mention her name; but her image was continually before me, and I dreamed of her incessantly.'
The fragment of which the above is an extract, is doubly interesting as not only clearing up a mystery which the world has long desired to penetrate, but also as giving Irving's experience in his own words. It proves how deeply he felt the pangs of a rooted sorrow, and how impossible it was, amid all the attractions of society, for him to escape the power of one who had bidden to all earthly societies an everlasting farewell. That his regrets over his early bereavement did not arise from overwrought dreams of excellence in the departed, is evident from the character she bore with others; and this is illustrated by the following extract from a faded copy of the Commercial Advertiser, which reads as follows:
'OBITUARY,
'Died, on the 26th instant, in the eighteenth year of her age, Miss Sarah Matilda Hoffman, daughter of Josiah Ogden Hoffman. Thus another youthful and lovely victim is added to the ravages of that relentless and invincible enemy to earthly happiness, the consumption. In the month of January we beheld this amiable and interesting girl in the glow of health and spirits, the delight of her friends, the joy and pride of her family; she is now cold and lifeless as the clod of the valley. So falls the tender flower of spring as it expands its bosom to the chilling blight of the morning frost. Endowed by nature with a mind unusually discriminating, and a docility of temper and disposition admirably calculated to reap profit from instruction, Miss Hoffman very early became an object of anxious care and solicitude to the fondest of fathers. That care and solicitude he soon found richly rewarded by the progress she made in her learning, and by every evidence of a grateful and feeling heart. After completing the course of her education in a highly respectable seminary in Philadelphia, she returned to her father's house, where she diligently sought every opportunity to improve her mind by various and useful reading. She charmed the circle of her friends by the suavity of her disposition and the most gentle and engaging manners. She delighted and blessed her own family by her uniformly correct and Though not formed to mingle and shine in the noisy haunts of dissipation, she was eminently fitted to increase the store of domestic happiness, to bring pleasure and tranquillity to the fireside, and to gladden the fond heart of a parent.
'Religion, so necessary to our peace in this world and to our happiness in the next, and which gives so high a lustre to the charms and to the virtues of woman, constantly shed her benign influence over the conduct of Miss Hoffman, nor could the insidious attempts of the infidel for a moment weaken her confidence in its heavenly doctrines. With a form rather slender and fragile was united a beauty of face, which, though not dazzling, had so much softness, such a touching sweetness in it, that the expression which mantled over her features was in a high degree lovely and interesting. Her countenance was indeed the faithful image of a mind that was purity itself, and of a heart where compassion and goodness had fixed their abode. To the sweetest disposition that ever graced a woman, was joined a sensibility, not the fictitious creature of the imagination, but the glowing offspring of a pure and affectionate soul.
'Tenderness, that quality of the heart which gives such a charm to every female virtue, was hers in an eminent degree. It diffused itself over every action of her life. Sometimes blended with a delicate and happy humor, characteristic of her nature, it would delight the social circle; again, with the most assiduous offices of affection, it would show itself at the sick couch of a parent, a relative, or a friend. In this manner the writer of this brief memorial witnessed those soothing acts of kindness which, under peculiar circumstances, will ever be dear to his memory. Alas! little did she then dream that in one short year she herself would fall a sacrifice to the same disease under which the friend to whom she so kindly ministered, sunk to the grave.'
This testimony to departed worth bears the impress of deep sincerity, and its freedom from the fulsome praise, which so often varnishes the dead, seems to add to its force. Peter Irving, also, pays a tribute to her character in the following utterance, in a letter to his bereaved brother: 'May her gentle spirit have found that heaven to which it ever seemed to appertain. She was too spotless for this contaminated world.'
The biographer states that 'Mr. Irving never alluded to this event, nor did any of his relatives ever venture in his presence to introduce the name of Matilda,' 'I have heard,' he adds, 'of but one instance in which it was ever obtruded upon him, and that was by her father, nearly thirty years after her death, and at his own house. A granddaughter had been requested to play for him some favorite piece on the piano, and in extricating her music from the drawer, she accidentally brought forth a piece of embroidery with it. 'Washington,' said Mr. Hoffman, picking up the faded relic, 'this is a piece of poor Matilda's workmanship.' The effect was electric. He had been conversing in the sprightliest mood before, but he sunk at once into utter silence, and in a few moments got up and left the house. It is evidence with what romantic tenderness Irving cherished the memory of this early love, that he kept by him through life the Bible and Prayer-Book of Matilda. He lay with them under his pillow in the first days of keen and vivid anguish that followed her loss, and they were ever afterward, in all changes of climate and country, his inseparable companions.'
The scene at the house of Mr. Hoffman, to which the biographer alludes, took place after Irving's second return from Europe, and after an absence of nearly twenty years from his native land. During this time he had become famous as an author, and had been conceded the position of the first American gentleman in Europe. He had been received at Courts as in his official position (Secretary of Legation) and had received the admiration of the social and intellectual aristocracy of England. Returning full of honors, he became at once the lion of New-York, and was greeted by a public dinner at the City Hotel. How little could it have been imagined, that amid all this harvest of honors, while he stood the cynosure of a general admiration, he should still be under the power of a youthful attachment, and that outliving all the glories of his splendid success, a maiden, dead thirty years, held him with undying power. While others thought him the happy object of a nation's popularity, his heart was stealing away from noise and notice to the hallowed ground where Matilda lay.
'Oh! what are thousand living loves
To that which can not quit the dead?'
The biographer observes that 'it is in the light of this event that we must interpret portions of 'Rural Funerals,' in the Sketch-Book, and 'Saint Mark's Eve,' in Bracebridge Hull.' From the former of these, we therefore make an extract, which is now so powerfully illustrated by the experience of its author:
'The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal; every other affliction to forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open; this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother that would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang? Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to lament? Who in the hour of agony would forget the friend over whom he mourns? Who, when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved, when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed, in the closing of its portal, would accept of consolation that must be bought by forgetfulness? No; the love that survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection; when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness, who would root out such a sorrow from the heart? Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it even for the song of pleasure or the burst of revelry? No; there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song; there is a remembrance of the dead to which we turn even from the charms of the living.... But the grave of those we love, what a place for meditation! There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtue and goodness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy; there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the dying scene. The bed of death, with all its stifled griefs, its noiseless attendance, its mute, watchful assiduities. The last testimonies of expiring love! The feeble, fluttering, thrilling—oh! how thrilling—pressure of the hand! The last fond look of the glazing eye turned upon us even from the threshold of existence! The faint, faltering accents struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection!'
How truly is this passage 'to be interpreted in the light of the event in Irving's history', when it is evident from a comparison of it with the memoranda, that it is a sketch of that scene which wrecked his brightest hopes, and that here he is renewing in this unequaled description of a dying-bed, the last hours of Matilda Hoffman. The highly-wrought picture presents a complete detail to the eye, and yet still more powerful is that simple utterance in the memoranda: 'I was the last one she looked upon.'
St. Mark's Eve,' to which reference is also made, was written several years subsequently, and as may be gathered from its tone, under circumstances of peculiar loneliness. It was while a solitary occupant of his lodgings, a stranger in a foreign city, that he felt the inspiration of precious memories, and improved his lonely hours by this exquisite production. 'I am alone,' he writes, 'in my chamber; but these themes have taken such hold upon me that I can not sleep. The room in which I sit is just fitted to foster such a state of mind. The walls are hung with tapestry, the figures of which are faded and look like unsubstantial shapes melting away from sight.... The murmur of voices and the peal of remote laughter no longer reach the ear. The clock from the church, in which so many of the former inhabitants of this house lie buried, has chimed the awful hour of midnight.' It was a fitting time to yield to the power of that undying affection which abode with him under all changes, and the serene presence of one snatched from him years ago must at such times have invested him as with a spell. Thus he writes:
'Even the doctrines of departed spirits returning to visit the scenes and beings which were dear to them during the body's existence, though it has been debased by the absurd superstitions of the vulgar, in itself is awfully solemn and sublime.... Raise it above the frivolous purposes to which it has been applied; strip it of the gloom and horror with which it has been surrounded; and there is none of the whole circle of visionary creeds that could more delightfully elevate the imagination or more tenderly affect the heart.... What could be more consoling than the idea that the souls of those we once loved were permitted to return and watch over our welfare?—that affectionate and guardian spirits sat by our pillows while we slept, keeping a vigil over our most helpless hours?—that beauty and innocence which had languished in the tomb yet smiled unseen around us, revealing themselves in those blest dreams wherein they live over again the hours of past endearments?.... There are departed beings that I have loved as I never shall love again in this world—that have loved me as I never again shall be loved. If such beings do ever retain in their blessed spheres the attachments they felt on earth; if they take an interest in the poor concerns of transient mortality, and are permitted to hold communion with those they have loved on earth, I feel as if now, at this deep hour of night, in this silence and solitude, I could receive their visitation with the most solemn but unalloyed delight.'
The use of the plural in the above extract obviated that publicity of his especial bereavement which would have arisen from a reference to one, and it is to be explained by the deaths of three persons to whom he sustained the most endearing though varied relations of which man is capable: his mother, his sister Nancy, and his betrothed. The first two had become sacred memories, and were enshrined in the sanctuary of his soul; but the latter was a thing of life, whose existence had become identified with his own, and was made sure beyond the power of disease and mortality. Who, indeed, would have been so welcome to the solitary tourist on that weird midnight as she whose Bible and Prayer-Book accompanied his wanderings, whose miniature was his treasure, and of whom he could say: 'She died in the beauty of her youth, and in my memory she will ever be young and beautiful.'
That a reünion with all the beloved of earth was a controlling thought in his mind, and one bearing an especial reference to this supreme bereavement, is manifest from the following, from the same sketch:
'We take each other by the hand, and we exchange a few words and looks of kindness, and we rejoice together for a few moments, and then days, months, years intervene, and we see and know nothing of each other. Or granting that we dwell together for the full season of this mortal life, the grave soon closes its gates between us, and then our spirits are doomed to remain in separation and widowhood until they meet again in that more perfect state of being, where soul will dwell with soul in blissful communion, and there will be neither death, nor absence, nor any thing else to interrupt our felicity.'
Such was the view which cheered the life of one thus early stripped of promised and expected happiness, and to which he dung during all changes of time and place. Amid the infirmities of advancing years, while surrounded by an endearing circle of relatives, who ministered to him with the most watchful affection, there was one that abode in still closer communion with his heart. While writing in his study at Sunnyside, or pacing, in quiet solitude, the streets of New-York, at all times, a fair young form hovered over him and beckoned him heavenward. Years passed on, until a half-century had been told. All things had changed, the scenes and characters of early life had passed away. The lover had become a kindly old man. The young essayist had become a great author and an heir of fame. The story of life was complete. The hour of his departure was at hand, when suddenly the same hand which had separated the lovers reünited them forever. Who shall say that the last image which flitted across his mind at the awful moment of dissolution, was not that fresh and lovely form which he had cherished in unchanging affection for fifty years?
I have stated my opinion that it was Irving's disappointment which made him the great American author, and to this opinion I now return with increased confidence. Had the plans of his youth been carried out; had he become a partner of Mr. Hoffman, and had the hands of the lovers been united, the whole tenor of his life would have been changed. He would have published some fine things, in addition to the Knickerbocker history, and would have ranked high as a gentleman of elegant humor; but where would have been his enduring works? We sympathize with the disappointed lover; but we feel thankful that from his sorrow we gather such precious fruit. The death of Matilda led him abroad—to Spain, where he compiled his Columbus and gathered material for his Alhambra—and to England, where the Columbus was finished and published, and where his name became great, in spite of national prejudice. Beside this, the sorrow which cast its sacred shadow upon him gave his writings that endearing charm which fascinates the emotional nature and enabled him to touch the hidden chords of the heart.
If Ogilvie could congratulate him on the bankruptcy which drove him from the details of trade to the richer fruition of literary promise, we may consider it a beneficent working of Providence, which afforded to Irving a still earlier emancipation from the law, cheered as it might have been by the kindness of Mr. Hoffman and the society of Matilda.
Such being the remarkable chain which unites the names of the author and his love, we can not but consider her as a part of his character through the best years of his life and amid all the splendid success of his literary career. Indeed, through coming generations of readers, the names of Irving and Matilda will be united in the loveliest and most romantic of associations.
I have prolonged this reminiscence to an unexpected length, and yet can not close without a few additional thoughts which grow out of the perusal of the biography. Perhaps the chief of these is the nationality of Irving's character, particularly while a resident of Europe. Neither the pungent bitterness of the British press nor the patronage of the aristocracy could abate the firmness with which he upheld the dignity of his country. He was not less her representative when a struggling author in Liverpool or London than when Secretary of Legation at the Court of St. James, or Ambassador at Madrid. His first appearance abroad was at a time of little foreign travel, and an American was an object of remark and observation. His elegant simplicity reflected honor upon his native land, and amid all classes, and in all places, love of country ruled him. This high tone pervaded his views of public duty. A gross defaulter having been mentioned in his presence, he replied, that 'next to robbing one's father it is, to rob one's country.'
It is also worthy of note that while Irving lived to unusual fullness of years, yet he never was considered an old man. We do not so much refer to his erect and vigorous frame as to the freshness of his mind. It is said that Goethe, on being asked the definition of a poet, replied: 'One who preserves to old age the feelings of youth.' Such was a leading feature in Mr. Irving's spirit, which, notwithstanding his shadowed hours, was so buoyant and cheerful. His countenance was penseroso when in repose, and allegro in action, and these graces clung to him even in life's winter, like the flower at the base of the glacier.
Among the varied elements which constituted Irving's popularity, one of them might have been the beauty of his name, whose secret is revealed by the laws of prosody. Washington is a stately dactyl; Irving is a sweet and mellow spondee, and thus we have a combination which poets in ancient and modern days have sought with sedulous care, and which should close every line of hexameter verse. Hence a measure such, as that found in 'Washington Irving' terminates every line in Evangeline, or the works of Virgil, thus:
or
It will be readily perceived that the name of the American author can be substituted for the feet italicized above, without injuring the measure, while in some of Moore's finest stansas beautifully alternates the same verse, thus:
At the close of his last great work, Mr. Irving sought for rest. He laid aside his pen, even from correspondence, and felt that his work was done. When in New-York, he was often to be found at the Astor Library, of which he was a trustee; but his visits to the city became few, and he seemed to realize that his time was come. To one who kindly remarked, 'I hope you will soon be better,' He calmly replied, in an earnest tone: 'I shall never be better.' The words came true too soon, and amid an unequaled pomp of unaffected sorrow, they bore him to a place of rest, by the side of his parents and all of his kin who had gone before him.
BYRONIC MISANTHROPY.
He has a grief he can not speak;
He wears his hat awry;
He blacks his boots but once a week;
And says he wants to die!
NEW-ENGLAND'S ADVANCE.
Hurrah! for our New-England,
When she rose up firm and grand,
In her calm, terrific beauty,
With the stout sword in her hand;
When she raised her arm undaunted,
In the sacred cause of Right,
Like a crowned queen of valor,
Strong in her faith and might.
Hurrah! for our New-England!
When the war-cry shook the breeze,
She wore the garb of glory,
And quaffed the cup of ease;
But I saw a look of daring
On her proud features rise,
And the fire of will was flashing
Through the calm light of her eyes.
From her brow serene, majestic,
The wreath of peace she took,
And war's red rose sprang blooming,
And its bloody petals shook
On her heaving, beating bosom;
And with forehead crowned with light,
Transfigured, she presented
Her proud form to the fight.
Hurrah! for our New-England!
What lightning courage ran
Through her brave heart, as she bounded
To the battle's fearful van;
O'er her head the starry banner;
While her loud, inspiring cry,
'Death or Freedom for our Nation,'
Rang against the clouded sky.
I saw our own New-England
Dealing blows for Truth and Right,
And the grandeur of her purpose
Gave her eyes a sacred light;
Ah! name her 'the Invincible,'
Through rebel rank and host;
For Justice evermore is done,
And Right comes uppermost.
Hurrah for our New-England!
Through the battle's fearful brunt,
Through the red sea of the carnage,
Still she struggles in the front;
And victory's war-eagle,
Hovering o'er the fiery blast,
On her floating, starry standard.
Is settling down at last.
There is glory for New-England,
When Oppression's strife is done,
When the tools of Wrong are vanquished,
And the cause of Freedom won;
She shall sit in garments spotless,
And shall breathe the odorous balm
Of the cool green of contentment,
In the bowers of peace and calm.
WAS HE SUCCESSFUL?
'Do but grasp into the thick of human life! Every one lives it—to many it is known; and seize it where you will, it is interesting.—Goethe.
'SUCCESSFUL.—Terminating in accomplishing what is wished or intended.'—Webster's Dictionary.