now, I believe, living in Baltimore. After the sermon the minister
called upon one of the elders, a gray-headed old man, to pray. His
manner was very fervent and impressive, but his language was so broken
that to our unaccustomed ears it was quite unintelligible. After the
services the people gathered in groups outside, talking among
themselves, and exchanging kindly greetings with the superintendents and
teachers. In their bright handkerchiefs and white aprons they made a
striking picture under the gray-mossed trees. We drove afterward a mile
farther, to the Episcopal Church, in which the aristocracy of the island
used to worship. It is a small white building, situated in a fine grove
of live-oaks, at the junction of several roads. On one of the tombstones
in the yard is the touching inscription in memory of two
children,--"Blessed little lambs, and _art thou_ gathered into the fold
of the only true shepherd? Sweet _lillies_ of the valley, and _art thou_
removed to a more congenial soil?" The floor of the church is of stone,
the pews of polished oak. It has an organ, which is not so entirely out
of tune as are the pianos on the island. One of the ladies played, while
the gentlemen sang,--old-fashioned New-England church-music, which it
was pleasant to hear, but it did not thrill us as the singing of the
people had done.

During the week we moved to Oaklands, our future home. The house was of
one story, with a low-roofed piazza running the whole length. The
interior had been thoroughly scrubbed and whitewashed; the exterior was
guiltless of whitewash or paint. There were five rooms, all quite small,
and several dark little entries, in one of which we found shelves lined
with old medicine-bottles. These were a part of the possessions of the
former owner, a Rebel physician, Dr. Sams by name. Some of them were
still filled with his nostrums. Our furniture consisted of a bedstead,
two bureaus, three small pine tables, and two chairs, one of which had a
broken back. These were lent to us by the people. The masters, in their
hasty flight from the islands, left nearly all their furniture; but much
of it was destroyed or taken by the soldiers who came first, and what
they left was removed by the people to their own houses. Certainly, they
have the best right to it. We had made up our minds to dispense with all
luxuries and even many conveniences; but it was rather distressing to
have no fire, and nothing to eat. Mr. H. had already appropriated a room
for the store which he was going to open for the benefit of the freed
people, and was superintending the removal of his goods. So L. and I
were left to our own resources. But Cupid the elder came to the
rescue,--Cupid, who, we were told, was to be our right-hand man, and who
very graciously informed us that he would take care of us; which he at
once proceeded to do by bringing in some wood, and busying himself in
making a fire in the open fireplace. While he is thus engaged, I will
try to describe him. A small, wiry figure, stockingless, shoeless, out
at the knees and elbows, and wearing the remnant of an old straw hat,
which looked as if it might have done good service in scaring the crows
from a cornfield. The face nearly black, very ugly, but with the
shrewdest expression I ever saw, and the brightest, most humorous
twinkle in the eyes. One glance at Cupid's face showed that he was not a
person to be imposed upon, and that he was abundantly able to take care
of himself, as well as of us. The chimney obstinately refused to draw,
in spite of the original and very uncomplimentary epithets which Cupid
heaped upon it,--while we stood by, listening to him in amusement,
although nearly suffocated by the smoke. At last, perseverance
conquered, and the fire began to burn cheerily. Then Amaretta, our
cook,--a neat-looking black woman, adorned with the gayest of
head-handkerchiefs,--made her appearance with some eggs and hominy,
after partaking of which we proceeded to arrange our scanty furniture,
which was soon done. In a few days we began to look civilized, having
made a table-cover of some red and yellow handkerchiefs which we found
among the store-goods,--a carpet of red and black woollen plaid,
originally intended for frocks and shirts,--a cushion, stuffed with
corn-husks and covered with calico, for a lounge, which Ben, the
carpenter, had made for us of pine boards,--and lastly some corn-husk
beds, which were an unspeakable luxury, after having endured agonies for
several nights, sleeping on the slats of a bedstead. It is true, the
said slats were covered with blankets, but these might as well have been
sheets of paper for all the good they did us. What a resting-place it
was! Compared to it, the gridiron of St. Lawrence--fire excepted--was as
a bed of roses.

The first day at school was rather trying. Most of my children were very
small, and consequently restless. Some were too young to learn the
alphabet. These little ones were brought to school because the older
children--in whose care their parents leave them while at work--could
not come without them. We were therefore willing to have them come,
although they seemed to have discovered the secret of perpetual motion,
and tried one's patience sadly. But after some days of positive, though
not severe treatment, order was brought out of chaos, and I found but
little difficulty in managing and quieting the tiniest and most restless
spirits. I never before saw children so eager to learn, although I had
had several years' experience in New-England schools. Coming to school
is a constant delight and recreation to them. They come here as other
children go to play. The older ones, during the summer, work in the
fields from early morning until eleven or twelve o'clock, and then come
into school, after their hard toil in the hot sun, as bright and as
anxious to learn as ever.

Of course there are some stupid ones, but these are the minority. The
majority learn with wonderful rapidity. Many of the grown people are
desirous of learning to read. It is wonderful how a people who have been
so long crushed to the earth, so imbruted as these have been,--and they
are said to be among the most degraded negroes of the South,--can have
so great a desire for knowledge, and such a capability for attaining it.
One cannot believe that the haughty Anglo-Saxon race, after centuries of
such an experience as these people have had, would be very much superior
to them. And one's indignation increases against those who, North as
well as South, taunt the colored race with inferiority while they
themselves use every means in their power to crush and degrade them,
denying them every right and privilege, closing against them every
avenue of elevation and improvement. Were they, under such
circumstances, intellectual and refined, they would certainly be vastly
superior to any other race that ever existed.

After the lessons, we used to talk freely to the children, often giving
them slight sketches of some of the great and good men. Before teaching
them the "John Brown" song, which they learned to sing with great
spirit, Miss T. told them the story of the brave old man who had died
for them. I told them about Toussaint, thinking it well they should know
what one of their own color had done for his race. They listened
attentively, and seemed to understand. We found it rather hard to keep
their attention in school. It is not strange, as they have been so
entirely unused to intellectual concentration. It is necessary to
interest them every moment, in order to keep their thoughts from
wandering. Teaching here is consequently far more fatiguing than at the
North. In the church, we had of course but one room in which to hear all
the children; and to make one's self heard, when there were often as
many as a hundred and forty reciting at once, it was necessary to tax
the lungs very severely.

My walk to school, of about a mile, was part of the way through a road
lined with trees,--on one side stately pines, on the other noble
live-oaks, hung with moss and canopied with vines. The ground was
carpeted with brown, fragrant pine-leaves; and as I passed through in
the morning, the woods were enlivened by the delicious songs of
mocking-birds, which abound here, making one realize the truthful
felicity of the description in "Evangeline,"--

            "The mocking-bird, wildest of singers,
  Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music
  That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen."

The hedges were all aglow with the brilliant scarlet berries of the
cassena, and on some of the oaks we observed the mistletoe, laden with
its pure white, pearl-like berries. Out of the woods the roads are
generally bad, and we found it hard work plodding through the deep sand.

Mr. H.'s store was usually crowded, and Cupid was his most valuable
assistant. Gay handkerchiefs for turbans, pots and kettles, and
molasses, were principally in demand, especially the last. It was
necessary to keep the molasses-barrel in the yard, where Cupid presided
over it, and harangued and scolded the eager, noisy crowd, collected
around, to his heart's content; while up the road leading to the house
came constantly processions of men, women, and children, carrying on
their heads cans, jugs, pitchers, and even bottles,--anything, indeed,
that was capable of containing molasses. It is wonderful with what ease
they carry all sorts of things on their heads,--heavy bundles of wood,
hoes and rakes, everything, heavy or light, that can be carried in the
hands; and I have seen a woman, with a bucketful of water on her head,
stoop down and take up another in her hand, without spilling a drop from
either.

We noticed that the people had much better taste in selecting materials
for dresses than we had supposed. They do not generally like gaudy
colors, but prefer neat, quiet patterns. They are, however, very fond of
all kinds of jewelry. I once asked the children in school what their
ears were for. "To put ring in," promptly replied one of the little
girls.

These people are exceedingly polite in their manner towards each other,
each new arrival bowing, scraping his feet, and shaking hands with the
others, while there are constant greetings, such as, "Huddy? How's yer
lady?" ("How d' ye do? How's your wife?") The hand-shaking is performed
with the greatest possible solemnity. There is never the faintest shadow
of a smile on anybody's face during this performance. The children, too,
are taught to be very polite to their elders, and it is the rarest thing
to hear a disrespectful word from a child to his parent, or to any grown
person. They have really what the New-Englanders call "beautiful
manners."

We made daily visits to the "quarters," which were a few rods from the
house. The negro-houses, on this as on most of the other plantations,
were miserable little huts, with nothing comfortable or home-like about
them, consisting generally of but two very small rooms,--the only way of
lighting them, no matter what the state of the weather, being to leave
the doors and windows open. The windows, of course, have no glass in
them. In such a place, a father and mother with a large family of
children are often obliged to live. It is almost impossible to teach
them habits of neatness and order, when they are so crowded. We look
forward anxiously to the day when better houses shall increase their
comfort and pride of appearance.

Oaklands is a very small plantation. There were not more than eight or
nine families living on it. Some of the people interested us much.
Celia, one of the best, is a cripple. Her master, she told us, was too
mean to give his slaves clothes enough to protect them, and her feet and
legs were so badly frozen that they required amputation. She has a
lovely face,--well-featured and singularly gentle. In every household
where there was illness or trouble, Celia's kind, sympathizing face was
the first to be seen, and her services were always the most acceptable.

Harry, the foreman on the plantation, a man of a good deal of natural
intelligence, was most desirous of learning to read. He came in at night
to be taught, and learned very rapidly. I never saw any one more
determined to learn. "We enjoyed hearing him talk about the
"gun-shoot,"--so the people call the capture of Bay Point and Hilton
Head. They never weary of telling you "how Massa run when he hear de
fust gun."

"Why didn't you go with him, Harry?" I asked.

"Oh, Miss, 't wasn't 'cause Massa didn't try to 'suade me. He tell we
dat de Yankees would shoot we, or would sell we to Cuba, an' do all de
wust tings to we, when dey come. 'Bery well, Sar,' says I. 'If I go wid
you, I be good as dead. If I stay here, I can't be no wust; so if I got
to dead, I might's well dead here as anywhere. So I'll stay here an'
wait for de "dam Yankees."' Lor', Miss, I knowed he wasn't tellin' de
truth all de time."

"But why didn't you believe him, Harry?"

"Dunno, Miss; somehow we hear de Yankees was our friends, an' dat we'd
be free when dey come, an' 'pears like we believe _dat_."

I found this to be true of nearly all the people I talked with, and I
thought it strange they should have had so much faith in the
Northerners. Truly, for years past, they had had but little cause to
think them very friendly. Cupid told us that his master was so daring as
to come back, after he had fled from the island, at the risk of being
taken prisoner by our soldiers; and that he ordered the people to get
all the furniture together and take it to a plantation on the opposite
side of the creek, and to stay on that side themselves. "So," said
Cupid, "dey could jus' sweep us all up in a heap, an' put us in de boat.
An' he telled me to take Patience--dat's my wife--an' de chil'en down to
a certain pint, an' den I could come back, if I choose. Jus' as if I was
gwine to be sich a goat!" added he, with a look and gesture of ineffable
contempt. He and the rest of the people, instead of obeying their
master, left the place and hid themselves in the woods; and when he came
to look for them, not one of all his "faithful servants" was to be
found. A few, principally house-servants, had previously been carried
away.

In the evenings, the children frequently came in to sing and shout for
us. These "shouts" are very strange,--in truth, almost indescribable. It
is necessary to hear and see in order to have any clear idea of them.
The children form a ring, and move around in a kind of shuffling dance,
singing all the time. Four or five stand apart, and sing very
energetically, clapping their hands, stamping their feet, and rocking
their bodies to and fro. These are the musicians, to whose performance
the shouters keep perfect time. The grown people on this plantation did
not shout, but they do on some of the other plantations. It is very
comical to see little children, not more than three or four years old,
entering into the performance with all their might. But the shouting of
the grown people is rather solemn and impressive than otherwise. We
cannot determine whether it has a religious character or not. Some of
the people tell us that it has, others that it has not. But as the
shouts of the grown people are always in connection with their
religious meetings, it is probable that they are the barbarous
expression of religion, handed down to them from their African
ancestors, and destined to pass away under the influence of Christian
teachings. The people on this island have no songs. They sing only
hymns, and most of these are sad. Prince, a large black boy from a
neighboring plantation, was the principal shouter among the children. It
seemed impossible for him to keep still for a moment. His performances
were most amusing specimens of Ethiopian gymnastics. Amaretta the
younger, a cunning, kittenish little creature of only six years old, had
a remarkably sweet voice. Her favorite hymn, which we used to hear her
singing to herself as she walked through the yard, is one of the oddest
we have heard:--

    "What makes old Satan follow me so?
    Satan got nuttin' 't all fur to do wid me.

    CHORUS.

    "Tiddy Rosa, hold your light!
    Brudder Tony, hold your light!
    All de member, hold bright light
    On Canaan's shore!"

This is one of the most spirited shouting-tunes. "Tiddy" is their word
for sister.

A very queer-looking old man came into the store one day. He was dressed
in a complete suit of brilliant Brussels carpeting. Probably it had been
taken from his master's house after the "gun-shoot"; but he looked so
very dignified that we did not like to question him about it. The people
called him Doctor Crofts,--which was, I believe, his master's name, his
own being Scipio. He was very jubilant over the new state of things, and
said to Mr. H.,--"Don't hab me feelins hurt now. Used to hab me feelins
hurt all de time. But don't hab 'em hurt now no more." Poor old soul! We
rejoiced with him that he and his brethren no longer have their
"feelins" hurt, as in the old time.

On the Sunday before Thanksgiving, General Saxton's noble Proclamation
was read at church. We could not listen to it without emotion. The
people listened with the deepest attention, and seemed to understand and
appreciate it. Whittier has said of it and its writer,--"It is the most
beautiful and touching official document I ever read. God bless him!
'The bravest are the tenderest.'"

General Saxton is truly worthy of the gratitude and admiration with
which the people regard him. His unfailing kindness and consideration
for them--so different from the treatment they have sometimes received
at the hands of other officers--have caused them to have unbounded
confidence in General "_Saxby_," as they call him.

After the service, there were six couples married. Some of the dresses
were unique. One was particularly fine,--doubtless a cast-off dress of
the bride's former mistress. The silk and lace, ribbons, feathers and
flowers, were in a rather faded and decayed condition. But, comical as
the costumes were, we were not disposed to laugh at them. We were too
glad to see the poor creatures trying to lead right and virtuous lives.
The legal ceremony, which was formerly scarcely known among them, is now
everywhere consecrated. The constant and earnest advice of the minister
and teachers has not been given in vain; nearly every Sunday there are
several couples married in church. Some of them are people who have
grown old together.

Thanksgiving-Day was observed as a general holiday. According to General
Saxton's orders, an ox had been killed on each plantation, that the
people might that day have fresh meat, which was a great luxury
to them, and, indeed, to all of us. In the morning, a large
number--superintendents, teachers, and freed people--assembled in the
Baptist Church. It was a sight not soon to be forgotten,--that crowd of
eager, happy black faces, from which the shadow of Slavery had forever
passed. "Forever free! forever free!" those magical words of the
Proclamation were constantly singing themselves in my soul. After an
appropriate prayer and sermon by Mr. P., and singing by the people,
General Saxton made a short, but spirited speech, urging the young men
to enlist in the regiment then forming under Colonel Higginson. Mrs.
Gage told the people how the slaves in Santa Cruz had secured their
liberty. It was something entirely new and strange to them to hear a
woman speak in public; but they listened with great attention, and
seemed much interested. Before dispersing, they sang "Marching Along,"
which is an especial favorite with them. It was a very happy
Thanksgiving-Day for all of us. The weather was delightful; oranges and
figs were hanging on the trees; roses, oleanders, and japonicas were
blooming out-of-doors; the sun was warm and bright; and over all shone
gloriously the blessed light of Freedom,--Freedom forevermore!

One night, L. and I were roused from our slumbers by what seemed to us
loud and most distressing shrieks, proceeding from the direction of the
negro-houses. Having heard of one or two attempts which the Rebels had
recently made to land on the island, our first thought was, naturally,
that they had forced a landing, and were trying to carry off some of the
people. Every moment we expected to hear them at our doors; and knowing
that they had sworn vengeance against all the superintendents and
teachers, we prepared ourselves for the worst. After a little
reflection, we persuaded ourselves that it could not be the Rebels; for
the people had always assured us, that, in case of a Rebel attack, they
would come to us at once,--evidently thinking that we should be able to
protect them. But what could the shrieks mean? They ceased; then, a few
moments afterwards, began again, louder, more fearful than before; then
again they ceased, and all was silent. I am ashamed to confess that we
had not the courage to go out and inquire into the cause of the alarm.
Mr. H.'s room was in another part of the house, too far for him to give
us any aid. We hailed the dawn of day gladly enough, and eagerly sought
Cupid,--who was sure to know everything,--to obtain from him a solution
of the mystery. "Why, you wasn't scared at _dat?_" he exclaimed, in
great amusement; "'twasn't nuttin' but de black sogers dat comed up to
see der folks on t' oder side ob de creek. Dar wasn't no boat fur 'em on
dis side, so dey jus' blowed de whistle dey hab, so de folks might bring
one ober fur 'em. Dat was all 't was." And Cupid laughed so heartily
that we felt not a little ashamed of our fears. Nevertheless, we both
maintained that _we_ had never seen a whistle from which could be
produced sounds so startling, so distressing, so perfectly like the
shrieks of a human being.

Another night, while staying at a house some miles distant from ours, I
was awakened by hearing, as I thought, some one trying to open the door
from without. The door was locked; I lay perfectly still, and listened
intently. A few moments elapsed, and the sound was repeated; whereupon I
rose, and woke Miss W., who slept in the adjoining room. We lighted a
candle, took our revolvers, and seated ourselves on the bed, keeping our
weapons, so formidable in practised male hands, steadily pointed towards
the door, and uttering dire threats against the intruders,--presumed to
be Rebels, of course. Having maintained this tragical position for some
time, and hearing no further noise; we began to grow sleepy, and
extinguished our candle, returned to bed, and slept soundly till
morning. But that mystery remained unexplained. I was sure that the door
had been tried,--there could be no mistaking it. There was not the least
probability that any of the people had entered the house, burglars are
unknown on these islands, and there is nobody to be feared but the
Rebels.

The last and greatest alarm we had was after we had removed from
Oaklands to another plantation. I woke about two o'clock in the morning,
hearing the tramp of many feet in the yard below,--the steady tramp of
soldiers' feet. "The Rebels! they have come at last! all is over with us
now!" I thought at once, with a desperate kind of resignation. And I lay
still, waiting and listening. Soon I heard footsteps on the piazza;
then the hall-door was opened, and steps were heard distinctly in the
hall beneath; finally, I heard some one coming up the stairs. Then I
grasped my revolver, rose, and woke the other ladies.

"There are soldiers in the yard! Somebody has opened the hall-door, and
is coming up-stairs!"

Poor L., but half awakened, stared at me in speechless terror. The same
thought filled our minds. But Mrs. B., after listening for a moment,
exclaimed,--

"Why, that is my husband! I know his footsteps. He is coming up-stairs
to call me."

And so it proved. Her husband, who was a lieutenant in Colonel
Montgomery's regiment, had come up from camp with some of his men to
look after deserters. The door had been unfastened by a servant who on
that night happened to sleep in the house. I shall never forget the
delightful sensation of relief that came over me when the whole matter
was explained. It was almost overpowering; for, although I had made up
my mind to bear the worst, and bear it bravely, the thought of falling
into the hands of the Rebels was horrible in the extreme. A year of
intense mental suffering seemed to have been compressed into those few
moments.

GOLD HAIR.

A LEGEND OF PORNIC.

    Oh, the beautiful girl, too white,
        Who lived at Pornic, down by the sea,
    Just where the sea and the Loire unite!
        And a boasted name in Brittany
    She bore, which I will not write.

    Too white, for the flower of life is red;
        Her flesh was the soft, seraphic screen
    Of a soul that is meant (her parents said)
        To just see earth, and hardly be seen,
    And blossom in heaven instead.

    Yet earth saw one thing, one how fair!
        One grace that grew to its full on earth:
    Smiles might be sparse on her cheek so spare,
        And her waist want half a girdle's girth,
    But she had her great gold hair:

    Hair, such a wonder of flix and floss,
        Freshness and fragrance,--floods of it, too!
    Gold did I say? Nay, gold's mere dross.
        Here Life smiled, "Think what I meant to do!"
    And Love sighed, "Fancy my loss!"

    So, when she died, it was scarce more strange
        Than that, when some delicate evening dies,
    And you follow its spent sun's pallid range,
        There's a shoot of color startles the skies
    With sudden, violent change,--

    That, while the breath was nearly to seek,
        As they put the little cross to her lips,
    She changed; a spot came out on her cheek,
        A spark from her eye in mid-eclipse,
    And she broke forth, "I must speak!"

    "Not my hair!" made the girl her moan;--
        "All the rest is gone, or to go;
    But the last, last grace, my all, my own,
        Let it stay in the grave, that the ghosts may know!
    Leave my poor gold hair alone!"

    The passion thus vented, dead lay she.
        Her parents sobbed their worst on that;
    All friends joined in, nor observed degree:
        For, indeed, the hair was to wonder at,
    As it spread,--not flowing free,

    But curled around her brow, like a crown,
        And coiled beside her cheeks, like a cap,
    And calmed about her neck,--ay, down
        To her breast, pressed flat, without a gap
    I' the gold, it reached her gown.

    All kissed that face, like a silver wedge
        'Mid the yellow wealth, nor disturbed its hair;
    E'en the priest allowed death's privilege,
        As he planted the crucifix with care
    On her breast, 'twixt edge and edge.

    And thus was she buried, inviolate
        Of body and soul, in the very space
    By the altar,--keeping saintly state
        In Pornic church, for her pride of race,
    Pure life, and piteous fate.

    And in after-time would your fresh tear fall,
        Though your mouth might twitch with a dubious smile,
    As they told you of gold both robe and pall,
        How she prayed them leave it alone awhile,
    So it never was touched at all.

    Years flew; this legend grew at last
        The life of the lady; all she had done,
    All been, in the memories fading fast
        Of lover and friend, was summed in one
    Sentence survivors passed:

    To wit, she was meant for heaven, not earth;
        Had turned an' angel before the time:
    Yet, since she was mortal, in such dearth
        Of frailty, all you could count a crime
    Was--she knew her gold hair's worth.

    At little pleasant Pornic church,
        It chanced, the pavement wanted repair,
    Was taken to pieces: left in the lurch,
        A certain sacred space lay bare,
    And the boys began research.

    'T was the space where our sires would lay a saint,
        A benefactor,--a bishop, suppose;
    A baron with armor-adornments quaint;
        A dame with chased ring and jewelled rose,
    Things sanctity saves from taint:

    So we come to find them in after-days,
        When the corpse is presumed to have done with gauds,
    Of use to the living, in many ways;
        For the boys get pelf, and the town applauds,
    And the church deserves the praise.

    They grubbed with a will: and at length--_O cor
        Humanum, pectora coeca_, and the rest!--
    They found--no gauds they were prying for,
        No ring, no rose, but--who would have guessed?--
    A double Louis-d'or!

    Here was a case for the priest: he heard,
        Marked, inwardly digested, laid
    Finger on nose, smiled, "A little bird
        Chirps in my ear!"--then, "Bring a spade,
    Dig deeper!" he gave the word.

    And lo! when they came to the coffin-lid,
        Or the rotten planks which composed it once,
    Why, there lay the girl's skull wedged amid
        A mint of money, it served for the nonce
    To hold in its hair-heaps hid:

    Louis-d'ors, some six times five;
        And duly double, every piece.
    Now do you see? With the priest to shrive,--
        With parents preventing her soul's release
    By kisses that keep alive,--

    With heaven's gold gates about to ope,--
        With friends' praise, gold-like, lingering still,--
    What instinct had bidden the girl's hand grope
        For gold, the true sort?--"Gold in heaven, I hope;
    But I keep earth's, if God will!"

    Enough! The priest took the grave's grim yield;
        The parents, they eyed that price of sin
    As if _thirty pieces_ lay revealed
        On the place _to bury strangers in_,
    The hideous Potter's Field.

    But the priest bethought him: "'Milk that's spilt'
       --You know the adage! Watch and pray!
    Saints tumble to earth with so slight a tilt!
        It would build a new altar; that we may!"
    And the altar therewith was built.

    Why I deliver this horrible verse?
        As the text of a sermon, which now I preach:
    Evil or good may be better or worse
        In the human heart, but the mixture of each
    Is a marvel and a curse.

    The candid incline to surmise of late
        That the Christian faith may be false, I find;
    For our Essays-and-Reviews' debate
        Begins to tell on the public mind,
    And Colenso's words have weight:

    I still to suppose it true, for my part,
        See reasons and reasons; this, to begin:
    'T is the faith that launched point-blank her dart
        At the head of a lie,--taught Original Sin,
    The Corruption of Man's Heart.

CALIFORNIA AS A VINELAND.

It has been reserved for California, from the plenitude of her
capacities, to give to us a truly great boon in her light and
delicate-wines.

Our Pacific sister, from whose generous hand has flowed an uninterrupted
stream of golden gifts, has announced the fact that henceforth we are to
be a wine-growing people. From the sparkling juices of her luscious
grapes, rich with the breath of an unrivalled climate, is to come in
future the drink of our people. By means of her capacity in this respect
we are to convert the vast tracts of her yet untilled soil into blooming
vineyards, which will give employment to thousands of men and women,--we
are to make wine as common an article of consumption in America as upon
the Rhine, and to break one more of the links which bind us unwilling
slaves to foreign lands.

It is a little singular, that, in a country so particularly adapted to
the culture of the grape, no species is indigenous to the soil. The
earliest record of the grape in California is about 1770, at which time
the Spanish Jesuits brought to Los Angeles what are supposed to have
been cuttings from the Malaga. There is a difference of opinion as to
what stock they originally came from; but one thing is certain,--from
that stock has sprung what is now known all over the State as the
"Mission" or "Los Angeles" grape, and from which is made all the wine at
present in the market. The berry is round, reddish-brown while ripening,
turning nearly black when fully ripe. It is very juicy and sweet, and a
delicious table-grape.

Three prominent reasons maybe given in support of the claims of
California to be considered a wine-producing State. First, her soil
possesses a large amount of magnesia and lime, or chalk. Specimens of
it, taken from various localities, and carried to Europe, when
chemically tested and submitted to the judgment of competent men, have
been pronounced to be admirably adapted to the purposes of wine-culture.
Then, the climate is all that could possibly be desired,--as during the
growth and ripening of the grapes they are never exposed to storms of
rain or hail, which often destroy the entire crop in many parts of
Europe. As an evidence of the great superiority enjoyed by California in
this respect, it may be remarked, that, while the grape-crop here is a
certainty, "the oldest inhabitant" not remembering a year that has
failed of a good yield,--in Europe, on the contrary, in a period of 432
years, from 1420 to 1852, the statistics exhibit only 11 years which can
be pronounced eminently good, and but 28 very good,--192 being simply
what may be called "pretty good" and "middling," and 201, or nearly
one-half, having proved total failures, not paying the expenses. Again,
the enormous productiveness of the soil is an immense advantage. We make
on an average from five hundred and fifty to six hundred and fifty
gallons of wine to the acre. The four most productive of the
wine-growing districts of Europe are--

Italy, giving to the acre   441 1-2 gallons
Austria and her provinces,  265 5-6   "
France,                     176 2-7   "
Nassau,                     237 1-2   "

Of these, it will be perceived, that Italy, the most prolific, falls
fully one hundred and fifty gallons short of the average yield per acre
in California.--In this connection the following account of a grape-vine
in Santa Barbara may be interesting:--

"Four miles south of the town there is a vine which was planted more
than a quarter of a century since, and has a stalk now about ten inches
thick. The branches are supported by a train or arbor, and extend out
about fifty feet on all sides. The annual crop of grapes upon this one
vine is from six to ten thousand pounds, as much as the yield of half
an acre of common vines. It is of the Los Angeles variety. There is a
similar vine, but not so large, in the vineyard of Andres Pico, at San
Fernando."

It is well known that California has within her borders five million
acres of land suitable for vine-culture. Suppose it to average no larger
yield than that of Italy, yet, at 25 cents a gallon, it would give an
income of $551,875,000. That this may not seem an entirely chimerical
estimate, it may be remarked that trustworthy statistics show that in
France five millions of acres are planted in vines, producing seven
hundred and fifty millions of gallons, while Hungary has three millions
of acres, yielding three hundred and sixty millions of gallons. If it is
asked, Supposing California capable of producing the amount claimed for
her, what could be done with this enormous quantity of wine? the answer
may be found in the experience of France, where, notwithstanding the
immense native production, there is a large importation from foreign
countries, besides a very considerable consumption of purely artificial
wines.

Small quantities of wine have been made in California for over half a
century, by the Spanish residents, not, however, as a commercial
commodity, but for home-consumption, and there are wines now in the
cellars of some of the wealthy Spanish families which money could not
purchase. But it remained for American enterprise, aided by European
experience, to develop the wonderful capacity which had so long
slumbered in the bosom of this most favored land.

The following statistics exhibit the total number of vines in 1862, and
the great increase in the last five or six years will show the opinion
entertained as to the success of the business.

"The number of grape-vines set out in vineyards in the State, according
to the Report of the County Assessors, as compiled in the
Surveyor-General's Report for 1862, is 10,592,688, of which number Los
Angeles has 2,570,000, and Sonoma 1,701,661.

"The rate of increase in the number and size of vineyards is large. All
the vines of the State did not number 1,000,000 seven years ago. Los
Angeles, which had three times as many vines surviving from the time of
the Mexican domain as all the other counties together, had 592,000
bearing vines and 134,000 young vines in 1856. The annual increase in
the State has been about 1,500,000 since then; and though less
hereafter, it will still be large.

"The wine made in 1861 is reported, very incorrectly, by the County
Assessors, as amounting to 343,000 gallons. The amount made in 1862 was
about 700,000 gallons. The total amount made in all other States of the
Union in 1859, according to the United States census, was 1,350,000
gallons; and the same authority puts down California's wine-yield for
that year at 494,000 gallons, which is very nearly correct. In Los
Angeles County most of the vineyards have 1,000 vines to the acre. In
Sonoma the number varies from 680 to 1,000. The average number may be
estimated at 900; and the 10,000,000 vines of the State cover about
11,500 acres. An acre of California vineyard in full bearing produces at
least 500 gallons annually, and at that rate the produce of the 11,500
acres would be 5,750,000 gallons. Strike off, however, one-third for
grapes lost, wasted, and gathered for the table, and we have an annual
produce of 3,800,000 gallons. The reason why the present product is so
far below this amount is that most of the vines are still very young,
and will not be in full bearing for several years yet."

The cost of planting a vineyard will of course vary with the situation,
price of labor, quality of soil, etc., but may be estimated at not far
from fifty dollars an acre. This includes everything except the cost of
the land, and brings the vines up to the third year, when they are in
fair bearing condition. There are thousands of acres of land scattered
over the State, admirably adapted to vine-culture, which may be
purchased at from one to two dollars per acre. No enterprise holds out
more encouragement for the investment of labor and capital than this,
and the attention of some of the most intelligent capitalists of the
country is being given to it. In this connection I cannot forbear
referring to the action of the Government in regard to our native wines.
By the National Excise Law of 1862 a tax of five cents a gallon was laid
upon all wine made in the country. No tax has yet been laid upon
agricultural productions generally, and only three per cent, upon
manufactures. Now wine certainly falls properly under the head of
agricultural productions. Upon this ground it might justly claim
exemption from taxation. The wine-growers of California allege that the
tax is oppressive and impolitic: oppressive, because it is equal to
one-fourth of the original value of the wine, and because no other
article of production or manufacture is taxed in anything like this
proportion; impolitic, because the business is now in its infancy,
struggling against enormous difficulties, among which may be mentioned
the high price of labor, rate of interest, and cost of packages, making
it difficult to compete with the wines of Europe, which have already
established themselves in the country, and which are produced where
interest is only three per cent. per annum, and the price of labor
one-quarter of what it is in California. In addition to this there is
the prejudice which exists against American wines, but which, happily,
is passing away. The vintners ask only to be put upon the same footing
as manufacturers, namely, an _ad valorem_ tax of three per cent.; and
they say that the Government will derive a greater revenue from such a
tax than from the one now in force, as they cannot pay the present tax,
and, unless it is abated, they will be obliged to abandon the business.
Efforts are being made to induce Congress to modify it, and it is to be
hoped they will be successful.

In 1861 California sent a commissioner to Europe, to procure the best
varieties of vines cultivated there, and also to report upon the
European culture generally. The gentleman selected for the mission was
Colonel Haraszthy, to whom I am indebted for many of my statistics, and
who has given us a very interesting book on the subject. He brought back
a hundred thousand vines, embracing about fourteen hundred varieties.
These were to have been planted and experimented upon under the auspices
of the State. What the result has been I am unable to say; but we are
informed upon good authority that over two hundred foreign varieties are
now successfully cultivated. Such being the fact, it is a fair
presumption that we are soon to make wines in sufficient variety to suit
all tastes.

Los Angeles is at present the largest wine-growing county in the State,
and Sonoma the second. Many other portions of the State, however, are
fast becoming planted with vineyards, and some of them are already
giving promise of furnishing superb wines. As usual in wine-growing
countries, in the southern part of the State the wines are richer in
saccharine properties, and heavier-bodied, than those of the more
northern sections, but are deficient in flavor and bouquet. We shall get
a lighter and tarter wine from the Sonoma and other northern vineyards,
which will please many tastes better than the southern wines. The two
largest vineyards in the State are owned by Colonel Haraszthy, of
Sonoma, and John Rains, of San Gabriel. The former has two hundred and
ninety thousand vines, and the latter one hundred and sixty-five
thousand. It is probable that from one of these vineyards at least will
come a good Champagne wine.

A large tract of land, to which has been given the name of "Anaheim,"
has been recently purchased by a German company. It is sold to actual
settlers in lots of twenty acres, affording room for twenty thousand
vines. There are now planted nearly three hundred thousand, which are in
a very flourishing condition. The wines from this district will soon be
in the market.

The wines now made in California are known under the following names:
"White" or "Hock" Wine, "Angelica," "Port," "Muscatel," "Sparkling
California," and "Piquet." The character of the first-named wine is much
like that of the Rhine wines of Germany. It is not unlike the _Capri
bianco_ of Naples, or the white wines of the South of France. It is
richer and fuller-bodied than the German wines, without the tartness
which is strongly developed in nearly all the Rhenish varieties. It is a
fine wine, and meets the approval of many of our best connoisseurs.
Specimens of it have been sent to some of the wine-districts of Germany,
and the most flattering expressions in its favor have come from the
Rhine. The "Angelica" and "Muscatel" are both _naturally_ sweet,
intended as dessert-wines, and to suit the taste of those who do not
like a dry wine. They are both of a most excellent quality, and are very
popular. The "Port" is a rich, deep-colored, high-flavored wine, not
unlike the Burgundies of France, yet not so dry. The "Sparkling
California" and "Piquet" are as yet but little known. The latter is made
from the lees of the grape, is a sour, very light wine, and not suitable
for shipment. Messrs. Sainsivain Brothers have up to the present time
been the principal house engaged in the manufacture of Champagne. So
far, they have not been particularly successful. This wine has a certain
bitter taste, which is not agreeable; yet it is a much better wine than
some kinds of the foreign article sold in our markets. The makers are
still experimenting, and will, no doubt, improve. It is probable that
most of the good sparkling wine which we shall get from California will
be made in the northern part of the State; the grapes grown there seem
to be better adapted to the purpose than those raised in Los Angeles.
There is no doubt, too, that the foreign grape will be used for this
branch of the business, rather than the Los Angeles variety. All that is
required to obtain many other varieties of wine, including brands
similar to Sherry and Claret, is time to find a proper grape, and to
select a suitable soil for its culture. Considering the short time which
has elapsed since the business was commenced, wonders have been
accomplished. It has taken Ohio thirty years to furnish us two varieties
of wine, while in less than one-third that time California has produced
six varieties, four of which are of a very superior quality, and have
already taken a prominent position in the estimation of the best tastes
in the country.

In 1854, Messrs. Köhler and Fröhling commenced business in Los Angeles,
and shortly after opened a house in San Francisco. They were assisted by
Charles Stern, who had enjoyed a long and valuable experience in the
wine-business upon the Rhine. The vintage was very small and inferior in
quality, as they had had no experience in making wine from such a grape
as California produced. Numberless difficulties were met with, and it
was only the indomitable energy of the gentlemen engaged in the
enterprise, sustained by a firm faith in its ultimate success, which
brought them triumphantly out of the slough of despond that seemed at
times almost to overwhelm them. They have to-day the satisfaction of
being the pioneers in what is soon to be one of the most important
branches of industry in California. They own one of the finest vineyards
in the State, from which some magnificent wine has been produced. They
have contracts with owners of other vineyards; and after making the wine
in their own, the men and machinery are moved into these, the grapes
pressed, and the juice at once conveyed to their cellars, they paying
the producers of the grapes a stipulated price per ton on the vines. The
vintage commences about the first of October, and generally continues
into November. The labor employed in gathering the grapes and in the
work of the press is mostly performed by Indians. It is a novel and
interesting sight to see them filing up to the press, each one bearing
on his head about fifty pounds of the delicious fruit, which is soon to
be reduced to an unseemly mass, and yield up its purple life-blood for
the benefit of man. Some of the best wine made in the State is from the
"Asuza" and "Sunny Slope" vineyards, both of which lie directly at the
foot of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. From a small beginning Messrs.
Köhler and Fröhling have steadily progressed, till at this time their
position is a very enviable one. Their cellars, occupying the basement
of Montgomery Block, excite the admiration of all who visit them, and
their wines are more favorably known than those of any other vintners.
Agencies have been established in New York and other cities, under the
supervision of Mr. Stern, and the favor with which they have been
received has settled the fact that the wines of California are a
success. It only remains for the vintners to keep their wines pure, and
always up to the highest standard, and to take such measures as shall
insure their delivery in a like condition to the consumers, to build up
a business which shall eclipse that of any of the great houses of
Europe. Thus will the State and nation be benefited, by keeping at home
the money which we annually pay for wine to foreign countries, and the
people will be led away from the use of strong, fiery drinks, to accept
instead the light wines of their native land.

TO A YOUNG GIRL DYING:

WITH A GIFT OF FRESH PALM-LEAVES.

    This is Palm-Sunday: mindful of the day,
    I bring palm-branches, found upon my way:
    But these will wither; thine shall never die,--
    The sacred palms thou bearest to the sky!
    Dear little saint, though but a child in years,
    Older in wisdom than my gray compeers!
    _We_ doubt and tremble,--_we_ with 'bated breath
    Talk of this mystery of life and death:
    Thou, strong in faith, art gifted to conceive
    Beyond thy years, and teach us to believe!

    Then take my palms, triumphal, to thy home,
    Gentle white palmer, never more to roam!
    Only, sweet sister, give me, ere thou go'st,
    Thy benediction,--for my love thou know'st!
    We, too, are pilgrims, travelling towards the shrine:
    Pray that our pilgrimage may end like thine!

THE RIM.

PART I.

There are women at whom, after the first meeting, you forget to glance a
second time, they seem to be such indifferent creations, such imperfect
sketches of an idea to be fulfilled farther on in a clearer type, but
who, met once more and yet again, suddenly take you captive in bonds.
You find the sallow cheek to be but polished ivory, the heavy eye loaded
with fire, the irregular features chords of a harmony whose whole is
perfect; you find that this is the type itself; while in every gesture,
every word, every look, the soul is shed abroad, and the fascination is
what neither Campaspe, nor Jocasta, nor even Aspasia herself held in
fee. For you, she has blossomed into the one beauty of the world; you
hear her, and the Sirens sing in vain; she touches you, and makes you
the slave beneath her feet.

Such a one was Éloise Changarnier.

There was iron of the old Huguenot blood in her veins; late American
admixture had shot a racy sparkle through it; convent-care from her
tenth to her sixteenth year had softened and toned the whole into a
warm, generous life; and underneath all there slumbered that one atom of
integral individuality that was nothing at all but a spark: as yet, its
fire had never flashed; if it ever should do so, one might be safe in
prophesying a strange wayward blaze.

In one of her earliest summers her widowed mother had died and
bequeathed her sole legacy, a penniless orphan, to the care of the
survivor in an imperishable friendship, Disbrowe Erne. A childless,
thriftless, melancholy man, Mr. Erne had adopted her into his inmost
heart, but out of respect to his friend had suffered her to retain her
father's name, and had thoughtlessly delayed rendering the adoption
legal. One day it was found too late to remedy this delay; for Mr. Erne
died, just a year after Éloise's return from the distant Northern
convent whither at ten years old she had been despatched, when, wild and
witching as a wood-brier, there had been found nothing else to do with
her. There her adopted father had visited her twice a year in all her
exile, as she deemed it, sometimes taking up his residence for several
months in the neighborhood of the nunnery; and a long vacation of many
weeks she had every winter spent at home with him on the rich and
beautiful plantation poetically known as The Rim, because, seen from
several of the adjacent places, it occupied the whole southern horizon.
The last vacation, however, she had passed with her adopted father
travelling in France, whither some affairs called him; but, of all the
splendid monuments and records of civilization that she saw, almost the
only thing that had impressed itself distinctly upon her memory, through
the chicanery of chances, was that once in a cathedral-choir she had
seen the handsome, blonde-hued, Vandyck face of a gentleman with
dreaming eyes looking at her from a gallery-niche with the most singular
earnestness. So at sixteen she found that the nuns had exhausted their
slender lore, and had nothing more to teach her; and after her brief
travels, she returned home for a finality, and there had dallied a
twelvemonth, lapped in the Elysium of freedom and youth. Every want
anticipated, every whim gratified, servants prostrate before her, father
adoring her,--the year sped on wings of silent joy, and left her a shade
more imperious than it met her. Launched into society, wealthy and
winning, Éloise counted, too, her lovers; but she spurned them so gayly
that her hard heart became a proverb through all the region round,
wherever the rejected travelled. It is true that Mr. Erne had often
expressed his film of dissatisfaction with the conventual results, and
had planned an attack on matters of more solid learning; but, tricksy as
a sprite, Éloise had escaped his designs, broken through his
regulations, implored, just out of shackles, a year's gambol in liberty,
and had made herself too charming to be resisted in her plea; and if,
feeling his health fail, he had at first insisted,--in the fear that
there might be left but brief opportunity for him to make her pleasure,
he yielded. Nevertheless, with the best outlay in the world,
plantation-life is not all a gala, and there were, it must be confessed,
certain ennuisome moments in which Éloise made inroads on her father's
library, chiefly in wild out-of-the-way veins, all which, however,
romantic, unsystematic, and undigested, did nothing towards rendering
her one whit more independent of the world in time of future trial.

One afternoon, just reëntering the house from some gay farewell of
friends, she found her father sitting in the hall, and she stood
tiptoing in the door-way while smiling at him, with a fragrant vine half
twisted in her dark drooping hair, the heat making her cheek yet paler,
and the great blue-green eyes shining at him from under the black
straight brows, like aquamarine jewels. Mr. Erne leaned forward in the
chair, with hands clasped upon his knees, and eyes upbent.

"Éloise! Éloise!" he cried in a piercing voice, then grew white, and
fell back in the cushions.

The girl flew to him, took the head upon her shoulder, caressed the
deathly face, warmed the mouth with her own.

"Child!" he murmured, "I thought it was your mother!"

And by midnight, alone, and in the dark, he died, and went to find that
mother.

As for Éloise, she was like some one made dumb by a thunderbolt. Her
garden had become a desert. Ice had fallen in her summer. Death was too
large a fact for her to comprehend. She had seen the Medusa's head in
its terror, but not in its loveliness, and been stricken to stone. At
length in the heart of that stone the inner fountains broke,--broke in
rains of tempestuous tears, such gusts and gushes of grief as threatened
to wash away life itself; and when Éloise issued from this stormy deep,
the warmth and the wealth of being obscured, the effervescence and
bubble of the child destroyed, feeling like a flower sodden with
showers, if she had been capable of finding herself at all, she would
have found herself a woman.

Among Mr. Erne's disorderly papers, full of incipient schemes, sketches,
and schedules of gold-mining, steam-companies, and railways to the
nebulæ in Orion, was discovered after his death a scrap witnessed by two
signatures. The owner of one of these signatures was already dead, and
there were no means to prove its genuineness. The other was that of a
young man who had just enough of that remote taint in his descent which
incapacitates one, in certain regions, from bearing witness. It was
supposed that Mr. Erne had some day hurriedly executed this paper in the
absence of his lawyer, as being, possibly, better than no paper at all,
and he had certainly intended to have the whole matter arranged
legitimately; but these are among the things which, with a superstitious
loitering, some men linger long before doing, lest they prove to be,
themselves, a death-warrant.

By this paper, in so many words, Disbrowe Erne left to Éloise
Changarnier all the property of which he died possessed. An old friend
of her father's in the neighborhood assured her that the only relatives
were both distant, distinguished, and wealthy, unlikely to present any
claims, and that she would be justified in fulfilling her father's
desire. And so, without other forms, Éloise administered the affairs of
The Rim,--waiting until the autumn to consult the usual lawyer, who was
at present in England.

There had reigned over the domestic department of The Rim, for many
years, a person who was the widow of a maternal cousin of Mr. Erne's,
and who, when left destitute by the death of this young cousin, had
found shelter, support, and generous courtesy beneath the roof of her
late husband's kinsman. It was on the accession of this person, who was
not a saint, that Éloise had become so ungovernable as to require the
constraint of a nunnery. Mrs. Arles was a dark and quiet little lady,
with some of the elements of beauty which her name suggested, and with a
perfectly Andalusian foot and ankle. These being her sole wealth, it
was, perhaps, from economy of her charms that she hid the ankle in such
flowing sables, that she bound the black locks straightly under a little
widow's-cap, seldom parted the fine lips above the treasured pearls
beneath, disdained to distort the classic features, and graved no
wrinkles on the smooth, rich skin with any lavish smiling. She went
about the house, a self-contained, silent, unpleasant little vial of
wrath, and there was ever between her and Éloise a tacit feud, waiting,
perhaps, only for occasion to fling down the gage in order to become
open war. Mrs. Arles expected, therefore, that, so soon Éloise should
take the reins in hand herself, she would be lightly, but decisively
shaken off,--for the old friend had mentioned to Mrs. Arles that Mr.
Erne's will left Éloise heir, as she had always supposed it would. She
was, accordingly, silently amazed, when Éloise, softened by suffering,
hoped she would always find it convenient to make a home with herself,
and informed her that a certain section of the farm had been measured
off and allotted to her, with its laborers, as the source of a yearly
income. This delicacy, that endeavored to prevent her feeling the
perpetual recurrence of benefits conferred, touched the speechless Mrs.
Arles almost to the point of positive friendliness.

The plantation was one of those high and healthy spots that are ever
visited by land- and sea-breezes, and there Éloise determined to stay
that spring and summer; for this ground that her father had so often
trod, this air that had given and received his last breath, were dear to
her, and just now parting with them, for ever so short a time, would be
but a renewal of her loss. As she became able to turn her energy to the
business requiring attention, she discovered at last her sad ignorance.
Dancing, drawing, music, and languages were of small avail in managing
the interior concerns and the vexatious finance of a great estate. The
neighbors complained that her spoiled and neglected servants infected
theirs, and that her laxity of discipline was more ruinous in its
effects than the rigor of Blue Bluffs. But she just held out to them her
helpless little hands in so piteous and charming a way that they could
not cherish an instant's enmity. If she tried to remedy the evil
complained of, she fell into some fresh error; take what advice she
would, it invariably twisted itself round and worked the other way. The
plantation, always slackly managed, saw itself now on the high road to
destruction. Let her do the very best in her power, she found it
impossible to plan her season's campaign, to carry it out, to audit her
accounts, to study agricultural directions, to preserve the peace, to
keep her fences in order, to attend to the sick, to rule her household
and her spirit, to dispose of her harvest, and to bring either end of
the thread out of the tangled skein of her affairs.

Perhaps there could have been really no better thing for Éloise than the
diversion from her sorrow which all this perplexity necessarily in some
degree occasioned.

As for Mrs. Arles, so soon as Éloise had begun to move about again, she
had taken herself off on a long-promised visit to the West, and was but
just returning with the October weather.

Éloise, worn and thin, and looking nearly forty, as she had remarked to
herself that morning in the brief moment she could snatch for her
toilet, welcomed the cool and quiet little Mrs. Arles, who might _be_
forty, but looked any age between twenty and thirty, with affectionate
warmth, and made all the world bestir themselves for her comfort. It is
only justice to the owner of the little Andalusian foot to say that in
her specific domain things immediately changed for the better. But that
was merely within-doors, and because she tightened the reins and used
the whip in a manner which Éloise could not have done, if the whole
equipage tumbled to pieces about her ears.

Mrs. Arles had been at home a week or so; the evening was chilly with
rain, and a little fire flickered on the hearth. Mrs. Arles sat on one
side of the hearth, with her tatting in hand; Éloise bent above the
papers scattered over a small table.

"See what it is to go away!" said Éloise, cheerily. "It's like light in
a painting, as the Sisters used to say,--brings out all the shadows."

"Nobody knew how indispensable I was," said the other lady, with the
fragment of expression in the phantom of a smile.

"How pleasant it is to be missed! I _did_ miss you so,--it seemed as if
one of the four sides of the walls were gone. Now we stand--what is that
word of Aristotle's?--four-square again. Now our universe is on wheels.
Just tell me how you tamed Hazel so. She has conducted like a little
wild gorilla all summer,--and here, in the twinkling of an eye, she goes
about soberly, like a baptized Christian. How?"

"By a process of induction."

"You don't mean"--

"Oh, no. Nothing of the kind. I didn't touch her. I sent her into my
room, and told her to take down that little riding-switch hanging over
the mantel"--

"What,--the ebony and gold?"

"Yes. And to whip all the flies out of the air with it. It makes a
monstrous whizzing. There's no such thing as actual experience for these
imps of the vivid nerves. And when she came down I looked at her, and
asked her how she liked the singing. Her conduct now leads me to believe
that she has no desire to hear the tune again."

The hearer winced a trifle before lightly replying,--

"Well, _I_ might have sent her forever, and all the result would have
been the switch singing about my own shoulders, probably."

"That is because she knows you would never use it. As for me,--Hazel has
a good memory."

Éloise gave a half-imperceptible shiver and frown; but, clearing her
brow, said,--

"If Hazel had my accounts here, they would tame her. I will put all my
malcontents through a course of mathematics. You do so well everywhere
else, Mrs. Arles, that I've half the mind to ask you to advise me here.
Little Arlesian, come over into Macedonia!"

"What is the matter?"

"Oh, it's only an inversion of the old problem, If the ton of coal cost
ten dollars, what will the cord of wood come to? Now, if one bale"--

"But coal doesn't cost ten dollars," replied Mrs. Arles, with admirable
simplicity.

"Now, if one bale of Sea-Island"--

"Oh, my dear, I know nothing at all about it. Pray, don't ask me."

"Well," said Éloise, after a moment's wondering pause, in which she had
taken time to reflect that Mrs. Arles's corner of the estate was carried
on faultlessly, "it is too bad to vex you with my matters, when you have
as much as you can do in the house, yourself,"--and relapsed into what
she called her Pythagorean errors.

"Did you know," said Mrs. Arles, after a half-hour's silence, "that
Marlboro' has returned?"

"Marlboro'?" repeated Éloise, hesitatingly.

"Marlboro' of Blue Bluffs."

"Oh, yes. And five's eleven. No," said Éloise, absently and with half a
sigh. "I've never seen him, you know,--he's been in Kamtschatka and the
Moon so long. How did you know?"

"Hazel told me. Hazel wants to marry his Vane."

"His what?"

"Not his weathercock. Vane, his butler."

"That is why she behaved so. Dancing quicksilver. Then, perhaps, he'll
buy her. What a relief it would be!"

"Marlboro' is a master!" said Mrs. Arles, emphatically.

There was a good deal in the ensuing pause. For Éloise, in her single
year, had not half learned the neighborhood's gossip.

"A cruel man. Then it's not to be thought of. We shall have to buy Vane.
Though how it's to be done"--

"I didn't say he was a cruel man. He wouldn't think of interfering with
an ordinance of his overseers. I esteem his thoroughness. He has ideas.
But I might have said that he is a remarkable man."

"There'll be some pulling of caps soon, Hazel said to-day, in her
gibberish. I couldn't think what she meant."

"Blue Bluffs is a place to be mistress of. He's a woman-hater, though,
Mr. Marlboro',--believes in no woman capable of resisting him when he
flings the handkerchief, should he choose, but believes in none worth
choosing."

"We shall have to invite him here, Mrs. Arles," said Éloise,
mischievously, "and show him that there are two of us."

"That would never do!"

"Oh, I didn't mean so. Of course, I didn't mean so. How could I see any
one else sitting in"--And there were tears in her eyes and on her
trembling tones.

"My dear," said Mrs. Arles, "I am afraid, _apropos_ of nothing at all,
that you have isolated yourself from all society for too long a time
already."

Just here Hazel entered and replenished the hearth, stopping half-way,
with her armful of brush, to coquet an instant in the mirror, and adjust
the scarlet love-knot in her curls.

"There's a carriage coming up the avenue, Miss," said she, demurely.
"One of the boys"--

"What one?" asked Mrs. Arles.

"Vane," answered Hazel,--carmine staining her pretty olive cheek. "He
ran before it."

"Who can it be, at this hour?" said Éloise, half rising, with the pen in
her hand, and looking at Mrs. Arles, who did not stir.

As she spoke, there was a bustle in the hall, a slamming door, a voice
of command, the door opened, and a stranger stood among them, surveying
the long antique room with its diamonded windows flickering in every
pane, and the quaint hearth, whose leaping, crackling, fragrant blaze
lighted the sombre little person sitting beside it, and sparkled on the
half-bending form of that strange dark-haired girl, with her aquamarine
eyes bent full on his. He was wrapped, from head to foot, in a great
sweeping brigand's cloak, and a black, wide-brimmed hat, that had for an
instant slouched its shadow down his face, hung now in his gloved hand.
Dropping cloak and hat upon a chair with an invisible motion, he
advanced, an air of surprise lifting the heavy eyebrows so that they
strongly accented the contrast in hue between the lower half of his
face, tanned with wind and sun, and the wide, low brow, smooth as marble
itself, and above which swept one great wave of dark-brown hair.
Altogether, it was an odd, fiery impression that he made,--whether from
that golden-brown tint of skin that always seems full of slumbering
light, or from the teeth that flashed so beneath the _triste_ moustache
whenever the haughty lips parted and unbent their curve, or whether it
were a habit the eyes seemed to have of accompanying all his thoughts
with a play of flame.

"Really," said he,--and it may have been a subtile inner musical trait
of his tone that took everybody's will captive,--"I was not
aware"--making a long step into the room, with a certain lordly bearing,
yet almost at a loss to whom he should address himself. "I am Earl St.
George Erne. May I inquire"--

"My name is Éloise Changarnier," said its owner, drawing herself up, it
being incumbent on her to receive him.

He bowed, and advanced.

"Mrs. Arles, then, I presume,--my cousin Disbrowe Erne's cousin. I
expected to find you here."

Mrs. Arles, after a hurried acknowledgment, slipped over to Éloise.

"I have heard your father speak of him," she murmured. "They had
business-relations. He is Mr. Erne's legal heir, in default of
sufficient testament, I believe. He must have come to claim the
property."

"He!" said Éloise, with sublime scorn. "The property is mine! My father
left such commands!"

"But he can have no other reason for being here. Strange the lawyer
didn't write! He is certainly at home again."

"I have not had time to open the mail to-day; it lies in the hall.
Hazel! the mail-bag."

And directly afterward its contents were before her.

She hurriedly shifted and reshifted the letters of factors and agents,
and broke the seal of one, while Earl St. George Erne deliberately
warmed his long white hands at the blaze, and, supposing Éloise
Changarnier to be a guest of the lonely Mrs. Arles, wondered with some
angry amusement at her singular deportment.

Mrs. Arles was right. The letter in Éloise's hand, which had been
intended to reach her earlier, was from their old lawyer, but lately
returned from England. In it he informed her that the scrap of paper on
the authority of which she had assumed control of the property was
worthless,--and that not only was Earl St. George Erne the heir of his
cousin, but that some three years previously he had lent that cousin a
sum of money sufficient to cover much more than the whole value of The
Rim, taking in payment only promissory notes, whose indorser was since
insolvent. This sum--as Mr. Erne the elder had been already unfortunate
in several rash speculations--had been applied towards lifting a heavy
mortgage, and instituting improvements that would enable the farm soon
to repay the debt in yearly instalments. Added to this was the fact that
Earl St. George Erne, who had passed many years away from home upon
Congressional duties, had lately met with a severe reverse himself, and
had now nothing in the world except this lucky inheritance from his
cousin, and into this he had been inducted by all legal forms. This had
transpired during the lawyer's absence, (that person wrote,) as
otherwise some provision might have been made for Miss Changarnier,--and
not being able to meet with Mr. St. George Erne, he had learned the
facts from others. Meantime she would see, that, even if her father left
to her all he died possessed of, he died possessed of nothing.

The idea that anybody should dare to controvert her father's will flared
for a moment behind Éloise's facial mask, and illumined every feature.
Then her eye fell upon the mass of papers with the inextricable
confusion of their figures. An exquisitely ludicrous sense of
retributive justice seized her, heightened, perhaps, by some surprise
and nervous excitement; she fairly laughed,--a little, low bubble of a
laugh,--swept her letters into her apron, and, with the end of it
hanging over her arm, stepped towards Mr. St. George, and offered him
her hand. He thought she was a crazy girl. But there was the hand; he
took it, and, looking at her a moment, forgot to drop it,--an error
which she rectified.

"It seems, then, that you are the owner of The Rim," said she. "I had
been dreaming myself to be that very unfortunate person,--a nightmare
from which you wake me. The steward will show you over it to-morrow. You
will find your exchequer in the escritoire-drawer in the cabinet across
the hall. You will find the papers and accounts on that table, and I
wish you joy of them!"

So saying, after her succinct statement, she vanished.

Mrs. Arles lingered a moment to wind up her tatting. St. George, who
had at first stood like a golden bronze cast immovably in an irate
surprise, then shook his shoulders, and stepped towards the table and
carelessly parted the papers.

"Remarkable manuscript," said he, as if just then he could find nothing
else to say. "Plainer than type. A purely American hand. Is it that of
the young lady?"

"Miss Changarnier? Yes."

"She was apparent heiress?"

"Yes."

"What does she expect to become of her?"

"How can I tell?"

"You can conjecture."

"She has not yet begun to consider, herself, you see."

"She has other property?"

"None."

"Ah! A fine thing, usurping!"

Mrs. Arles did not reply.

And then, in a half-angry justification, he exclaimed,--

"I didn't know there was such a person in the world! I could not come
immediately on Erne's death. I was ill, and I was busy, and I let things
wait for me. Why did no one write?"

"No one knew there was such a person as _you_. At least, no one supposed
it signified."

"Signified! The Rim was my father's as much as it was Disbrowe Erne's
father's. Disbrowe Erne's father entrapped mine, and got the other half.
It was the old story of Esau's pottage, with thrice the villany. My
father made me promise him on his death-bed, that, come fair means, The
Rim should be mine again. I was twenty, Erne was fifty. Fair means came.
Nevertheless, if I had known how things stood, I might have broken the
promise,--who knows?--if at that moment I had happened to possess
anything else in the world but my wardrobe, and sundry debts, and this!"

He opened, as he spoke, a purse that had seen service, and from his
lordly height and supreme indifference, scattered its contents on the
projecting top of the fireplace. They were two old pieces of ringing
Spanish silver, a tiny golden coin of Hindostan, a dime, and a pine-tree
shilling.

"Marlboro' won my last dollar," said he.

"Marlboro'?" said Mrs. Arles.

"What do you know of Marlboro'?"

"He lives over here at Blue Bluffs."

"The Devil he does!"

Mr. St. George Erne glanced at the dark little woman sitting before him.
No smile softened her face, no ray had lighted it; she only
intelligently observed, and monosyllabically answered him. She was a
study,--might also be convenient; the place would be ennuisome; somebody
must sit at the head of his table. He threw his purse into the fire.

"Mrs. Arles," he said, "it is decidedly necessary, that, to conduct my
house, there should be in it a female relative,--an article I do not
possess. Will you take the part, and remain with me on the same terms as
with my Cousin Erne?"

Mrs. Arles had intended to propose such an arrangement herself, and,
after a brief pause for apparent consideration, replied affirmatively,
not thinking it worth while to tell him that the section of the farm,
with its laborers, set apart for her benefit, was a device of Éloise's,
and not one of anterior date.

"Thank you," said Mr. St. George Erne; "that being settled, will you
have the kindness to order rooms prepared for me and my traps?"

Which Mrs. Arles disappeared to do.

It was early the next morning that Éloise knocked at Mrs. Arles's door.

"Good bye!" said she, looking in. "And good bye to The Rim! I don't
suppose his Arch-Imperial Highness, Mr. Earl St. George Erne, will want
to see my face immediately. I've only taken my clothes, as they'd be of
no use to him, and"--

"Where are you going?" inquired Mrs. Arles from among her pillows, as
quietly as if such an exodus were an every-day affair.

"To the Murrays',--till I can find something to do."

"What can you find to do?"

"I haven't the least idea," said Éloise, coming in and sitting down.
"I've thought all night. I can't do anything. I can't teach; I can't
sew; I can't play. I _can_ starve; can't I, Mrs. Arles?"

"You don't know that!"

"Well, I can be a nursery-governess, or I can sing in a chorus; I should
make a very decent _figurante_, or I could go round with baskets.
Perhaps I can get writing. There's one comfort: I sha'n't have anything
more to do with Arabic numerals till the latest day I live, and needn't
know whether two and two make four or five. I may remember, though, that
two from two leave nothing!"

"Yes,--we are all equal to subtraction."

"So, good bye, Mrs. Arles," said Éloise, rising. "We've had pleasant
times together, first and last. I dare say, I've tried you to death.
You'll forgive me, and only remember the peaceful part. If I succeed,
I'll write you. And if I don't, you needn't bother. I'm well and strong,
and seventeen."

Mrs. Arles elaborated a faint smile, kissed Éloise's cheek, told her she
would help her look about for something, rang for Hazel to close the
door the careless girl left ajar as she went springing down-stairs, and
arranged herself anew in the laced pillows that singularly became with
their setting the creamy hue of her tranquil face.

But Éloise was keeping up her spirits by an artificial process that she
meant should last at least as far as the Murrays'. Passing, on her way,
the door of her father's cozy cabinet, the attraction overcame her, she
turned the handle, only for a moment, and looked in. The place was too
full of memories: yonder he had stood, and she remembered what he said;
there he had sat and stroked her hair; here he had every night kissed
her two eyes for pleasant dreams. The door banged behind her, and she
was sitting on the floor sobbing with all her soul.

When the tornado had passed, Éloise rose, smoothed her dress, opened the
window that the morning air might cool her burning eyes, then at length
went to find a servant who would take her trunk to the Murrays', and
passed down the hall.

As she reached the door of the long, antique room where last night's
scene had passed, it opened, and Mr. St. George Erne came out.

"Good morning, Miss Changarnier," said he. "May I speak with you a
moment?"

"Very briefly," said Éloise, loftily, for she was in an entirely
different mood from that in which she had left him the night before.

The corner of a smile curled Mr. St. George Erne's mouth and the brown
moustache above it. Éloise saw it, and was an inch taller. Then St.
George did not smile again, but was quite as regnantly cool and distant
as the Khan of Tartary could be.

"I glanced at the papers to which you referred me last evening," said
he. "As you intimated, I perceive the snarl is hopeless. Were it for
nothing else," he added, casting down the orbs that had just now too
tremulous a light in them, "I should ask you to remain and assist me in
unravelling affairs, for a few days. I intend, so soon as the way shall
be clear, to set off half of the estate to you"--

"Sir, I do not accept gifts from strangers. I will be under no
obligations. I hope to earn my own livelihood. The estate is yours; I
will not receive a penny of it!"

"Pardon me, if I say that this is a rash and ill-considered statement.
There is no reason why you should be unwilling, in the first place, to
see justice done, and, after that, to respect your Adopted father's
wish."

"My father could have wished nothing dishonest. He is best pleased with
me as I am."

"Will it make any difference, if I assure you that the half of the
estate under my plan of management will yield larger receipts than the
whole of it did under your proprietorship?"

"Not the least," said Éloise, with a scornful and incredulous smile.

"You make me very uncomfortable. Let me beg you to take the matter into
consideration. After a few days of coolness, you will perhaps think
otherwise."

"After a thousand years I should think the same. I do not want your
money, Sir. I thank you. And so, good bye."

"Where are you going?"

"Out into the world."

"What are you going to do?"

"That is certainly no affair of yours."

"How much money have you in that little purse?"

She poured its contents down where he had emptied his own purse on the
previous evening, adding to those still remaining there some four or
five small gold-pieces.

"Of course they are yours, Sir. I have no right to them!"

He brushed them indignantly all down together in a heap upon the hearth.

"You sha'n't have them, then!" said he, and ground them with his heel
into the ashes.

"I can sell my mother's jewels!" said she, defiantly.

"I can confiscate them for the balance of the half-year's income of the
estate!"

Éloise turned pale with pride and anger and fear and mastery.

"We are talking very idly," said St. George, then, softening his
falcon's glance. "Pray excuse such savage jesting. I should like to
share my grandfather's estate with you, the adopted child of his elder
grandson. It looks fairly enough, I think."

"Talking very idly. I have assured you that I never will touch it. And
if you want more, here I _swear_ it!"

"Hush! hush!"

"It's done!" said Éloise, exultantly, and almost restored to good-humor
by the little triumph.

"And you won't reconsider? you won't break it? you will not let me beg
you"--

"Never! If that is all you had to say, I shall bid you good-morning."

Mr. St. George was silent for a moment or two.

"I am greatly grieved," said he then. "I have done an evil thing
unconsciously enough, and one for which there is no remedy, it seems.
Until you mentioned your name last night, I was innocent of your
existence. I had, indeed, originally heard of my cousin's educating some
child, but our intercourse was so fragmentary that it made no impression
upon me. I had entirely forgotten that there was such a person in the
world, ungallant as it sounds. Afterwards,--last night, this morning,--I
was so selfish as to imagine that we could each of us be very happy upon
the half of such a property, until, at least, my affairs should right
themselves. I was wrong. Whatever legal steps have been taken shall be
recalled, and I leave you in full possession to-day and forever. 'The
King sall ha' his ain again.'"

"Folderol!" said Éloise, turning her shoulder.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You may go where you please, and let all The Rim do the same,--go to
dust and ashes, if it will! As for me, my hands are washed of it; if it
isn't mine, I will not have it. Now let the thing rest! Besides, Sir,"
said Éloise, with a more gracious air, and forgetting her wicked temper,
"you don't know the relief I feel! how free I am! no more figures! such
a sad weight off me that I could fly! You would be silly to be such a
Don Quixote as you threaten; it would do nobody any good, and would
prove the ruin of all these poor creatures for whom you are now
responsible. Don't you see?" said Éloise, taking a step nearer, and
positively smiling upon him. "It isn't now just as you like,--you have a
duty in the case. And as for me, good morning!"

And Éloise actually offered him her hand.

"One moment. Let me think."

And after her white flag of truce, there came a short cessation of
hostilities.

"Very well," said Mr. St. George Erne at last, looking up, and shaking
his strong shoulders like a Newfoundland dog coming out of the water.
"Let it be. I have, then, one other idea,--in fact, one other condition.
If I yield one thing, it is only right that you should yield another. It
is this. I am entirely unaccustomed to doing my own writing. My script
is illegible, even to myself. My amanuenses, my copyists, in Washington,
have cost me a mint of money. I find there are none of the servants, of
course, who write their names. I cannot afford, either, at present, to
buy a clerk from Charleston. And on the whole, if it would be agreeable
to you, I should be very glad if you would accept a salary,--such salary
as I find convenient,--and remain as my accountant. You will, perhaps,
receive this proposal with the more ease, as Mrs. Arles agrees to occupy
the same position as formerly in the house."

Those horrible accounts! And a master! Who said Marlboro' was a master?
What thing was Earl St. George Erne?--Yet too untaught to teach, too
finely bred to sew, too delicate to labor, perhaps not good enough to
starve,--

A quarter of an hour elapsed in dead silence.

Éloise threw back her head, and grew just a trifle more queenly, as she
answered,--

"I thank you. I will stay, Mr. Erne."

The last word had tripped on her tongue; it had been almost impossible
for her to give to another person her father's name, which she had never
been allowed to wear herself.

He noticed her hesitation, and said,--

"You can call me St. George. Everybody does,--Mrs. Arles, the servants
will. We have always been the St. Georges and the Disbrowes, for
generations. Besides, if you had really been my cousin's child, you
would naturally have called me so."

"If I had really been your cousin's child, Sir," said Éloise, with a
flash, "I should not have been obliged to call you at all!"

This finished the business. Mr. St. George, who felt, that, in reality,
he had only got his right again, who would gladly have given her back
hers, who had only, in completest innocence and ignorance, made it
impossible for her, in pride and honor, to accept it, who, moreover,
very naturally considered his treatment of this handsome, disagreeable
girl rather generous, and who had sacrificed much of his usually
dictatorial manner in the conversation, felt also now that there was
nothing more to do till she chose her ice should melt; and so he
straightway let a frosty mood build itself up on his part into the very
counterpart of hers. The resolution which he had just made, boyishly to
abstract himself in secret, and leave her to fate and necessity and
duty, faded. She deserved to lose. A haughty, ungovernable hussy! He
would keep it in spite of her! How, under the sun, had his Cousin
Disbrowe got along with her? Nevertheless, the salary which Mr. St.
George had privately allotted to his accountant covered exactly one-half
of his yearly income, whatever that contingent fund might prove to be;
and, meantime, he did not intend to pay her a copper of it until they
should become so much better friends that it would be impossible for
her, with all her waywardness, to refuse it.

A bell sounded. Hazel came, and murmured something to Éloise. And
thereupon, in this sweet and cordial frame of mind, they entered the
breakfast-room, where Mrs. Arles awaited them behind a hissing urn,--and
a cheery meal they had of it!

Mr. St. George passed a week in finding firm footing upon all the
circumference of his property; by that time, clear and far-sighted as an
eagle, he had seized on every speck of error throughout its wide
mismanagement, and had initiated Éloise into a new way of performing old
duties, as coolly as if no indignant word or thought had ever passed
between them. And meanwhile, in place of their ancient warfare, but with
no later friendship, Éloise and Mrs. Arles had tacitly instituted an
offensive and defensive alliance against the common enemy. This the
common enemy soon perceived, laughed at it a little grimly at first,
then accepted it, as a kind of martyrdom expiatory of all previous sins,
that a man must have against his grain two hostile women in the house,
neither of whom had anything but the shadow of a claim upon him. Still,
Earl St. George had his own plans; and by degrees it dimly dawned on his
flattered intelligence that one of these women used her hostility merely
as a feint towards the other.

TYPES.

Mr. Samuel Weller, of facetious memory, has told us of the girl who,
having learned the alphabet, concluded that it was not worth going
through so much to get so little. This, to say the least of it, was
disrespectful to Cadmus, and should be condemned accordingly. Authors
have feelings, which even scholastic young maidens cannot be permitted
to lacerate. I therefore warn the reader of this article against any
inclination toward sympathy with the critical mood of that obnoxious
female. My theme is not as lively as "Punch" used to be; but, on the
other hand, it is not as dull as a religious novel. Patient
investigation may find it really agreeable: good-nature will not find it
a bore.

I propose, then, a half-hour's gossip concerning Types, Type-Setting,
and the machinery connected with Printing, at the present time. It
would, perhaps, be interesting to review in detail the printing-devices
of the past; but that would be to extend unwarrantably the limits of
this article. Enough that any sketch of the invention, manufacture, and
use of types would illustrate the triumph of the labor-saving instinct
in man, and thus confirm the scientific lesson of to-day,--that
machinery must entirely supersede the necessarily slow processes of
labor by hand. That it will at no distant day supersede those processes
in the art of printing is, as you will presently see, a fixed fact.

Machinery now does nearly every sort of labor,--economizing health,
strength, time, and money, in all that it does. We tread upon
beautifully figured carpets that are woven by machinery from single
threads. We wear clothes that are made by machinery at the rate of two
thousand stitches a minute. We hear in every direction the whistle of
the locomotive, which saves us almost incalculable time, in the safe and
convenient transportation of our persons and our property. We read in
our newspapers messages that are brought instantaneously, from points
far as well as near, by a simple electric current, governed by
machinery, which prints its thought in plain Roman characters, at a rate
of speed defying the emulation of the most expert penman. These, among
many illustrations of scientific progress, occur in our daily
experience. Manufacture, agriculture, and commerce would yield us others
quite as impressive. In all this we see that man is finding out and
applying the economy of Nature, and thus that the world is advancing, by
well-directed effort, toward a more natural, and therefore a happier
civilization.

The labor-saving processes of mechanism as applied to Printing are in
the highest degree advantageous and admirable. Once types were cast in
moulds, such as boys use for casting bullets. Now they are turned out,
with inconceivable rapidity, from a casting-machine worked by steam.
Ink and paper, too, are made by machinery; and when the types are set,
we invoke the aid of the Steam-Press, and so print off at least fifty
impressions to each one produced under the old process of press-work by
hand. Machinery, moreover, folds the printed sheets,--trims the rough
edges of books,--directs the newspaper,--and does, in short, the bulk of
the drudgery that used to be done by operatives, at great expense of
time and trouble, and with anything but commensurate profit.

These are facts of familiar knowledge. They indicate remarkable
scientific progress. But the great fact--by no means so well
known--remains to be stated. It is only of late that machinery has been
successfully employed in the most laborious and expensive process
connected with the art of printing,--that, namely, of Composition. In
this process, however, iron fingers have proved so much better than
fingers of flesh, that it is perfectly safe to predict the speedy
discontinuance, by all sensible printers, of composition by hand.

Composition--as probably the reader knows--is the method of arranging
types in the proper form for use. This, ever since the invention of
movable types,--made by Laurentius Coster, in 1430,--has been done by
hand. A movement toward economy in this respect was, indeed, made some
sixty years ago, by Charles, the third Earl Stanhope, inventor of the
Stanhope Press, and of the process of stereotyping which is still in
use. His plan was to make the type-shank thicker than usual, and cast
two or more letters upon its face instead of one. This, his Lordship
rightly considered, would save labor, if only available combinations
could be determined; since, using such types, it would frequently happen
that the compositor would need to make but one movement for two or three
or even four letters. The desired economy, however, was not secured.
Subsequent attempts at combinations were made in England, but all proved
abortive. In the office of the London "Times," castings of entire
words--devised, I think, by Sterling--were used, to a limited extent. It
remained, however, for a New-York mechanic to make the idea of
combination-type a practical success. Mr. John H. Tobitt, being a
stenographer as well as a compositor, was enabled to make a systematic
selection of the syllables most frequently occurring in our language;
and thus it happens that his combinations have stood a practical test.
His improved cases, with combination-type, were shown at the London
Exhibition, in 1851, when a medal was awarded to the inventor. These
cases have now been in use upwards of ten years, and have demonstrated a
gain of twenty per cent over the ordinary method of composition. It
should be mentioned that Mr. Tobitt's invention was entirely original
with himself. When he made it, he had never heard of Earl Stanhope, nor
of any previous attempt at this improvement.

It is evident, when we reflect upon the intricate construction of
language, that this method of saving labor, though it may be made still
more useful than at present, must always be restricted within a limited
circle of operations. Nor would any number of combination-letters
obviate the necessity of composition by hand. The printer would still be
obliged to stand at the case, picking up type after type, turning each
one around and over, and so arranging the words in his "stick." Every
one knows this process,--a painfully slow one in view of results,
although individual compositors are sometimes wonderfully expert. But it
is only when a great many men labor actively during more hours than
ought to be spent in toil, that any considerable work is accomplished by
this method. The composing-room of a large daily paper, for instance,
presents, day and night, a spectacle of the almost ceaseless industry of
jaded operatives. The need of relief in this respect was long ago
recognized. The attempt at combination-letters was not less a precursor
of reform than an acknowledgment of its necessity. It remained for
American inventive genius, in this generation, to conceive and perfect
the greatest labor-saving device that has ever been applied to the art
of printing,--the last need of the operative,--the Type-Setting Machine.

It was inevitable that this should come. The only wonder is that it did
not come before. Perhaps, indeed, the idea was often conceived in the
minds of skilful, though dreamy and timorous inventors, but not
developed, for fear of opposition. And opposition enough it has
encountered,--alike from inertia, suspicion, and conservative
hostility,--since first it assumed a practical position among American
ideas, some ten years ago. But I do not care to dwell upon the shadows.
Turn we to the sunshine. There are two strong points in favor of the
invention, which, since they cover the whole ground of argument, deserve
at least to be stated. I assert, then, without the fear of contradiction
before my eyes, that the Type-Setting Machine, besides being a universal
benefactor, is, in a double sense, a blessing to the mechanic. It spares
his physical health, and it stimulates his mental and moral activity.
The first truth appears by sanitary statistics, which prove that the
health of such artisans as the type-founder and such craftsmen as the
printer has been materially improved by the introduction of mechanical
aids to their toil. The second is self-evident,--seeing that there is a
moral instructor ever at work in the mazes of ingenious and
highly-wrought machinery. Those philosophers are not far wrong, if at
all, who assert that the rectitude of the human race has gained
strength, as by a tonic, from the contemplation of the severe, arrowy
railroad,--iron emblem of punctuality, directness, and despatch.

In the interest, therefore, of education no less than health, it becomes
imperative that machinery should be substituted for hand-labor in
composition. At present, our printing-offices are by no means the
sources whence to draw inspirations of order, fitness, and wholesome
toil. On the contrary, they are frequently badly lighted and worse
ventilated rooms, wherein workmen elbow each other at the closely set
cases, and grow dyspeptic under the combined pressure of foul air and
irritating and long-protracted labor. All this should be changed. With
the composing-machine would come an atmosphere of order and cleanliness
and activity, making work rapid and agreeable, and lessening the period
of its duration. I know that working-men are suspicious of scientific
devices. But surely the compositor need not fear that the iron-handed
automaton will snatch the bread out of his mouth. To diminish the cost
of any article produced--which is the almost immediate result of
substituting machinery for hand-labor--is to expand the market for that
article. The Sewing-Machine has not injured the sempstress. The
Power-Press has not injured the pressman. The Type-Setting Machine will
not injure the compositor. Skilled labor, which must always be combined
with the inventor's appliances for aiding it, so far from dreading harm
in such association, may safely anticipate, in the far-reaching economy
of science, ampler reward and better health, an increase of prosperity,
and a longer and happier life in which to enjoy it.

Let me now briefly sketch the history of type-setting machinery. This
must necessarily be done somewhat in the manner of Mr. Gradgrind. I am
sorry thus to tax the reader's patience; but facts, which enjoy quite a
reputation for stubbornness, cannot easily be wrought into fancies.
Color the map as you will, it is but a prosy picture after all.

Charles Babbage, of London, the inventor of the Calculating-Engine,
first essayed the application of machinery to composition. His
calculator was so contrived that it would record in type the results of
its own computations. This was over forty years ago. At about the same
time Professor Treadwell of Cambridge, Massachusetts, who was bred a
practical mechanic, turned his attention to this improvement, and
ascertained by experiment the feasibility of the type-setting machine.
But mechanical enterprise was then comparatively inactive in America,
and nothing of immediate practical importance resulted from the
Professor's experiments. Nor did greater success attend the efforts of
Dr. William Church, of Vermont, a contemporary inventor, who constructed
an apparatus for setting types, but failed to provide for their
distribution. Subsequently, for a long time, the idea slumbered.

At length, about the year 1840, Mr. Timothy Alden, a printer, and a
native of Massachusetts, conceived a plan for setting and distributing
type, which has since been put into successful operation. Mr. Alden's
workshop was, I believe, situated at the corner of Canal and Centre
Streets, in New York city. There he labored in privacy, year after year,
encountering all manner of difficulty and discouragement, till his great
work was substantially completed. His invention was patented in 1857,
but the studious and persevering inventor did not live to reap the
fruits of the seed he had sown. Worn out with care and toil and
long-suffering patience, he died in 1859, a martyr to scientific
progress. His patent passed into the hands of his cousin, Mr. Henry W.
Alden, who has since organized a company for the manufacture and sale of
the Alden Machine.

In appearance, this machine resembles a circular table, having in its
centre a wheel, placed horizontally, from the outer edge of which lines
of type radiate, like spokes from an axle, to the distance of about one
foot. Three-quarters of the circle is filled up by these lines. In front
is a key-board, containing one hundred and fifty-four keys, by which the
operator governs the action of the machine. The central wheel controls
some forty "conveyors," half of which compose the types into language,
while the other half distribute them, guided by certain nicks cut upon
their sides, to their proper places, when no longer needed. Both
operations may go on at the same time. The types, as they are composed,
are fed out in a continuous line, at the left of the key-board. The
operator then divides this line into proper lengths, and "justifies" it
by hand. "Justifying," it should be stated, consists in placing spaces
between the words, and making the lines of equal length. This machine is
a very ingenious invention, and marks the first great step towards
successful improvement in the method of Type-Setting.

Another machine, originated by Mr. William H. Mitchell, of Brooklyn, New
York, was patented in 1853. In appearance it suggests a harp placed
horizontally. In front is a key-board, in shape and arrangement not
unlike that of a piano. Each key indicates a certain letter. The types
employed are arranged in columns, nearly perpendicular. The touching of
a key throws out a type upon one of a series of endless belts, graduated
in length, from six inches up to three feet, which move horizontally
towards the farther side of the machine, depositing the types in due
order upon a single belt. This latter carries them, in uninterrupted
succession, to a brass receiver, on which they stand ranged in one long
line. This line is then cut into lengths and justified by hand. Mr.
Mitchell's Distributing-Apparatus--which is entirely distinct from the
Composing-Machine--is, substantially, a circular wheel armed with
feelers, which latter distribute according to the nicks cut in the
types.

These machines require very considerable external aid in the labor they
accomplish, while, like the Alden Machine, they neither justify nor lead
the matter that is set. They have, however, stood a practical
test,--having been in use several years. It may interest the reader to
know that the matter for the "Continental Monthly" is set up and
distributed by them, in the office of Mr. John F. Trow, of New York.
They are also known, and to some extent employed, in printing-houses in
London, and are found to be economical.

But, as remarked by Macbeth, "the greatest is behind." I touch now upon
the most comprehensive and effectual invention for labor-saving in this
respect,--namely, the Felt Machine. This ingenious creation, which is,
in all particulars, original, and quite distinct from those already
mentioned, performs, with accuracy and speed, all the work of composing,
justifying, leading, and distributing types. It was invented by Mr.
Charles W. Felt, of Salem, Massachusetts, a man of superior genius,
whose energy in overcoming obstacles and working out the practical
success of his idea is scarcely less remarkable than the idea itself. I
shall dwell briefly upon his career, since it teaches the old, but never
tiresome lesson of patient perseverance. He began the business of life
in his native town, though not in mechanical pursuits. His mind,
however, tended naturally toward mechanical science, and he improved
every opportunity of increasing his knowledge in that department of
study. The processes of Printing especially attracted his attention, and
the idea of applying machinery to the work of composition haunted him
from an early period of youth. He read, doubtless, of the various
experiments that had been made in this direction, and observed, as far
as possible, the results achieved by contemporary inventors. But it does
not appear, that, in the original conception of his wonderful machine,
he was indebted to any source for even a single suggestion. I have seen
his first wooden model,--made at the age of eighteen,--crude and clumsy
indeed, compared with the machine in its present shape, but containing
the main features and principles. This was the first step. He began with
the earnings of his boyhood. Then a few friends, fired by his spirit and
courage, contributed money, and enabled him to prosecute his enterprise
during several years. In this way it became the one purpose of his life.
In time the number of his liberal patrons increased to nearly one
hundred, and a considerable fund was placed at his disposal. Thus,
genius, energy, and patience, aided by capital, carried the work bravely
forward. It is a pleasure to record that a worthy design was thus
generously nurtured. Mr. Felt's fund was subsequently increased by
additional loans, from several of the same patrons. One of these
gentlemen--Dr. G. Henry Lodge, of Swamscott, Massachusetts--contributed
with such generous liberality that he may justly be said to share with
the inventor the honor of having introduced this noble improvement in
the art of printing. I take off my hat to Mæcenas. Dr. Lodge was led to
appreciate the need of such an improvement by personal experience in
publishing a large work, copies of which were gratuitously distributed
among various libraries in the Republic. Acquainted with the toil of a
printer's life, impelled by earnest love of real progress, and guided by
a sound, practical judgment, he was peculiarly well fitted for the
difficult province of directing the labors of an enthusiastic inventor.
His duty has been well performed. The success of Mr. Felt's undertaking
is due scarcely less to the pecuniary aid of all his patrons than to the
counsel and encouragement of this wise, liberal, and steadfast friend.
Thus aided, he has triumphed over all obstacles. Proceeding in a most
unostentatious manner, he has submitted his device to the inspection of
practical printers, and men of science, in various cities of the United
States and Great Britain, and has everywhere won approval. His first
patent was issued in 1854,--proceedings to obtain it having been
commenced in the preceding year. Meanwhile he has organized a wealthy
and influential company, for the purpose of manufacturing the machines
and bringing them into general use. One of them has been built at
Providence, Rhode Island, but the manufactory will be in Salem,
Massachusetts, where the company has been formed.

The merits of Mr. Felt's machine are manifold. It is comparatively
simple in construction, it is strongly made and durable, it cannot
easily get out of order, and it does its work thoroughly. All that is
required of the operator is to read the copy and touch the keys. The
processes proceed, then, as of their own accord. But the supreme
excellence of the machine is that _it justifies the matter which it
sets_. The possibility of doing this by machinery has always been
doubted, if not entirely disbelieved, from an erroneous idea that the
process must be directed by immediate intelligence. Mr. Felt's invention
demonstrates that this operation is clearly within the scope of
machinery; that there is no need of a machine with brains, for setting
or justifying type; that such a machine need not be able to think, read,
or spell; but that, guided in its processes by an intelligent mind, a
machine can perform operations which, as in this case, are purely
mechanical, much more rapidly and cheaply than they can be performed by
hand.

I cannot pretend to convey a technically accurate idea of this
elaborate, though compact piece of machinery; but such a sketch as I can
give--from memory of a pleasant hour spent in looking at it--shall here
be given as briefly as possible.

The machine stands in a substantial iron framework, five feet by four,
within which the mechanism is nicely disposed, so that there may be
ample room for the four operations of setting, justifying, leading, and
distributing. In front is a key-board of forty keys, which correspond to
two hundred and fifty-six characters, arranged in eight cases. A single
case consists of thirty-two flat brass tubes, standing perpendicularly,
side by side, each one being filled with a certain denomination of type.
Seven of the keys determine from which case the desired letter shall be
taken. Thus, the small letter _a_ is set by touching the _a_ key; the
capital A by touching the "capital key" in connection with the _a_ key;
the capital B by touching the "capital key" in connection with the _b_
key; and so on with every letter. There are also keys called the "small
capital," the "Italic," and the "Italic capital"; so that the machine
contains all the characters known to the compositor. The operation of
these "capital" and "small-capital keys" is similar to that of an
organ-stop in modifying the effect of other keys.

When the machine is in motion,--and I should here mention that it is
worked by steam,--a curious piece of mechanism, called "the
stick,"--which is about as large as a man's hand, and quite as
adroit,--plays to and fro beneath the cases, and acts obediently to the
operator's touch. The spectacle of this little metallic intelligence is
amusing. It is armed with pincers, which it uses much as the elephant
does his trunk, though with infinite celerity. Every time a key is
touched, these pincers seize a type from one of the tubes, turn
downward, and, as it were, put it into the mouth of the stick. And so
voracious is the appetite of this little creature, that in a few seconds
its stomach is full,--in other words, the line is set. A tiny bell gives
warning of this fact, and the operator finishes the word or syllabic. He
then touches the justifying-key, and the spacer seizes the line and
draws it into another part of the machine, to be justified, while the
empty stick resumes its feeding. No time is lost; for, while the stick
is setting a second line; the "spacer" is justifying the first; so that,
in a few moments after starting, the processes are going forward
simultaneously. That of justifying is, perhaps, the most ingenious. It
is accomplished in this wise. The stick never sets a full line, but
leaves room for spaces, and with the last letter of each word inserts a
piece of steel, to separate the words. When the line has been drawn into
the spacer, the pieces of steel, which are furnished with nicked heads
for the purpose, are withdrawn, and ordinary spaces are substituted. All
this requires no attention whatever from the operator. The matter, thus
set and justified, is now leaded by the machine, and deposited upon a
galley ready for the press.

In this machine, distribution is the reverse of composition, and is
effected by simply reversing the motion of the shaft. By duplicating
certain parts of the machine, both operations are performed at the same
time. The process of distributing, and also that of resetting the same
matter, may be made automatic by means of the Register. This device,
although an original invention with Mr. Felt, is an application of the
principle of the Jacquard loom. It consists of a narrow strip of card or
paper, in which holes are punched as the types are taken, forming a
substitute for the troublesome nicking of the type, which has heretofore
been thought indispensable to automatic distribution. By this means the
type can be changed in resetting, if desired, so that different editions
of the same work can be printed in different sizes of type.

The machine is adapted to the use of combination-types as well as single
letters. For this purpose Mr. Felt has developed a new system, based
upon an elaborate analysis of the language. In a number of examples of
printed matter, embracing a wide range of literature, the frequency of
the single and combined letters has been ascertained by careful and
accurate computation, and reduced to a percentage. It may interest the
reader to know that _e_ is the letter of most frequent occurrence,
constituting one-eighth of the language. _The_, as a word or syllable,
is found to be six per cent.; _and_, four per cent.; _in_, three per
cent., etc.

I have not pretended, in this description of Mr. Felt's machine, to
explain every technicality, or to raise and answer possible objections.
The great point is, that the labor of setting, justifying, leading, and
distributing types by machinery is actually done, by means of his
invention. Thus the aspiration of inventive genius, in this department
of art, is nobly fulfilled. Thus the links in the chain of progress are
complete, from Laurentius Coster, walking in the woods of Holland, in
1430, and winning, from an accidental shower-bath, the art of making
movable types, down to the wide-awake Massachusetts Yankee, whose genius
will make printing as cheap as writing, and therefore a thousand times
more available for all purposes of civilization,--besides lightening the
burdens of toil, and blessing the jaded worker with a bright prospect of
health, competence, and ease.

HOUSE AND HOME PAPERS.

BY CHRISTOPHER CROWFIELD.

V.

RAKING UP THE FIRE.

We have a custom at our house which we call _raking up the fire_. That
is to say, the last half-hour before bed-time, we draw in, shoulder to
shoulder, around the last brands and embers of our hearth, which we
prick up and brighten, and dispose for a few farewell flickers and
glimmers. This is a grand time for discussion. Then we talk over
parties, if the young people have been out of an evening,--a book, if we
have been reading one; we discuss and analyze characters,--give our
views on all subjects, æsthetic, theological, and scientific, in a way
most wonderful to hear; and, in fact, we sometimes get so engaged in our
discussions that every spark of the fire burns out, and we begin to feel
ourselves shivering around the shoulders, before we can remember that it
is bed-time.

So, after the reading of my last article, we had a "raking-up talk,"--to
wit, Jennie, Marianne, and I, with Bob Stephens;--my wife, still busy
at her work-basket, sat at the table a little behind us. Jennie, of
course, opened the ball in her usual incisive manner.

"But now, papa, after all you say in your piece there, I cannot help
feeling, that, if I had the taste and the money too, it would be better
than the taste alone with no money. I like the nice arrangements and the
books and the drawings; but I think all these would appear better still
with really elegant furniture."

"Who doubts that?" said I. "Give me a large tub of gold coin to dip
into, and the furnishing and beautifying of a house is a simple affair.
The same taste that could make beauty out of cents and dimes could make
it more abundantly out of dollars and eagles. But I have been speaking
for those who have not, and cannot get, riches, and who wish to have
agreeable houses; and I begin in the outset by saying that beauty is a
thing to be respected, reverenced, and devoutly cared for,--and then I
say that BEAUTY IS CHEAP, nay, to put it so that the shrewdest Yankee
will understand it, BEAUTY IS THE CHEAPEST THING YOU CAN HAVE, because
in many ways it is a substitute for expense. A few vases of flowers in a
room, a few blooming, well-kept plants, a few prints framed in fanciful
frames of cheap domestic fabric, a statuette, a bracket, an engraving, a
pencil-sketch, above all, a few choice books,--all these arranged by a
woman who has the gift in her finger-ends often produce such an illusion
on the mind's eye that one goes away without once having noticed that
the cushion of the arm-chair was worn out, and that some veneering had
fallen off the centre-table.

"I have a friend, a school-mistress, who lives in a poor little cottage
enough, which, let alone of the Graces, might seem mean and sordid, but
a few flower-seeds and a little weeding in the spring make it, all
summer, an object which everybody stops to look at. Her æsthetic soul
was at first greatly tried with the water-barrel which stood under the
eaves-spout,--a most necessary evil, since only thus could her scanty
supply of soft water for domestic purposes be secured. One of the
Graces, however, suggested to her a happy thought. She planted a row of
morning-glories round the bottom of her barrel, and drove a row of tacks
around the top, and strung her water-butt with twine, like a great
harpsichord. A few weeks covered the twine with blossoming plants, which
every morning were a mass of many-colored airy blooms, waving in
graceful sprays, and looking at themselves in the water. The
water-barrel, in fact, became a celebrated stroke of ornamental
gardening, which the neighbors came to look at."

"Well, but," said Jennie, "everybody hasn't mamma's faculty with
flowers. Flowers will grow for some people, and for some they won't.
Nobody can see what mamma does so very much, but her plants always look
fresh and thriving and healthy,--her things blossom just when she wants
them, and do anything else she wishes them to; and there are other
people that fume and fuss and try, and their things won't do anything at
all. There's Aunt Easygo has plant after plant brought from the
greenhouse, and hanging-baskets, and all sorts of things; but her plants
grow yellow and drop their leaves, and her hanging-baskets get dusty and
poverty-stricken, while mamma's go on flourishing as heart could
desire."

"I can tell you what your mother puts into her plants," said I,--"just
what she has put into her children, and all her other home-things,--her
_heart_. She _loves_ them; she lives in them; she has in herself a
plant-life and a plant-sympathy. She feels for them as if she herself
were a plant; she anticipates their wants,--always remembers them
without an effort, and so the care flows to them daily and hourly. She
hardly knows when she does the things that make them grow,--but she
gives them a minute a hundred times a day. She moves this nearer the
glass,--draws that back,--detects some thief of a worm on one,--digs at
the root of another, to see why it droops,--washes these leaves, and
sprinkles those,--waters, and refrains from watering, all with the
habitual care of love. Your mother herself doesn't know why her plants
grow; it takes a philosopher and a writer for the 'Atlantic' to tell her
what the cause is."

Here I saw my wife laughing over her work-basket as she answered,--

"Girls, one of these days, _I_ will write an article for the 'Atlantic,'
that your papa need not have _all_ the say to himself: however, I
believe he has hit the nail on the head this time."

"Of course he has," said Marianne. "But, mamma, I am afraid to begin to
depend much on plants for the beauty of my rooms, for fear I should not
have your gift,--and of all forlorn and hopeless things in a room,
ill-kept plants are the most so."

"I would not recommend," said I, "a young housekeeper, just beginning,
to rest much for her home-ornament on plant-keeping, unless she has an
experience of her own love and talent in this line, which makes her sure
of success; for plants will not thrive, if they are forgotten or
overlooked, and only tended in occasional intervals; and, as Marianne
says, neglected plants are the most forlorn of all things."

"But, papa," said Marianne, anxiously, "there, in those patent parlors
of John's that you wrote of, flowers acted a great part."

"The charm of those parlors of John's may be chemically analyzed," I
said. "In the first place, there is sunshine, a thing that always
affects the human nerves of happiness. Why else is it that people are
always so glad to see the sun after a long storm? why are bright days
matters of such congratulation? Sunshine fills a house with a thousand
beautiful and fanciful effects of light and shade,--with soft, luminous,
reflected radiances, that give picturesque effects to the pictures,
books, statuettes of an interior. John, happily, had no money to buy
brocatelle curtains,--and besides this, he loved sunshine too much to
buy them, if he could. He had been enough with artists to know that
heavy damask curtains darken precisely that part of the window where the
light proper for pictures and statuary should come in, namely, the upper
part. The fashionable system of curtains lights only the legs of the
chairs and the carpets, and leaves all the upper portion of the room in
shadow. John's windows have shades which can at pleasure be drawn down
from the top or up from the bottom, so that the best light to be had may
always be arranged for his little interior."

"Well, papa," said Marianne, "in your chemical analysis of John's rooms,
what is the next thing to the sunshine?"

"The next," said I, "is harmony of color. The wall-paper, the furniture,
the carpets, are of tints that harmonize with one another. This is a
grace in rooms always, and one often neglected. The French have an
expressive phrase with reference to articles which are out of
accord,--they say that they swear at each other. I have been in rooms
where I seemed to hear the wall-paper swearing at the carpet, and the
carpet swearing back at the wall-paper, and each article of furniture
swearing at the rest. These appointments may all of them be of the most
expensive kind, but with such disharmony no arrangement can ever produce
anything but a vulgar and disagreeable effect. On the other hand, I have
been in rooms where all the material was cheap, and the furniture poor,
but where, from some instinctive knowledge of the reciprocal effect of
Colors, everything was harmonious, and produced a sense of elegance.

"I recollect once travelling on a Western canal through a long stretch
of wilderness, and stopping to spend the night at an obscure settlement
of a dozen houses. We were directed to lodgings in a common frame-house
at a little distance, where, it seemed, the only hotel was kept. When we
entered the parlor, we were struck with utter amazement at its
prettiness, which affected us before we began to ask ourselves how it
came to be pretty. It was, in fact, only one of the miracles of
harmonious color working with very simple materials. Some woman had been
busy there, who had both eyes and fingers. The sofa, the common wooden
rocking-chairs, and some ottomans, probably made of old soap-boxes, were
all covered with American nankeen of a soft yellowish-brown, with a
bordering of blue print. The window-shades, the table-cover, and the
piano-cloth, all repeated the same colors, in the same cheap material. A
simple straw matting was laid over the floor, and, with a few books, a
vase of flowers, and one or two prints, the room had a home-like, and
even elegant air, that struck us all the more forcibly from its contrast
with the usual tawdry, slovenly style of such parlors.

"The means used for getting up this effect were the most inexpensive
possible,--simply the following-out, in cheap material, a law of
uniformity and harmony, which always will produce beauty. In the same
manner, I have seen a room furnished, whose effect was really gorgeous
in color, where the only materials used were Turkey-red cotton and a
simple ingrain carpet of corresponding color.

"Now, you girls have been busy lately in schemes for buying a velvet
carpet for the new parlor that is to be, and the only points that have
seemed to weigh in the council were that it was velvet, that it was
cheaper than velvets usually are, and that it was a genteel pattern."

"Now, papa," said Jennie, "what ears you have! We thought you were
reading all the time!"

"I see what you are going to say," said Marianne. "You think that we
have not once mentioned the consideration which should determine the
carpet,--whether it will harmonize with our other things. But, you see,
papa, we don't really know what our other things are to be." "Yes," said
Jennie, "and Aunt Easygo said it was an unusually good chance to get a
velvet carpet."

"Yet, good as the chance is, it costs just twice as much as an ingrain."

"Yes, papa, it does."

"And you are not sure that the effect of it, after you get it down, will
be as good as a well-chosen ingrain one."

"That's true," said Marianne, reflectively.

"But, then, papa," said Jennie, "Aunt Easygo said she never heard of
such a bargain; only think, two dollars a yard for a _velvet!_"

"And why is it two dollars a yard? Is the man a personal friend, that he
wishes to make you a present of a dollar on the yard? or is there some
reason why it is undesirable?" said I.

"Well, you know, papa, he said those large patterns were not so
salable."

"To tell the truth," said Marianne, "I never did like the pattern
exactly; as to uniformity of tint, it might match with anything, for
there's every color of the rainbow in it."

"You see, papa, it's a gorgeous flower-pattern," said Jennie.

"Well, Marianne, how many yards of this wonderfully cheap carpet do you
want?"

"We want sixty yards for both rooms," said Jennie, always primed with
statistics.

"That will be a hundred and twenty dollars," I said.

"Yes," said Jennie; "and we went over the figures together, and thought
we could make it out by economizing in other things. Aunt Easygo said
that the carpet was half the battle,--that it gave the air to everything
else."

"Well, Marianne, if you want a man's advice in the case, mine is at your
service."

"That is just what I want, papa."

"Well, then, my dear, choose your wall-papers and borderings, and, when
they are up, choose an ingrain carpet to harmonize with them, and adapt
your furniture to the same idea. The sixty dollars that you save on your
carpet spend on engravings, chromo-lithographs, or photographs of some
really _good_ works of Art, to adorn your walls."

"Papa, I'll do it," said Marianne.

"My little dear," said I, "your papa may seem to be a sleepy old
book-worm, yet he has his eyes open. Do you think I don't know why my
girls have the credit of being the best-dressed girls on the street?"

"Oh, papa!" cried out both girls in a breath.

"Fact, that!" said Bob, with energy, pulling at his moustache.
"Everybody talks about your dress, and wonders how you make it out."

"Well," said I, "I presume you do not go into a shop and buy a yard of
ribbon because it is selling at half-price, and put it on without
considering complexion, eyes, hair, and shade of the dress, do you?"

"Of course we don't!" chimed in the duo, with energy.

"Of course you don't. Haven't I seen you mincing down-stairs, with all
your colors harmonized, even to your gloves and gaiters? Now, a room
must be dressed as carefully as a lady."

"Well, I'm convinced," said Jennie, "that papa knows how to make rooms
prettier than Aunt Easygo; but then she said this was _cheap_, because
it would outlast two common carpets."

"But, as you pay double price," said I, "I don't see that. Besides, I
would rather, in the course of twenty years, have two nice, fresh
ingrain carpets, of just the color and pattern that suited my rooms,
than labor along with one ill-chosen velvet that harmonized with
nothing."

"I give it up," said Jennie; "I give it up."

"Now, understand me," said I; "I am not traducing velvet or Brussels or
Axminster. I admit that more beautiful effects can be found in those
goods than in the humbler fabrics of the carpet-rooms. Nothing would
delight me more than to put an unlimited credit to Marianne's account,
and let her work out the problems of harmonious color in velvet and
damask. All I have to say is, that certain unities of color, certain
general arrangements, will secure very nearly as good general effects in
either material. A library with a neat, mossy green carpet on the floor,
harmonizing with wall-paper and furniture, looks generally as well,
whether the mossy green is made in Brussels or in ingrain. In the
carpet-stores, these two materials stand side by side in the very same
pattern, and one is often as good for the purpose as the other. A lady
of my acquaintance, some years since, employed an artist to decorate her
parlors. The walls being frescoed and tinted to suit his ideal, he
immediately issued his decree that her splendid velvet carpets must be
sent to auction, and others bought of certain colors, harmonizing with
the walls. Unable to find exactly the color and pattern he wanted, he at
last had the carpets woven in a neighboring factory, where, as yet, they
had only the art of weaving ingrains. Thus was the material sacrificed
at once to the harmony."

I remarked, in passing, that this was before Bigelow's mechanical genius
had unlocked for America the higher secrets of carpet-weaving, and made
it possible to have one's desires accomplished in Brussels or velvet. In
those days, English carpet-weavers did not send to America for their
looms, as they now do.

"But now to return to my analysis of John's rooms.

"Another thing which goes a great way towards giving them their
agreeable air is the books in them. Some people are fond of treating
books as others do children. One room in the house is selected, and
every book driven into it and kept there. Yet nothing makes a room so
home-like, so companionable, and gives it such an air of refinement, as
the presence of books. They change the aspect of a parlor from that of a
mere reception-room, where visitors perch for a transient call, and give
it the air of a room where one feels like taking off one's things to