Chapter 1

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THE BEST

_of the_

WORLD'S CLASSICS

RESTRICTED TO PROSE

HENRY CABOT LODGE

_Editor-in-Chief_

FRANCIS W. HALSEY

_Associate Editor_

With an Introduction, Biographical and Explanatory Notes, etc.

IN TEN VOLUMES

Vol. X

AMERICA--II

INDEX

FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY

NEW YORK AND LONDON

COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY

FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY

* * * * *

The Best of the World's Classics

VOL. X

AMERICA--II

1807-1909

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CONTENTS

VOL. X--AMERICA--II

_Page_ HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW--(Born in 1807, died in 1882.) Musings in Père Lachaise. (From "Outre-Mer") 3

EDGAR ALLAN POE--(Born in 1809, died in 1849.) I The Cask of Amontillado. (Published originally in _Godey's Magazine_ in 1846) 11 II Of Hawthorne and the Short Story. (From a review of Hawthorne's "Twice Told Tales" and "Mosses from an Old Manse" published in _Godey's Magazine_ in 1846) 19 III Of Willis, Bryant, Halleck and Macaulay. (Passages selected from articles printed in Volume II of the "Works of Poe") 25

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES--(Born in 1809, died in 1894.) I Of Doctors, Lawyers and Ministers. (From Chapter V of "The Poet at the Breakfast Table") 31 II Of the Genius of Emerson. (From an address before the Massachusetts Historical Society in 1882) 36 III The House in Which the Professor Lived. (From Part X of "The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table") 42 IV Of Women Who Put on Airs. (From Part XI of "The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table") 49

MARGARET FULLER--(Born in 1810, lost in a shipwreck off Fire Island in 1850.) I Her Visit to George Sand. (From a letter to Elizabeth Hoar) 52 II Two Glimpses of Carlyle. (From a letter to Emerson) 54

HORACE GREELEY--(Born in 1811, died in 1872.) The Fatality of Self-Seeking in Editors and Authors. (Printed with the "Miscellanies" in the "Recollections of a Busy Life") 58

JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY--(Born in 1814, died in 1877.) I Charles V and Philip II in Brussels. (From Chapter I of "The Rise of the Dutch Republic") 63 II The Arrival of the Spanish Armada. (From Chapter XIX of the "History of the United Netherlands") 74 III "The Spanish Fury." (From Part IV, Chapter V, of "The Rise of the Dutch Republic") 84

RICHARD HENRY DANA, THE YOUNGER--(Born in 1815, died in 1882.) A Fierce Gale under a Clear Sky. (From "Two Years Before the Mast") 93

HENRY DAVID THOREAU--(Born in 1817, died in 1862.) I The Building of His House at Walden Pond. (From Chapter I of "Walden, or, Life in the Woods") 99 II How to Make Two Small Ends Meet. (From Chapters I and II of "Walden") 103 III On Reading the Ancient Classics. (From Chapter III of "Walden") 115 IV Of Society and Solitude. (From Chapter IV of "Walden") 120

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL--(Born in 1819, died in 1891.) I The Poet as Prophet. (From an essay contributed to _The Pioneer_ in 1843) 125 II The First of the Moderns. (From the first essay in the first series, entitled "Among My Books") 129 III Of Faults Found in Shakespeare. (From the essay entitled "Shakespeare Once More," printed in the first series entitled "Among My Books") 133 IV Americans as Successors of the Dutch. (From the essay entitled "On a Certain Condescension in Foreigners," printed in "From My Study Window") 138

CHARLES A. DANA--(Born in 1819, died in 1897.) Greeley as a Man of Genius. (From an article printed in the New York _Sun_, December 5, 1872) 146

JAMES PARTON--(Born in 1822, died in 1891.) Aaron Burr and Madame Jumel. (From his "Life of Burr") 150

FRANCIS PARKMAN--(Born in 1823, died in 1893.) I Champlain's Battle with the Iroquois. (From Chapter X of "The Pioneers of France in the New World") 157 II The Death of La Salle. (From Chapter XXV of "La Salle and the Discovery of the Great West") 161 III The Coming of Frontenac to Canada. (From Chapters I and II of "Count Frontenac and New France") 167 IV The Death of Isaac Jogues. (From Chapters XVI and XX of "The Jesuits in North America") 171 V Why New France Failed. (From the Introduction to "The Pioneers of France in the New World") 176 VI The Return of the Coureurs-de-Bois. (From Chapter XVIII of "The Old Régime in Canada") 179

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS--(Born in 1824, died in 1892.) Our Cousin the Curate. (From Chapter VII of "Prue and I") 183

ARTEMUS WARD--(Born in 1824, died in 1867.) Forrest as Othello. (From "Artemus Ward, His Book") 191

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH--(Born in 1836, died in 1908.) I A Sunrise in Stillwater. (From Chapter I of "The Stillwater Tragedy") 195 II The Fight at Slatter's Hill. (From Chapter XIII of "The Story of a Bad Boy") 198 III On Returning from Europe. (From Chapter IX of "From Ponkapog to Pesth") 204

WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS--(Born in 1837.) To Albany by the Night Boat. (From Chapter III of "The Wedding Journey") 207

JOHN HAY--(Born in 1838, died in 1905.) Lincoln's Early Fame. (From Volume X, Chapter XVIII of "Abraham Lincoln, A History") 211

HENRY ADAMS--(Born in 1838.) Jefferson's Retirement. (From the "History of the United States") 219

BRET HARTE--(Born in 1839, died in 1902.) I Peggy Moffat's Inheritance. (From "The Twins of Table Mountain") 224 II John Chinaman. (From "The Luck of Roaring Camp") 236 III M'liss Goes to School. (From "M'liss," one of the stories in "The Luck of Roaring Camp") 240

HENRY JAMES--(Born in 1843.) I Among the Malvern Hills. (From "A Passionate Pilgrim and Other Tales") 246 II Turgeneff's World. (From "French Poets and Novelists") 252

INDEX TO THE TEN VOLUMES 255

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VOL. X

AMERICA--II

1807-1909

* * * * *

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

Born in 1807, died in 1882; graduated from Bowdoin in 1825; traveled in Europe in 1826-29; professor at Bowdoin in 1829-35; again visited Europe in 1835-86; professor at Harvard in 1836-54; published "Voices of the Night" in 1839, "Evangeline" in 1847, "Hiawatha" in 1855, "Miles Standish" in 1858; "Tales of a Wayside Inn" in 1863, a translation of Dante in 1867-70, "The Divine Tragedy" in 1871, and many other volumes of verse; his prose writings include "Outre-Mer," published in 1835, and two novels, "Hyperion," published in 1839, and "Kavanagh," in 1849.

MUSINGS IN PÈRE LACHAISE[1]

The cemetery of Père Lachaise is the Westminster Abbey of Paris. Both are the dwellings of the dead; but in one they repose in green alleys and beneath the open sky--in the other their resting place is in the shadowy aisle and beneath the dim arches of an ancient abbey. One is a temple of nature; the other a temple of art. In one the soft melancholy of the scene is rendered still more touching by the warble of birds and the shade of trees, and the grave receives the gentle visit of the sunshine and the shower: in the other no sound but the passing footfall breaks the silence of the place; the twilight steals in through high and dusky windows; and the damps of the gloomy vault lie heavy on the heart, and leave their stain upon the moldering tracery of the tomb.

[Footnote 1: From "Outre-Mer."]

Père Lachaise stands just beyond the Barrière d'Aulney, on a hillside looking toward the city. Numerous gravel walks, winding through shady avenues and between marble monuments, lead up from the principal entrance to a chapel on the summit. There is hardly a grave that has not its little enclosure planted with shrubbery, and a thick mass of foliage half conceals each funeral stone. The sighing of the wind, as the branches rise and fall upon it--the occasional note of a bird among the trees, and the shifting of light and shade upon the tombs beneath have a soothing effect upon the mind; and I doubt whether any one can enter that enclosure, where repose the dust and ashes of so many great and good men, without feeling the religion of the place steal over him, and seeing something of the dark and gloomy expression pass off from the stern countenance of Death.

It was near the close of a bright summer afternoon that I visited this celebrated spot for the first time. The first object that arrested my attention on entering was a monument in the form of a small Gothic chapel which stands near the entrance, in the avenue leading to the right hand. On the marble couch within are stretched two figures, carved in stone and drest in the antique garb of the Middle Ages. It is the tomb of Abélard and Héloïse. The history of these two unfortunate lovers is too well known to need recapitulation; but perhaps it is not so well known how often their ashes were disturbed in the slumber of the grave. Abélard died in the monastery of St. Marcel, and was buried in the vaults of the church. His body was afterward removed to the convent of the Paraclete, at the request of Héloïse, and at her death her body was deposited in the same tomb. Three centuries they reposed together; after which they were separated to different sides of the church, to calm the delicate scruples of the lady abbess of the convent. More than a century afterward they were again united in the same tomb; and when at length the Paraclete was destroyed, their moldering remains were transported to the church of Nogent-sur-Seine. They were next deposited in an ancient cloister at Paris, and now repose near the gateway of the cemetery of Père Lachaise. What a singular destiny was theirs! that, after a life of such passionate and disastrous love--such sorrows, and tears, and penitence--their very dust should not be suffered to rest quietly in the grave!--that their death should so much resemble their life in its changes and vicissitudes, its partings and its meetings, its inquietudes and its persecutions!--that mistaken zeal should follow them down to the very tomb--as if earthly passion could glimmer, like a funeral lamp, amid the damps of the charnel house, and "even in their ashes burn their wonted fires"!

As I gazed on the sculptured forms before me, and the little chapel whose Gothic roof seemed to protect their marble sleep, my busy memory swung back the dark portals of the past, and the picture of their sad and eventful lives came up before me in the gloomy distance. What a lesson for those who are endowed with the fatal gift of genius! It would seem, indeed, that He who "tempers the wind to the shorn lamb" tempers also His chastisements to the errors and infirmities of a weak and simple mind--while the transgressions of him upon whose nature are more strongly marked the intellectual attributes of the Deity are followed, even upon earth, by severer tokens of the Divine displeasure. He who sins in the darkness of a benighted intellect sees not so clearly, through the shadows that surround him, the countenance of an offended God; but he who sins in the broad noonday of a clear and radiant mind, when at length the delirium of sensual passion has subsided and the cloud flits away from before the sun, trembles beneath the searching eye of that accusing Power which is strong in the strength of a godlike intellect. Thus the mind and the heart are closely linked together, and the errors of genius bear with them their own chastisement, even upon earth. The history of Abélard and Héloïse is an illustration of this truth. But at length they sleep well. Their lives are like a tale that is told; their errors are "folded up like a book"; and what mortal hand shall break the seal that death has set upon them?

Leaving this interesting tomb behind me, I took a pathway to the left, which conducted me up the hillside. I soon found myself in the deep shade of heavy foliage, where the branches of the yew and willow mingled, interwoven with the tendrils and blossoms of the honeysuckle. I now stood in the most populous part of this city of tombs. Every step awakened a new train of thrilling recollections, for at every step my eye caught the name of some one whose glory had exalted the character of his native land and resounded across the waters of the Atlantic. Philosophers, historians, musicians, warriors, and poets slept side by side around me; some beneath the gorgeous monument, and some beneath the simple headstone. But the political intrigue, the dream of science, the historical research, the ravishing harmony of sound, the tried courage, the inspiration of the lyre--where are they? With the living, and not with the dead! The right hand has lost its cunning in the grave; but the soul, whose high volitions it obeyed, still lives to reproduce itself in ages yet to come.

Amid these graves of genius I observed here and there a splendid monument, which had been raised by the pride of family over the dust of men who could lay no claim either to the gratitude or remembrance of posterity. Their presence seemed like an intrusion into the sanctuary of genius. What had wealth to do there? Why should it crowd the dust of the great? That was no thoroughfare of business--no mart of gain! There were no costly banquets there; no silken garments, nor gaudy liveries, nor obsequious attendants! "What servants," says Jeremy Taylor, "shall we have to wait upon us in the grave? what friends to visit us? what officious people to cleanse away the moist and unwholesome cloud reflected upon our faces from the sides of the weeping vaults, which are the longest weepers for our funerals?" Material wealth gives a factitious superiority to the living, but the treasures of intellect give a real superiority to the dead; and the rich man, who would not deign to walk the street with the starving and penniless man of genius, deems it an honor, when death has redeemed the fame of the neglected, to have his ashes laid beside him, and to claim with him the silent companionship of the grave.

I continued my walk through the numerous winding paths, as chance or curiosity directed me. Now I was lost in a little green hollow overhung with thick-leaved shrubbery, and then came out upon an elevation, from which, through an opening in the trees, the eye caught glimpses of the city, and the little esplanade at the foot of the hill where the poor lie buried. There poverty hires its grave and takes but a short lease of the narrow house. At the end of a few months, or at most of a few years, the tenant is dislodged to give place to another, and he in turn to a third. "Who," says Sir Thomas Browne, "knows the fate of his bones, or how often he is to be buried? Who hath the oracle of his ashes, or whither they are to be scattered?"

Yet even in that neglected corner the hand of affection had been busy in decorating the hired house. Most of the graves were surrounded with a slight wooden paling, to secure them from the passing footstep; there was hardly one so deserted as not to be marked with its little wooden cross and decorated with a garland of flowers; and here and there I could perceive a solitary mourner, clothed in black, stooping to plant a shrub on the grave, or sitting in motionless sorrow beside it.

As I passed on amid the shadowy avenues of the cemetery, I could not help comparing my own impressions with those which others have felt when walking alone among the dwellings of the dead. Are, then, the sculptured urn and storied monument nothing more than symbols of family pride? Is all I see around me a memorial of the living more than of the dead, an empty show of sorrow, which thus vaunts itself in mournful pageant and funeral parade? Is it indeed true, as some have said, that the simple wild flower which springs spontaneously upon the grave, and the rose which the hand of affection plants there, are fitter objects wherewith to adorn the narrow house? No! I feel that it is not so! Let the good and the great be honored even in the grave. Let the sculptured marble direct our footsteps to the scene of their long sleep; let the chiseled epitaph repeat their names, and tell us where repose the nobly good and wise! It is not true that all are equal in the grave. There is no equality even there. The mere handful of dust and ashes, the mere distinction of prince and beggar, of a rich winding sheet and a shroudless burial, of a solitary grave and a family vault--were this all, then, indeed it would be true that death is a common leveler. Such paltry distinctions as those of wealth and poverty are soon leveled by the spade and mattock; the damp breath of the grave blots them out forever. But there are other distinctions which even the mace of death can not level or obliterate. Can it break down the distinction of virtue and vice? Can it confound the good with the bad? the noble with the base? all that is truly great, and pure, and godlike, with all that is scorned, and sinful, and degraded? No! Then death is not a common leveler!...

Before I left the graveyard the shades of evening had fallen, and the objects around me grown dim and indistinct. As I passed the gateway, I turned to take a parting look. I could distinguish only the chapel on the summit of the hill, and here and there a lofty obelisk of snow-white marble, rising from the black and heavy mass of foliage around, and pointing upward to the gleam of the departed sun, that still lingered in the sky, and mingled with the soft starlight of a summer evening.

EDGAR ALLAN POE

Born in 1809, died in 1849; his father and mother actors; adopted by John Allan of Richmond after his mother's death; educated in Richmond, in England, at the University of Virginia, and at West Point; published "Tamerlane" in 1827; settled in Baltimore and devoted himself to literature; editor of several magazines 1835-44; published "The Raven" in 1845, "Al Aaraaf" in 1829, "Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque" in 1840.

I

THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO[2]

It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand.

[Footnote 2: Published in _Godey's Magazine_ in 1846.]

I said to him: "My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkable well you are looking to-day! But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts."

"How?" said he. "Amontillado? A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!"

"I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain."

"Amontillado!"

"I have my doubts--"

"Amontillado!"

"And I must satisfy them."

"Amontillado!"

"As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If any one has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell me--"

"Luchesi can not tell Amontillado from Sherry."

"And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own."

"Come, let us go."

"Whither?"

"To your vaults."

"My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Luchesi--"

"I have no engagement; come."

"My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with niter."

"Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And as for Luchesi, he can not distinguish Sherry from Amontillado."

Thus speaking, Fortunato possest himself of my arm. Putting on a mask of black silk, and drawing a _roquelaure_ closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.

There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honor of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned.

I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.

The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode.

"The pipe," said he.

"It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white web-work which gleams from these cavern walls."

He turned toward me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication.

"Niter?" he asked, at length.

"Niter," I replied. "How long have you had that cough?"

"Ugh! ugh! ugh--ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!"

My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes.

"It is nothing," he said, at last.

"Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I can not be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi--"

"Enough," he said; "the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die."

"True--true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily--but you should use all proper caution. A draft of this Medoc will defend us from the damps."

Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mold.

"Drink," I said, presenting him the wine.

He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled.

"I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us."

"And I to your long life."

He again took my arm, and we proceeded.

"These vaults," he said, "are extensive."

"The Montresors," I replied, "were a great and numerous family."

"I forget your arms."