Part 4

"It shows, at any rate, how many remote, decaying villages and country neighborhoods of the North, and forest nooks of the West, and old mansion houses in cities, are shaken by the tremor of our native soil, so that men long hidden in retirement put on the garments of their youth and hurry out to inquire what is the matter.

"The old men whom we see here have generally more marked faces than the young ones, and naturally enough; since it must be an extraordinary vigor and venerability of life that can overcome the rusty sloth of age, and keep the senior flexible enough to take an interest in new things; whereas, hundreds of commonplace young men come hither to stare with eyes of vacant wonder, and with vague hopes of finding out what they are fit for. And this war (we may say so much in its favor) has been the means of discovering that important secret to not a few."

* * * * *

The writer remembers the vivid and untiring pleasure with which, when a child, he read and re-read that marvellous book for little people, "Grandfather's Arm Chair." It opened to him a new world of poetry and beauty--a revelation which close and severest study of the great author's mind and character, as developed in his maturer works, has but made broader and deeper.

With a grateful memory of the first, I write these few lines to recall almost the latest of Hawthorne's writings; the very last indeed, save the charming fragment that gave to the world of letters "Little Pansy"--"The sweetest child," says Alexander Smith, "in English literature."

I cannot close this brief and cursory notice more appropriately than in the words of a dear friend and appreciative admirer of our author, James Russell Lowell:--

"This now 'sacred and happy spirit' was cruelly misunderstood among men. There were those who would have taken him away from his proper and peculiar sphere, in which he has done more for the true fame of his country than any other man, and made him a politician and reformer.

"Even the faithfulness of his friendships was turned into reproach.

"Him in whom New England was embodied as never before, making a part of every fibre of his soul, we have heard charged with want of patriotism.

"There were certain things and certain men with whom his essentially aristocratic nature could not sympathize, but he was American to the core. Just after Bull Run he wrote to a friend, 'If the event of this day has left the people of the North in the same grim and bloody mood in which it has left me, it will be a costly victory to the South.'

"But it is unworthy of this noble man to defend him from imputations which never touched him. As the years go by, his countrymen will grow more and more proud of him, more and more satisfied that it is, after all, something considerable to be only a genius."

ON HOOSAC MOUNTAIN.

BY EDWARD D. GUILD.

One day, when all the city street Lay sultry in the summer heat, I stood on Hoosac's rocky crest, And drank a draught of joy and rest.

The bracing Berkshire breezes blew Across the hills, and sweeping through The grateful valleys, gently fanned The sun-scorched brow of Greylock grand.

From off the cragged hills Taghkonic, High o'er the river Housatonic, An eagle in his strength was soaring, The paltry earth beneath ignoring.

Swift did his wings his will obey; Straight north by east he coursed his way; Proudly he took his fearless flight, Toward fair Monadnock's hazy height.

Then on this rugged mountain wall, A deeper silence seemed to fall: Over this road, though broad and wide, No traveller was seen to ride.

Only in vision rumbled by A creaking coach with driver high, Who cracked his whip, and rang his cheers-- Echoes they were of other years.

A group of graves were clustered here; The wind wailed o'er them wild and drear:-- Could souls rise higher to the Light When soaring from this mountain height?

And as I mused, the twilight fell: I heard a distant evening bell; And in the valley far below, I heard the home-bound cattle low.

Far down where winds the Deerfield stream, I saw a light,--a sudden gleam, As up the narrow river riding The Western train came swiftly gliding.

Then full to Hoosac's height it came, When, with a sudden flare of flame, Boldly the barrier it defied And plunged into the mountain side.

The train was lost to sound and sight, But still I knew it kept its flight: I marked its subterranean way;-- Below the little graveyard lay.

Ah! trav'ller, through this cavern deep, Fast in thy thoughts or book asleep, Dost know that high above thy head There rest the ashes of the dead?

A VERITABLE TRADER.

BY A. T. S.

A little remote from the centre of a village, on that strip of seacoast in the southeastern part of New Hampshire, lived a self-made trader, Joshua Jackson. He occupied a small, unpainted house, two stories in front, with the roof sloping down at the back part to one story. In the rear was the barn, with its generous red door, a well with its long "sweep," a pig-pen, and a hen-pen; but the hens seemed equally or more at home in the barn, with liberty of the yard, and sometimes they took a peep of curiosity into the back entry of the house.

Here, with his mother, lived Joshua Jackson, familiarly known as "Uncle Josh." It is a kind instinct which makes humanity in the rural districts claim, as uncle or aunt, any single man or woman who is left one side of the common lot of marriage and its ties. It is a relationship accepted in silent, good-natured consent on both sides. It was difficult to think of Uncle Josh as ever having been young. His hair, his complexion, his eyes, and even his coat, all seemed nearly of a color--a kind of snuff-colored red. He had a limping, rolling gait, affected by some infirmity of lameness which had, perhaps, prevented him from engaging in farming or fishing, which employed most men of the village; so he went into trade.

One of the "fore rooms," so called, of the house was his shop; the floor was of immaculate neatness, and carefully sanded every morning. On one side stood a cluster of barrels, one empty barrel surmounted by a board, exactly a yard long, the edge notched for the quarters and inches. This was his counter, and held a clumsy pair of scales. On the other side was a rude table containing boxes of cotton cloth, cambrics or checked goods, sewing cotton, buttons, thimbles, scissors, jack-knives, needles, and pins. On the mantel-shelf stood a pile of white, blue-edged plates, and mugs, and pitchers, from which projected sticks of red and white candy, like miniature barber's poles, and heaps of "gibraltars," hard and solid, sweet and brittle, and honest. Every child knew that they were a cent apiece, and thought them worth it.

No errand was half as welcome as one to Uncle Josh, when they might take an egg and get a skein of cotton. Sometimes he dived down into a cask of raisins as he passed by it, and filled the hand of the waiting messenger when he gave her whatever she came for, and took her money. Uncle Josh made no charges; he went on the cash system. He would barter, but he kept no running accounts with any one. The youngest child might go to him with the same certainty of right measure and weight as the shrewdest adult. One bright-faced little girl, who used to come often into his store, neatly dressed in her high-necked tier, and cape-bonnet, seemed to be a great favorite with him. He would sometimes say, half aside, that she was "pooty as a queen," although why the sturdy republican should make that comparison is a mystery. One day he stood at the open door, wistfully watching her as she walked off with her light, elastic step, and his mother, who had come in from the back room, answered to his unspoken thought, "Yes, she does, look a sight as Liza used to." The one woman whom others had connected with the idea of Uncle Josh's marrying had been dead long ago. It was said he had meant to ask her to be his wife when he should have laid by a certain sum of money, but the shy and reticent man suddenly found her "spoken for," as the villagers termed it, by the mate of a vessel. She died of consumption, unmarried. Uncle Josh never referred to this passage in his life, but his mother knew his mind, and why his words grew fewer than ever. The little Molly reproduced the soft hazel eyes and the trim air he so well remembered in her aunt.

Uncle Josh had a way of calling all strangers "furiners." A pale-faced girl who was boarding at the seashore for her health was delighted to be sent by her hostess, or any of the family, on an errand to the queer, quaint, old store, kept by "the funny old man." "You're a furiner, I guess," he said to her one day. "No, indeed, sir," she answered quickly, with an indignant blush, "I am not a foreigner. I came from Rochester, New York." "Why! such a long piece off, poor child, poor child," he muttered, as he went to a mug and took out a bright red sugar heart, and pressed it in her hand. "Ain't you dreadful homesick to live so fur?" "Oh, no; my home is very pleasant, and my father and mother are travelling; but they left me here because I have not been strong since I had the fever, and the doctor said I must bathe every day in the ocean. I have nice times. They keep cows where I board, and let me milk them a little sometimes. I am going to stay all summer." "Yes, yes; there are getting to be a great many furiners here in the summer." "What did Uncle Josh mean?" she asked on her return to the house; "did he take me for an Irish or a German girl? He asked if I was a foreigner." "Oh, he meant a stranger here in the village--some one not born here. He always calls 'em so. A good many folks do."

When Uncle Josh first went to Boston to buy his stock in trade, it was said that a merchant of whom he made large purchases, thought he did not know about trusting so queer and shabby looking a customer,--he should have to require good security. To his surprise, the countryman looked at the amount, unbuttoned his coat, and, from an ample old pocket-book he counted off his money; then from the depths of his pantaloon's pocket he brought up a round piece of leather twisted together for fastening, and from this he counted the exact change. Then he directed how the goods should be sent to him by such a schooner at a certain wharf. "Thank you, Mr. Jackson," said the merchant; "I hope we shall always be able to accommodate you. You prefer to pay down now, I see; but if you would like to have your bill remain awhile on credit at any time, we shall be happy to trust you." "It is very kind in you, but I don't trade on promises. 'Tain't my way. I thank ye all the same."

One day Uncle Josh happened to be in a merchant's store when the head of the establishment was absent. The clerk who waited on him had the pertness and superior airs of youth, sometimes seen even fifty years ago. He thought it fine fun to chaff the old countryman so shabbily dressed, and who drawled his words, and seemed so heavy and lumbering in his movements. As his customer said he guessed he would take so much of one thing, and then of another, the clerk said, "You are running up quite an account, it seems to me. Dipping in pretty deep for a man like you, hey?" "Perhaps I am," answered the old man; "I'll let 'em go," and walked out of the store. Another clerk who had finished business with a customer, came forward, and said to his fellow-clerk, "What made Mr. Jackson go off so suddenly?" "Who? That old cove? I rather think he was miffed at something I said about his dipping in deep. He didn't look as if he could afford a mouse-trap." "He? why, he's worth his weight in gold--always money down on the spot. If you've offended him, the governor'll be in your hair, I can tell you." "Goodness!" cried the terrified clerk, "I'll go after him, and bring him back," and off he started in quick pursuit. He could easily distinguish the rusty-looking suit, and limping, sidelong gait, even among the crowd of passengers on the sidewalk. When he had nearly overtaken him, he called out, "Here, sir, Mr. Jackson! Please stop," but the countryman still continued to move on at his slow pace. The clerk came up to him, and touched his hat, saying, "Please excuse me, Mr. Jackson. I am sure I didn't mean anything. I hope you will go back to the store, and let us wait on you. I am sure Mr. ---- would be so sorry to miss your custom. I hope you will excuse--" "You can go back to the store, young man," answered Mr. Jackson, "and tell your master I don't trade on excuses."

When the honest old man was gathered to his fathers, those who had known him in trade missed him. He always recognized a good article, and was willing to pay a fair price for it. He believed in a system of just equivalents in all business; he was exact to the smallest fraction, but not mean. He was simple, upright, honest, in all his dealings, never using his shrewdness to the disadvantage of his fellow-men.

LYDIA MARIA CHILD.

BY OLIVE E. DANA.

This is an age of biography. We have the two-volumed "Lives and Letters," and the brief and popular biography, with many of varying length and value between the two. And the contents of these two are outlined for us, again and again, in magazines and newspaper sketches. The histories of famous men and women are told and retold. It is the public's own fault if there is not a more general interest in, and a better knowledge of, the work of the notable characters of the century than ever before. This implies, also, a certain familiarity with the great movements of reform and philanthropy, and with the literature of the time. Some, however, who had a large share in the noblest work of this century, are less known, and less brought into notice, than we should expect. Among such is Mrs. L. M. Child. Her letters, published in 1880, were prefaced by a brief memorial sketch by the poet Whittier, and contained in an appendix the tribute of Wendell Phillips. An account of her life-work, written by Susan Coolidge, appeared in the "Famous Women" series. But her life, in many aspects, might profitably have the attention of this younger generation, who know little either of her antislavery work or of her literary attainments or fame. In both these departments her work seems like that of a pioneer. She helped to clear the way for the antislavery leaders,--Garrison and Higginson, Curtis and Lowell and Whittier. And in a similar manner she led the way into those paths where, for two or three decades, the woman-author has been so conspicuously advancing,--where her success has been so brilliant and varied. As to her literary genius, in the words of Whittier, "It is not too much to say that half a century ago she was the most popular literary woman in the United States." And again, "It is not exaggeration to say that no man or woman of that period rendered more substantial service to the cause of freedom, or made such a doing it." And when we add that her benevolence and 'great renunciation' in philanthropy--unobtrusive as they were--give her a valid claim to lasting remembrance, that the originality, insight, and force of character manifest in her letters, place them among the most valuable and suggestive of the letters of women, and that her truth, beneficence, and devotion would have made her life and character memorable if she had not written a line, we have stated only the barest truth; yet reason sufficient, why we of this generation should know more of her life and genius.

Lydia Maria Francis, afterwards Mrs. Child, was born in Medford, Mass., 1802. Her education was obtained in her native town, with the advantage of only one term in a private seminary. Her first book, "Hobomok," appeared in 1821, followed in 1823 by another novel, "The Rebels." These gave her a good degree of popularity. In 1827 she established "The Juvenile Miscellany," "pioneer to a long line of children's magazines." In 1828 she was married to David Lee Child, and they made their home in Boston. Within a very few years she wrote and published "The Frugal Housewife," "The Mother's Book," "The Girl's Own Book," "The History of Women," and the "Biographies of Good Wives."

Then, while all around her were heard the murmurs of popular praise and approval, and while in addition to the appreciation of countless humbler readers, she was winning commendation from the highest literary authorities,--in 1833 she "startled the country by the publication of her noble 'Appeal in behalf of that class of Americans called Africans.'" Mr. Whittier says: "It is quite impossible for any one of the present generation to imagine the popular surprise and indignation which the book called forth, or how entirely its author cut herself off from the favor and sympathy of a large number of those who had previously delighted to do her honor." And he continues: "Social and literary circles, which had been proud of her presence, closed their doors against her. The sale of her books, the subscriptions to her magazine, fell off to a ruinous extent. She knew all she was hazarding, and made the great sacrifice, prepared for all the consequences which followed."

She said in the preface: "I am fully aware of the unpopularity of the task I have undertaken, but though I expect ridicule and censure, I do not fear them. A few years hence the opinion of the world will be a matter in which I have not even the most transient interest, but this book will be abroad on its mission of humanity, long after the hand that wrote it is mingling with the dust. Should it be the means of advancing, even one single hour, the inevitable progress of truth and justice, I would not exchange the consciousness for all Rothschild's wealth or Sir Walter's fame." "Thenceforward," says Mr. Whittier again, "her life was a battle, a constant rowing hard against the stream of popular prejudice and hatred. And through it all, pecuniary privations, loss of friends and position, the painfulness of being suddenly thrust from the still air of delightful studies into the bitterest and sternest controversy of the age, she bore herself with patience, fortitude, and unshaken reliance on the justice and ultimate triumph of the cause she had espoused."

In a short time thereafter she had published four more antislavery books or pamphlets. "Philothia," a romance whose scene is laid in ancient Greece, appeared in 1836. For eight years, dating from 1844, Mr. and Mrs. Childs were joint-editors of "The Anti-Slavery Standard," published in New York. She had a room in the house of Isaac Hopper,--"a house where disinterestedness and noble labor were as daily breath." It was during this time that she wrote her "Letters from New York," under which title her letters to "The Boston Courier" appeared in a volume having an enormous sale. In 1852, having given up the editorship of "The Standard," Mrs. Child said: "We made a humble home in Wayland, Mass., where we spent twenty-two pleasant years entirely alone, without any domestic; mutually serving each other, and dependent on each other for intellectual companionship."

During those years she was deeply and actively interested in the progress of the Civil War. Its premonitions roused her. She warmly defended the cause of John Brown, sending him a letter offering to go nurse him in prison. Very soon she was deep in every sort of undertaking,--collecting funds, collecting supplies, urging Whittier to the writing of patriotic songs, sewing, knitting, quilting. Her intense interest was manifested by generous contributions of money, how earned or saved, she only knew. She said, "Nobles or princes cannot invent any pleasure equal to earning with one hand and giving with the other." Twenty dollars at one time, two hundred at another, and perhaps four hundred at yet another, she gave. During these years, too, she was writing and compiling other books,--"The Progress of Religious Ideas," "Looking towards Sunset," and "A Romance of the Republic." It was in the last of these peaceful years that she wrote: "David and I are growing old. He will be eighty in three weeks, and I was seventy-two last February. But we keep young in our feelings. We are, in fact, like two old children; as much interested as ever in the birds and wild flowers, and with sympathies as lively as ever in all that concerns the welfare of the world. Our habitual mood is serene and cheerful."

Only a few months after these words were written, her husband died, and she left the place so full of memories of him to find a home elsewhere. Of these later years it was said: "She lived among a singularly peaceful and intelligent community as one of themselves, industrious, wise, and happy; with a frugality whose motive of wide benevolence was in itself a homily and a benediction." She died in 1880.

BONNIE HAREBELLS.

BY ANNA B. BENSEL.

Bonnie harebells, bonnie harebells, Ring, oh, ring! Ring across the listening twilight While the fairies sing.

Bonnie harebells, bonnie harebells, My love greet! Let her hear you ringing softly At her very feet.

Bonnie harebells, bonnie harebells, Sound out clear; Tell a little, watching maiden I am very near.

Bonnie harebells, bonnie harebells, Ring, oh, ring! All the world with silence over Waits listening.

MYTH IN AMERICAN COINAGE.

BY ISAAC BASSETT CHOATE.

The worship of "the almighty dollar" is of no recent origin, provided it be the case that the dollar is represented in gold. This worship forms no special _cultus_ in the religions of the world. It is a survival from prehistoric times, and is intimately connected with the earliest forms of nature-worship. The estimate in which gold has been held has always been out of all proportion to its utility, its scarcity, or the difficulty of mining it. There have been times when civilized man had a comparatively far more abundant supply of gold than he has at present, but this circumstance did not avail to depreciate the metal. There were long ages of an incipient civilization, during which gold flooded the markets of the world as compared with iron, but this did not affect the relations between the nobler and the baser article of merchandise. Gold was all the time held at a valuation far above what it would have received from its importance to mankind in the useful arts. It was prized as amber was prized, and the two substances were devoted to quite similar uses. They were employed for the decoration of temples and shrines, and were worn for personal ornament. But the wearing of such ornament had its origin in sentiments which may be regarded as strictly religious. Beads and rings were originally amulets to protect the wearer against invisible inimical powers, as they were talismans to confer upon their possessor supernatural gifts. We can get no distinct view back of this custom in time, but we may feel well assured that when gold had acquired such use, nature-worship had advanced far into the stage of symbolism. It was not the metal itself that was the object of worship. That object gold typified and figured to the devout mind.