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with the divine expansion, this growth comes by shocks.

We cannot part with our friends. We cannot let our angels go. We do not see that they only go out that archangels may come in. We are idolaters of the old. We do not believe in the riches of the soul, in its proper eternity and omnipresence. We do not believe there is any force in to-day to rival or recreate that beautiful yesterday. We linger in the ruins of the old tent, where once we had bread and shelter and organs, nor believe that the spirit can feed, cover, and nerve us again. We cannot again find aught so dear, so sweet, so graceful. But we sit and weep in vain. The voice of the Almighty saith, "Up and onward for evermore!" We cannot stay amid the ruins. Neither will we rely on the new; and so we walk ever with reverted eyes, like those monsters who look backwards.

And yet the compensations of calamity are made apparent to the understanding also, after long intervals of time. A fever, a mutilation, a cruel disappointment, a loss of wealth, a loss of friends, seems at the moment unpaid loss, and unpayable. But the sure years reveal the deep remedial force that underlies all facts. The death of a dear friend, wife, brother, lover, which seemed nothing but privation, somewhat later assumes the aspect of a guide or genius; for it commonly operates revolutions in our way of life, terminates an epoch of infancy or of youth which was waiting to be closed, breaks up a wonted occupation, or a household, or style of living, and allows the formation of new ones more friendly to the growth of character. It permits or constrains the formation of new acquaintances, and the reception of new influences that prove of the first importance to the next years; and the man or woman who would have remained a sunny garden flower, with

no room for its roots and too much sunshine for its head, by the falling of its walls and the neglect of its gardener, is made the banian of the forest, yielding shade and fruit to wide neighbourhoods of men. Essay on Compensation.


It is for want of self-culture that the idol of travelling, the idol of Italy, of England, of Egypt, remains for all educated Americans. They who made England, Italy, or Greece venerable to the imagination, did so not by rambling round creation as a moth round a lamp, but by sticking fast where they were, like an axis of the earth. In manly hours, we feel that duty is our place, and that the merry-men of circumstance

should follow as they may. The soul is no traveller: the wise man stays at home with the soul, and when his necessities, his duties, or any occasion call him from his house, or into foreign lands, he is at home still, and is not gadding abroad from himself, and shall make men sensible by the expression of his countenance that he goes the inissionary of wisdom and virtue, and visits cities and men like a sovereign, and not like an interloper or a valet.

I have no churlish objection to the circumnavigation of the globe, for the purposes of art, of study, and benevolence, so that the man is first domesticated, or does not go abroad with the hope of finding somewhat greater than he knows. He who travels to be amused, or to get somewhat which he does not carry, travels away from himself, and grows old even in youth among old things. In Thebes, in Palmyra, his will and mind have become old and dilapidated as they. He carries ruins to ruins.

Travelling is a fool's paradise. We owe to our first journeys the discovery that place is nothing. At home I dream that at Naples, at Rome, I can be intoxicated with beauty, and lose my sadness. I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark on the sea, and at last wake up at Naples, and there beside me is the stern fact, the sad self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from. I seek the Vatican and the palaces. I affect to be intoxicated with sights and suggestions, but I am not intoxicated. My giant goes with me wherever I go.


But the rage of travelling is itself only a symptom of a deeper unsoundness affecting the whole intellectual action. The intellect is vagabond, and the universal system of education fosters restlessness. Our minds travel when our bodies are forced to stay at home. We imitate; and what is imitation but the travelling of the mind? Our houses are built with foreign taste; our shelves are garnished with foreign ornaments; opinions, our tastes, our whole minds, lean, and follow the past and the distant, as the eyes of a maid follow her mistress. The soul created the arts wherever they have flourished. It was in his own mind that the artist sought his model. It was an application of his own thought to the thing to be done and the conditions to be observed. And why need we copy the Doric or the Gothic model? Beauty, convenience, grandeur of thought, and quaint expression are as near to us as to any, and if the American artist will study with hope and love the precise thing to be done by him, considering the climate, the soil, the length of the day, the wants of the people, the habit and form of the government, he will create a house in

which all these will find themselves fitted, and taste and sentiment will be satisfied also.

Insist on yourself; never imitate. Your own gift you can present every moment with the cumulative force of a whole life's cultivation; but of the adopted talent of another, you have only an extemporaneous half possession. That which each can do best, none but his Maker can teach him. No man yet knows what it is, nor can, till that person has exhibited it. Where is the master who could have instructed Franklin, or Washington, or Bacon, or Newton? Every great man is a unique. The Scipionism of Scipio is precisely that part he could not borrow. If anybody will tell me whom the great man imitates in the original crisis when he performs a great act, I will tell him who else than himself can teach him. Shakspeare will never be made by the study of Shakspeare. Do that which is assigned thee, and thou canst not hope too much or dare too much. There is at this moment, there is for me an utterance bare and grand as that of the colossal chisel of Phidias, or trowel of the Egyptians, or the pen of Moses, or Dante, but different from all these. Not possibly will the soul all rich, all eloquent, with thousand-cloven tongue, deign to repeat itself; but if I can hear what these patriarchs say, surely I can reply to them in the same pitch of voice: for the ear and the tongue are two organs of one nature. Dwell up there in the simple and noble regions of thy life, obey thy heart, and thou shalt reproduce the Foreworld again. Essay on Self-Reliance.

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE, born at Salem, Massachusetts, 1804, graduated at Bowdoin College, 1825, was American Consul at Liverpool, 1853-57, died 1864. Works, collective edition, Boston, J. R. Osgood & Co., 21 vols. 16mo: vols. i., ii., Twice-Told Tales, 1837, Second Series, 1842; iii., iv., Mosses from an Old Manse, 1846; v., The Scarlet Letter; vi., The House of the Seven Gables, 1851; vii., True Stories from History and Biography, 1851; viii., The Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys, 1851; ix., The Snow-Image and other Twice-Told Tales, 1852; x., The Blithedale Romance, 1852; xi., Tanglewood Tales for Boys and Girls; a Second Wonder-Book, 1853; xii., xiii., The Marble Faun, 1860, 2 vols.; London, Transformation, or, The Romance of Monte Beni, 1860, 3 vols. p. 8vo; xiv., Our Old Home, 1863; xv., Septimius Felton, or, The Elixir of Life; xvi., xvii., American Note-Books,

1868; xviii., xix., English Note-Books, 1870; xx., xxi., French and Italian Note-Books, 1871. Illustrated Library Edition, Boston, J. R. Osgood & Co., 9 vols. 12mo: vol. i., Twice-Told Tales; ii., Mosses from an Old Manse; iii., The Scarlet Letter, and The Blithedale Romance: iv., The House of the Seven Gables, and The Snow-Image; v., The Marble Faun; vi., English Note-Books; vii., American Note-Books; viii., French and Italian Note-Books; ix., Our Old Home, and Septimius Felton. There are also a new Illustrated Library Edition in 12 vols. 12mo, a collective edition in 23 vols. 16mo, and the Little Classic Edition, in 23 vols. 18mo.

Hawthorne edited Journal of an African Cruiser, etc., from the MSS. of Horatio Bridge, U.S.N., New York, 1853, 12mo, and published a Life of Franklin Pierce, Bost., 1852, 16mo. He contributed many articles to The Token and to The Democratic Review.

"The characteristics of Hawthorne which first arrest the attention are imagination and reflection; and these are exhibited in remarkable power and activity in tales and essays of which the style is distinguished for great simplicity, purity, and tranquillity... His style is studded with the most poetical imagery, and marked in every part with chaste, and flowing, and transparent as water."the happiest graces of expression, while it is calm, RUFUS W. GRISWOLD, D.D.: Prose Writers of America, 4th edit., Phila., 1852.

"Another characteristic of this writer is the exceeding beauty of his style. It is clear as running waters are. Indeed, he uses words merely as stepping-stones, upon which, with a free and youthful bound, his spirit crosses and re-crosses the bright and rushing stream of thought."-H. W. LoNGFELLOW: N. Amer. Review (July, 1837, 63). See also Atlantic Monthly, May, 1860 (by E. P. Whipple); Tuckerman's Mental Portraits; Homes of American Authors (sketch by G. W. Curtis); and especially Yesterdays with Authors, an excellent book by our friend James T. Fields, Boston, 1872, 12mo (who induced Hawthorne to give to the world The Scarlet Letter), and A Study of Hawthorne, by G. P. Lathrop, Boston, 18mo.

A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. SCENE. The corner of two principal streets. The TOWN PUMP talking through

its nose.

Noon by the north clock! Noon by the east! High noon, too, by these hot sunbeams, which fall, scarcely aslope, upon my head, and almost make the water bubble and smoke in the trough under my nose. Truly, we public characters have a tough time of it! And, among all the town officers, chosen at March meeting, where is he that sustains, for a single year, the burden of such manifold duties as are imposed in perpetuity, upon the Town Pump? The title of Town Treasurer" is rightfully

mine, as guardian of the best treasure that the town has. The Overseers of the Poor ought to make me their chairman, since I provide bountifully for the pauper, without expense to him that pays taxes. I am at the head of the Fire Department, and one of the Physicians to the Board of Health. As a keeper of the peace all water-drinkers will confess me equal to the constable. I perform some of the duties of the Town Clerk, by promulgating public notices, when they are posted on my front. To speak within bounds, I am the chief person of the municipality, and exhibit, moreover, an admirable pattern to my brother officers, by the cool, steady, upright, downright, and impartial discharge of my business, and the constancy with which I stand to my post. Summer or winter, nobody seeks me in vain; for, all day long, I am seen at the busiest corner, just above the market, stretching out my arms to rich and poor alike; and at night I hold a lantern over my head, both to show where I am, and keep people out of the gutters.

At this sultry noontide I am cup-bearer to the parched populace, for whose benefit an iron goblet is chained to my waist. Like a dram-seller on the mall, at muster-day, cry aloud to all and sundry, in my plainest accents, and at the very tiptop of my voice:


Here it is, gentlemen! Here is the good liquor! Walk up, walk up, gentlemen, walk up, walk up! Here is the superior stuff! Here is the unadulterated ale of Father Adam, better than Cognac, Hollands, Jamaica, strong beer, or wine of any price; here it is by the hogshead or the single glass, and not a cent to pay! Walk up, gentlemen, walk up, and help your


It were a pity if all this outcry should draw no customers. Here they come. A hot day, gentlemen! Quaff, and away again, so as to keep yourselves in a nice, cool sweat. You, my friend, will need another cup-full to wash the dust out of your throat, if it be as thick there as it is on your cow-hide shoes. I see that you have trudged half a score of miles to-day; and, like a wise man, have passed by the taverns, and stopped at the running brooks and well-curbs. Otherwise, betwixt heat without and fire within, you would have been burnt to a cinder, or melted down to nothing at all, in the fashion of a jelly-fish. Drink, and make room for that other fellow, who seeks my aid to quench the fiery fever of last night's potations, which he drained from no cup of mine. Welcome, most rubicund sir! You and I have been great strangers, hitherto; nor, to confess the truth, will my nose be anxious

for a closer intimacy, till the fumes of your breath be a little less potent. Mercy on you, man! the water absolutely hisses down your red-hot gullet, and is converted quite to steam, in the miniature tophet which you mistake for a stomach. Fill again, and tell me, on the word of an honest toper, did you ever, in cellar, tavern, or any kind of a dram-shop, spend the price of your children's food for a swig half so delicious? Now, for the first time of these ten years, you know the flavour of cold water. Good-by; and, whenever you are thirsty, remember that I keep a constant supply, at the old stand. Who next? Oh, my little friend, you are let loose from school, and come hither to scrub your blooming face, and drown the memory of certain taps of the ferule, and other school-boy troubles, in a draught from the Town Pump. Take it, pure as the current of your young life. Take it, and may your heart and tongue never be scorched with a fiercer thirst than now! There, my dear child, put down the cup, and yield your place to this elderly gentleman, who treads so tenderly over the paving-stones that I suspect he is afraid of breaking them. What! he limps by without so much as thanking me, as if my hospitable offers were meant only for people who have no winecellars. Well, well, sir,-no harm done, I hope! Go, draw the cork, tip the decanter; but, when your great toe shall set; you a-roaring, it will be no affair of mine. If gentlemen love the pleasant titillation of the gout, it is all one to the Town Pump. This thirsty dog, with his red tongue lolling out, does not scorn my hospitality, but stands on his hind legs, and laps eagerly out of the trough. See, how lightly he capers away again! Jowler, did your worship ever have the gout?

Are you all satisfied? Then wipe your mouths, my good friends; and, while my spout has a moment's leisure, I will delight the town with a few historical reminiscences. In far antiquity, beneath a darksome shadow of venerable boughs, a spring bubbled out of the leaf-strown earth in the very spot where you now behold me, on the sunny pavement. The water was as bright and clear, and deemed as precious, as liquid diamonds. The Indian sagamores drank of it, from time immemorial, till the fatal deluge of the fire-water burst upon the red men, and swept their whole race away from the cold fountains. Endicott and his followers came next, and often knelt down to drink, dipping their long beards in the spring. The richest goblet then was of birch bark. Governor Winthrop, after a journey afoot from Boston, drank here, out of the hollow of his hand. The elder Higginson here wet

his palm, and laid it on the brow of the first town-born child. For many years it was the watering-place, and, as it were, the wash-bowl, of the vicinity,-whither all decent folks resorted to purify their visages, and gaze at them afterwards, at least the pretty maidens did,-in the mirror which it made. On Sabbath-days, whenever a babe was to be baptized, the sexton filled his basin here, and placed it on the communiontable of the humble meeting-house which partly covered the site of yonder stately brick one. Thus one generation after another was consecrated to Heaven by its waters, and cast their waxing and waning shadows into its glassy bosom, and vanished from the earth, as if mortal life were but a flitting image in a fountain. Finally, the fountain vanished also. Cellars were dug on all sides, and cart-loads of gravel flung from its source, whence oozed a turbid stream, forming a mud-puddle at the corner of two streets. In the hot months, when its refreshment was most needed, the dust flew in clouds over the forgotten birth-place of the waters, now their grave. But in the course of time a Town Pump was sunk into the source of the ancient spring; and when the first decayed, another took its place, and then another, and still another, till here stand I, gentlemen and ladies, to serve you with my iron goblet. Drink and be refreshed! The water is pure and cold as that which slaked the thirst of the red sagamore, beneath the aged boughs, though now the gem of the wilderness is treasured under these hot stones, where no shadow falls but from the brick buildings. And be it the moral of my story that, as this wasted and long-lost fountain is now known and prized again, so shall the virtues of cold water, too little valued since your fathers' days, be recognized by all.

Your pardon, good people! I must interrupt my stream of eloquence, and spout forth a stream of water, to replenish the trough for this teamster and his two yoke of oxen, who have come from Topsfield, or somewhere along that way. No part of my business is pleasanter than the watering of cattle. Look! how rapidly they lower the watermark on the sides of the trough, till their capacious stomachs are moistened with a gallon or two apiece, and they can afford to breathe it in, with sighs of calm enjoyment. Now they roll their quiet eyes around the brim of their monstrous drinking-vessels. An ox is your true toper.

But I perceive, my dear auditors, that you are impatient for the remainder of my discourse. Impute it, I beseech you, to no defect of modesty if I insist a little longer on so fruitful a topic as my own multifarious

merits. It is altogether for your good. The better you think of me the better men and women will you find yourselves. I shall say nothing of my all-important aid on washing days; though, on that account alone, I might call myself the household god of a hundred families. Far be it from me also, to hint, my respectable friends, at the show of dirty faces which you would present, without my pains to keep you clean. Nor will I remind you how often, when the midnight bells make you tremble for your combustible town, you have fled to the Town Pump, and found me always at my post, firm amid the confusion, and ready to drain my vital current in your behalf. Neither is it worth while to lay much stress on my claims to a medical diploma, as the physician whose simple rule of practice is preferable to all the nauseous lore which has found men sick or left them so, since the days of Hippocrates. Let us take a broader view of my beneficial influence on mankind.

No; these are trifles compared with the merits which wise men concede to me-if not in my single self, yet as the representative of a class-of being the grand reformer of the age. From my spout, and such spouts as mine, must flow the stream that shall cleanse our earth of the vast portion of its crime and anguish which has gushed from the fiery fountains of the still. In this mighty enterprise the cow shall be my great confederate. Milk and water! The TowN PUMP and the Cow!

Such is the glorious copartnership that shall tear down the distilleries and brewhouses, uproot the vineyards, shatter the cider-presses, ruin the tea and coffee trade, and finally monopolize the whole business of quenching thirst. Blessed consummation! Then Poverty shall pass away from the land, finding no hovel so wretched where her squalid form may shelter itself. Then Disease, for lack of other victims, shall gnaw its own heart, and die. Then Sin, if she do not die, shall lose half her strength. Until now, the phrensy of hereditary fever has raged in the human blood, transmitted from sire to son, and rekindled, in every generation, by fresh draughts of liquid flame. When that inward fire shall be extinguished, the heat of passion cannot but grow cool, and war-the drunkenness of nations-perhaps will cease. At least, there will be no war of households. The husband and wife, drinking deep of peaceful joy,—a calm bliss of temperate affections,-shall pass hand in hand through life, and lie down, not reluc tantly at its protracted close. To them the past will be no turmoil of mad dreams, nor the future an eternity of such moments as follow the delirium of the drunkard. Their

dead faces shall express what their spirits were, and are to be, by a lingering smile of memory and hope.

Ahem! Dry work, this speechifying; especially to an unpractised orator. I never conceived till now what toil the temperance lecturers undergo for my sake. Hereafter, they shall have the business to themselves. Do, some kind Christian, pump a stroke or two, just to wet my whistle. Thank you, Sir! My dear hearers, when the world shall have been regenerated by my instrumentality, you will collect your useless vats and liquor casks into one great pile, and make a bonfire in honour of the Town Pump. And when I shall have decayed, like my predecessors, then, if you revere my meinory, let a marble fountain, richly sculptured, take my place upon the spot. Such monuments should be erected everywhere, and inscribed with the names of the distinguished champions of my cause. Now listen; for something very important is to

come next.


was born at Heydon Hall, Norfolk, Eng-
land, 1805, graduated at Trinity Hall, Cam-
bridge, 1826, made a baronet, 1838, Lord
Rector of the University of Glasgow, 1856,
Secretary of State for the Colonies, 1858,
raised to the peerage as Baron Lytton, 1866,
died 1873.

Novels and Romances: London, Saunders & Otley, 1840-45, 14 vols. p. 8vo; Chapman & Hall, 1848-53, 20 vols. cr. 8vo; Edinburgh, 1859-60, 43 vols. 12mo; author's last revised library edition, London, 48 vols. cr. 8vo: contents: Rienzi, Paul Clifford, Pelham, Eugene Aram, Last of the Barons, Last Days of Pompeii, Godolphin, Pilgrims of the Rhine, Night and Morning, Ernest Maltravers, Alice, Disowned, Devereux, Zanoni, Leila, Calderon the Courtier, Harold, the Last of the Saxon Kings, Lucretia, The Caxtons, My Novel, What will He do with There are two or three honest friends of It? Strange Story, Kenelm Chillingly, The mine-and true friends I know they are- Parisians, The Coming Race; new edition, who, nevertheless, by their fiery pugnacity Lond., 27 vols. cr. 8vo: contents: same as in my behalf, do put me in fearful hazard the 48 vols. edition, excepting. Calderon the of a broken nose, or even a total overthrow Courtier, which is omitted. There is an ilupon the pavement, and the loss of the treas-lustrated edition, with 16 engravings, of ure which I guard. I pray you, gentlemen, let this fault be amended. Is it decent, think you, to get tipsy with zeal for temperance, and take up the honourable cause of the Town Pump in the style of a toper fighting for his brandy bottle? Or can the excellent qualities of cold water be no otherwise exemplified than by plunging, slapdash, into hot water, and wofully scalding yourselves and other people? Trust me, they may. In the moral warfare which you are to wage, and, indeed, in the whole conduct of your lives,-you cannot choose a better example than myself, who have never permitted the dust and sultry atmosphere, the turbulent and manifold disquietudes of the world around me, to reach that deep, calm well of purity, which may be called my soul. And whenever I pour out that soul, it is to cool earth's fever, or cleanse its stains.

One o'clock! Nay, then, if the dinnerbell begins to speak, I may as well hold my peace. Here comes a pretty young girl of my acquaintance with a large stone pitcher for me to fill. May she draw a husband, while drawing her water, as Rachel did of old. Hold out your vessel, my dear! There it is, full to the brim: so now run home, peeping at your sweet image in the pitcher, as you go; and forget not, in a glass of my own liquor, to drink-"SUCCESS to the Town PUMP!"

Twice-Told Tales.

Leila and Calderon, Lond., 1838, r. 8vo, and another of The Pilgrims of the Rhine, with a portrait and 27 engravings, Lond., 1866, cr. 8vo.

Miscellaneous Prose Works, Lond., 1868, 3 vols. 8vo; England and the English, Lond., 1833, 2 vols. 12mo; The Student, Lond., 1835, 2 vols. 8vo (papers from The New Monthly Magazine); Athens, its Rise and Fall, Lond., 1837, 2 vols. 8vo; The Lost Tales of Miletus, Lond., 1867, p. 8vo: Speeches, with Memoir by his Son, Lord Robert Lytton, Lond., 1874; Pausanius the Spartan, edited with a Preface by Lord Robert Lytton, Lond., 1876, p. 8vo.

Poetical and Dramatic Works, Lond., 1852-53-54, 5 vols. p. 8vo: contents: vol. i., Beacon; Constance, or, The Portrait; Eva; Fairy Bride; Lay of the Minstrel's Heart; Milton; Narrative Lyrics, or, The Parcæ; New Timon. Vol. ii., King Arthur. Vol. iii., King Arthur; Corn Flowers; Earlier Poems. Vol. iv., Duchess de la Vallière; Lady of Lyons; Richelieu. Vol. v., Money; Not so Bad as We Seem. Poetical Works, complete, Lond., 1860, cr. 8vo, new edit., 1865. Dramatic Works, complete, 1863, 12mo; The Rightful Heir, a Play, 1868; Walpole, 1869.

Other publications: Ismael, an Oriental Tale, 1820, 12mo, was published when he was fifteen.

In 1831 he succeeded Campbell as editor

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