William Shakespeare - "The Tempest"

George MacDonald - "St. George and St. Michael Vol. I"

James Bovell Mackenzie - "A Treatise on the Six Nation Indians"

Thomas Paine - "The Writings of Thomas Paine Vol. IV"

Town and Country, or, Life at Home and Abroad

J >> John S. Adams >> Town and Country, or, Life at Home and Abroad




These facts show the ease and rapidity of some writers. In
contradistinction to these are the letters of many eminent Latin
writers, who actually bestowed several months of close attention
upon a single letter. Mr. Owen says: "Such is the defect of
education among the modern Roman ladies, that they are not troubled
to keep up any correspondence; because they cannot write. A princess
of great beauty, at Naples, caused an English lady to be informed
that she was learning to write; and hoped, in the course of time, to
acquire the art of correspondence."

There are many persons with whom it is the most difficult task of
their existence to write a letter. They follow the old Latin
writers, and make a labor of what with others is a recreation. They
begin with the stereotyped words, "I take my pen in hand," as though
a letter could be written without doing so. Then follows, "to inform
you that I am well, and hope this will find you the same." There is
a period-a full stop; and there are instances of persons going no
further, but closing with, "This from your friend, JOHN SHORT."

This "difficulty" arises not from an inability, but from an
excessive nicety-a desire to write a prize essay, instead of a good,
sociable, familiar letter. To make a letter interesting, the writer
must transfer his thoughts from his mind to his paper, as truly as
the rays of the sun place the likeness of an object in front of the
lens through which it acts upon the silvered plate. Seneca says, "I
would have my letters be like my discourses when we sit or walk
together, unstudied and easy."

Willis' letters are of a kind always "free and easy." His "Letters
from Under a Bridge" are admirable specimens of letters as they
should be; and his "Pencillings by the Way" owe much of their
popularity to their easy, familiar, talkative style. The letters of
Cicero and Pliny, of ancient, and Swift, Pope, Arbuthnot, Madame de
S‚vign‚, and Lady Mary Wortley Montague, of modern times, are
generally received as some of the best specimens extant of
epistolary composition. The letters of Charles Lamb are a series of
brilliances, though of kaleidoscope variety; they have wit without
buffoonery, and seriousness without melancholy. He closes one of
them by subscribing himself his friend's "afflicted, headachey,
sorethroaty, humble servant, CHARLES LAMB."

Some men, and women too, of eminence, have written curiosities in
the form of correspondence. The letter of the mother of Foote is a
good example of this kind of correspondence. Mrs. Foote became
embarrassed, and, being unable to meet a demand, was placed in
prison; whereupon she wrote to Mr. Foote as follows:

"DEAR SAM: I am in prison for debt; come, and assist your loving
mother, E. FOOTE.

It appears that "Sam" was equally entangled in the meshes of the
law, for he answered as follows:

"DEAR MOTHER:-So am I; which prevents his duty being paid to his
loving mother by her affectionate son,

"SAM FOOTE.

"P. S.-I have sent my attorney to assist you; in the mean time, let
us hope for better days."

These laconic epistles are well matched by that of a French lady,
who wrote to her husband this missive of intelligence, affection,
&c., &c.:

"I write to you because I have nothing to do; I end my letter
because I have nothing to say."

But these are left far in the rear by the correspondence of two
Quakers, the one living in Edinburgh, the other in London. The
former, wishing to know whether there was anything new in London,
wrote in the corner of a letter-sheet a small interrogation note,
and sent it to his friend. In due time he received an answer. He
opened the sheet and found, simply, O, signifying that there was
none.

In the London Times of January 3d, 1820, is the following,
purporting to be a copy of a letter sent to a medical gentleman:

"CER: Yole oblige me uf yole kum un ce me. I hev a Bad kowld, am
Hill in my Bow Hills, and hev lost my Happy Tight."

William Cowper, the poet, being on very familiar terms with the Rev.
Mr. Newton, amused himself and his friend with a letter, of which
the following is a copy:

"MY VERY DEAR FRIEND: I am going to send, what, when you have read,
you may scratch your head, and say, I suppose, there's nobody knows,
whether what I have got be verse or not; by the tune and the time,
it ought to be rhyme; but if it be, did you ever see, of late or of
yore, such a ditty before?

"I have writ Charity, not for popularity, but as well as I could, in
hopes to do good; and if the reviewers should say, 'To be sure the
gentleman's muse wears methodist shoes, you may know by her pace,
and talk about grace, that she and her bard have little regard for
the taste and fashions, and ruling passions, and hoydening play, of
the modern day; and though she assume a borrowed plume, and now and
then wear a tittering air, 't is only her plan to catch, if she can,
the giddy and gay, as they go that way, by a production on a new
construction; she has baited her trap, in hopes to snap all that may
come, with a sugar-plum.' His opinion in this will not be amiss; 't
is what I intend my principal end; and if I succeed, and folks
should read, till a few are brought to a serious thought, I shall
think I am paid for all I have said, and all I have done, though I
have run, many a time, after rhyme, as far as from hence, to the end
of my sense, and, by hook or crook, write another book, if I live
and am here, another year.

"I heard before of a room, with a floor laid upon springs, and such
like things, with so much art, in every part, that when you went in,
you was forced to begin a minuet pace, with an air and a grace,
swimming about, now in and now out, with a deal of state, in a
figure of eight, without pipe or string, or any such thing; and now
I have writ, in a rhyming fit, what will make you dance, and, as you
advance, will keep you still, though against your will, dancing
away, alert and gay, till you come to an end of what I have penned;
which that you may do ere madam and you are quite worn out with
jigging about, I take my leave; and here you receive a bow profound,
down to the ground, from your humble me,

"W. C."

At one of those famous coteries, so fashionable in the time of
George Selwyn, Selwyn declared that a lady never closed a letter
without a postscript. One of his fair auditors defended her sex by
saying that her next letter should prove he was wrong. Soon after,
Selwyn received a letter from the lady, in which, after the name,
was "P. S. Who is right now, you or I?"

"We have met the enemy, and they are ours" is an example for naval
letters. Commodore Walton's letter, by which he gave information of
his capture of a number of Spanish vessels of war, was as follows:

"We have taken or destroyed all the enemy's ships or vessels on the
coast, as per margin."

General Taylor's letters are of the same class,--brief and to the
point.

As a specimen of ultra-familiarity, see the Duke of Buckingham's
letter to King James the First, which he commences as follows:

"DEAR DAD AND GOSSIP,"

and concludes thus:--

"Your Majesty's most humble slave and dog,

"STINIE."

Some letters have been distinguished for a play upon words. The
following is supposed to have been written by one Zebel Rock, a
stone-cutter, to a young lady for whom he cherished a love somewhat
more than Platonic:

"DIVINE FLINT: Were you not harder than Porphyry or Agate, the
Chisel of my love, drove by the Mallet of my fidelity, would have
made some impression on thee. I, that have shaped as I pleased the
most untoward of substances, hoped by the Compass of reason, the
Plummet of discretion, the Saw of constancy, the soft File of
kindness, and the Polish of good words, to have modelled you into
one of the prettiest Statues in the world; but, alas! I find you are
a Flint, that strikes fire, and sets my soul in a blaze, though your
heart is as cold as marble. Pity my case, pray, madam, for I know
not what I say or do. If I go to make a Dragon, I strike out a
Cupid; instead of an Apothecary's Mortar, I make a Church Font for
Baptism; and, dear Pillar of my hopes, Pedestal of my comfort, and
Cornice of my joy, take compassion upon me, for upon your pity I
build all my hope, and will, if fortunate, erect Statues, Obelisks
and Pyramids, to your generosity."

As a specimen of alliteration the following may be considered a fair
off-hand epistle of love:

"ADORED AND ANGELIC AMELIA: Accept An Ardent And Artless Amorist's
Affections; Alleviate An Anguished Admirer's Alarms, And Answer An
Amorous Applicant's Avowed Ardor. Ah, Amelia! All Appears An Awful
Aspect; Ambition, Avarice, And Arrogance, Alas, Are Attractive
Allurements, And Abuse An Ardent Attachment. Appease An Aching And
Affectionate Adorer's Alarms, And Anon Acknowledge Affianced
Albert's Alliance As Agreeable And Acceptable. Anxiously Awaiting An
Affectionate And Affirmative Answer, Accept An Ardent Admirer's
Aching Adieu. ALBERT."

The custom of espionage among some nations, which led the government
officials' to open all letters supposed to contain matters at
variance with the plans and purposes of their masters, induced the
inventive to contrive various means of correspondence.

One of the most singular of these was that adopted by Histaus, the
Milesian, as related by Herodotus. Histaus was "kept by Darius at
Susa, under an honorable pretence, and, despairing of his return
home, unless he could find out some way that he might be sent to
sea, he purposed to send to Aristagoras, who was his substitute at
Miletum, to persuade his revolt from Darius; but, knowing that all
passages were stopped and studiously watched, he took this course:
he got a trusty servant of his, the hair of whose head he caused to
be shaved off, and then, upon his bald head, he wrote his mind to
Aristagoras; kept him privately about him, till his hair was
somewhat grown, and then bid him haste to Aristagoras, and bid him
cause him to be shaved again, and then upon his head he should find
what his lord had written to him."

A volume might be written of the Curiosities of Letter-writing, and
it would be by no means an uninteresting production. Years ago, when
New England missionaries first taught the wild men of the South Sea
Islands, it so happened that one of the teachers wished to
communicate with a friend, and having no pen, ink and paper at hand,
he picked up a chip and wrote with a pencil his message. A native
conveyed it, and, receiving some article in return, he thought the
chip endowed with some miraculous power, and could he have obtained
it would doubtless have treasured it as a god, and worshipped it.
And so would seem to us this invaluable art of letter-writing, were
we in like ignorance. We forget to justly appreciate a blessing
while we have it in constant use; but let us be for a short time
deprived of it, and then we lament its loss and realize its worth.
Deprive mankind of pen, ink and paper, obliterate from the human
mind all knowledge of letter-writing,--then estimate, if you can,
thee loss that would accrue.

The good resulting from a general intercommunication of thought
among the people has brought about a great reduction in the rates of
postage. We look forward to the time when the tens of millions now
expended in war, and invested in the ammunition of death, shall be
directed into other channels, and postage shall be free. What better
defence for our nation than education? It is better than forts and
vessels of war; better than murderous guns, powder and ball. Hail to
the day when there shall be no direct tax on the means of education!






A VISION OF REALITY.





I HAD a dream: Methought one came
And bade me with him go;
I followed, till, above the world,
I wondering gazed below.
One moment, horror filled my breast;
Then, shrinking from the sight,
I turned aside, and sought for rest,
Half dying with affright.
My guide with zeal still urged me on;
"See, see!" said he, "what sin hath done;
How mad ambition fills each breast,
And mortals spurn their needed rest,
And all their lives and fortunes spend
To gain some darling, wished-for end;
And scarce they see the long-sought prize,
When each to grasp it fails and dies."
Once more I looked: in a lonely room,
On a pallet of straw, were lying
A mother and child; no friends were near,
Yet that mother and child were dying.
A sigh arose; she looked above,
And she breathed forth, "I forgive;"
She kissed her child, threw back her head,
And the mother ceased to live.
The child's blue eyes were raised to watch
Its mother's smile of love;
She was not there,--her child she saw
From her spirit-home above.
An hour passed by: that child had gone
From earth and all its harms;
Yet, as in sleep, it nestling lay
In its dead mother's arms.
I asked my guide, "What doth this mean?"
He spake not a word, but changed the scene.
I stood where the busy throng
Was hurrying by; all seemed intent,
As on some weighty mission sent;
And, as I asked what all this meant,
A drunkard pass‚d by.
He spake,--I listened; thus spake he:
"Rum, thou hast been a curse to me;
My wife is dead,--my darling child,
Who, when 't was born, so sweetly smiled,
And seemed to ask, in speechless prayer,
A father's love, a father's care,--
He, he, too, now is gone!
How can I any longer live?
What joy to me can earth now give?
I've drank full deep from sorrow's cup,--
When shall I drink its last dregs up?
When will the last, last pang be felt?
When the last blow on me be dealt?
Would I had ne'er been born!"
As thus he spake, a gilded coach
In splendor pass‚d by;
And from within a man looked forth,--
The drunkard caught his eye.
Then, with a wild and frenzied look,
He, trembling, to it ran;
He stayed the rich man's carriage there,
And said, "Thou art the man!
"Yes, thou the man! You bade me come,
You took my gold, you gave me rum;
You bade me in the gutter lie,
My wife and child you caused to die;
You took their bread,--'t was justly theirs;
You, cunning, laid round me your snares,
Till I fell in them; then you crushed,
And robbed me, as my cries you hushed;
You've bound me close in misery's thrall;
Now, take a drunkard's curse and fall!"
A moment passed, and all was o'er,--
He who'd sold rum would sell no more
And Justice seemed on earth to dwell,
When by his victim's hand he fell.
Yet, when the trial came, she fled,
And Law would have the avenger dead.
The gilded coach may rattle by,
Men too may drink, and drunkards die,
And widows' tears may daily fall,
And orphans' voices daily call,--
Yet these are all in vain;
The dealer sells, and glass by glass
He tempts the man to ruin pass,
And piles on high his slain.
His fellows fall by scores,--what then?
He, being rich (though rich by fraud),
Is honored by his fellow-men,
Who bend the knee and call him "lord."

Again I turned;

Enough I'd learned
Of all the misery sin hath brought;
I strove to leave the fearful spot,
And wished the scene might be forgot,
'T was so with terror fraught.

I wished to go,

No more to know.
I turned me, but no guide stood there;
Alone, I shrieked in wild dismay,
When, lo! the vision passed away,--
I found me seated in my chair.
The morning sun was shining bright,
Fair children gambolled in my sight;
A rose-bush in my window stood,
And shed its fragrance all around;
My eye saw naught but fair and good,
My ear heard naught but joyous sound.
I asked me, can it be on earth
Such scenes of horror have their birth,
As those that in my vision past,
And on my mind their shadows cast?
Can it be true, that men do pour
Foul poison forth for sake of gold?
And men lie weltering in their gore,
Led on by that their brethren sold?
Doth man so bend the supple knee
To Mammon's shrine, he never hears
The voice of conscience, nor doth see
His ruin in the wealth he rears?
Such questions it were vain to ask,
For Reason whispers, "It is so;"
While some in fortune's sunshine bask,
Others lie crushed beneath their woe.
And men do sell, and men do pour,
And for their gold return men death;
Though wives and children them implore,
With tearful eyes and trembling breath,
And hearts with direst anguish riven,
No more to sell,--'t is all in vain;
They, urged to death, by avarice driven,
But laugh and turn to sell again.






JEWELS OF THE HEART.





THERE are jewels brighter far
Than the sparkling diamonds are;
Jewels never wrought by art,--
Nature forms them in the heart!
Would ye know the names they hold
Ah! they never can be told
In the language mortals speak!
Human words are far too weak
Yet, if you would really know
What these jewels are, then go
To some low, secluded cot,
Where the poor man bears his lot!
Or, to where the sick and dying
'Neath the ills of life are sighing.
And if there some one ye see
Striving long and patiently
To alleviate the pain,
Bring the light of hope again!
One whose feet do lightly tread,
One whose hands do raise the head,
One who watches there alone,
Every motion, every tone;
Unaware an eye doth see
All these acts of charity.
Know that in that lonely cot,
Where the wealth of earth is not,
These bright jewels will be found,
Shedding love and light around!
Say, shall gems and rubies rare
With these heart-shrined gems compare?
Constancy, that will not perish,
But the thing it loveth cherish,
Clinging to it fondly ever,
Fainting, faltering, wavering, never!
Trust, that will not harbor doubt;
Putting fear and shame to rout,
Making known how, free from harm,
Love may rest upon its arm.
Hope, that makes the future bright,
Though there come a darksome night;
And, though dark despair seems nigh,
Bears the soul up manfully!
These are gems that brighter shine
Than they of Golconda's mine.
Born amid love's fond caresses,
Cradled in the heart's recesses,
They will live when earth is old,
Marble crumble, perish gold!
Live when ages shall have past,
While eternity shall last;
Be these gems the wealth you share,
Friends of mind, where'er you are!






LIGHT FROM A BETTER LAND.





HERE at thy grave I stand,
But not in tears;
Light from a better land
Banishes fears.
Thou art beside me now,
Whispering peace;
Telling how happy thou
Found thy release!
Thou art not buried here;
Why should I mourn?
All that I cherished dear
Heavenward hath gone!
Oft from that world above
Come ye to this;
Breathing in strains of love
Unto me bliss!






POOR AND WEARY!





IN a low and cheerless cot
Sat one mourning his sad lot;
All day long he'd sought for labor;
All day long his nearest neighbor
Lived in affluence and squandered
Wealth, while he an outcast wandered,
And the night with shadowy wing
Heard him this low moaning sing:
"Sad and weary, poor and weary,
Life to me is ever dreary!"
Morning came; there was no sound
Heard within. Men gathered round,
Peering through the window-pane;
They saw a form as if 't were lain
Out for burial. Stiff and gaunt
Lay the man who died in want.
And methought I heard that day
Angel voices whispering say,
"No more sad, poor and weary,
Life to me no more is dreary!"






THE BANDBOX MOVEMENT.





"THERE! Mr. McKenzie, I declare! You are the most oncommon, oncivil
man I ever sot eyes on!"

"Peace, my lady! I'll explain."

"Then do so."

"You must know, then, that I have a perfect hatred of bandboxes,--so
great, in fact, that if I see one on the walk, I involuntarily raise
my foot and kick it."

"So it appears," chimed in Mrs: McKenzie, with a significant hunch
of the right shoulder.

"Therefore,--"

"Well, go on! what you waitin' for?"

"Therefore, when I saw Arabella's bandbox in the entry, as I came
down, sitting, as it did, directly at the foot of the stairs, I
jumped on it, thinking I would come over it that time--"

"An' crushed a new spring bonnet, that cost-let me see!"

"No matter!" said Mr. McKenzie; "that will be in the bill."

Mr. McKenzie, having said thus much, placed his hat on his head and
rushed from the house, fearful of another onslaught of "oncommon
oncivilities."

A little shop at the North End,--seven men seated round said shop,--a
small dog growling at a large cat, a large cat making a noise
resembling that produced by root-beer confined in a stone bottle by
a cork bound down with a piece of twine. Reader, imagine you see and
hear all this!

[Enter Mr. McKenzie.] "Gentlemen, something must be done to demolish
the idea held by the 'rest of mankind' that they, the women, cannot
exist without owning as personal property an indefinite number of
bandboxes. I therefore propose that we at once organize for the
purpose; that a committee be appointed to draft resolutions, and
report a name for the confederacy."

Voted unanimously; whereupon, a committee being appointed, after a
short session, reported the following "whereas, etc."

"Whereas, WE, in our perambulations up and down the earth, are
frequently, oftentimes, and most always, beset with annoyances of
various kinds; and, as the greatest, most perplexing, most
troublesome and iniquitous of these, generally assumes the shape of
a bandbox, in a bag or out of one; and, whereas, our wives, our
daughters, our sisters, and our female acquaintances generally and
particularly, manifest a determination to put said boxes in our way,
at all times, and under all circumstances, therefore

"Resolved, That-we-wont-stand-it-any-longer!!!

"Resolved, That we form ourselves into a society for the purpose of
annihilating this grievous evil, and all bandboxes, of every size
and nature.

"Resolved, That this society be known by the name of 'The Bandbox
Extermination Association.'"

The chairman of the committee made a few remarks, in which he stated
that, in the performance of the duties which would devolve upon the
members, they would, doubtless, meet with some opposition. "But,
never mind," said he; "it is a glorious cause, and if we get the
tongs at one time, and the hearth-brush another time, let 'em come!"
He defined the duties of members to be,--first and foremost, to pay
six and a quarter cents to defray expenses; to demolish a bandbox
wherever and whenever there should be one; (for instance, if a fat
woman was racing for the cars, with a bandbox in her arms, that box
should be forcibly taken and burned on the spot, or whittled into
such minute particles that it could no more be seen; if, in an
omnibus warranted to seat twelve, fifteen men are congregated, and
an individual attempts to enter with a bandbox, the box shall have
notice to quit.)

"The manner of demolition," he said, further, "might be variously
defined. If the owner was a nervous lady, to kick the box would
wound her feelings, and it were best to apparently unintentionally
seat yourself on it; then beg a thousand pardons, and, as you, in
your efforts to make it better, only make it worse, give it up in
despair, and console the owner by a reference to spilt milk and the
uselessness of crying. As to the contents of the boxes, they must
look out for themselves. If they get injured, hint that they should
keep out of bad company."

The chairman sat down, and, the question being put, it was more than
unanimously voted (inasmuch as one man voted with both hands
That was McKenzie. ) to adopt the resolutions, the name, and all the
remarks that had been made in connection with them. Members paid
their assessments, and with a hearty good will.

Thus we see how "oaks from acorns grow." Mrs. McKenzie's fretfulness
on account of her husband's patriotism led to the formation of a
society that will make rapid strides towards the front rank of the
army now at work for the amelioration of the condition of mankind.






NEW ENGLAND HOMES.





I've been through all the nations, have travelled o'er the earth,
O'er mountain-top and valley, far from my land of birth;
But whereso'er I wandered, wherever I did roam,
I saw no spot so pleasant as my own New England home.
I've seen Italia's daughters, beneath Italian skies
Seen beauty in their happy smiles, and love within their eyes;
But give to me the fairer ones that grace New England's shore,
In preference to the dwellers in the valley of Lanore.
I've watched the sun's departure behind the "Eternal Hills,"
When with floods of golden light the vaulted heaven it fills;
But Italy can never boast, with its poetic power,
More varied beauties than those of New England's sunset hour.
I love my own New England; I love its rocks and hills;
I love its trees, its mossy banks, its fountains and its rills;
I love its homes, its cottages, its people round the hearth;
I love, O, how I love to hear New England shouts of mirth!
Tell me of the sunny South, its orange-groves and streams,
That they surpass in splendor man's most enraptured dreams;
But never can they be as fair, though blown by spicy gales,
As those sweet homes, those cottages, within New England vales.
O, when life's cares are ending, and time upon my brow
Shall leave a deeper impress than gathers on it now;
When age shall claim its sacrifice, and I no more shall roam,
Then let me pass my latter days in my New England home!

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