Chapter VIII: Part 8

"I tell you, sir, we travel too fast. We don't take enough time for recreation. If we would only halt occasionally in this everlasting chase after the Almighty Dollar, there would be less occasion for hospitals, insane asylums, and penitentiaries. There would be fewer suicides, and general smash-ups and break-downs. There is no good reason why a man shouldn't be just as fresh at forty as at twenty, but, as we go now, there isn't one man in a thousand who is fit for anything but a calculating machine at forty. Physically, he isn't worth a pinch of snuff. Mentally and morally, he is dried up; and the women, sir, are just as bad as the men. It pains me, sir, to see our women fade so quickly. This fast pace is killing to them. Brought up in hothouses, and forced beyond nature in their growth, they mature when they should be in bud, and wither when they should be in maturity, and are not of much further use, except for running sewing-circles, and drinking weak tea. It pains me, sir, to see the young girls on our streets, with that callous sort of countenance, and knowing expression, which show that they have got out of illusion into reality, and to see so many pale, careworn, bent and faded women, out of whom all buoyant life has departed long since, and who can no more keep time than a watch with a broken spring.

"In the mean time, _business will be suspended for one hour_. Bah! Boy's play sir; all boy's play!!

* * * * * * * * *

"These are my opinions, sir, and it is quite immaterial to me who knows them. And, sir, if your new desk will give them any extra weight, I shall be glad of it. I do not know that Mrs. Blobbs will agree with all that I have written to you, but that also is quite immaterial. She is a remarkable woman sir, and _principally remarkable for not thinking as I do_.

"Allow me to subscribe myself, sir.

"Your very obedient servant,

"JOHN BLOBBS."

May 8, 1869.

FOOTNOTE:

[2] The completion of the Pacific Railroad.

_TYPES._

At the breakfast table this morning, time hung rather heavily on our hands, for the breakfast was not altogether a success. Old Blobbs was a little sulky, as Mrs. Blobbs had not rested well during the night. When Mrs. Blobbs does not rest well, she either gets up and wanders about the house, in an aimless sort of way, or else she talks to Old Blobbs, which is just the last thing in the world Old Blobbs wants her to do, when he is trying to sleep. Aurelia's baby was troublesome also, and was at last sent away in disgrace, when it had emptied a brimming cup of milk into Mrs. Blobbs' lap, and down the folds of the black silk. Mignon was in a pet about something or other, and was moodily tearing a geranium leaf to pieces, which she had pulled out of the breakfast bouquet. Celeste was in a towering rage with Fitz-Herbert, and shot lightnings out of her pretty eyes at him, because he had spoken slightingly of her coiffure. F. H., however, was as impervious to lightning as a glass non-conductor, and in a chaotic sort of way caressed the promise of a side whisker just beginning to dawn on his cheek.

I was, as usual, serene and philosophical; and to dispel these little spring clouds which every moment threatened to rain torrents upon the breakfast table, told them I had something to say.

The announcement was magical, and had the same effect upon the company, that oil has when poured upon the troubled waters, or the show window of a millinery store on opening day upon the ruffled breast of lovely woman.

And what I said was this:

I think there is a direct line of ascent from the atom, the grain of sand upon the sea shore, for instance, up to God, and that the great principle of life, which emanates from God, finds its way down to the atom, although we cannot perceive it with our finite sight.

Let us commence, if you please, with the dust, which is not to be despised, my dears, because you are made out of it, the sand, the drops of water, or any other of the very lowest forms of creation. We pass up from these elements, and find them crystalized into minerals, and wrought into flowers, and obtain our first ideas of beauty. Looking up through the grades of flowers, we happen upon the sensitive plants, which shrink from you, and shiver when you point your finger at them like guilty souls, and the winged orchids, which you must touch to convince yourself they are not butterflies; and in these you begin to get foreshadowings of life. From this point you find organisms which may be vegetable, or may be animal. Our skill is insufficient to decide which they are. Presently you reach the sponges and the corals, in which animal life is very apparent; and if you will do yourself the pleasure to look into that glass of water with a microscope, my dear Celeste, you will be thoroughly convinced of life, and also that you are daily drinking millions of very unpleasant looking animals. A step higher up, you reach the insects and the ephemera, who live their little day of breezy life in the sunshine, and in their buzzing you find music commences. All these little fellows, with wings and feelers, play very pretty tunes, if your ear is only good enough to catch them, when they praise God by beating their gauzy wings together. As you pass from the insects to the birds, life is more pronounced, and the music of which I have spoken develops in construction and increases in beauty. Now, we are reaching the grade of animals, where intelligence commences; and as we come up to the dog, ox, horse or elephant, affection is added to intelligence. The animals begin to assume the qualities of man, and before we are aware of it, some of the animals are walking on two legs instead of four, and assuming the form and features of men, as, for instance, the monkeys, the apes, and the orang-utans. You pass from the monkey to the Digger Indian or Hottentot, and with the single unimportant exception of length of tail, it is well nigh impossible to tell them apart. Man is a short-tailed monkey, or, _vice versa_, monkey is a long-tailed man. Even in the highest order of man, it is sometimes difficult to tell a man from a monkey. Turn a child out into the woods, and let it grow up for thirty or forty years, subsisting upon roots, herbs and nuts, like an animal, and what does it become at last but a hairy, chattering ape, climbing trees, burrowing in the ground, and living like an animal? Thus we rise through various grades of men, each new type more perfect than the other, but still possessing some characteristic of the animal, until we reach woman, who is a step higher; then up through the various types of women, until we reach the angels; through the various types of angels until we reach the archangels, and then through the shining hierarchy of Heaven, until we stop at God, the centre of all life and the sun of all perfection, beyond Whom is nullity.

Thus do I believe that man is linked with all animal and vegetable forms below him, and that in each change the higher type takes something from the lower and preserves some characteristics of it, and that man loves God best when he loves all the types below him--the beast, the bird, the insect, the flower, and even the atom. The line from God to the atom, and from the atom to God, seems to me clear and uninterrupted; and thus the whole of this great universe is bound together by clear, though sometimes unseen relations, and radiates from God, its centre. And who knows but that in other planets there are intelligences superior to us, forming more links in this grand chain? When man dies, he goes back to the dust whence he sprang. He mingles with the brook; he blossoms in the flowers of the field; he is crystalized into the mineral; and thus part after part is absorbed, until only the original atom is left, which is the foundation upon which God has built up all this marvelous superstructure. Purified of all the bad qualities of animal and vegetable, and other material organisms, the soul, or what the philosophers call the Ego, only is left, and is only fitted to be in the presence of the Originator of this complex mechanism.

Exactly where the soul comes in, in tracing the changes from type to type, I confess, is a difficult matter to solve. The physical peculiarities are easily defined, but the spiritual developments are very subtle. I am free to confess to you that I don't believe man has a monopoly of all the soul there is in the world. I am prepared to admit that some men don't have souls at all, but only instincts. The common saying, "This man hasn't the soul of a louse," I think may be literally true. Some animals, I solemnly believe, have larger, better and truer souls than some men. All the learned arguments in the world would never convince me that the faithful horse, who is diligent in business, who understands what is said to him, and who stands there weeping big tears out of his eyes, and uttering a mournful cry under the lash of the brute who is driving him, has not a soul, and more than that, a better and bigger soul than his driver. The mental acumen of all the schools would never convince me that the faithful dog who loses his master, searches for him day and night, only to find his grave, and, lying upon that grave, refuses food and drink, and, moaning piteously, dies upon his master's sleeping place, has not a soul. Did you ever look directly into the eyes of the ox, and not see the soul of the animal looking out at you in those soft and expressive orbs? To my mind, blind old Homer never said a finer thing than when he called the mother of the gods, "Ox-eyed Juno," although I think it was an injustice to the animal, because Juno was a scallawag, and deserved just such an old rake of a husband as the Cloud-Bearer.

In these various types we do not always find perfection. There are breaks in the ascent. I will illustrate this to you. Among the insects, there are fleas, mosquitos, cockroaches, and other species, which have not advanced a particle in decency or intelligence above the hideous horned animalisms in the drop of water. Among the birds, there are some types of no more consequence than the insects. In the higher grades of the animals, there are the same unfortunate breaks. In the dog family, for instance, the yellow dog is really far below the plane on which he stands. He belongs to the same category as the skunk. He is of no earthly use to the types above or below him. The only thing he can do is to bark; and as he barks at everything, from the moon to a mud-puddle, even his barking has no significance. When you get up to men, there is no exception to the rule. Some men have not fully changed from one type to another, but have the characteristics of the lower type in a crude form, like pollywogs and water-newts.

Now, you see, assuming my doctrine to be correct, you can explain a great many peculiarities of men, and the animal characteristics they carry about with them. It explains why some men look like animals; why some men act like a dog; why some are slow as a snail; why some are secretive as a clam; why some absorb all you have got, like a sponge; why some are as dirty as a hog; why some are as sly as a fox; why some are as scaly as a fish; and so on _ad infinitum_. You can find the features of almost every animal in the human face--the ass and the monkey being specially prominent. The number of men, who, in the change of types, have preserved the family semblance to these animals is somewhat remarkable. In fact, the ass was a very hard animal to get by in the ascent. Almost every man now and then makes an ass of himself, and returns to the lower type--the only shade of difference being in the length of the ear. Were it not that a superior power continually holds him in check, man would gravitate downward, as his whole tendency is to retrograde to these lower types. Some men, who are not obstructed by this superior power, manage to get back to the brute and stay there. He must have certain conventional surroundings, also, in addition to this superior power, which is that of education, to keep his elevated position.

I think that the women mainly come from the flowers and the birds. You will find the analogies of nearly all women in the vegetable kingdom. Some women, tender, delicate, fragile, and spiritual, have all the attributes of the violet, and though they may blossom in some out of the way corner, they make everything around them joyous with their beauty and fragrance. Then there are others who flaunt their heads with a pretty disdain, and dazzle you with the beauty of their faces, but the moment you touch them, they fall to pieces like the seeds of the dandelion. They won't bear handling. Then there are women with strong natures, whose bodies are in harness, and souls in curb, who resemble the tough azalea, with a stalk like iron, and flowers we never care to gather, owing to their glutinous consistency. There are other women whom you can't take hold of at all. They repel you from every side like a porcupine. They resemble the fruit of the Durion tree, which is excellent eating provided you have courage enough to get through its hard spikes.

I was reading the other day that the birds of Paradise, when they are in their most gorgeous plumage, select some tree, or other eligible spot, go through with a regular dance for the edification of the other birds, and, during the dance, display their lustrous feathers by spreading them out as much as possible, and chatter together, in an insanely garrulous manner.

I was about to make an application of this custom to women, when I caught the eye of Mrs. Blobbs looking at me in a significant manner. I confess to you I am a little afraid of that majestic woman when she puts on her war-paint, and I immediately refrained, and we arose from the table.

May 15, 1869.

_WOMAN IN CHURCH._

In refusing to admit the women into the Young Men's Christian Association, Brother Moody has thrown aside the strongest element in religious matters which he could have used. Women are peculiarly receptive. Their nature is intensely emotional. They see instinctively where the man has to grope and reason his way up. A thousand sympathetic tendrils stretch out from their hearts, like the arms of the cuttle fish, which seize upon, wind around and draw to the centre, in strong affinity, if not assimilation, every object to which they are attracted. If it be good, it transforms them to angels; if evil, to fiends. No man can be such a saint as a woman; no man such a sinner. It is this intense emotion and natural instinct which admirably qualify them for religious purposes. And it proves, moreover, why, without them, there isn't a church in this city that could live six months. The church membership as every one knows is largely feminine. The influence which the Church exerts is feminine. The sympathy which the minister gets is feminine. His smoking-cap, dressing-robe, slippers, book-marks, donation-parties and other pleasant perquisites are feminine. And all the grumbling, fault-finding, hard work and hard knocks which the minister has to encounter, are purely masculine. The man, naturally lacking in reverence as well as religion, is inclined to regard the minister from a commercial point of view, and to treat him as an equal, while the woman looks up with admiring reverence.

Any woman who has been to church, unless her nearest neighbor has just come out in a new hat, can tell you what text the minister preached from, and give you a syllabus of his discourse. There isn't one man in ten who can do that. The man carries his business into church with him. The woman, unless there is an harassing doubt concerning the integrity of the beans, which might have been placed in the oven a little too soon, leaves her business at home. She can shed her cares as an umbrella sheds rain. The man, be he a dentist, allows dental reflections to insinuate themselves among the threads of the discourse, and wonders how he can get sister this or that into his chair of torture, and mentally determines to try it on at the next sewing-circle. The doctor is rather quietly rejoiced to see a large number of sisters absent, because this argues sickness. Women don't stay away from church unless they are sick, or some one is coming to dinner. The lawyer wonders if a certain statement the minister has made, has any legal bearing, and this leads him to think of the case of Boggs _vs._ Noggs, which is pending in the courts. The merchant who has just seen two of his clerks driving down the avenue at a very rapid rate, with cigars in their mouths, and in a style which seems to indicate they are not going to a Sunday School, wonders where they _are_ going, where they got their money to go with, and what they are going to do when they get there. And so on with each class. It is all very well to talk of the quiet of the Sabbath, and the propriety of forgetting the things of this world. It is a pretty theory, but men don't observe it. A man, in course of time, gets his nature so soaked and saturated with the cares, foibles, and follies of this world, that the moment it is squeezed in the slightest degree, some of these things will ooze out. So he thinks of the things of this world, and the words of the minister hum through his thoughts as the buzz of the bees comes to your ears in a hot summer day, when you are lying in the shade of the trees; and, as the architect was in league with the devil when he built the church, the ventilation is slightly bad. All these things militate against watchfulness, and the man, having confidence that the minister is on the right doctrinal track, quietly goes to sleep, and makes no sign thereafter, except to brush a fly from his nose, or nod vigorous assents to the parson's heads with his own.

I have noticed that women do not sleep in church. When Mrs. Blobbs accompanies old Blobbs to church, that good woman's attention is sadly distracted from the sermon, by the constant necessity of punching Old Blobbs in the ribs to keep him from snoring, whereat Old Blobbs opens both eyes wide open, fixes them upon the minister, as if he had never slept a wink in his life, gives his individual and serious attention to the sermon for the space of one minute, gradually closes one eye, as if winking at somebody, then quietly shuts the other, as if he did not want to disturb any one, and in another moment his nose sounds the whistle that he has arrived at the station of Morpheus, which necessitates another punch from Mrs. Blobbs. Thus Old Blobbs is kept between a snore and a swear the whole blessed morning, and goes home to his dinner without a single coherent idea about the sermon, while Mrs. Blobbs can go from firstly to tenthly, and throw in significant remarks about the young fellow who was fool enough to go to sleep on a window sill, while Paul was preaching, resulting in a broken neck, or something of that sort, you know.

Woman gives herself up without a question or a doubt to the inspiration of the hour, with the whole intensity of her emotional nature, very much as I think I should give myself up to the beats and pulsations of the organ-heart of some old cathedral, while the "dim, religious light" streamed in through the stained windows, and saints and martyrs looked down upon me from their niches.

And then a man in a sewing circle, or church sociable, or maternal meeting, or aid society meeting, or anything else of that harmless sort, is as much out of place, and as essentially useless as a coal-heaver would be at a classical concert. And yet these are great aids. They must be in the hands of the women. The major part of the machinery of the church must be engineered by the women. For all these reasons do I think that Brother Moody was unwise to refuse admission to the women.

May 22, 1869.

_THE MOUNTAINS._

Did you ever go East over the Pennsylvania Central Railroad? If not, do it at your first opportunity, and get a glimpse at the mountain scenery. It will reconcile you to life. The memory of those grand, imposing forms, towering into the heavens, clothed with their mighty greenery, girdled with the mists and crowned with the eternal sunshine, will stand you in good stead when life presses with its cares and anxieties, and the daily routine frets and worries, and friendship grows forgetful, and the grasshopper begins to be a burden.

I remember that the first thought which flashed upon me, as I stood upon the rear of the train, crawling up the hills in sinuous track, like some great serpent, was not so much the physical aspects as the perfect repose which seemed to brood among them. There was no life apparent--no motion visible. There was a river, which now and then glistened in the sunlight, but it was far down in the valleys, and it seemed from our height only a silver thread, tying the mountains together in a great emerald cluster. You saw the tops of the trees overlaying each other, and covering the mountains like the scales of a fish. But there was no motion in them. They were solid, massive and gigantic as petrified Titans. I do not believe the birds sing on those mountain sides; I do not believe the fairies gambol there in the moonlight, nor even that the insects play their part in the breezy morning symphonies under those still trees. It seems to me that none but a Deity should come down to those mountain tops, and thrice happy the man who can commune with him in that solitude. It seems to me that there would be no need of the written word there. The genius of solitude broods there--on the jutting peaks, in the great trees, in the solemn shadows, in the dark, silent pools and tarns, in the dank, trailing robes of the mist, and in the ineffable golden glory of the sunshine. I can now see how Irma found repose on "the Heights;" how she could reach from the Alpine summits up toward Heaven, and feel the hand of the Great Father reaching down to her; how, among the toils, and the sorrows, and the sins of the little world down in the valleys, the sweet repose of the mountains purified her; and how she struggled out of vice into virtue, out of impurity into perfect purity. I can see how all great souls, tormented with the follies and littleness of the world, with the ungratefulness and faithlessness of those they have trusted, bound down under the weight of their earthly burdens, their wings clipped, and their hands fettered, have longed for the mountain tops, where they might forever forget the world, and be alone with nature and the Deity. I can see how God came down to Moses on the mountain; how the marvelous transfiguration shone from the mountain; how Goethe sang,

"On every height there lies repose."

Another thought struck me, and that was the magnificent littleness of humanity, when it is brought into the presence of these mighty manifestations of Nature. What a poor little speck you are upon the great canvas! How small you look with your aches and pains, your fusses and foibles, your fashions and furbelows, your vanities and ambitions, in this eternal presence! How evanescent is fame; how transient is wealth; how feeble is love; how fickle is friendship; how small is this hand-breadth of life; how utterly insignificant all accomplishment of human industry; how utterly pinchbeck all displays of human grandeur, compared with this awful majesty of Nature! How few men have caught the mountain spirit and left it in their works! Blot out Shakspeare and Milton and Dante, Moses and Paul and Martin Luther, Raphael and Michael Angelo, Rembrandt, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, and Bach, and who is left to correspond with the height and depth, the majesty and solitude of the mountains? Not that genius was confined to them, but the other great names have been celebrated in the valleys, by the brooks, and among the flowers. They made the earth lovelier and brighter for their presence, but they did not reach the heights of human nature, where dwells everlasting repose. They saw the star-shadows on the water, but these others soared to them in the heavens. They sowed the world with richest flowers of thought. To these others, it was given to pluck the asphodels and amaranths growing by eternal waters. They budded in the trees of the valleys, and their songs were sweet. These others sought the regions above the storms with their eagle-flights, and when their voices come to us from their calm heights, they are laden with an awful majesty and beauty, as the west is now laden with the thunder-clouds, and pregnant with sweeping power, as those clouds are now pregnant with the lightnings.

The physical aspects of these mountains are marvelously beautiful. What a compact wall the tree-tops make! They seem impervious even to the sharpest lightning. Their forms give you every diversity of surface. Their outlines are never harsh or rugged, but always undulating and graceful. As the train sweeps along, now you get only the bold, precipitous wall of one mountain side. In a minute you get a view of another face. Now a chain of mountains group themselves together in a superb tableau. Now they form the gigantic setting of a peaceful green valley with a river laughing in its face, with here and there the dot of a house, and the column of thin, blue smoke no bigger than that which curls up from your cigar. The next instant the pretty vision is swept out of sight. You are thundering along on the edge of a curve right in the clutches of these Titans. The motion of the train impresses you with the idea that they are moving down upon it with resistless might, and that they will crush it like an egg-shell. You are surrounded with dense shadows. The mountains are bowing down their shaggy heads. You almost feel their weight pressing down upon you, and their breath, full of the bracing essence of life, in your face. It seems almost profanation to speak with such a presence near you, and you can only think thoughts too deep for the fashion of words. But anon, the train speeds through the sulphurous blackness of a tunnel, and you emerge into the sunlight, rolling in great waves of gold up the mountain sides, and giving you weird effects of light and shade, and constantly changing emerald tints that would mock the finest frenzy of the artist. I believe the clouds love to deck the mountains, as the sea loves to deck the shore with shells and sea-flowers. A sunrise or sunset in those mountains when the heavens are full of clouds, shows what dyes nature can use, and what forms she can mould, as you will see them nowhere else.

July 3, 1869.

_THE JUBILEE._

BOSTON, June 15, 1869.

The day of Jubilee has come.

Boston has been in a flutter of agitation and excitement to-day; for, truth to say, Boston herself has not been over sanguine as to the success of the Jubilee. It is probable that not a person in the city has regarded the experiment in the light of an unquestioned success, except Mr. Gilmore, in whose fertile brain the Jubilee was conceived, and by whom it has been pushed forward, in the face of obstacles, to a successful birth. When Mr. Gilmore offered the Jubilee to New York, the Manhattanites laughed at him, and gently insinuated that he had gone clean daft, whereupon Mr. Gilmore took his embryonic Jubilee to Boston, and, undaunted by obstacles, and unannoyed by the gibes and jeers of the faithless, he worked in season and out of season, put this wheel and that wheel together, got this man and that man interested in it, melted even the adamantine hearts of the musicians themselves, and at last got his project so far advanced that it became a matter of city pride to put the municipal shoulder to the wheel and help Gilmore out with his mammoth undertaking. And Boston did help him right royally. Once provided with the ducats and with the collaterals, which guaranteed him financial safety, the foundations of the enterprise were laid, and the superstructure grew rapidly. Singers and instruments, big singers and little singers, big fiddles and little fiddles, poured in as fast and as thick as the dogs and cats in Beard's picture. I myself saw, riding on a boat of Commodore Fisk's, from New York to Fall River, _en route_ to the Jubilee, sixty double basses ranged along on the deck, like coffins swathed in green bags, and to-day I saw them again manipulated in the vast orchestra, to show that I do not lie.

The material was, at last, all in his hands, and the material was composed of one thousand instruments--a big organ, ten thousand singers, a Coliseum, and sundry properties by way of appendices, such as a battery of artillery, church bells, and anvils. And the question immediately arose:

What will he do with them?

This is the question which has agitated Boston to-day, from the harbor to the Back Bay, and from Bunker Hill to Jamaica Plain. When Boston woke up this morning, notwithstanding her doubts, she dressed herself in festal garments of streamers, flags and bunting, to do honor to the occasion, and to properly impress the strangers within her borders with the fact that she was out for a holiday, and was bound to enjoy herself. And there were strangers enough within her borders. Every other man you met upon the narrow sidewalks was a carpet-bagger, and every other woman had a roll of music in her hands. Band musicians in all sorts of uniforms, carrying all sorts of odd-looking boxes, met you and jostled you at every turn, for it is impossible for two people to pass each other upon a Boston sidewalk, especially if one has a box or a carpet-bag in his hands. Every train and every boat which has arrived to-day was loaded down with musical freight, and all the morning they filed down Boylston street to the Coliseum, in water-proof cloaks with their rolls of music. The hotels are filled with them. The boarding houses are full, both in the city and in the suburbs, and even some of the public halls have been provided with cots, to accommodate the melodious strangers, who have come here to lift up their voices in the grand chorus.

And it is a grand chorus. In 1836, Mendelssohn, the great master, led 536 performers, and ten years later led his own "Elijah," with a chorus of 700 before him. In 1862 a chorus of 4,000 voices sang together at the Crystal Palace in London; and last year Costa led 4,500 in the same building. It was considered a great event--an episode in the history of music. Julien, that eccentric little conductor, conceived the idea of increasing upon this number, but the very magnitude of his operations turned his brain, and he died in a mad-house--his disordered mind, even in his dying moments, being occupied with an imaginary orchestra. It has been left for Mr. Gilmore to eclipse them all. What was some time a problem is now a fixed fact; and the annals of music can show no grander triumph than that which this daring, hard working man has achieved this day. When Mr. Gilmore's baton closed the final chord of the massive Martin Luther choral, he had done something which was worth living for. He had a right to be proud of his work.

The Coliseum in which the Jubilee is given, is upon the made lands of the Back Bay. Upon its site young Boston has fished in the summer, and skated in the winter. When Boston had filled out to the water's edge, it did what Canute could not do. It commenced to drive back the sea, and each step that the sea receded was filled up and built upon. Aristocracy turned its eyes thitherward, and went there to build its free-stone fronts, and made it the handsomest part of the city. The Coliseum is on the newest of this land, where it has not yet been divided off into lots. Its immediate surroundings, therefore, are not very attractive. The exterior of the building is not remarkably beautiful, and the fine Natural History rooms, and other elegant buildings near by, provoke architectural comparisons not particularly favorable to it. It has a cheerful, pleasant appearance, however, and derives a certain sort of brilliancy from the little flags of divers colors which flutter in the breeze from every salient point. The hucksters and venders of notions, who have improved the occasion to turn an honest or dishonest penny, as the case may be, have not improved the _ensemble_ with their scores of board shanties and canvas tents, which have been dumped down upon the crude ground in every direction. Their name is almost literally legion. There are venders of ice creams, which are mushy and sloppy; of soda water with gaudily colored syrups; of innocent vegetable beer, for the hard hand of the law forbids the sale of anything stronger; of domestic cigars compounded of innocuous herbs; of oranges, and pop corn, and bananas, and photographs, and fans. At this shanty you may get revolving heels placed upon your boots, and at that one you can get key tags stamped. Here the wild men of Borneo are delighting a crowd, and there you may see a two-headed monkey cheap. Blind men are selling ballads. Small girls are vending hot roasted peanuts. Here is a shooting gallery, and there a fandango. The old buxom Irish women of the common, who have been accustomed to drowse away their days under the elms, have suddenly become imbued with the enterprise of the hour, and are driving sharp bargains on the Back Bay in oranges and candy, and puff away at their dhudeens with an air of self congratulation.

Notwithstanding these drawbacks, however, the Coliseum admirably answers the purposes for which it was built. It is large enough to accommodate all who will go. Its ventilation is excellent; its acoustic properties good, and its conveniences perfect as they can be. The interior is beautifully decorated with bunting, streamers, flags, and various paintings and devices. The sub-rooms, especially the reception room, are exquisitely adapted to the purposes for which they were designed. The latter room, this morning, presented a perfect wilderness of flowers, and its walls were hung with elegant paintings. Its seating capacity is, I should judge, between thirty and forty thousand, exclusive of the chorus and orchestra. The roughness and blank appearance of unfinished wood-work, has been concealed by drapery and bunting very gracefully arranged, and from one end of the Coliseum to the other, the eye is attracted by the brightest of colors.

It is now my task to describe to you the opening concert, and I freely confess my inability to do so. As I write you, the deep diapason of that mighty organ, the surging waves of harmony from the largest orchestra and the marvelous sublimity of the largest chorus the world has ever known, are still in my ears, and it seems to me that I can find no words to describe it. I can feel it, but I cannot make you feel it with poor words. It almost seems a profanation to attempt it. To see that multitude alone is electrifying. It makes your blood stir within you, to look upon that great sea of faces stretching off into the distance, and to know that one man holds them in his hand, and with his little baton guides and sways them at his will. One man in that vast throng is only as one drop in the sea--one grain of sand upon the shore. His voice is indistinguishable, but the aggregate, you feel within you, will be as the on-coming of the mighty storm.

Picture to yourself the scene. Immediately before you is the orchestra, one thousand strong, occupying the level platform. The brasses are at the rear, as you may easily perceive, by a strip as of gold, which runs through the sombre black, and right between them is a huge bass drum, looming up like the wheel of a steamboat. From this level platform, on three sides, rises an amphitheatre, which holds the great chorus, ten thousand strong. The sopranos are on the left, the altos on the right, and the tenors and bassos in the centre, and up from their midst rise the open pipes of the great organ, the player of which sits facing the conductor, at some distance from the organ, communicating with him by means of speaking tubes. Sub-conductors are also located near each of the choral parts, who convey the instructions of the main conductors. Just at the right of the conductor there is an electrical battery which communicates with a section of artillery at a distance. The instrumental performers are arranged in the orchestra. The first, the chorus orchestra, is made up as follows:

_Stringed._ _Wind._
First Violins 115 | Flutes 8
Second Violins 100 | Clarionets 8
Violoncellos 65 | Oboes 8
Violas 65 | Bassoons 8
Double Basses 85 | Horns 12
---- | Trumpets 8
430 | Trombones 9
74 | Tubas 3
---- | Drums 10
Total, 504 | --
74

The grand orchestra is composed of the following instruments, in addition to those specified above:

Piccolos and Flutes 25
E-flat Clarionets 20
B-flat Clarionets 50
E-flat Cornets 50
B-flat Cornets 75
E-flat Alto Horns 75
B-flat Tenor Horns 25
Tenor Trombones 50
Bass Trombones 25
B-flat Baritones 25
E-flat Basso Tubas 75
Small Drums 50
Bass Drums 25
Cymbals 10
Triangles 10
----
590
Chorus Orchestra 504
----
Total 1094

The players and singers are all in their places. The organ sounds a few chords, and the players tune their instruments therefrom. Ole Bull comes in and takes his seat at the head of the first violinists, amid applause from all parts of the house, and the veteran Norwegian cavalier sits there, with his bow upon his violin, as straight and as lordly as one of his own pines, watching the conductor with flashing eyes. It is Mr. Gilmore who has just followed him, and as he takes the stand, enthusiasm breaks out in every part of the vast building, and the applause is loud and long. When it has subsided, he raises his baton. The chorus rises, and there is something stirring even in the rising of such a vast throng. The audience is hushed, and, for an instant, there is perfect stillness. The baton descends, and chorus, orchestra and organ sound in a mighty chord of harmony the opening note of Martin Luther's grand old choral. As they sweep along through its slow and solemn movement as regularly as the swing of a pendulum, the organ's mighty diapason upholding the whole and keeping them together, it is like the voice of many waters. It is not a chaos of noise, as I had dreamed it would be; not a mere volume of sound without music. The voices come to you blended together as the sounds of nature--the songs of the birds, the blasts of the winds and the rushings of the torrents--blend. The instruments are powerful, but smooth. In that vast array you lose the scrape of the strings and the blare of the brasses. They are toned down into pure harmony, and through all, in all, and about all, come the mighty voices of the organ as the thunders come in the storm. The tears are in your eyes before you know it. The audience before you disappears. You are lifted, as it were, upon the great waves of music into the very presence of the infinite, and the outside world, with all its petty cares and troubles, is forgotten. On the repeat, the choral is commenced _pianissimo_, and the music comes to you as if from afar over the water. Gradually it approaches you, and, with a superb _crescendo_, in which the organ carries everything along with it, the cadenza is reached in a burst of harmony you have never heard before. You may never hear it again. The conductor steps down from his stand amid thunders of applause. It is at last proven that the Jubilee will be a musical success.

Such singing and such playing I have never heard before. I do not believe anything like it has ever been heard in the world. At first, it seems to you that the choruses are not in time, for, from first to last, they have not been with the conductor's beat, to one sitting at some distance. Of course, you see the beat before you hear the sound, as you see the wood-chopper's axe descend upon the distant hillside before you hear the blow, and thus the chorus seems to be behind, when, in reality, it is with the conductor.

Julius Eichberg, who wrote the pretty little "Doctor of Alcantara," next takes the baton, and the grand orchestra addresses itself to the unraveling of Wagner's Tannhauser overture. The massing of instruments in the opening of the overture is superb, and the main theme is delivered with remarkable beauty. Soon they are lost in the intricate modulations and chaotic discords of this musician of the future; but when they begin to emerge into the chromatic violin runs, and return once more to something which has a resemblance to melody and a meaning in it, it is with a splendid burst of power; and one is almost compelled to acknowledge that there is method in this Bavarian madman, after all.

Once more, the chorus rises, and Carl Zerrahn takes the baton--the flute-player of the old Germania orchestra, and one of the most accomplished musicians living. He is a great favorite, both for his musical and his gentlemanly qualities, and he is greeted with a very storm of applause. The "Gloria" from Mozart's "Twelfth Mass" is next on the programme. He is a very easy and graceful, and yet forcible leader, and, notwithstanding the intricacy of the accompaniment and the difficulty of the vocal score, under the magical influence of his baton, the sublimity of the "Gloria" finds a graphic illustration.

Gounod's "Ave Maria," so full of suggestions of "Faust," is the next number, and Parepa comes forward to sing it, dressed in pure white. She receives a perfect ovation. In the morning, at rehearsal, she had been very nervous. The vast orchestra and chorus before her almost terrified her, and she was confident she could but make her voice heard for a short distance. The "Ave Maria" is not a fair test of the capabilities of her voice, however, as she has only an accompaniment of _two hundred violins_ to do the _obligato_. She bows to the audience, and, turning, acknowledges the hearty welcome which the chorus has given her. Every tone of her voice is audible, even in the most distant parts of the hall. Its absolute purity, and the entire absence of woodiness in it, make it heard, and give you confidence that you will also hear it in the "Inflammatus," where she will have a severe test.

The "Star-Spangled Banner" is the next feature. It has been arranged differently for this occasion, which may account for a slight _faux pas_ which happened. The tenors and bassos take the first verse, and the sopranos and altos the second verse in unison, which gives you an excellent opportunity of hearing the various parts of the great chorus by themselves. It would be difficult to say which was the best, although I am inclined to give the palm to the tenors, and yet I think no one who heard them can ever forget the other parts. A serious mistake occurred in the accompaniment. The trumpets are badly out. Some of the other brasses follow, and draw off some of the violins. The chorus begins to waver. There is danger of a disastrous breakdown. Gilmore, who is at the baton, is growing nervous; he fairly jumps up and down in his anxiety. And still it is running away, when suddenly Wilcox opens all the great organ, and with a crash of sound and an obstinately right _tempo_, brings all the discordant elements together again. The artillery peals in with its thunder in perfect time, and as the last measure closes, the whole audience rise unanimously to their feet at once, and the most intense excitement prevails. Thousands of handkerchiefs are waved by the ladies and flutter in the air like white doves. Men wave their hats and clap their hands, and the air is filled with bravos and cheers, which are kept up until the _encore_ is given.

Parepa has the next number, and it is her favorite number--the "Inflammatus" from the Stabat Mater. Her voice has now a test such as it has never had before; for in the last few measures she has to sing against the full choral accompaniment of ten thousand voices, the thousand instruments, and the organ. She passes through the ordeal bravely. In the most distant part of the house you can hear her voice. The sustaining of the upper C and the trills were superbly done; and as she closed, her sustained high tones were as pure and as beautiful as those of a bird singing in the distance. It was a grand triumph for her, and the audience evidently regarded it in the same manner, for they gave her a very hearty and unmistakable _encore_, to which she replied with a repetition of the same. The absolute purity of her voice was never better tested than upon this occasion.

Verdi should have been present to have heard his Anvil Chorus performed. He is pre-eminently the great apostle of noise, and ten thousand voices, one thousand instruments, one hundred anvils--pounded by two hundred stalwart firemen in perfect time--and a battery of artillery, adding to the din and marking the time without a break, could not but have delighted him. The effect was simply indescribable. The aggregate of sound was gigantic. The firemen had been well trained, without the orchestra, by Mr. Gilmore himself, and, although the whole affair was more or less sensational and noisy, the effect was very stirring, and the audience insisted upon an _encore_. Oliver Wendell Holmes' Hymn, set to the music of Keller's "American Hymn;" the overture to "William Tell," which was deliciously given; the Coronation March from the "Prophet," and the national air, "America," completed this remarkable performance.

There were probably few among unprejudiced persons who did not anticipate a musical failure upon this occasion. Many considered it a piece of Boston braggadocio, and others a musical experiment, in which all the chances were unfavorable. The result, however, has proved just the reverse. With the exception, here and there, of slight mistakes, in which some instruments got out of time and occasioned variations which were so trifling that they did not interfere with the effect, the whole affair was a musical success.

* * * * *

June 16, 1869.

The weather yesterday was purely Bostonian: wind from the southeast, drizzling rains, dull, leaden clouds hurrying up from the salt water, a sultry, humid atmosphere, and muddiest of all muddy flag-stones. It was an inauspicious atmospherical commencement for the Jubilee, but to-day the motto of the festival is granted, and we have peace. The skies are bright, the air cool and bracing, and those little green oases in the brick and stone desert, the Common and Public Gardens, are as pleasant to the eye and as grateful to the senses as the gardens of Paradise. The trees are alive with birds, the fountains are glistening in the sunshine, and the cool walks are crowded with pleasure-seekers and curiosity-hunters.

It is a gala day in Boston; for, in view of the arrival of the President, the City Fathers have proclaimed a holiday, and all Boston and the rest of the universe which revolves around it, including Saugus Centre and Newton Four Corners, have turned out to see General Grant and each other, eat popcorn and bananas, hear the great chorus, and get all bedraggled and tired out by sunset. The city is dressed out gaily in the red, white and blue, and, true to the American characteristics, as much business as possible is combined with it in the way of advertising. The American Eagle is made to carry a fearful commercial weight upon his generous back in Boston to-day, from the squat female Hibernian dealer in fly-specked candies, even, to sundry granite-fronted, wholesale, solid men who live in the omnipresent free-stone houses on the Back Bay. The streets are literally crammed with people. Locomotion is a tedious affair upon these ribbons of sidewalks, and the surging crowd sometimes carries you, whether you will or no, into all sorts of alleys and by-ways and serpentine streets, which are sure to land you at somebody's front door. Fourth of July, the Saints' Day of Boston, is in danger of its multitudinous laurels, for it has never witnessed greater crowds than the magic baton of Gilmore has brought here.

Before I tell you of this second day of the Jubilee, I have a few incidents of interest wherewith to prelude it. And first, the organ itself is a noteworthy feature here, for it is the back-bone of the music, which holds the ribs and small bones of the Jubilee, keeps them in place, and prevents fracture. The organ was manufactured by the Messrs. Hook, expressly for the occasion, in the short space of four weeks, and was built with the design in view of combining strength and volume of tone with the least possible space in occupancy. The instrument has a very novel appearance, for the reason that it stands without a case. Above a very slight casing of chestnut and walnut, all the pipes of the "flute a Pavilion" are displayed--a stop which answers to the "Open Diapason." Behind these and others are the pipes of the "Bombarde," a sixteen-feet reed stop, and, still behind these, the vast wooden pipes of the "Grand Sub Bass," which form a double wall across the rear of the organ. On each side are the pipes of the "Pedale Posanne." The grouping of the pipes is very symmetrical, and presents quite as imposing, if not so beautiful an appearance as an elaborate case. The width of the organ across the front is twenty-two feet, and the height thirty feet. The wind-pressure used is at least four times that of ordinary organs, requiring four thousand pounds weight upon the bellows. Notwithstanding its great power, the tone is by no means harsh, but very agreeably rich and pleasant, and combines great intensity and solidity with the most brilliant seriousness conceivable. Its marvelous power and volume were specially manifested yesterday, when the orchestra began to break in the "Star-Spangled Banner." Mr. Wilcox, for a moment, seemed to be gathering up the resources of the organ in his hands, and then let it out in a manner which resembled the rushing of a storm more than anything else; but it had the effect to bring order out of chaos, and when once more he gathered back and restrained its powers, the instruments were playing like a charm.