Chapter II: The Chinese Discoverers of Mexico in the Fifth Century (5)

'Wal, I've four barr'ls of "dip," and tu of "hard." For the hull, I reckon he'll give three dollars a barr'l.'

'By tale?'

'No, for two hun'red and eighty pound.'

'Well, _I'll_ give you two dollars and a half by weight.'

'Can't take it, Cunnel; must get three dollar.'

'What, will you go sixty miles with this team, and waste five or six days, for fifty cents on six barrels--three dollars?'

'Can't 'ford the time, Cunnel, but must git three dollar a barr'l.'

'That fellow is a specimen of our "natives,"' said the Colonel, as we resumed our seats in the carriage. 'You'll see more of them before we get back to the plantation.'

'He puts a young cow to a decidedly original use,' I remarked.

'Oh no, not original here; the ox and the cow with us are both used for labor.'

'You don't mean to say that cows are generally worked here?'

'Of course I do. Our breeds are good for nothing as milkers, and we put them to the next best use. I never have cow's milk on my plantation.'

'You don't! why, I could have sworn it was in my coffee this morning.'

'I wouldn't trust you to buy brandy for me, if your organs of taste are not keener than that. It was goat's milk.'

'Then how do you get your butter?'

'From the North. I've had mine from my New York factors for over two years.'

We soon arrived at Sandy the negro-hunter's, and halted to allow the Colonel to inquire as to the health of his family of children and dogs,--the latter the less numerous, but, if I might judge by appearances, the more valued of the two.

* * * * *

SOUTHERN AIDS TO THE NORTH.

II.

If war did little else, it would have its value from the fact that it acts so extensively as an institution for the dissemination of useful knowledge. Every murmur of political dissension sends thousands to consult the map, and repair their early neglect of geography. Perhaps if atlases and ethnographical works were more studied we should have less war. And it is by no means impossible that the mutual knowledge which has been or is to be acquired by the people of the South and the North during this present war will eventually aid materially in establishing a firm bond of union.

That we have much to learn is shown in the firm faith with which so many have listened to the threats of 'a united South.' Until recently the fierce and furious assurances of the rebel press, that south of Mason and Dixon's line all were wedded heart and soul to their cause, were taken almost without a doubt. Who has forgotten the late doleful convictions of the dough-faces that the South would hold together to the last in spite of wind or weather, concluding invariably with the old refrain,--'Suppose we conquer them--what then?' Had the country at large known in detail, as it _should_ have known from a common-school education, what the South _really_ is,--or from experience of life what human nature really is,--it would never have believed that this boasted unanimity was based on aught save ignorance or falsehood. The Southern press itself, almost without an exception, betrays gross ignorance of its own country, and is very superficial in its statistics, inclining more than any other to warp facts and figures to suit preconceived views. We, like it, have tacitly adopted the belief that south of a certain line a certain climate invariably prevailed, and that under its influences, from the Border to the Gulf of Mexico, there has been developed a race essentially alike in all its characteristics. The planter and the slave-owner, or the city merchant, has been the type with which our writers have become familiar at the hotel and the watering-place, or in the 'store,' and we have accepted them as speaking for the South, quite forgetful that in America, as in other countries, the real man of the middle class travels but little, and when he does, is seldom to be found mingling in the 'higher circles.' Yet even this Southern man of the middle class and of 'Alleghania,' when at the North frequently affects a 'Southern' air, which is not more natural to him than it is to the youthful scions of Philadelphia and New York, who, when in Europe, so often talk pro-slavery and bowie knife, as though they lived in the very heart of planterdom. But the truth is that when we search the South out closely we find that in reality there is a very great difference between its districts and their inhabitants, and, in _fact_, as has been very truly said, 'not only is there no geographical boundary between the free and slave States, but no moral and intellectual boundary.'

In the great temperate region which, parting from either side of the Alleghanies, extends from Virginia to Alabama, and is still continued in the pleasant level of Texas, slavery has rolled away from either mountain side like a flood, leaving it the home of a hardy population which regards with jealousy and dislike both the wealthy planter and the negro. James W. Taylor, in his valuable collection of facts, claims that through the whole extent of the Southern Alleghania slavery has relatively diminished since 1850, and that the forthcoming census tables will establish the assertion. 'The superintendent of the census,' he says, 'would furnish a document, valuable politically and for military use, if he would anticipate the publication of this portion of his voluminous budget.' If government, indeed, were to communicate to the public what information it now holds, and has long held, relative to the numbers and strength of the Union men of the South, an excitement of amazement would thrill through the North. It was on the basis of this knowledge that our great campaign was planned,--and it can not be denied that thousands of stanch Union men were greatly astonished at the revelations of sympathy which burst forth most unexpectedly in districts where the stars and stripes have been planted. But the Cabinet 'knew what it knew' on this subject. Much of its knowledge never can be revealed, but enough will come to-night to show that in our darkest hour we had an enormous mass of aid, little suspected by those weaker brethren who stood aghast at the Southern bugbear, and who, falling prostrate in nerveless terror at the windy spectre, quaked out repeated assurances that _they_ had no intention of 'abolitionizing the war,' and even earnestly begged and prayed that the emancipationists might all be sent to Fort Warren,--so fearful were the poor cowards lest the united South, in the final hour of victory, might include them in its catalogue of the doomed. What would they say if they knew the number and power of the ABOLITIONISTS OF THE SOUTH,--a body of no trifling significance, whose fierce grasp will yet be felt on the throat of rebellion and of slavery? It is grimly amusing to think of the aid which the South counted on receiving from these Northern dough-faces,--little thinking that within itself it contained a counter-revolutionary party, far more dangerous than the Northern friends were helpful.

It should be borne in mind that where such an evil as slavery exists there will be numbers of grave, sensible men, who, however quiet they may keep, will have their own opinions as to the expediency of maintaining it. The bigots of the South may rave of the beauty of 'the institution,' and make many believe that they speak for the whole,--a little scum when whipped covers the whole pail,--but beneath all lies a steadily-increasing mass of practical men who would readily enough manifest their opposition should opportunity favor free speech. Such people, for instance, are not insensible to the enormously corrupting influence of negroes on their children. Let the reader recall Olmsted's experiences,--that, for example, where he speaks of three negro women who had charge of half a dozen white girls of good family, 'from three to fifteen years of age.'

Their language was loud and obscene, such as I never heard
before from any but the most depraved and beastly women of the
streets. Upon observing me they dropped their voices, but not
with any appearance of shame, and continued their altercation
until their mistresses entered. The white children, in the mean
time, had listened without any appearance of wonder or
annoyance. The moment the ladies opened the door, they became
silent.--_Cotton Kingdom_, vol. i. p. 222.

The Southern _Cultivator_ for June, 1855, speaks of many young men and women who have 'made shipwreck of all their earthly hopes, and been led to the fatal step by the seeds of corruption which in the days of childhood and youth were sown in their hearts by the indelicate and lascivious manners and conversation of their fathers' negroes.' If we had no other fact or cause to cite, this almost unnamable one might convince the reader that there must be a groundwork somewhere in the South among good, moral, and decent people, for antipathy to slavery,--human nature teaches us as much. And such people exist, not only among the hardy inhabitants of the inland districts, who are not enervated by wealth and 'exclusiveness,' but in planterdom itself.

There are few in the North who realize the number of persons in the South who silently disapprove of slavery on sound grounds, such as I have mentioned. Does it seem credible that nearly _ten millions_ of people should socially sympathize with some three hundred thousand slave-holders, who act with intolerable arrogance to all non-slave-holders? 'Even in those regions where slavery is profitable,' as a writer in the Boston _Transcript_ well expresses it, 'the poor whites feel the slaveocracy as the most grinding of aristocracies.'

In those regions where it is not profitable, the population
regard it with a latent abhorrence, compared with which the
rhetorical and open invectives of Garrison and Phillips are
feeble and tame. Anybody who has read Olmsted's truthful
narrative of his experience in the slave States can not doubt
this fact. The hatred to slavery too often finds its expression
in an almost inhuman hatred of 'niggers,' whether slave or free,
but it is none the less significant of the feelings and opinions
of the white population.

As I write, every fresh thunder of war and crash of victory is followed by murmurs of amazement at the enthusiastic receptions which the Union forces meet in most unexpected strongholds of the enemy, in the very heart of slavedom. Yet it was _known_ months ago, and prophesied, with the illustration of undeniable facts, that this counter-revolutionary element existed. One single truth was forgotten,--that these Southern friends of the Union, even while avowing that slavery must be supported, had no love of it in their hearts. Emancipation has been sedulously set aside under pretence of conciliating them; but it was needless,--'old custom' had made them cautious, and mindful of 'expediency;' but the mass of them hate 'the institution.' It is for the traitorous Northern _dough-faces_, and the paltry handful of secessionists, 'on a thin slip of land on the Atlantic,' that slavery is, at present, cherished. The great area of the South is free from it,--and ever will be.

It has frequently been insisted on that the mere _geographical_ obstacles to disunion are such as to render the cause of slavery hopeless in the long run. Yet to this most powerful Southern aid to the North, men seem to have been strangely blind during the days of doubt which so long afflicted us. These obstacles are, briefly, the enormous growing power of the West, and its inevitable outlet, the Mississippi river. 'For it is the mighty and free _West_ which will always hang like a lowering thunder-cloud over them.'[N] On this subject I quote at length from an article, in the Danville (Ky.) _Review_, by the Rev. R. J. Breckenridge, D.D.:--

Whoever will look at a map of the United States, will observe
that Louisiana lies on both sides of the Mississippi river, and
that the States of Arkansas and Mississippi lie on the right and
left banks of this great stream--eight hundred miles of whose
lower course is thus controlled by these three States, unitedly
inhabited by hardly as many white people as inhabit the city of
New York. Observe, then, the country drained by this river and
its affluents, commencing with Missouri on its west bank and
Kentucky on its east bank. There are nine or ten powerful
States, large portions of three or four others, several large
Territories--in all, a country as large as all Europe, as fine
as any under the sun, already holding many more people than all
the revolted States, and powerful regions of the earth. Does any
one suppose that these powerful States--this great and energetic
population--will ever make a peace that will put the lower
course of this single and mighty national outlet to the sea in
the hands of a foreign government far weaker than themselves? If
there is any such person he knows little of the past history of
mankind, and will perhaps excuse us for reminding him that the
people of Kentucky, before they were constituted a State, gave
formal notice to the federal government, when Gen. Washington
was President, that if the United States did not require
Louisiana they would themselves conquer it. The mouths of the
Mississippi belong, by the gift of God, to the inhabitants of
its great valley. Nothing but irresistible force can disinherit
them.

Try another territorial aspect of the case. There is a bed of
mountains abutting on the left bank of the Ohio, which covers
all Western Virginia, and all Eastern Kentucky, to the width,
from east to west, in those two States, of three or four hundred
miles. These mountains, stretching south-westwardly, pass
entirely through Tennessee, cover the back parts of North
Carolina and Georgia, heavily invade the northern part of
Alabama, and make a figure even in the back parts of South
Carolina and the eastern parts of Mississippi, having a course
of perhaps seven or eight hundred miles, and running far south
of the northern limit of profitable cotton culture. It is a
region of 300,000 square miles, trenching upon eight or nine
slave States, though nearly destitute of slaves itself;
trenching upon at least five cotton States, though raising no
cotton itself. The western part of Maryland and two-thirds of
Pennsylvania are embraced in the north-eastern continuation of
this remarkable region. Can anything that passes under the name
of statesmanship be more preposterous than the notion of
permanent peace on this continent, founded on the abnegation of
a common and paramount government, and the idea of the
supercilious domination of the cotton interest and the
slave-trade over such a mountain empire, so located and so
peopled?

As a further proof of the utter impossibility of peace except
under a common government, and at once an illustration of the
import of what has just been stated, and the suggestion of a new
and insuperable difficulty, let it be remembered that this great
mountain region, throughout its general course, is more loyal to
the Union than any other portion of the slave States. It is the
mountain counties of Maryland that have held treason in check in
that State; it is forty mountain counties in Western Virginia
that have laid the foundation of a new and loyal commonwealth;
it is the mountain counties of Kentucky that first and most
eagerly took up arms for the Union; it is the mountain region of
Tennessee that alone, in that dishonored State, furnished
martyrs to the sacred cause of freedom; it is the mountain
people of Alabama that boldly stood out against the Confederate
government till their own leaders deserted and betrayed them.

It is not a strong point, but it is worth noting, that even in South Carolina there is an Alleghanian area of 4,074 square miles, equal to the State of Connecticut, in which the diminished proportion of slaves, with other local causes, are sufficient to indicate the Union feeling which indeed struggles there in secret. These counties are:--

FREE. SLAVE. Spartanburgh, 18,311 8,039 Greenville, 13,370 6,691 Anderson, 13,867 7,514 Pickens, 13,105 3,679

Slavery is here large, as compared to the other counties of 'Alleghania,' but the great proportion of free inhabitants, as contrasted with the districts near the Atlantic, makes it worth citing. In accordance with a request, I give from Jas. W. Taylor's collection, illustrating this subject, the table of population in East Tennessee:--

The following table, from the census of 1850, presents the slave
and cotton statistics of this district, in their relation to the
free population:

COUNTIES. FREE. SLAVE. COTTON,
400 lb. bales.
Johnson, 3,485 206 0
Carter, 5,911 353 0
Washington, 12,671 930 0
Sullivan, 10,603 1,004 153
Hancock, 5,447 202 2
Hawkins, 11,567 1,690 0
Greene, 16,526 1,093 0
Cocke, 7,501 719 3
Sevier, 6,450 403 0
Jefferson, 11,458 1,628 0
Granger, 11,170 1,035 1
Knox, 16,385 2,193 0
Union, new county,
Claiborne, 8,610 660 0
Anderson, 6,391 503 0
Campbell, 5,651 318 1
Scott, 1,808 37 0
Morgan, 3,301 101 9
Cumberland, new county,
Roane, 10,525 1,544 121
Blount, 11,213 1,084 6
Munroe, 10,623 1,188 0
McMinn, 12,286 1,568 2,821
Polk, 5,884 400 29
Bradley, 11,478 744 1,600
Meigs, 4,480 395 2
Hamilton, 9,216 672 0
Rhea, 3,951 436 0
Bledsoe, 5,036 827 0
Sequatche, new county,
Van Buren, 2,481 175 2
Grundy, 2,522 236 24
Marion, 5,718 551 24,413
Franklin, 10,085 3,623 637
Lincoln, 17,802 5,621 2,576

The geographical order of the foregoing list of counties is from
the extreme north-east--Johnson--south-west to Lincoln, on the
Alabama line. I have included a tier of counties the west, which
embrace the summits and western slopes of the Cumberland Hills,
regarding their physical and political features as more
identified with East than Middle Tennessee. Such are Lincoln,
Franklin, Grundy, Van Buren, Cumberland, Morgan and Scott
counties.

I estimate the area of this district as about 17,175 square
miles, an extent of territory exceeding the aggregate of the
following States:

Massachusetts, 7,800 square miles.
Connecticut, 4,674 square miles.
Rhode Island, l,306 square miles.
------
13,180 square miles.

Yet it is not many months since even this Tennessee region, it was generally feared, would be false to the Union, on account of its attachment to slavery.

The reader who has studied the facts which I have cited, indicating the existence of a powerful Union party at the South (and the facts are few and weak compared to the vast mass which exist, and which are known to government), may judge for himself whether that party is Union _in spite of pro-slavery principles_, as so many would have us believe. Let him see where these Union men are found, where they have come forth with the greatest enthusiasm, and _then_ say that he believes they are friends to slavery. Let him bear in mind the hundreds of thousands of acres, the vast tracts, equal in extent to whole Northern States, in the South, which are unfitted for slave labor, and reflect whether the inhabitants of these cool, temperate regions are not as conscious of their inadaptability to slave labor as he is himself; and whether _they_ are so much attached to the institution which fosters the Satanic pride, panders to the passions, and corrupts the children of the planter of the low country.

Since writing the above, the long-expected declaration of President LINCOLN has appeared in favor of adopting a plan which may lead to the gradual abolishment of slavery. He proposes that the United States shall cooeperate with such slave States as may desire Emancipation, by giving such pecuniary aid as may compensate for any losses incurred. No interference with State rights or claims to rights in the question is intended.

It is evident that this message is directed entirely to the strengthening and building up of the Union party of the South, and has been based quite as much on their demands and on a knowledge of their needs, as on any Northern pressure. And it will have a sure effect. It will bring to life, if realized, those seeds of counter-revolution which so abundantly exist in the South. The growth may be slow, but it will be certain. So long as the certainty exists that compensation _may_ be obtained, there will be a party who will long for it; and where there is a will there is a way. The executive has finally _officially_ recognized the truth of the theory of Emancipation, and thereby entitled itself to the honor of having taken the greatest forward step in the glorious path of Freedom ever made even in our history.

* * * * *

THE MOLLY O'MOLLY PAPERS.

NO. I.

In addressing you for the first time, you will perhaps expect me to give some account of myself and my ancestry, as did the illustrious _Spectator_.

My remote ancestors are Irish. From them I inherited enthusiasm, a gun-powder temper, a propensity to blunder, and a name--Molly O'Molly. The origin of this name I have in vain endeavored to trace in history, perhaps because it belonged to a very old family, one of the _prehistorics_. As such it might have been that of a demigod, or, according to the development theory, of a _demi-man_. Or it might have been that of an old Irish gentleman, _gentle_ in truth;--in the formative stage of society it is the monster that leaves traces of himself, as in an old geologic period the huge reptile left his tracks in the plastic earth, which afterward hardened into rock.

Then, too, I have searched in vain for anything like it in ancient Irish poetry, thinking that my progenitor's name might have been therein embalmed. 'The stony science'--mind you--reveals to us the former existence of the huge reptile, the fragmentary, mighty mastodon, and, imperfect, the mail-clad fish. But, wonder of wonders, we find the whole _insect_ preserved in that fossil gum amber. And even so in verse, characters are preserved for all time, that could not make their mark in history, and that had none of the elements of an earthly immortality. Did I wish immortality I would choose a poet for my friend;--an _In Memoriam_ is worth all the records of the dry chronicler.

But, it is not with the root of the family tree that you have to do, but with the twig Myself.

As for my physique,--I am not like the scripture personage who beheld his face in a glass, and straightway forgot what manner of man he was. I have, on the contrary, a very distinct recollection of my face; suffice it to say, that, had I Rafaelle's pencil, I would not, like him, employ it on my own portrait.

And my life--the circumstances which have influenced, or rather created its currents, have been trifling; not that it has had no powerful currents; it is said that the equilibrium of the whole ocean could be destroyed by a single mollusk or coralline,--but my life has been an uneventful one. I never met with an adventure, never even had a hair-breadth escape,--yes, I did, too, have one hair-breadth escape. I once just grazed matrimony. The truth is, I fell in love, and was sinking with Falstaff's 'alacrity,' when I was fished out; but somehow I slipt off the hook--fortunately, however, was left on shore. By the way, the best way to get out of love is to be drawn out by the matrimonial hook. One of Holmes' characters wished to change a vowel of the verb _to love_, and conjugate it--I have forgotten how far. Where two set out to conjugate together the verb to love in the first person plural, it is well if they do not, before the honey-moon is over, get to the present-perfect, indicative. Alas! I have thus far, in the first person singular, conjugated too many verbs, among them _to enjoy_. As for _to be_, I have come to the balancing in my mind of the question that so perplexed Hamlet--'To be, or not to be.' For, with all the natural cheerfulness of my disposition, I can not help sometimes looking on the dark side of life. But there is no use in setting down my gloomy reflections,--all have them. We are all surrounded by an atmosphere of misery, pressing on us fifteen pounds to the square inch, so evenly and constantly that we know not its fearful weight. To change the figure. Have you ever thought how much misery one life _can_ hold in solution? Each year, as it flows into it, adds to it a heaviness, a weight of woe, as the rivers add salts to the ocean. I do not refer to the most unhappy, but to all. Some one says,--

'If singing breath, if echoing chord
To every hidden pang were given,
What endless melodies were poured,
As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven.'

If breath to every hidden prayer were given, could it be _singing_ breath? Would it not be a wail monotonous as the dirge of the November wind over the dead summer, a wail for lost hopes, lost joys, lost loves? Or the monotony would be varied--as is the wind by fitful gusts--by shrieks of despair, cries of agony. No, no, there is no use in trying to modulate our woes,--'we're all wrong,--the _time_ in us is lost.'

'Henceforth I'll bear
Affliction, till it do cry out itself,
"Enough, enough," and die.'

But why talk thus? why mourn over dead hopes, dead joys, dead loves? 'Tis best to bury the dead out of our sight, and from them will spring many humbler hopes, quieter joys, more lowly affections, which 'smell sweet' though they 'blossom in the dust,' and they are the only resurrection these dead ones can ever have. I have been reading, in Maury's Geography of the Sea, how the sea's dead are preserved; how they stand like enchanted warders of the treasures of the deep, unchanged, except that the expression of life is exchanged for the ghastliness of death. So, down beneath the surface currents do some deep souls preserve their dead hopes, joys, loves. Oh, this is unwise; this is _not_ as God intended; for, unlike the sea's dead, there will be for these no resurrection.

Thus far I wrote, when the current of my thoughts was changed by a lively tune struck up by a hand-organ across the street. I am not 'good' at distinguishing tunes, but this one I had so often heard in childhood, and had so wondered at its strange title, that I could but remember it. It was 'The Devil's Dream.' Were I a poet, I would write the words to it;--but then, too, I would need be a musician to compose a suitable new tune to the words! The rattling, reckless notes should be varied by those sad enough to make an unlost angel weep--an unlost angel, for, to the hot eyes of the lost, no tears can come. 'The _Devil's_ Dream'--perhaps it is of Heaven. Doubtless, frescoed in heavenly colors on the walls of his memory, are scenes from which fancy has but to brush the smoke and grime of perdition to restore them to almost their original beauty. I could even pity the 'Father of lies,' the 'Essence of evil,' the 'Enemy of mankind,' when I think of the terrible awaking. But does _he_ ever sleep? Has there since the fall been a pause in _his_ labors? Perhaps the reason this tune-time is so fast is because he is dreaming in a hurry,--must soon be up and doing. But it is my opinion that he has so wound up the world to wickedness, that he might sleep a hundred years, and it would have scarcely begun to run down on his awaking; when, from the familiar appearance of all things, he would swear 'it was but an after-dinner nap.' Indeed he might die, might to-day go out in utter nothingness like a falling star, and it would be away in the year two thousand before he would be missed,--we have learned to do our own devil-work so rarely. Meanwhile the well-wound world--as a music-box plays over the same tunes--would go on sinning over the same old sins. Satan is a great economist, but a paltry deviser,--he has not invented a new sin since the flood. My thoughts thus danced along to the music, when they were brought to a dead stop by its cessation; and it was time, you will think....

But, permit me to remind you that my name is not _acquired_, but _inherited_.

At your service,

MOLLY O'MOLLY.

NO. II.

I detest that man who bides his time to repay a wrong or fancied wrong, who keeps alive in his hardened nature the vile thing hatred, and would for centuries, did he live thus long,--as the toad is kept alive in the solid rock. Hugh Miller says he is 'disposed to regard the poison bag of the serpent as a mark of degradation;' this venomous spite is certainly a mark of degradation, and it is only creeping, crawling souls that have it, but the creeping and crawling are a part of the curse.

Yet I have a respect for honest indignation, righteous anger, such as the O'Mollys have ever been capable of. And all the O'Molly blood in my veins has been stirred by the contemptuous manner in which some men have spoken of woman. 'Weak woman,--inconstant woman;' they have made the wind a type of her fickleness. In this they are right; for it has been proved that the seasons in their return, day and night, are not more sure than the wind. Such fickleness as this is preferable to _man's_ greatest constancy. Woman weak! she's gentle as the summer breeze, I grant;--but, like this same breeze, when she's roused--then beware! You have doubtless heard of that gale that forced back the Gulf Stream, and piled it up thirty feet at its source.

Take care how you sour woman's nature,--remember that, once soured, all the honey in the universe will not sweeten it. There is such a thing as making vinegar of molasses, but I never heard of making molasses of vinegar. Do you wish to know the turning process? Grumbling--everlasting fault-finding--at breakfast, dinner, and supper, the same old tune. I don't see how the man who boards can endure it; he is obliged to swallow his food without complaint. The landlady at the head of the table is a very different-looking individual from the meek woman he afterwards calls wife,--not a word can he say, though he morning after morning, in his breakfast, recognizes, through its various disguises, yesterday's dinner. By the way, this is after Dame Nature's plan; she uses the greatest economy in feeding her immense family of boarders; never wastes a refuse scrap, or even a drop of water. If one of these boarders dies, it is true he is not, like 'the poor work-house boy,' served up as one dish, but he becomes an ingredient in many 'a dainty dish' fit to 'to set before a king.' But I am not, like 'Miss Ophelia' in 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' going to explore the good dame's kitchen,--will rather eat what is set before me, asking no questions; which last, what _man_ ever did, if he could help it?

For an insignificant man, originally but a cipher, who owes it to his wife that he is even the fraction that he is, to talk about 'woman knowing her place--he's head,' etc.! If he had given her the place that belonged to her, their value, not as individual figures, but as one number, would have been increased a thousand fold. I have made a calculation, and this is literally true, or rather, you will say, _figuratively_ true. Well, this kind of figures can not lie.

'The rose,' the Burmese say, 'imparts fragrance to the leaf in which it is folded.' Many a man has had a sweetness imparted to his character by the woman he has sheltered in his bosom--though some characters 'not all the perfume of Arabia could sweeten;' and, strange as it seem, most women would rather be folded in a _tobacco_ leaf than 'waste their sweetness on desert air.' Though it is a long time since I have been a man _lover_, I am not a man _hater_. I can not hate anything that has been so hallowed by woman's love,--_its_ magnetism gives a sort of attractive power to him.

Notwithstanding all that has been said about woman's weakness, it is acknowledged that she has a pretty strong will of her own. Well, we need a strong will,--it is the great _centrifugal force_ that God has given to all. Only it must be subordinate to the _centripetal force_ of the universe--the Divine will.

It is said that the centripetal force of our solar system is the Pleiad Alcyon. I know not whether the other stars of that cluster feel this attraction; if they do, what a centrifugal force the lost Pleiad must have had, to break away from 'the sweet influences' which, through so immense a distance, draw the sun with all his train. This is not without a parallel--when 'the morning stars sang together' over the new-born earth, one 'star of the morning' was not there to join in the chorus.

But Old Sol will probably never so strongly assert _his_ centrifugality as to set such an example of _secession_ to his planets and comets.

Pardon this astronomical digression. I have just returned from hearing an itinerant lecturer, and it will take a week to get the smoke of his magic lantern out of my eyes. If there is any error in these observations, blame the itinerant, not me.

I had been low-spirited all day, had tried reading, work,--all of no avail. Dyspeptic views of life would present themselves to my mind. Some natures, and mine is of them, like the pendulum, need a weight attached to them to keep them from going too fast. But a wholesome sorrow is very different from this moping melancholy, when the thoughts run in one direction, till they almost wear a channel for themselves--when the channel is worn, there is _insanity_.

Neither are my gloomy religious views to-day those that will regenerate the world. Those lines of Dr. Watts,--'We should suspect some danger nigh When we possess delight,'--it is said, were written after a disappointment in love--it was 'sour grapes' that morning--with the grave divine.

As a general rule, where we possess _continued_ delight, there is no 'danger nigh.' Where an enjoyment comes between us and our God, it casts on us a shadow. When we have plucked a beautiful flower, if poisonous, it has such a sickening odor that we fling it from us. We do not 'pay too dear for our whistle,' unless it costs us a sin; then it soon becomes a loathed and useless toy. Otherwise, the dearer we pay, the sweeter its music.

And even if there is 'danger nigh'--because we are pleased with the beautiful foam, need we steer straight for the breakers? Not every tempting morsel is the enemy's bait, though we should be careful how we nibble;--he is no blunderer (a proof positive that he is not Irish), never leaves his trap sprung--and we may get caught.

This is a synopsis of the arguments, or rather assertions, with which I opposed those of the blues; but, finding they were getting the better of me, I started out for a walk. It was a chilly afternoon; the whole sky, except a clear place just above the western horizon, was covered with those heavy, diluted India-ink clouds; the setting sun throwing a dreary red light on the northern and eastern mountains, adding sullenness to the gloom, instead of dispelling it. But why describe this gloomy sunset, there are so many beautiful ones?--when, as the grand, old, dying Humboldt said, the 'glorious rays seem to beckon earth to heaven?'

Well, I walked so fast that I left my blue tormentors far in the rear. On the way I met a friend, who invited me to go to the astronomical lecture. Here you have it, after many digressions. My thoughts never strike a plane surface, but always a spherical, and fly off in a tangent.

Sydney Smith says, 'Remember the flood and be brief.' You know I belong to a very old family; and from an ancestor, who lived before the flood, has been transmitted through a long line of O'Mollys a disposition to spin out. Unfortunately an antediluvian length of time was not an _heir-loom_ to

Your humble servant,

MOLLY O'MOLLY.

* * * * *

SKETCHES OF EDINBURGH LITERATI.

BY A FORMER MEMBER OF ITS PRESS.

There was a time when the little hamlet of Cockpaine, ten miles from Edinburgh, in addition to the charms of its scenery, was also socially attractive from the high literary talent of several of its residents. It was situated on the banks of the Esk, whose rapid flow affords a valuable water-power. This had been improved under the enterprise of Mr. Craig, an extensive manufacturer, who became at last proprietor not only of the mills, but of the entire village. Mr. Craig was successful for several years; but the revulsions of trade during the Crimean war swept away his previous profits, and in 1854 he sank in utter bankruptcy.

The extensive domain of the Earl of Dalhousie lay next to Cockpaine, and the village site seemed all that was necessary to its completeness. As soon as the latter was offered for sale, the earl made the long-desired purchase, and then began the immediate eviction of its population. I saw four hundred operatives, of all ages, driven off on one sad occasion--a scene which reminded me most painfully of Goldsmith's lines in the 'Deserted Village:'--

'Good Heaven! what sorrows gloomed that parting day
That called them from their native walks away,
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past,
Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last,
And took a long farewell, and wished in vain
For seats like these beyond the western main;
And shuddering still to face the distant deep,
Returned and wept, and still returned to weep.'

A subsequent visit to what was once the thriving village, with its embowered cottages reflected from the waters of the Esk, its groups of romping children, its Sabbath melodies and its secular din, now changed to a nobleman's preserves, recalled the following truthful sketch from the same poem:--

'Thus fares the land by luxury betrayed,
In Nature's simplest charms arrayed;
But verging to decline, its splendors rise,
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise;
While, scourged by famine from the smiling land,
The mournful peasant leads his humble band;
And while he sinks, without one arm to save,
_The country blooms, a garden and a grave._'

Among those whom Mr. Craig had numbered with the friends of his better days, the first rank might have been conceded to that most eccentric and interesting child of genius, Thomas DeQuincey.

Mr. Craig had thrown open to his use a lovely cottage and grounds, commonly known as 'the Paddock,' which DeQuincey and his family occupied for several years as privileged guests. 'The Opium-eater,' as he was universally called by the villagers, was not more remarkable in character than in appearance. His attenuated form, though but five feet six in height, seemed singularly tall; and his sharply aquiline countenance was strongly indicative of reflection. This aspect was increased by a downward cast of the eyes, which were invariably fixed upon the ground; and in his solitary walks he seemed like one rapt in a dream. Such a character could not but be quite a marvel to the literary coterie of Cockpaine, which found in him an inexhaustible subject of discussion; while the more common class of the community viewed him with solemn wonderment--'aye, there he gaes aff to th' brae--he'll kill himsell wi' ower thinkin'--glowrin all the day lang--ah, there's na gude in that black stuff; it's worse nor whiskey and baccy forbye.' Such were some of the ordinary comments on the weird form which was seen emerging from 'the Paddock' and moving in solitude towards the hills. Taciturnity was a striking feature in DeQuincey's character, and was, no doubt, owing to intense mental action. The inner life, aroused to extreme activity by continued stimulus, excluded all perceptions beyond its own limits, and the world in which he dwelt was sufficiently large without the intrusion of external things. In his walks I would often follow in his track, with that fondness of imitation peculiar to childhood, but was never the object of his notice, and never heard him converse but once. Overcome by such recluse habits, DeQuincey showed no desire to court the patronage of the great, and had but little intercourse with the lordly family of the Dalhousies. Indeed, his only intimacy was with Mr. Craig, whose hospitality had won his heart. He was at this time still consuming enormous quantities of opium, having never abated its use, notwithstanding his allusions to reform in the 'Confessions.' His two daughters, like those of Milton, cheered the domestic scenes of 'the Paddock,' and the trio formed a circle whose interest pervaded the literary world.

DeQuincey was at that time writing for Hogg's _Instructor_, a popular Edinburgh periodical, in which his articles were a leading attraction. The _Instructor_ was published weekly, and in addition to the pen of the 'Opium-eater,' could boast the editorship of the brilliant George Gilfillan. The former of these devoted himself to a series of interesting miscellanies, in which he brought out many pen-and-ink portraits of striking power. At times, indeed, he was almost considered joint editor; but his use of opium was so little abated, that it forbade dependence upon his pen. The quantity of the drug consumed by him, according to report, was astonishing. In his daily walk along the Esk, his form was easily distinguished, even at a distance, by the prim black surtout, whose priestly aspect was somewhat in contrast with his 'shocking-bad' hat. DeQuincey had by this time escaped from the poverty of his early days, of which he speaks so bitterly in his 'Confessions,' and was, if not a man of wealth, at least in easy circumstances. He was reputed to own a snug little estate, called 'Lasswade;' but he abandoned it to a tenant, and gave preference to Cockpaine, which charmed him by its romantic scenery. His pay for contributions to the _Instructor_ could not have been less than a guinea per page; and Hogg, its publisher (who was no relation to the Ettrick shepherd), would have given him more had it been demanded. The _Instructor_ was subsequently merged into the _Titan_, and its place of publication changed to London.

Removing from Cockpaine, my initiation into Edinburgh life was through an acquaintance with the noted publishing house of the Messrs. Black, who were then getting out their splendid edition of the _Encyclopedia Brittanica_.

This vast enterprise, which cost L25,000, was highly profitable, through the energy and cleverness of Robert Black, who conducted it. Among other distinguished contributors, I frequently met in its office Mr., subsequently Lord, Macaulay, who furnished the articles on 'Pitt,' 'Canning,' and other distinguished statesmen. Although at that time a man of slender means, Mr. Macaulay refused compensation for these papers, on the score of strong personal friendship. However, he received an indirect reward, more valuable than mere gold, since Robert Black was his strong political supporter, and frequently presided at public meetings held to further Macaulay's interests. I have often seen Music Hall crowded by an enthusiastic mass while the bookseller filled the chair, and the great reviewer appeared as a public orator. Macaulay's person was very striking and impressive. He was tall, and of noble build and full development. Although one of the most diligent of readers and hard working of students of any age, his ruddy countenance did not indicate close application, and his appearance was anything but that of a book-worm. Indeed, at first glance, one would have taken him for a fine specimen of the wealthy English farmer; and to have observed his habits of good living at the social dining parties, would have added to the impression that in him the animal nature was far in advance of the intellectual. Macaulay, on all festive occasions, proved himself as elegant a conversationist as he was a writer; his tone was thoroughly English, and his pronunciation, like that of Washington Irving, was singularly correct. As a speaker, he at times rose to splendid flights of oratory, although his delivery from memory was less effective than the extemporaneous style. Macaulay never married, but was always happy in the social circle of his friends.

The Blacks were likewise publishers of Scott's novels, the demand for which was so great that they were seldom 'off the press.' Three standard editions were issued,--one of forty-eight volumes, at a low rate, another of twenty-five volumes, at higher cost, and an additional library edition, of still greater price. Of these, one thousand 'sets' per year were the average of sale.

Shortly after this, I was in connection with the Ballantynes, who published Blackwood's Magazine, one of the most profitable periodicals in the United Kingdom. This connection led to an acquaintance with John Wilson, better known as 'Christopher North,' of 'Old Ebony.' When the printers were in haste, I have frequently walked down to his residence in Gloucester Place, and sat by his side, waiting patiently, hour after hour, for copy. The professor always wrote in the night, and would frequently dash off one of his splendid articles between supper and daybreak. His study was a small room, containing a table littered with paper, the walls garnished with a few pictures, while heaps of books were scattered wherever chance might direct. At this table might have been seen the famous professor of moral philosophy, stripped to his shirt and pantaloons, the former open in front, and displaying a vast, hirsute chest, while a slovenly necktie kept the limp collar from utter loss of place. This was his favorite state for composition, and was in true keeping with the character and productions of his genius. When in public, the professor was still a sloven; but his heavy form and majestic head and countenance--though he was not a tall man--at once commanded respect. He never appeared anything but the philosopher, and I, who saw him in the dishabille of his study, never lost my awe for his greatness. He had a worthy family, and maintained an excellent establishment. Aytoun, who is now editor of Blackwood, married one of his daughters, and has proved, by his stirring ballads, that he was worthy of such an alliance. In writing, the professor eschewed gas light, and made use of the more classic lamp. A bottle of wine was his companion, and stood at his elbow until exhausted. This will perhaps explain much of the convivial character of the 'Notes.' The old-fashioned quill pen was his preference; and as the hours advanced, and mental excitement waxed in activity, the profuse spattering of ink rattled like rain. As a matter of course, his pay was of the highest rate, and his articles were read with avidity. One reason of this may be found in the boldness with which he drags into the imaginary colloquies of _Noctes Ambrosianae_ the literati of both kingdoms. This liberty was sometimes felt keenly, and sharply resented. Poor James Hogg, the 'Ettrick Shepherd,' who was just then getting a position in the literary world, sometimes found himself figuring unexpectedly in the scenes, as the victim of relentless wit. As a retaliation, Hogg attacked Wilson in a sheet which he was then publishing in the Cowgate, under the aid and patronage of a hatter.

It was one of John Wilson's fancies to affect a love of boxing, and it was a favorite theme in the 'Ambrosial Discussions.' From this some have imagined that he was of a pugilistic turn, whereas he knew nothing of the 'science,' and only affected the knowledge in jest.

Next to old 'Kit North,' the most truly beloved contributor to Blackwood was 'Delta,' whose poetry was for years expected, almost of course, in every number. As Wilson's identity was well-nigh lost in his imaginary character, so plain Dr. Moir was, in the literary world, merged in 'Delta' of Blackwood. But to the inhabitants of Musselburg he sustained a character altogether different, and the gentle _Delta_ was only known as one worthy of the title of 'the good physician.' I lived at Musselburg two years, and had ample opportunities of personal acquaintance. Dr. Moir was a man of highly benevolent countenance, and of quiet and retiring manners. His practice was very extensive, and at almost all hours he could have been seen driving an old gray horse through the streets and suburbs of the town. The ancient character of Musselburg seemed to have been as congenial to his temperament as Nuremberg was to that of Hans Sachs. Indeed, in antiquity it can glory over 'Auld Reekie,' according to the quaint couplet,--

'Musselboro' was a boro' when Edinburgh was nane;
Musselboro'll be a boro' when Edinburgh is gane.'

Moir was buried at Inveresk, where his remains are honored by a noble monument; the memory of his genius will be cherished by all readers of Blackwood. He died in 1854.

While engaged on the Encyclopedia to which we have made reference, I made the acquaintance of McCulloch, the distinguished writer of finances, who furnished the article on 'Banking.'

However distinguished may have been the position of this man in point of talent, he failed utterly to command respect; and I chiefly remember his coarse, overbearing tone of boastful superiority, and his abusive language to the compositors who set up his MSS. That they found the latter difficult of deciphering is not surprising, since the sheet looked less like human calligraphy than a row of bayonets. McCulloch had edited the '_Scotsman_' with decided ability, and having attracted the attention of Lord Brougham, had received an appointment in the stationer's office. But in his promotion he quickly forgot his humble origin, and displayed his native vulgarity by lording it over the craftsmen who gave form and life to his thoughts.

Among the giants of Scotland at that time, Thomas Chalmers ranked chief, and the death of Sir Walter Scott had left him without a peer. I used to meet him as he took his early walks, and in his loving way of greeting youth he often bade me a cheerful good-morning. He was then living at Kinghorn, about eight miles from Edinburgh. Dr. Chalmers' robust stature was in keeping with the power of his intellect. He was of massive frame, and displayed a breadth of shoulder which seemed borrowed from the Farnese Hercules. Though so distinguished as a divine, there was nothing clerical in his appearance--nothing of that air of 'the cloth' which at once proclaims the preacher. His noble features were generally overspread with a benevolent smile, which seemed to shed an illumination as though from the ignition of the soul; while at other times he was possessed with a spirit of abstraction as if walking in a dream.

As a theologian, Chalmers was great beyond any of his contemporaries; and yet, strictly speaking, his genius was mathematical, rather than theological. In this respect he resembled that famed American of whom he professed himself a disciple--Jonathan Edwards. Of the latter it is stated by no less a critic than the author of the _Eclipse of Faith_ (Henry Rogers), that he was born a mathematician. Chalmers, however, was a master of all science, and it would have been difficult for even a specialist to have taken him at an advantage. As greatness is always set off by simplicity, the latter feature was one of the chief beauties in what we may call the Chalmerian Colossus. I have often seen him leaning upon the half open door of a smithy, conversing with the intelligent workmen, as they rested from the use of the sledge. Having referred to his love of children, I may add, in respect to myself, that when I, in my childhood, spoke to him in the street, I was generally favored with an apple. He was indeed an ardent lover of the young, and his genius seemed to gather freshness from his intercourse with childhood.