Initial Studies in American Letters
by Henry A. Beers
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Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom, With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes, Stern thoughts and awful from thy thoughts arise, Like Farinata from his fiery tomb. Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom; Yet in thy heart what human sympathies. What soft compassion glows, as in the skies The tender stars their clouded lamps relume! Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks, By Fra Hilario in his diocese, As up the convent wall, in golden streaks, The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease. And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks, Thy voice along the cloister whispers, "Peace!"



O Mother Earth! upon thy lap Thy weary ones receiving, And o'er there, silent as a dream, Thy grassy mantle weaving, Fold softly in thy long embrace That heart so worn and broken, And cool its pulse of fire beneath Thy shadows old and oaken.

Shut out from him the bitter word And serpent hiss of scorning; Nor let the storms of yesterday Disturb his quiet morning. Breathe over him forgetfulness Of all save deeds of kindness, And, save to smiles of grateful eyes, Press down his lids in blindness.

There, where with living ear and eye, He heard Potomac's flowing, And, through his tall ancestral trees Saw autumn's sunset glowing, He sleeps—still looking to the West, Beneath the dark wood shadow, As if he still would see the sun Sink down on wave and meadow.

Bard, Sage, and Tribune—in himself All moods of mind contrasting— The tenderest wail of human woe, The scorn like lightning blasting; The pathos which from rival eyes Unwilling tears could summon, The stinging taunt, the fiery burst Of hatred scarcely human!

Mirth, sparkling like a diamond shower, From lips of life-long sadness; Clear picturings of majestic thought Upon a ground of madness; And over all Romance and Song A classic beauty throwing, And laureled Clio at his side Her storied pages showing.

All parties feared him: each in turn Beheld its schemes disjointed, As right or left his fatal glance And spectral finger pointed. Sworn foe of cant, he smote it down With trenchant wit unsparing, And, mocking, rent with ruthless hand The robe Pretense was wearing.

Too honest or too proud to feign A love he never cherished, Beyond Virginia's border line His patriotism perished. While others hailed in distant skies Our eagle's dusky pinion, He only saw the mountain bird Stoop o'er his Old Dominion.

Still through each change of fortune strange, Racked nerve, and brain all burning, His loving faith in mother-land Knew never shade of turning; By Britain's lakes, by Neva's wave, Whatever sky was o'er him, He heard her rivers' rushing sound, Her blue peaks rose before him.

He held his slaves, yet made withal No false and vain pretenses, Nor paid a lying priest to seek For scriptural defenses. His harshest words of proud rebuke, His bitterest taunt and scorning, Fell fire-like on the Northern brow That bent to him in fawning.

He held his slaves, yet kept the while His reverence for the Human, In the dark vassals of his will He saw but man and woman. No hunter of God's outraged poor His Roanoke valley entered; No trader in the souls of men Across his threshold ventured.

And when the old and wearied man Lay down for his last sleeping, And at his side, a slave no more, His brother-man stood weeping, His latest thought, his latest breath, To freedom's duty giving, With failing tongue and trembling hand The dying blest the living.

O! never bore his ancient State A truer son or braver; None trampling with a calmer scorn On foreign hate or favor. He knew her faults, yet never stooped His proud and manly feeling To poor excuses of the wrong Or meanness of concealing.

But none beheld with clearer eye, The plague-spot o'er her spreading, None heard more sure the steps of Doom Along her future treading. For her as for himself he spake, When, his gaunt frame up-bracing, He traced with dying hand "REMORSE!" And perished in the tracing.

As from the grave where Henry sleeps, From Vernon's weeping willow, And from the grassy pall which hides The Sage of Monticello, So from the leaf-strewn burial-stone Of Randolph's lowly dwelling, Virginia! o'er thy land of slaves A warning voice is swelling.

And hark! from thy deserted fields Are sadder warnings spoken, From quenched hearths, where thy exiled sons Their household gods have broken. The curse is on thee—wolves for men, And briers for corn-sheaves giving! O! more than all thy dead renown Were now one hero living.



Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky; Beneath it rung the battle shout, And burst the cannon's roar; The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more.

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, And waves were white below, No more shall feel the victor's tread, Or know the conquered knee,— The harpies of the shore shall pluck The eagle of the sea.

O, better that her shattered hulk Should sink beneath the wave; Her thunders shook the mighty deep, And there should be her grave; Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the god of storms, The lightning and the gale!


I saw him once before, As he passed by the door, And again The pavement stones resound, As he totters o'er the ground With his cane.

They say that in his prime, Ere the pruning-knife of time Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the Crier on his round Through the town.

But now he walks the streets, And he looks at all he meets Sad and wan, And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said, "They are gone."

The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has pressed In their bloom, And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said— Poor old lady, she is dead Long ago— That he had a Roman nose, And his cheek was like a rose In the snow.

But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff, And a crook is in his back, And a melancholy crack In his laugh.

I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here; But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer!

And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough Where I cling.


My aunt! my dear, unmarried aunt! Long years have o'er her flown; Yet still she strains the aching clasp That binds her virgin zone; I know it hurts her, though she looks As cheerful as she can; Her waist is ampler than her life, For life is but a span.

My aunt! my poor deluded aunt! Her hair is almost gray; Why will she train that winter curl In such a spring-like way? How can she lay her glasses down, And say she reads as well, When, through a double convex lens, She just makes out to spell?

Her father—grandpapa! forgive This erring lip its smiles— Vowed she should make the finest girl Within a hundred miles; He sent her to a stylish school; 'Twas in her thirteenth June; And with her, as the rules required, "Two towels and a spoon."

They braced my aunt against a board, To make her straight and tall; They laced her up, they starved her down, To make her light and small; They pinched her feet, they singed her hair, They screwed it up with pins; O, never mortal suffered more In penance for her sins.

So when my precious aunt was done, My grandsire brought her back (By daylight, lest some rabid youth Might follow on the track); "Ah!" said my grandsire, as he shook Some powder in his pan, "What could this lovely creature do Against a desperate man?"

Alas! nor chariot, nor barouche, Nor bandit cavalcade, Tore from the trembling father's arms His all-accomplished maid. For her how happy had it been! And Heaven had spared to me To see one sad ungathered rose On my ancestral tree.



Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore, That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, wayworn wanderer bore To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand! Ah! Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy Land!


Thou wast that all to me, love, For which my soul did pine: A green isle in the sea, love, A fountain and a shrine All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last! Ah, starry hope! that did'st arise But to be overcast! A voice from out the future cries On! on! But o'er the past (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies, Mute, motionless, aghast!

For, alas! alas! with me The light of life is o'er. "No more—no more—no more—" (Such language holds the solemn sea To the sands upon the shore) Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, Or the stricken eagle soar!

And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams Are where thy dark eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams,— In what ethereal dances, By what eternal streams!


At the termination of this sentence I started, and for a moment paused; for it appeared to me (although I at once concluded that my excited fancy had deceived me)—it appeared to me that, from some very remote portion of the mansion there came, indistinctly, to my ears what might have been, in its exact similarity of character, the echo (but a stifled and dull one certainly) of the very cracking and ripping sound which Sir Launcelot had so particularly described. It was, beyond doubt, the coincidence alone which had arrested my attention; for amid the rattling of the sashes of the casements, and, the ordinary commingled noises of the still-increasing storm, the sound, in itself, had nothing, surely, which should have interested or disturbed me. I continued the story.

* * * * * * * *

Here again I paused abruptly, and now with a feeling of wild amazement—for there could be no doubt whatever that, in this instance, I did actually hear (although from what direction it proceeded I found it impossible to say) a low and apparently distant, but harsh, protracted, and most unusual screaming or grating sound, the exact counterpart of what my fancy had already conjured up for the dragon's unnatural shriek, as described by the romancer. Oppressed, as I certainly was, upon the occurrence of this second and most extraordinary coincidence, by a thousand conflicting sensations, in which wonder and extreme terror were predominant, I still retained sufficient presence of mind to avoid exciting, by any observation, the sensitive nervousness of my companion. I was by no means certain that he had noticed the sounds in question; although, assuredly, a strange alteration had, during the last few minutes, taken place in his demeanor. From a position fronting my own he had gradually brought round his chair so as to sit with his face to the door of the chamber, and thus I could but partially perceive his features, although I saw that his lips trembled as if he were murmuring inaudibly. His head had dropped upon his breast; yet I knew that he was not asleep, from the wide and rigid opening of the eye as I caught a glance of it in profile. The motion of his body, too, was at variance with this idea; for he rocked from side to side with a gentle yet constant and uniform sway. Having rapidly taken notice of all this I resumed the narrative of Sir Launcelot.

* * * * * * * *

No sooner had these syllables passed my lips than—as if a shield of brass had indeed, at the moment, fallen heavily upon a floor of silver—I became aware of a distinct, hollow, metallic, and clangorous, yet apparently muffled, reverberation. Completely unnerved, I leaped to my feet; but the measured, rocking movement of Usher was undisturbed. I rushed to the chair in which he sat. His eyes were bent fixedly before him, and throughout his whole countenance there reigned a stony rigidity. But as I placed my hand upon his shoulder there came a strong shudder over his whole person; a sickly smile quivered about his lips; and I saw that he spoke in a low, hurried, and gibbering manner, as if unconscious of my presence. Bending closely over him, I at length drank in the hideous import of his words.

"Not hear it? Yes, I hear it, and have heard it. Long—long—long—many minutes, many hours, many days have I heard it—yet I dared not—O, pity me, miserable wretch that I am!—I dared not—I dared not speak! We have put her living in the tomb! Said I not that my senses were acute? I now tell you that I heard her first feeble movements in the hollow coffin. I heard them many, many days ago—yet I dared not—I dared not speak! And now—to-night—Ethelred—ha! ha!—the breaking of the hermit's door, and the death-cry of the dragon, and the clangor of the shield!—say, rather, the rending of her coffin, and the grating of the iron hinges of her prison, and her struggles within the coppered archway of the vault! O, whither shall I fly? Will she not be here anon? Is she not hurrying to upbraid me for my haste? Have I not heard her footstep on the stair? Do I not distinguish that heavy and horrible beating of her heart? Madman!"—here he sprang furiously to his feet and shrieked out his syllables, as if in the effort he were giving up his soul—"Madman! I tell you that she now stands without the door!"

As if in the superhuman energy of his utterance there had been found the potency of a spell, the huge antique panels to which the speaker pointed threw slowly back, upon the instant, their ponderous and ebony jaws. It was the work of the rushing gust; but then without those doors there did stand the lofty and enshrouded figure of the Lady Madeline of Usher. There was blood upon her white robes, and the evidence of some bitter struggle upon every portion of her emaciated frame. For a moment she remained trembling and reeling to and fro upon the threshold—then, with a low, moaning cry, fell heavily inward upon the person of her brother, and, in her violent and now final death-agonies, bore him to the floor a corpse and a victim to the terrors he had anticipated.

From that chamber and from that mansion I fled aghast. The storm was still abroad in all its wrath as I found myself crossing the old causeway. Suddenly there shot along the path a wild light, and I turned to see whence a gleam so unusual could have issued, for the vast house and its shadows were alone behind me. The radiance was that; of the full, setting, and blood-red moon, which now shone vividly through that once barely discernible fissure of which I have before spoken as extending from the roof of the building, in a zigzag direction, to the base. While I gazed this fissure rapidly widened; there came a fierce breath of the whirlwind—the entire orb of the satellite burst at once upon my sight—my brain reeled as I saw the mighty walls rushing asunder—there was a long, tumultuous, shouting sound like the voice of a thousand waters—and the deep and dark tarn at my feet closed sullenly and silently over the fragments of the House of Usher.



The shadows lay along Broadway, 'Twas near the twilight tide— And slowly there a lady fair Was walking in her pride. Alone walked she; but, viewlessly, Walked spirits at her side.

Peace charmed the street beneath her feet, And Honor charmed the air; And all astir looked kind on her, And called her good as fair— For all God ever gave to her She kept with chary care.

She kept with care her beauties rare From lovers warm and true; For her heart was cold to all but gold, And the rich came not to woo, But honored well are charms to sell, If priests the selling do.

Now walking there was one more fair— A slight girl, lily-pale; And she had unseen company To make the spirit quail— 'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn, And nothing could avail.

No mercy now can clear her brow For this world's peace to pray; For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, Her woman's heart gave way! But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven By man is cursed alway.


Here we are, then, in the "Swallow's Cave." The floor descends by a gentle declivity to the sea, and from the long dark cleft stretching outward you look forth upon the Atlantic—the shore of Ireland the first terra firma in the path of your eye. Here is a dark pool, left by the retreating tide for a refrigerator; and with the champagne in the midst we will recline about it like the soft Asiatics of whom we learned pleasure in the East, and drink to the small-featured and purple-lipped "Mignons" of Syria—those fine-limbed and fiery slaves adorable as peris, and by turns languishing and stormy, whom you buy for a pinch of piastres (say 5L 5s.) in sunny Damascus. Your drowsy Circassian, faint and dreamy, or your crockery Georgian—fit dolls for the sensual Turk—is, to him who would buy soul, dear at a penny the hecatomb.

We recline, as it were, in an ebon pyramid with a hundred feet of floor and sixty of wall, and the fourth side open to the sky. The light comes in mellow and dim, and the sharp edges of the rocky portal seem let into the pearly heaven. The tide is at half-ebb, and the advancing and retreating waves, which at first just lifted the fringe of crimson dulse at the lip of the cavern, now dash their spray-pearls on the rock below, the "tenth" surge alone rallying as if in scorn of its retreating fellow, and, like the chieftain of Culloden Moor, rushing back singly to the contest. And now that the waters reach the entrance no more, come forward and look on the sea! The swell lifts! Would you not think the bases of the earth rising beneath it? It falls! Would you not think the foundation of the deep had given way? A plain, broad enough for the navies of the world to ride at large, heaves up evenly and steadily as if it would lie against the sky, rests a moment spell-bound in its place, and falls again as far—the respiration of a sleeping child not more regular and full of slumber. It is only on the shore that it chafes. Blessed emblem! it is at peace with itself! The rocks war with a nature so unlike their own, and the hoarse din of their border onsets resounds through the caverns they have rent open; but beyond, in the calm bosom of the ocean, what heavenly dignity! what godlike unconsciousness of alarm! I did not think we should stumble on such a moral in the cave!

By the deeper bass of its hoarse organ the sea is now playing upon its lowest stops, and the tide is down. Hear how it rushes in beneath the rocks, broken and stilled in its tortuous way, till it ends with a washing and dull hiss among the sea-weed, and, like a myriad of small tinkling bells, the dripping from the crags is audible. There is fine music in the sea!

And now the beach is bare. The cave begins to cool and darken, and the first gold tint of sunset is stealing into the sky, and the sea looks of a changing opal, green, purple, and white, as if its floor were paved with pearl, and the changing light struck up through the waters. And there heaves a ship into the horizon like a white-winged bird, lying with dark breast on the waves, abandoned of the sea-breeze within sight of port, and repelled even by the spicy breath that comes with a welcome off the shore. She comes from "Merry England." She is freighted with more than merchandise. The home-sick exile will gaze on her snowy sail as she sets in with the morning breeze, and bless it, for the wind that first filled it on its way swept through the green valley of his home! What links of human affection brings she over the sea? How much comes in her that is not in her "bill of lading," yet worth to the heart that is waiting for it a thousand times the purchase of her whole venture!

Mais montons nous! I hear the small hoofs of Thalaba; my stanhope waits; we will leave this half bottle of champagne, that "remainder biscuit," and the echoes of our philosophy to the Naiads who have lent us their drawing-room. Undine, or Egeria! Lurly, or Arethusa! whatever thou art called, nymph of this shadowy cave! adieu!

Slowly, Thalaba! Tread gingerly down this rocky descent! So! Here we are on the floor of the vasty deep! What a glorious race-course! The polished and printless sand spreads away before you as far as the eye can see, the surf comes in below breast-high ere it breaks and the white fringe of the sliding wave shoots up the beach, but leaves room for the marching of a Persian phalanx on the sands it has deserted. O, how noiselessly runs the wheel, and how dreamily we glide along, feeling our motion but in the resistance of the wind and in the trout-like pull of the ribands by the excited animal before us. Mark the color of the sand! White at high-water mark, and thence deepening to a silvery gray as the water has evaporated less, a slab of Egyptian granite in the obelisk of St. Peter's not more polished and unimpressible. Shell or rock, weed or quicksand, there is none; and, mar or deface its bright surface as you will, it is ever beaten down anew, and washed even of the dust of the foot of man by the returning sea. You may write upon its fine-grained face with a crow-quill—you may course over its dazzling expanse with a troop of chariots.

Most wondrous and beautiful of all, within twenty yards of the surf, or for an hour after the tide has left the sand, it holds the water without losing its firmness, and is like a gay mirror, bright as the bosom of the sea. (By your leave, Thalaba!) And now lean over the dasher and see those small fetlocks striking up from beneath—the flying mane, the thoroughbred action, the small and expressive head, as perfect in the reflection as in the reality; like Wordsworth's swan, he

"Trots double, horse and shadow."

You would swear you were skimming the surface of the sea; and the delusion is more complete as the white foam of the "tenth wave" skims in beneath wheel and hoof, and you urge on with the treacherous element gliding away visibly beneath you.



[From Excursions.]

There is a slumbering subterranean fire in nature which never goes out, and which no cold can chill. It finally melts the great snow, and in January or July is only buried under a thicker or thinner covering. In the coldest day it flows somewhere, and the snow melts around every tree. This field of winter rye which sprouted late in the fall and now speedily dissolves the snow is where the fire is very thinly covered. We feel warmed by it. In the winter warmth stands for all virtue, and we resort in thought to a trickling rill, with its bare stones shining in the sun, and to warm springs in the woods, with as much eagerness as rabbits and robins. The steam which rises from swamps and pools is as dear and domestic as that of our own kettle. What fire could ever equal the sunshine of a winter's day, when the meadow-mice come out by the wall-sides, and the chickadee lisps in the defiles of the wood? The warmth comes directly from the sun, and is not radiated from the earth as in summer; and when we feel his beams on our backs as we are treading some snowy dell we are grateful as for a special kindness, and bless the sun which has followed us into that by-place.

This subterranean fire has its altar in each man's breast, for in the coldest day, and on the bleakest hill, the traveler cherishes a warmer fire within the folds of his cloak than is kindled on any hearth. A healthy man, indeed, is the complement of the seasons, and in winter summer is in his heart. There is the South. Thither have all birds and insects migrated, and around the warm springs in his breast are gathered the robin and the lark.

At length, having reached the edge of the woods and shut out the gadding town, we enter within their covert as we go under the roof of a cottage, and cross its threshold, all ceiled and banked up with snow. They are glad and warm still, and as genial and cheery in winter as in summer. As we stand in the midst of the pines, in the flickering and checkered light which straggles but little way into their maze, we wonder if the towns have ever heard their simple story. It seems to us that no traveler has ever explored them, and notwithstanding the wonders which science is elsewhere revealing every day, who would not like to hear their annals? Our humble villages in the plain are their contribution. We borrow from the forest the boards which shelter and the sticks which warm us. How important is their evergreen to the winter, that portion of the summer which does not fade, the permanent year, the unwithered grass. Thus simply and with little expense of altitude is the surface of the earth diversified. What would human life be without forests, those natural cities? From the tops of mountains they appear like smooth-shaven lawns; yet whither shall we walk but in this taller grass?

In this glade covered with bushes of a year's growth see how the silvery dust lies on every seared leaf and twig, deposited in such infinite and luxurious forms as by their very variety atone for the absence of color. Observe the tiny tracks of mice around every stem, and the triangular tracks of the rabbit. A pure elastic heaven hangs over all, as if the impurities of the summer sky, refined and shrunk by the chaste winter's cold, had been winnowed by the heavens upon the earth.

Mature confounds her summer distinctions at this season. The heavens seem to be nearer the earth. The elements are less reserved and distinct. Water turns to ice; rain to snow. The day is but a Scandinavian night. The winter is an arctic summer.

How much more living is the life that is in nature, the furred life which still survives the stinging nights, and, from amidst fields and woods covered with frost and snow, sees the sun rise!

"The foodless wilds Pour forth their brown inhabitants."

The gray squirrel and rabbit are brisk and playful in the remote glens, even on the morning of the cold Friday. Here is our Lapland and Labrador; and for our Esquimaux and Knistenaux, Dog-ribbed Indians, Novazemblaites, and Spitzbergeners, are there not the ice-cutter and wood-chopper, the fox, musk-rat, and mink?

Still, in the midst of the arctic day we may trace the summer to its retreats and sympathize with some contemporary life. Stretched over the brooks, in the midst of the frost-bound meadows, we may observe the submarine cottages of the caddice-worms, the larvae of the Plicipennes. Their small cylindrical cases built around themselves, composed of flags, sticks, grass, and withered leaves, shells and pebbles, inform and color like the wrecks which strew the bottom, now drifting along over the pebbly bottom, now whirling in tiny eddies and dashing down steep falls, or sweeping rapidly along with the current, or else swaying to and fro at the end of some grass-blade or root. Anon they will leave their sunken habitations, and, crawling up the stems of plants or to the surface like gnats, as perfect insects henceforth, flutter over the surface of the water or sacrifice their short lives in the flame of our candle at evening. Down yonder little glen the shrubs are drooping under their burden, and the red alder-berries contrast with the white ground. Here are the marks of a myriad feet which have already been abroad. The sun rises as proudly over such a glen as over the valley of the Seine or Tiber, and it seems the residence of a pure and self-subsistent valor such as they never witnessed, which never knew defeat or fear. Here reign the simplicity and purity of a primitive age and a health and hope far remote from towns and cities. Standing quite alone, far in the forest, while the wind is shaking down snow from the trees, and leaving the only human tracks behind us, we find our reflections of a richer variety than the life of cities. The chickadee and nut-hatch are more inspiring society than statesmen and philosophers, and we shall return to these last as to more vulgar companions. In this lonely glen, with the brook draining the slopes, its creased ice and crystals of all hues, where the spruces and hemlocks stand up on either side, and the rush and sere wild oats in the rivulet itself, our lives are more serene and worthy to contemplate.

As the day advances, the heat of the sun is reflected by the hill-sides, and we hear a faint but sweet music where flows the rill released from its fetters, and the icicles are melting on the trees, and the nut-hatch and partridge are heard and seen. The south wind melts the snow at noon, and the bare ground appears with its withered grass and leaves, and we are invigorated by the perfume which exhales from it as by the scent of strong meats.

Let us go into this deserted woodman's hut, and see how he has passed the long winter nights and the short and stormy days. For here man has lived under this south hill-side, and it seems a civilized and public spot. We have such associations as when the traveler stands by the ruins of Palmyra or Hecatompolis. Singing birds and flowers perchance have begun to appear here, for flowers as well as weeds follow in the footsteps of man. These hemlocks whispered over his head, these hickory logs were his fuel, and these pitch-pine roots kindled his fire; yonder fuming rill in the hollow, whose thin and airy vapor still ascends as busily as ever, though he is far off now, was his well. These hemlock boughs, and the straw upon this raised platform, were his bed, and this broken dish held his drink. But he has not been here this season, for the phoebes built their nest upon this shelf last summer. I find some embers left, as if he had but just gone out, where he baked his pot of beans; and while at evening he smoked his pipe, whose stemless bowl lies in the ashes, chatted with his only companion, if perchance he had any, about the depth of the snow on the morrow, already falling fast and thick without, or disputed whether the last sound was the screech of an owl or the creak of a bough, or imagination only; and through this broad chimney-throat, in the late winter evening, ere he stretched himself upon the straw, he looked up to learn the progress of the storm, and, seeing the bright stars of Cassiopeia's chair shining brightly down upon him, fell contentedly asleep.

See how many traces from which we may learn the chopper's history. From this stump we may guess the sharpness of his ax, and from the slope of the stroke, on which side he stood, and whether he cut down the tree without going round it or changing hands; and from the flexure of the splinters, we may know which way it fell. This one chip contains inscribed on it the whole history of the wood-chopper and of the world. On this scrap of paper, which held his sugar or salt perchance, or was the wadding of his gun, sitting on a log in the forest, with what interest we read the tattle of cities, of those larger huts, empty and to let, like this, in High Streets and Broadways.



[From Leaves of Grass.]

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, Every inch of space is a miracle, Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same, Every cubic foot of the interior swarms with the same.

* * * * * * * *

To me the sea is a continual miracle, The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—the ships with men in them, What stranger miracles are there?

* * * * * * * *

I was thinking the day most splendid, till I saw what the not-day exhibited; I was thinking this globe enough, till there tumbled upon me myriads of other globes; O, how plainly I see now that this life cannot exhibit all to me—as the day cannot; O, I see that I am to wait for what will be exhibited by death.

* * * * * * * *

O Death! O, the beautiful touch of Death, soothing and benumbing a few moments, for reasons.

* * * * * * * *

The earth never tires, The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first— Nature is rude and incomprehensible at first; Be not discouraged—keep on—there are divine things, well enveloped; I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell.


O captain! my captain! our fearful trip is done; The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won; The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring: But O heart! heart! heart! Leave you not the little spot Where on the deck my captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

O captain! my captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills; For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding; For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; O captain! dear father! This arm I push beneath you; It is some dream that on the deck You've fallen cold and dead.

My captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; But the ship, the ship is anchored safe, its voyage closed and done; From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! But I, with silent tread, Walk the spot my captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.



Zekle crep' up, quite unbeknown, An' peeked in thru the winder, An' there sot Huldy all alone, 'ith no one nigh to hender.

Agin the chimbly crooknecks hung, An' in amongst 'em rusted The ole queen's arm thet Gran'ther Young Fetched back from Concord busted.

The wannut logs shot sparkles out Toward the pootiest, bless her! An' leetle fires danced all about The chiny on the dresser.

The very room, coz she wuz in, Looked warm from floor to ceilin', An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez th' apples she wuz peelin'.

She heerd a foot an' knowed it, tu, A-raspin' on the scraper; All ways to once her feelin's new Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, Some doubtfle o' the seekle; His heart kep' goin' pitypat, But hern went pity Zekle.


[From Biglow Papers.]

I du believe in Freedom's cause, Ez fur away as Paris is; I love to see her stick her claws In them infarnal Pharisees; It's wal enough agin a king To dror resolves an' triggers— But libbaty's a kind o' thing Thet don't agree with niggers.

I du believe the people want A tax on teas an' coffees, Thet nothin' aint extravygunt, Pervidin' I'm in office; Fer I hev loved my country sence My eye-teeth filled their sockets, An' Uncle Sam I reverence— Partic'larly his pockets.

I du believe in any plan O' levyin' the taxes, Ez long ez, like a lumberman, I git jest wut I axes; I go free-trade thru thick an' thin, Because it kind o' rouses The folks to vote—an' keeps us in Our quiet custom-houses.

* * * * * * * *

I du believe with all my soul In the gret Press's freedom, To pint the people to the goal An' in the traces lead 'em; Palsied the arm thet forges jokes At my fat contracts squintin', An' withered be the nose that pokes Inter the gov'ment printin'!

I du believe thet I should give Wut's his'n unto Caesar, Fer it's by him I move an' live, Frum him my bread and cheese air; I du believe thet all o' me Doth bear his souperscription,— Will, conscience, honor, honesty, An' things o' thet description.

I du believe in prayer an' praise To him thet hez the grantin' O' jobs,—in every thin' that pays, But most of all in CANTIN'; This doth my cup with marcies fill, This lays all thought o' sin to rest,— I don't believe in princerple, But, O, I du in interest.

I du believe in bein' this Or thet, ez it may happen One way or t'other hendiest is To ketch the people nappin'; It aint by princerples nor men My preudent course is steadied,— I scent wich pays the best; an' then Go into it baldheaded.

I du believe thet holdin' slaves Comes nat'ral tu a Presidunt, Let 'lone the rowdedow it saves To hev a wal-broke precedunt; Fer any office, small or gret, I couldn't ax with no face, Without I'd ben, thru dry an' wet, Th' unrizzost kind o' doughface.

I du believe wutever trash 'll keep the people in blindness,— Thet we the Mexicuns can thrash Right inter brotherly kindness; Thet bombshells, grape, an' powder 'n' ball Air good-will's strongest magnets; Thet peace, to make it stick at all, Must be druv in with bagnets.

In short, I firmly du believe In Humbug generally, Fer it's a thing that I perceive To hev a solid vally; This heth my faithful shepherd ben, In pasturs sweet heth led me, An' this 'll keep the people green To feed ez they hev fed me.


[From The Man Without a Country.[1]]

The rule adopted on board the ships on which I have met "the man without a country" was, I think, transmitted from the beginning. No mess liked to have him permanently, because his presence cut off all talk of home or of the prospect of return, of politics or letters, of peace or of war—cut off more than half the talk men liked to have at sea. But it was always thought too hard that he should never meet the rest of us except to touch hats, and we finally sank into one system. He was not permitted to talk with the men unless an officer was by. With officers he had unrestrained intercourse, as far as he and they chose. But he grew shy, though he had favorites; I was one. Then the captain always asked him to dinner on Monday. Every mess in succession took up the invitation in its turn. According to the size of the ship, you had him at your mess more or less often at dinner. His breakfast he ate in his own state-room—he always had a state-room—which was where a sentinel or somebody on the watch could see the door. And whatever else he ate or drank, he ate or drank alone. Sometimes, when the marines or sailors had any special jollification, they were permitted to invite "Plain-Buttons," as they called him. Then Nolan was sent with some officer, and the men were forbidden to speak of home while he was there. I believe the theory was that the sight of his punishment did them good. They called him "Plain-Buttons" because, while he always chose to wear a regulation army uniform, he was not permitted to wear the army button, for the reason that it bore either the initials or the insignia of the country he had disowned.

I remember soon after I joined the navy I was on shore with some of the older officers from our ship and from the Brandywine, which we had met at Alexandria. We had leave to make a party and go up to Cairo and the Pyramids. As we jogged along (you went on donkeys then), some of the gentlemen (we boys called them "Dons," but the phrase was long since changed) fell to talking about Nolan, and some one told the system which was adopted from the first about his books and other reading. As he was almost never permitted to go on shore, even though the vessel lay in port for months, his time at the best hung heavy; and every body was permitted to lend him books, if they were not published in America, and made no allusion to it. These were common enough in the old days, when people in the other hemisphere talked of the United States as little as we do of Paraguay. He had almost all the foreign papers that came into the ship, sooner or later; only somebody must go over them first, and cut out any advertisement or stray paragraph that alluded to America. This was a little cruel sometimes, when the back of what was cut might be as innocent as Hesiod. Right in the midst of one of Napoleon's battles, or one of Canning's speeches, poor Nolan would find a great hole, because on the back of the page of that paper there had been an advertisement of a packet for New York, or a scrap from the President's message. I say this was the first time I ever heard of this plan, which afterward I had enough and more than enough to do with. I remember it, because poor Phillips, who was of the party, as soon as the allusion to reading was made, told a story of something which happened at the Cape of Good Hope on Nolan's first voyage; and it is the only thing I ever knew of that voyage. They had touched at the Cape, and had done the civil thing with the English admiral and the fleet, and then, leaving for a long cruise up the Indian Ocean, Phillips had borrowed a lot of English books from an officer, which, in those days, as indeed in these, was quite a windfall. Among them, as the devil would order, was the Lay of the Last Minstrel, which they had all of them heard of, but which most of them had never seen. I think it could not have been published long. Well, nobody thought there could be any risk of any thing national in that, though Phillips swore old Shaw had cut out the "Tempest" from Shakespeare before he let Nolan have it, because he said "the Bermudas ought to be ours, and, by Jove, should be one day." So Nolan was permitted to join the circle one afternoon when a lot of them sat on deck smoking and reading aloud. People do not do such things so often now; but when I was young we got rid of a great deal of time so. Well, so it happened that in his turn Nolan took the book and read to the others; and he read very well, as I know. Nobody in the circle knew a line of the poem, only it was all magic and border chivalry, and was ten thousand years ago. Poor Nolan read steadily through the fifth canto, stopped a minute and drank something, and then began without a thought of what was coming:

"Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said"—

It seemed impossible to us that any body ever heard this for the first time; but all these fellows did then, and poor Nolan himself went on, still unconsciously or mechanically:

"This is my own, my native land!"

Then they all saw something was to pay; but he expected to get through, I suppose, turned a little pale, but plunged on:

"Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned From wandering on a foreign strand?— If such there breathe, go, mark him well."

By this time the men were all beside themselves, wishing there was any way to make him turn over two pages; but he had not quite presence of mind for that; he gagged a little, colored crimson, and staggered on:

"For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, Despite these titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentered all in self;"—

and here the poor fellow choked, could not go on, but started up, swung the book into the sea, vanished into his state-room. "And by Jove," said Phillips, "we did not see him for two months again. And I had to make up some beggarly story to that English surgeon why I did not return his Walter Scott to him."

[1]See page 195.


[From Marco Bozzaris.]

Come to the bridal-chamber, Death! Come to the mother's when she feels For the first time her first-born's breath; Come when the blessed seals That close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke; Come in consumption's ghastly form, The earthquake shock, the ocean-storm; Come when the heart beats high and warm, With banquet-song, and dance, and wine: And thou art terrible—the tear, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier; And all we know, or dream, or fear Of agony, are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word; And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be. Come, when his task of fame is wrought— Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought— Come in her crowning hour—and then Thy sunken eye's unearthly light To him is welcome as the sight Of sky and stars to prisoned men; Thy grasp is welcome as the hand Of brother in a foreign land; Thy summons welcome as the cry That told the Indian isles were nigh To the world-seeking Genoese, When the land-wind, from woods of palm, And orange-groves, and fields of balm, Blew o'er the Haytian seas.

Bozzaris! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee—there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime. She wore no funeral weeds for thee, Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, The heartless luxury of the tomb; But she remembers thee as one Long loved, and for a season gone; For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought, her music breathed; For thee she rings the birthday bells; Of thee her babes' first lisping tells; For thine her evening prayer is said, At palace couch and cottage bed; Her soldier, closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; His plighted maiden, when she fears For him, the joy of her young years, Thinks of thy fate and checks her tears. And she, the mother of thy boys, Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief she will not speak, The memory of her buried joys, And even she who gave thee birth, Will by their pilgrim-circled hearth Talk of thy doom without a sigh: For thou art Freedom's now and Fame's, One of the few, the immortal names, That were not born to die.


Green be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days! None knew thee but to love thee, Nor named thee but to praise.

Tears fell, when thou wert dying, From eyes unused to weep, And long where thou art lying Will tears the cold turf steep.

When hearts, whose truth was proven Like thine, are laid in earth, There should a wreath be woven To tell the world their worth;

And I, who woke each morrow To clasp thy hand in mine, Who shared thy joy and sorrow, Whose weal and woe were thine—

It should be mine to braid it Around thy faded brow; But I've in vain essayed it, And feel I cannot now.

While memory bids me weep thee, Nor thoughts nor words are free, The grief is fixed too deeply That mourns a man like thee.


[From Lecture on the Mormons.]

Brother Kimball is a gay and festive cuss, of some seventy summers, or some'er's there about. He has one thousand head of cattle and a hundred head of wives. He says they are awful eaters.

Mr. Kimball had a son, a lovely young man, who was married to ten interesting wives. But one day while he was absent from home these ten wives went out walking with a handsome young man, which so enraged Mr. Kimball's son—which made Mr. Kimball'a son so jealous—that he shot himself with a horse-pistol.

The doctor who attended him—a very scientific man—informed me that the bullet entered the parallelogram of his diaphragmatic thorax, superinducing hemorrhage in the outer cuticle of his basilicon thaumaturgist. It killed him. I should have thought it would.

(Soft Music.)

I hope this sad end will be a warning to all young wives who go out walking with handsome young men. Mr. Kimball's son is now no more. He sleeps beneath the cypress, the myrtle, and the willow. The music is a dirge by the eminent pianist for Mr. Kimball's son. He died by request.

I regret to say that efforts were made to make a Mormon of me while I was in Utah.

It was leap-year when I was there, and seventeen young widows, the wives of a deceased Mormon, offered me their hearts and hands. I called on them one day, and, taking their soft white hands in mine, which made eighteen hands altogether, I found them in tears, and I said, "Why is this thus? What is the reason of this thusness?"

They hove a sigh—seventeen sighs of different size. They said:

"O, soon thou wilt be gonested away!"

I told them that when I got ready to leave a place I wentested.

They said, "Doth not like us?"

I said, "I doth—I doth."

I also said, "I hope your intentions are honorable, as I am a lone child, my parents being far—far away."

Then they said, "Wilt not marry us?"

I said, "O, no, it cannot was!"

Again they asked me to marry them, and again I declined, when they cried,

"O, cruel man! this is too much! O, too much!"

I told them that it was on account of the muchness that I declined. . . .

(Pointing to Panorama)

A more cheerful view of the desert.

The wild snow-storms have left us and we have thrown our wolf-skin overcoats aside. Certain tribes of far-western Indians bury their distinguished dead by placing them high in air and covering them with valuable furs. That is a very fair representation of those mid-air tombs. Those animals are horses. I know they are, because my artist says so. I had the picture two years before I discovered the fact. The artist came to me about six months ago and said, "It is useless to disguise it from you any longer, they are horses."

It was while crossing this desert that I was surrounded by a band of Ute Indians. They were splendidly mounted. They were dressed in beaver-skins, and they were armed with rifles, knives, and pistols.

What could I do? What could a poor old orphan do? I'm a brave man. The day before the battle of Bull's Run I stood in the highway while the bullets—those dreadful messengers of death—were passing all around me thickly—in wagons—on their way to the battle-field. But there were too many of these Injuns. There were forty of them, and only one of me, and so I said:

"Great chief, I surrender."

His name was Wocky-bocky. He dismounted and approached me. I saw his tomahawk glisten in the morning sunlight. Fire was in his eye. Wocky-bocky came very close

(Pointing to Panorama)

to me and seized me by the hair of my head. He mingled his swarthy fingers with my golden tresses, and he rubbed his dreadful tomahawk across my lily-white face. He said:

"Torsha arrah darrah mishky bookshean!"

I told him he was right.

Wocky-bocky again rubbed his tomahawk across my face, and said:


Says I, "Mr. Wocky-bocky," says I, "Wocky, I have thought so for years, and so's all our family."

He told me I must go to the tent of the Strong Heart and eat raw dog. It don't agree with mo. I prefer simple food. I prefer pork-pie, because then I know what I'm eating. But as raw dog was all they proposed to give to me I had to eat it or starve. So at the expiration of two days I seized a tin plate and went to the chief's daughter, and I said to her in a silvery voice—in a kind of German-silvery voice—I said:

"Sweet child of the forest, the pale-face wants his dog."

There was nothing but his paws. I had paused too long—which reminds me that time passes—a way which time has. I was told in my youth to seize opportunity. I once tried to seize one. He was rich; he had diamonds on. As I seized him he knocked me down. Since then I have learned that he who seizes opportunity sees the penitentiary.



"Well, there was a feller here once by the name of Jim Smiley in the winter of '49, or may be it was the spring of '50—I don't recollect exactly, somehow, though what makes me think it was one or the other is because I remember the big flume warn't finished when he first come to the camp. But any way, he was the curiousest man about, always betting on anything that turned up you ever see, if he could get any body to bet on the other side; and if he couldn't he'd change sides. Any way that suited the other side would suit him—any way just so's he got a bet he was satisfied. But still he was lucky, uncommon lucky; he most always came out winner. He was always ready and laying for a chance. There couldn't be no solit'ry thing mentioned but that feller'd offer to bet on it and take any side you please, as I was just telling you. If there was a horse-race you'd find him flush or you'd find him busted at the end of it. If there was a dog-fight, he'd bet on it; if there was a cat-fight, he'd bet on it; if there was a chicken-fight, he'd bet on it. Why, if there was two birds setting on a fence, he would bet you which one would fly first. Or if there was a camp-meeting, he would be there reg'lar to bet on Parson Walker, which he judged to be the best exhorter about here, and so he was, too, and a good man. If he even see a straddle-bug start to go anywheres he would bet you how long it would take him to get to—to wherever he was going to; and if you took him up he would follow that straddle-bug to Mexico but what he would find out where he was bound for and how long he was on the road. Lots of the boys here has seen that Smiley, and can tell you about him. Why, it never made no difference to him, he'd bet any thing—the dangdest feller. Parson Walker's wife laid very sick once for a good while, and it seemed as if they warn't going to save her; but one morning he come in and Smiley up and asked him how she was, and he said she was consid'able better—thank the Lord for his inf'nit mercy!—and coming on so smart that, with the blessing of Providence, she'd get well yet; and Smiley, before he thought, says, 'Well, I'll resk two-and-a-half she don't, any way.'"

* * * * * * * *

"Well, this yer Smiley had rat-terriers, and chicken-cocks, and tom-cats, and all them kind of things till you couldn't rest, and you couldn't fetch nothing for him to bet on but he'd match you. He ketched a frog one day and look him home, and said he cal'lated to educate him, and so he never done nothing for three months but set in his back-yard and learn that frog to jump. And you bet you he did learn him, too. He'd give him a little punch behind, and the next minute you'd see that frog whirling in the air like a doughnut—see him turn one summerset, or may be a couple, if he got a good start, and come down flat-footed and all right, like a cat. He got him up so in the matter of ketching flies, and kep' him in practice so constant, that he'd nail a fly every time as fur as he could see him. Smiley said all a frog wanted was education and he could do 'most any thing, and I believe him. Why, I've seen him set Dan'l Webster down here on this floor—Dan'l Webster was the name of the frog—and sing out, 'Flies, Dan'l, flies!' and quicker'n you could wink he'd spring straight up and snake a fly off'n the counter there and flop down on the floor ag'in as solid as a gob of mud, and fall to scratching the side of his head with his hind foot as indifferent as if he hadn't no idea he'd been doin' any more'n any frog might do. You never see a frog so modest and straightfor'ard as he was, for all he was so gifted. And when it come to fair and square jumping on a dead level he could get over more ground at one straddle than any animal of his breed you ever see. Jumping on a dead level was his strong suit, you understand, and when it come to that, Smiley would ante up money on him, as long as he had a red. Smiley was monstrous proud of his frog, and well he might be, for fellers that had traveled and been every-wheres all said he laid over any frog that ever they see.

"Well, Smiley kep' the beast in a little lattice-box, and he used to fetch him down-town sometimes and lay for a bet. One day a feller—a stranger in the camp he was—come acrost him with his box and says:

"'What might it be that you've got in the box?'

"And Smiley says, sorter indifferent like, 'It might be a parrot, or it might be a canary, may be, but it ain't—it's only just a frog.'

"And the feller took it, and looked at it careful, and turned it round this way and that, and says, 'H'm—so 'tis. Well, what's he good for?'

"'Well,' Smiley says, easy and careless, 'he's good enough for one thing, I should judge—he can outjump any frog in Calaveras County.'

"The feller took the box again and took another long, particular look and give it back to Smiley, and says, very deliberate; 'Well,' he says, 'I don't see no p'ints about that frog that's any better'n any other frog.'

"'May be you don't,' Smiley says. 'May be you understand frogs, and may be you don't understand 'em; may be you've had experience, and may be you aint only a amature, as it were. Anyways, I've got my opinion, and I'll resk forty dollars that he can outjump any frog in Calaveras County.'

"And the feller studied a minute, and then says, kinder sad like,

"'Well, I'm only a stranger-here, and I aint got no frog; but if I had a frog I'd bet you!'

"And then Smiley says, 'That's all right—that's all right; if you'll hold my box a minute I'll go and get you a frog.' And so the feller took the box, and put up his forty dollars along with Smiley's, and set down to wait.

"So he set there a good while, thinking and thinking to hisself; and then he got the frog out and pried his mouth open, and took a teaspoon and filled him full of quail-shot—filled him pretty near up to his chin—and set him on the floor. Smiley, he went to the swamp and slopped around in the mud for a long time, and finally he ketched a frog, and fetched him in, and give him to this feller, and says, 'Now, if you're ready, set him along-side of Dan'l, with his forepaws just even with Dan'l, and I'll give the word.' Then he says, 'One—two—three—git!' and him and the feller touched up the frogs from behind, and the new frog hopped off lively, but Dan'l give a heave, and hysted up his shoulders—so—like a Frenchman, but it warn't no use—he couldn't budge; he was planted as solid as a church, and wouldn't no more stir than if he was anchored out. Smiley was a good deal surprised, and he was disgusted too, but he didn't have no idea what the matter was, of course.

"The feller took the money and started away; but when he was going out at the door he sorter jerked his thumb over his shoulder—so—at Dan'l, and says again, very deliberate, 'Well,' he says, 'I don't see no p'ints about that frog that's any better'n any other frog.'

"Smiley, he stood scratching his head and looking down at Dan'l a long time; and at last he says, 'I do wonder what in the nation that frog throwed off for. I wonder if there aint something the matter with him—he 'pears to look mighty baggy, somehow.' And he ketched Dan'l by the nap of the neck, and hefted him, and says, 'Why, blame my cats if he don't weigh five pound!' and turned him upside down, and he belched out a double handful of shot. And then he see how it was, and he was the maddest man. He set the frog down and took out after the feller, but he never ketched him."


An Index to the American Authors and Writings and the Principal American Periodicals mentioned in this Volume.

Abraham Lincoln, 143. Adams and Liberty, 60. Adams, John, 49. Adams, J. Q., 72, 85. Adams, Samuel, 43, 44. After-Dinner Poem, 135. After the Funeral, 142. Age of Reason, The, 51-53, 60. Ages, The, 153. Alcott, A. B., 93, 104. Aldrich, T. B., 170, 197. Algerine Captive, The, 63. Algic Researches, 130. Alhambra, The, 74. All Quiet Along the Potomac, 184. Alnwick Castle, 81. Alsop, Richard, 55, 56. American, The, 206. American Civil War, The, 182. American Conflict, The, 182. American Flag, The, 80. American Note-Books, 95, 114, 116, 119, 128. American Scholar, The, 93, 104, 123. Ames, Fisher, 50, 51. Among My Books, 143. Anabel Lee, 165. Anarchiad, The, 55. Army Life in a Black Regiment, 186. Army of the Potomac, The, 183. Art of Book-Making, The, 77. "Artemus Ward," 188, 189-193, 194. Arthur Mervyn, 63, 65. At Teague Poteet's, 203. Atlantic Monthly, The, 136, 143, 150, 151, 185, 186, 195, 197, 208. Atlantis, 169. Auf Wiedersehen, 142. Autobiography, Franklin's, 28, 38, 39, 40, 73. Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, The, 132, 136, 137. Autumn, 125.

Backwoodsman, The, 72. Ballad of the Oysterman, 133. Ballads and Other Poems, 126. Bancroft, George, 123, 138, 145, 146. Barbara Frietchie, 158. Barlow, Joel, 51, 52, 55-58. Battle Hymn of the Republic, 183. Battle of the Kegs, 59. Battlefield, The, 154. Bay Fight, The, 184. Bay Psalm Book, The, 21. Bedouin Song, 172. Beecher, H. W., 175, 176. Beecher, Lyman, 98, 175. Beers, Mrs. E. L., 184. Beleaguered City, The, 126, 129. Belfry of Bruges, The, 126, 127. Beverly, Robert, 17. Biglow Papers, The, 139-142, 159, 188. "Bill Nye," 193. Black Cat, The, 166. Black Fox of Salmon River, The, 157. Blair, James, 14. Blithedale Romance, The, 95, 118, 172, 209. Bloody Tenent of Persecution, The, 22, 23. Blue and the Gray, The, 184. Boker, G. H., 197. Bostonians, The, 209. Boys, The, 134. Bracebridge Hall, 75, 76, 187. Bradford's Journal, 21, 24, 25, 31, 33. Brahma, 105, 109. Brainard, J. G. C., 156, 157, 175. Brick Moon, The, 196. Bridal of Pennacook, The, 157, 159. Bridge, The, 129. Broken Heart, The, 77. Brown, C. B., 63-65. Browne, C. F. (See "Artemus Ward.") Brownell, H. H., 184, 185. Bryant, W. C., 68, 80, 124, 125, 133, 151-155, 162, 169. Buccaneer, The, 89. Building of the Ship, The, 127. Bundle of Letters, A, 206. Burnett, Mrs. F. H., 205. Bushnell, Horace, 99. Busy-Body, The, 38, 53, 74. Butler, W. A., 170. Byrd, Wm., 16, 17.

Cable, G. W., 203. Calhoun, J. C., 46, 86. Cambridge Thirty Years Ago, 123. Cape Cod, 111. Capture of Fugitive Slaves, 140. Cary, Alice, 173. Cary, Phoebe, 173. Cask of Amontillado, The, 166. Cassandra Southwick, 159. Cathedral, The, 144. Cecil Dreeme, 185. Century Magazine, The, 150, 183, 197. Chambered Nautilus, The, 135. Chance Acquaintance, A, 208. Channing, W. E., 73, 90-92, 93, 97-100, 106. Channing, W. E., Jr., 106, 110, 119. Channing, W. H., 106. Chapel of the Hermits, The, 158. Character of Milton, The, 91. Charleston, 184. Children of Adam, 177. Choate, Rufus, 89, 90. Christian Examiner, The, 91. Circular Letters, by Otis and Quincy, 44. City in the Sea, The, 162. Clara Howard, 63. Clari, 84. Clarke, J. F., 105, 106. Clay, Henry, 86. Clemens, S. L. (See "Mark Twain.") Columbiad, The, 56, 57. Common Sense, 51. Companions of Columbus, 74. Condensed Novels, 200. Conduct of Life, The, 107. Confederate States of America, The, 182. Conquest of Canaan, 57. Conquest of Granada, 73, 74, 78. Conquest of Mexico, 145. Conquest of Peru, 145. Conspiracy of Pontiac, The, 147. Constitution and the Union, The, 87. Constitution of the United States, The, 45, 85. Contentment, 85. Contrast, The, 63. Conversations on the Gospels, 104. Conversations on Some of the Old Poets, 143. Cooke, J. E., 169. Cooper, J. F., 61, 71, 73, 81-84, 89, 107, 130, 147, 168, 204. Coral Grove, The, 175. Cotton, John, 22, 23, 28, 29. Count Frontenac and New France, 147. Courtin', The, 141, 188. Courtship of Miles Standish, The, 26. Cow Chase, The, 59. Cranch, C.P., 95, 106. Crime against Kansas, The, 149 Crisis, The, 51. Croaker Papers, The, 81. Culprit Fay, The, 80. Curtis, G. W., 95, 197.

Daisy Miller, 206. Dana, C. A., 95, 106, 151. Dana, R. H., 68, 89. Danbury News Man, 59, 189. Dante, Longfellow's, 131. Davis, Jefferson, 182. Day is Done, The, 128. Day of Doom, The, 34. Death of the Flowers, The, 153, 154. Declaration of Independence, The, 45, 59, 85. Deerslayer, The, 83, 84. Democratic Vistas, 180. Derby, G. H., 190. Descent into the Maelstrom, 166. Deserted Road, The, 173. Dial, The, 93, 98, 105, 106. Dialogue Between Franklin and the Gout, 39. Diamond Lens, The, 186. Discourse of the Plantation of Virginia, A, 12. Dolph Heyliger, 75. Domain of Arnheim, The, 166. Dorchester Giant, The, 132. Drake, J. R., 80, 81, 89. Draper, J. W., 182. Dream Life, 175. Drifting, 173. Driving Home the Cows, 184. Drum Taps, 180. Dutchman's Fireside, The, 79. Dwight, J. S., 95, 100, 106. Dwight, Theodore, 55, 56. Dwight, Timothy, 55, 57, 58.

Early Spring in Massachusetts, 111. Echo, The, 56. Echo Club, The, 172. Edgar Huntley, 63, 65. Edith Linsey, 170. Edwards, Jonathan, 35-37, 58, 91, 97, 99. Eggleston, Edward, 202. Elevator, The, 63, 210. Eliot, John, 21, 23. Elsie Venner, 137. Emerson, Charles, 106. Emerson, R. W., 88, 93, 96-113, 119, 122, 123, 128, 129, 138, 151, 154, 160, 179. Endicott's Red Cross, 25, 118. English Note-Books, 119. English Traits, 103, 109. Ephemerae, 176. Epilogue to Cato, 60. Eternal Goodness, 158. Ethan Brand, 117. Europeans, The, 206, 207. Evangeline, 129, 130. Evening Wind, The, 153. Everett, Edward, 89, 90, 133, 138, 189. Excelsior, 127. Excursions, 111. Expediency of the Federal Constitution, 48. Eyes and Ears, 176.

F. Smith, 170. Fable for Critics, A, 105, 142, 144. Facts in the case of M. Valdemar, The, 164. Fall of the House of Usher, The, 166. Familists' Hymn, The, 25. Fanshawe, 116. Farewell Address, Washington's, 49. Faust, Taylor's, 172. Federalist, The, 48, 49. Ferdinand and Isabella, 123, 145. Final Judgment, The, 35. Finch, F. M., 184. Fire of Driftwood, The, 128. Fireside Travels, 123. Fitz Adam's Story, 141. Flint, Timothy, 72. Flood of Years, The, 155. Footpath, The, 142. Footsteps of Angels, 126. Foregone Conclusion, A, 207. Forest Hymn, 152. Fortune of the Republic, 107. Foster, S. C., 173, 174. France and England in North America, 147. Franklin, Ben., 28, 37, 40, 52, 53, 73, 74. Freedom of the Will, 35. French Poets and Novelists, 205. Freneau, Philip, 60-62. Fuller, Margaret, 93, 95, 99, 100, 105, 106, 109, 119, 131.

Galaxy Magazine, The, 197. Garrison, W. L., 26, 87, 147, 156, 157, 174. Garrison of Cape Ann, The, 32. Geography of the Mississippi Valley, 72. Georgia Spec, The, 63. Ghost Ball at Congress Hall, The, 170. Give Me the Old, 170. Godey's Lady's Book, 150, 160. Godfrey, Thomas, 63. Gold Bug, The, 163. Golden Legend, The, 130. Good News from Virginia, 18. Good Word for Winter, A, 143. Goodrich, S. G., 69, 72, 116. Graham's Magazine, 150, 160, 162, 164, 171. Grandfather's Chair, 32. Grandissimes, The, 203. Greeley, Horace, 95, 171, 182. Green River, 153. Greene, A. G., 85. Greenfleld Hill, 58. Guardian Angel, The, 137, 138.

Hail, Columbia! 59, 60, 80. Hale, E. E., 122, 164, 195, 196. Halleck, F. G., 80, 81, 89, 109. Halpine, C. G., 186. Hamilton, Alexander, 48, 49, 51, 87. Hannah Thurston, 172. Hans Breitmann Ballads, 202. Hans Pfaall, 163. Harbinger, The, 94, 95. Harper's Monthly Magazine, 150, 151, 197. Harris, J. C., 202. Harte, F. B., 193, 198-202. Hasty Pudding, 57. Haunted Palace, The, 165. Hawthorne, Julian, 118. Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 9, 18, 25, 32, 56, 63, 93, 95, 105, 106, 108, 114-120, 124, 128, 129, 137, 138, 150, 160, 166, 172, 182, 185, 187, 188, 204, 205, 209. Hay, John, 201, 202. Health, A, 85. Heathen Chinee, The, 200. Hedge, F. H., 95. Height of the Ridiculous, The, 132. Henry, Patrick, 43, 44, 48. Hiawatha, 61, 130. Higginson, T. W., 75, 95, 105, 186. His Level Best, 195. History of New England, Winthrop's, 24-27. History of Plymouth Plantation, Bradford's, 24, 25. History of the Dividing Line, 16, 17. History of the United Netherlands, 146. History of the United States, Bancroft's, 123, 146; Higginson's, 75. History of Virginia, Beverly's, 17; Smith's, 15; Stith's, 17. Hoffman, C. F., 170. Holland, J. G., 197. Holmes, O. W., 29, 85, 93, 94, 122, 123, 131-138, 141, 151, 153, 160, 183, 186, 187, 188. Home, Sweet Home, 84. Homesick in Heaven, 135. Hooker, Thomas, 28, 30, 31, 99. Hoosier Schoolmaster, The, 202. Hopkins, Lemuel, 55. Hopkinson, Francis, 59. Hopkinson, Joseph, 59. Horse-Shoe Robinson, 168. House of the Seven Gables, The, 115, 118. Howe, Mrs. J. W., 183. Howells, W. D., 63, 203-205, 207-210. Humphreys, David, 55, 56. Hymn at the Completion of Concord Monument, 110. Hymn of the Moravian Nuns, 125. Hymn to the Night, 126. Hymn to the North Star, 152. Hyperion, 131.

Ichabod, 158. If, Yes, and Perhaps, 195. Iliad, Bryant's, 155. Illustrious Providences, 29. In the Tennessee Mountains, 203. In the Twilight, 142. In War Time, 157. Independent, The, 176. Indian Bible, Eliot's, 21. Indian Burying-Ground, The, 61. Indian Student, The, 61. Indian Summer, 208, 209. Ingham Papers, 195. Inklings of Adventure, 169. Innocents Abroad, 193, 194. International Episode, An, 206, 207. Irving, Washington, 42, 53, 68, 71, 73-82, 89, 117, 138, 187, 188, 194, 206. Israfel, 162. Italian Journeys, 208. Italian Note-Books, 119.

James, Henry, 185, 203-210. Jane Talbot, 63. Jay, John, 48, 49. Jefferson, Thomas, 14, 45-48, 50, 52, 61. Jesuits in North America, The, 147. Jim, 201. Jim Bludso, 201. John Brown's Body, 59, 183. John Godfrey's Fortune, 172. "John Phoenix," 190. John Underhill, 25. Jonathan to John, 141. "Josh Billings," 193. Journey to the Land of Eden, A, 17. Judd, Sylvester, 144. Jumping Frog, The, 193. June, 153, 154. Justice and Expediency, 157.

Kansas and Nebraska Bill, The, 149. Katie, 184. Kennedy, J. P., 168. Key into the Language of America, A, 23. Key, F. S., 60. Kidd, the Pirate, 75. King's Missive, The, 159. Knickerbocker Magazine, The, 75, 79, 116, 147, 160. Knickerbocker's History of New York, 68, 73, 75, 76, 187.

Lady of the Aroostook, The, 207, 209. Lanier, Sidney, 202. La Salle and the Discovery of the Great West, 147. Last Leaf, The, 85, 133. Last of the Mohicans, The, 83, 84. Last of the Valerii, The, 205. Latest Form of Infidelity, The, 99. Laus Deo, 158. Leatherstocking Tales, 61, 83, 84. Leaves of Grass, 176, 177, 179. Lecture on the Mormons, 190-192. Legend of Brittany, 138. Legend of Sleepy Hollow, 75, 77. Legends of New England, 156, 157. Legends of the Province House, 118. Leland, C. G., 202. Letter on Whitewashing, 59. Letters and Social Aims, 107. Letters from Under a Bridge, 169, 170. Letters of a Traveler, 155. Liberator, The, 86, 147, 174. Life of Columbus, Irving's, 74, 78. Life of Goldsmith, 79. Life of John of Barneveld, 146. Life of Washington, Irving's, 78. Ligeia, 165. Light of Stars, The, 126. Lincoln, Abraham, 51, 133, 180, 186, 189. Lines on Leaving Europe, 170. Lippincott's Magazine, 197. Literary Recreations, 160. Literati of New York, 160. Little Breeches, 201. Livingston, William, 53. Locke, David R., 193. Longfellow, H. W., 18, 25, 26, 61, 115, 116, 123-131, 133, 138, 139, 141, 142, 151, 159, 160, 162, 167, 172, 179, 197. Lost Arts, 148. Lost Cause, The, 182. Lowell, J. R., 12, 93, 96, 104, 105, 107, 122, 123, 138-144, 151, 154, 159, 160, 172, 174, 183, 187, 188, 197. Luck of Roaring Camp, The, 199. Lunatic's Skate, The, 170. Lyrics of a Day, 184.

MacFingal, 54, 55, 59, 73. Madison, James, 48, 49, 61. Madonna of the Future, The, 205. Magnalia Christi Americana, 19, 28-34,73. Mahomet and his Successors, 78. Maine Woods, The, 111. "Major Jack Downing," 189. Man of the Crowd, The, 166. Man-of-War Bird, The, 179. Man Without a Country, The, 164, 195. Marble Faun, The, 115, 117, 118, 119. Marco Bozzaris, 81. Margaret, 144. "Mark Twain," 188, 189, 193, 194. Maryland, My Maryland, 183. Masque of the Gods, The, 171. Masque of the Red Death, 166. Mather, Cotton, 19, 20, 21, 23, 26, 28-34, 36, 73. Mather, Increase, 29, 31. Maud Muller, 158. May-Day, 107. Maypole of Merrymount, The, 25. Memoranda of the Civil War, 180. Memorial History of Boston, 159. Men Naturally God's Enemies, 35. Merry Mount, 145. Messenger, R. H., 170. Miggles, 200. "Miles O'Reilly," 186. Minister's Black Veil, The, 117. Minister's Wooing, The, 175. Mitchell, D. G., 175. Mocking Bird, The, 202. Modern Instance, A, 208, 209. Modern Learning, 59. Modest Request, A, 134. Money Diggers, The, 75. Montcalm and Wolfe, 147. Monterey, 170. Moore, C. C., 170. Moore, Frank, 183. Moral Argument Against Calvinism, The, 90. Morris, G. P., 170. Morton's Hope, 145. Mosses from an Old Manse, 114, 117. Motley, J. L., 123, 138, 145, 146. Mount Vernon, 56. "Mrs. Partington," 189. MS. Found In a Bottle, 168. Murder of Lovejoy, The, 123. Murders in the Rue Morgue, The, 163. Murfree, Mary N., 203. Music-Grinders, The, 133. My Aunt, 133. My Captain, 180. My Double and How He Undid Me, 196. My Garden Acquaintance, 143. My Lite is Like the Summer Rose, 85. My Old Kentucky Home, 173. My Search for the Captain, 186. My Study Windows, 143. My Wife and I, 175. Mystery of Gilgal, The, 201. Mystery of Marie Roget, The, 163.

Narrative of A. Gordon Pym, The, 166. Nathaniel Hawthorne and His Wife, 118. Nature, 93, 101, 103, 107. Naval History of the United States, 81. Nearer Home, 173. Negro Melodies, 173. Nelly was a Lady, 173. New England Tragedies, 25. New England Two Centuries Ago, 141, 143. New System of English Grammar, A, 190. New York Evening Post, The, 152, 155. New York Tribune, The, 95, 171. Newell, R. H., 193. North American Review, The, 89, 116, 124, 143, 151, 152. Norton, Andrews, 99. Notes on Virginia, 47. Nothing to Wear, 170. Nux Postcoenatica, 134.

O, Susanna, 173. O'Brien, F. J., 185. Observations on the Boston Port Bill, 44. Occultation of Orion, The, 127, 139. Ode at the Harvard Commemoration, 142. Ode for a Social Meeting, 134. Ode to Freedom, 140. Odyssey, Bryant's, 155. Old Clock on the Stairs, The, 127. Old Creole Days, 203. Old Folks at Home, 173. Old Grimes, 85. Old Ironsides, 132. Old Oaken Bucket, The, 84. Old Pennsylvania Farmer, The, 171. Old Regime in Canada, The, 147. Old Sergeant, The, 184. On a Certain Condescension in Foreigners, 141. One Hoss Shay, The, 135, 188. Oregon Trail, The, 147. Ormond, 63, 64. "Orpheus C. Kerr," 193. Orphic Sayings, 105. Osgood, Mrs. K. P., 184. Otis, James, 43-45. Our Master, 158. Our Old Home, 119. Out of the Question, 209. Outcasts of Poker Flat, The, 199, 200. Outre-Mer, 124. Overland Monthly, The, 199. Over-Soul, The, 105.

Paine, R. T., 60. Paine, Tom, 51-53. Panorama, The, 157. Paper, 39. Parker, Theodore, 97-100, 106. Parkman, Francis, 123, 145, 146, 147. Parlor Car, The, 210. Partisan, The, 168. Passionate Pilgrim, A, 305. Pathfinder, The, 83. Paulding, J. K., 72, 74, 79,80. Payne, J. H., 84. Pearl of Orr's Island, The, 175. Pencilings by the Way, 169. Pension Beaurepas, The, 206. Percival, J. G., 175. Percy, George, 12, 19. "Peter Parley," 69. "Petroleum V. Nasby," 193. Phenomena Quaedam Apocalyptica, 33. Phillips, Wendell, 122, 123, 147, 148, 157, Philosophic Solitude, 53. Philosophy of Composition, 163. Phoenixiana, 189. Piatt, J. J., 184, 202, 208. Pictures of Memory, 173. Pilot, The, 84. Pink and White Tyranny, 175. Pinkney, E. C., 85. Pioneer, The, 138. Pioneers, The, 71, 83. Pioneers of France in the New World, 147. Plain Language from Truthful James, 200 Planting of the Apple-Tree, The, 155. Plato, Emerson on, 108. Poe, E. A., 63, 80, 85, 106, 116, 117, 130, 138, 150, 153, 160-169, 182, 186, 196. Poems of the Orient, 171. Poems of Two Friends, 208. Poems on Slavery, 128. Poet at the Breakfast Table, The, 136. Poetic Principle, The, 164. Poetry: A Metrical Essay, 133. Poet's Hope, A, 105. Political Green House, The, 56. Pollard, E. A., 182. Pons, Maximus, 173. Poor Richard's Almanac, 39, 40. Portraits of Places, 207. Prairie, The, 83. Prentice, G. D., 156, 189. Prescott, W. H., 123, 145, 146, 151, 182. Present Crisis, The, 140. Pride of the Village, The, 77. Prince Deukalion, 171. Prince of Parthia, The, 63. Problem, The, 110. Professor at the Breakfast Table, The, 136, 137. Progress to the Mines, A, 17. Prologue, The, 135. Prophecy of Samuel Sewell, The, 33. Prophet, The, 171. Psalm of Life, The, 126, 127. Purloined Letter, The, 163. Putnam's Monthly, 123, 197.

Quaker Widow, The, 171. Quincy, Josiah, 43-45.

Rag Man and Rag Woman, The, 196. Randall, J. R., 183. Randolph, John, 46. Raven, The, 163, 165. Read, T. B., 173. Reaper and the Flowers, The, 126. Rebellion Record, The, 183. Recollections of a Life-time, 69, 72. Red Rover, The, 84. Register, The, 210. Remarks on Associations, 91. Remarks on National Literature, 91, 100. Reply to Hayne, Webster's, 87. Representative Men, 102, 107, 109. Resignation, 128. Reveries of a Bachelor, 175. Rhoecus, 138. Rhymes of Travel, 171. Riding to Vote, 184. Rights of the British Colonies, 45. Ripley, George, 95, 99, 100, 106, 151. Rip Van Winkle, 75. Rip Van Winkle, M.D., 134. Rise and Fall of the Confederate States, 182. Rise and Fall of the Slave Power, 182. Rise of the Dutch Republic, 146. Rob of the Bowl, 168. Roderick Hudson, 206. Roughing It, 193, 194.

Salmagundi, 74, 79, 155. Sandys, George, 16, 19. San Francisco, 198. Scarlet Letter, The, 35, 117, 118. School Days, 156. Schoolcraft, H. R., 130. Science of English Verse, 202. Scribner's Monthly, 197. Scripture Poems, 169. Seaside and Fireside, 126, 127. Seaweed, 127, 129. Selling of Joseph, The, 33. September Gale, The, 133. Sewall, J, M., 60. Sewall, Samuel, 32, 33. Shakespeare, Ode, 89. Shaw, H. W., 193. Shepherd of King Admetus, The, 138. Sheridan's Ride, 173. Shillaber, B. P., 189. Sigourney, Mrs. L. H., 107, 175. Silas, Lapham, 209. Simms, W. G., 168. Simple Cobbler of Agawam, The, 20. Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God, 35. Skeleton in Armor, The, 127. Skeleton in the Closet, The, 196. Sketch Book, The, 73-75, 77. Skipper Ireson's Ride, 158. Sleeper, The, 165. Sleeping Car, The, 63. Smith, Elihu, 55. Smith, John, 11, 12, 15, 19, 24. Smith, Seba, 189. Snow-Bound, 159. Society and Solitude, 107. Song for a Temperance Dinner, 134. Song of the Chattahoochie, 202. Southern Literary Messenger, The, 160, 162. Southern Passages and Pictures, 169. Sparkling and Bright, 170. Specimen Days, 180. Specimens of Foreign Standard Literature, 100. Sphinx, The, 135. Sprague, Charles, 89. Spring, 170. Spy, The, 83. Squibob Papers, 180. Star Papers, 176. Star-Spangled Banner, The, 60, 80. Stedman, E. C., 197. Stephens, A. H., 182. Stith, William, 17. Stoddard, R. H., 170, 197. Story of Kennett, The, 172. Stowe, Mrs. H. B., 174, 175. Strachey, William, 11. Stuart, Moses, 98. Suburban Sketches, 208. Sumner, Charles, 122, 132, 124, 142, 148, 157, 174. Supernaturalism in New England, 160. Swallow Barn, 168. Swinton, W., 183. Sybaris and Other Homes, 195.

Tales of a Traveler, 75. Tales of a Wayside Inn, 159. Tales of the Glauber Spa, 155. Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque, 166. Tamerlane, 161. Tanglewood Tales, 119. Taylor, Bayard, 170-173. Telling the Bees, 159. Ten Times One is Ten, 195. Tennessee's Partner, 200. Tent on the Beach, The, 159. Thanatopsis, 68, 80, 125, 152, 153, 155. Their Wedding Journey, 208. Theology, Dwight's, 58. Thirty Poems, 154. Thoreau, H. D., 93, 96, 106, 109, 110, 114, 119, 122, 123, 125, 151, 179, 182. Timrod, Henry, 184. To a Waterfowl, 153. To Helen, 162. To M—— from Abroad, 170. To One in Paradise, 165. To Seneca Lake, 175. Tour on the Prairies, A, 71. Tramp Abroad, A, 193. Transcendentalist, The, 101, 102. Travels, Dwight's, 53. Treatise Concerning Religious Affections, 36. Triumph of Infidelity, 58. True Grandeur of Nations, The, 149. True Relation, Smith's, 15. True Repertory of the Wrack of Sir Thomas Gates, 11. Trumbull, John, 54, 55, 73. Twice-Told Tales, 115, 117, 118. Two Rivers, 112. Tyler, Royall, 63.

Ulalume, 165. Uncle Ned, 173. Uncle Remus, 202. Uncle Tom's Cabin, 174. Under the Willows, 142. Undiscovered Country, The, 209. Unknown Dead, The, 184. Unseen Spirits, 170.

Valley of Unrest, The, 162. Vanity Fair, 190. Vassall Morton, 145. Venetian Life, 208. Views Afoot, 171. Villa Franca, 142. Village Blacksmith, The, 127. Virginia Comedians, The, 196. Vision of Columbus, The, 56, 57. Vision of Sir Launfal, The, 140, 141. Visit from St. Nicholas, A, 170. Voices of Freedom, 157. Voices of the Night, 124, 126. Voluntaries, 110. Von Kempelen's Discovery, 154.

Walden, 111. Wants of Man, The, 85. War Lyrics, 184. Ward, Nathaniel, 20. Ware, Henry, 99. Washers of the Shroud, The, 142. Washington, George, 49, 51. Washington as a Camp, 185. Washington Square, 185. 'Way Down South, 173. Webster, Daniel, 73, 86-89, 90, 158, 187. Webster's Spelling-Book, 69. Week on the Concord and Merrimac Rivers, A, 111. Western Windows, 202. Westminster Abbey, 77. Westover MSS., The, 16. Westward Ho! 72. What Mr. Robinson thinks, 140. What was It?, 186. Whistle, The, 39. Whitaker, Alexander, 18. White, R. G., 197. Whitman, Walt, 126, 176-180, 183. Whittier, J. G., 18, 25, 26, 32, 33, 93, 133, 138, 155-160, 167, 174, 175, 179, 183, 185, 197. Wieland, 63, 65. Wigglesworth, Michael, 34. Wild Honeysuckle, The, 61. Wilde, R. H., 84. William Wilson, 166. Williams, Roger, 22, 23. Willis, N. P., 71, 153, 169, 171, 176. Willson Forceythe, 184. Wilson, Henry, 182. Winter Evening Hymn to My Fire, 142, Winthrop, John, 12, 21, 23-28, 31, 33. Winthrop, Theodore, 184. Witchcraft, 143. Witch's Daughter, The, 157. Wolfert's Roost, 75. Wolfert Webber, 75. Woman in the Nineteenth Century, 105. Wonder Book, 119. Wonders of the Invisible World, 21, 32. Woods, Leonard, 98. Woods in Winter, 125. Woodman, Spare that Tree, 170. Woodworth, Samuel, 84. Woolman's Journal, 65, 66, 157. Wound-Dresser, The, 178. Wrath Upon the Wicked, 35. Wreck of the Hesperus, The, 127, 129.

Yankee Doodle, 59. Yankee in Canada, 111. Year's Life, A, 138. Yemassee, The, 168.


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