Sir," says Podsnap; "we know what France
wants; we see what America is up to; but we
know what England is. That's enough for us."
However, when dinner is served, and Light-
wood drops into his old place over against Lady
Tippins, she can be fended off no longer.
"Long
banished Robinson Crusoe," says the charmer,
exchanging salutations, "how did you leave the
Island ?"

"Thank you," says Lightwood. "It made no complaint of being in pain any where."

"Say, how did you leave the savages?" asks Lady Tippins.

"They were becoming civilized when I left Juan Fernandez," says Lightwood. "At least they were eating one another, which looked like it." "Tormentor!" returns the dear young creat"You know what I mean, and you trifle with my impatience. Tell me something, immediately, about the married pair. You were at the wedding."

Mortimer looks gloomy, and declines to an- into those hair-brushes of his, "a factory girl?".

many pints of porter. On the one hand, the young woman has the boat. On the other hand, she consumes so many pounds of beef-steaks and so many pints of porter. Those beef-steaks and that porter are the fuel to that young woman's engine. She derives therefrom a certain amount of power to row the boat; that power will produce so much money; and thus you get at the young woman's income. That (it seems to the Contractor) is the way of looking at it.

The fair enslaver having fallen into one of her gentle sleeps during this last exposition, nobody likes to wake her. Fortunately, she comes awake of herself, and puts the question to the Wandering Chairman. The Wanderer can only speak of the case as if it were his own. If such a young woman as the young woman described, had saved his own life, he would have been very much obliged to her, wouldn't have married her, and would have got her a berth in an Electric Telegraph Office, where young women answer very well.

What does the Genius of the three hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds, no shillings, and no pence, think? He can't say what he 'thinks, without asking: Had the young woman any money?

"No," says Lightwood, in an uncompromising voice; no money."

66

"Madness and moonshine," is then the compressed verdict of the Genius. "A man may do any thing lawful, for money. But for no money?-Bosh!"

What does Boots say?

This being something in the nature of a poser for Podsnap, he merely waves it away with a speechless wave.

"I say," resumes Twemlow, "if such feelings on the part of this gentleman induced this gentleman to marry this lady, I think he is the greater gentleman for the action, and makes her the greater lady. I beg to say, that when I use the word gentleman, I use it in the sense in which the degree may be attained by any man. The feelings of a gentleman I hold sacred, and I confess I am not comfortable when they are made the subject of sport or general discussion." "I should like to know," sneers Podsnap, "whether your noble relation would be of your opinion."

"Mr. Podsnap," retorts Twemlow, "permit me. He might be, or he might not be. I can not say. But I could not allow even him to dictate to me on a point of great delicacy, on which I feel very strongly."

ens.

Somehow a canopy of wet blanket seems to descend upon the company, and Lady Tippins was never known to turn so very greedy or so very cross. Mortimer Lightwood alone brightHe has been asking himself, as to every other member of the Committee in turn, "I wonder whether you are the Voice!" But he does not ask himself the question after Twemlow has spoken, and he glances in Twemlow's direction as if he were grateful. When the company disperse-by which time Mr. and Mrs. Veneering have had quite as much as they want of the honor, and the guests have had quite as much

Boots says he wouldn't have done it under as they want of the other honor-Mortimer sees

twenty thousand pound.

What does Brewer say?

Brewer says what Boots says.

What does Buffer say.

Buffer says he knows a man who married a bathing-woman, and bolted.

Lady Tippins fancies she has collected the suffrages of the whole Committee (nobody dreaming of asking the Veneerings for their opinion), when, looking round the table through her eyeglass, she perceives Mr. Twemlow with his hand to his forehead.

Good gracious! My Twemlow forgotten! My dearest! My own! What is his vote?

Twemlow has the air of being ill at ease, as he takes his hand from his forehead and replies. "I am disposed to think," says he, "that this is a question of the feelings of a gentleman."

"A gentleman can have no feelings who contracts such a marriage," flushes Podsnap.

"Pardon me, Sir," says Twemlow, rather less mildly than usual, "I don't agree with you. If this gentleman's feelings of gratitude, of respect, of admiration, and affection, induced him (as I presume they did) to marry this lady-"

"This lady!" echoes Podsnap.

"Sir," returns Twemlow, with his wristbands bristling a little, "you repeat the word; I repeat the word. This lady. What else would you call her if the gentleman were present ?"

Twemlow home, shakes hands with him cordially at parting, and fares to the Temple, gayly.

POSTSCRIPT,

IN LIEU OF PREFACE.

WHEN I devised this story, I foresaw the likelihood that a class of readers and commentators would suppose that I was at great pains to conceal exactly what I was at great pains to suggest: namely, that Mr. John Harmon was not slain, and that Mr. John Rokesmith was he. Pleasing myself with the idea that the supposition might in part arise out of some ingenuity in the story, and thinking it worth while, in the interests of art, to hint to an audience that an artist (of whatever denomination) may perhaps be trusted to know what he is about in his vocation, if they will concede him a little patience, I was not alarmed by the anticipation.

To keep for a long time unsuspected, yet always working itself out, another purpose originating in that leading incident, and turning it to a pleasant and useful account at last, was at once the most interesting and the most difficult part of my design. Its difficulty was much enhanced by the mode of publication; for it would be very unreasonable to expect that many read

ers, pursuing a story in portions from month to | Poor who prefer death by slow starvation and month through nineteen months, will, until they have it before them complete, perceive the relations of its finer threads to the whole pattern which is always before the eyes of the storyweaver at his loom. Yet, that I hold the advantages of the mode of publication to outweigh its disadvantages, may be easily believed of one who revived it in the Pickwick Papers after long disuse, and has pursued it ever since.

There is sometimes an odd disposition in this country to dispute as improbable in fiction what are the commonest experiences in fact. Therefore I note here, though it may not be at all necessary, that there are hundreds of Will Cases (as they are called) far more remarkable than that fancied in this book; and that the stores of the Prerogative Office teem with instances of testators who have made, changed, contradicted, hidden, forgotten, left canceled, and left uncanceled, each many more wills than were ever made by the elder Mr. Harmon of Harmony Jail.

bitter weather to the mercies of some Relieving Officers and some Union Houses; the other admitting that there are such Poor, but denying that they have any cause or reason for what they do. The records in our newspapers, the late exposure by THE LANCET, and the common sense and senses of common people, furnish too abundant evidence against both defenses. But that my view of the Poor Law may not be mistaken or misrepresented, I will state it. I believe there has been in England, since the days of the STUARTS, no law so often infamously administercd, no law so often openly violated, no law habitually so ill-supervised. In the majority of the shameful cases of disease and death from destitution that shock the Public and disgrace the country, the illegality is quite equal to the inhumanity-and known language could say no more of their lawlessness.

On Friday the Ninth of June, in the present year, Mr. and Mrs. Boffin (in their manuscript dress of receiving Mr. and Mrs. Lammle at breakIn my social experience, since Mrs. Betty Hig-fast) were on the Southeastern Railway with me den came upon the scene and left it, I have found in a terribly destructive accident. When I had Circumlocutional authorities disposed to be warm with me on the subject of my view of the Poor Law. My friend Mr. Bounderby could never see any difference between leaving the Coketown "hands" exactly as they were, and requiring them to be fed with turtle soup and venison out of gold spoons. Idiotic propositions of a parallel nature have been freely offered for my acceptance, and I have been called upon to admit that I would give Poor Law relief to any body, any where, any how. Putting this nonsense aside, I have observed a suspicious tendency in the various authorities to divide into two parties; the one contending that there are no deserving

done what I could to help others, I climbed back into my carriage-nearly turned over a viaduct, and caught aslant upon the turn-to extricate the worthy couple. They were much soiled, but otherwise unhurt. The same happy result attended Miss Bella Wilfer on her wedding-day, and Mr. Riderhood inspecting Bradley Headstone's red neckerchief as he lay asleep. I remember with devout thankfulness that I can never be nearer parting company with my readers forever than I was then, until there shall be written against my life the two words with which I have this day closed this book-THE End. September 2, 1865.

AT CHRISTMAS

Twhile now the Christmas time is near,

NO-NIGHT we gather round the hearth

The time we keep with song and mirth,
With noisy games and festal cheer.

Not quite twelve fleeting months have passed,
With rapid changes, through a year
Of shifting light and shade, since last
We kept our merry Christmas here.

Then War's fierce clarion sounded loud,
And faces that we see to-night,
Once veiled within the battle's cloud,
Shone in the camp-fire's lurid light.
And others, whom, no more we see,

Lie silent in Death's dreamless sleep,
Nor shocks of ages yet to be

Shall vex their slumbers long and deep.

To them we fill our glasses high,
We pledge them through all future years,
To them we drain the goblet dry
In spite of rising wells of tears.
VOL. XXXII.-No. 187.-H

TIME.

What tears for them?-let sorrow cease
For those who know not grief or care;
Theirs is a deeper, holier peace-

They breathe a calmer, purer air!

Long ages since the dawn of day,
Gilding the edges of the morn,
Looked in athwart the gloom where lay
The Christ-child of the Virgin born.

And high o'er Bethlehem's halls and towers,
Through the long watches of the night,
Crowning the dark and silent hours,

One pale star shone with mystic light.

Oh happy morn, whose dawning gave
Hope to a lost and sinful race,
Thy influence reaches past the grave,

On through remotest time and space!
Ring bells of cheer, ring in the day

When cruel wrong at last shall cease;
When feud and hate shall pass away,

And bring the reign of Love and Peace!

A VILLAGE IN MASSACHUSETTS.

O

paneled hall and wide, easy staircase with elaborate balusters-the parlor with its low ceiling and cross-beam, its turkey carpet, large mahogany side-board, hospitable punch-bowl or silver flagon, and cut-glass decanters—the deep-cushioned window-seats, snug and sunny-the family portraits by Stuart or Copley, the daintilyworked screen, the massive and shining andirons and genial wood-fire gleaming on Scripture tiles-all unite to form a picture in fond memories beside which the more convenient economies and more showy but far less cozy domestic arrangements of the present day, seem coldly

The old-fashioned mansions, indeed, do not suffer by comparison with the loftier dwellings UR authority for so denominating a famous which have superseded them, at least to the eye city is derived from one of those pert and of conservative taste. The wide front yards peripatetic oracles-the news-boys. A gentle- with fine shade-trees and a flagged walk from man (who waxed suddenly indignant), whose sur- the gate to the front-door, with its broad threshtout, bandana handkerchief, visage, and bear-old and glistening brass knocker-the spacious ing declared him an old-school recipient of the "moral sense of the community," inquired of one of those varlets, who rushed on to the crowded piazza of a fashionable watering-place hotel, vociferating, "Here's the 'Erald, Times, and Trib- | une!" if he had a copy of the Boston Journal? "Don't sell village papers, Siree!" was the reply. It was named Boston in honor of John Cotton, minister of St. Butolph's, at Boston, in Lincolnshire, England, where the descendants of some of the original emigrants may still read their ancestral name on the old grave-stones. But other appellatives more significantly designate the place; such as "the Cradle of Liber-elegant. ty," because there the people, by word and deed, initiated the war of American Independence; "the Athens of America," so called in token of literary pre-eminence and social culture; "the City of Notions," because of a normal propensity of the inhabitants to magnify and reiterate an idea, enterprise, or local fact with exclusive emphasis-such as the introduction of water from a neighboring pond, the advent of an eminent foreigner, a special reform, a personal scandal, the demise of a prominent citizen, a critical controversy, or the great organ at the Music Hall. The last of these facetious titles, bestowed by a medical wit, is "Hub of the Universe," in allusion to the provincial complacency of the people.

The returned native threads his unsaluted way through strange, and by no means gentle crowds, looking in vain for familiar faces. Many of the best people of the town of his youth are banished to the suburbs or lost in the throng; now and then he recognizes a well-known figure apparently as much out of place as himself. The courteous gentleman whose bow was a benediction, the venerable merchant whose word was a bond, the man of letters whose criticism was decisive, the fair woman whose beauty was a pride and pleasure to all-these dominant social elcments are no more; nor are others substituted therefor; for the population is too large, too heterogeneous, and too busy to allow of pervasive individualities or a social nucleus around In a physical sense the "Hub," whence ra- which lore and wisdom harmoniously crystallize. diate the spokes of so many railways, is not a Cars filled with "all kinds of folks" usurp the favorable point of the wheel of life for the pres- thoroughfares; where the juveniles used to ervation of original character, since the crowds skate, is a public garden; English steam-packets of social aspirants thus drawn to the centre, add- | land hundreds of passengers weekly at the docks. ed to the perpetual influx of Celts from beyond The old landmarks are rapidly disappearing, the the sea, have overlaid the Boston dear to octo-old customs foregone, the old names forgotten; genarians, and neutralized all the traits and most of the aspects that individualize the memory of the town even thirty years ago. Municipal, Insurance, and Banking offices are rarely occupied by natives; the original head-quarters of liberal Protestantism in America are inhabited by a Roman Catholic majority; from the old and quaintly picturesque streets more ostentatious dwellings have spread into the Back Bay; churches are transplanted thither; tall massive blocks of stores fill avenues where the homes of the Bostonians once shed the warm glow of the domestic hearth on snow-clad, quiet paths, sacred to pleasant neighbors and playful boys, now choked up with barrels, bales, and boxes. The Hancock House-ancient shrine of hospitality and patriotism-has disappeared, and even the "old corner" is no longer the trysting-place of literati; Pearl, Summer, and Franklin streets are given up to traffic; and the old families, whose domiciles once clustered there in modest comfort, have migrated or passed away.

but strangers are still specially invited to pews, and when any eminent person dies his character is duly analyzed by the Historical Society and the Daily Advertiser.

Settled in 1640 by English emigrants, Boston long maintained a literary as well as civic individuality. In the old town records is the chirography of John Winthrop. That chronicle indicates weary vicissitudes of famine and Indian attacks, ecclesiastical tyranny and social despotism. The declivities on which the city is built have historical traditions; the winding and hilly streets mark the ancient cow-paths. There is the Province House, denuded of its dignity, long the scene of colonial rule; the church where Franklin was baptized; the old elm under which he played, the site of the chandler's shop where, at the sign of the blueball, his father worked, and the grave where the ashes of both his parents rest. There is Faneuil Hall, where for a century has echoed the eloquence of freemen; the adjacent University

Off

the West. Ostinelli long conducted orchestras, Bob New shaved, Eustaphieve was Russian consul, Maffit preached Methodism and Emmons patriotism, Dr. Gardiner taught the Classics, Selfridge shot Austin, and Manlius Sargent put it all in a note-book.* There solemn Reviews appear quarterly, a Public Library is thronged, Lowell lectures flourish, there Prescott wrote of Ferdinand and Isabella, Dr. Bowditch translated La Place, Ticknor chronicled Spanish literature, Lyell and Agassiz expounded the wonders of nature, Sprague composed "Curi. osity," and Quincy built a market. There was born Motley, there once lived Bancroft, and there Spurzheim died. There is Stuart's orig inal portrait of Washington, and Dr. Warren's skeleton. Cape Cod's hardy sons sailed thence on long voyages, and returned to become merchants of renown. There throve Puritanism of old and Transcendentalism in our day; there they threw the tea into the harbor and cut off General Jackson's head from the prow of the Constitution.

founded in the infancy of the colony, and near | thrive. Tudor thence exported ice to the East by the noble statue of James Otis to commem- Indies, and Timothy Dexter warming-pans to orate the early advocate of liberty; the obelisk on the neighboring Bunker Hill to mark the spot where occurred the first battle of the Révolution, and the cannon-ball, imbedded in an ancient wall, to typify the siege over which Washington kept ward. Chastellux and Warville, the Abbé Robin and Kohl have recorded its social prestige, and Copley painted its belles of old. The country around is like an English landscape. The old town architecture suggests its ancestral character. Built in the deepest curve of Massachusetts Bay, which is studded with islands, in the middle it rears its civic dome surrounded by steeples and roofs. Vane, Goffe, Whalley were once its honored guests. King's Chapel and Copp's Hill figure in the romance of Cooper. The flag of the Revolution was first reared there. Witches and Quakers were there persecuted unto death and slaves originally imported; the whipping-post and the pillory were municipal institutions. The Mystic and the Charles flow thither to the sea. There Cotton Mather indited his Magnalia, Whitfield preached to thousands in the open air, and a circumnavigator of the globe was escorted in breeches and buckles through the streets. the harbor was fought the naval battle wherein Lawrence fell; Shirley sent thence recruits to the old French war. There were memorable times of pestilence, of political feuds, and of maritime adventure. State Street, the mart of bankers and brokers, witnessed the "Boston Massacre" when British troops first fired on American citizens. Brattle, Pemberton, Wigglesworth, Bowdoin, Elliot, Dexter, Wendall, Lee, Sullivan, Phillips, Eckley, Otis, Minot, Lloyd, and a host of others, have left enduring memories among the descendants of the early Bostonians. Long Wharf and the Common are endeared landmarks to the native; the "North and South End" are rife with family traditions undreamed of by the new inhabitants. In the Old South's belfry was the study of Dr. Belknap, the first historian of New Hampshire, and the pigeon that haunted it is embalmed by the muse of Willis. Fisheries at first, distilleries afterward, East India trade later, and factories at last brought wealth to the coffers of the Bostonians. The jokes of Mather Byles, the songs of Robert Treat Paine, the geniality of Dr. Kirkland, the ghost-stories of Allston, the teaching of Dr. Park, the editorship of Buckingham, and the hospitalities of Cabot live in mature memories still.

Hawthorne has daguerreotyped the early persecutions and the primitive legends. A "hundred orators" keep alive the glory of the national anniversary. Long wooden bridges span river and estuary; and the last of the cocked hats lingered there. Thanksgiving, Fast-day, Election, as well as the Fourth of July, meet with due observance. Archbishop Cheverus is remembered with affection. The Handel and Hadyn societies perform oratorios. Public schools

The place is famous for crackers and Cochituate, for poetry and mackerel, for snow-storms and lectures. Sleigh-rides are magnificent and greetings hasty; litterateurs hold colloquies at book-stores; chaises are still extant, and so are trucks; there is still a pudding-store at Dorches ter; but Salem Turnpike has become a myth, deacons are grown obsolete, the Transcript still gives zest to tea; the General Court and Selectmen have given place to the Legislature and a Mayor. Charles Sumner is United States Senator, and John A. Andrew Governor of the State.

The number of private collections of rare books and curiosities in the possession of men whose vocations are the reverse of literary is a remarkable evidence of the social culture of the people. Two of the best of these choice libraries were the discriminate and expensive gleanings of a leather-dresser and a wool-merchant.

The spirit of intellectual emulation early possessed the brain and heart of the Boston boy; the school prize and declamation were followed by the collegian's essay, and this by the Review or Magazine article and the social prestige of wit; distinction therein is the goal of youth and the criterion of manhood; the process of "cramming" and rhetorical display become a kind of mental necessity; the reputation of smartness is coveted; literary anecdotes and apt quotations are garnered for the banquet; tropes and figures, repartees and aphorisms exercise the brain and tongue; by-and-by the shadow of personal eminence overlays the sunshine of unconscious being; a certain artificial manner and an absence of the spontaneous formalize intercourse; cliques rule; mutual admiration isolates: there is a sophomorical element which survives student-life; to be literary and respectable is the sine qua non.

* Dealings with the Dead, by an Old Sexton. 2 vols. Boston, 1855.