brute force. Rude as they were, the history of the times shows that these laws could easily be brushed aside by any one with power and audacity sufficient to disregard them; and it can readily be imagined how hopeless would be the application to the mallum, or court of freemen, by a clerk who would be regarded with double contempt, as a Roman by his conquerors, and as a man of peace by warriors emulous only of martial renown. The attempt to escape this danger introduced a further cause of separation between the clergy and their new converts. As all law under the Barbarians was personal and not territorial, the church found little difficulty at an early period in obtaining for its ministers the advantage of living under the Roman law, thus securing, nominally at least, the privileges and immunities granted by the Christian Emperors; and in addition to this the safety of the ordained clergy was provided for by increased wehr-gilds, or blood-money. Yet, notwithstanding these favors, the church was sorely oppressed by the lawless warriors who found it easier to pass enactments than to observe them or to enforce their observance. In a previous essay we have seen some of the means adopted to meet the necessities of this position, in procuring special privileges with regard to tribunals, and exemptions from ordinary processes of law. But, while these concessions served to separate more than ever the clergy from the laity, they afforded little practical protection from wrong and outrage. What was wanted was some speedy process that should be prepared for every emergency. Every freeman relied on his sword and right hand for self-protection. If the priest were not to be reduced into hopeless servitude, he too must have some ever ready weapon like the freeman's sword, which would either prevent oppression by inspiring salutary fear, or avenge it on the spot.

to America early in the seventeenth century. His grandfather and father removed from Norwalk, Connecticut, to Troy in 1798, and were merchants successful in business. They were zealous patrons of religion and learning. St. Paul's Church, Troy, Trinity College, Hartford, and the General Theological Seminary of the Protestant Episcopal Church, in New York city, numbered them among their benefactors. From them Mr. Warren inherited an independent fortune, which has enabled him to gratify his cultured tastes in choral music, in literature illustrative of the old-time festivals, and in architecture, as the designer of his villa residence at Mt. Ida, built in a chastely ornamented Gothic style.

A delicacy of constitution and accidental injuries sustained in childhood deprived Mr. Warren of the advantages of a collegiate education. In 1841 he visited England in company with Bishop Doane of New Jersey, who had been invited by Dr. Hook (now Dean of Chichester) to preach the sermon at the consecration of the noble church of Leeds. The English Cathedral-tour that followed suggested to him the idea of adopting the Cathedral or Choral Service of the Church to the American Book of Common Prayer. To further this end, he subsequently published two works: The Order of Daily Service, with the Musical Notation as used in English Cathedral and Collegiate Churches together with a Collection of Communion Services and Chants, for the Psalms for the Day and Canticles, 1846; and The Ancient Plain Song of the Church, 1855. These services were first introduced, in 1844, into a mission church founded by his mother, and having a girl's school attached. He has also composed some anthem music, and has received the honorary degree of Mus. Doc. from Trinity College.

The only weapon available for these purposes was to be found in excommunication. By heightening the supernatural attributes of the priest His chief works, however, are intended to and of the sacrament which he made and condescribe and popularize the old-folk lore controlled, he was invested with a vague and awe- nected with the ancient holiday festivities. In inspiring sanctity, most conducive to his personal 1868 appeared, from the press of Hurd & Houghsafety; and if, when no other means of righting ton, The Holidays: Christmas, Easter, and rightington, himself were to be found, he had recourse to his Whitsuntide; their Social Festivities, Customs, power over the Eucharist on every trivial occa- and Carols. That volume collected from the sion, and distributed damnation freely in avenging standard authorities the traditions, usages, and every petty insult, we should remember the precariousness of his position, and the restrictions superstitions connected with those happy anniwhich debarred him from recourse to the only versaries, using in illustration the language of quaint old writers, and freeing the subject from other arguments which his untamed flock was likely to respect. An illustration of this is to be the misrepresentations of skeptical and rigidly found in the fearful curses which, about this time, puritanical writers. It was richly illustrated by came to be attached to the charters and privileges F. O. C. Darley, and has reached a second granted to monasteries and other religious founda- edition. Four years later a companion volume tions. The papal chancery had an ample store was printed in the same choice style, for private of formulas for these occasions, in which we see circulation. In Hidden Treasure; or, The Good how the audacious violator of the rights of the St. Nicholas; A Goblin Story for Christmas, church was condemned with an anathema which edited by the Author of The Holidays, 1872, an consigned him to hopeless and eternal hell fire attempt was successfully made to illustrate the along with the devil and Judas Iscariot. Cursing Christmas Holidays in a work of fiction, by was the only arm of the defenceless churchman, presenting in a set of characters and a series of and if he cursed with heart and soul, we can only probable events such ancient and picturesque measure the apparent intensity of his malignity customs and manners as have survived the revby the real intensity of bis fear. olutions of modern times,

** NATHAN B. WARREN

Is a native of Troy, N. Y. His ancestors were colonists from England and France, who emigrated

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** J. T. TROWBRIDGE.

JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE, an able sketcher, in poetry as well as prose, of the scenes and humors of New England life, and the managing

endless rhymes while following the plow. At sixteen he wrote articles, in verse and prose, for rural magazines and journals. At the age of seventeen, and in the winter after his father's death, he attended a classical school at Lockport for one term, and passed the next summer on a visit to a sister in Illinois. He taught school the following winter, and then tried farming for one season in the prairie State, but said good-bye to the plow forever when the rust struck his crop of wheat. Returning to Lockport, he again taught school for a term; and soon after, at the age of nineteen, he set off for New York city, where he knew nobody, armed with a little stock of sketches, and the fond hope of earning a modest living by his pen.

Old Major M. M. Noah, then editor of the weekly Sunday Times, kindly received the young aspirant, and counselled him to make literature a profession, but to write prose instead of poetry if he wished to make it "pay." He introduced him to some publishers, who bought a few of his tales and sketches, and one magazine paid him a dollar a printed page for his contributions. As that price would not support him, he ventured to send an article to the Knickerbocker Magazine, which was speedily printed; but the polite editor merely paid in thanks, as was his custom to new contributors. So, after his little stock of money was exhausted, the young writer was often reduced to a last loaf, which he would carry under his arm up four flights of stairs, and eat in the solitude of his chamber on Broadway, while a band stationed in the balcony of the Café opposite would entertain him with melody gratis. But he never lost heart in the darkest of those dark days, and perhaps has reason to be thankful for the fruits of such a severe discipline. Some money was occasionally earned, for a few months, by the engraving of gold pencil cases for a manufacturer in Jersey City. After that work had given out, and he had eaten his last loaf, a kind French family opened their doors to him. With them he obtained some practice in speaking the language, and profited by the chance to feast on countless French romances. He was writing for the press again, but, finding it still difficult to meet his weekly board-bills, in August, 1848, he paid, a visit to Boston, and concluded to make that city his home, as a better market for small literary wares than New York. The stories and sketches in those times were written under the name of "Paul Creyton."

in the State of New York. In 1811, Windsor married a farmer's daughter, Rebecca Willey, and emigrated that winter to the wilderness of western New York. He crossed the Genesee river on the ice, near where Rochester now stands, a site then marked by one house. He settled eight miles beyond, in the town of Ogden, cut down the trees, built a log-house, and made a clearing in the woods for a farm. In this log-house his son John Townsend was born, September 18, 1827, six months too early to make his advent in a new frame dwelling. He was the eighth child, and the youngest but one. Ilis father, whose physique was almost too delicate for a life of hard labor, was passionately fond of music, which he taught in the early pioneer days, and a capital storyteller, often amusing his children with tales in rhyme. Ilis mother, who is still living, is a woman of strong devotional feelings and a sensitive temperament, combined with great energy of character.

John Townsend lived the ordinary life of a country boy, going to school six months in the year till he was fourteen, after which he had to work on the farm in summer. But books had more interest to him than his work, and he managed to learn more out of school than in it. He taught himself to read and translate French before he was fifteen, and also undertook Latin and German without an instructor, but did not quite master them. A public library in the town gave him the works of Scott and Byron, which powerfully impressed his imagination, so that he began to plan romances and make

After the failure of a newspaper venture at Boston in 1849, Mr. Trowbridge, then at the age of twenty-two, edited Ben Perley Poore's Sentinel during the absence of its proprietor in Washington, and nearly put it to a premature death by writing an article on the Fugitive Slave Law, which cost the journal many subscribers. In 1853 he issued his first book, Father Brighthopes; or, An Old Clergyman's Vacation, by Paul Creyton, which had a large sale. It was quickly followed by four other little books; and these together made up the Brighthope Series:- Burrcliff: Its_Sunshine and Its Clouds, 1853; Hearts and Faces; or, Home Life Unveiled, 1853; Ironthorpe, 1855;

and in 1859 The Old Battle Ground was added. In 1854, he printed Martin Merrivale: His Mark, in monthly parts; but the market was not ripe for the serial style of publication, and the enterprise was not a success.

He sailed for Europe in April, 1855, passed through England, and spent the summer in Passy, between Paris and the wood of Boulogne. Here he wrote Neighbor Jackwood, an attractive novel of New England life and character. During its composition, he was living two lives, in the greatest possible contrast one with his friends, in the atmosphere of the brilliant metropolis; the other in the plain Vermont farmhouse. The following winter he passed in Italy, chiefly in Florence, Rome, and Naples. In 1856 he returned home, and soon after published Neighbor Jackwood, also dramatizing the story and bringing it out on the Boston stage, — in both of which forms it was a favorite.

Mr. Trowbridge was one of the original corps of contributors to the Atlantic Monthly. He has printed a large number of papers in that magazine, including poems, stories, sketches or travel, book-notices, and political articles. The Vagabonds, afterward issued in an elegant illustrated volume, and Coupon Bonds, both appeared originally in its pages. He has been a constant contributor to Our Young Folks since its start, and its managing editor for some years past. He was married in 1860 to Miss Cornelia Warren, of Lowell, Massachusetts. who died four years later, leaving him an infant son. His residence is at Arlington, seven miles from Boston.

During the great rebellion, he wrote several stories of the war: The Drummer Boy, 1863; Cudjo's Cave, 1864; and The Three Scouts, 1865. On the return of peace, he spent some four months in the principal Southern States, for the purpose of gaining accurate views of the condition of society there after the war. The result of these observations appeared in June, 1866, in an octavo subscription volume of 600 pages, entitled, The South.

A collected edition of his poems was published in 1869, entitled, The Vagabonds, and other Poems. The volume contains some powerful realistic pictures, the first of which is already a standard favorite; a delicate fantasy, "The Name in the Bark;" several quaintly humorous pieces, and a few "Lyrics of the War." "Author's Night," the longest and most dramatic of his poems, appeared in the Atlantic in August, 1872.

**THE VAGABONDS.

We are two travellers, Roger and I.
Roger's my dog. Come here, you scamp.
Jump for the gentleman, mind your eye!
Over the table, look out for the lamp!--
The rogue is growing a little old;

Five years we've tramped through wind and
weather,

And slept out doors when nights were cold,
And ate and drank and starved- together.
We've learned what comfort is, I tell you!
A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,
A fire to thaw our thumbs, (poor fellow,

Plenty of catgut for my fiddle,
The paw he holds up there has been frozen),
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle,

Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle,
(This out-door business is bad for strings),
And Roger and I set up for kings!

No, thank you, Sir. I never drink;
Roger and I are exceedingly moral,
Aren't we, Roger? see him wink!

Well, something hot, then, we won't quarrel.
He's thirsty, too see him nod his head?
What a pity, Sir, that dogs can't talk-
He understands every word that's said,
And he knows good milk from water and chalk.
The truth is, Sir, now I reflect,

I've been so sadly given to grog,

I wonder I've not lost the respect
(Here's to you, Sir!) even of my dog.
But he sticks by, through thick and thin;
And this old coat with its empty pockets,
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,
He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.
There isn't another creature living
So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving,
Would do it, and prove, through every disaster,

To such a miserable thankless master!
No, Sir! see him wag his tail and grin!

By George! it makes my old eyes water!
That is, there's something in this gin

That chokes a fellow. But no matter!
We'll have some music, if you are willing,
And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is,
Sir!)

Shall march a little. - Start, you villain!

Stand straight! 'Bout face! Salute your officer!
Put up that paw! Dress! Take your rifle !
Your cap while the gentlemen give a trifle,
(Some dogs have arms, you see!) Now hold
To aid a poor old patriot soldier.
March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes,
When he stands up to hear his sentence.
Now tell how many drams it takes

In 1871-2, three volumes of contributions to
Our Young Folks were reprinted in book form:
Lawrence's Adventures Among the Ice Cutters,
Glass Makers, Coal Miners, Iron Men, and Ship
Builders; Jack Hazard and His Fortunes, the
story of a boy who left the Erie canal to better
himself; and the continuation of his haps and
mishaps in A Chance for Himself; or, Jack Haz-
ard and His Treasure. These show the same ar-
tistic and conscientious treatment of details as his
larger works, with the same life-likeness in inci-
dent and idiosyncracies of character. Coupon
Bonds, and Other Stories, a series of some ten
piquant novelettes, mainly on the humorous
characteristics of New England life, followed | Is there a way to forget to think ?
in 1872; and Doing His Best, in 1873.

To honor a jolly new acquaintance.
Five yelps, that's five; he's mighty knowing!
The night's before us, fill the glasses!
Quick, sir! I'm ill, my brain is going;
Some brandy, thank you; there,
you; there, — it passes!
Why not reform? That's easily said;
But I've gone through such wretched treatment.
Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,

And scarce remembering what meat meant,
That my poor stomach 's past reform;
And there are times when, mad with thinking,
I'd sell out Heaven for something warm
To prop a horrible inward sinking.

At your age, Sir, home, fortune, friends,

Old Devcon Lang

Woke up out of his Sunday nap.

Green fruit, he said, God would not bless;
But half life's sorrow and bitterness,

When the wine went round, you would n't have Half the evil and ache and crime,
guessed