The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 12, No. 74, December, 1863

"How I wished it had been somebody who knew something! But I did as well as I could. I told him of the English war. I told him about Fulton and the steamboat beginning. I told him about old Scott, and Jackson; told him all I could think about the Mississippi, and New Orleans, and Texas, and his own old Kentucky. And do you think he asked who was in command of the "Legion of the West." I told him it was a very gallant officer, named Grant, and that, by our last news, he was about to establish his head-quarters at Vicksburg. Then, 'Where was Vicksburg?' I worked that out on the map; it was about a hundred miles, more or less, above his old Fort Adams; and I thought Fort Adams must be a ruin now. 'It must be at old Vicks's plantation,' said he; 'well, that is a change!'

"I tell you, Ingham, it was a hard thing to condense the history of half a century into that talk with a sick man. And I do not now know what I told him,—of emigration, and the means of it,—of steamboats and railroads and telegraphs,—of inventions and books and literature,—of the colleges and West Point and the Naval School,—but with the queerest interruptions that ever you heard. You see it was Robinson Crusoe asking all the accumulated questions of fifty-six years:

"I remember he asked, all of a sudden, who was President now; and when I told him, he asked if Old Abe was General Benjamin Lincoln's son. He said he met old General Lincoln, when he was quite a boy himself, at some Indian treaty. I said no, that Old Abe was a Kentuckian like himself, but I could not tell him of what family; he had worked up from the ranks. 'Good for him!' cried Nolan; 'I am glad of that. As I have brooded and wondered, I have thought our danger was in keeping up those regular successions in the first families.' Then I got talking about my visit to Washington. I told him of meeting the Oregon Congressman, Harding; I told him about the Smithsonian and the Exploring Expedition; I told him about the Capitol,—and the statues for the pediment,—and Crawford's Liberty,—and Greenough's Washington: Ingham, I told him everything I could think of that would show the grandeur of his country and its prosperity; but I could not make up my mouth to tell him a word about this infernal Rebellion!

"And he drank it in, and enjoyed it as I cannot tell you. He grew more and more silent, yet I never thought he was tired or faint. I gave him a glass of water, but he just wet his lips, and told me not to go away. Then he asked me to bring the Presbyterian 'Book of Public Prayer,' which lay there, and said, with a smile, that it would open at the right, place,—and so it did. There was his double red mark down the page; and I knelt down and read, and he repeated with me,—'For ourselves and our country, O gracious God, we thank Thee, that, notwithstanding our manifold transgressions of Thy holy laws, Thou hast continued to us Thy marvellous kindness,'—and so to the end of that thanksgiving. Then he turned to the end of the same book, and I read the words more familiar to me,—'Most heartily we beseech Thee with Thy favor to behold and bless Thy servant, the President of the United States, and all others in authority,'—and the rest of the Episcopal collect. 'Danforth,' said he, 'I have repeated those prayers night and morning, it is now fifty-five years.' And then he said he would go to sleep. He bent me down over him and kissed me; and he said, 'Look in my Bible, Danforth, when I am gone.' And I went away.

"But I had no thought it was the end. I thought he was tired and would sleep. I knew he was happy, and I wanted him to be alone.

"But in an hour, when the doctor went in gently, he found Nolan had breathed his life away with a smile. He had something pressed close to his lips. It was his father's badge of the Order of Cincinnati.

"We looked in his Bible, and there was a slip of paper, at the place where he had marked the text,—

"'They desire a country, even a heavenly: wherefore God is not ashamed to be called their God: for he hath prepared for them a city.'

"On this slip of paper he had written,—

"'Bury me in the sea; it has been my home, and I love it. But will not some one set up a stone for my memory at Fort Adams or at Orleans, that my disgrace may not be more than I ought to bear? Say on it,—

"'In Memory of

"'PHILIP NOLAN,

"'Lieutenant in the Army of the United States.

"'He loved his country as no other man has loved her; but no man deserved less at her hands.'"

THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH

It was the season when through all the land        The merle and mavis build, and building singThose lovely lyrics written by His hand        Whom Saxon Cædmon calls the Blithe-Heart King,—When on the boughs the purple buds expand,        The banners of the vanguard of the Spring,And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap,        And wave their fluttering signals from the steep.The robin and the bluebird, piping loud,        Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee;The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud        Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be;And hungry crows, assembled in a crowd,        Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly,Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said,        "Give us, O Lord, this day our daily bread!"Across the Sound the birds of passage sailed,        Speaking some unknown language strange and sweetOf tropic isle remote, and passing hailed        The village with the cheers of all their fleet,—Or, quarrelling together, laughed and railed        Like foreign sailors landed in the streetOf seaport town, and with outlandish noise        Of oaths and gibberish frightening girls and boys.Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth,        In fabulous days, some hundred years ago;And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth,        Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow,That mingled with the universal mirth,        Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe:They shook their heads, and doomed with dreadful words        To swift destruction the whole race of birds.And a town-meeting was convened straightway        To set a price upon the guilty headsOf these marauders, who, in lieu of pay,        Levied black-mail upon the garden-bedsAnd cornfields, and beheld without dismay        The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds,—The skeleton that waited at their feast,        Whereby their sinful pleasure was increased.Then from his house, a temple painted white,        With fluted columns, and a roof of red,The Squire came forth,—august and splendid sight!—        Slowly descending, with majestic tread,Three flights of steps, nor looking left nor right;        Down the long street he walked, as one who said,"A town that boasts inhabitants like me        Can have no lack of good society!"The Parson, too, appeared, a man austere,        The instinct of whose nature was to kill;The wrath of God he preached from year to year,        And read with fervor Edwards on the Will;His favorite pastime was to slay the deer        In Summer on some Adirondack hill;E'en now, while walking down the rural lane,        He lopped the way-side lilies with his cane.From the Academy, whose belfry crowned        The hill of Science with its vane of brass,Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round,        Now at the clouds, and now at the green grass,And all absorbed in reveries profound        Of fair Almira in the upper class,Who was, as in a sonnet he had said,        As pure as water, and as good as bread.And next the Deacon issued from his door,        In his voluminous neck-cloth, white as snow;A suit of sable bombazine he wore;        His form was ponderous, and his step was slow;There never was so wise a man before;        He seemed the incarnate "Well, I told you so!"And to perpetuate his great renown,        There was a street named after him in town.These came together in the new town-hall,        With sundry farmers from the region round;The Squire presided, dignified and tall,        His air impressive and his reasoning sound.Ill fared it with the birds, both great and small;        Hardly a friend in all that crowd they found,But enemies enough, who every one        Charged them with all the crimes beneath the sun.When they had ended, from his place apart,        Rose the Preceptor, to redress the wrong,And, trembling like a steed before the start,        Looked round bewildered on the expectant throng;Then thought of fair Almira, and took heart        To speak out what was in him, clear and strong,Alike regardless of their smile or frown,        And quite determined not to be laughed down."Plato, anticipating the Reviewers,        From his Republic banished without pityThe Poets; in this little town of yours,        You put to death, by means of a Committee,The ballad-singers and the Troubadours,        The street-musicians of the heavenly city,The birds, who make sweet music for us all        In our dark hours, as David did for Saul."The thrush, that carols at the dawn of day        From the green steeples of the piny wood;The oriole in the elm; the noisy jay,        Jargoning like a foreigner at his food;The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray,        Flooding with melody the neighborhood;Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng        That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song."You slay them all! and wherefore? For the gain        Of a scant handful more or less of wheat,Or rye, or barley, or some other grain,        Scratched up at random by industrious feetSearching for worm or weevil after rain,        Or a few cherries, that are not so sweetAs are the songs these uninvited guests        Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts."Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these?        Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taughtThe dialect they speak, where melodies        Alone are the interpreters of thought?Whose household words are songs in many keys,        Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught!Whose habitations in the tree-tops even        Are half-way houses on the road to heaven!"Think, every morning when the sun peeps through        The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove,How jubilant the happy birds renew        Their old melodious madrigals of love!And when you think of this, remember, too,        'Tis always morning somewhere, and aboveThe awakening continents, from shore to shore,        Somewhere the birds are singing evermore."Think of your woods and orchards without birds!        Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams,As in an idiot's brain remembered words        Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams!Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds        Make up for the lost music, when your teamsDrag home the stingy harvest, and no more        The feathered gleaners follow to your door?"What! would you rather see the incessant stir        Of insects in the windrows of the hay,And hear the locust and the grasshopper        Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play?Is this more pleasant to you than the whirr        Of meadow-lark, and its sweet roundelay,Or twitter of little fieldfares, as you take        Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake?"You call them thieves and pillagers; but know        They are the winged wardens of your farms,Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe,        And from your harvests keep a hundred harms;Even the blackest of them all, the crow,        Renders good service as your man-at-arms,Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail,        And crying havoc on the slug and snail."How can I teach your children gentleness,        And mercy to the weak, and reverenceFor Life, which, in its weakness or excess,        Is still a gleam of God's omnipotence,Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is no less        The self-same light, although averted hence,When by your laws, your actions, and your speech,        You contradict the very things I teach?"With this he closed; and through the audience went        A murmur, like the rustle of dead leaves;The farmers laughed and nodded, and some bent        Their yellow heads together like their sheaves:Men have no faith in fine-spun sentiment        Who put their trust in bullocks and in beeves.The birds were doomed; and, as the record shows,        A bounty offered for the heads of crows.There was another audience out of reach,        Who had no voice nor vote in making laws,But in the papers read his little speech,        And crowned his modest temples with applause;They made him conscious, each one more than each,        He still was victor, vanquished in their cause:Sweetest of all the applause he won from thee,        O fair Almira at the Academy!And so the dreadful massacre began;        O'er fields and orchards, and o'er woodland crests,The ceaseless fusillade of terror ran.        Dead fell the birds, with blood-stains on their breasts,Or wounded crept away from sight of man,        While the young died of famine in their nests:A slaughter to be told in groans, not words,        The very St. Bartholomew of Birds!The Summer came, and all the birds were dead;        The days were like hot coals; the very groundWas burned to ashes; in the orchards fed        Myriads of caterpillars, and aroundThe cultivated fields and garden-beds        Hosts of devouring insects crawled, and foundNo foe to check their march, till they had made        The land a desert without leaf or shade.Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the town,        Because, like Herod, it had ruthlesslySlaughtered the Innocents. From the trees spun down        The canker-worms upon the passers-by,—Upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, and gown,        Who shook them off with just a little cry;They were the terror of each favorite walk,        The endless theme of all the village-talk.The farmers grew impatient, but a few        Confessed their error, and would not complain;For, after all, the best thing one can do,        When it is raining, is to let it rain.Then they repealed the law, although they knew        It would not call the dead to life again;As school-boys, finding their mistake too late,        Draw a wet sponge across the accusing slate.That year in Killingworth the Autumn came        Without the light of his majestic look,The wonder of the falling tongues of flame,        The illumined pages of his Doom's-Day Book.A few lost leaves blushed crimson with their shame,        And drowned themselves despairing in the brook,While the wild wind went moaning everywhere,        Lamenting the dead children of the air.But the next Spring a stranger sight was seen,        A sight that never yet by bard was sung,—As great a wonder as it would have been,        If some dumb animal had found a tongue:A wagon, overarched with evergreen,        Upon whose boughs were wicker cages hung,All full of singing-birds, came down the street,Filling the air with music wild and sweet.From all the country round these birds were brought,        By order of the town, with anxious quest,And, loosened from their wicker prisons, sought        In woods and fields the places they loved best,Singing loud canticles, which many thought        Were satires to the authorities addressed,While others, listening in green lanes, averred        Such lovely music never had been heard.But blither still and louder carolled they        Upon the morrow, for they seemed to knowIt was the fair Almira's wedding-day,        And everywhere, around, above, below,When the Preceptor bore his bride away,        Their songs burst forth in joyous overflow,And a new heaven bent over a new earth        Amid the sunny farms of Killingworth.

LITERARY LIFE IN PARIS

THE GARRET.

Would you know something of the way in which men live in Paris? Would you penetrate a little beneath the brilliant, glossy epidermis of the French capital? Would you know other shadows and other sights than those you find in "Galignani's Messenger" under the rubric, "Stranger's Diary"? Listen to us. We hope to be brief. We hope to succeed in tangling your interest. We don't hope to make you merry,—oh, no, no, no! we don't hope that! Life isn't a merry thing anywhere,—least of all in Paris; for, look you, in modern Babylon there are so many calls for money, (which Southey called "a huge evil" everywhere,) there are so many temptations to expense, one has to keep a most cool head and a most silent heart to live in Paris and to avoid debt. Few are able successfully to achieve this charmed life. The Duke of Wellington, who was in debt but twice in his life,—first, when he became of age, and, like all young men, felt his name by indorsing it on negotiable paper, and placing it in a tradesman's book; secondly, when he lived in Paris, master of all France by consent of Europe,—the Duke of Wellington involved himself in debt in Paris to the amount of a million of dollars. Blücher actually ruined himself in the city he conquered. The last heir to the glorious name and princely estates of Von Kaunitz lost everything he possessed, even his dignity, in a few years of life in Paris. Judge of the resistless force and fury of the great maelström!

And I hope, after you have measured some degree of its force and of its fury by these illustrious examples, that you may be softened into something like pity and terror, when I tell you how a poor fellow, who had no name but that he made with his pen, who commanded no money save only that he obtained by transmuting ink and paper into gold, strove against it with various success, and often was vanquished. You will not judge him too harshly, will you? You will not be the first to throw a stone at him, neither will you add your stone, to those that may be thrown at him: hands enough are raised against him! We do not altogether absolve him for many a shortcoming; but we crave permission to keep our censure and our sighs for our study. Permit us to forbear arraigning him at the public bar. He is dead,—and everybody respects the dead, except profligate editors, prostitutes, and political clergymen. Besides, his life was such a hard one,—so full of clouds, with so few gleams of sunshine,—so agitated by storm,—so bereaved of halcyon days,—'twould be most cruel to deny him the grave's dearest privilege, peace and quiet. Amen! Amen! with all my heart to thy benediction and prayer, O priest! as, aspersing his lifeless remains with holy-water, thou sayest, Requiescat! So mote it be! Requiescat! Requiescat! Requiescat in pace!

Approach, then, reader, with softest step, and we will, in lowest whispers, pour into your ear the story of the battle of life as 'tis fought in Paris. We will show you the fever and the heartache, the corroding care and the panting labor which oppress life in Paris. Then will you say, No wonder they all die of a shattered heart or consumed brain at Paris! No wonder De Balzac died of heart-disease! No wonder Frederic Souliè's heart burst! No wonder Bruffault went crazy, and Eugene Sue's heart collapsed, and Malitourne lives at the mad-house! It is killing!

We will show you this life, not by didactic description, but by example, by telling you the story of one who lived this life. He was born in the lowest social station, he battled against every disadvantage, the hospital was his sick-chamber, his funeral was at the Government's expense, and everybody eminent in literature and art followed his remains to the grave, over which, after a proper interval of time, a monument was erected by public subscription to his memory. His father was a porter at the door of one of the houses in the Rue des Trois Frères. He added the tailor's trade to his poorly paid occupation. A native of Savoy, he possessed the mountaineer's taciturnity and love of home. War carried him to Paris. The rigors of conscription threw him into the ranks of the army; and when the first Empire fell, the child of Savoy made Paris his home, married a young seamstress, and obtained the lodge of house No. 5 Rue des Trois Frères. This marriage gave to French letters Henry Murger. It had no other issue.

Henry Murger was born March 24th, 1822. His earlier years seemed likely to be his last; he was never well; his mother gave many a tear and many a vigil to the sickly child she thought every week she must lose. To guard his days, she placed him, to gratify a Romish superstition, under the special protection of the Blessed Virgin, and in accordance with custom clad him in the Madonna's livery of blue. His costume of a blue smock, blue pantaloons, and a blue cap procured for him the name of Bleuet, or, as we should perhaps say, Blueling, if indeed we may coin for the occasion one of those familiar, affectionate diminutives, so common in the Italian, rarer in the French, and almost unknown in our masculine tongue. An only child, and an invalid, poor Bleuet was of course a spoiled child, his mother's darling and pet. His wishes, his sick-child's caprices were her law, and she gratified them at the cost of many a secret privation. She seemed to know—maternal love hath often the faculty of second-sight—that her poor boy, though only the child of the humblest parentage, was destined to rise one day far above the station in which he was born. She attired him better than children of his class commonly dressed. She polished his manners as much as she could,—and 'twas much, for women, even of the lowest classes, have gentle tastes and delicacy. She could not bear to think that her darling should one day sit cross-legged on the paternal bench, and ply needle and scissors. She breathed her own aspirations into the boy's ears, and filled his mind with them. O mothers, ye do make us what ye please! Your tears and caresses are the rain and the sun that mature the seed which time and the accidents of life sow in our tender minds! She filled him with pride,—which is a cardinal virtue, let theologians say what they will,—and kept him aloof from the little blackguards who toss and tumble over the curb-stones, losing that dignity which is man's chastity, and removing one barrier between them and crime.

He was, even in his earlier years, exquisitely sensitive. La Blache, the famous singer, occupied a suite of rooms in the house of which his father was porter. One day La Blache's daughter, (now Madame Thalberg,) who was confined to her rooms by a fall which had dislocated her ankle, sent for the sprightly lad. He was in love with her, just as boys will adore a pretty face without counting years or differences of position (at that happy age a statesman and a stage-driver seem equal,—if, indeed, the latter does not appear to occupy the more enviable position in life). He dressed himself with all the elegance he could command, and obeyed Mademoiselle La Blache's summons, building all sorts of castles in the air as he arranged his toilet and while he was climbing the staircase. His affected airs were so laughable, she told him in a mock-heroic manner what she wished of him, and probably with something of that paternal talent which had shaken so many opera-houses with applause:—"I have sent for you to teach me the song I hear you sing every day." This downfall from his castles in the air, and her manner, brought blushes to his cheek and flames to his eyes, which amused her all the more; so she went on,—"Oh, don't be afraid! I will pay—two ginger-cakes a lesson." So sensitive was the child's nature, this innocent pleasantry wounded him with such pain, that he fell on the carpet sobbing and with nerves all jangled. How the pangs poverty attracts must have wrung him!—But let us not anticipate the course of events.

As he advanced in life he outgrew his disease, and became a chubby-cheeked boy, health's own picture. He was the favorite of the neighborhood, his mother's pride, and the source of many a heartache to her; for, as he grew towards manhood, his father insisted every day more strenuously that he should learn some trade. His poor mother obstinately opposed this scheme. Many were the boisterous quarrels on this subject the boy witnessed, sobbing between his parents; for his father was a rough, ill-bred mountaineer, who had reached Paris through the barrack and the battle-field, neither of which tends to smooth the asperities of character. The woman was tenacious; for what will not a mother's heart brave? what will it not endure? Those natures which are gentle as water are yet deep and changeless as the ocean. Of course the wife carried her point. Who can resist a mother struggling for her son? The boy was placed as copying-clerk in an attorney's office. All the world over, the law is the highway to literature. The lad, however, was uneducated; he wrote well, and this was enough to enable him to copy the law-papers of the office, but he was ignorant of the first elements of grammar, and his language, although far better than that of the lads of his class in life, was shocking to polite ears. It could not well be otherwise, as his only school was a petty public primary school, and he was but fourteen years old when his father ordered him to begin to earn his daily bread. But he was not only endowed with a literary instinct, he had, too, that obstinate perseverance which would, as one of his friends said of him, "have enabled him to learn to read by looking at the signs in the streets, and to cipher by glancing at the numbers on the houses."