Somewhat discouraged by these repeated failures, a few days of irresolution succeeded. During this time I met with the statement that, owBut the story was at length completed. Then ing to the hard times, many of the best writers I borrowed a little carriage from a neighbor, in America were out of employment. If this and having tucked baby in it, she and I went to was true, it was, I decided, most ridiculous for the post-office. When we arrived there she was me, who had no name, perhaps deserved none, asleep, so I left the carriage on the sidewalk to expect success. It was folly for me to attempt while I ran in and got the MS. weighed. Twen- to live by my pen: I had no gift, no talent; my ty-three cents was the postage on it, and a very | vanity had led me astray. So I went to work

one day, and prepared a package for the flames. | and pronounce upon them.

I somehow felt en

I put into it all my published articles, and all couraged by the kindly tone to make another MSS. prepared for publication; all those de- effort. I resurrected my story, and re-read it, lightful complimentary notices I had so careful- pen in hand, now dotting an i or crossing a t, ly cut from the papers publishing or copying my and now making some change in the punctua articles; all the letters I had received encour- tion, or altering the structure of a sentence. aging or commending my efforts-all so dear to The three introductory pages I rewrote; they me once. I had condemned them to be burned were fictitious, and seemed cold and formal as as a meet punishment for the deception they had I read them with a secret fear that the editor so long practiced upon me; but their familiar, might condemn the story before getting through loved faces made such an appeal that I com- with them. At the earliest opportunity I mailmuted their punishment to imprisonment. So ed the story to Harper's Magazine. I stated in I deposited them at the very bottom of an old the beginning that it was returned. trunk, under books and boxes, etc.

That night my baby was attacked with inflammation of the brain. Then came weary days and nights of watching and agonizing suspense. With medicines, and the doctor's bill, and fuel, and lights, there was a fearful drain on my purse. Every few days I would steal off and count over its pitiful contents; for I thought I should probably lose my baby, and I could not endure that her little grave should be in the Potters' Field.

But my baby was spared me, and I felt strong again for work. I began to think of asking for work at the shops, for something which I could do at home; for I would not listen to the suggestion of leaving my baby to the care of oth

ers.

I thought I would tell you why I wrote that story; that I would like to have you know that I was writing that I might live, and that I might keep my baby with me. I fear that I have made my story too long, and that it teems with faults. But think how it has been written: a line at one time, a half-dozen lines at another. I have never been able to get off more than a half-page of MS. without an interruption. I have sometimes written with my baby on one knee, reaching for my pen and paper. I used to think that if I could dress her up, and lay her away on a shelf, as I used to do with my doll, for a single morning, so that I could give all my mind to my writing, that I might accomplish something worthy your acceptance.

You may say that, circumstanced as I am, I should not attempt the part of an author; that I should seek a livelihood by other means. What What can I do?

A few weeks since an old number of Harper's Magazine fell into my hands, in which the editor invited contributions, and promised to read | means? I ask beseechingly.

"TH

HOMEOPATHY,

IN ONE OR MORE CHAPTERS AND SEVERAL SUB-CHAPTERS.

CHAPTER I.-WASHINGTON. HANK Heaven, there's no particular way to spell in Scotch!" So said Davie Tait, in writing from "Auld chuckie Reekie," Edinboro', to his douce wife in the "kintra," as he nearly foundered on the ugly snag of an English polysyllable. Thank Heaven, say I, that a chapter has no particular length. It may fill half a volume, or it may consist of half a dozen lines. Nay, I remember that Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, in his "What will he do with It?" has a chapter (Book III., Chapter III.) which, title and all, contains only two words, viz.:

"Dénouement. POODLE."

And who that has read Southey's delightful "Doctor" can forget his famous one-word chapter, and that word,

"Ballibooribanginorribo !"

But an ingenious Yankee has excelled both Southey and Bulwer in both wit and "brevity, which is the soul of wit."

While the annexation of Texas to the United States was still an open question a wealthy Abolitionist offered a handsome prize for the best essay, of moderate size, against annexation. Some wag, and I think it was my old friend Elizur Wright, then editor of the Boston Chrono

type newspaper, but better known in the literary republic as the translator of La Fontaine's fables, announced that the prize had been awarded to an essay which consisted, as this article of mine is to consist, of two chapters, but which, very unlike this article of mine, was composed of but two words, viz. :

Chapter I. Tex-ns.
Chapter II. Tax-es.

I am resolved that my article on Homœopathy shall consist of two chapters-two doses would, perhaps, be the more appropriate term, considering the nature of the subject; but what will be the length of either I will hazard no prophecy. One may be long-a sort of Allopathic doseand the other short and sweet, like a Homœopathic pellet; or, as Artemus Ward might say, vice versa. One thing, however, is fixed "as firm as Ailsa rock," and that is, that my first chapter shall begin in Salem, proceed to Boston, and conclude in Washington. Like the parson who took for his text "the flesh, the world, and the devil," and informed his astonished audience that he should "dwell briefly in the flesh, pass rapidly over the world, and hasten as fast as he could to the devil," I announce this threefold division of Chapter I.

In his witty way the poet Burns asserts of smuggle, and attempted to smuggle homeward something true that it's

"As sure's the deil's in hell

Or Dublin city."

That Washington resembles Dublin in at least one particular, I think that no expert, be he Homœopath or Allopath, will venture to deny. With this brief “doch an' dorrach" I begin my narrative excursion, starting from

SALEM.

In Salem, then, and in the counting-room of that honest man, "merchant prince," and true Christian, the late Michael Shepard, let this history commence. Mr. Shepard was largely engaged in East India commerce, particularly with that other "merchant prince," the Imaum of Muscat, royal in rank, and almost as royal in character as his Salem compeer. It was he who sent, through Mr. Shepard, to President Van Buren, certain Arabian horses of the highest nobility of equine blood; and to Mr. Shepard himself he was ever transmitting the pleasantest testimonials of his regard-sometimes in the shape of Mocha coffee that my mouth waters over as I remember its rare flavor and sapor; sometimes in the form of dates so delicious that even "ladies of uncertain age," to whom all common dates are dreadful, might love to hear them named. In short, the Imaum, "may his shadow never be less!" was a very clever fellow.

Prosperity did not harden Mr. Shepard's heart. He always took a personal and affectionate interest in every officer who sailed his ships, and in every man whom those officers commanded. | Those who served him faithfully served him long; the best the longest. Be he captain, with Caucasian fairness of complexion, or cook, with the burned skin of Ethiopia, Mr. Shepard watched over his welfare with paternal vigilance, remembering the far-off sailor, and not forgetting the dear ones whom he left behind.

Among these objects of Mr. Shepard's regard was an old negro, who had sailed for many years and many voyages in his employment as cook and steward. We will call him Cato; Scipio, Cæsar, or Cato, it makes no difference which. I beg his pardon, with all my heart, for having forgotten his real name; and among the classic pseudonyms I have no choice:

"Tros, Tyriusve, nullo mihi discrimine habebo." And so we will call this Ethiop Cato.

Is it not odd that the old Greeks and Romans, from Homer to Ovid, should have fancied that the negro complexion was occasioned by that rash boy Phaeton's driving the Chariot of the Sun too near the Equinoctial, and thus roasting the natives into perpetual blackness?

"Sanguine tunc credunt in corpore summa vocato Æthiopum populos nigrum traxisse colorem!" Let no hasty reader imagine from my seemingly vagrant course of narrative that I, like Phaeton, have lost my way, or can not guide the frisky steeds of my memory or imagination. I know the path and whither it leads, and will now return to the highway of my story.

a bale of brilliant Madras handkerchiefs; and a baleful speculation did they prove to him. The custom-house officials at Salem were too vigilant for the success of Cato's enterprise. The handkerchiefs were seized, and so was he. Greatly to his surprise, Cato found himself raised to the dignity of defendant in the District Court, and held to bail in the sum of six thousand dollars. Mr. Shepard and another Salem merchant became his sureties.

My late lamented friend, Robert Rantoul, Jun., of Beverly, was then the United States District Attorney; a man whom I knew well and loved much, and whose sudden death I mourned with such tears as men seldom shed over any but their own flesh and blood; a man of rare natural endowments, and of acquisitions still more rare; one of the illustrious Essex County THREE-Choate, Cushing, Rantoul; and by no means the least of the three-brave, honest, true, and, like Bayard himself, "sans peur, et sans reproche;" and who was struck down in the midst of a brilliant career, at an hour when the country seemed most to need his services, by one of those mysterious providential dispensations which overwhelm all hearts with grief, set at naught all our philosophy, and subject our faith to the most trying ordeal.

66

His career as a politician was successful; but although he was learned in the law, and, when he threw himself into a case, tried it with consummate ability, he had not what is called a legal mind; and, as Judge Wilde, of the Massachusetts Supreme Bench, once said of him to me, Although he tried a case well, he tried it like a layman, not like a lawyer." His practice, therefore, was never very large, and he owed his appointment as District Attorney to his political standing rather than to his position at the bar. His integrity was beyond question; but a want of method sometimes involved himself and others in perplexity and embarrassment.

In Cato's case Mr. Rantoul, being satisfied that it was the first, and would be the last offense, agreed to discharge the defendant on easy terms-the payment of costs and a penalty of three hundred dollars. The money was paid, a simple receipt given for it, and satisfaction of the claim ought to have been entered on the records of the court. But this entry Mr. Rantoul forgot to make, and the case stood open, and was continued from term to term, and year to year, until Mr. Rantoul's death.

A new District Attorney succeeded, longo intervallo, to Mr. Rantoul's office and docket in the person of Benjamin F. Hallett, another remarkable man, of whom, as well as of Mr. Rantoul, I have a hundred interesting reminiscences, which I will, God willing and editors consenting, embody some time in a chapter, or series of chapters, for Harper.

Under Mr. Hallett's administration the case of United States vs. Cato was reached and put upon the trial list, and one day called; but, In an hour of weakness Cato was tempted to though the crier of the Court could, like Glen

66

WASHINGTON.

dower, "call spirits from the vasty deep," yet in | for his imposition on me, might safely venture his case, as in that of the choleric Welshman, upon a similar excursion to Rattlesnake Hill. they would not come when he did call." Cato was called, but as he happened at that moment I reached Washington late on Saturday night, to be drinking a whisky toddy just under the lee drove wearily to the " Chargehigh Hotel," and of the island of Perim, in the Straits of Bab-el- was shown directly to my "reserved room" on Mandeb, he neither heard nor answered the call, the second floor. The night was cold and blusand was thereupon defaulted. In due course tering, the worst weather of the latter end of of time the Bail, who had for years forgotten March. The room was small. No fire-place or the suit, well knowing it had been adjusted, stove offered its grateful welcome. The one were astonished by a notice from the new Dis-solitary window was wide open. I closed the trict Attorney, informing them that they were window, and being too tired and sleepy to make liable to be sued for six thousand dollars. Mr. complaint that night, I went to bed. Before I Shepard, not at all comprehending the reason slept, however, I again opened the window, nor of this notice, came at once to did I dare to shut it again that night. I will not infect or incense my readers by dwelling on

BOSTON,

and placed the matter in my hands for investi- the annoyances of that long night of horrors. gation.

Years afterward, when I read of the poison epidemic that decimated the "National," I recalled the mephitic atmosphere of the cell I occupied that night in the "Chargehigh House."

I soon ascertained to my own satisfaction, and that of Mr. Hallett, that the money agreed upon had been paid to Mr. Rantoul, but that not a tittle of evidence existed to prove that Mr. Rantoul had accounted for it to the Govern-ness of poison and fever in every drop of blood

ment.

I rose early, and rose with a full conscious

in my veins. The hours dragged heavily along. I had no appetite, and breakfast disgusted me. My head ached. I had a sense of weariness and pain, “Zerschlagenheitsschmerz,” as our German polyglots so well call it, in every joint

Under these circumstances, with my client's approval, I offered to pay once more the sum of three hundred dollars to the United States, together with costs to Mr. Hallett, to be taxed at fifty dollars, and have the satisfaction of judg-and limb. At times my heart seemed too big ment "entered of record." Mr. Hallett, who was essentially a good-natured man, felt all the hardship of this case, and was inclined to accept my proposition. But he hesitated to take the responsibility, and desired that I should first obtain the sanction of the Solicitor of the Treasury at Washington, to whom he gave me a letter requesting the desired authority.

for my breast, and the blood galloped through my veins with pulsations that smote on my brain like the footfalls of a squadron of horse at full charge.

In this feverish condition I remembered that my former friend and college classmate, the Rev. Stephen A. G. Collis (“stat nominis umbra”), was pastor of one of the metropolitan churches, and my heart warmed toward him with a return of the old, boyish, college affection. I recollected

The Solicitor was a young Western lawyer with whom I had no acquaintance. But the Attorney-General, Hon. Caleb Cushing of Mas-him as one of the finest writers and declaimers sachusetts (another of "the Essex Three"), was a in the University. He had gained the reputagentleman whom I knew well. Mr. Shepard was tion of a pulpit orator of uncommon merit. I also acquainted with Mr. Cushing, and fancied had often longed to hear him preach; and so I that, instead of writing to him or to the Solic-yielded to my wish. I ought to have sent for a itor, it would be well for me to visit the Federal physician; I went for a parson. I ought to have capital, and obtain a personal interview with gone to bed; I went to church. Had I sent for those gentlemen; thus hastening the decision, a doctor, it would have been Dr. Lyndesay, the and perhaps determining its character. I agreed allopathic practitioner, whom I had known some to go at my earliest leisure; and to insure toler-fifteen years before as the partner of Dr. Sewall; erable quarters in that then crowded institution, and in that case this article on Homœopathy "Chargehigh House," I telegraphed the hotel would never have been written, and I should clerk to secure me a comfortable apartment, and have lost some of the pleasantest scenes of my was promised one to my "entire satisfaction." life. His rascality cost me a fever, but I have long The bell had nearly done tolling as I reached since forgiven him. If, however, his own con- the church, and took my seat, under the sexscience forgives him without at least two bar-ton's pilotage, in the pastor's pew. The Rev. rels of penitential tears, it must be one of those Stephen-"Saint Stephen" we used to call him consciences," easy as old Tilly," which smart under no affront, and take offense at no outrage. It is said that a well-fattened porker may pass unharmed through a den of rattlesnakes, grunting with undisturbed serenity while a dozen of those crotaline monsters are striking their fangs, with idle rage, into the adipose matter with which he is armed "in panoply complete." The conscience of that clerk, if it stung him not

at "old Brown"-Saint Stephen, as I sat down, was occupied in arranging the lessons of the morning, and did not see me come in; nor indeed did he once look up until I had had full five minutes' opportunity to study his honest and pleasant face. I had not seen him for fifteen years, and time and trial had written their touching records in many a line around the mouth and eyes, had thinned the hair upon his temples,

It is, at best, a sad and dismal thing to be sick away from one's real home, and from the family who cherish his life and health as their own. But here, with Stephen and his loving circle of friends, the affliction was rendered as light as possible, and I felt, in the language of Scripture, that "my lines had fallen to me in

and stolen the morning glow of youth from his | from New England, "Miss Lizzie," seemed to cheeks. As I gazed on the countenance thus emulate and outvie each other in their endeavchanged, yet still familiar, Saint Stephen looked ors to make me feel at home. up and cast his eyes slowly around upon the congregation. I watched the progress of his glance until it rested upon me. No sun-flash ever lit up a morning cloud with a sweeter radiance than that which now glorified the face of my friend. He sprang instantly to his feet, hurried down the pulpit stairs, and approaching me with rapid steps, to the manifest astonish-pleasant places." ment of his entire congregation, seized me by both hands, and gave me a welcome as loud, hearty, and demonstrative as though we were standing by his own hearth. This greeting was very delightful, but somewhat embarrassing, and I felt considerably relieved when, at the end of some two minutes, during which time, as one of my country neighbors used to say, we had been "the centre of a focus," the enthusiasm of my friend subsided, and he returned to his pulpit.

My attention and the regards of the whole assembly were soon concentrated on the appropriate exercises of the morning service, every part of which was "beautiful exceedingly." The sermon was rich with thought, brilliant with illustration, and full of tender pathos. Its subject was "the Baptism of our Lord." The preacher, with exquisite grace, described and reproduced the scene. The waters of Jordan flowed before our eyes; we saw ten thousand men, women, and children clustered on its banks beneath that glorious sky of Palestine, and underneath the shadows of tree and vine of Oriental strangeness. We saw our Lord descending into the watery grave of baptism; and, as he rose with radiant face from Jordan, the celestial dove fluttered around his head, and a voice from heaven was heard declaring, "This is my beloved Son!" How my blood thrilled as he closed this description by the eloquent exclamation: "Here, for the first time in the history of man, did God in each of the three persons of his Godhead make himself manifest to human sense-the Son incarnate, the Holy Ghost resting visibly on his head, and the voice of the Father Almighty sounding aloud from the sky above!"

66

I struggled hard with my illness, and would not be sick; at least I would not succumb to my fever until I had called on the Attorney-General and put my business in such a train that all anxiety on that score should be removed from my feverish mind. Mr. Cushing I knew to be a business man in the best New England sense of the term; at his office early and late, devoting himself to its duties with an incumbent application and enthusiasm of industry which have always characterized this extraordinary man as scholar, lawyer, politician, judge, and statesman.

I called at his office at 9 o'clock Monday morning and inquired for "General Cushing.' "Are you a member of Congress, Sir ?" asked the door-keeper. "No." "Then you can not see him until after 12 o'clock," replied the man. "I think I can," said I, "as I have come from Massachusetts for that very purpose. Show him my card."

The next minute Mr. Cushing had me by the hand, and greeted me in such fashion that to this day my pulse quickens at the recollection. "My dear fellow"-those were his first and very words-"My dear fellow, you ought not to be here, you are in a raging fever; you ought to be in bed, and under a doctor's care."

"I can not afford to be sick, General," said I, "until you know my errand here." In less than three minutes I told him Mr. Shepard's story, and had this generous answer, "Give me Mr. Hallett's letter to the Solicitor; by 12 o'clock the whole thing shall be arranged; and do you go directly home to your excellent classmate's; go to bed, and send for a doctor. You shall hear from me this afternoon." I obeyed him. He is a man to be obeyed always; but when, as in this case, his imperial eye was bright with

solicitude spoke in every tone, obedience was the pleasantest of duties. I obeyed him, and he kept his promise. He attended at once to my case, and within the specified time a note from him informed me that my business was all arranged, and that I had only to "get well as fast as possible."

After church Stephen and I again met and opened our hearts to each other; lived o'er the past, and were again young and joyous colle-kindness, and the sweet authority of friendly gians. He found that I was ill, and insisted, with an earnestness that could not be resisted, on my coming at once, bag and baggage," to his house. 66 "My wife," said he, "will be delighted to see you; she is a warm-hearted Southern woman, and makes my friends her own." I yielded, not unwillingly, to his hospitable entreaties, and in another hour had transferred myself and "traps" from the mephitic den of "mine inn," to a well warmed and spacious chamber in the admirably appointed establishment of my old friend.

My reception there was most hearty and delightful. Husband, and wife, and three pretty children, and a demure young lady, a niece,

I went to bed. My Southern hostess had spread the bed with linen sheets-fine, soft, and snowy. But Miss Lizzie, with shrewd sagacity, foreseeing that in my feverish state the touch of linen would produce "a chill"-one of those horrid premonitory typhoidal agues which are so near akin to death-interposed gently in my behalf, and substituted cotton. In that one lit