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historical mind in all the grandeur of its proportions, and before his devout mind in all the cnergy of its mysterious suggestions?.

Connecticut was not alone, then, in moulding the future annalist of the New World. Massachusetts' share comes next; and, after an interval of five years, we find him right under the shadow of Harvard, as pastor of the First Congregationalist church at Cambridge. He found Greek in high honor under President Willard, who, loving mathematics and astronomy as well as he loved Homer and Demosthenes, could see no reason why literature and science should not live together in harmonious appreciation. What a change from the semi-exile of Midway! By-and-by the great Unitarian movement begins its brilliant career, imposing new tasks and involving severe trials for the son of orthodox Yale. But he believed that it was not without a direct purpose that Christ said, "In my Father's house are many mansions," and held bravely and firmly and charitably the course which his conscience enjoined.

Another and one of the bitterest of life's sorrows had befallen him. His wife died, and, although time brought its consolations, the tears that he shed at her grave left, as such tears always do, traces that are never effaced. Mysterious wings hovered over him when he stood .once more before the altar. There could be no present or future for him now, in which the past had not its part. And thus the years glided away, neither too swiftly nor too slowly, but maturing precious fruit both for his here and his hereafter.

The "Annals" had been written and published, and accepted as authority. His name had become permanently associated with American history. Men quoted him with confidence in the accuracy of his statements and the diligence with which he had studied his facts. Let us remember, too, that this is the first authoritative work from an American pen which covered the whole field of American history, beginning with Columbus and coming down to

the author's own times. Let us remember it, too, as no slight proof of his qualifications, that he wrote annals, and not a history. The time for history was not yet come, for the connection of events was not yet seen. But the nation wished to know, year by year, how it had grown up from colonies to States; to know more familiarly the names and acts of its great men. And he told them, and told them so fully, that it may well be doubted whether the work can ever be done again in this form. The history is not yet written, but the annals are. He has bridged over the chasm which separates us from Columbus and the Cabots and the Mayflower. Future annalists may reëdit, may fill up the inevitable gaps which the publication of new and fuller documents has revealed; they may, and must, continue him; but if they are wise, they will begin where he left off, and not waste their time in trying to do over again what he has done so thoroughly and so well.

How clearly he saw the grandeur of his subject! “A New World has been discovered, which has been receiving inhabitants from the Old more than three hundred years. A new empire has arisen, which has been a theatre of great actions and stupendous events. That remarkable discovery, those events and actions, can now be accurately ascertained, without recourse to such legends as have darkened and disfigured the early annals of most nations." This is surely a very dignified exposition of his subject.

And for his method. "It has been uniformly my aim to trace facts, as much as possible, to their source. Original authorities, therefore, when they could be obtained, have always had preference." You feel that this is true; and how unconscious he seems all the while of the wide range of research and reading that he really claims for himself. As he conceives it, it is the historian's duty, and he makes no boast of doing his duty. Dwell for a moment on the next sentence, and see with what exquisite simplicity he apologizes for his learning a healthy example, not always

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followed by his successors. "Some authors of this character wrote in foreign languages; and this circumstance may be an apology for the occasional introduction of passages that will not be generally understood. . . The numerous references may have the appearance of superfluity, perhaps of ostentation." No; not in you, sincere and single-hearted man! "Professions of impartiality," he continues, "are of little significance. Although not conscious of having recorded one fact without such evidence as was satisfactory to my own mind, or of having suppressed one which appeared to come within the limits of my design, yet I do not flatter myself with the hope of exemption from error."

Errors will, indeed, creep in, despite the historian's care and love of truth; but you, at least, will not hesitate to accept the correction as a kind office, and the corrector as a friend. "It is but just, however, to observe, that, had I possessed the requisite intelligence, more names of eminence would have been introduced, more ancient settlements noticed, and the States in the Federal Union more proportionally respected. For any omissions, or other faults which have not this apology, the extent of the undertaking may obtain some indulgence."

These lines were written on the 10th of October, 1805. Twenty-three years afterwards, he wrote the preface to his enlarged edition, and told how the "additions, which have been made to the libraries in Cambridge and Boston within the last twenty years, have furnished me with new sources of historical information, and with facilities for making use of them."

While he was thus continuing his lifework with the same ardor with which he had begun it, what changes were going on around him! The population of the country had risen from a little below four millions to nearly thirteen. New territories had been formed out of forests, and new States out of territories. The flag of the Union was to be found on every sea, her commerce in

every port; and-hardest task and greatest triumph of all—her Irving and her Cooper were printed and read and admired in England. Trumbull was still living, but McFingal, though not forgotten, was little known. The "Conquest of Canaan" had passed into the domain of literary curiosities, as a book to be known by its title-page, and found now and then on the shelves of some curious collector. The "Vision of Columbus" had expanded into the "Columbiad," and come forth in classic quarto; but, although brilliant with gilt and adorned with elaborate engravings, it slept quietly by the side of its sister epic. "Manibus date papavera plenis.” A new poetry had arisen. Bryant had written the Thanatopsis; Percival, the first number of Clio; Longfellow his earlier poems in the United States Literary Gazette; Willis his Scripture scenes; Dana both prose and verse, and too little of both. But, in his own field, the faithful annalist was still alone.

Nine more years were granted him, some of them years of pleasant labor in his favorite pursuits. New laborers had come, meanwhile, to join him in it. Pitkins had published his "Civil History of the United States." Bancroft's first volume had come to awaken expectations that have never been fulfilled. Sparks was laying deep and sure foundations for the "History of the Revolution." But, all the while, the value of the "Annals" grew more apparent, as the work of an earnest, laborious life, bearing witness throughout to the sound judgment, the sincere love of truth, the liberality of mind, and the unostentatious learning of its author.

And thus, having finished his appointed task, honored, respected, beloved, and full of years, he laid him calmly down at the touch of disease; and just as the bell which, through more than a quarter of a century, had summoned him weekly to the pulpit, was sending forth its Sabbath morning call, the eyes that had so often looked down from that pulpit with the tender yearnings of Christian love and the calm reliance of Christian faith, closed forever.

MUSIC IN NATURE.

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MUSIC is sometimes called the daughter of heavenly spheres; but if that is her true home, then men must have come from very different spheres, for in none of the arts do we meet with a greater variety of tastes. Chinese singing sounds to our ear like heart-rending squealing; and a Persian ambassador, not so very long ago, listened with delight to the tuning of instruments in the orchestra of the great opera at Paris, but lost his enthusiasm as soon as the overture began, and left the house disgusted with the discordant noises.

Nature does not guide us, for the sounds she produces differ mainly in the greater or lesser regularity with which they are repeated. The pattering of rain-drops on the roof is a spasmodic explosion of short dissonant notes; in the purling of a brook and the rustling of leaves, the transitions are softer and less sudden, while the howling of the wind presents sounds which change continually, rising and sinking gradually, but without regularity or rhythm. Hence the difference between mere noise and a sound. If we let a piece of wood fall on the ground, we hear a noise; but if we drop seven small pieces of equal size, but different thickness, in the same manner, we hear distinctly a regular scale, although each sound by itself does not produce a musical impression. The so-called strawfiddle, consisting of wooden staves which are struck with cork hammers, does not sound unpleasantly. The Chinese even string small pebbles on wires, and strike them in a prescribed order with a small mallet; the music is sweet enough to please even fastidious ears. In our orchestras also there are instruments the sole use of which is the marking of time by rhythmical noises; such are the cymbals, castanets, and kettle-drums.

Inorganic nature produces only noises -no musical sounds. The rolling thunder, the fury of the tempest, the rustling of leaves in a forest, the pleasant prattle of a mountain brook, and the mighty roar of the ocean-all these are nothing more than a mass of confused noises. It is only occasionally that mere accident lends to these sounds a musical character. Such were the utterances of the Memnon statue at the rising of the sun, and such are the sounds heard in the famous Fingal Cave on the island of Staffa. The rear of this cave is dark, and perfectly cut off from the outer world, while prismatic pillars of basalt form something which resembles

an organ. Upon penetrating to the farthest end of the cave, a wide opening is seen almost on a level with the surface of the water, from which harmonious sounds are heard whenever the waves wash over the edge, and water falls into the abyss beyond. It is this circumstance which has given the grotto in Welsh the name of Llaimhbinn, or Cave of Music.

In like manner, the winds of heaven may be forced to utter harmonious sounds by offering them a so-called Eolian harp, invented by Athanasius Kircher. The instrument consists simply of a wooden frame, with a thin sounding-board, and an arbitrary number of catgut strings stretched over two bridges near the small end. If this wind-harp, as it is often called, is placed in such a manner before a half-open window, or in an opening of a turret, that the current of air strikes it sideways, it sends forth a great variety of harmonious notes in several octaves. The telegraph-wires of our day produce, for like reasons, a humming noise, which is not always unmusical; but here electricity is said to lend its powerful aid.

The animal world abounds, on the

contrary, in countless noises, from the coarse and repulsive grunt to the exquisite music of accomplished songsters. Many animals, it is well known, learn to imitate human speech, but there remains always this difference between the speech of man and that of animals, that the voice of the former is free and at his command, while the latter cry and howl and sing as a matter of necessity. No animal utters a sound without being forced to do so by some affection, be it love or wrath or suffering. Even when birds hear a harp or a flute, and then begin to vie with their sounds, it is only because their imagination has been so violently excited that they cannot remain silent any longer. It has been said, that the same rule might apply to many a garrulous person, who cannot keep his mouth shut; but the resemblance is only on the surface.

On the other hand, it cannot be denied that most animals speak very intelligibly for each other. The warning cluck of the hen, the absurd gobbling of the wild turkey, the bell of the deer -all these voices are well understood by those for whom they are intended. It is true, they only convey sentiments, and not ideas, but in this they resemble the utterances of very young children. The storks of Europe assemble on convenient meadows, range themselves in large halfcircles, and listen to speeches delivered by their elders, or hold solemn council with each other. Awoodpecker laughs almost like a man; the mocking-bird literally mocks other animals by parodying their voices; and the cock of the barnyard converses with his hens, like a sultan in his harem. "We learn polite ness from the cock," says the Talmud, "for he caresses his little wife, and tries to win her affections. What does he say to her, do you think? He says: 'I'll buy you a dress long enough to trail on the ground.' And then he adds, shaking his head, 'May my comb drop off if I do not buy it when I have the money!'"

The various voices of animals have been discussed, till the books written on the subject would form a respectable

library. Much of what is said has no better foundation than the author's fancy; but it cannot be denied that certain individuals seem to have received from nature a keener ear for nature's sounds, and a power of making themselves understood by animals, which are denied to the majority of men. Jules Richard tells us of an humble official in a public hospital, who claimed to be able to converse with cats, dogs, and especially monkeys. The narrator received an invitation from him to accompany him to the Jardin des Plantes, and followed him to the barrier around the famous Monkey-house. The old man uttered a most extraordinary sound, deep down in his throat, and immediately four monkeys sat down in front of him; he spoke again, and three more came; he repeated the same sounds, and at last the whole population of the colossal cage sat in long rows before the strange man. Then he addressed them soberly and solemnly; the brutes crossed their hands on their knees, laughed, gesticulated, and-answered. When the old man at last made a motion to go away, the monkeys became evidently alarmed, and, upon his leaving the open space before the house, real cries of anguish were heard. The animals climbed up on the wires and poles, and looked after their friend from their vantage-ground as long as he could be seen.

Other animals have given concertsvery much against their will, it must be added. An old chronicle furnishes an account of one given at Brussels, in 1549, on the Sunday after Ascension, in honor of a miracle-working image of the Virgin. A man, dressed as a bear, played on an organ; the organ consisted of twenty cats. They were confined in separate cells, while their tails had strings fastened to them, which were twisted around the keys of the organ. Whenever the bear struck the latter, some of the tails were pulled, and their owners at once began to squeal piteously. Young pigs were in like manner forced to squeak for the pleasure of a French monarch in his sickness. In Antwerp the custom prevailed formerly,

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on St. Domergus' Day, to tie a host of small birds with their feet to the branches of a large tree which was placed in the chapel of the saint. During divine service, children were made to dance around and to try to catch the birds, which, of course, produced an atrocious noise; but the good people believed they afforded the saint a most delight ful enjoyment. Another instance of strange tastes in music is found in the famous work of the Jesuit Kircher, which he calls his "Musurgie." He describes the Aï of South America, and speaks enthusiastically of its voice, which, he says, consists of six beautiful clear notes in regular cadence. When the Spaniards first came to America, they thought there were people living in those forests who practised singing at night. "If music had been invented in America," he adds, "I should not hesitate to declare that it had originated with the marvellous song of this animal." The reverend father has a number of such pleasant surprises in his book. Thus he insists upon a perfect correspondence between the voice and the character of a man. Powerful bass voices, he says, belong, according to Aristotle, to asses only, since the ass has such a voice, and is impudent and disagreeable. Men Men whose voices begin low and then rise high, are angry and melancholy, like oxen; while a high voice, without strength, betrays a womanish disposition. Fortunately, he admits that the voice may be trained, and the character thus be improved.

Among animals, birds are most liberally endowed by nature in point of voice. Parrots, it is well known, imitate the human voice to perfection, but they repeat every thing they hear, and the stories about their superior intelligence are all more or less fabulous. A French sea-captain, who loved music without being able to distinguish correct or false notes, had a parrot, who sang after him the refrain of an old drinking song,

Quand je bois du vin clairet, Tout tourne au cabaret,

and copied the false notes of its master so faithfully, that he excited invariably the inexhaustible laughter of all who knew the bird and its owner. No man could ever have been able to sing so admirably false.

Birds which have a thick, rounded tongue, like the jay, the pie, and the raven, learn to speak more or less distinctly; while birds with cloven tongues learn more easily to whistle. Our American mocking-bird surpasses them all; he sings and speaks not only with equal facility, but imitates all noises, from the flute-like song of the nightingale to the rumbling of a heavilyladen cart on the pavement of a street, and even gesticulates at the time, as if he knew what he was doing. The nightingale is the queen of European birds; her song is unsurpassed in real beauty and sweetness of sound, and, withal, so loud that it reaches as far as the human voice. Pliny tells us that the sons of the Emperor Claudius owned several nightingales who spoke Greek and Latin, but they cannot have been the birds which bear that name now, for they are not known to learn to speak in our day. Next to the nightingale, the skylark is most highly praised in Europe, and deserves the popular esteem in which it is held, not only for the beauty and exuberant cheerfulness of its song, but also for the rare perseverance with which it sings almost uninterruptedly from early Spring to late in Autumn. The skylark sings only in the clear, blue ether; the higher it mounts, the greater efforts the brave little fellow makes to be heard, and finally it seems determined to verify the poet's words,

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, for its song is still audible when the tiny bird has long since vanished from sight. Hence, also, the pretty though fanciful imitation of the song by the French author, Du Bartas, who says.

La gentille alouette, avec son tirelire,
Tirelire, relire et tirelirant, tire

Vers la voûte du ciel; puis son vol en ce lieu
Vire et semble vous dire: adieu, adieu, adieu!

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