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Three Hundred Years
Hence

Mary Griffith

1836

Public Domain

EPUB version of this book: 300-years-hence.epub

Three Hundred Years Hence is a utopian science
        fiction novel by author Mary
        Griffith, published in 1836. It is the first known utopian
        novel written by an American woman. The novel was originally
        published in 1836 as part of Griffith’s collection,
        Camperdown, or News from Our Neighborhood, and later
        published by Prime Press in 1950 in an edition of 300
        copies.

Chapter I.

IT is seldom that men begin to muse and sit alone in the
        twilight until they arrive at the age of fifty, for until that
        period the cares of the world and the education of their young
        children engross all their thoughts. Edgar Hastings, our hero,
        at thirty years of age was still unmarried, but he had gone
        through a vast deal of excitement, and the age of musing had
        been anticipated by twenty years. He was left an orphan at
        fourteen, with a large income, and the gentleman who had the
        management of his estates proved faithful, so that when a person
        of talents and character was wanted to travel with the young
        man, a liberal recompense was at hand to secure his services.
        From the age of fourteen to twenty-one he was therefore
        travelling over Europe; but his education, instead of receiving
        a check, went on much more advantageously than if he had
        remained at home, and he became master of all the modern
        languages in the very countries where they were spoken. The last
        twelve months of his seven years’ tour was spent in England,
        being stationary in London only during the sitting of
        Parliament.

His talents thus cultivated, and his mind enlarged by liberal
        travel, he returned to America well worthy the friendship and
        attention of those who admire and appreciate a character of his
        stamp. He had not therefore been back more than a year, before
        his society was courted by some of the best men in the country;
        but previous to his settling himself into a home, he
        thought it but proper to travel through his own country also.
        His old friend, still at his elbow, accompanied him; but at the
        close of the excursion, which lasted nearly two years, he was
        taken ill of a fever caught from an exposure near the Lakes, and
        died after a few days’ illness.

Edgar Hastings was now entirely alone in the world, and he
        would have fallen into a deep melancholy, had he not engaged in
        politics. This occupied him incessantly; and, as his purse was
        ample and his heart liberally disposed, he found the demands on
        his time gradually increasing. He had occupations heaped upon
        him—for rich, disengaged, and willing, every body demanded his
        aid; and such were the enthusiasm and generosity of his nature,
        that no one applied in vain.

His first intention, on returning from his tour through his
        own country, was to improve an estate he had purchased in
        Pennsylvania, promising himself an amiable and beautiful wife to
        share his happiness; but politics interfered, and left him no
        time even for the luxury of musing in the evening. But a man can
        get weary of politics as well as of any other hard up-hill work;
        so, at the end of seven years, seeing that the young trees which
        he had planted were giving shade, and that the house that they
        were to overshadow was not yet begun, he fell to musing. He
        wanted something, likewise, to love and protect—so he fell to
        musing about that. He wished to convert a brisk stream, that
        fell down the side of a hill opposite to the south end of his
        grounds, into a waterfall— so he fell to musing about that. He
        wanted to make an opening through a noble piece of woods that
        bounded the north side, that he might catch a view of the
        village steeple—so he fell to musing about that. A beautiful
        winding river lay in front of his estate, the bank of which
        sloped down to the water’s edge; this tranquillizing scene
        likewise operated on his feelings, so that politics faded away,
        and his mind became calm and serene. Thus it was, that at thirty
        years of age he had these fits of abstraction, and he became a
        muser.

Men of his age—sensible men—are not so easily pleased as
        those who are younger. He admired graceful, easy manners, and a
        polished mind, far before beauty or wealth; and thus fastidious,
        he doubted whether he should marry at all. Every now and then,
        too, an old bachelor feeling came over him, and he feared that
        when his beloved twilight found him sitting under the noble
        porticos which he intended to build, his wife would drag him
        away to some far distant route in the city; or that she would,
        untimely, fill the house with visiters. So, with all the
        dispositions in the world, he lived alone, though every fit of
        musing ended by finding a wife at his side, gazing on the dim
        and fading landscape with him.

While his house was building, he occupied a small stone farm
        house, at the extremity of the estate. Here he brought his
        valuable books and prints, well secured from damp and insects by
        aromatic oils; here did he draw his plans during the day, and
        here, under a small piazza, did he meditate in the evening,
        transferring his musings to the little parlour as soon as the
        damp evenings of autumn compelled him to sit within doors.

Adjoining his estate lived a quaker, by the name of Harley, a
        steady, upright man, loving his ease, as all quakers do, but
        having no objection to see his neighbours finer or wiser than
        himself. He took a fancy to our hero, and the beloved evening
        hour often found him sitting on the settee with Hastings, when,
        after enjoying together an animated conversation, he also would
        fall into the deep feeling which fading scenery, and the energy
        of such a character as his young friend’s, would naturally
        excite in a mind so tranquil as his own.

At length, the quiet quaker spoke of his daughter, but it was
        not with a view to draw Edgar’s attention; he mentioned her
        incidentally, and the young man was delighted. In a moment, his
        imagination depicted her as a beautiful, graceful, accomplished
        creature; and there could be no doubt that she was amiable and
        gentle; so he strolled over to his friend’s house, and was
        regularly introduced to her. She was beautiful, and amiable, and
        gentle—all this he saw at a glance; but, alas! she had no
        accomplishment farther than that she wrote an exquisitely clear,
        neat hand, and was an excellent botanist and florist. But
        “propinquity” softened down all objections. Every time he
        strayed away to Pine Grove the eligibilities of the match became
        more apparent, and his love of grace and polish of mind seemed
        to be of comparatively little importance, when he listened to
        the breathings of the innocent quaker, who thought all of beauty
        was in a flower, and who infinitely preferred the perfume of a
        rose or a lilac, to the smell of a dozen lamps in a crowded
        room. Her name was Ophelia, too.

Mr. Harley, or friend Harley as he was called, was nowise
        rigid in his creed; for the recent lawsuits between the Orthodox
        and Hicksite quakers had very much weakened his attachments to
        the forms of quakerism. He found that the irritable portion of
        his society had great difficulty in keeping hands off,
        and in preserving the decorum of their order. Peaceful feelings,
        equable temperaments, being the foundation—the cement, which,
        for so many years, had bound the fraternity together, were now
        displaced for the anger and turbulence so often displayed by
        other sects of Christians.

Litigations amongst themselves—the law—had done that which
        neither fine nor imprisonment, the derision nor impositions of
        other sects, could accomplish. The strong cement had cracked
        along the edge of the bulwarks, where strength was the most
        necessary, and the waters of discord and disunion were
        insinuating themselves into every opening. The superstructure
        was fast crumbling away, and friend Harley looked to the no very
        distant period when his posterity should cast off the quaker
        dress, and naturally follow the customs and obey the general
        laws which govern the whole body of Americans.

This was sensible Valentine Harley’s opinion and feeling; in
        rules of faith he had never been inducted—are there any quakers,
        apart from a few of their leaders, who can define what their
        religious faith is? So, although he loved the forms in which he
        had been educated—although he wore the quaker dress, and made
        his son and daughter do the same—yet when Edgar Hastings left
        off musing in the twilight, and was seen at that hour walking
        slowly down the glen, with Ophelia hanging on his arm, he only
        heaved a sigh, and wished that the young man said thee
        and thou. But this sigh was far from being a painful
        one; he felt that when the obscure grave, which shuts out all
        trace of the quaker’s place of rest, should close over him, his
        memory would live fresh and green in the heart of his daughter.
        Far more should he be reverenced, if he gave her gentle spirit
        to the strong arm, the highly gifted mind of such a man as Edgar
        Hastings, than if he compelled her to marry a man of their own
        order—to the one who was now preferring his suit, friend
        Hezekiah Connerthwaite, a rich, respectable, yet narrow minded
        and uneducated man.

That he consented to his daughter’s marriage willingly, and
        without an inward struggle, was a thing not to be expected; but
        he was too manly, too virtuous, to use a mean subterfuge with
        his sect that he might escape the odium which falls on the
        parent who allows his daughter to marry out of the pale. He
        would not suffer his child to wed clandestinely, when in reality
        his heart and reason approved of her choice; when her lover’s
        merits and claims, and her own happiness, strongly overbalanced
        his scruples. She might have married privately, and her father,
        thus rid of the blame of consenting to her apostacy, could, as
        usual, take his seat in their place of worship, without the fear
        of excommunication. But Valentine Harley scorned such duplicity
        and foolishness; Ophelia was therefore married under her
        father’s roof, and received her father’s blessing; and here, in
        this well regulated house, Edgar Hastings spent the first year
        of his wedded life. Here, too, his son was born; and now no
        longer a being without kindred or a home, he found how much
        happier were the feelings of a husband and father than those of
        a selfish, isolated being.

As he was building a spacious, elegant, and durable mansion,
        one that should last for many years, he went slowly to work. It
        was begun a year before his marriage, and it was not until his
        young son was three months old that he could remove his family,
        of which Mr. Harley now made a part, to their permanent home.
        The younger Harley, who had married and settled at a distance,
        being induced to come among them, again to take the property at
        Pine Grove, thus adding another link to the bond of friendship
        which this happy marriage had created. In the month of May the
        younger Harley was expected to take possession of his father’s
        house.

It was now February. The new house was completely furnished,
        and every thing ready for their removal as soon as Mr. Hastings
        returned from New York, where he had some business of importance
        to transact. As it called for immediate attention, he deferred
        unpacking his books, or indeed taking them from the farm house,
        until his return. It was with great reluctance that he left his
        wife, who grieved as if the separation was to last for years
        instead of a fortnight; but he was compelled to go, so after a
        thousand charges to take care of her health, and imploring her
        father to watch over her and his little boy, he once more
        embraced them and tore himself away. His wife followed him with
        her eyes until she saw him pass their new habitation, cross over
        the stile and turn the angle; here he stopped to take one more
        look at the spot where all he loved dwelt, and seeing the group
        still looking towards him, he waved his handkerchief, and a few
        steps farther hid him from their sight.

The farm house was at the extremity of the estate, and as it
        lay on the road leading to the ferry, he thought he would look
        at the fire which had been burning in the grate all the morning.
        Mr. Harley said he would extinguish it in the afternoon, and
        lock up the house, but still he felt a curiosity to see whether
        all was safe. His servant, with the baggage, had preceded him,
        and was now waiting for him at the boat; so he hurried in, and
        passed from the hall to the middle room, where the books were.
        Here he found an old man sitting, apparently warming himself by
        the still glowing coals, who made an apology for the intrusion,
        by saying that he was very cold, and seeing a fire burning, for
        he had looked in at the window, he made bold to enter.

Mr. Hastings bade him sit still, but the man said he was
        about to cross the ferry and must hurry on, observing that he
        thought there would be a great thaw before morning, “and in that
        case,” said he, pointing up to the hill, at the foot of which
        the house stood, “that great bank of snow will come down and
        crush the roof of this house.” Hastings looked up and saw the
        dangerous position of the snow bank, and likewise apprehending a
        thaw, he begged the man to hurry on and tell his servant to go
        over with his baggage, and get all things in readiness for him
        on the other side, and that he would wait for the next boat,
        which crossed in fifteen minutes after the other. He gave the
        poor man a small piece of money, and after he left the house
        Hastings wrote a note about the snow bank to Mr. Harley, which
        he knew that gentleman would see, as he was to be there in the
        afternoon. Knowing that he should hear the steam boat bell, and
        feeling cold, he drew an old fashioned chair, something in the
        form of an easy chair, and fell into one of his old fits of
        musing. He thought it would not be prudent to return to his
        family merely to say farewell again, even if there were time,
        but a melancholy would creep over him, as if a final
        separation were about to take place. In vain he tried to rouse
        himself and shake it off; he closed his eyes, as if by doing so
        he could shut out thought, and it did, for in less than five
        minutes he was fast asleep.

Chapter II.

HEARING a noise, he suddenly started up. It was dusk, and
        having lain long in one position, he felt so stiff as to move
        with difficulty; on turning his head, he saw two strangers
        looking at him with wonder and pity. “Is the steamboat ready?”
        exclaimed he, still confused with his long sleep. “Has the bell
        rung, gentlemen? Bless me, I have overslept myself—what o’clock
        is it? Why, it is almost dark—I am ashamed of myself.”

Finding, after one or two attempts, that he could not get up
        easily, the two strangers hastened forward and assisted him to
        rise. They led him to the door, but here the confusion of his
        mind seemed rather to increase than diminish, for he found
        himself in a strange place. To be sure, there lay the river, and
        the hills on the opposite shore still rose in grandeur; but that
        which was a wide river, now appeared to be a narrow stream; and
        where his beautiful estate lay, stretching far to the south, was
        covered by a populous city, the steeples and towers of which
        were still illuminated by the last rays of the sun.

“Gentlemen,” said the bewildered man, “I am in a strange
        perplexity. I fell asleep at noon in this house, which belongs
        to me, and after remaining in this deep repose for six hours I
        awoke, and find myself utterly at a loss to comprehend where I
        am. Surely I am in a dream, or my senses are leaving me.”

“You are not dreaming, neither is your mind wandering; a
        strange fate is yours,” said the elder of the two young men.
        “When you are a little more composed we will tell you how all
        this has happened; meantime, you must come with me; I shall take
        you where you will find a home and a welcome.”

“What is your name,” said the astonished Hastings, “and how
        have I been transported hither.”

“My name is Edgar Hastings,” said the young man; “and I feel
        assured that yours is the same. If I thought you had sufficient
        fortitude to hear the strange events which have occurred, I
        would tell you at once; but you had better come with me, and
        during the evening you shall know all.”

Hastings suffered himself to be led by the two strangers, as
        he felt cramped and chilly; but every step he took revived some
        singular train of thought. As he proceeded, he saw what appeared
        to be his own house, for the shape, dimensions and situation
        were like the one he built, and the distance and direction from
        his farm house was the same. What astonished him most was the
        trees; when he saw them last they were silver pines, chestnuts,
        catalpas, locusts and sycamores—now the few that remained were
        only oak and willow; they were of enormous size, and appeared
        aged.

“I must wait, I see,” said poor Hastings, “for an explanation
        of all this; my hope is, that I am dreaming. Here lie trees
        newly felled, immense trees they are, and they grew on a spot
        where I formerly had a range of offices. I shall awake
        to-morrow, no doubt,” said he, faintly smiling, “and find myself
        recompensed for this miserable dream. Pray what is your
        name?”—turning to the younger of the two men.

“My name is Valentine Harley, and I am related to this
        gentleman; our family have, at intervals, intermarried, for
        upwards of three hundred years.”

“Valentine Harley!” exclaimed Hastings, “that is the name of
        my wife’s father. There never was any of the name of Valentine,
        to my knowledge, but his; and I did not know that there was
        another Edgar Hastings in existence, excepting myself and my
        young son.”

They were now in front of the house—the massive north portico
        had been replaced by another of different shape; the windows
        were altered; the vestibule, the main hall, the staircase, no
        longer the same—yet the general plan was familiar, and when they
        opened the door of a small room in the north wing, he found it
        exactly to correspond with what he had intended for his
        laboratory.

After persuading him to take some refreshments, they
        conducted him to his chamber, and the two young men related to
        the astonished Hastings what follows. We shall not stop to speak
        of his surprise, his sufferings, his mortal agony—nor of the
        interruptions which naturally took place; but the group sat up
        till midnight. It is needless to say that not one of the three
        closed his eyes the remainder of the night.

“Early this morning,” began the younger Edgar Hastings—“and
        be not dismayed when I tell you, that instead of the 15th of
        February, 1835, it is now the 15th of April, 2135—several of us
        stood looking at some labourers who were at work cutting a
        street through the adjoining hill. Our engines had succeeded in
        removing the trees, rocks and stones, which lay embedded in the
        large mounds of earth, and about ten o’clock the street, with
        the exception of the great mass which covered your farm house,
        was entirely cut through to the river. This portion of it would
        have been also removed, but both from papers in my possession
        and tradition, a stone building, containing many valuable
        articles, was supposed to be buried there, by the fall of the
        hill near which it stood.

“To extend the city, which is called Hamilton, my property,
        or rather, I should say, your property, was from time to time
        sold, till at length nothing remains in our possession but this
        house and a few acres of ground; the last we sold was that strip
        on which your farm house stands. It was with great reluctance
        that I parted with this portion, as I could not but consider it
        as your sepulchre, which in fact it has proved to be.

“When they commenced cutting through the hill the top was
        covered with large oaks, some of which, when sawed through,
        showed that they were upwards of a century old; and one in
        particular, which stood on the boundary line, had been
        designated as a landmark in all the old title deeds of two
        hundred years’ standing.

“About three hours before you were liberated the workmen came
        to a solid stratum of ice, a phenomenon so extraordinary, that
        all the people in the vicinity gathered to the spot to talk and
        ponder over it. An aged man, upwards of ninety, but with his
        faculties unimpaired, was among the number present. He said,
        that in his youth his great grandfather had often spoken of a
        tradition respecting this hill. It was reported to have been
        much higher, and that a ravine, or rather a precipitous slope, a
        little below the road, was quite filled up by the overthrow of
        the hill. That the fall had been occasioned by an earthquake,
        and the peak of the hill, after dislodging a huge rock, had
        entirely covered up a stone building which contained a large
        treasure. He very well remembered hearing his aged relative say,
        that the hill was covered with immense pines and chestnuts.

“The truth of part of this story was corroborated by ancient
        documents in my possession, and I hastened to my library to
        search for some old family papers, which had been transmitted to
        me with great care. I soon found what I wanted, and with a map
        of the estate, in which, from father to son, all the alterations
        of time had been carefully marked down, I was able to point out
        the exact spot on which the old stone farm house stood. In a
        letter from a gentleman named Valentine Harley, which, with
        several from the same hand, accompanied the different maps, an
        account was given of the avalanche which buried the house and
        filled up the ravine and gap below. As the originals were likely
        to be destroyed by time, they had been copied in a large book,
        containing all the records of the family, which, from period to
        period, receive the attestation of the proper recording officer,
        so that you may look upon these documents as a faithful
        transcript of every thing of moment that has occurred within the
        last three hundred years. It was only last November that I
        entered an account of the sale of this very strip of land in
        which the stone house lay.

“Here is the first thing on record—a letter, as I observed,
        from the father-in-law of Edgar Hastings, my great ancestor—but
        I forget that it is of you he speaks. Believe me, dear sir, that
        most deeply do we sympathize with you; but your case is so
        singular, and the period in which all this suffering occurred is
        so very remote, that your strong sense will teach you to bear
        your extraordinary fate like a man. Allow me to read the letter;
        it is directed to James Harley, son to the above mentioned
        Valentine Harley.

“’Second month, 17th, 1834. My dear son—Stay where thou art,
        for thy presence will but aggravate our grief. I will give thee
        all the particulars of the dreadful calamity which has befallen
        us. I have not yet recovered from the shock, and thy sister is
        in the deepest wo; but it is proper that thou shouldst know the
        truth, and there is no one to tell thee but myself. On Monday
        the 15th, my dear son Edgar Hastings took a tender farewell of
        thy sister and his babe, shaking hands with me in so earnest and
        solemn a manner, that one prone to superstition would have said
        it was prophetic of evil. We saw him walk briskly along the road
        until the angle, which thou knowest is made by the great hill,
        shut him from our sight; but just before he turned the angle he
        cast a look towards the house wherein all his treasure lay, and
        seeing that we were watching his steps, he waved his
        handkerchief and disappeared. His intention, thou knowest, was
        to proceed to New York; Samuel, his faithful servant, was to
        accompany him, and had gone forward in the carriage with the
        baggage, as Edgar preferred to walk to the boat. Thy poor sister
        and myself stood on the old piazza waiting until the little
        steamboat—it was the Black Hawk—should turn the great bend and
        appear in sight, for it was natural, thou knowest, to linger and
        look at the vessel which held one so dear to us both. It was the
        first time that thy sister had been separated from Edgar, and
        she stood weeping silently, leaning on my arm, as the little
        steamboat shot briskly round the bend and appeared full in
        sight. Thou must recollect that the channel brings the boat
        nearly opposite the stone farm house, and even at that distance,
        although we could not distinguish features or person, yet we
        fancied we saw the waving of a handkerchief. At that instant the
        Black Hawk blew up, every thing went asunder, and to my
        affrighted soul the boat appeared to rise many feet out of the
        water. I cannot paint to thee our agony, or speak of the
        profound grief, the unextinguishable grief, of thy dear sister;
        she lies still in silent wo, and who is there, save her Maker,
        who dares to comfort her.

“’I told thee in a previous letter, written I believe on the
        12th, that I apprehended a sudden thaw. I mentioned my fears to
        our dear Edgar, and with his usual prudence he gave orders to
        strengthen some of the embankments below the ravine. Among other
        things I thought of his valuable books and instruments, which
        still remained in the stone farm house, and that very afternoon
        I intended to have them removed to Elmwood. At the instant the
        dreadful explosion took place, the great snow bank, which thou
        recollectest lay above the house in the hollow of the hill, slid
        down and entirely covered the building; and, in another second,
        the high peak of the hill, heavily covered with large pines,
        fell down and buried itself in the ravine and gap below. The
        building and all its valuable contents lie buried deep below the
        immense mass of earth, but we stop not in our grief to care for
        it, as he who delighted in them is gone from us for ever.

“’Thy sister, thy poor sister, when the first horrible shock
        was over, would cling to the hope that Edgar might be spared,
        and it was with the greatest difficulty that I could prevent her
        from flying to the spot where the crowd had collected. Alas! no
        one lived to tell how death had overtaken them. Of the five
        persons engaged on board, three of their bodies have since been
        found; this was in dragging the water. It seems there were but
        few passengers, perhaps only our beloved Edgar, his poor servant
        Samuel, and one or two others. An old man was seen to enter the
        boat just as she was moving off; his body was found on the bank,
        and on searching his pockets a small piece of silver, a quarter
        of a dollar, was taken out, which I knew in a moment; it was
        mine only an hour before, and had three little crosses deeply
        indented on the rim, with a hole in the centre of the coin; I
        made these marks on it the day before, for a particular purpose;
        I could therefore identify the money at once. About an hour
        before Edgar left us, thinking he might want small silver, I
        gave him a handful, and this piece was among the number. He must
        have given it to the man as soon as he got on board, perhaps for
        charity, as the man was poor, and probably had begged of him.
        This at once convinced me that our dear Edgar was in the fatal
        boat. We have made every exertion to recover the body, but are
        still unsuccessful; nor can we find that of our poor faithful
        Samuel. The body of the horse was seen floating down the river
        yesterday; and the large trunk, valueless thing now, was found
        but this morning near the stone fence on the opposite shore.

“’There were some valuable parchments, title deeds, in a
        small leather valise, which our dear Edgar carried himself—but
        what do we care for such things now, or for the gold pieces
        which he also had in the same case. Alas! we think of nothing
        but of the loss of him, thy much valued brother. Edgar Hastings
        has been taken from us, and although thy poor sister is the
        greatest sufferer, yet all mourn.

“’Offer up thy prayers, my son, that God will please to spare
        thy sister’s reason; if that can be reserved, time will soften
        this bitter grief, and some little comfort will remain, for she
        has Edgar’s boy to nourish and protect. As to me, tranquil as I
        am compelled to be before her, I find that my chief pleasure, my
        happiness, is for ever gone. Edgar was superior to most men, ay,
        to any man living, and so excellent was he in heart, and so
        virtuous and upright in all his ways, that I trust his pure
        spirit has ascended to the Great Being who gave it.

“’Do not come to us just now, unless it be necessary to thy
        peace of mind; but if thou shouldst come, ask not to see thy
        sister, for the sight of any one, save me and her child, is most
        painful to her.

“’Kiss thy babe, and bid him not forget his afflicted
        grandfather. God bless thee and thy kind wife—Adieu, my son.

“‘Valentine Harley.’”

It need not be said that Edgar Hastings was plunged in
        profound grief at hearing this epistle read; his excellent
        father, his beloved wife, his darling child, were brought before
        him, fresh as when he last saw them; and now the withering
        thought came over him that he was to see them no more! After a
        few moments spent in bitter anguish, he raised his head, and
        motioned the young man to proceed.

“Meantime the workmen proceeded in their labours, and so
        great was the anxiety of all, that upwards of fifty more hands
        were employed to assist in removing the thick layer of ice which
        apparently covered the whole building. When the ice was removed,
        we came immediately to the crushed roof of the house, into which
        several of the labourers would have worked their way had we not
        withheld them. After placing the engines in front they soon
        cleared a road to the entrance, and by sundown Valentine Harley
        and myself stood before the doorway of the low stone farm
        house.

“It was not without great emotion that we came thus suddenly
        in view of a building which had lain under such a mass of earth
        for three centuries. We are both, I trust, men of strong and
        tender feelings, and we could not but sigh over the disastrous
        fate of our great ancestor, distant as was the period of his
        existence. We had often thought of it, for it was the story of
        our childhood, and every document had been religiously
        preserved. We stood for a few moments looking at the entrance in
        silence, for among other letters there were two or three,
        written late in life by your faithful and excellent wife—was not
        her name Ophelia?”

“It was, it was,” said the afflicted man; “go on, and ask me
        no questions, for my reason is unsteady.”

“In one of these letters she suggested the possibility that
        her beloved husband might have been buried under the ruins; that
        the thought had sometimes struck her; but her father believed
        otherwise. That within a few years an old sailor had returned to
        his native place, and as it was near Elmwood, he called on her
        to state that it was his firm belief that Mr. Hastings did not
        perish in the Black Hawk. His reason for this belief was, that
        on the way to the ship he encountered an old friend, just at
        that moment leaving the low stone building. ‘I wanted him,’ said
        the old sailor, ‘to jump in the wagon and go with me to the
        wharf, but he refused, as he had business on the other side of
        the river. Besides, said my friend, the gentleman within,
        pointing to the door, has given me a quarter of a dollar to go
        forward and tell the captain of the Black Hawk that he cannot
        cross this trip. This gentleman, he said, was Mr. Hastings.’

“Another letter stated—I think it was written by the wife of
        James Harley, your brother-in-law—that, in addition to the
        above, the old sailor stated, that the ship in which he sailed
        had not raised anchor yet, when they heard the explosion of the
        Black Hawk, of which fact they became acquainted by means of a
        little fishing boat that came along side, and which saw her blow
        up. He observed to some one near, that if that was the case, an
        old shipmate of his had lost his life. The sailor added
        likewise, that he had been beating about the world for many
        years, but at length growing tired, and finding old age creeping
        on him, he determined to end his days in his native village.
        Among the recitals of early days was the bursting of the Black
        Hawk and the death of Mr. Hastings, which latter fact he
        contradicted, stating his reasons for believing that you were
        not in the boat. The idea of your being buried under the ruins,
        and the dread that you might have perished with hunger, so
        afflicted the poor Lady Ophelia that she fell into a nervous
        fever, of which she died.”

“Say no more—tell me nothing farther,” said the poor
        sufferer; “I can listen no longer—good night—good night—leave me
        alone.”

The young men renewed the fire, and were about to depart,
        when he called them back.

“Excuse this emotion—but my son—tell me of him; did he
        perish?”

“No—he lived to see his great grandchildren all married: I
        think he was upwards of ninety when he died.”

“And what relation are you to him?”

“I am the great grandson of your great grandson,” said Edgar
        Hastings the younger; “and this young man is the eighth in
        descent from your brother, James Harley. We both feel respect
        and tenderness for you, and it shall be the business of our
        lives to make you forget your griefs. Be comforted, therefore,
        for we are your children. In the morning you shall see my wife
        and children. Meantime, as we have not much more to say, let us
        finish our account of meeting you, and then we trust you will be
        able to get a few hours’ rest.”

“Rest!” said the man who had slept three hundred years, “I
        think I have had enough of sleep; but proceed.”

“When the thought struck us that your bones might lie under
        the ruins, we did not wish any common eye to see them; we
        therefore dismissed the workmen, and entered the door by
        ourselves. We came immediately into a square hall, at the end of
        which was the opening to what is called in all the papers the
        middle room; the door had crumbled away. The only light in the
        room proceeded from a hole which had been recently made by the
        removal of the ice on the roof, but it was sufficient to show
        the contents of the room. We saw the boxes, so often mentioned
        in all the letters, nine in number, and four large cases, which
        we supposed to be instruments. The table and four chairs were in
        good preservation, and on the table lay the very note which you
        must have written but a few minutes before the ice covered you.
        On walking to the other side of the room, the light fell on the
        large chair in which you were reclining.

“‘This is the body of our great ancestor,’ said Valentine
        Harley, ‘and now that the air has been admitted it will crumble
        to dust. Let us have the entrance nailed up, and make
        arrangements for giving the bones an honourable grave.’

“‘Unfortunate man,’ said I; ‘he must have perished with
        hunger—and yet his flesh does not appear to have wasted. It is
        no doubt the first owner of our estate, and he was buried in the
        fall of the ice and hill. The old sailor was right. His cap of
        sealskin lies at the back of his head, his gloves are on his
        lap, and there is the cameo on his little finger, the very one
        described in the paper which offered that large reward for the
        recovery of his body. The little valise lies at his feet — how
        natural—how like a living being he looks; one could almost fancy
        he breathes.’

“‘My fancy is playing the fool with me,’ said Valentine; ‘he
        not only appears to breathe, but he moves his hand. If we stay
        much longer our senses will become affected, and we shall
        imagine that he can rise and walk.’

“We stepped back, therefore, a few paces; but you may imagine
        our surprise, when you opened your eyes and made an attempt to
        get up. At length you spoke, and we hastened to you; our
        humanity and pity, for one so singularly circumstanced, being
        stronger than our fears. You know the rest. I picked up the
        valise, and there it lies.”

We shall draw a veil over the next two months of our hero’s
        existence. His mind was in distress and confusion, and he
        refused to be comforted; but the young men devoted themselves to
        him, and they had their reward in seeing him at length assume a
        tranquil manner—yet the sad expression of his countenance never
        left him. His greatest pleasure—a melancholy one it was, which
        often made him shed tears—was to caress the youngest child; it
        was about the age of his own, and he fancied he saw a
        resemblance. In fact, he saw a strong likeness to his wife in
        the lady who now occupied Elmwood, and her name being Ophelia
        rendered the likeness more pleasing. She had been told of the
        strange relationship which existed between her guest and
        themselves; but, at our hero’s request, no other human being was
        to know who he was, save Edgar Hastings the younger and his
        wife, and Valentine Harley. It was thought most prudent to keep
        it a secret from the wife of the latter, as her health was
        exceedingly delicate, and her husband feared that the
        strangeness of the affair might disturb her mind.

Behold our hero, then, in full health and vigour, at the ripe
        age of thirty-two, returning to the earth after an absence of
        three hundred years! Had it not been for the loss of his wife
        and son, and his excellent father, he surely was quite as
        happily circumstanced, as when, at twenty-one, he returned from
        Europe, unknowing and unknown. He soon made friends
        then, and but for the canker at his heart he could make
        friends again. He thought of nothing less than to appear before
        the public, or of engaging in any pursuit. His fortune, and that
        part of his father-in-law’s which naturally would have fallen to
        him, was now in the possession of this remote descendent. He was
        willing to let it so remain, retaining only sufficient for his
        wants; and his amiable relation took care that his means were
        ample.

To divert his mind, and keep him from brooding over his
        sorrows, his young relative proposed that they should travel
        through the different states. “Surely,” said he, “you must feel
        a desire to see what changes three hundred years have made. Are
        not the people altered? Do those around you talk, and dress, and
        live as you were accustomed to do?”

“I see a difference certainly,” said Hastings, “but less than
        I should have imagined. But my mind has been in such confusion,
        and my grief has pressed so heavily on my heart, that I can
        observe nothing. I will travel with you, perhaps it may be of
        service; let us set out on the first of May. Shall we go
        northward first, or where?”

“I think we had better go to New York,” said Edgar, “and then
        to Boston; we can spend the months of May, June and July very
        pleasantly in travelling from one watering place to another. We
        now go in locomotive cars, without either gas or steam.”

“Is that the way you travel now?” exclaimed Hastings.

“Yes, certainly; how should we travel? Oh, I recollect, you
        had balloons and air cars in your time.”

“We had balloons, but they were not used as carriages; now
        and then some adventurous man went up in one, but it was merely
        to amuse the people. Have you discovered the mode of navigating
        balloons?”

“Oh yes; we guide them as easily through the air, as you used
        to do horses on land.”

“Do you never use horses to travel with now?”

“No, never. It is upwards of a hundred years since horses
        were used either for the saddle or carriage; and full two
        hundred years since they were used for ploughing, or other
        farming or domestic purposes.”

“You astonish me; but in field sports, or horse racing, there
        you must have horses.”

The young man smiled. “My dear sir,” said he, “there is no
        such thing as field sports or horse racing now. Those brutal
        pastimes, thank heaven, have been entirely abandoned. In fact,
        you will be surprised to learn, that the races of horses, asses
        and mules are almost extinct. I can assure you, that they are so
        great a curiosity now to the rising generation, that they are
        carried about with wild beasts as part of the show.”

“Then there is no travelling on horseback? I think that is a
        great loss, as the exercise was very healthy and pleasant.”

“Oh, we have a much more agreeable mode of getting exercise
        now. Will you take a ride on the land or a sail on the
        water?”

“I think I should feel a reluctance in getting into one of
        your new fashioned cars. Do the steamboats cross at what was
        called the Little Ferry, where the Black Hawk went from when her
        boiler exploded?”

“Steamboats indeed! they have been out of use since the year
        1950. But suspend your curiosity until we commence our journey;
        you will find many things altered for the belter.”

“One thing surprises me,” said Hastings. “You wear the quaker
        dress; indeed, it is of that fashion which the gravest of the
        sect of my time wore; but you do not use the mode of speech—is
        that abolished among you?”

The young man, whom we shall in future call Edgar, laughed
        out. “Quaker!” said he; “why, my dear sir, the quakers have been
        extinct for upwards of two centuries. My dress is the fashion of
        the present moment; all the young men of my age and standing
        dress in this style now. Does it appear odd to you?”

“No,” said Hastings, “because this precise dress was worn by
        the people called Friends or Quakers, in my day—strange that I
        should have to use this curious mode of speech—my day! yes, like
        the wandering Jew, I seem to exist to the end of time. I see one
        alteration or difference, however; you wear heavy gold buckles
        in your shoes, the quakers wore strings; you have long ruffles
        on your hands, they had none; you wear a cocked hat, and they
        wore one with a large round rim.”

“But the women—did they dress as my wife does?”

“No.—Your wife wears what the old ladies before my time
        called a frisk and petticoat; it is the fashion of the
        year 1780. Her hair is cropped and curled closely to her head,
        with small clusters of curls in the hollow of each temple. In
        1835 the hair was dressed in the Grecian style—but you can see
        the fashion. You have preserved the picture of my dear Ophelia;
        she sat to two of the best painters of the day, Sully and
        Ingham; the one you have was painted by Ingham, and is
        in the gay dress of the time. The other, which her brother had
        in his possession, was in a quaker dress, and was painted by
        Sully.”

“We have it still, and it is invaluable for the sweetness of
        expression and the grace of attitude. The one in your room is
        admirable likewise; it abounds in beauties. No one since has
        ever been able to paint in that style; it bears examination
        closely. Was he admired as an artist in your day?”

“Yes; he was a distinguished painter, but he deserved his
        reputation, for he bestowed immense labour on his portraits, and
        sent nothing unfinished from his hands.”

“But portrait painting is quite out of date now; it began to
        decline about the year 1870. It was a strange taste, that of
        covering the walls with paintings, which your grandchildren had
        to burn up as useless lumber. Where character, beauty and grace
        were combined, and a good artist to embody them, it was well
        enough; a number of these beautiful fancy pieces are still
        preserved. Landscape and historical painting is on the decline
        also. There are no good artists now, but you had a delightful
        painter in your day—Leslie. His pictures are still considered as
        very great treasures, and they bring the very highest
        prices.”

“How is it with sculpture? That art was beginning to improve
        in my day.”

“Yes; and has continued to improve. We now rival the proudest
        days of Greece. But you must see all these things. The Academy
        of Fine Arts in Philadelphia will delight you; it is now the
        largest in the world. In reading an old work I find that in your
        time it was contemptible enough, for in the month of April of
        1833, the Academy of Fine Arts in that city was so much in debt,
        as to be unable to sustain itself. It was with the greatest
        difficulty that the trustees could beg a sum sufficient to pay
        the debts. The strong appeal that was made to the public enabled
        them to continue it a little longer in its impoverished
        condition, but it seems that it crumbled to pieces, and was not
        resuscitated until the year 1850, at which time a taste for the
        art of sculpture began to appear in this country.”

On the first of May the two gentlemen commenced their
        tour—not in locomotive engines, nor in steamboats, but in
        curious vehicles that moved by some internal machinery. They
        were regulated every hour at the different stopping places, and
        could be made to move faster or slower, to suit the pleasure of
        those within. The roads were beautifully smooth and perfectly
        level; and Hastings observed that there were no dangerous
        passes, for a strong railing stretched along the whole extent of
        every elevation. How different from the roads of 1834! Then men
        were reckless or prodigal of life; stages were overturned, or
        pitched down some steep hill—rail cars bounded off the rails, or
        set the vehicles on fire — steamboats exploded and destroyed
        many lives—horses ran away and broke their riders’ necks—carts,
        heavily laden, passed over children and animals—boats upset in
        squalls of wind—in short, if human ingenuity had been exerted to
        its fullest extent, there could not be contrivances better
        suited to shorten life, or render travelling more unsafe and
        disagreeable.

Instead of going directly to New York, as they at first
        contemplated, they visited every part of Pennsylvania. Railroads
        intersected one another in every direction; every thing was a
        source of amazement and amusement to Hastings. The fields were
        no longer cultivated by the horse or the ox, nor by small steam
        engines, as was projected in the nineteenth century, but by a
        self-moving plough, having the same machinery to propel it as
        that of the travelling cars. Instead of rough, unequal grounds,
        gullied, and with old tree stumps in some of the most valuable
        parts of the field, the whole was one beautiful level; and,
        where inclinations were unavoidable, there were suitable drains.
        The same power mowed the grass, raked it up, spread it out,
        gathered it, and brought it to the barn—the same power scattered
        seeds, ploughed, hoed, harrowed, cut, gathered, threshed, stored
        and ground the grain — and the same power distributed it to the
        merchants and small consumers.

“Wonderful, most wonderful,” said the astonished Hastings. “I
        well remember this very farm; those fields, the soil of which
        was washed away by the precipitous fall of rain from high parts,
        are now all levelled smooth. The hand of time has done nothing
        better for the husbandman than in perfecting such operations as
        these. Now, every inch of ground is valuable; and this very
        farm, once only capable of supporting a man, his wife and five
        children in the mere necessaries of life, must now give to four
        times that number every luxury.”

“Yes, you are right; and instead of requiring the assistance
        of four labourers, two horses and two oxen, it is all managed by
        four men alone! The machines have done every thing—they fill up
        gullies, dig out the roots of trees, plough down hills, turn
        water courses—in short, they have entirely superseded the use of
        cattle of any kind.”

“But I see no fences,” said Hastings; “how is this? In my
        day, every man’s estate was enclosed by a fence or wall of some
        kind; now, for boundary lines I see nothing but a low hedge, and
        a moveable wire fence for pasturage for cows.”

“Why should there be the uncouth and expensive fences, which
        I find by the old books were in use in 1834, when we have no
        horses; there is no fear of injury now from their trespassing.
        All our carriages move on rails, and cannot turn aside to injure
        a neighbouring grain field. Cows, under no pretence whatever,
        are allowed to roam at large; and it would be most disgraceful
        to the corporate bodies of city or county to allow hogs or sheep
        to run loose in the streets or on the road. The rich, therefore,
        need no enclosure but for ornament, which, as it embellishes the
        prospect, is always made of some pleasant looking evergreen or
        flowering shrub. In fact, it is now a state affair, and when a
        poor man is unable to enclose the land himself, it is done by
        money lawfully appropriated to the purpose.”

“And dogs—I see no dogs,” said Hastings. “In my day every
        farmer had one or more dogs; in little villages there were often
        three and four in each house; the cities were full of them,
        notwithstanding the dog laws — but I see none now.”

“No—it is many years since dogs were domesticated; it is a
        rarity to see one now. Once in a while some odd, eccentric old
        fellow will bring a dog with him from some foreign port, but he
        dare not let him run loose. I presume that in your time
        hydrophobia was common; at least, on looking over a file of
        newspapers of the year 1930, called the Recorder of
        Self-Inflicted Miseries, I saw several accounts of that dreadful
        disease. Men, women, children, animals, were frequently bitten
        by mad dogs in those early days. It is strange, that so useless
        an animal was caressed, and allowed to come near your persons,
        when the malady to which they were so frequently liable, and
        from which there was no guarding, no cure, could be imparted to
        human beings.”

“Well, what caused the final expulsion of dogs?”

“You will find the whole account in that old paper called the
        Recorder of Self-Inflicted Miseries; there, from time to time,
        all the accidents that happened to what were called steamboats,
        locomotive engines, stages, &c. were registered. You will
        see that in the year 1860, during the months of August and
        September, more than ten thousand dogs were seized with that
        horrible disease, and that upward of one hundred thousand people
        fell victims to it. It raged with the greatest fury in New York,
        Philadelphia, and Baltimore; and but for the timely destruction
        of every dog in the South, ten times the number of human beings
        would have perished. The death from hydrophobia is as
        disgraceful to a corporate body, as if the inhabitants had died
        of thirst, when good water was near them.”

“This was horrible; the consternation of the people must have
        been very great—equal to what was felt during the cholera. Did
        you ever read of that terrible disease?”

“No, I do not recollect it—Oh, yes, now I remember to have
        read something of it—but that came in a shape that was not easy
        to foresee. But dogs were always known to be subject to this
        awful disease, and therefore encouraging their increase was
        shameful. Posterity had cause enough to curse the memory of
        their ancestors, for having entailed such a dreadful scourge
        upon them. The panic, it seems, was so great, that to this day
        children are more afraid of looking at a dog, for they are kept
        among wild beasts as a curiosity, than at a Bengal tiger.”

“I confess I never could discover in what their usefulness
        consisted. They were capable of feeling a strong attachment to
        their master, and had a show of reason and intelligence, but it
        amounted to very little in its effects. It was very singular,
        but I used frequently to observe, that men were oftentimes more
        gentle and kind to their dogs than to their wives and children;
        and much better citizens would these children have made, if
        their fathers had bestowed half the pains in breaking them
        in, and in training them, that they did on their dogs. It
        was a very rare circumstance if a theft was prevented by the
        presence of a dog; when such a thing did occur, every
        paper spoke of it, and the anecdote was never forgotten. But had
        they been ever so useful, so necessary to man’s comfort, nothing
        could compensate or overbalance the evil to which he was liable
        from this disease. Were the dogs all destroyed at once?”

“Yes; the papers say, that by the first of October there was
        but one dog to be seen, and the owner of that had to pay a fine
        of three thousand dollars, and be imprisoned for one year at
        hard labour. When you consider the horrible sufferings of so
        many people, and all to gratify a pernicious as well as foolish
        fondness for an animal, we cannot wonder at the severity of the
        punishment.”

“I very well remember how frequently I was annoyed by dogs
        when riding along the road. A yelping cur has followed at my
        horse’s heels for five or six minutes, cunningly keeping beyond
        the reach of my whip—some dogs do this all their lives. Have the
        shepherd’s dogs perished likewise — all, did you say?”

“Yes; every dog—pointers, setters, hounds—all were
        exterminated; and I sincerely hope that the breed will never be
        encouraged again. In fact, the laws are so severe that there is
        no fear of it, for no man can bring them in the country without
        incurring a heavy fine, and in particular cases imprisonment at
        hard labour. We should as soon expect to see a wolf or a tiger
        running loose in the streets as a dog.”

Every step they took excited fresh remarks from Hastings, and
        his mind naturally turned to the friends he had lost. How
        perfect would have been his happiness if it had been permitted
        that his wife and his father could be with him to see the
        improved state of the country. When he looked forward to what
        his life might be—unknown, alone—he regretted that he had been
        awakened: but his kind relative, who never left him for a
        moment, as soon as these melancholy reveries came over him
        hurried him to some new scene.

They were now in Philadelphia, the Athens of America, as it
        was called three centuries back. Great changes had taken place
        here. Very few of the public edifices had escaped the
        all-devouring hand of time. In fact, Hastings recognised but
        five—that beautiful building called originally the United States
        Bank, the Mint, the Asylum for the Deaf and Dumb, and the Girard
        College. The latter continued to flourish, notwithstanding its
        downfall was early predicted, in consequence of the prohibition
        of clergymen in the direction of its affairs. The dispute, too,
        about the true signification of the term “orphan” had been
        settled; it was at length, after a term of years, twenty, I
        think, decided, that the true meaning and intent of Stephen
        Girard, the wise founder of the institution, was to make it a
        charity for those children who had lost both
        parents.

“I should not think,” said Hastings, on hearing this from
        Edgar, “that any one could fancy, for a moment, that Girard
        meant any thing else.”

“Why no, neither you nor I, nor ninety-nine out of a hundred,
        would decide otherwise; but it seems a question was raised, and
        all the books of reference were appealed to, as well as the
        poets. In almost every case, an orphan was said to be a
        child deprived of one or both parents; and, what is very
        singular, the term orphan occurs but once throughout
        the Old and New Testaments. In Lamentations it says, ‘We are
        orphans, and fatherless, and our mothers are as
        widows.’ Now, in the opinion of many, the orphan and
        fatherless, and those whose mothers are as widows, here
        mentioned, are three distinct sets of children — that is, as the
        lament says, some of us are orphans, meaning children
        without father and mother, some of us are fatherless;
        and the third set says, ‘our mothers are as widows.’ This means,
        that in consequence of their fathers’ absence, their mothers
        were as desolate and helpless as if in reality they were widows
        by the death of their husbands. This text, therefore,
        settles nothing. Girard, like all the unlettered men of the age,
        by the term orphan, understood it to mean a child
        without parents.”

“I very well remember,” said Hastings, “that on another
        occasion when the term came in question, I asked every man and
        woman that worked on and lived near the great canal, what they
        meant by orphan, and they invariably, without a
        single exception, said it meant a child without
        parents.”

“Well, the good sense of the trustees, at the end of the time
        I mentioned, decided after the manner of the multitude—for it
        was from this mass that their objects of charity were taken. And
        there is no instance on the records, of a widow begging
        admittance for her fatherless boys. They knew very well what
        being an orphan meant, but to their praise be it said, if
        fatherless children had been included in the term,
        there were very few who would not have struggled as long as it
        was in their power, before their boys should be taken to a
        charitable institution.”

“I recollect, too,” said Hastings, “that great umbrage was
        taken by many persons because the clergy were debarred from any
        interference in the management of the college. No evil, you say,
        has arisen from this prohibition?”

“None at all,” replied Edgar. “The clergy were not offended
        by it; they found they had enough to do with church affairs. It
        has been ever since in the hands of a succession of wise,
        humane, and honest men. The funds have gone on increasing, and
        as they became more than sufficient for the purposes of the
        college, the overplus has been lawfully spent in improving the
        city.”

“In the year 1835—alas, it seems to me that but a few days
        ago I existed at that period—was there not an Orphan Asylum
        here?”

“Yes, my dear sir, the old books speak of a small
        establishment of that kind, founded by several sensible and
        benevolent women; but it was attended with very great personal
        sacrifices—for there was in that century a very singular, and,
        we must say, disgusting practice among all classes, to obtain
        money for the establishment of any charitable, benevolent, or
        literary institution. Both men and women—women for the most
        part, because men used then to shove off from themselves all
        that was irksome or disagreeable—women, I say, used to go from
        door to door, and in the most humble manner beg a few dollars
        from each individual. Sometimes, the Recorder of Self-Inflicted
        Miseries says, that men and women of coarse minds and mean
        education were in the habit of insulting the committee who thus
        turned beggars. They did not make their refusal in decent terms
        even, but added insult to it. In the course of time the Recorder
        goes on to say, men felt ashamed of all this, and their first
        step was to relieve women from the drudgery and disgrace of
        begging. After that, but it was by degrees, the different
        corporate bodies of each state took the matter up, and finally
        every state had its own humane and charitable institutions, so
        that there are now no longer any private ones, excepting such as
        men volunteer to maintain with their own money.”

“Did the old Orphan Asylum of Philadelphia, begun by private
        individuals, merge into the one now established?”

“No,” replied Edgar; “the original asylum only existed a
        certain number of years, for people got tired of keeping up a
        charity by funds gathered in this loose way. At length, another
        man of immense wealth died, and bequeathed all his property to
        the erection and support of a college for orphan girls—and this
        time the world was not in doubt as to the testator’s meaning.
        From this moment a new era took place with regard to women, and
        we owe the improved condition of our people entirely to the
        improvement in the education of the female poor; blessed be the
        name of that man.”

“Well, from time to time you must tell me the rise and
        progress of all these things; at present I must try and find my
        way in this now truly beautiful city. This is Market street, but
        so altered that I should scarcely know it.”

“Yes, I presume that three hundred years would improve the
        markets likewise. But wherein is it altered?”

“In my day the market was of one story, or rather had a roof
        supported by brick pillars, with a neat stone pavement running
        the whole length of the building. Market women not only sat
        under each arch and outside of the pillars, but likewise in the
        open spaces where the streets intersected the market. Butchers
        and fish sellers had their appropriate stalls; and clerks of the
        market, as they were called, took care that no imposition was
        practised. Besides this, the women used to bawl through the
        streets, and carry their fish and vegetables on their
        heads.”

“All that sounds very well; but our old friend, the Recorder
        of Self-Inflicted Miseries, mentions this very market as a
        detestable nuisance, and the manner of selling things through
        the streets shameful. Come with me, and let us see wherein this
        is superior to the one you describe.”

The two friends entered the range above at the Schuylkill,
        for to that point had the famous Philadelphia market reached.
        The building was of two stories, built of hewn stone, and
        entirely fire-proof, as there was not a particle of wood-work or
        other ignitable matter in it. The upper story was appropriated
        to wooden, tin, basket, crockery, and other domestic wares, such
        as stockings, gloves, seeds, and garden utensils, all neatly
        arranged and kept perpetually clean. On the ground floor, in
        cool niches, under which ran a stream of cold, clear water, were
        all the variety of vegetables; and there, at this early season,
        were strawberries and green peas, all of which were raised in
        the neighbourhood. The finest of the strawberries were those
        that three centuries before went by the name, as it now did, of
        the dark hautbois, rich in flavour and delicate in
        perfume. Women, dressed in close caps and snow white aprons,
        stood or sat modestly by their baskets — not, as formerly,
        bawling out to the passers-by and entreating them to purchase of
        them, but waiting for their turn with patience and good humour.
        Their hair was all hidden, save a few plain braids or plaits in
        front, and their neck was entirely covered. Their dress was
        appropriate to their condition, and their bearing had both
        dignity and grace.

“Well, this surpasses belief,” said Hastings. “Are these the
        descendants of that coarse, vulgar, noisy, ill dressed tribe,
        one half of whom appeared before their dirty baskets and crazy
        fixtures with tawdry finery, and the other half in sluttish,
        uncouth clothes, with their hair hanging about their face, or
        stuck up behind with a greasy horn comb? What has done all
        this?”

“Why, the improvement which took place in the education of
        women. While women were degraded as they were in your time”
        —

“In my time, my dear Edgar,” said Hastings, quickly—“in my
        time! I can tell you that women were not in a degraded state
        then. Go back to the days of Elizabeth, if you please; but I
        assure you that in 1835 women enjoyed perfect equality of
        rights.”

“Did they! then our old friend, the Recorder of
        Self-Inflicted Miseries, has been imposing on us—but we will
        discuss this theme more at our leisure. Let us ask that neat
        pretty young woman for some strawberries and cream.”

They were ripe and delicious, and Hastings found, that
        however much all other things had changed, the fine perfume, the
        grateful flavour, the rich consistency of the fruit and cream
        were the same—nature never changes.

There were no unpleasant sights—no rotten vegetables or
        leaves, no mud, no spitting, no—in short, the whole looked like
        a painting, and the women all seemed as if they were dressed for
        the purpose of sitting for their portraits, to let other times
        have a peep at what was going on in a former world.

“If I am in my senses,” said Hastings, “which I very much
        doubt, this is the most pleasing change which time has wrought;
        I cannot but believe that I shall wake up in the morning and
        find this all a dream. This is no market—it is a picture.”

“We shall see,” said Edgar. “Come, let us proceed to the
        butchers’ market.”

So they walked on, and still the rippling stream followed
        them; and here no sights of blood, or stained hands, or greasy
        knives, or slaughter-house smells, were present. The meats were
        not hung up to view in the open air, as in times of old; but you
        had only to ask for a particular joint, and lo! a small door,
        two feet square, opened in the wall, and there hung the
        identical part.

“This gentleman is a stranger,” said Edgar, to a neatly
        dressed man, having on a snow white apron; “show him a hind
        quarter of veal; we do not want to buy any, but merely to look
        at what you have to sell.”

The little door opened, and there hung one of the fattest and
        finest quarters Hastings had ever seen.

“And the price,” asked he.

“It is four cents a pound,” replied the man. A purchaser soon
        came; the meat was weighed within; the man received the money,
        and gave a ticket with the weight written on it; the servant
        departed, and the two friends moved on.

“Our regulations are excellent,” said Edgar; “formerly, as
        the old Recorder of Self-Inflicted Miseries says, the butchers
        weighed their meats in the most careless manner, and many a man
        went home with a suspicion that he was cheated of half or three
        quarters of a pound. Now, nothing of this kind can take place,
        for the clerks of the market stand at every corner. See! those
        men use the graduated balance; the meat is laid, basket and all,
        on that little table; the pressure acts on a wheel — a clicking
        is heard—it strikes the number of pounds and quarters, and thus
        the weight is ascertained. The basket you saw, all those you now
        see in the meat market, are of equal weight, and they are marked
        1, 2, 3, 4 or more pounds, as the size may be. Do you not see
        how much of labour and confusion this saves. I suppose, in your
        day, you would have scorned to legislate on such trifling
        objects; but I assure you we find our account in it.”

“I must confess that this simplifies things wonderfully; but
        the cleanliness, order and cheerfulness that are seen throughout
        this market — these are things worthy of legislation. I suppose
        all this took place gradually?”

“Yes, I presume so; but it had arrived to this point before
        my time; the water which flows under and through the market was
        conveyed there upward of a century ago. But here is beef,
        mutton, all kinds of meat—and this is the poultry market—all
        sold by weight, as it should be; and here is the fish market—see
        what large marble basins; each fishmonger has one of his own, so
        that all kinds are separate; and see how dexterously they scoop
        up the very fish that a customer wants.”

“What is this?” said Hastings, looking through one of the
        arches of the fish market; “can this be the Delaware?”

“Yes,” replied Edgar; “the market on which we are now, is
        over the Delaware. Look over this railing, we are on a wide
        bridge—but let us proceed to the extremity; this bridge extends
        to the Jersey shore, and thus connects the two large cities
        Philadelphia and Camden.”

“In my day, it was in contemplation to build a bridge over
        the Delaware; but there was great opposition to it, as in that
        case there would be a very great delay, if not hinderance, to
        the free passage of ships.”

New wonders sprung up at every step—vessels, light as
        gossamer, of curious construction, were passing and repassing
        under the arches of the bridge, some of three and four hundred
        tons burden, others for the convenience of market people, and
        many for the pleasure of the idle. While yet they looked, a
        beautiful vessel hove in sight, and in a moment she moved
        gracefully and swiftly under the arches, and by the time that
        Hastings had crossed to the other side of the bridge she was
        fastened to the pier.

“Is this a steamboat from Baltimore?” said Hastings. “Yet it
        cannot be, for I see neither steam nor smoke.”

“Steamboat!” answered his companion—“don’t speak so loud, the
        people will think you crazy. Why, steamboats have been out of
        date for more than two hundred years. I forget the name of the
        one who introduced them into our waters, but they did not
        continue in use more than fifty years, perhaps not so long; but
        so many accidents occurred through the extreme carelessness,
        ignorance and avarice of many who were engaged in them, that a
        very great prejudice existed against their use. No laws were
        found sufficiently strong to prevent frequent occurrences of the
        bursting of the boilers, notwithstanding that sometimes as many
        as nine or ten lives were destroyed by the explosion. That those
        accidents were not the consequence of using steam power—I mean a
        necessary consequence—all sensible men knew; for on
        this river, the Delaware, the bursting of the boiler of a steam
        engine was never known, nor did such dreadful accidents ever
        occur in Europe. But, as I was saying, after one of the most
        awful catastrophes that ever took place, the bursting of a
        boiler which scalded to death forty-one members of Congress, (on
        their way home,) besides upwards of thirty women and children,
        and nine of the crew, the people of this country began to arouse
        themselves, and very severe laws were enacted. Before, however,
        any farther loss of lives occurred, a stop was put to the use of
        steamboats altogether. The dreadful accident of which I spoke
        occurred in the year 1850, and in that eventful year a new power
        was brought into use, by which steamboats were laid aside for
        ever.”

“What is the new principle, and who first brought it to
        light?”

“Why, a lady. The world owes this blessed invention to a
        female! I will take you into one of our small boats presently,
        where you can handle the machinery yourself. No steam, nor heat,
        nor animal power—but one of sufficient energy to move the
        largest ship.”

“Condensed air, is it?—that was tried in my time.”

“No, nor condensed air; that was almost as dangerous a power
        as steam; for the bursting of an air vessel was always
        destructive of life. The Recorder of Self-Inflicted Miseries
        mentions several instances of loss of life by the bursting of
        one of the air machines used by the manufacturers of mineral
        waters. If that lady had lived in this century, her
        memory would be honoured and cherished; but if no memorial was
        erected by the English to Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, a reproach
        could not rest upon us for not having paid suitable honours to
        the American lady.”

“Why, what did lady Mary Wortley Montagu do?” said Hastings;
        “I recollect nothing but that she wrote several volumes of very
        agreeable letters—Oh, yes, how could I forget—the small-pox!
        Yes, indeed, she did deserve to have a monument; but surely the
        English erected one to her memory?”

“Did they?—yes—that old defamer of women, Horace Walpole,
        took good care to keep the public feeling from flowing in the
        right channel. He made people laugh at her dirty hands and
        painted cheeks, but he never urged them to heap honours on her
        head for introducing into England the practice of innoculation
        for the small-pox. If this American lady deserved the thanks and
        gratitude of her country for thus, for ever, preventing the loss
        of lives from steam, and I may say, too, from shipwreck—still
        farther was Lady Mary Wortley Montagu entitled to distinction,
        for the very great benefit she bestowed on England. She saved
        thousands of lives, and prevented, what sometimes amounted to
        hideous deformity, deeply scarred faces, from being universal
        Yes, the benefit was incalculable and beyond price—quite equal,
        I think, to that which the world owes to Dr. Jenner, who
        introduced a new form of small-pox, or rather the small-pox pure
        and unadulterated by any affinitive virus. This modified the
        disease to such a degree, that the small-pox, in its mixed and
        complicated state, almost disappeared. The Recorder of
        Self-Inflicted Miseries states, that after a time a new variety
        of the small-pox made its appearance, which was called varioloid;
        but it was quite under the control of medical skill.”

“Well, you live in an age so much in advance of mine, and so
        many facts and curious phenomena came to light during the
        nineteenth century, that you can tell me what the settled
        opinion is now respecting small-pox, kine-pox, and
        varioloid.”

“The settled opinion now is, that they are one and the same
        disease. Thus—the original disease, transferable from an ulcer
        of the cow’s udder to the broken skin of a human being, produced
        what is called the kine or cow-pox. This virus of the kine-pox,
        in its original state, was only capable of being communicated by
        contact, and only when the skin was broken or cut; but, when
        combined with the other poison, infected the system by
        means of breathing in the same atmosphere. The poison from the
        ulcer called cow-pox was never communicated to or by the lungs,
        neither was the poison which had so strong an affinity for it
        communicated in that way; but when the two poisons united, and
        met in the same system, a third poison was generated, and the
        small-pox was the result. But here we are discussing a
        deep subject in this busy place—what gave rise to it?—oh,
        steamboats, the new power now used, Lady Mary Wortley, and
        Dr. Jenner.”

“I presume,” said the attentive Hastings, “that Dr. Jenner
        fared no better than your American lady and Lady Mary
        Wortley.”

“You are much mistaken,” said Edgar. “Dr. Jenner was a
        man, which in your day was a very different
        circumstance. I verily believe if it had been a woman who
        brought that happy event about, although the whole world would
        have availed itself of the discovery, her name would scarcely be
        known at this day.”

Hastings laughed at his friend’s angry defence of women’s
        rights, but he could not help acknowledging the truth of what
        was said—there was always a great unwillingness in men to admit
        the claims of women. But it was not a time, nor was this the
        place, to discuss so important a subject; he intended, however,
        to resume it the first leisure moment. He turned his eye to the
        river, and saw vessels innumerable coming and going; and on the
        arrival of one a little larger than that which he first saw, the
        crowd pressed forward to get on board as soon as she should
        land.

“Where is that vessel from?” said Hastings; “she looks more
        weather-beaten than the rest—she has been at sea.”

“Yes; that is one of our Indiamen. Let us go to her, I see a
        friend of mine on board—he went out as supercargo.”

They went on board of the Indiaman, and although it had
        encountered several storms, and had met with several accidents,
        yet the crew was all well and the cargo safe. The vessel was
        propelled by the same machinery — there was neither masts nor
        sails!

“How many months have they been on their return?” said
        Hastings.

“Hush!” said his friend Edgar; “do not let any one hear you.
        Why, this passage has been a very tedious one, and yet it has
        only occupied four weeks. In general twenty days are
        sufficient.”

“Well,” said Hastings, “after this I shall not be surprised
        at any thing. Why, in my time we considered it as a very
        agreeable thing if we made a voyage to England in that time.
        Have you many India ships?”

“Yes; the trade has been opened to the very walls of China:
        the number of our vessels has greatly increased. But you will be
        astonished to hear that the emperor of China gets his porcelain
        from France.”

“No, I am not, now that I hear foreigners have access to that
        mysterious city, for I never considered the Indian china as at
        all equal to the French, either in texture or workmanship. But I
        presume I have wonders to learn about the Chinese?”

“Yes, much more than you imagine. It is not more than a
        century since the change in their system has been effected;
        before that, no foreigner was allowed to enter their gates. But
        dissensions among themselves effected what neither external
        violence nor manoeuvring could do. The consequence of this
        intercourse with foreign nations is, that the feet of their
        women are allowed to grow, and they dress now in the European
        style. They import their fashions from France; and I see by the
        papers that the emperor’s second son intends to pay this country
        a visit. They have English and French, as well as German and
        Spanish schools; and a great improvement in the condition of the
        lower classes of the Chinese has taken place; but it was first
        by humanizing the women that these great changes were effected.
        Their form of government is fast approaching that of ours, but
        they held out long and obstinately.”

“Their climate is very much against them,” observed Hastings;
        “mental culture must proceed slowly, where the heat is so
        constant and excessive.”

“Yes; but, my dear sir, you must recollect that they have ice
        in abundance now. We carry on a great trade in that article. In
        fact, some of our richest men owe their wealth to the
        exportation of this luxury alone. Boston set the example—she
        first sent cargoes of ice to China; but it was not until our
        fast sailing vessels were invented that the thing could be
        accomplished.”

“I should think it almost impossible to transport ice to such
        a distance, even were the time lessened to a month or six weeks,
        as it now is.”

“You must recollect, that half of this difficulty of
        transporting ice was lessened by the knowledge that was
        obtained, even in your day, of saving ice. According to the
        Recorder, who sneered at the times for remaining so long
        ignorant of the fact, ice houses could be built above ground,
        with the certainty that they would preserve ice. It was the
        expense of building those deep ice houses which prevented the
        poor from enjoying this luxury—nay, necessary article. Now,
        every landlord builds a stack of ice in the yard, and thatches
        it well with oat straw; and the corporation have an immense
        number of these stacks of ice distributed about the several
        wards.”

“I have awakened in delightful times, my friend. Oh, that my
        family could have been with me when I was buried under the
        mountain.”

Young Hastings, seeing the melancholy which was creeping over
        the unfortunate man, hurried him away from the wharf, and
        hastened to Chestnut street. Our hero looked anxiously to the
        right and to the left, but all was altered—all was strange.
        Arcades now took precedence of the ancient, inconvenient shops,
        there being one between every square, extending from Chestnut to
        Market on one side, and to Walnut on the other, intersecting the
        smaller streets and alleys in their way. Here alone were goods
        sold—no where else was there a shop seen; and what made it
        delightful was, that a fine stream of water ran through pipes
        under the centre of the pavement, bursting up every twenty feet
        in little jets, cooling the air, and contributing to health and
        cleanliness. The arcades for the grocers were as well arranged
        as those for different merchandize, and the fountains of water,
        which flowed perpetually in and under their shops, dispersed all
        impure smells and all decayed substances.

“All this is beautiful,” said Hastings; “but where is the old
        Arcade — the original one?”

“Oh, I know what you mean,” said Edgar; “our old Recorder
        states that it fell into disuse, and was then removed, solely
        from the circumstance that the first floor was raised from the
        level of the street; even in our time people dislike to mount
        steps when they have to go from shop to shop to purchase
        goods.”

“And what building is that?—the antiquated one, I mean, that
        stands in the little court. The masons are repairing it I
        perceive.”

“That small, brick building—oh, that is the house in which
        William Penn lived,” said Edgar. “It was very much neglected,
        and was suffered to go to ruin almost, till the year 1840, when
        a lady of great wealth purchased a number of the old houses
        adjoining and opened an area around it, putting the whole house
        in thorough repair. She collected all the relics that remained
        of this great man, and placed them as fixtures there, and she
        left ample funds for repairs, so that there is a hope that this
        venerable and venerated building will endure for many centuries
        to come.”

“And what is this heap of ruins?” said Hastings, “it appears
        to have tumbled down through age; it was a large pile, if one
        may judge from the rubbish.”

“Yes, it was an immense building, and was called at first the
        National Bank. It was built in the year 1842, during the
        presidency of Daniel Webster.”

“What,” said Hastings, “was he really president of the United
        States? This is truly an interesting piece of news.”

“News, my dear sir,” said Edgar, smiling—“yes, it was news
        three hundred years ago, but Daniel Webster now sleeps with his
        fathers. He was really the chief magistrate for eight years, and
        excepting for the project of a national bank, which did not,
        however, exist long, he made an able president, and, what was
        very extraordinary, as the old Recorder of Self-Inflicted
        Miseries states, he gained the good will even of those who were
        violently opposed to him. He was the first president after
        Washington who had independence of mind enough to retain in
        office all those who had been favoured by his predecessor. There
        was not a single removal.”

“But his friends—did not they complain?” said Hastings.

“It is not stated that they did; perhaps he did not promise
        an office to any one: at any rate the old ‘Recorder’ treats him
        respectfully. It was during his term that copyrights were placed
        on a more liberal footing here. An Englishman now can get his
        works secured to him as well as if he were a citizen of the
        country.”

“How long is the copy right secured! it used to be, in my
        time,” sighed poor Hastings, “only fourteen years.”

“Fourteen years!” exclaimed Edgar—“you joke. Why, was not a
        man entitled to his own property for ever? I assure you that an
        author now has as much control over his own labours after a
        lapse of fifty years as he had at the moment he wrote it. Nay,
        it belongs to his family as long as they choose to keep it, just
        the same as if it were a house or a tract of land. I wonder what
        right the legislature had to meddle with property in that way.
        We should think a man deranged who proposed such a thing.”

“But how is it when a man invents a piece of machinery?
        surely the term is limited then.”

“Oh, yes, that is a different affair. If a man invent a new
        mode of printing, or of propelling boats, then a patent is
        secured to him for that particular invention, but it does not
        prevent another man from making use of the same power and
        improving on the machinery. But there is this benefit accruing
        to the original patentee, the one who makes the improvement
        after him is compelled to purchase a right of him. Our laws now,
        allow of no monopolies; that is, no monopolies of soil, or air,
        or water. On these three elements, one person has as good a
        right as another; he that makes the greatest improvements is
        entitled to the greatest share of public favour, and, in
        consequence, the arts have been brought to their present state
        of perfection.”

“But rail-roads—surely these it was necessary to
        guarantee to a company on exclusive privilege for a term of
        years, even if a better one could be made.”

“And I say, surely not. Why should all the people of a great
        nation be compelled to pass over an unsafe road, in miserably
        constructed cars, which made such a noise that for six hours a
        man had to be mute, and where there was perpetual fear of
        explosion from the steam engine—why should this be, when another
        company could give them a better road, more commodious cars, and
        a safer propelling power? On consulting the Recorder of
        Self-Inflicted Miseries, you will find that in the year 1846,
        the monopolies of roads, that is public roads, were broken up,
        and these roads came under the cognizance of the state
        governments, and in the year 1900 all merged under one head.
        There was then, and has continued ever since, a national
        road—the grand route from one extreme of the country to the
        other. Cross roads, leading from town to town and village to
        village, are under the control of the state governments. Here,
        let us get in this car which is going to Princeton; it is only
        an hour’s ride. Well, here we are seated in nice rocking chairs,
        and we can talk at our ease; for the fine springs and neat
        workmanship make the cars run without noise, as there is but
        little friction, the rails of the road and the tires of the
        wheels being of wood. In your time this could not be the case,
        for as steam and manual labour were expensive, you were forced
        to club all together—there were, therefore, large cars that held
        from eight to fourteen persons; consequently, there had to be
        heavy iron work to keep these large machines together. Now, you
        perceive, the cars are made of different sizes, to accommodate
        either two or four persons, and they run of themselves. We have
        only to turn this little crank, and the machine stops. This is
        Bristol. It was a very small town in your day, but by connecting
        it to Burlington, which lies slantingly opposite, the town soon
        rose to its present eminence. Burlington, too, is a large city —
        look at the green bank yonder; it is a paradise: and look at
        that large tree—it is a buttonwood or sycamore; we cannot see it
        very distinctly; take this pocket glass. Well, you see it now at
        the foot of the beautiful green slope in front of the largest
        marble building on this bank. That tree is upwards of four
        hundred years old, but the house was built within the last
        century.”

“What a change,” said Hastings, as they returned to their
        car,—“all is altered. New Jersey, the meanest and the poorest
        state in the union, is now in appearance equal to the other
        inland states. It was in my time a mere thoroughfare. What has
        thus changed the whole face of nature.”

“Why canals and rail roads in the first place, and rail roads
        now; for in a few years canals were entirely abandoned. That is,
        as soon as the new propelling power came into use, it was found
        far more economical to travel on rail roads. The track of canals
        through four of the principal states is no longer to be
        seen.”

At Princeton, the first thing to be seen was the college; not
        the same that existed in Hastings’s day, but a long, deep range
        of stone buildings, six in number, with work shops attached to
        them, after the mode so happily begun by Fellenberg. In these
        work shops the young men worked during leisure hours, every one
        learning some trade or some handicraft, by which he could earn a
        living if necessity required it. Large gardens lay in the rear,
        cultivated entirely by the labour of the students, particularly
        by those who were intended for clergymen, as many of this class
        were destined to live in the country. The college was well
        endowed, and the salaries of the professors were ample. It was
        able to maintain and educate three hundred boys—the children of
        the rich and the poor.

“How do they select professors?” said Hastings; “in my day a
        very scandalous practice prevailed. I hope there is a change in
        this particular.”

“Oh, I know to what you refer,” said Edgar; “I read an
        account of it in the Recorder. It seems that when a college
        wanted a professor, or a president, they either wrote a letter,
        or sent a committee of gentlemen to the professor of another
        college, and told him that if he would quit the people who had
        with so much difficulty made up a salary for him, they would
        give him a hundred dollars a year more. They made it appear very
        plausible and profitable, and the idea of being thought of so
        much consequence quite unsettled his notions of right and wrong,
        so that, without scruple, he gave notice to his patrons that
        they must get another man in his place. I believe this is the
        true state of the case. Is it not?”

“Yes, that is the English of it, as we say. The
        funds for the support of a professor were gathered together with
        great difficulty, for there were very few who gave liberally and
        for the pure love of the advancement of learning. When by the
        mere force of entreaty, by appealing to the feelings, to reason,
        to—in short, each man’s pulse was felt, and the ruling passion
        was consulted and made subservient to the plan of beguiling him
        of his money. Well, the money thus wrung from the majority,—for
        you must suppose that a few gave from right motives,—was
        appropriated to the salary of a professor, and then the question
        arose as to the man to be selected. They run their eye over the
        whole country, and, finally, the fame of some one individual
        induced them to consider him as a suitable candidate. This man
        was doing great service where he was; the college, almost gone
        to decay, was resuscitated by his exertions; students came from
        all parts on the faith of his remaining there; in fact, he had
        given an impulse to the whole district. What a pity to remove
        such a man from a place where the benefits of his labour and his
        energies were so great, and where his removal would produce such
        regrets and such a deteriorating change! But our new professor,
        being established in the new college, instead of going to work
        with the same alacrity, and with the same views, which views
        were to spend his life in promoting the interests of the college
        which he had helped to raise, now began to look
        ‘a-head,’ as the term is, and he waited impatiently for
        the rise of another establishment, in the city perhaps, where
        every thing was more congenial to his newly awakened tastes.
        Thus it went on—change, change, for ever; and in the end he
        found himself much worse off than if he had remained in the
        place which first patronised him. It is certainly a man’s duty
        to do the best he can for the advancement of his own interest,
        and if he can get five hundred dollars a year more in one place
        than in another, he has a right to do it; but the advantage of
        change is always problematical. The complaint is not so much
        against him, however, as against those who so indelicately
        inveigle him away.”

“Yes. I can easily imagine how hurtful in its effects such a
        policy would be, for instance, to a merchant, although it is
        pernicious in every case. But here is a merchant—he has
        regularly inducted a clerk in all the perplexities and mysteries
        of his business; the young man becomes acquainted with his
        private affairs, and by his acuteness and industry he relieves
        his employer of one half of his anxieties and cares. The time is
        coming when he might think it proper to raise the salary of the
        young man, but his neighbours envy the merchant’s prosperity,
        and they want to take advantage of the talent which has grown up
        under his vigilance and superintending care. ‘If he does so well
        for a man who gives him but five hundred dollars a year, he will
        do as well, or better, for ten.’ So they go underhandedly to
        work, and the young man gives the merchant notice that his
        neighbour has offered him a larger salary. The old Recorder is
        quite indignant at this mean and base mode of bettering the
        condition of one man or one institution at the expense of
        another. But was it the case also with house servants?—did the
        women of your day send a committee or write a letter to the
        servant of one of their friends, offering higher wages—for the
        cases are exactly similar; it is only talent of another form,
        but equally useful.”

“Oh, no, indeed,” said Hastings—“then the sex showed their
        superior delicacy and refinement. It was thought most
        disgraceful and unlady-like conduct to enveigle away the servant
        of a neighbour, or, in fact, of a stranger; I have heard it
        frequently canvassed. A servant, a clerk, a professor, or a
        clergyman, nine times out of ten, would be contented in his
        situation if offers of this kind were not forced upon him. A
        servant cannot feel an attachment to a mistress when she
        contemplates leaving her at the first offer; no tender feeling
        can subsist between them, and in the case of a clergyman, the
        consequence is very bad both to himself and his parish. In the
        good old times” —

“And in the good new times, if you please,” said Edgar; “for
        I know what you are going to say. In our times there is no such
        thing as changing a clergyman. Why, we should as soon think of
        changing our father! A clergyman is selected with great care for
        his piety and learning—but principally for his piety; and, in
        consequence of there being no old clergymen out of place, he is
        a young man, who comes amongst us in early life, and sees our
        children grow up around him, he becomes acquainted with their
        character, and he has a paternal eye over their eternal welfare.
        They love and reverence him, and it is their delight to do him
        honour. His salary is a mere trifle perhaps, for in some country
        towns a clergyman does not get more than five or six hundred
        dollars a year, but his wants are all supplied with the most
        affectionate care. He receives their delightful gifts as a
        father receives the gifts of his children; he is sure of being
        amply provided for, and he takes no thought of what he is to eat
        or what he is to wear. He pays neither house rent, for there is
        always a parsonage; nor taxes; he pays neither physician nor
        teacher; his library is as good as the means of his congregation
        can afford; and there he is with a mind free from worldly
        solicitude, doing good to the souls of those who so abundantly
        supply him with worldly comforts. In your day, as the Recorder
        states” —

“Yes,” said Hastings, “in my day, things were bad enough, for
        a clergyman was more imposed upon than any other professional
        man. He was expected to subscribe to every charity that was set
        on foot—to every mission that was sent out—to every church that
        was to be built—to every paper that related to church offices;
        he had to give up all his time to his people—literally
        all his time, for they expected him to visit at their houses,
        not when ill, or when wanting spiritual consolation, for that he
        would delight to do, but in the ordinary chit-chat, gossiping
        way, that he might hear them talk of their neighbours’
        backslidings, of this one who gave expensive supper parties, and
        of another who gave balls and went to theatres. Never was there
        a man from whom so much was exacted, and to whom so little was
        given. There were clergymen, in New York and Philadelphia,
        belonging to wealthy congregations, who never so much as
        received a plum cake for the new year’s table, or a minced pie
        at christmas, or a basket of fruit in summer; yet he was
        expected to entertain company at all times. His congregation
        never seemed to recollect that, with his limited means, he could
        not lay up a cent for his children. Other salaried men could
        increase their means by speculation, or by a variety of methods,
        but a clergyman had to live on with the melancholy feelings that
        when he died his children must be dependent on charity. Women
        did do their best to aid their pastors, but they could
        not do much, and even in the way that some of them assisted
        their clergymen there was a want of judgment; for they took the
        bread out of the mouths of poor women, who would otherwise have
        got the money for the very articles which the rich of their
        congregation made and sold for the benefit of this very man.
        Feeling the shame and disgrace of his being obliged to subscribe
        to a charity, they earned among themselves, by sewing,
        a sum sufficient to constitute him a ‘life member!’ What a hoax
        upon charity! What a poor, pitiful compliment,—and at whose
        expense’? The twenty-five dollars thus necessary to be raised,
        which was to constitute their beloved pastor a life member of a
        charitable society, would be applied to a better purpose, if
        they had bought him some rare and valuable book, such as his
        small means could not allow him to buy.”

“I am glad to hear that one so much respected by us had those
        sentiments,” said Edgar, “for the old Recorder, even in the year
        1850, speaks of the little reverence that the people felt for
        their clergy. Now, we vie with each other in making him
        comfortable; he is not looked upon as a man from whom we are to
        get our pennyworth, as we do from those of other professions—he
        is our pastor, a dear and endearing word, and we should never
        think of dismissing him because he had not the gift of
        eloquence, or because he was wanting in grace of action, or
        because he did not come amongst us every day to listen to our
        fiddle-faddle. When we want spiritual consolement, or require
        his services in marriage, baptism, or burial, then he is at his
        post, and no severity of weather withholds him from coming
        amongst us. In turn we call on him at some stated period, when
        he can be seen at his ease and enjoy the sight of our loving
        faces, and happy is the child who has been patted on the head by
        him. When he grows old we indulge him in preaching his old
        sermons, or in reading others that have stood the test of time,
        and when the infirmities of age disable him from attending to
        his duties, we draw him gently away and give him a competence
        for the remainder of his life. What we should do for our father,
        we do for our spiritual father.”

“I am truly rejoiced at this,” said Hastings, “for in my day
        a clergyman never felt secure of the affections of his people.
        If he was deficient in that external polish, which certainly is
        a charm in an orator, or was wanting in vehemence of action, or
        in enthusiasm, the way to displace him was simple and easy:
        dissatisfaction showed itself in every action of theirs—to sum
        up all, they ‘held him uneasy,’ and many a respectable, godly
        man was forced to relinquish his hold on his cure to give place
        to a younger and a more popular one.”

“Do you send a committee to a popular clergyman, and cajole
        him away from his congregation, by offering him a larger salary
        or greater perquisites?”

“Oh no—never, never; the very question shocks me. Our
        professors and our clergymen are taken from the colleges and
        seminaries where they are educated. They are young, generally,
        and are the better able to adapt themselves to the feelings and
        capacities of their students and their congregation. Parents
        give up the idle desire which they had in your time, of hearing
        fine preaching at the expense of honour and delicacy. When a
        congregation became very much attached to their pastor, and he
        was doing good amongst them, it was cruel to break in upon their
        peace and happiness merely because it was in a person’s power to
        do this. We are certainly much better pleased to have a
        clergyman with fine talents and a graceful exterior, but we
        value him more for goodness of heart and honest principles. But,
        however gifted he may be, we never break the tenth commandment,
        we never desire to take him away from our neighbour, nor even in
        your time do I think a clergyman would ever seek to leave his
        charge, unless strongly importuned.”

“Pray can you tell me,” said Hastings, “what has become of
        that vast amount of property which belonged to the —- in New
        York?”

“Oh, it did a vast deal of good; after a time it was
        discovered that the trustees had the power of being more liberal
        with it; other churches, or rather all the Episcopal churches in
        the state, were assisted, and, finally, each church received a
        yearly sum, sufficient to maintain a clergyman. Every village,
        therefore, had a church and a clergyman; and in due time, from
        this very circumstance, the Episcopalians came to be more
        numerous in New York than any other sect. It is not now as it
        was in your time, in the year 1835; then a poor clergyman, that
        he might have the means to live, was compelled to travel through
        two, three, and sometimes four parishes: all these clubbing
        together to make up the sum of six hundred dollars in a year.
        Now this was scandalous, when that large trust had such ample
        means in its power to give liberally to every church in the
        state.”

“Why, yes,” said Hastings, “the true intent of accumulating
        wealth in churches, is to advance religion; for what other
        purposes are the funds created? I used to smile when I saw the
        amazing liberality of the trustees of this immense fund; they
        would, in the most freezing and pompous manner, dole out a
        thousand dollars to this church, and a thousand to that, making
        them all understand that nothing more could be done, as they
        were fearful, even in doing this, that they had gone beyond
        their charter.”

“Just as if they did not know,” said Edgar, “that any set of
        men, in any legislature, would give them full powers to expend
        the whole income in the cause of their own peculiar religion.
        Why I cannot tell how many years were suffered to elapse before
        they raised what was called a Bishop’s Fund, and you know better
        than I do, how it was raised, or rather, how it commenced. And
        the old Recorder of Self-Inflicted Miseries, states, that the
        fund for the support of decayed clergymen and their families,
        was raised by the poor clergymen themselves. Never were people
        so hardly used as these ministers of the Gospel. You were an
        irreverend, exacting race in your day; you expected more from a
        preacher than from any other person to whom they gave
        salaries—they were screwed down to the last thread of
        the screw; people would have their pennyworth out of them. It is
        no wonder that you had such poor preachers in your day; why few
        men of liberal education, aware of all the exactions and
        disabilities under which the sacred cloth laboured, would ever
        encounter them. But, now, every village has its own pastor; and
        some of them are highly gifted men, commanding the attention of
        the most intelligent people. The little churches are filled,
        throughout the summer, with such of the gentry of the cities who
        can afford to spend a few months in the country during the warm
        weather. No one, however, has the indecency or the unfeelingness
        to covet this preacher for their own church in the city. They do
        not attempt to bribe him away, but leave him there, satisfied
        that the poor people who take such delight in administering to
        his wants and his comforts, should have the benefit of his
        piety, his learning and his example. Why, the clergymen, now,
        are our best horticulturists too. It is to them that we owe the
        great advancement in this useful art. They even taught,
        themselves, while at college, and now they encourage their
        parishioners to cultivate gardens and orchards. Every village,
        as well as town and city, has a large garden attached to it, in
        which the children of the poor are taught to work, so that to
        till the earth and to ‘make two blades of grass grow where only
        one grew before,’ is now the chief aim of every individual; and
        we owe this, principally, to our pastors. I can tell you that it
        is something now to be a country clergyman.”

“But how were funds raised for the purchase of these garden
        and orchard spots!”

“Why, through the means of the general tax, that
        which, in your day, would have been called direct tax.”

“Direct tax! Why my dear Edgar, such a thing could never have
        been tolerated in my time; people would have burnt the man in
        effigy for only proposing such a thing. It was once or twice
        attempted, indirectly, and in a very cautious way, but it would
        not do.”

“Yes—direct tax—I knew you would be startled, for the old
        Recorder of Self-Inflicted Miseries states that at the close of
        Daniel Webster’s administration something of the kind was
        suggested, but even then, so late as the year 1850, it was
        violently opposed. But a new state of things gradually paved the
        way for it, and now we cannot but pity the times when all the
        poor inhabitants of this free country were taxed so unequally.
        There is now, but one tax, and each man is made to pay according
        to the value of his property, or his business, or his labour. A
        land-holder, a stock-holder and the one who has houses and bonds
        and mortgages, pays so much per cent, on the advance of his
        property, and for his annual receipts—the merchant, with a
        fluctuating capital, pays so much on his book account of
        sales—the mechanic and labourer, so much on their yearly
        receipts, for we have no sales on credit now — that demoralizing
        practice has been abolished for upwards of a century.”

“The merchants, then,” said Hastings, “pay more than any
        other class of men, for there are the customhouse bonds.”

“Yes,” said Edgar, “I recollect reading in the Recorder of
        Self-Inflicted Miseries,—you must run your eye over that
        celebrated newspaper—that all goods imported from foreign ports
        had to pay duties, as it was called. But every thing now is free
        to come and go, and as the custom prevails all over the world,
        there is no hardship to any one. What a demoralizing effect that
        duty or tariff system produced; why honesty was but a loose term
        then, and did not apply to every act as it now does. The
        Recorder was full of the exposures that were yearly occurring,
        of defrauding the revenue, as it was called. Some of
        these frauds were to a large amount; and then it was considered
        as a crime; but when a man smuggled in hats, shoes, coats and
        other articles of the like nature, he was suffered to go free;
        such small offences were winked at as if defrauding the revenue
        of a dollar were not a crime per se as well as
        defrauding it of a thousand dollars—just as if murdering an
        infant were not as much murder as if the life had been taken
        from a man — just as if killing a man in private, because his
        enemy had paid you to do it, was not as much murder in the first
        degree as if the government had paid you for killing a dozen men
        in battle in open day — just as if” —

“Just as if what?” said the astonished Hastings, “has the
        time come when killing men by wholesale, in war, is accounted a
        crime?”

“Yes, thank Heaven,” said Edgar, “that blessed time has at
        length arrived; it is upwards of one hundred and twenty years
        since men were ordered to kill one another in that barbarous
        manner. Why the recital of such cruel and barbarous deeds fills
        our young children with horror. The ancient policy of referring
        the disputes of nations to single combat, was far more
        humanizing than the referring such disputes to ten thousand men
        on each side; for, after all, it was ‘might that made right.’
        Because a strong party beats a weaker one, that is not a proof
        that the right was in the strong one; yet, still, if
        men had no other way of settling their disputes but by spilling
        blood, then that plan was the most humane which only sacrificed
        two or one man. As to national honour! why not let the few
        settle it? why drag the poor sailors and soldiers to be
        butchered like cattle to gratify the fine feelings of a few
        morbidly constructed minds?”

“Oh, that my good father, Valentine Harley, could have seen
        this day,” said Hastings. “But this bloodthirsty, savage
        propensity—this murdering our fellow creatures in cold blood, as
        it were, was cured by degrees I presume. What gave the first
        impulse to such a blessed change?”

“The old Recorder states that it was brought about by the
        influence of women; it was they who gave the first
        impulse. As soon as they themselves were considered as of equal
        importance with their husbands — as soon as they were on an
        equality in money matters, for after all, people are
        respected in proportion to their wealth, that moment all the
        barbarisms of the age disappeared. Why, in your day, a strange
        perverted system had taken deep root; then, it was the
        man that was struck by another who was disgraced in
        public opinion, and not the one who struck him. It was that
        system which fermented and promoted bloodthirstiness, and it was
        encouraged and fostered by men and by women both.

“But as soon as women had more power in their hands, their
        energies were directed another way; they became more enlightened
        as they rose higher in the scale, and instead of encroaching on
        our privileges, of which we stood in such fear, women shrunk
        farther and farther from all approach to men’s pursuits and
        occupations. Instead of congregating, as they did in your time,
        to beg for alms to establish and sustain a charity, that they
        might have some independent power of their own—for this craving
        after distinction was almost always blended with their desire to
        do good — they united for the purpose of exterminating that
        war seed above mentioned—that system which fastened the
        disgrace of a blow on the one who received it. This was
        their first effort; they then taught their children likewise,
        that to kill a man in battle, or men in battle, when mere
        national honour was the war cry, or when we had been robbed of
        our money on the high seas, was a crime of the blackest die, and
        contrary to the divine precepts of our Saviour. They taught them
        to abstain from shedding human blood, excepting in self
        defence—excepting in case of invasion.

“They next taught them to reverence religion; for until
        bloodthirstiness was cured, how could a child reverence our
        Saviour’s precepts? How could we recommend a wholesome, simple
        diet to a man who had been accustomed to riot in rich sauces and
        condiments? They had first to wean them from the savage
        propensities that they had received through the maddening
        influence of unreflecting men, before a reverence for holy
        things could be excited. Then it was that clergymen became the
        exalted beings in our eyes that they now are—then it was that
        children began to love and respect them. As soon as their
        fathers did their mothers the poor justice of trusting them with
        all their property, the children began to respect her as they
        ought, and then her words were the words of wisdom. It was then,
        and not till then, that war and duelling ceased. We are amazed
        at what we read. What! take away a man’s life because he has
        robbed us of money! Hang a man because he has forged our name
        for a few dollars! No: go to our prisons, there you will see the
        murderer’s fate — solitary confinement, at hard labour, for
        life! that is his punishment; but murders are very rare now in
        this country. A man stands in greater dread of solitary
        confinement at hard labour than he does of hanging. In fact,
        according to our way of thinking, now, we have no right, by the
        Divine law, to take that away from a human being for which we
        can give no equivalent. It is right to prevent a murderer from
        committing still farther crime; and this we do by confining him
        for life at hard labour, and alone.”

“Women, you say, produced a reform in that miserable code
        called the law of honour.”

“Yes, thanks be to them for it. Why, as the old Recorder
        states, if a man did not challenge the fellow who struck him, he
        was obliged to quit the army or the navy, and be for ever
        banished as a coward, and it was considered as disgraceful in a
        private citizen to receive a blow without challenging the
        ruffian that struck him. But the moment that women took the
        office in hand, that moment the thing was reversed. They entered
        into a compact not to receive a man into their society who had
        struck another, unless he made such ample apology to the injured
        person as to be forgiven by him; and not only that, but his
        restoration to favour was to be sued for by the injured party
        himself. A man soon became cautious how he incurred the
        risk.”

“It often occurred to me,” said Hastings, “that women had
        much of the means of moral reform in their power; but they
        always appeared to be pursuing objects tending rather to weaken
        than to strengthen morals. They acted with good intentions, but
        really wanted judgment to select the proper method of pursuing
        their benevolent schemes. Only look at their toiling as they did
        to collect funds towards educating poor young men for the
        ministry.”

“Oh, those young men,” replied Edgar, “were, no doubt, their
        sons or brothers, and even then they must have been working at
        some trade to assist their parents or some poor relation, and
        thus had to neglect themselves.”

“No, indeed,” said Hastings, “I assure you these young men
        were entire strangers, persons that they never saw in their
        lives, nor ever expected to see.”

“Then, all I can say is, that the women were to be pitied for
        their mistaken zeal, and the men ought to have scorned such
        aid—but the times are altered; no man, no poor man stands in
        need of women’s help now, as they have trades or employments
        that enable them to educate themselves. Only propose such a
        thing now, and see how it would be received; why a young man
        would think you intended to insult him. We pursue the plan so
        admirably begun in your day by the celebrated Fellenberg. When
        we return this way again, I will show you the work-shops
        attached to the college—the one we saw in Princeton.”

“While we are thus far on the road, suppose that we go to New
        York,” said Hastings, “I was bound thither when that calamity
        befell me. I wonder if I shall see a single house remaining that
        I saw three hundred years ago.”

Edgar laughed—“You will see but very few, I can tell you,”
        said he, “houses, in your day, were built too slightly to stand
        the test of one century. At one time, the corporation
        of the city had to inspect the mortar, lest it should not be
        strong enough to cement the bricks! And it frequently happened
        that houses tumbled down, not having been built strong enough to
        bear their own weight. A few of the public buildings remain, but
        they have undergone such changes that you will hardly recognize
        them. The City Hall, indeed, stands in the same place, but if
        you approach it, in the rear, you will find that it is of
        marble, and not freestone as the old Recorder says it was in
        your time. But since the two great fires at the close of the
        years 1835 and 1842 the city underwent great alterations.”

“Great fires; in what quarter of the city were they? They
        must have been disasters, indeed, to be remembered for three
        hundred years.”

“Yes, the first destroyed nearly seven hundred houses, and
        about fifteen millions of property; and the second, upwards of a
        thousand houses, and about three millions of property; but
        excepting that it reduced a number of very respectable females
        to absolute want, the merchants, and the city itself, were
        greatly benefited by it. There were salutary laws enacted in
        consequence of it, that is, after the second fire; for instance,
        the streets in the burnt districts were made wider; the houses
        were better and stronger built; the fire engines were drawn by
        horses, and afterwards by a new power: firemen were not only
        exempt from jury and militia duty, but they had a regular salary
        while they served out their seven years’ labour; and if any
        fireman lost his life, or was disabled, his family received the
        salary for a term of years. The old Recorder says that there was
        not a merchant of any enterprise who did not recover from his
        losses in three years.”

“But what became of the poor women who lost all their
        property? did they lose insurance stock? for I presume the
        insurance companies became insolvent.”

“The poor women?—oh, they remained poor—nothing in
        your day ever happened to better their condition when a
        calamity like that overtook them. Men had enough to do
        to pity and help themselves. Yes, their loss was in the
        insolvency of the insurance companies; but stock is safe enough
        now, for the last tremendous fire (they did not let the first
        make the impression it ought to have done,) roused the energies
        and sense of the people, and insurance is managed very
        different. Every house, now, whether of the rich or the poor
        man, is insured. It has to pay so much additional tax, and the
        corporation are the insurers. But the tax is so trifling that no
        one feels it a burden; our houses are almost all fire-proof
        since the discovery of a substance which renders wood almost
        proof against fire. But I have a file of the Recorder of
        Self-Inflicted Miseries, and you will see the regular gradation
        from the barbarisms of your day to the enlightened times it has
        been permitted you to see.”

“But the water, in my day,”—poor Hastings never repeated this
        without a sigh—“in my day the city was supplied by water from a
        brackish stream, but there was a plan in contemplation to bring
        good water to the city from the distance of forty miles.”

“Where, when was that? I do not remember to have read any
        thing about it.—Oh, yes, there was such a scheme, and it appears
        to me they did attempt it, but whatever was the cause of failure
        I now forget; at present they have a plentiful supply by means
        of boring. Some of these bored wells are upwards of a thousand
        feet deep.”

“Why the Manhattan Company made an attempt of this kind in my
        time, but they gave it up as hopeless after going down to the
        depth of six or seven hundred feet.”

“Yes, I recollect; but only look at the difficulties they had
        to encounter. In the first place, the chisel that they bored
        with was not more than three or four inches wide; of course, as
        the hole made by this instrument could be no larger, there was
        no possibility of getting the chisel up if it were broken off
        below, neither could they break or cut it into fragments. If
        such an accident were to occur at the depth of six hundred feet,
        this bored hole would have to be abandoned. We go differently to
        work now; with our great engines we cut down through the earth
        and rock, as if it were cheese, and the wells are of four feet
        diameter. As they are lined throughout with an impervious
        cement, the overflowing water does not escape. Every house is
        now supplied from this never-failing source—the rich, and the
        poor likewise, use this water, and it is excellent. All the
        expense comes within the one yearly general tax: when a man
        builds he knows that pipes are to be conveyed through his house,
        and he knows also that his one tax comprehends the use of water.
        He pays so much per centum for water, for all the municipal
        arrangement, for defence of harbour, for the support of
        government, &c, and as there is such a wide door open, such
        a competition, his food and clothing do not cost half as much as
        they did in your day.”

“You spoke of wells a thousand feet deep and four feet wide;
        what became of all the earth taken from them—stones I should
        say.”

“Oh, they were used for the extension of the Battery. Do you
        remember, in your day, an ill constructed thing called Fort
        William, or Castle Garden? Well, the Battery was filled up on
        each side from that point, so that at present there are at least
        five acres of ground more attached to it than when you saw it,
        and as we are now levelling a part of Brooklyn heights, we
        intend to fill it out much farther. The Battery is a noble
        promenade now.”

They reached New York by the slow line at two o’clock, having
        travelled at the rate of thirty miles an hour; and after walking
        up Broadway to amuse themselves with looking at the improvements
        that had taken place since Hastings last saw it—three hundred
        years previous—they stopped at the Astor Hotel. This venerable
        building, the City Hall, the Public Mart, the St. Paul’s Church,
        and a stone house at the lower end of the street, built by
        governor Jay, were all that had stood the test of ages. The
        St. Paul was a fine old church, but the steeple had been taken
        down and a dome substituted, as was the fashion of all the
        churches in the city—the burial yards of all were gone—houses
        were built on them:—vaults, tombs, graves, monuments—what had
        become of them?

The Astor Hotel, a noble building, of simple and chaste
        architecture, stood just as firm, and looked just as well, as it
        did when Hastings saw it. Why should it not? stone is stone, and
        three hundred years more would pass over it without impairing
        it. This shows the advantage of stone over brick. Mr. Astor
        built for posterity, and he has thus perpetuated his name. He
        was very near living as long as this building; the planning and
        completing of it seemed to renovate him, for his life was
        extended to his ninety-ninth year. This building proves him to
        have been a man of fine taste and excellent judgment, for it
        still continues to be admired.

“But how is this?” said Hastings, “I see no houses but this
        one built by Mr. Astor that are higher than three stories; it is
        the case throughout the city, stores and all.”

“Since the two great fires of 1835 and 1842, the corporation
        forbid the building of any house or store above a certain
        height. Those tremendous fires, as I observed, brought people to
        their senses, and they now see the folly of it.

“The ceilings are not so high as formerly; more regard is
        shown to comfort. Why the old Recorder of Self-Inflicted
        Miseries states, that men were so indifferent about the
        conveniences and comforts of life, that they would sometimes
        raise the ceilings to the great height of fourteen and fifteen
        feet! Nay, that they did so in despite of their wives’ health,
        never considering how hard it bore on the lungs of those who
        were affected with asthma or other visceral complaints. Heavens
        and earth! how little the ease and pleasure of women were
        consulted in your day.”

“Yes, that appears all very true,” said Hastings, “but you
        must likewise recollect that these very women were quite as
        eager as their husbands to live in houses having such high
        flights of stairs.”

“Poor things,” exclaimed Edgar, “to think of their being
        trained to like and desire a thing that bore so hard on them.
        Only consider what a loss of time and breath it must be to go up
        and down forty or fifty times a day, for your nurseries were, it
        seems, generally in the third story. We love our wives too well
        now to pitch our houses so high up in the air. The
        Philadelphians had far more humanity, more consideration; they
        always built a range of rooms in the rear of the main building,
        and this was a great saving of time and health.”

“Where, at length, did they build the custom house?” said
        Hastings; “I think there was a difficulty in choosing a suitable
        spot for it.”

“Oh, I recollect,” said Edgar. “Why they did at length
        decide, and one was built in Pine street; but that has crumbled
        away long since. You know that we have no necessity for a custom
        house now, as all foreign goods come free of duty. This direct
        tax includes all the expenses of the general and state
        governments, and it operates so beautifully that the rich man
        now bears his full proportion towards the support of the whole
        as the poor man does. This was not the case in your day. Only
        think how unequally it bore on the labourer who had to buy
        foreign articles, such as tea, and sugar, and coffee, for a wife
        and six or eight children, and to do all this with his wealth,
        which was the labour of his hands. The rich man did not
        contribute the thousandth part of his proportion towards paying
        for foreign goods, nor was he taxed according to his revenue for
        the support of government. The direct tax includes the poor
        man’s wealth, which is his labour, and the rich man’s wealth,
        which is his property.”

“But have the merchants no mart—no exchange? According to the
        map you showed me of the two great fires, the first exchange was
        burnt.”

“Yes, the merchants have a noble exchange. Did you not see
        that immense building on State street, surrounded by an area?
        After the first great fire they purchased—that is, a company
        purchased—the whole block that included State street in front,
        Pearl street in the rear, and Whitehall street at the lower end.
        All mercantile business is transacted there, the principal post
        office and the exchange are there now; the whole go under the
        general name of Mart—the City Mart.”

“Is it not inconvenient to have the post office so far from
        the centre of business?—it was a vexed question in my day,” said
        Hastings.

“You must recollect that even then, central as the post
        office was, there were many sub-post offices. If men in your day
        were regardless of the many unnecessary steps that their wives
        were obliged to take, they were very careful of sparing
        themselves. We adopt the plan now of having two sets of post men
        or letter carriers; one set pass through the streets at a
        certain hour to receive letters, their coming being announced by
        the chiming of a few bells at their cars, and the other set
        delivering letters. They both ride in cars, for now that no
        letter, far or near, pays more than two cents postage—which
        money is to pay the letter carriers themselves—the number of
        letters is so great that cars are really necessary. All the
        expense of the post office department is defrayed from the
        income or revenue of the direct tax—and hence the man of
        business pays his just proportion too. It was a wise thing,
        therefore, to establish all the mercantile offices near the
        Battery; they knew that the time was coming when New York and
        Brooklyn would be as one city.”

“One city!” exclaimed Hastings; “how can that be? If
        connected by bridges, how can the ships pass up the East
        river?”

“You forget that our vessels have no masts; they pass under
        the bridges here as they do in the Delaware.”

“Oh, true, I had forgotten; but my head is so confused with
        all the wonders that I see and hear, that you must excuse my
        mistakes. The old theatre stood there, but it has disappeared, I
        suppose. It was called the Park Theatre. How are the play houses
        conducted now? is there only one or two good actors now among a
        whole company?”

“Well, that question really does amuse me. I dare say that
        the people of your day were as much astonished at reading the
        accounts handed down to them of the fight of gladiators before
        an audience, as we are at your setting out evening after evening
        to hear the great poets travestied. If we could be transported
        back to your time, how disgusted we should be to spend four
        hours in listening to rant and ignorance. All our actors now,
        are men and women of education, such as the Placides, the
        Wallacks, the Kembles, the Keans, of your day. I assure you, we
        would not put up with inferior talent in our cities. It is a
        rich treat now to listen to one of Shakspeare’s plays, for every
        man and woman is perfect in the part. The whole theatrical corps
        is held in as much esteem, and make a part of our society, as
        those of any other profession do. The worthless and the
        dissolute are more scrupulously rejected by that body than they
        are from the body of lawyers or doctors; in fact it is no more
        extraordinary now, than it was in your day to see a worthless
        lawyer, or merchant, or physician, and to see him tolerated in
        society too, if he happen to be rich. But there is no set of
        people more worthy of our friendship and esteem than the
        players. A great change, to be sure, took place in their
        character, as soon as they had reaped the benefit of a college
        education. I presume you know that there is a college now for
        the education of public actors?”

“Is it possible?” said Hastings; “then I can easily imagine
        the improvements you speak of; for with the exception of the
        few—the stars, as they were called—there was but little
        education among them.”

“Here it is that elocution is taught, and here all public
        speakers take lessons,” said Edgar; “you may readily imagine
        what an effect such an institution would have on those who
        intended to become actors. In your day, out of the whole
        theatrical corps of one city, not more than six or seven,
        perhaps, could tell the meaning of the words they used
        in speaking, to say nothing of the sense of the author.
        There is no more prejudice now against play-acting than there is
        against farming. The old Recorder states, that, before our
        revolution, the farmers were of a more inferior race, and went
        as little into polite society as the mechanics did. Even so far
        back as your time a farmer was something of a gentleman, and why
        an actor should not be a gentleman is to us incomprehensible.
        One of the principal causes of this change of personal feeling
        towards actors has arisen from our having expunged all the low
        and indelicate passages from the early plays. Shakspeare wrote
        as the times then were, but his works did not depend on a few
        coarse and vulgar passages for their popularity and immortality;
        they could bear to be taken out, as you will perceive, for the
        space they occupied is not now known; the adjoining sentence
        closed over them, as it were, and they are forgotten. There were
        but few erasures to be made in the writings of Sir Walter Scott;
        the times were beginning to loathe coarse and indelicate
        allusions in your day, and, indeed, we may thank the other sex
        for this great improvement. They never disgraced their pages
        with sentences and expressions which would excite a blush. Look
        at the purity of such writers as Miss Burney, Mrs. Radcliffe,
        Miss Edgeworth, Miss Austin, Madame Cotton, and others of their
        day in Europe,—it is to woman’s influence that we owe so much.
        See what is done by them now; why they have fairly routed and
        scouted out that vile, disgraceful, barbarous practice which was
        even prevalent in your time—that of beating and bruising the
        tender flesh of their children.”

“I am truly rejoiced at that,” said Hastings, “but I hope
        they extended their influence to the schools likewise—I mean the
        common schools; for, in my day in the grammar school of a
        college, a man who should bruise a child’s flesh by beating or
        whipping him would have been kicked out of society.”

“Why, I thought that boys were whipped in the grammar schools
        also. In the year 1836, it appears to me, that I remember to
        have read of the dismissal of some professor for injuring one of
        the boys by flogging him severely.”

“I do not recollect it; but you say 1836—alas! I was
        unconscious then. It was the remains of barbarism; how a teacher
        could get roused to such height of passion as to make him desire
        to bruise a child’s flesh, I cannot conceive—when the only crime
        of the poor little sufferer was either an unwillingness or an
        inability to recite his lessons. I can imagine that a man, when
        drunk, might bruise a child’s flesh in such a shocking manner as
        that the blood would settle under the skin, because liquor
        always brutalizes. Is drunkenness as prevalent now as
        formerly?”

“Oh no, none but the lowest of the people drink to excess
        now, and they have to get drunk on cider and wine, for
        spirituous liquors have been prohibited by law for upwards of
        two hundred years. A law was passed in the year 1901, granting a
        divorce to any woman whose husband was proved to be a drunkard.
        This had a good effect, for a drunkard knew that if he was
        abandoned by his wife he must perish; so it actually reclaimed
        many drunkards at the time, and had a salutary effect
        afterwards. Besides this punishment, if a single man, or a
        bachelor, as he is called, was found drunk three times, he was
        put in the workhouse and obliged to have his head shaved, and to
        work at some trade. It is a very rare thing to see a drunkard
        now. But what are you looking for?”

“I thought I might see a cigar box about—not that I ever
        smoke” —

“A what?—a cigar? Oh yes, I know—little things made of
        tobacco leaves; but you have to learn that there is not a
        tobacco plantation in the world now. That is one of the most
        extraordinary parts of your history: that well educated men
        could keep a pungent and bitter mass of leaves in their mouth
        for the pleasure of seeing a stream of yellow water running out
        of it, is the most incomprehensible mystery to me; and then, to
        push the dust of these leaves up their nostrils, which I find by
        the old Recorder that they did, for the mere pleasure of hearing
        the noise that was made by their noses! The old Recorder called
        their pocket handkerchiefs flags of abomination.”

Hastings thought it was not worth while to convince the young
        man that the disgusting practice was not adopted for such
        purposes as he mentioned. In fact his melancholy had greatly
        increased since their arrival in this city, and he determined to
        beg his young friend to return the next day to their home, and
        to remain quiet for another year, to see if time could reconcile
        him to his strange fate. He took pleasure in rambling through
        the city hall, and the park, which remained still of the same
        shape, and he was pleased likewise to see that many of the
        streets at right angles with Broadway were more than twice the
        width that they were in 1835. For instance, all the streets from
        Wall street up to the Park were as wide as Broadway, and they
        were opened on the other side quite down to the Hudson.

“Yes,” said Edgar, “it was the great fire of 1842 which made
        this salutary change; but here is a neat building—you had
        nothing of this kind in your time. This is a house where the
        daughters of the poor are taught to sew and cut out wearing
        apparel. I suppose you know there are no men tailors now.”

“What, do women take measure?”

“Oh no, men are the measurers, but women cut out and sew. It
        is of great advantage to poor women that they can cut out and
        make their husbands’ and children’s clothes. The old Recorder
        states that women—poor women — in the year 1836, were scarcely
        able to cut out their own clothes. But just about that date, a
        lady of this city suggested the plan of establishing an
        institution of this kind, and it was adopted. Some benevolent
        men built the house and left ample funds for the maintenance of
        a certain number of poor girls, with a good salary for those who
        superintend it. And here is another house: this is for the
        education of those girls whose parents have seen better days.
        Here they are taught accounts and book-keeping—which, however,
        in our day is not so complicated as it was, for there is no
        credit given for any thing. In short these girls are instructed
        in all that relates to the disposal of money; our women now
        comprehend what is meant by stocks, and dividends, and loans,
        and tracts, and bonds, and mortgages.”

“Do women still get the third of their husband’s estate after
        their husband’s death?”

“Their thirds? I don’t know what you mean—Oh, I recollect;
        yes, in your day it was the practice to curtail a woman’s income
        after her husband’s death. A man never then considered a woman
        as equal to himself; but, while he lived, he let her enjoy the
        whole of his income equally with himself, because he could not
        do otherwise and enjoy his money; but when he died, or rather,
        when about making his will, he found out that she was but a poor
        creature after all, and that a very little of what he had to
        leave would suffice for her. Nay, the old Recorder says that
        there have been rich men who ordered the very house in which
        they lived, and which had been built for their wives’ comfort,
        during their life time, to be sold, and who thus compelled their
        wives to live in mean, pitiful houses, or go to lodgings.”

“Yes,” said Hastings,—quite ashamed of his own times,—“but
        then you know the husband was fearful that his wife would marry
        again, and all their property would go to strangers.”

“Well, why should not women have the same privileges as men?
        Do you not think that a woman had the same fears? A man married
        again and gave his money to strangers—did he not? The fact is,
        we consider that a woman has the same feelings as we have
        ourselves—a thing you never once thought of—and now the property
        that is made during marriage is as much the woman’s as the
        man’s; they are partners in health and in sickness, in joy and
        in sorrow—they enjoy every thing in common while they live
        together, and why a woman, merely on account of her being more
        helpless, should be cut off from affluence because she survives
        her husband, is more than we of this century can tell. Why
        should not children wait for the property till after her death,
        as they would for their father’s death? It was a relic of
        barbarism, but it has passed away with wars and bloodshed. We
        educate our women now, and they are as capable of taking care of
        property as we are ourselves. They are our trustees, far better
        than the trustees you had amongst you in your day — they seldom
        could find it in their hearts to allow a widow even her poor
        income. I suppose they thought that a creature so pitifully used
        by her husband was not worth bestowing their honesty upon.”

“But the women in my day,” said Hastings, “seemed to approve
        of this treatment; in fact, I have known many very sensible
        women who thought it right that a man should not leave his wife
        the whole of his income after his death. But they were beginning
        to have their eyes opened, for I recollect that the subject was
        being discussed in 1835.”

“Yes, you can train a mind to acquiesce in any absurd
        doctrine, and the truth is, that as women were then educated,
        they were, for the most part, unfit to have the command of a
        large estate. But I cannot find that the children were
        eventually benefited by it; for young men and women, coming into
        possession of their father’s estate at the early age of
        twenty-one, possessed no more business talent than their mother;
        nor had they even as much prudence and judgment in the
        management of money matters, as she had. Men seldom thought of
        this, but generally directed their executors to divide the
        property among the children as soon as they became of
        age—utterly regardless of the injustice they were doing their
        wives, and of the oath which they took when they married — that
        is, if they married according to the forms of the Episcopal
        church. In that service, a man binds himself by a solemn oath
        ‘to endow his wife with all his worldly goods.’ If he
        swears to endow her with all, how can he in safety to his soul,
        will these worldly goods away from her. We consider the
        practice of depriving a woman of the right to the whole of her
        husband’s property after his death, as a monstrous act of
        injustice, and the laws are now peremptory on this subject.”

“I am certain you are right,” said Hastings, “and you have
        improved more rapidly in this particular, during a period of
        three hundred years, than was done by my ancestors in two
        thousand years before. I can understand now, how it happens,
        that children have the same respect for their mother, that they
        only felt for their father in my time. The custom, or laws,
        being altogether in favour of equality of rights between the
        parents, the children do not repine when they find that they
        stand in the same relation of dependence to their mother, that
        they did to their father; and why this should not be, is
        incomprehensible to me now, but I never reflected on it
        before.”

“Yes, there are fewer estates squandered away in consequence
        of this, and society is all the better for it. Then to this is
        added the great improvement in the business education of women.
        All the retail and detail of mercantile operations are conducted
        by them. You had some notion of this in your time; for, in
        Philadelphia, although women were generally only employed to
        make sales behind the counter, yet some were now and then seen
        at the head of the establishment. Before our separation from
        Great Britain, the business of farming was also at a low ebb,
        and a farmer was but a mean person in public estimation. He
        ranks now amongst the highest of our business men; and in fact,
        he is equal to any man whether in business or not, and this is
        the case with female merchants. Even in 1836, a woman who
        undertook the business of a retail shop, managing the whole
        concern herself, although greatly respected, she never took her
        rank amongst the first classes of society. This arose, first,
        from want of education, and, secondly, from her having lived
        amongst an inferior set of people. But when women were trained
        to the comprehension of mercantile operations, and were taught
        how to dispose of money, their whole character underwent a
        change, and with this accession of business talent, came the
        respect from men for those who had a capacity for the conducting
        of business affairs. Only think what an advantage this is to our
        children; why our mothers and wives are the first teachers, they
        give us sound views from the very commencement, and our
        clerkship begins from the time we can comprehend the distinction
        of right and wrong.”

“Did not our infant schools give a great impulse to this
        improvement in the condition of women, and to the improvement in
        morals, and were not women mainly instrumental in fostering
        these schools?”

“Yes, that they were; it was chiefly through the influence of
        their pen and active benevolence, that the scheme arrived at
        perfection. In these infant schools a child was early taught the
        mystery of its relation to society; all its good dispositions
        and propensities were encouraged and developed, and its vicious
        ones were repressed. The world owes much to the blessed
        influence of infant schools, and the lower orders were the first
        to be humanized by them. But I need not dwell on this
        particular. I shall only point to the improvement in the morals
        of our people at this day, to convince you that it is owing
        altogether to the benign influence of women. As soon as they
        took their rank as an equal to man, equal as to property I mean,
        for they had no other right to desire; there was no
        longer any struggle, it became their ambition to show how long
        the world had been benighted by thus keeping them in a degraded
        state. I say degraded state, for surely it argued in them
        imbecility or incapacity of some kind, and to great extent, too,
        when a man appointed executors and trustees to his estate whilst
        his wife was living. It showed one of three things—that he never
        considered her as having equal rights with himself; or, that he
        thought her incompetent to take charge of his property—or, that
        the customs and laws of the land had so warped his judgment,
        that he only did as he saw others do, without considering
        whether these laws and customs were right or wrong. But if you
        only look back you will perceive, that in every benevolent
        scheme, in every plan for meliorating the condition of the poor,
        and improving their morals, it was women’s influence that
        promoted and fostered it. It is to that healthy influence, that
        we owe our present prosperity and happiness—and it is an
        influence which I hope may forever continue.”

It was not to such a man as Hastings that Edgar need have
        spoken so earnestly; he only wanted to have a subject fairly
        before him to comprehend it in all its bearings. He rejoiced
        that women were now equal to men in all that they ever
        considered as their rights; and he rejoiced likewise that the
        proper distinction was rigidly observed between the sexes—that
        as men no longer encroached on their rights, they, in return,
        kept within the limits assigned them by the Creator. As a man
        and a christian, he was glad that this change had taken place;
        and it was a melancholy satisfaction to feel that with these
        views, if it had been permitted him to continue with his wife,
        he should have put her on an equality with himself.

The moment his wife and child appeared to his mental vision,
        he became indifferent to what was passing around him; Edgar,
        perceiving that he was buried in his own thoughts, proposed that
        they should return home immediately, and they accordingly passed
        down Broadway to the Battery, from which place they intended to
        take a boat. They reached the wharf — a ship had just arrived
        from the Cape of Good Hope, with a fine cargo. The captain and
        crew of which were black.

— “That is true,” said Hastings, “I have seen very few
        negroes; what has become of them. The question of slavery was a
        very painful one in my time, and much of evil was apprehended in
        consequence of a premature attempt to hasten their emancipation.
        I dread to hear how it eventuated.”

“You have nothing to fear on that score,” said Edgar, “for
        the whole thing was arranged most satisfactorily to all parties.
        The government was rich in resources, and rich in land; they
        sold the land, and with the money thus obtained, and a certain
        portion of the surplus revenue in the course of ten years, they
        not only indemnified the slaveholders for their loss of
        property, but actually transplanted the whole of the negro
        population to Liberia, and to other healthy colonies. The
        southern planters soon found that their lands could be as easily
        cultivated by the labour of white men, as by the negroes.”

“But a great number remained, I presume, for it would not
        have been humane to force those to go who preferred to
        stay.”

“All that chose to settle in this country were at liberty to
        do so, and their rights and privileges were respected; but in
        the course of twenty or thirty years, their descendants
        gradually went over to their own people, who by this time, had
        firmly established themselves.”

“Did those that remained, ever intermarry with the white
        population, and were they ever admitted into society?”

“As soon as they became free, as soon as their bodies were
        unshackled, their minds became enlightened, and as their
        education advanced, they learned to appreciate themselves
        properly. They saw no advantage in intermarrying with the
        whites; on the contrary, they learned, by close investigation,
        that the negro race becomes extinct in the fourth remove, when
        marriages took place between the two colours. It seemed to be
        their pride to keep themselves a distinct people, and to show
        the world that their organization allowed of the highest grade
        of mental culture. They seemed utterly indifferent likewise
        about mixing in the society of white men, for their object and
        sole aim was to become independent. Many of their descendants
        left the United States with handsome fortunes. You could not
        insult a black man more highly than to talk of their
        intermarrying with the whites—they scorn it much more than the
        whites did in your time.”

“How do they treat the white people that trade with them in
        their own country?”

“How? why as Christians—to their praise be it said, they
        never retaliated. The few excesses they committed whilst they
        were degraded by slavery, was entirely owing to a misdirection
        of their energies; but the moment the white man gave up his
        right over them, that moment all malignant and hostile feelings
        disappeared. The name of negro is no longer a term of reproach,
        he is proud of it; and he smiles when he reads in the history of
        their servitude, how indignant the blacks were at being called
        by that title. They are a prosperous and happy people, respected
        by all nations, for their trade extends over the whole world.
        They would never have arrived at their present happy condition
        if they had sought to obtain their freedom by force; but by
        waiting a few years — for the best men of their colour saw that
        the spirit of the times indicated that their day of freedom was
        near—they were released from bondage with the aid and good
        wishes of the whole country. It showed their strong good sense
        in waiting for the turn of the tide in their favour; it proved
        that they had forethought, and deserved our sympathies.”

“I am glad of all this,” said Hastings—“and the Indians—what
        has become of them, are they still a distinct people?”

“I am sorry you ask that question,—for it is one on which I
        do not like to converse—but

‘The Indians have departed—gone is their hunting ground, And
        the twanging of their bow-string is a forgotten sound. Where
        dwelleth yesterday—and where is echo’s cell? Where hath the
        rainbow vanished—there doth the Indian dwell!’

“When our own minds were sufficiently enlightened, when our
        hearts were sufficiently inspired by the humane principles of
        the Christian religion, we emancipated the blacks. What demon
        closed up the springs of tender mercy when Indian rights were in
        question I know not?—but I must not speak of it!”

They now proceeded homewards, and in three hours—for they
        travelled slowly, that they might the better converse,—they came
        in sight of the low, stone farm-house, in which poor Hastings
        had taken his nap of three hundred years. They alighted from the
        car, and as he wished to indulge himself in taking one more look
        at the interior—for the building was soon to be removed—his
        young relative left him to apprize his family of their arrival.
        After casting a glance at Edgar, he entered the house, and
        seating himself mechanically in the old arm chair, he leaned his
        head back in mournful reverie. Thoughts innumerable, and of
        every variety chased each other through his troubled brain; his
        early youth, his political career, his wife and child, all that
        they had ever been to him, his excellent father, Valentine
        Harley, and all their tender relationship, mingled confusedly
        with the events that had occurred since his long
        sleep—copy-rights—mad dogs — bursting of steam boilers—the two
        great fires in New-York—direct tax—no duties—post-offices—the
        improved condition of clergymen — no more wars—no bruising of
        children’s flesh—women’s rights — Astor’s hotel—New-York Mart in
        State-street—Negro emancipation — all passed in rapid review,
        whilst his perplexities to know what became of the Indians were
        mixed with the rest, and ran through the whole scene. At the
        same time that all this was galloping through his feverish
        brain, he caught a glance of his young relative, and in his
        troubled imagination, it appeared that it was not the Edgar
        Hastings who had of late been his kind companion, but his own
        son. He was conscious that this was only a trick of the fancy,
        and arose from his looking so earnestly at the young man as he
        left him at the door of the house; but it was a pleasant fancy,
        and he indulged in it, till a sudden crash or noise of some kind
        jarred the windows and aroused him. He was sensible that
        footsteps approached, and he concluded it was his young friend
        who had returned to conduct him home.

“Edgar—Edgar Hastings—my son is it thou—didst thou not hear
        the cannon of the Black Hawk—hast thou been sleeping?”

“Amazement! Was that the voice of his father—was this the
        good Valentine Harley that now assisted him to rise—and who were
        those approaching him—was it his darling wife, and was that
        smiling boy his own son, his little Edgar!”

“You have been asleep, I find, my dear husband,” said the
        gentle Ophelia, “and a happy sleep it has been for me, for us
        all. See, here is a letter which makes it unnecessary for you to
        leave home.”

“And is this reality?—do I indeed hold thee to my heart once
        more, my Ophelia—oh, my father, what a dream!”

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