justice; the great journals are now rather corporate institutions than individual organs; and, hence, the former autocratic influence of men like Horace Greeley is on the decline; and the powerful action of the press on public sentiment is determined by its general ability, rather than by personal considerations. Still, the position of Horace Greeley, as an American journalist, must always command a weighty influence on political affairs and popular opinion. People have been accustomed to quote him as an authority; to watch his course, as involving the secrets of vaticination, and to attribute to his personal convictions the importance which attaches only to a collective mass of wisdom and experience.

We have thus briefly sketched the characteristics of Horace Greeley, in the most prominent aspects, in which his reputation may be regarded as the property of the public. It has been no part of our plan to dwell on the moral and intellectual traits, which are revealed on a more intimate acquaintance, and which delicacy to the living precludes from discussion beyond the circle of familiar friends. The faults of Horace Greeley are exposed to the public gaze -they are constantly the theme of explicit criticism-and in spite of their

alleged enormity, his influence has never been deprecated by those who have had the greatest experience of its power. His private virtues, of course, are less frequently the subject of general observation. But they are said to awaken unmingled admiration, in those who are most fully in the enjoyment of his confidence. We believe there are few, even among his most strenuous opponents, who will venture to call in question the essential integrity of his character, the versatile activity of his intellect, or the purity and benevolence of his life.

It

The biography, on which this article is founded, is the production of a young and enthusiastic admirer of Horace Greeley. It is unequal in its execution, but is, probably, correct in its general details. A greater degree of compression the narrative would have increased the interest of the reader. contains several lively and picturesque descriptions incidental to the main subject of the work, some of which leave a highly favorable impression of the author's skill in word-painting. With his evident quickness of perception and frequent beauty and energy of style, we may look for still more valuable productions from his pen, in fulfillment of the promise of which this first venture is an earnest.

CHAPTER VI.

THE last great wain-load of red-top and clover had long since been hauled home from the most distant outland meadow, and with much clamor and rejoicing had been safely garnered upon the lofty summit of the fragrant mow. Where, erewhile, had waved fields of stout timothy, and golden oats and barley, now herds of cattle roamed at will, gleaning after the reapers, unchecked by gates and bars, and safe from molestation and pursuit, as trespassers, by angry men and dogs. The pipe of the quail was heard among the patches of yellow stubble that checkered the yet

green hill-sides. The maize stalks, bending with the weight of lusty ears, had been despoiled of their nodding plumes; and between their long rows hosts of round, yellow pumpkins lay ripening in the sun, among the withered vines. In the orchards, beneath the trees, the fallen fruit reddened the ground. Great heaps of rosy apples were piled beside the sheds, where all day long the creaking cider-mills uttered loud complaints, while from the press hard by the rich must trickled from the pummice, with a pleasant, tinkling sound, into the brimming vats. The foliage of the woods upon the western cliffs was mottled with gaudy hues of

red and yellow. Even the crowns of the hardy elms were no longer green, and each rude breath of wind shook from aloft a shower of rustling leaves. In the chilly mornings, beneath the oaks and chestnuts, the frosty sward was bestrewn with mast, where provident squirrels, mindful of the coming winter, filled their capacious cheeks, and then scampered nimbly homewards with their spoil along the tops of walls and fences. The berries of the mountain ash and asparagus, and the capsules on the rose bushes had grown to ruddy maturity. By the roadside the withered milk-weeds displayed the glossy, silken contents of their bursting pods, and the hazy air was full of thistle-down and floating gossamer. The frowzy pastures were bright with the yellow blossoms of the golden-rod and mullen. The measured, muffled thump of flails, and the clatter of fanning-mills all day resounded through the valley. At night the pensive crickets chirped the requiem of departed summer, and petulant katydids joined in the melancholy chorus with harsh, dissonant cries. October, the month of plenty, had arrived, with its bright but dwindling days and hale and frosty nights.

It was a warm and sunny Sunday afternoon, and the staid and pious population of Walbury had assembled, for the second service, within the walls of their ancient meeting-house. The scripture had been read, the first hymn sung, the long prayer devoutly uttered, to the final amen, and the weary-footed congregation, once more seated at their ease, had listened admiringly to the singers in the gallery, while, with various rates of speed, each had followed, as best he might, in the wake of Joab, bravely leading them through the intricate windings, turnings, and doublings of that famous old fugue melody of 'Majesty." The parson had put on his spectacles and risen to his feet, and Deacon Sweeny, as was his custom of a Sunday afternoon, had thrown over his bald crown a red bandanna handkerchief, and, leaning his reverend head against a post that stood handily in the corner of his pew, had comfortably disposed himself for a quiet nap. But when, instead of opening at once the well-worn covers of his sermon-book, and giving out the text, Parson Graves slowly spread out before him on the desk a broad stiff sheet of crackling

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paper, and began to read, with an unusual inflation of tone and pomposity of manner, "By His Excellency, the Governor of the State of ConnecticutA Proclamation;" the deacon quickly roused himself, snatched the covering from his head, and sat upright beside his rigid spouse. Every eye was fixed upon the aged minister, and every ear was strained to catch the mangled syllables as they fell from his sunken lips. Even the mischievous boys, in the high fastnesses of the side galleries, shut their jack-knives and peered over the tops of the pews, where, secure from observation, they were wont to disport themselves during the tedious sermon time, and gave strict heed, for once, to what was proclaimed from the pulpit. Straightway, in the excited imaginations of these ingenious youth, rose appetizing visions of broad pewter platters, whereon lay sprawling on their backs huge turkeys, which as yet stalked monarchs of the noisy poultry-yard; of mighty pasties, hot from the oven, with crisp and melting crusts bulging upwards like a dome, and pregnant with tender delectable morsels of dismembered chickens; of other pies, skillfully compounded of pumpkins, mince-meat, or apples; of round-bellied puddings, speckled with plums and unctuous with suet, and of numerous other spicy dainties that are wont to load the groaning tables at Thanksgiving-time. Nay, I fear not to aver that even the mouth of Parson Graves himself watered as he enunciated, with sonorous emphasis, the concluding words "By His Excellency's command: Thomas Day, Secretary;" and folding up the document laid it carefully between the leaves of the big Bible; for, albeit he was nearly toothless, he was, nevertheless, a stout and famous trencherman, a quality that had greatly enhanced his popularity among two generations of notable Walbury housewives.

But, though in like manner, the minds of nearly all the congregation, thus suddenly diverted from things spiritual, were busy with thoughts and anticipations relating to the household cares and carnal delights which pertain to the annual feast-day of New England, there were a few among the hearers of the proclamation, to whom it was suggestive of ideas of a different kind. Thus, while Deacon Sweeny was going through with a mental calculation of

the probable profits that would accrue to him, by reason of the increased demand for raisins, ginger, all-spice and molasses, which experience had taught him to expect as incidental to the season, Mrs. Axy, his amiable consort, was forming a determination to avail herself of the very first opportunity to call the matter of Joab's and Lucy's wedding to the mind of her brother. The Colonel, himself, somewhat pricked in the conscience for his neglect and procrastination, was resolving to delay no longer, but to open the same subject that very night to his wife, and to enjoin upon her and Lucy the commencement of a series of preparations for the momentous event. Mrs. Manners, with lips a little compressed, was slyly watching the face of her sister-in-law, the deacon's wife, occasionally giving a quick glance of observation at the Colonel, though, meanwhile, she affected to be gazing steadfastly towards the pulpit. Lucy, upon another seat of the pew, was pouting with anger, and almost ready to cry with vexation, because Joab, from the gallery, facing her, was trying to catch her eye, and when he thought he had succeeded in this maneuver, to convey to her the intelligence of what was passing in his own mind. John, duly observant of Joab's winks and leers, was one moment tingling with suppressed wrath, and, at the next, flushing in an extatic agony of anxious hope, when he recalled to mind the confident prediction of his aunt Betsy, that never, the longest day of his life, would Joab Sweeny be the husband of Lucy Manners.

Thirty years ago, the New England Sabbath ended at set of sun. When, closely watched by impatient children, the orb of day slid slowly down the western sky, and finally vanished from the sight, beyond the distant mountains, a universal shout of juvenile gladness saluted his departure; and even the grave visages of the elders, weary with the strait religious aspect, relaxed into Inwonted smiles. Then commenced noisy sports upon the village green, and sprucely attired swains set forth to where buxom damsels, all made ready to be courted, awaited the coming of their beaux. Then, thrifty housewives, of the brisk and bustling sort, were accustomed to begin the weekly labor of the wash-tub and pounding-barrel. No

one need be shocked or surprised, therefore, to hear that Colonel Manners and his godly brother-in-law, the deacon, met each other, that Sunday night, at the bar-room of the tavern, where, of a Sabbath evening, it was the habit of the village elders to assemble for the purposes of social intercourse, the exchange of news and opinions, and the discussion of town, state and national affairs and politics. These conclaves selected, from time to time, the candidates for selectmen and deputies to the General Assembly, and the town and freemen's meetings rarely failed to ratify these nominations. Each of the grave seniors, in his turn, used to call for a mug of flip or sling, which, when prepared by the landlord, was passed from hand to hand, and from mouth to mouth. Even Parson Graves himself not unfrequently took his seat at the bar-room fire, and though he never paid a reckoning, like the rest of the company, it was not because he abstained from imbibing his full share of the good liquor furnished by the smiling publican. Those were good old times, when every man had a stomach under his waistcoat, for whose sake he deemed it his duty to drink a little of something more potent than water.

At

But our fathers kept early hours, and so, soon after the clock struck nine, Deacon Sweeny and the Colonel started on their way homewards. the Deacon's gate, they paused for a moment, and just as the Colonel was about to resume his walk, Mrs. Axy appeared at the door, and invited her brother to come into the house. "I expect," said she, as she closed the door behind him with a slam, and casting a look of wormwood and vinegar at her spouse; "I expect the Deacon was a goin' to let you marvel right straight along hum, arter all my wearin' myself out a tellin' him, over and over agin, to be sure and have you step in here a minute, ef he found you to the tavern-the most kerless crittur I

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Come, come, Axy," cried the Colonel, who, since he had paid the sixtyfive hundred dollars, often ventured to make head against the torrent of his sister's scolding; "now, you jest shet up, and let the Deacon have a minute's peace; or, by jingo! I'll clear out without ever offerin' to set down."

To this rebuke, Mrs. Sweeny, who had an especial reason why she did not

wish to displease or irritate her brother, made no reply, but discreetly restrained her wrath; though, as the Deacon well knew, and trembled at the consciousness, it never lost any of its vigor by being pent up in this way; but, like small beer, was all the more lively, pungent, noisy and sparkling, for being bottled awhile.

After Sally Blake's unfortunate successor had brought in a dish of Early Greening apples, and a pitcher of brisk new cider, and then, in obedience to a sharp-toned command of her mistress, had crept up, in the dark, to her nest in the garret, Mrs. Sweeny, without further delay, brought forward for consideration the subject of the proposed alliance. What was afterwards said and done by and between the high contracting parties, in Deacon Sweeny's presence and hearing, during the remainder of the interview, it would be tedious to relate, for Mrs. Axy, when excited, could talk enough, in the space of ninety minutes, to fill a large octavo volume of fine print. Neither do I think it worth the while to set forth the earnest dialogue which took place, when, on his way home, the Colonel met Joab, returning in a fit of unusual and extreme dejection from his weekly courting visit. Let it suffice to say, that at parting, the uncle shook the nephew by the hand with great vigor, and assured him, with many vehement asseverations, that he, the Colonel himself, would do the rest of the courting, and would do it in a hurry, too.

Lucy was in her mother's bed-room, relating, with angry vivacity, a narration of the open rupture which had that evening been the final result of Joab's renewed and persistent allusions to the subject of the wedding. She had just finished the burden of her story, and was proceeding, according to the custom of young ladies in the like circumstances, to gratify her pique and vexation, by coupling sundry disparaging epithets, denoting the absent Joab, with divers scornful and contumelious adjectives, when she heard her father's step at the door. A moment afterwards he entered the room. A single glance at his flushed and angry face told the two women that the crisis had at length arrived. Mrs. Manners, however, continued knitting busily, but her keen, gray eyes stealthily followed the motions of her husband, as, without saying

a word, he pulled off his boots with a jerk, and drew up his arm-chair to the fire, with an angry hitch. Lucy lit her candle, and was going to slip out of the room, but a stern, abrupt command from her father' slips, stayed her trembling steps. She put down her light upon the table, and stood waiting with a throbbing heart for the next word. It was not long delayed, for the Colonel was full of his subject, and the account which he had just received from Joab. of the disdainful dismissal that Lucy had given his suit, artfully embellished with false or garbled reports of the reasons therefor by her assigned, and of her unfilial declarations of independence, had exasperated him to a degree altogether unprecedented.

"So, Miss Lucy," said he, turning towards her, "you don't think the husband I've chosen for you is good enough, eh? Think you know better'n your old father, do you? Mean to suit yourself, whether your father, that gave you a bein', likes it or not, hey? Come, let's hear some of your brave speeches now. Jest talk as promp' to me as you did to Joab. Speak up," continued the Colonel, waxing warmer as he went on; "don't stand there a sulkin', you little hussy! You expect to jilt Joab, don't ye?"

"I don't love him, papa," replied poor Lucy, with a quivering lip and an imploring look at her mother's calm face.

The Colonel, with an effort, stifled a strong inclination to open profanity, and then continued in a hightened, sneering tone. "Don't love him, eh? He aint so smart and slick as them 'are dandyfied clarks and stoodents to Har'ford, mebby? Don't use pomatum, praps. Don't smell enough like a skunk to suit ye, eh? sich a fine stylish lady as you've got to be, I expect you're ashamed of your country relations-old clod-hopper of a father, and all. By jingo! I was a dumb fool, I'm afraid, as your aunt Axy says, to let you go to that infernal school. I might ha' known you'd get your idees raised too high, and your foolish little head turned arter some smoothily-spoken fop or other."

Lucy's eye began to kindle, for she was not one of your spiritless damsels. whose only reply to abuse is a flood of tears. She was about to retort in a very undutiful tone and manner, but a quick glance of reproof and warning from her

mother checked the untoward impulse, before it had matured into action.

"Husband," began Mrs. Manners, "let me say a word."

"Well, say it," replied the Colonel, who entertained so profound a respect for his wife, that even when the most angry and out of temper, he never ventured to speak to her with harshness.

"I wish," continued Mrs. Manners, pausing in her knitting; "I wish that you'd let Lucy have a little more time. She's young yet, a mere girl, and at present it seems don't fancy Joab for a husband, but

Here the good lady hesitated, and began to knit again; and her husband, after waiting decorously for her awhile, resumed his remarks.

"Betsey," said he, "I must say I never heerd you talk so kind o' foolish, and little to the purpose in my life. I know you're more'n half agin this match, and I'm sorry enough you be, for my heart is set on it, my promise is given, and my mind's made up. As for waitin', you know and I know, 'taint no use. She's as old as you was when we was married, and you've allus made a good wife. The fact is, delays is dangerous, and the gal won't be no more willin' a year from this time than she is now. I'll leave it to her. Come now, Lucy, answer, honor bright, would you be?"

"Speak the truth, Lucy," said her mother.

"No, sir," replied Lucy, stoutly.

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There," cried the Colonel; "what did I tell ye? Now, the fact is," he continued, "the fact is just this, and there is no gettin' round it. This weddin' has got to take place next Thanksgivin' night, and 'twont be a year afore you'll both own I was right. Lucy 'll be all reconciled, and wouldn't be onmarried for a fortin', and the old homestead here will be goin' to be inherited by my father's grand-children; jest as he told me on his death-bed he wanted to have it. I've gin up expectin' that it can go in the name, but it'll go in the blood, and my grand-child will be a Manners, both on his father's and mother's side, and that will kind o' make up for his not havin' the name. Ef Lucy had jest been a boy now, so that it could ha' been kep in the name, I shouldn't ha' been strenoous, and I wouldn't ha' undertook to have interfered with her choosin' sich a husband

-no-I mean wife-as she'd took a fancy for; if so be she'd ha' chosen a decent young feller; though, even in that case, I should ha' rather she'd ha' had Joab; well-no-but-well-I declare," added the Colonel, after a brief pause, during which he had diligently rubbed his forehead; "I get it out sort o' confused; but my meanin' 's plain. I can state the upshot o' the matter middlin' quick," he continued, his irritation manifestly hightened by his recent failure to express his ideas with distinctness; "and that's this. You and your cousin Joab are to be married next Thanksgivin' night; you understand that, don't ye, Miss Lucy?"

"Yes, sir," faltered Lucy.

"And you're a goin' to mind, aint ye, say?"

"No, sir," replied Lucy, with a sudden boldness.

"Heavens and airth! what do ye mean?" cried the Colonel, starting from his chair in wrath and surprise. "Jest look a here, Miss

"Husband," began Mrs. Manners.

"I tell ye, Betsey," said the Colonel, striving to lower his voice to a respectful key while speaking to his wife; "I tell ye, now, don't interfere. The child is mine as well as yourn, and I'm a dealin' with her now. 'Taint fair, nor proper, nor best for you to meddle, and you musn't. When you begin fust you you shall have the floor, as they say to Gin'ral Court; but now it's my turn, and I raly do wish you'd wait till it's fairly yourn.'

Only don't be rash," pleaded the mother.

"I ain't agoin' to be," resumed the Colonel. Nevertheless, no sooner had he turned once more towards the fair rebel, who, frightened but resolute, stood shrinking and cowering before her father's fiery glance, yet meeting it with a steady, defiant look, than his voice again rose to an angry pitch.

"Do you mean to tell me," he cried, "that you're agoin' to refuse to obey your father-you-you-ain't you agoin' to marry Joab when I bid you to?"

"No, sir," replied Lucy, in a low but determined tone. "I don't love him, and I won't marry anybody I don't love."

"But you'll larn to love him," said her father, trying hard to keep his temper within safe bounds, and deigning to argue the case with his refractory daughter.