Sir Lucius O'Trigger is still a richly humorous figure in the memory of men not yet old. But the town taste changed. He lost his hold as he grew older. Poverty and sorrow succeeded, and a desperate wondering endeavor to retain his old place. In sore trouble he died, and a young friend with pitying regard wrote his life for the benefit of those who were nearest to him. The "benefit" was about one hundred and fifty dollars in all, said the pitying friend, with a melancholy smile. Payne was a boy prodigy upon the stage, but not a remarkable actor in his maturity. Then he was a manager, a writer and adapter of plays, a "general utility" man in translating and arranging. He lost money as a manager, and was imprisoned in London. He opened his prison door with a successful translation, played Richard the Third for a few nights, and left the stage. Then he sent some plays in manuscript to Charles Kemble, and among them was Clari, and if Kemble would give him £50 he would have Bishop arrange the play with music for the stage. Kemble sent the money; Bishop arranged the music; Ellen Tree's sister sang it. One song in it melted the heart of London and of the world, and the plaintive melody is everywhere familiar, and everywhere its tender pathos invests with affectionate regard the name of John Howard Payne. It was in Italy that he heard the melody sung by a peasant girl carrying flowers and vegetables. The wandering Goldsmith might have heard it, and trilled it at twilight from his flute; for it is the very pensive motive of the "Deserted Village." To the loitering playwright the melody suggested the words which he has associated with it, and jotting down the notes of the air, he sent both words and music to Bishop, who duly arranged them, and after the immediate and great success of the song, it was published "as sung by Miss Tree," sister of Ellen Tree, "composed and partly founded upon a Sicilian air by Henry R. Bishop." But Payne's name is not even mentioned. Clari, the Maid of Milan, was the rage. For many years it was often sung, and its performance is a pleasant reminiscence of theatregoers of thirty and forty years ago. Payne continued to write tragedies and comedies, operas and farces, and in 1832 he returned to America. A complimentary benefit was given to him at the Park Theatre, which produced seven thousand dollars. "And Mr. Jones," says a recent report-" whoever Mr. Jones was— sang 'Home, Sweet Home." Alas! here again is the untoward fate of the actor-"whoever Mr. Jones was." Why, sir, Mr. Jones was long the dulcet tenor of the old Park, and in the English version of Masaniello his singing of the aria, "Morning its sweets is flinging," was the delight of the lovely belles of long ago, whose grandchildren are the matrons of to-day. For ten years Payne led the same Bedouin life, full of literary and humane and romantic projects, but he never again wrote or did anything memorable. In 1843 he was appointed consul at Tunis, where in 1852, "an exile from home," he died. There is an inevitable melancholy in the impression of such a life, yet it is not clear that Payne was especially unhappy. But he was always a rover and was never married, and often knew the pinch of poverty. After thirty years Mr. Corcoran, of Washington, who personally knew him, obtained permission to remove his remains, and in June they will be laid finally in Oak Hill Cemetery, near Washington. Except for his one song the name of Payne would be preserved only in biographical dictionaries and in some perishing traditions of the theatre. But his song is that one touch of nature which makes the world kin. It is the frailest thread of which fame was ever spun. For the poetry is but a rude expression of a common sentiment, and it would hardly have aroused attention except for the pathetic melody to which it was adapted. That touches every hearer, as it touched Payne when he heard it sung by the Italian girl. He vindicated his claim to the name of poet by his perfect interpretation of the sentiment of the music. It was in the year that he died that New York heard Jenny Lind sing his song. There was a simple, honest, generous peasant air in her aspect, and when her marvellous voice broke into a ringing shower of limpid trills in "The birds singing gayly that come at my call," it was as if all the birds of spring warbled together, or a choir of larks sang at heaven's gate. There are a hundred monuments of distinguished men in Washington who were very conspicuous, and some of whom performed great and memorable services. But no monument there will be visited by a greater throng of pilgrims, and no memory will appeal more tenderly to all of them, than those of the widewandering actor who lived and died alone, and of whom nothing is remembered but that he wrote one song. THE Easy Chair receives many friendly letters, sometimes criticising what it says, sometimes asking advice, sometimes suggesting a fruitful text. Many of the letters are anonymous, and many are signed by the writers. But they do not always require a reply, and many of them do not wish one. The Chair finds in them many a useful as well as kind word, and often a question which it can not answer. It is one of the privileges and rewards of such a post as that of the Chair that it establishes a certain intimacy of relation with unknown friends, which enables it to receive from them what could be intrusted only to personal confidence. This relation is one of the most gratifying and touching possible. "He spake to my condition" is a consciousness which justifies intimacy; and if the poet be truly defined as he who says adequately what all men feel, why should not all men claim the right to speak to their interpreter ? Long ago, on a perfect June morning, in the forest of Fontainebleau, two young men sat under the trees, one industriously sketching, while the other read aloud the "Pippa Passes" of Browning. "What would you not give," said the reader, as he paused, to his comrade, "to write a book which two youths unknown to you should read with delight in a distant land, and with a sense of personal gratitude?" If that be the last infirmity of a noble mind, surely it is the noblest weakness known to humanity. To make unknown friends-friends so true that they naturally pour out to you their private thoughts and wishes and purposes and struggles, asking your sympathy, your counsel, or at least some word of recognition, and to do all this with honest naturalness and simplicity-is to become conscious of a pleasing but important responsibility. was long-how very long it seemed!-before she could feel that she could honorably begin to study art under a teacher. The way to the artist's studio was long, and in winter it was very hard. But time pressed, and when a year was passed the artist with ready and eloquent tongue persuaded her that she should give her life to the study and practice of painting. The advice was kindly meant, and the study went on, but alone now, for the money was gone. The artist criticised the work, and at last the pupil sold some little flower pieces, and then painted "mats" for photographs, and then the artist teacher went to Europe, and there was no more criticism. But The work was not pastime, for the pay was the sole support of father, mother, and brother, besides herself. Sickness came, and barely could the painter support herself. Then she went to the great city, where her work was praised, and not sold. There were many and grievous vexations. The exhibitions did not accept her proffered works. A lady wellto-do sent some sketches to a dealer; they But Dr. Holmes wisely reminds the reader were accepted, and the lady was paid. that the kind of relation between him and the the works offered to the same dealer by author must be determined by the author. He the sadly struggling student were returned. is under no obligation to make any response She tried to exhibit her paintings, but in whatever, to answer any question, still less to vain; and there seemed to be no chance for sacrifice his time or to forego his tasks in or- her in the world. "I am not fitted for anyder to gratify the curiosity of his reader. Dr. thing else, but I do not see that by painting I Holmes holds him even absolved from writing can earn bread enough to eat. Painting is a an autograph unless the request be accompa- luxury beyond the poor unless they have great nied by a card, and a stamped and addressed genius like Millet." There is a host of girls, envelope. Tennyson is said to have changed poor girls, who are studying to paint as a livehis abode to escape his worshippers. Long-lihood. "It is a delusion," says the Easy fellow received them all with sublime patience. Chair's sorrowful correspondent; they will Greeley secluded himself for work in a retreat presently learn, as I have learned, that it is an to which only a few intimate friends had the impracticable road. Save them if you can." elew, and many a busy man of letters tinds him- It is a brave, pathetic letter. But it is an self driven to the same kind of defense. appeal to those who are just entering the race to be warned by those who are faltering and falling. They will not heed. Why urge the springing green of April to be warned by the dry and crimson leaf of October? Why conjure hope to listen to despair? It is natural for such bitter experience to wish to serve others, and it is a generous and humane impulse. But the secret of the eternal spring of hope, which is the fountain of perpetually re It is undoubtedly true that the author has in a certain way invited this confidence by appealing to the sympathy of the reader, and although he may justly say that he has given all that he chooses to give of himself to the world, he can not expect to elude the law which draws us to those who charm us. The author himself, whoever he may be, has felt this attraction. He too has been thrall to some sweet enchanter. He has paid his hom-newed life, is that it shall not heed the warnage in some one of the ways in which it is paid to him. He can not therefore put aside as impertinent the confidence which would not have been offered him if he had not won it, especially when it is thought that the confidence may be made useful to others, and it is precisely such a confidence which has served the Easy Chair for its present text. A New England girl writes that while still a child she taught a district school, supporting herself and helping the other children, devoting the evenings to drawing. Her hope was especially to aid her second sister, and to be able to take lessons in drawing and painting. But her school salary was very small, and it ing of experience, but prove all things for itself. Why because Phaethon fails should not another, with sublime audacity, gather up the reins? Why because Dædalus sinks helpless should not another, undaunted, spread his mighty vans and scale the heavens? It is no' argument for the Milton who feels the inspiration of song to refuse it a voice because of the mute brethren, inglorious only because they were not heard. Why should Keats hold his peace because Savage and Chatterton were miserable? The sorrowful tale of our correspondent will show her younger comrades how doubtful and thorny is the path which they are resolved to tread. But the decision to abandon it must THERE has been some joking over Mr. Gerry's proposal to bring Mr. Barnum to legal judgment for violating the statute in exhibiting the young riders upon the bicycle. Mr. Barnum invited a distinguished company, including eminent physicians, to witness the performance, and they were of opinion that it was harmless, the physicians adding that it was no more than healthful exercise. Thereupon the cynics, who have never given a thought or lifted a hand to relieve suffering or to remedy wrong, sneer at superserviceable philanthropy. Mr. Bergh also complained of the killing of the elephant Pilot, and when the matter was explained there was contemptuous chuckling at the sentimental tomfoolery of philanthropic busybodies, and the usual exhortation to reformers to supply themselves with common sense. Bergh. Left to that spirit, England to-day step is not wisely taken, and that there are But meanwhile the mere knowledge that Indies becomes his one idea that Columbus decide upon Mr. Gerry's complaint that the It is in Lecky's detailed account of the hor-flict a serious loss upon himself by killing one of his animals unless it were clearly necessary. All this may be conceded. But it is very fortunate for the community that there are sentinels of humanity who will summarily challenge everything that has an evil appearance, and compel a clear and complete explanation. not harmful, and the court dismissed Mr. GerIt appears that the riding of the children is ry's complaint. The result is not that Mr. Gerry is "left in a questionable position,” but of children knows that a vigilant eye watches that every circus manager and every exhibitor his conduct, and that a prompt hand will deal even with seeming cruelty and severity and exposure. It is very possible that Pilot was dispatched as humanely as practicable. But Mr. Bergh's challenge was not an impertinent intermeddling. It reminds every brute in the city that he can not lose his temper and kick his horse with impunity. Both acts establish W a moral consciousness of constant surveillance which stays the angry hand and succors the limping animal and the friendless child. It is those who relieve pain and suffering, not those who laugh at their zeal, whom history remembers and mankind blesses. Editor's Literary Record. thing to do, now that he had no longer Mrs. Carlyle to shuffle his burthen upon, he shuffled it upon Mr. Froude, Mr. Forster, and Mr. John Carlyle. He could not make up his mind to direct positively the publication of the letters, nor could he make up his mind to interdict it; he would seem anxiously to desire it; Mr. Froude, Mr. Forster, and Mr. John Carlyle would solve the problem for him, perhaps to publish, possibly to stifle. The last two died, however, in Mr. Carlyle's lifetime, when the responsibility fell entirely upon Mr. Froude; and Mr. Froude was not a man to suppress facts, however unwelcome. Evidently still undecided in his own mind, a few months before his death-the letters having then been in Mr. Froude's hands nearly ten years-Carlyle asked Mr. Froude what he meant to do with them, and received for reply that, when the Reminiscences had been published, he had decid HEN Carlyle, in one of his pragmatical moods, likened collections of letters to "an uncounted handful of needles in an unmeasured continent of hay," he not altogether inaptly described the character and quality of the letters of Mrs. Carlyle, which years afterward he was destined to collect and annotate in much tribulation of spirit, and which are now edited and given to the world by Mr. Froude. Undoubtedly Mrs. Carlyle's Letters and Memorials' have their full proportion of the sort of material that Carlyle in his high and mighty way contemptuously sets down as "hay"; but it is doubtful if there are any letters extant that teem more abundantly than hers with passages radiant with brilliant intellect, or sparkling with apt anecdote and ilInstration, or coruscating with graphic description and delicate portraiture, or bristling with points sharp, incisive, and penetrating as a needle-many of which last must have punc-ed that the Letters might and should be publishtured Carlyle to the quick when he came to read them, after the patient writer had laid down the weary load that his selfishness and thoughtlessness had shuffled upon her through long years. These letters and memorials furnish the key to the cheap sentimentalities, made up of penitential ejaculations and selfflagellations, with which Carlyle's Reminiscences were so liberally garnished. That he “did not order their publication, though he anxiously desired it," as Mr. Froude informs us in the preface, must have been because of a lingering sense of shame on the one hand, and a feeling of remorse on the other. He shrunk from admitting the world to a sight of the life he had made an intolerable burthen; but yet he was irresistibly drawn to make a public expiation in the nature of a public confession. Moreover, it could not be concealed that he had been engaged in collecting Mrs. Carlyle's letters, with a view, as it was surmised, to their publication, and therefore, though he could not have been other than self-convicted by their unwelcome revelatious, it was impossible for him to put them out of sight even if he had been so minded. And so, true to his character whenever he had a difficult, or a perplexing, or a disagreeable ed also. This settled the matter. In his will Carlyle requested that Mr. Froude's judgment should be accepted as his own. Whether it was his genuine desire that the letters should be published, or whether he had a secret hope that they might be ultimately withheld, will remain an unsolved problem. It must not be inferred from anything that has been said that Mrs. Carlyle's Letters and Memorials are wholly, or even in large part, taken up with the story of her drudgery, discomforts, and mortifications, and of Carlyle's trying humors and more trying neglect. Far otherwise; for the first twenty years of their London life her letters are not merely cheerful and contented, but light-hearted, merry, and prodigal of blithesome forecastings, revealing a thoroughly happy home, rendered so no less by Carlyle's loving admiration for and frank comradeship with his wife than by the magnetism of her own personal graces and attractions. She smoothed his life by her tact, her industry, and her admirable domestic management, so that it was possible for him to absorb himself in his work without being cumbered by cares; and she brightened and sweetened it by her gayety, her spirit, her versatility, and her skill in the art of making all around her bright and happy; and he gladdened her life by imparting to her his projects, plans, and hopes, and by selecting her for his earliest and most trusted critic. But gradually, after the lapse of a score of years, the shadows begin to fall upon the bright letters, and year by year thereafter the ravages of war and the desolations of fire and pestilence, and not only compensated for all the drains upon the national resources, but left the nation at every stage of its life strong they fall more and more swiftly. The drudg- | whose unremitting efforts to this end repaired ery that had been a joy is becoming a burthen too heavy for her to bear, because the treasured companionship that had made self-sacrifice a pleasure is no longer hers, but is shared with others, who not only rob her of his socie-er, freer, happier, more prosperous than bety, but wound her womanly pride and mortify her wifely feelings. Still, when the shadows fall heaviest and darkest, Mrs. Carlyle makes no parade of her grievances, but her letters continue as gay, as sprightly, as full of lovingkindness for others and of loving thoughtfulness for Carlyle himself, as ever; only here and there, as if wrung from her in a moment of pain and mortification, a word or a sentence crops out that betrays the fire that is smoul- | dering in her heart. Mostly it is in her letters to old and dear friends to whom she may speak freely that we are able to read a sadly pitiful meaning between the lines-a meaning implied rather than expressed, and which filled Carlyle's rugged heart with compunction when it was too late. Aside from these dark threads, which are so delicate as to be almost imperceptible, the letters are very charming compositions-more free-spoken, perhaps, and charged with stronger epithets, than we should expect from a woman of refined taste, besides occasionally betraying an unfeminine contempt for sacred things, but sweet and wholesome in their general tone, and pouring out pure and gentle and generous thoughts in a rich stream. | Considered as a whole, they are a delightful medley of wit and humor, of shrewd and practical sense, of crisp criticism, of spirited de-eminent writers of having first led the way in scription, of graphic characterizations of men and things, and of most minute and genial delineations of the peculiar characters and bizarre society that revolved around the Carlyle hearth-stone, as well as of the surroundings of Carlyle's own every-day literary and domestic life. The letters appeal in a special manner to the sympathies of women, and will scarcely increase their veneration for Carlyle. fore. In these chapters, and in a lesser degree throughout every chapter of his stately history, Macaulay made the first genuine attempt to relate the history of the people as well as the history of the government, to trace the progress among the masses of the useful and ornamental arts and of literature and intelligence, and to portray the manners, beliefs, and opinions, the dress, furniture, repasts, amusements, and occupations—in fine, the whole life of the whole people, instead of to treat merely, as had been the wont, of campaigns, battles, and sieges, of conspiracies, rebellious, and usurpations, of the rise and fall of dynasties or administrations, of intrigues in the palace, debates in the forum, and the virtues and vices that were exhibited in each. In Motley's his tories, also, the silent forces exerted by the masses, and the share they bore in giving form to the national character and to social and political institutions, were in like manner made more conspicuous than they had been made by previous historians of the same countries and periods; and the late John Richard Green, in his excellent History of the English People, only carried out more fully and continuously this method of historical treatment. But although the merit must be ascribed to these this field, neither the periods with which they dealt nor the countries and people of whom they treated were as favorable for an exhibition of the influence exerted by the great body of the people upon social and national life and character as the period which witnessed the gestation and birth of the Constitution of the United States, and the people whose character made an impression upon it, whose opinions had to be regarded in framing it, and without IN the three preliminary chapters of his whose approbation it could not have gone into History of England, and more particularly in operation. None of the native historiaus of our his famous third chapter describing the state country had entirely overlooked this aspect of of England in 1685, Macaulay was the first American history, and several of them had givamong historians to concentrate attention en considerable attention to it; but there still upon the important part that the people of a remained an inviting opening for a history in country, other than its soldiers, statesmen, le- which the people should be the chief theme. gislators, placemen, and governing or privi- Mr. John Bach McMaster has had the discernleged classes, have played in modern times, ment to descry the opportunity that this openespecially since the decay and dissolution of ing afforded, and in the first volume of his Histofeudalism, in the history of a nation, and uponry of the People of the United States' he has shown the bearing their progress and welfare have exerted upon the progress and welfare of the commonwealth. These brilliant chapters are a fine historical picture, at once minute and comprehensive, of the activities and influence of that hitherto unregarded mass of Englishmen-merchants, tradesmen, artisans, farmers, laborers, and toilers generally-every one of whom was constantly at work amid all the public vicissitudes to better his condition, and that he is endowed with the abilities and the literary tastes and qualifications that fit him to make the most of it. The volume embraces the period from the conclusion of the treaty of peace which recognized the independence of the colonies in 1783 to the adjournment of the A History of the People of the United States, from the Revolution to the Civil War. By JOHN BACH MCMASTER. In Five Volumes. Vol. I., 8vo, pp. 622. New York: D. Appleton and Co. |