as to act under a concerted as well as a We need, in a word, another and distinct scientific impulse. And thus we are post-graduate course, with chairs occupied brought back to the immediate need of the by professors of pedagogy, as it is called, hour, which would seem to be, not a devel- but which is in reality nothing but the opment of the existing methods of the su- familiar science of psychology, hitherto perintendency, but some action directed as barren as it is old, but made useful at on the universities to influence them to last in practical connection with teaching. enter upon the work of organizing the su- When this is done, the higher learning perintendency into a profession. They will have been brought to bear on the must create a class, individual members of common-school system. The beneficial which are already at work-a class which effect of such a combination in a country shall be to the teacher what the staff offi- like ours, ruled and to be ruled by that cer of the army is to the line officer, what universal suffrage which is but the exthe jurist is to the attorney, what the pression of the average common-sense and physician is to the pharmacist. They the average instruction, would be, it is must be imbued with the science of their safe to say, impossible to forecast, and not calling. easy to overestimate.

THE BATTLE OF KING'S MOUNTAIN.

[The following account of Ferguson's defeat on King's Mountain is supposed to have been given by an aged gentleman-volunteer, who (in his youth) had taken a prominent part in the fight, to a company of his friends and neighbors, upon the fiftieth anniversary of the battle, viz., on the 7th of October, 1830.]

OFTTIMES an old man's yesterdays o'er his frail vision pass,

Dim as the twilight tints that touch a dusk-enshrouded glass;

But, ah! youth's time and manhood's prime but grow more brave, more bright,
As still the lengthening shadows steal toward the rayless night.

So deem it not a marvel, friends, if, gathering fair and fast,

I now behold the gallant forms that graced our glorious past,
And down the winds of memory hear those battle bugles blow,
Of strifeful breath, or wails of death, just fifty years ago.

Yes, fifty years this self-same morn, and yet to me it seems
As if Time's interval were spanned by a vague bridge of dreams,
Whose cloud-like arches form and fade, then form and fade again,
Until, a beardless youth once more, 'mid stern, thick-bearded men,

I ride on Rhoderic's bounding back, all thrilled at heart to feel
My trusty "smooth-bore's" deadly round, and touch of stainless steel—
And quivering with heroic rage-that rush of patriot ire

Which makes our lives from head to heel one seething flood of fire.

And hide it as we may with words, its awful need confessed,
War is a death's-head thinly veiled, even warfare at its best;
But we-Heaven help us!-strove with those by lust and greed accurst,
And learned what untold horrors wait on warfare at its worst.

You well may deem my soul in youth dwelt not on thoughts like these;
Timed to strong Rhoderic's tramp, my pulse grew tuneful as the breeze,
The hale October breeze, whose voice, borne from far ocean's marge,
Pealed with the trumpet's resonance, which sounds "To horse, and charge!"

A mist from recent rains was spread about the glimmering hills;
Far off, far off, we heard the lapse of streams and swollen rills,
While mingling with them, or beyond, from depths of changeful sky,
Rose savage, sullen, dissonant, the eagle's famished cry.

We marched in four firm columns, nine hundred men and more—
Men of the mountain fortresses, men of the sea-girt shore;
Rough as their centuried oaks were these, those fierce as ocean shocks,
When mad September breaks her heart across the Hatteras rocks.

We marched in four firm columns, till now the evening light
Glinted through rifting cloud and fog athwart the embattled height,
Whereon, deep-lined, in dense array of scarlet, buff, or dun,
The haughtiest British "regulars" outflashed the doubtful sun.
Horsemen and footmen centred there, unflinching rank on rank,
And the base Tories circled near, to guard each threatened flank;
But, pale, determined, sternly calm, our men, dismounting, stood,
And at their leader's cautious sign crouched in the sheltering wood.
What scenes come back of ruin and wrack, before those ranks abhorred!
The cottage floor all fouled with gore, the axe, the brand, the cord;
A hundred craven deeds revived, of insult, injury, shame-

Deeds earth nor wave nor fire could hide, and crimes without a name.

Such thoughts but hardened soul and hand. Ha! "dour as death" were we,
Waiting to catch the voice which set our unleashed passion free.

At last it came, deep, ominous, when all the mountain ways
Burst from awed silence into sound, and every bush, ablaze,

Sent forth long jets of wavering blue, wherefrom, with fatal dart,
The red-hot Deckhard bullets flew, each hungering for a heart;
And swift as if our fingers held strange magic at their tips,
Our guns, reloaded, spake again from their death-dealing lips,

Again, again, and yet again, till in a moment's hush

We heard the order, "Bay'nets, charge!" when, with o'ermastering rush,
Their "Regulars" against us stormed, so strong, so swift of pace,
They hurled us backward bodily for full three furlongs' space.

But, bless you, lads, we scattered, dodged, and when the charge was o'er,
Felt fiercer, pluckier, madder far, than e'er we had felt before;
From guardian tree to tree we crept, while upward, with proud tramp,
The British lines had slowly wheeled to gain their 'leaguered camp.

Too late; for ere they topped the height, Hambright and Williams strode,
With all their armèd foresters, across the foeman's road,

What time from right to left there rang the Indian war-whoop wild,
Where Sevier's tall Waturga boys through the dim dells defiled.

"Now, by God's grace," cried Cleaveland (my noble colonel he),
Resting (to pick a Tory off) quite coolly on his knee-
"Now, by God's grace, we have them! the snare is subtly set;
The game is bagged; we hold them safe as pheasants in a net.”

And thus it proved; for, galled and pressed more closely hour by hour,
Their army shrank and withered fast, like a storm-smitten flower;
Blank-eyed, wan-browed, their bravest lay along the ensanguined land,
While of the living few had 'scaped the bite of ball or brand.

Yet sturdier knave than Ferguson ne'er ruled a desperate fray:
By Heaven! you should have seen him ride, rally, and rave that day.
His fleet horse scoured the stormy ground from rock-bound wall to wall,
And o'er the rout shrilled widely out his silvery signal call.

"That man must die before they fly, or yield to us the field.”
Thus spake I to three comrades true beneath our oak-tree shield;
And when in furious haste again the scarlet soldier came
Beside our fastness like a fiend, hurtling through dust and flame,

Their sharp demurrers on the wind our steadfast rifles hurled,
And one bold life was stricken then from out the living world.
But, almost sped, he reared his head, grasping his silver call,
And one long blast, the faintest, last, wailed round the mountain wall.

Ah, then the white flags fluttered high; then shrieks and curses poured
From the hot throats of Tory hounds beneath the avenger's sword-
Those lawless brutes who long had lost all claims of Christian men,
Whereof by sunset we had hanged the worst and vilest ten.

We slept upon the field that night, 'midmost our captured store,
That seemed in gloating eyes to spread and heighten more and more.
Truly the viands ravished us; our clamorous stomachs turned
Eager toward the provender for which they sorely yearned.
Apicius! what a feast was there blended of strong and sweet!
Cured venison hams, Falstaffian pies, and fat pigs' pickled feet;
While here and there, with cunning leer, and sly Silenus wink,
A stoutish demijohn peered out, and seemed to gurgle, "Drink!"

Be sure we revelled merrily, till eyes and faces shone;
Our lowliest felt more lifted up than any king on throne;
Our singers trolled; our jesters' tongues were neither stiff nor dumb;
And, by Lord Bacchus! how we quaffed that old Jamaica rum!

Perchance (oh, still, through good and ill, his honest name I bless!)—
Perchance my brother marked in me some symptoms of excess;
For gently on my head he laid his stalwart hand and true,
And gently led me forth below the eternal tent of blue;

He led me to a dewy nook, a soft, sweet, tranquil place,

And there I saw, upturned and pale, how many a pulseless face!

Our comrades dead-they scarce seemed fled, despite their ghastly scars,

But wrapped in deep, pure folds of sleep beneath the undying stars.

My blood was calmed; all being grew exalted as the night,

Whence solemn thoughts sailed weirdly down, like heavenly swans of white, With herald strains ineffable, whose billowy organ-roll

Thrilled to the loftiest mountain peaks and summits of my soul.

Then voices rose (or seemed to rise) close to the raptured ear,
Yet fraught with music marvellous of some transcendent sphere,
While fancy whispered: These are tones of heroes, saved and shriven,
Who long have swept the harps of God by stormless seas in heaven!

Heroes who fought for Right and Law, but, purged from selfish dross,
Above whose conquering banners waved a shadowy Christian Cross;
Whose mightiest deed no ruthless greed hath smirched with sad mistrust,
And whose majestic honors scorn all taint of earthly dust.

Doubt, doubt who may! but, as I live, on the calm mountain height
Those voices soared, and sank, and soared up to the mystic night.
A dream! perhaps; but, ah! such dreams in ardent years of youth
Transcend, as heaven transcends the earth, your sordid daylight truth.
The voices soared, and sank, and soared, till, past the cloud-built bars,
They fainted on the utmost strand and silvery surge of stars.
Then something spoke: Your friends who strove the battle tide to stem,
Who died in striving, have passed up beyond the stars with them.

What, lads! you think the old man crazed to talk in this high strain,
Or deem the punch of years gone by still buzzes in his brain ?
Down with such carnal fantasy! nor let your folly send

Its blunted shafts to smite the truth you may not comprehend.

Would ye be worthy of your sires who on King's Mountain side
Welcomed dark Death for Freedom's sake as bridegrooms clasp a bride?
Then must your faith be winged above the world, the worm, the clod,
To own the veiled infinitudes and plumbless depths of God!

The roughest rider of my day shrank from the atheist's sneer,
As if Iscariot's self were crouched and whispering at his ear;
The stormiest souls that ever led our mountain forays wild
Would ofttimes show the simple trust, the credence, of a child.
True faith goes hand in hand with power-faith in a holier charm
Than fires the subtlest mortal brain, the mightiest mortal arm;
And though 'tis right in stress of fight "to keep one's powder dry,"
What strength to feel, beyond our steel, burns the Great Captain's eye!

Editor's Easy Chair.

[T was natural that Mr. Henry James's book | in which Hawthorne lived so long, and in

It was naturno the should excite a great deal whose ancient graveyard he is buried.

of attention and discussion. Its subject, Mr. Lowell recently said in London, at the dinner of the Savage Club, is the man who "was certainly the greatest poet, though he wrote in prose, and who perhaps possessed the most original mind, that America has given to the world." Its author, Mr. James, is one of the most noted among the later brilliant | group of American writers, which includes Mr. Howells, Mr. Warner, Mr. Bret Harte, and Mr. Aldrich.

The friends were, first, Miss E. P. Peabody, the sister-in-law of Hawthorne, and the friend and correspondent of Dr. Channing, a lady conspicuous in the intellectual and moral movements in New England during the last half-century, and who retains in age the freshness of interest and ardor of feeling and sympathy which have made her the friend of so many of the most eminent persons of her time; then William Henry Channing, the biographer of his uncle, the famous Dr. Channing, now and for some years a clergyman in England, and the father-in-law of Edwin Arnold, the author of "The Light of Asia"; Mr. A. B. Alcott, the patriarchal friend of Emerson, and Hawthorne's neighbor; Mr. Lathrop, the son

Of Mr. James's work we have already spoken more than once. It is that of an exquisitely discriminating observer, whose hand has been trained to singular skill in expression, and whose popularity, like that of Mr. Howells, is the recognition not only of genius, but of re-in-law of Hawthorne; and Mr. F. B. Sanborn. markable literary conscience and diligence. Miss Peabody, who probably knew Hawthorne His essay upon Hawthorne has both stimulated longer and more intimately than any person comment upon the genius and inquiry into now living, spoke of his mingled aversion to the life of the author, accompanied, it must be society and interest in it. When he lived in confessed, with some very sharp but to us in- Salem he used to go with his wife to the door comprehensible censure of Mr. James's alleged of a friend's house, then leave her, but await injustice and want of patriotism. In speaking her return with eager curiosity, and sit up of the want of picturesque suggestion in Amer-half the night to hear her story of the evening. ican life, however, Mr. James does only what Hawthorne did before him, as we have already pointed out. Although himself an American, Mr. James proposes to himself to treat his country as quite strong enough to bear any kind of criticism derived from honest and friendly perception, and the character of his fellow-countrymen and women as not needing the constant assertion that it is the greatest and best and most wonderful character in the annals of mankind.

Mr. Alcott told some amusing stories of what he called Hawthorne's diffidence. He lived next to him for three years, but he never saw him in the street, and during all that time Hawthorne was in Mr. Alcott's house but twice, and then by stratagem. There were some young women, guests of Mr. Alcott, who one day persuaded Hawthorne to step into the study. But after a little while, beating his bars all the time, he said, suddenly, "The stove is too hot," and vanished. Once more the Indeed, Hawthorne's own dealings with his sirens took him in their net, but when they native land were not of a kind to satisfy those had landed him, he said, “The clock ticks so whose patriotism manifests itself in a morbid loud I must go," and again he disappeared. fear lest some American should suggest that But Miss Peabody objected to Mr. Alcott's America is not perfect. Some of his most pow-word diffidence as applied to Hawthorne. He erful minor tales are pictures of aspects of ear-had, she said, great sensibility, and he had not ly New England life which are not flattering had the kind of intercourse with society which to a sensitive local pride, while his first great gives self-possession. But he liked to see peoromance, The Scarlet Letter, is a terrible revela-ple. He was immensely sociable, and he retion of the Puritan spirit, and a lurid study of proȧched his wife when she kept persons away. the early New England community. But very Yet we should hardly call him “sociable” in few thoughtful critics would be disposed to the usual sense of the word. Mr. Sanborn said deny that Hawthorne was a good American, that Ellery Channing-the poet, and brotherand he must be a very poor American who in-law of Margaret Fuller-had told him that does not feel the tribute which Mr. James Hawthorne was very fond of sitting in hotels pays to the essential worth and vigor of Amer- and bar-rooms watching people coming and ican character in his studies and sketches going. His Note-Books show this disposition, which treat of it. That, however, is not the and the Easy Chair may add that it has heard present text. The Easy Chair wishes to call Hawthorne say that he was never so much at attention to an interesting and valuable sup- ease as when he was in charge of a vessel as a plement to Mr. James's volume upon Haw-customs officer to deliver the cargo. He was thorne, contained in the report of a conversation among some of Hawthorne's old friends during the late session of the Summer School of Philosophy at Concord, the historic town

entirely unknown to the ship's company except as an inspector, and he was released for the time from that painful shyness or sensitiveness which in Concord made him for a long

time unknown to his fellow-townsmen, and in | says describes himself, she was very anxious Lenox sent him over the fence by the roadside to escape meeting a stranger. Miss Peabody says that in sympathizing society he felt no shyness. But in Mr. Emerson's library, among a circle of neighbors and friends, we have seen him standing by the window and looking out into the winter afternoon with a remote and solitary air, as if he were longing for the wings of a dove.

to ascertain the author, supposing him to be a gracious and venerable man who had done with the world and human passion, and was at last proud to say to the Salem world that the Hawthornes had been to her house. The handsome Oberon was enchanted with Flaxman's illustrations, became a “diner-out”—in the moderate Salem way-waited upon the Misses Peabody home, and at last urged them to spend an evening with his sisters, promising to come for them and attend them home, and humorously adding that he had an interested motive, for his sister Elizabeth was very witty, and he wished to see her, not having had that pleasure for three months. "We don't live at our home," he said, "we only vegetate."

This disposition of seclusion is shown by Miss Peabody to have been hereditary. Hawthorne's sister, she says, shut herself up when she was eighteen years old, and saw scarcely any one for twenty years; and Miss Peabody's description of Hawthorne's mother recalls Miss Haversham, in Dickens's Great Expectations. That the mother was, as Miss Peabody says, a person of very fine common-sense, with a strong, clear mind, would not be inferred from the fact that after her husband's death she secluded herself in her own room, and dressed altogether in white-a custom which broke up every family arrangement. Hawthorne did not remember sitting at table with his mother until after he was married, when she herself proposed that her granddaughter should remember her first Thanksgiving dinner as eat-thorne to the consulate at Liverpool. It was en with her grandmother. But Hawthorne laughed when his wife said that she would make his mother laugh at table. All this seems to indicate a rather grim domestic interior; and we remember hearing Hawthorne say that in the earlier days, after leaving college, when he was at home in Salem, the members of the family lived much by themselves. For his part, he passed the day in his room, writing stories, which he subsequently burned, and he went out to walk after night-fall. This kind of life, with the temperament to which it was largely due, readily explains the furtive way, in the hotel and on the vessel, in which alone he enjoyed society afterward.

Hawthorne's political relations were Democratic, but he had very little political or parti san feeling. At college he was a friend of Franklin Pierce, and when Mr. Pierce was nominated for the Presidency, Hawthorne wrote his life. He had held places in the customs under Democratic administrations, when Mr. Bancroft was collector; and when Mr. Pierce became President he appointed Hawgenerally supposed that he had little sympathy with the national cause during the war, and his dedication of one of his books to ex-President Pierce was resented by the warm Union feeling of many of his friends. It is, therefore, all the more interesting to see what Mr. Channing says of Hawthorne. He first knew him at Brook Farm, but most intimately during the Liverpool consulate. Channing says that Hawthorne "stood by the Union always, and yet met the Southerners just as freely as he did the Northerners. I never shall forget a conversation we had once. He folded his arms and looked up, and said, "Yes, I think I would like to go home. One might as well go home and die with the republic." Mr. Channing says that he had no hope of a successful issue of the war, and that he died of a broken heart. Mr. Lathrop, Hawthorne's son-in-law, quoted Mr. Lowell as saying that the war shortened Hawthorne's life. Mr. Lathrop added that his wife had told him that Hawthorne said if Boston were attacked, he and his son Julian would volunteer for the defense. Mr. Alcott said that Hawthorne seemed to him to desire the preservation of the Union without seeing how it was possible; and Mr. Alcott also said that he thought he saw in Hawthorne a kind of patriotism which sympathized with the South, but he had an equal sympathy with the North. The fact probably is that he thought there was mutual wrong, and he was in despair over what seemed to him the inevitable result. Even if the war should end, he thought, doubtless, that the ties of fraternal feeling, the soul of union, were snapped forever.

Miss Peabody's account of her first acquaintance with the young Hawthorne is very charming. He was called Oberon at Bowdoin College, because of his beauty. At five or six years he began to tell stories, and at twelve was a devoted reader, and especially familiar with Shakespeare. He was troubled about his career. He could not be a doctor nor a lawyer, and he was sure that he did not know enough to be a minister. He wrote a book called the Story-Teller, in which there were two characters, one drawn from Jones Very, who was well known in the "Transcendental" days, and of whose verse and prose a small and admirable volume survives, and the other from himself. Very represented a minister who wanted to convert the world, but could get no parish, and Hawthorne a mere idler, who could only write stories. "Peter Parley," Mr. S. G. Goodrich, declined to publish the tale, and Hawthorne said that he was like one talking to himself in a dark place. But when the It is not likely that so many capable observGentle Boy was published, which Miss Peabodyers, who knew personally and well this shy re