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vincing process than any argument on my part could be. Though regarding him as the noblest, simplest, wisest character in our history, the feeling will arise that he must have found life rather cool, and bleak, and dreary, standing all by himself, without this little backdoor by which sometimes to escape. But I do not think he was conscious of his loss; perhaps for the same reason for which, Horace Walpole said, country life did not bore his father as it did him -"he had his dignity of character to occupy his mind."

To speak of Horace Walpole is to mention another eminent member of the guild. He, too, possessed a private Bohemia, but it was not Strawberry Hill; neither did a visit to Madame du Deffand carry him thither. Perhaps, when delicious George Selwyn came to dine with him, the feast was spread in this semi-celestial region; but I fancy he lived in it most perfectly and permanently in those charming early days when he travelled on the continent with the poet Gray and pleasant Harry Conway; when, he tells us, visitors used to surprise them at breakfast in a "crumby room," in trying to escape from which they would drop their slippers and be thereby ignominiously discovered in cowardly flight. Perhaps this blessing of his youth came back to him as he neared his second childhood, when he loved and served so graciously those sisters Berry, whose hands we heard Mr. Thackeray boast of having touched.

But perhaps the most enviable private Bohemia on record was that of Martin Luther. He stands before the world as the foremost figure in a grand historic period, as the mighty leader of a moral revolution which changed the face of Christendom: like his Master, he was a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief; he fought the Devil (as he believed) in person, and closed in a lifelong struggle with His ever-present representatives, the World and the Flesh; he faced death ceaselessly with the splendid bravery of a soldier and the enthusiastic faith of a martyr--yet no truer Bohemian ever existed. There

are few human souls who have been forced to choose this day whom they will serve; who have stood in that darkness the only light of which is honest conviction-in that silence through which the only sound is the still small voice; who have not in that darkness and that silence groped, as it were, for the hand of the man and brother who so long ago stood in the same strait, while to their lips rose involuntarily his very words, "Here I stand; I cannot do otherwise; God help me!" It is in this aspect the generations have done homage before his memory; but it is another division of his nature for which, so long as human hearts beat with the same emotions, men will love him, and in right of which I claim him. The bright, warm inner soul of the man struck always like sunshine through the rifts in the armor which the battle of life so seldom permitted him to cast aside; but it only gave out its full light and cheer within his humble little home. We read of few pleasanter things than that table at whose head sat "my lord Katy," while Dr. Martin filled his glass, and trolled out,

Who loves not woman, wine, and song,
He is a fool his whole life long;

of few more delightful scenes than those musical meetings "where skilful musicians performed upon different instruments;" of nothing more charming than those Christmas-trees and festivals for his children, where we may be sure Dr. Luther himself was the youngest person present. In possession of such a Bohemia, how could he greatly disquiet himself, though the heathen did rage and the people imagine a vain thing; though it had literally "rained Duke Georges," and though "the devils were as many as the tiles upon the housetops." While ruling his own little kingdom, the mighty "powers that be "had not power to disturb him.

Of all religious heroes, to him, I suspect, alone belongs the honor that there is not one of us who would not gladly have known him in the flesh. We may remember Calvin in his skull-cap, and John Knox at his oar in the French

galley, with great respect; but it is impossible to believe the being exists who wishes that either of them had lived in his time, or who cherishes a regret at not having met them personally; while towards this lion-hearted reformer all our social and human instincts go out, and there is probably no historic individual in whose private Bohemia we would so gladly have chosen a place.

Dr. Johnson must also be admitted to a place upon our roll-call. He also was one of the lions who occasionally lay down with the lambs. In spite of his youthful contemporary's remark that "he could not see any thing wonderful in Dr. Johnson, except that bow-wow way he had," there were times when he did not delight to bark and bite. A very grim old gentleman in some aspects; a sorely-tried soul and body, tortured, almost maddened by poverty and the king's evil-but, on the other hand, did he not rule over a house nominally possessed by one Mrs. Thrale, where there was a perpetual feast of reason and flow of soul (to say nothing of the flow of many other good things), where Fanny Burney and numerous pleasant persons loved and honored and flattered him to his heart's content? and where, in return, he "roared them gently as a sucking dove."

There are certain Bohemias which pertain to whole classes, having the delightful peculiarity of being equally public and private, whose charm is that they belong absolutely to each possessor, and yet are free to all. The chief of these I take to be novel-reading. To emotional and imaginative persons, especially women, the title-page of a novel is the door to fairy-land. They lose their individuality and become the heroine whose fortunes they are following; the deficiencies of their own lives fade from sight, and they live a charmed existence until the last page. know no more substantial bond of friendship between women, than having selected the same novel for their special devotion. Its character is perhaps the surest test of their characters; indeed,

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in judging any woman I should much prefer learning the name of her favorite novel to that of the church she attends. So entirely do I regard novel-reading as the true feminine Bohemia, that I am not sure men who trench upon this pleasure-ground may not be considered and treated as trespassers.

The Bohemia of boys ought properly to be situated in the isles of the sea. But as these are unattainable, it must be looked for at present in "Robinson Crusoe," the "Swiss Family Robinson," and the works of Captain Mayne Reid. With the "Arabian Nights" added, that the East as well as the West may be represented, I think there are few boys who would not claim ownership.

To those who wish to view my theory from a poetic stand-point, I recommend the perusal of Mrs. Browning's "Lost Bower;" which I never read without mentally changing the last word of the title, feeling convinced that part of the poem is only Browningese for a description of a lost Bohemia.

For the past week I have been experiencing some of the sensations therein described, though certainly in a very different form; and this little sketch was suggested, and is now written, somewhat in memoriam. It has been my great good fortune to possess from childhood (in common with my family and friends) a visible, concrete Bohemia, from which we are about to part. The fate of Mr. Paul Potiphar has come upon us-we are to move. Like that gentleman, we are down-town, and the march of civilization and manifest destiny alike forbid us to remain.

Now that our departure is a fixed and near fact, we have all discovered that we have grown to our old home like moss to rock. But though each room in this house is brightened or shaded by some memory of the past, there is none to which we all cling so closely as our "library," so called, perhaps, from the fact that no one ever reads in it. One of its sides is covered with books, but the room might much more truly be said to be devoted to song and story. It has often been re

marked that it resembled that other library known to fame, Mr. Ponto's"which consisted chiefly of boots." By a beautiful provision of the law of chances, every article in the room has been ordered by a different person,-of the result it may be said, as of Mr. Bob Sawyer's chorus, in which each gentleman sung the tune he knew best," the effect was very striking." The walls are blue, because one member of the family so fancied; the carpet is green, because another possessed, I suppose, an unconscious weakness for grass, an inarticulate love of Nature; and so on, until every law of color and contrast is violated. The chairs, tables, and sofas fully sustain the same principle: whatever is considered unsuitable for any other room is consigned to this; sometimes, I am afraid, in a condition which would suggest the theory that we looked upon our library as a hospital for slightly invalided furniture, or that we believed that chairs, like hearts,

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may break, yet brokenly live on."

Here abide banjo and guitar; here wonders of whistling and singing are performed; here a gypsy-tent seems always pitched, and under its shades the family and a few tried friends assemble.

To elect a person even temporarily a "librarian," is, in our eyes, the highest compliment we can pay him. The bond of union is not culture, nor literary taste; for I am convinced more than one prominent member believes in his secret soul that Solomon's chief claim to be considered the wisest man lies in the fact of his having said that “much study is a weariness to the flesh." But then such a perfect sense of humor as these persons possess-they recognize wit under any disguise; as it were, they

snuff the battle from afar.

One article of faith we all hold-that first-class nonsense is rarer, more difficult to produce, and, from a conversational point of view, more precious than first-class sense; as we all likewise believe that the man who said, 66 here comes a fool-we must talk sense," displayed a perception of truth and human

nature unrivalled in the history of philosophers.

The "librarians" are of every age and disposition, from the gentle matronly presence which presides over all our pleasures, to the grandchild of nine -a preternaturally sharp boy, who, under the influences of the place, has developed a capacity for annihilating retort only to be equalled among the race of newsboys. To him most of the remarks are addressed, and his amusement serves as an excuse for any degree of childishness on the part of the adults. For his entertainment pictures are drawn-as, for instance, that of the Angular Saxon, a man's figure done entirely in angles and straight lines, with a square head, from which he was pronounced to be clearly a blockhead. For him, also, parodies are improvised -as, upon one very cold night, that harmless nursery-rhyme, concerning the troubles of poor little Robin Redbreast during inclement weather, was suddenly perverted to a description of the course of a dissipated young man of the name of Robert, and in this form sung in full chorus:

The north wind doth blow,
And we shall have snow,
And what will poor Robin do then,
Poor thing?

He'll sit in the bar-room,
And keep himself warum (pure Celtic),
And never say "No" to gin-sling,
Poor thing!

Reading, some time ago, an article in the Atlantic Monthly, entitled "Negro Spirituals," I was reminded of a contribution of one of the librarians to the general entertainment. Entering one evening, he asked if we would like to hear a genuine specimen of African Psalmody; and, upon our assenting, gave us the following description of the overthrow of King Pharaoh and his host, sung to a strange, minor melody, half chant, half tune:

Did'n ole Phay get loss,
Get loss, get loss?
Did'n ole Phay get loss

In de Red Sea ?
Phayo say, I gwine across

In de Red Sea,

So whip up your horses an' gallop across, In de Red Sea.

Did'n ole Phay get loss,

Get loss, get loss?

Did'n ole Phay get loss

In de Red Sea? Phayo say, I gwine along home In de Red Sea, Oh, how I wish I hadn't a-come, In de Red Sea !

Did'n ole Phay get loss,

Get loss, get loss?

Did'n ole Phay get loss

In de Red Sea ?

Hebrews say, We got across now,
In de Red Sea,

At Thy feet we humblie bow,
In de Red Sea!

At first we strongly suspected it had its origin in his fertile brain; but upon strict inquiry it was found to be a veritable native production, sung constantly in the colored churches of Baltimore, and familiar to and often performed by

the sable inhabitants of our kitchens.

As such, I present it to that large class for whom every thing connected with the race seems to have such a singular fascination. As a condensed piece of description, it appears to me admirable. The way in which the event is delineated by indicating the emotions of the actors is really artistic; and the psychological insight displayed in the single line,

Oh, how I wish I hadn't a-come!

is beyond praise. You feel convinced that such and such only was the sentiment which filled King Pharaoh's soul as he saw the watery walls descend.

I never take up a newspaper, with its account of civil commotions, without being reminded of a peculiarity of the discoverer of this gem. After fighting through the entire war, he never speaks of the time which has since elapsed except as " since peace broke out."

The conversation turning upon the license of expression now taken by women both in public and private, one of our band inquired, "In what particular do women of the present day resemble St. Paul?" The entire company replied by simply denying the possibility of such a likeness; but were forced to retract when informed that it was "because they speak after the manner of men."

The male "librarians," in common with all masculine Bohemians, evidently believe their thoughts and fancies to have something in their nature analogous to the flesh of swine; that they are in a crude state-mere pork, as it were-until, by the influence of smoke, they are cured into a consistency corresponding to wholesome and palatable bacon. Consequently, we might be permanently described as under a cloud. Not long since, these librarians took under consideration "Tobacco as a moral agent;" and, starting from Dr. Watts' principle, that

Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do,

proved to their own satisfaction that it

must have accomplished incalculable good to the human race.

Then it was inquired, whether the red man could properly be spoken of as

Lo, the poor Indian;

even though he has an "untutored mind; " though small-pox and the warpath have borne hardly upon him, when it is recollected at what an early date tobacco was known to him, and that he is still capable of enjoying an unlimited number of pipes.

A suspicion arises in my mind, that this account of our private Bohemia will chiefly suggest the counterpart of Mr. Pickwick's sensation, when told by Mr. Peter Magnus that he sometimes, in writing to his friends, signed himself P. M., afternoon; as it amused them. "Mr. Pickwick rather envied the ease with which Mr. Peter Magnus' friends were amused." But this is precisely one of the points I am trying to set forth,— that a capacity for being easily amused is really the most enviable of characteristics. Blessed is the man to whom it has been given. To him there is no need to "Would he were a boy again," for he carries within him a fountain of perpetual youth. Better still, his title to a private Bohemia is undeniable.

In parting, dear reader, I can express no better wish for your happiness, than that your claim is also secure.

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