that there is light in the world, and that every man— even those of humble capacity and humble position— may possess it, use it, glorify and disseminate it. Such a life indeed tends to rob existence of its bitterness, and to give dignity to man and glory to God!

LETTER XVII.

The Federalist and the Democrat-Colonel Bradley and General King-Comparison of New England with European Villages.

MY DEAR C*****

From the ecclesiastic notabilities of Ridgefield I turn for a moment to the secular. And first, Colonel Bradley claims my notice, for he was the leading citizen of the place, in station, wealth, education, and power of intellect. He was a tall, gaunt, sallow man, a little bent at the period of my recollection, for he was then well stricken in years. He lived in a twostory white house, at the upper end of the main street, and on the western side. This was of ample dimensions, and had a grave, antique air, the effect of which was enhanced by a row of wide-arching elms, lining the street. It stood on a slight elevation, and somewhat withdrawn from the road; the fence in front was high and close; the doors and windows were always shut, even in summer. I know not why, but this

place had a sort of awfulness about it: it seemed to have a spirit and a voice, which whispered to the passer-by, "Go thy way: this is the abode of one above and beyond thee!"

In order to comprehend the impression likely to be made by such a sombre tenement, you must remember the general aspect of our country villages at that time, and indeed at the present time. Each house was built near the street, with a yard in front and a garden beside it. The fences were low, and of light, open pickets or slats, made to exclude cattle, pigs, and geese, which then had the freedom of the place. There was a cheerful, confiding, wide, open look all around. Everybody peeped from the windows into everybody's grounds. The proprietor was evidently content to be under your eye; nay, as you passed along, his beets and carrots in long beds; his roses and peonies bordering the central walk; the pears and peaches and plums swinging from the trees, all seemed to invite your observation. The barn, having its vast double doors in front, and generally thrown open, presented its interior to your view, with all its gathered treasures of hay, oats, rye, and flax. Near by, but yet apart, stood the crib for the Indian corn, showing its laughing, yellow ears between the slats, designed to give circulation to the air.

There was in all this a liberty and equality which belonged to the age. These had their foundation, partly at least, in two sources-a love of an open,

unobstructed view, and a sort of communal familiarity in the intercourse of society. The first settlers of the country found it covered with forests, which, while they sheltered the lurking Indian, the poaching wolf, and the prowling bear, also obstructed cultivation. Trees were then the great enemy, and to exterminate them was the first great battle of life. In those days men became tree-haters. The shadow of the wood was associated with dearth and danger the open space with plenty and peace. It was not till long after, when the burning sun of our summers had taught the luxury of shade, that the people of New England discovered their mistake, and began to decorate their streets and pleasure-grounds with trees.

In these, the primeval days of our history, men gathered in the village were mutual protectors one of the other; there was a bond of sympathy between them, founded in necessity, and this led to confidence, and confidence to familiarity. Equality of intercourse, with a general equality of feeling, were the results. And besides, wealth had not accumulated in the hands. of particular individuals or in society generally. The habits therefore were simple, and the tastes of the people demanded little beyond the means and usages of mere comfort. The love of embellishment gradually crept over society, but at the period of which I speak, it had not, in Ridgefield and other villages in Connecticut, gone beyond the elements I have described.

The American who travels in foreign countries marked with the vestiges of feudal times, and the consequent division of society into castes, will be forcibly struck with the contrast which these things present to a New England village. As you pass through France, or Italy, or Germany, or Spain, you will find the houses and grounds inclosed by high stone and mortar walls, which not only hide them from the view of the passer-by, but are a positive defense against intrusion. The proprietors bar you out, as if they not only feared your entrance, but suspected you of having the evil eye, and you must not therefore look upon them or their possessions. The walls are generally high and forbidding in proportion to the rank of the proprietor: a palace is often a veritable castle, with its moat, bastions, portcullis, and warder; and all this is imitated, as far as may be, from the chateau down to the bare and desolate tenement of John Smith and Tom Jones. The doors or gates of the rich are of massive bronze or ponderous oak, and fastened with formidable locks. You can only enter by permission, and under the eye of a porter, who scrutinizes you closely. This is true not only of Paris, but of all the neighboring towns, great and small. It is the same throughout the French empire. Even in the villages, which consist of a crowded mass of tenements, like the mean suburbs of a city, every house is a prison, built of stone and mortar, and not merely denying entrance, but shutting out,

the continent.

as far as possible, the chance surveillance of neighbors and travelers. This is the system throughout I have often felt almost suffocated in walking and riding in the environs of Florence and Rome, and other European cities, on finding myself confined in a narrow lane, some twelve or fifteen feet wide, with walls so high on either side as to render it impossible to look over them. This is not only true within the cities, and their immediate precincts, but often for miles around; even the fields and farms are frequently thus inclosed, indicating not only fear of intrusion or violence, but a repugnance to mere supervision.

This system of making every house a castle-not sacred by the law, as in our country, but by stone and mortar-had its origin in the violence of feudal times, when might was right. It is a system begun by the kings, imitated by the barons, and perpetuated in society by the emulous vanity of snobs and underlings. At first a necessity, it came at last to be a fashion. At present it is little more, even where it is general or universal. Its chief use now is to defend-not wealth or tangible property-but the fanciful interests of rank. A prince, a duke, a count, must not become familiar to common men. His heart must be packed in ice, so as to silence every large and philanthropic pulsation. He must associate only with his peers. He must exclude the vulgar; he must live aloof, enshrined in high walls and gates of oak and brass,