proud of our Plymouth Rock, where a handful of men, women, and children not merely faced, but vanquished, winter, famine, the wilderness, and the yet more invincible storge that drew them back to the green island far away.  These found no lotus growing upon the surly shore, the taste of which could make them forget their little native Ithaca; nor were they so wanting to themselves in faith as to burn their ship, but could see the fair west-wind belly the homeward sail, and then turn unrepining to grapple with the terrible Unknown.

As Want was the prime foe these hardy exodists had to fortress themselves against, so it is little wonder if that traditional feud be long in wearing out of the stock.  The wounds of the old warfare were long a-healing, and an east-wind of hard times puts a new ache into every one of them.  Thrift was the first lesson in their horn-book, pointed out, letter after letter, by the lean finger of the hard schoolmistress, Necessity.  Neither were those plump, rosy-gilled Englishmen that came hither, but a hard-faced, atrabilious, earnest-eyed race, stiff from long wrestling with the Lord in prayer, and who had taught Satan to dread the new Puritan hug.  Add two hundred years’ influence of soil, climate, and exposure, with its necessary result of idiosyncrasies, and we have the present Yankee, full of expedients, half-master of all trades, inventive in all but the beautiful, full of shifts, not yet capable of comfort, armed at all points against the old enemy Hunger, longanimous, good at patching, not so careful for what is best as for what will do, with a clasp to his purse and a button to his pocket, not skilled to build against Time, as in old countries, but against sore-pressing Need, accustomed to move the world with no [Greek:  pou sto] but his own two feet, and no lever but his own long forecast.  A strange hybrid, indeed, did circumstance beget, here in the New World, upon the old Puritan stock, and the earth never before saw such mystic-practicalism, such niggard-geniality, such calculating-fanaticism, such cast-iron-enthusiasm, such sour-faced-humor, such close-fisted-generosity.  This new Graeculus esuriens will make a living out of anything.  He will invent new trades as well as tools.  His brain is his capital, and he will get education at all risks.  Put him on Juan Fernandez, and he would make a spelling-book first, and a salt-pan afterward. In coelum, jusseris, ibit,—­or the other way either,—­it is all one, so anything is to be got by it.  Yet, after all, thin, speculative Jonathan is more like the Englishman of two centuries ago than John Bull himself is.  He has lost somewhat in solidity, has become fluent and adaptable, but more of the original groundwork of character remains.  He feels more at home with Fulke Greville, Herbert of Cherbury, Quarles, George Herbert, and Browne, than with his modern English cousins.  He is nearer than John, by at least a hundred years, to Naseby, Marston Moor, Worcester, and the time when, if ever, there were true Englishmen.  John Bull has suffered the idea of the Invisible to be very much fattened out of him.  Jonathan is conscious still that he lives in the world of the Unseen as well as of the Seen.  To move John you must make your fulcrum of solid beef and pudding; an abstract idea will do for Jonathan.