The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 20, No. 122, December, 1867: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics

The Story

The narrative arc of this volume is not a single linear tale, but a mosaic of nineteenth-century American life, anchored by the unfolding drama of The Guardian Angel. In the central plot, Myrtle Hazard finds herself at a turning point regarding her future and her suitors. Murray Bradshaw, a persistent and manipulative figure, attempts to secure his own interests by pressuring Myrtle into an alliance, but he is met with a firm, quiet resistance. Myrtle, guided by the influence of those around her—particularly the thoughtful and protective Clement Lindsay—chooses to extricate herself from Bradshaw’s grasp. She signals to the household that she is otherwise occupied, a small but decisive act of autonomy that effectively marks the end of Bradshaw’s influence over her life.

Parallel to this romantic tension, the community navigates the shifting currents of social standing and inheritance. A group of grave gentlemen, including Mr. Penhallow and the venerable Master Gridley, arrives to settle matters of estate and expectation. Miss Silence, who had long anticipated her own burdens of responsibility and patronage, receives the news that these duties are to be relinquished. Far from being a tragedy, this development comes as a profound relief to her, illuminating a private life defined by a fastidious, independent spirit that prefers solitude over the "hungry creatures" of patronage.

The narrative also shifts to the domestic sphere, where Master Gridley seeks to rectify an earlier, eccentric naming of two children. Through a series of earnest consultations with Mrs. Hopkins, a woman of deep feeling and simple grace, the children are rechristened with names of significant personal and historical weight—Theodore, a name echoing family loss and spiritual gift, and others that anchor them within the community's moral framework. These moments of quiet resolution in the village are contrasted with broader, more analytical inquiries into the nature of human character and political integrity, specifically regarding the public trial and defamation of figures like General Bratish.

As the volume progresses, the perspective shifts from the local to the universal. Scientific and exploratory accounts take over, plunging the reader into the profound darkness of a great cave. The narrator’s experience in the "Star Chamber" serves as a meditation on the limits of human perception and the nature of light itself. From the claustrophobic, bat-filled vaults beneath the earth, the text moves to the rugged, human-shaped landscapes of Valdemosa, where ancient olive trees carry the weight of centuries.

The arc concludes by looking forward to the physical and intellectual infrastructure of the nation. Detailed examinations of the Pacific Railroad project reveal a vision of a world bridged by commerce and engineering. The volume ends with a reflection on literary standards, critiquing the styles of various poets and novelists, and a final, nostalgic look at the life of an elderly woman who reflects on forty years of peace with her husband, anticipating her approaching end with a quiet, enduring grace.

The People

• Myrtle Hazard: A young woman asserting her independence, Myrtle moves from the influence of manipulative suitors toward a life of her own choosing, finding clarity in the quiet support of those who respect her autonomy.
• Master Byles Gridley: A scholar and guardian figure, Gridley acts as the intellectual and moral anchor of the village, dedicated to rectifying the errors of his past and ensuring the future well-being of the next generation through careful, thoughtful mentorship.
• Mrs. Hopkins: A woman of profound emotional depth and simplicity, she serves as the heart of her domestic circle, her life defined by resilience, the memory of loss, and an unwavering devotion to the people and children in her care.
• Murray Bradshaw: A man driven by calculation and social ambition, he represents the obstacle to Myrtle’s freedom, ultimately failing because his self-interest cannot compete with the genuine, quiet connections Myrtle forms with others.
• Miss Silence: A woman who has long lived in the shadow of potential expectation, she finds unexpected liberation in the loss of her formal responsibilities, revealing a character that prefers the peace of personal independence over the vanity of public influence.

In Its Own Voice

While discussing the nature of human sensation and the physical reality of the world, the text clarifies the connection between stimulus and perception:

"All sensation is nerve-motion. Outer stimulus, applied to the nerves, causes contractions which, communicating with the brain, give the idea of color or taste or sound."

In evaluating the distinct, often stark, moral clarity of dramatic literature, the author draws a sharp line between characters who are merely sensual and those who embody a deeper, more chilling intent:

"If either Fletcher or Ford had attempted the subject, the sensual and emotional motives to the crime would have been represented with overpowering force, and expressed in the most alluring images, so that wickedness would have been almost resolved into weakness; but Webster lifts the wickedness at once from the senses into the region of the soul, exhibits its results in spiritual depravity, and shows the Satanic energy of purpose which may spring from the ruins of the moral will."

In a meditation on the immense scale of the emerging Pacific Railroad and the shifting landscape of global influence, the author underscores the transformative power of infrastructure:

"For the Pacific Railroad is not simply a gigantic public work, it is the world's great highway."

What It's Really About

The overarching concern of this collection is the intersection of the individual soul with the rapidly expanding technological and social horizons of mid-nineteenth-century America. It treats the human experience as a delicate balance between the "animal life" of youth—seen in the rambunctious behavior of children—and the "spiritual depravity" or "moral will" that dictates the long-term character of a person. The text posits that true progress is found not just in the conquest of space, as with the transcontinental railroad, but in the internal conquest of the self.

The volume questions the nature of perception itself. By juxtaposing scientific descriptions of electricity and nerve-motion with the subjective, almost sensory-defying experience of a traveler sitting in the "total absence of light," it argues that our understanding of reality is a construction of our internal responses. We are the sum of our sensations, yet those sensations require a moral framework to be properly understood. This is why the literary notices are so central to the book’s argument: the critique of a poet’s "gross material substance" or "upholstery" imagery is an argument for a more disciplined, restrained, and authentic use of language. A sloppy or overly ornate style, the author suggests, indicates a failure to properly observe or feel the world.

Furthermore, the work explores the tension between tradition and the future. The aging woman waiting for the end of her life after decades of "Heaven's peace" exists in the same pages as the industrial machinery that will forever link New York to the Pacific. The common thread is the need for a "guardian"—a figure like Master Gridley or the guiding principles of a responsible society—to ensure that as the world grows more connected, the individual does not lose their humanity. Whether it is the naming of a child or the routing of a rail line, the book insists that every act of creation or expansion is a moral choice that must be made with precision, empathy, and a clear eye on the long-term consequences for the spirit.

Why Read It Today

Readers who appreciate a slow, deliberate engagement with nineteenth-century prose will find much to admire here. The experience of reading this volume is akin to walking through a well-tended library where the shelves hold everything from rigorous scientific analysis to the tenderest of personal reflections. It is a work for those who enjoy the "mellow tinge" of historical perspective and are comfortable with a style that values restraint and the "habitual under-statement" over the flashy, ephemeral trends of modern writing.

The difficulties of the text are largely those of the period: its attitudes toward "masculine" and "feminine" roles are very much of the 1867 era, and the dialect used by characters like Kitty Fagan reflects the common literary portrayals of the time. However, for a reader willing to look past these period conventions, the text offers a rewarding, contemplative experience. Its strength lies in its ability to shift gears effortlessly—taking you from the sharp, critical eye of a literary reviewer to the intimate, quiet sorrow of a ninety-two-year-old mother missing her husband.

What stays with you long after the final page is the sense of a world on the brink of profound change, yet still deeply rooted in the quiet, local, and human. The description of the olive trees in Valdemosa, with their "marvellously human" distortions, serves as a powerful metaphor for the entire collection: the world is ancient, twisted by time and experience, yet hauntingly, recognizably alive. It is a book for those who want to understand the intellectual and emotional foundations of a country that was just beginning to grasp its own potential to bridge oceans. If you value a book that asks you to pause, to think, and to observe the world with both precision and warmth, this collection remains a remarkably thoughtful companion.