Chapter III. Western Experiences.

From: The Life and Letters of Christopher Pearse Cranch (1917)
Author: Leonora Cranch Scott
Published: Houghton Mifflin Company 1917 Boston


  IN September, 1886, Mr. Cranch returned to Washington for a visit to the old home. He was urged to come to the West by his cousin, William Greenleaf Eliot, who was preaching in St. Louis, Missouri. The invitation was accepted and Mr. Cranch preached several sermons in St. Louis, staying with kind Mr. and Mrs. Christopher Rhodes, while Mr. Eliot preached in New Orleans and Mobile. In St. Louis Mr. Cranch wrote poems and did other literary work for the papers. His flute was his constant companion, and Mrs. Rhodes being musical, they sang and played together.

  In those days travelling was slow and tedious. It took nearly two weeks, by steamboat on the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers, with stage across the mountains, to go from Washington to St. Louis.

  Mr. Eliot afterwards settled in St. Louis, where he not only built up a strong society, but founded the Washington University and the Training School for Nurses, among other good works. His zeal and public spirit were unbounded, and he became one of the leading men of the West in educational and philanthropic work. His life was a consecration to the highest ideals of duty, and it did not fail of great results. In June, 1837, he married my father’s sister, Abigail Adams Cranch, who, by her devotion and unselfishness, was of great service to him in building up his church.

  Mr. Cranch went to Cincinnati tentatively as regards the ministry at large, to be appointed to work among the poor; but he thought himself unfitted for the position. He was trying all the time to prepare himself for his duties. His early diaries are quite pathetic from his struggles. It was endeavoring to fit a square peg into a round hole; his poetic effusions, his love of painting and of music all calling him away from sermonizing, which he was strongly urged to follow and to crush the rest. When James Handasyde Perkins appeared in Cincinnati, my father knelt to him, metaphorically, in homage and in gratitude. Mr. Perkins had the consecration necessary for a minister’s life.

  In March, 1837, Mr. Cranch left St. Louis and went to preach in Peoria, Illinois. There he stayed with Judge Bigelow and made some very warm friends.

To Miss Catherine Myers

PEORIA, March 29, 1837.
  How sweet to be remembered so, and to be written to by such kind friends, when so far away as “the Childe” now is from the land of his home! . . . If my poor letters to you are well-springs in a desert, what must yours be to me. For truly, I am in a desert in more respects than one. But you must not imagine that I am complaining of the West, or of this place where I at present am. You see that I am at last actually in Peoria; yes, actually in that much-talked-of place, when I was with you in Richmond. Harriet’s map has at length guided me safely hither, to this prairie land. But before proceeding farther, I suppose I must give you some idea of the place itself. Latralie, let me say, was here before the town as it now is had started from the old chrysalis it then was, the ruins of an old French settlement. Now, though small, the growth of not three years, it is a thriving and growing place settled by many New Englanders, good, intelligent Unitarian families. Of course the houses are small and scattered at present, but what more could be expected in so young a place? The location of the town is indeed beautiful as has been represented. It is a prairie country. The land rises gradually from the Illinois River, where there is an excellent landing for steamboats, which are constantly coming and going,—then continues perfectly level and broad for a good way till it rises back of the village into a long bluff, on which there are trees and beautiful locations for country-seats. The bluff extends back into a prairie, which in summer is covered with the most beautiful flowers of all kinds. Below the bluff, where the town is, there are no trees, and the ground is as level almost as a floor for miles up and down the river. In winter, and at present, it is rather a bleak prospect, and so unsheltered are we that the winds of the four heavens sweep to and fro at all times. But in summer every one describes the place to be quite another thing. Nature seems to have intended that a town should be built directly here. I miss hills and trees very much, but otherwise am much pleased with Peoria. It will be a thriving large town before a great while, I feel confident. The Society also will go on improving, as it has done the last year. . . . We have preaching in the court-room. A classmate of mine, Thurston, is stationed at present over two other small towns from ten to fifteen miles off, at Tremont and Perkin. . . .

  But hark—it rains, and seems as if it set in for a storm. It will quench the prairie fires which have been lighting up to-night. These fires are seen almost every night in various directions. I have not yet seen a real prairie, much less one on fire,—I mean except at a distance. How the rain and the darkness and the silence and the solitude turn one’s thoughts from outward things to the objects of the heart’s affections. I believe it was intended that the eye within should see clearest when it is most dark to the eye without—that the soul’s ear should listen and hear best when the storm speaks to the outward ear. . . .

To the Reverend James Freeman Clarke

WASHINGTON CITY, July 18, 1837.
  As Eliot and I were wending our way homeward, the idea came into my head, that at our gathering to dedicate the St. Louis church in the fall, we might also get up an ordination as well as not. Do not all things agree thereunto? Here am I only a half-made minister, going out to the West, unconsecrated by my older brethren by the laying on of hands to the labors I am to engage in. Then, too, we hope to have lots of divines together at the occasion aforesaid, and an ordination at such a time and on such an occasion would be a new and impressive thing. Why should not we of the West have our “sprees” ecclesiastic as well as our Eastern brethren? I think it is time we should begin. I mentioned the idea to Eliot, who likes it very much. And I hope it may be carried into effect, should we have clerical brethren enough to form a council. I therefore write to you, to ask if you could at that time preach the ordination sermon. . . . If you think well of this plan, and can conveniently preach me into the goodly fellowship of the ordained prophets, you shall receive all a brother’s thanks for your services.

  I intended to have sent you something for the “Messenger” rather more solid than those scraps I gave you, but my time has been so taken up here that I have had too little to dispose of in this way. Poetry, such as it is, I can almost always spare. I have been thinking of sending you an article on Wordsworth, from a lecture I wrote on the same, and will, if you like, and time admits. Having preached all my old sermons in Washington, I am put to it to write new ones, though Eliot preaches about half the time. This writing and the pleasurin’ I have had to do of late have taken up many hours which I should much like to have given to other things. . . .

To Miss Julia Myers

WASHINGTON, D.C., August 10, 1837.
  . . . I have so many things to say, as I told you when I was with you, that I never know where to begin or end. Indeed, during the whole of the time I spent in Richmond I felt the same oppressive, unsettled feeling, and could not do or say what I wanted to. Many, many things were at my heart, but I could not trust to common spoken language to utter them, and indeed I know not if it is much easier to do it on paper. I have never been accustomed to give full vent in words to my feelings and thoughts: I cannot do it; I have at times, under the influence of a temporary excitement of the organ of language, joined with other causes, been thrown, as it were, for a brief period, out of myself, my diffidence driven out by self-possession, and my inertness by a short-lived vigour, and words came with an ease and aptitude which surprised myself. But this is only at times. In general I am reserved, secretive, proud, indolent, but above all diffident. This besetting diffidence lies at the root of all my reserve, and keeps me again and again silent and seemingly cold, when no one could tell how deep and strong the stream which ran hidden within. . . . The reason why this diffidence is not more seen is that I am too proud and sensitive to opinion to let my diffidence be seen. This, combined with my indifference to most objects around me, make me often seem what I am not. . . .

  I shall write my cousin again soon, and tell her all about my Richmond visit. And is this long-thought-of visit indeed over, and am I in Washington again? Am I no longer within walk of your hospitable bower, and the magic ring that held me there in bonds of enchantment? Enchantment, Verbena, Richmond,—these three words shall ever be associated. And am I, indeed,—how long I know not,—beyond the sound of your sweet voice, and the beautiful Beethovenish “four flats,” and its cousin, the gentle guitar that inhabiteth that box in the comer? No, I am not beyond them. I hear them still. My memories of all these joys, and many, many more are vivid, indeed, and shall not soon fade. My heart is garlanded around with the flowers of Memory. I have been dipping these flowers in the fountain of present enjoyment, and “the picture of the mind revives again”—the flowers lift up their bright, many-tinted leaves and petals, and I shall long live in the odour of the past. . . .

  His next stay of any considerable extent was in Louisville, Kentucky, where he took James Freeman Clarke’s place, preaching and editing the “Western Messenger,” a monthly paper “conducted in the interests of the liberal faith and of literature.”

  A letter to his sister Margaret, afterwards Mrs. Erastus Brooks, gives an account of the society in Louisville, and of what he did for the “Messenger.” It shows how his genial nature made him a favorite, and his various talents were brought into use. Of the spiritual qualities of his sermons we must judge later. The following letter is dated October 14, 1837.

  Well, here I stick in Louisville still, where I am Preacher, Pastor, Editor pro tem.; until that reverend dignitary, whose place I am trying to fill, shall return from his Eastern wanderings! His congregation are getting impatient to have him back again, and I should be impatient to get away, were it’ not that I find it so pleasant, and that the poor deserted “Messenger” seems to beg so hard for an editor. I have contributed several articles, but still there is a large vacancy,—this is the November number. I would stuff it with more poetry, but I am ashamed that so many pieces should go forth with “C. P. C.” dangling at the end. The numbers should be made up by the fifteenth, and as much as one half, I think, is yet unfinished. William Eliot has sent nothing yet but an article on Unitarianism. I am preparing an extract from one of Edward’s letters to give in, and am rummaging my “Omnibus Book” for scraps and ends to publish anonymously. . . .

  I have found several good pleasant folk here, and a few musical ones. Last night I was at a meeting of the Ladies’ Sewing Society, at Mrs. C’s. On entering there, I encountered a whole table full of bright faces, ranged around a large astral lamp and busily engaged in chatting over their work. Some gentlemen were there, and some more came shortly after. At half-past nine the ladies put up their sewing and dispersed about the room. Soon I was called upon to sing with Mrs. E. C. So we sang—“Home, Fare Thee Well,” “I Know a Bank,” and “As It Fell Upon a Day”; also, “I’ve Wandered in Dreams,” though I never tried it before.

  I went the other night to see Mr. Keats, an English gentleman residing here, and brother to Keats, the poet. He seemed to be a very intelligent and gentlemanly man, and has some daughters, only one of whom I saw, a young lady about fourteen apparently, with face and features strongly resembling Keats, the poet, or that little portrait of him which you see in the volume containing his poems in conjunction with Coleridge and Shelley. I could scarcely keep my eyes from her countenance, so striking was the likeness. They say she plays beautifully on the piano. . . .

  I have been preparing, this forenoon, a review of Mr. Emerson’s Phi Beta Kappa Oration, which is now in the printer’s hands for the “Messenger.” This child, being left by its father, the Reverend James Freeman Clarke, crieth continually for food. Not more than half the requisite matter is furnished,—and most of that is spun from the brains of your humble servant, C. P. C. Clarke just lets his off spring go to the dickens. If it had not been that C. P. C. happened to adhere to the south bank of the Ohio on his way downstream, and take roost awhile in these diggings, where had been the flowers and fruits that must spring therefrom to fill the “Messenger’s” demands? I look about now like a hungry lion seeking for prey, yea, like some voracious, responsible spider, that sitteth solitary in a comer of a deserted house, spreading its web and looking on emptiness after straggling flies of contributors, which come not- of which the fewest are to be found. Nevertheless, I give myself no uneasiness. The young ravens are fed, and so will the “Messenger” be, in time.

  An old gentleman named Judge S. called on me the other day, and wants to take me into the country to his house, about five miles from Louisville, to stay some days. I should like to go, but doubt whether the “cares of editorial life” will permit. I find everybody here hospitable. I can’t make visits fast enough. By the time I get acquainted here, as it has always been elsewhere, I am obliged to go. But I shall not have been long enough in Louisville, quite, to become strongly attached to the society.

To Miss Margaret Cranch

October 15, 1837.
  . . . Found that Mr. Clarke had returned. Went to see him, and spent most of the evening with him, talking and looking over Retzsch’s illustrations of the Second Part of “Faust.” By the way, Clarke brought on also the fourth part of the long-expected “Pickwick,” which I am at present enjoying. I have just been laughing over it all alone, “till the tears came.” I preached twice yesterday, as Mr. Clarke was not very well. Had a fine congregation in the morning. Preached on the text—“The way of the transgressor is hard.” And in the afternoon, on “The duty of thanksgiving.” Mr. Clarke praised my afternoon sermon much. He is full of genius and magnetism.

  I shall set off in a day or two for St. Louis. . . . I begin to grow a little impatient to be back among my little scattered flock at Peoria. Perhaps I may be able to unite Fremont with Peoria in one parish. . . . I have enjoyed my stay here very much. My impressions of Louisville are very different from what they were. Mr. Clarke has a noble society and a desirable station, both for comfort and usefulness. He has a most enviable independence of character, which peculiarly fits him for such a place as this. It does me good to be with him. He possesses in a marked degree that which I am perpetually conscious that I am most deficient in—that is, boldness—an habitual independence and disregard for the opinion of men. I think I am acquiring of it slowly. The West is a grand school for me in this respect. Still, the lack of it palsies me continually. I cannot forget myself. My eyes are turned so habitually on myself, that almost every action of my life is divested of freedom. Nothing goes from me that has not passed under the eyes of self, and is not referred to the opinion of those around me. I am not free enough; I am not bold enough for a minister of the Word of Life. Over and over again do I chide my timidity, my reserve, my sensitiveness. I want what might be called spontaneousness. And I think the West is the school where this want is to be supplied. I must mingle among men and women more. I must converse freely and about everything. I must interest myself in their conditions and wants. I must think more of my fellow men and less of myself. I must not feel myself detached from society, but as forming a stone in the arch, helping to support the building. In the West it is especially necessary that no member of society should forget his relations and isolate himself. He must step out from the charmed circle of his own peculiar tastes, habits, feelings, and sympathize with, and help, all around him. This is the minister’s office by preeminence. The minister should not be a standing, placid, lake, embosomed by mountains and gazing on the stars; but a quick, deep, active, strong-moving stream, winding about among men, purifying and gladdening and fertilizing the world.

  The Autobiography here says of James Freeman Clarke:—

  On his return I had some very pleasant days with him. He was full of the new poet, Tennyson. He had borrowed a volume of his poems, not yet published in America, and transcribed copiously from them. And from his copies, I made several, in my own Commonplace Book. We were both fascinated with these poems.

  And it was here, too, that Clarke and I started the idea of making comic illustrations of some of Emerson’s quaint sentences, such as the “Walking Eyeball,” and the man “expanding like melons in the warm sun.” I was quite busy while at Louisville. One number of the “Messenger” was made up almost entirely of my own writings.

To Miss Catherine Myers

LOUISVILLE, KY., November 14, 1838.
  Your letter, dear friends, of the 16th has just come to my hands and its spirit to my heart. I have received it and read it as I always do your delightful epistles, for they all come to me like well-springs in a wilderness. Let the heart through this poor pen, its index, thank you, dear kind friends. I have yielded to the impulse (for I do confess, as Julia says, I am much the child of impulse, though not wholly so, I hope) and have sat down to answer it, and make some amends for my long silence. I wrote to you, Julia, the other day, but that shall not prevent me from writing again. Your reproaches, those gentle reproaches, of my silence, might indeed have been deserved, had the fault of this long suspension of correspondence been with me entirely; but the fact is, I had been waiting for the moving of the waters on your part. If I remember, it was myself that sent the last letter, some time last summer, and a long one too, and ever since I have been expecting a reply. What can you say then? Have not I the best side of the quarrel? At any rate, are we not about even? The fault I suppose is to be chargeable upon some viewless spirit of taciturnity somewhere between us. Yet I confess that I may be somewhat in fault. As I have often said when egotizing, I am a bad mixture of the oyster and the spirit, the unexcitable and the excitable, the sluggish and the impulsive, the lymphatic and the nervous, or of whatever other strange contrarieties and extremes you please. I stop at times and wonder at myself, and fear. At times so alive, so excited, so full of one or another faith and aim; and at others, so dead, immovable, ennui-ish, a dumb beast, a clod, an animal,—a man of two natures living oil earth and in the sky. I hope it may not always be so. It is a great hindrance to me in my walks and undertakings in life to be such a Janus with a double head, looking two ways and going neither. It is truly a “mortal coil,” this body. We are veritable “spirits in prison,” and rarely get a chance to stand a-tiptoe and look out of “the loopholes of retreat.” Christopher out of his “cave.” Yet we are encompassed around by Spirit. The solemn morning light, the presence of Duty, the voices of friends, the existence of vice in the world—every feeling—every thought, the very existence of our bodies and our minds, yes, our very night dreams—all are proving it to us, day after day, hour after hour, minute after minute, in every pulse of our life blood, in every breath of our mortal lungs, in every word embodying our inmost Me. And yet, fools that we are, we disbelieve, we doubt, we forget, we dream, we disobey, we hug our fetters, we kiss our prison walls, and our creed is, “Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we must die!” It is fearful, the mystery that is in us. Still more fearful a mystery is it, that we do not always recognize and live by this inner mystery. God is in us, but we so quench the spirit, that we crush and mangle into ruins His glorious Image in our breasts. But I am mounting the pulpit, when I should be seated at your fireside, talking face to face. Let us talk of matters other than those
“Bubbles that glitter as they rise, and break,
On vain Philosophy’s aye-babbling spring.”
  By the way, I need not say how I should rejoice to be in propria persona by your fireside. I have always been at your house in summer, though I have never found you summer friends. I very often have delightful dreams of you all, and somehow I almost always dream of seeing you in winter. I do not dream of you as being exactly in Richmond, but in some dream city of a Nowhere, where a good many other friends reside: sometimes so many that I have not time to visit them all. Last night I dreamed of travelling through Canada, and waiting with a crowd of fell ow passengers on the banks of the St. Lawrence,—they called it by some other name in the language of Dream Land, I forget what ‘t was,—for a steamship which was coming with flying colours to take us to our journey’s end. So I still dream of travelling, night after night it is the same. I am a second Peter Schlimmel with his seven-leagued boots. If I ever get crazy, I suppose it will be on this subject, possessed with the demon of perpetual motion, not through the air on wings or sunbeams, but by the dull, prosaic methods of conveyance usually esteemed in fashion upon this nether planet. By the way, did you ever read Keats’s “Endymion”? It is great! Full of redundant imagery and words of thought, but rich “as a perpetual feast of nectared sweets, where no crude surfeit reigns.” This will transport you to every spot in air, earth, ocean, but this dull earth surface we plain mortals grovel upon. I consider Keats one of the greatest poetical geniuses that for a long time has walked the earth and left it, like Chatterton,—
“the marvellous Boy that perished in his pride.”
  What might he not have become, had he lived? There is a brother of his here, an old resident of Louisville, a business man with a large family,—not much resembling the portrait of the poet, but a man of fine mind and acquirements. That piece in the “Messenger” by Mr. Clarke, “To a Poet’s Niece,” was written to a young daughter of his about thirteen or fourteen. There is another daughter, older, who is a fine girl, and hath the poet’s dark, soul-like eyes and diffident manner. . . .

To the Reverend James Freeman Clarke

CINCINNATI, February 16, 1889.
  Your letter received to-day was peculiarly acceptable. As to the information you ask about charitable female associations, and your plans and interests, I have referred the matter to James H. Perkins, our new brother in the ministry. He will write you all about it. He is entering upon his duties as minister at large, with the broadest grounds and best hopes. He is just the man. He and Vaughan and Channing and a few others—what a host they will be—an irresistible phalanx, a select school for the development and realization of true democratic ideas. The Unitarians here are getting broad awake. Channing is pouring life into them by week-fulls, and John C. Vaughan is stirring his stumps and the stumps of all around him in the great work. Everything looks encouraging. Other denominations seem disposed to cooperate. The “Mechanics” are ready for it, and are taking us by the hand. They are holding weekly meetings now about the Penitentiary System of the State. Vaughan will sooner or later see his favorite idea of a House of Correction realized. He is a democrat of the highest order. William Channing preaches glorious sermons, extempore, opening his mind and his mouth with all boldness. I don’t know but I like him better as a preacher than I do you. His mind seems exhaustless, and his devotion to his calling seems to press almost painfully upon him. He is almost universally admired, and will, no doubt, return and settle. He has not been well since I have been here, being dyspeptic. Avoid that malady, my friend! Besides preaching two extempore sermons weekly and attending Sunday-School, he attends a Bible-class-sewing-circle of ladies, every Wednesday afternoon, and has conversation meetings in the vestry every Thursday night. These have been very interesting. The ministry at large has been talked over, with its attendant topics, for several evenings. Men and women are waking. The green leaves and flowers are starting; let us pray no untimely frost may wither the young germs of life.

  As for myself, I have been a regular loafer here. Living in a dusty, noisy law-office, and sleeping in the same on a most extemporaneous couch-bed, without a pillow,—very unsettled and inactive. Am about starting for Washington, probably on Tuesday next. Think I shall candidate at the North, and settle there. Heartily tired am I of wandering. I want a home; quiet steady work, and a wife. I shall not find them this side of the mountains.

  I sent you two poems, and a short article. Did you get them? . . .

  I heard of your letter to Mr. Furness with the Emersons in it.1 My sister Margaret is staying with Mrs. James Furness, and wrote me about it. She says Mr. Furness came in one day with your letter in his hand and showed her the illustrations. She says she could not laugh much because I was not with her, and we were not at home together. She is delighted with William Furness; says he is the most delightful man in conversation, and laughs with her over “Pickwick,” and recites old ballads to her at twilight. . . .

  I hope to send you some drawings some time. Continue yours to me. Tell me from time to time what you preach about, and add some poetry occasionally to fill up chinks. A letter from you will reach me in Washington. Write us, friend James; much will it refresh our souls!

  Heaven send you peace and joy and all success in your ministry! . . .

  From Philadelphia, May 27, 1839, Mr. Cranch, in a letter to the Misses Myers, speaks of his cousin William Furness:—

  I see him very frequently, and pass many of my pleasantest hours in his company. He is a most delightful man. I never knew one who seemed to possess such a cheerful, even temperament. You know he has suffered much bodily pain. The other day, in pulling up a bush in his garden, he strained his back, which is always weak, and has been unable to move without great pain for several days. Yet he seems as cheerful as ever. Yesterday he was unable to preach. In the evening I preached for him after having preached in the morning and afternoon at the Northern Society. This is a small society which is struggling to get along, in the “Northern Liberties,” and for which I am engaged to preach for several weeks.

  Of Mrs. Butler (Fanny Kemble) he writes:

  This lady, who resides near Philadelphia, I met in the country a few evenings since. I was much pleased with her, though I had no opportunity of conversing with her, but only of hearing her converse. I, however, found her out to be a hot Abolitionist, as nearly all the English are, before the raw material of their brains is worked up in the loom of practical observation. I had no opportunity of hearing her read, as I wished.

To Miss Julia Myers

BOSTON, February 4, 1848.
  . . . I have many friends and other sources of profit and pleasure to attract me here, and begin to like Boston quite well. For books, lectures, music, churches, literary and refined society, it is a great place. Boston has been overrun with lectures this winter. I have attended but one course,—Mr. Emerson’s on the Age. This is nearly completed. These lectures have been a treat whose worth I can find no words to express. Emerson is to me the master mind of New England, at least so far as depth and wonderful beauty in thought, rare and eloquent delivery go. His name will stand the test of time. I rank him along with Carlyle and other stars of the age. Emerson’s doctrines, however, are considered very heretical by most persons, and by as many, downright atheism, mysticism, or perhaps nonsense. Horace Mann being asked the other day by a lady how he liked Mr. Emerson, “Madam,” said he, “a Scotch mist is perfect sunshine to him!”

  New England is the place of places for all sorts of views. Things new and old are brought to light, and have their advocates and believers, and denyers. We have one Miller here, an ignorant preacher, who teaches that the world is coming to an end in the year 1843. We have another man who is zealous as a flaming fire in lectures upon English grammar!—defying his antagonists like a second David. We have had lectures on the Turks by a Turk; on Switzerland by a German, the lamented Dr. Follen; on Geology, on carbonic acid gas, on Eastern customs, on storms, on Shakespeare, and on the Smithsonian Legacy—and a thousand other subjects. In fact this Boston is a very Athens. Moreover, we have grand orations. I have attended several. Books we have ad infinitum. Have you read Professor Longfellow’s “Hyperion”? It is full of beautiful things. A work of Jouffroy’s, a French philosopher, is just published, on Ethics, translated by William Channing. By the way, I see the Doctor occasionally, and his daughter Mary,—do you know her? Every Thursday evening we have a little meeting of the Pierians, a musical society, where we have flute music and singing. So you see something of my manner of life. It is a sort of dissipation. To-night I am going to a little party to meet Roelker, a German, who sings and plays, and is a grand fellow. . . . I shall have Mrs. Lamb’s guitar to-morrow in my room to solace my loneliness withal. I play scarcely at all on the flute now. I have taken to singing instead. I am preaching for the winter at a small parish in South Boston, at the foot of Dorchester Heights. I have had no invitations from the muse for a long time: I seem to be in a wintry state rather. I have done nothing lately. I am most miserably unproductive: O for a mental Spring! O for a new budding of the soul! I am an unprofitable wretch!

1 Dr. Clarke did also some funny drawings at that time, along the line of Mr. Cranch’s caricatures of the “moral influence of the Dial.”

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