The Project Gutenberg EBook of Continental Monthly, Vol. III, No IV, April
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Title: Continental Monthly, Vol. III, No IV, April 1863
       Devoted to Literature and National Policy

Author: Various

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Language: English

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  THE

  CONTINENTAL MONTHLY:

  DEVOTED TO

  LITERATURE AND NATIONAL POLICY.


  VOL. III.--APRIL, 1863.--No. IV.




THE WONDERS OF WORDS.


Every nation has its legend of a 'golden age'--when all was young and
fresh and fair--'_comme les couleurs primitives de la nature_'--even
before the existence of this gaunt shadow of Sorrow--_the shadow of
ourselves_--that ever stalks in company with us;--an epoch of Saturnian
rule, when gods held sweet converse with men, and man primeval bounded
with all the elasticity of god-given juvenility:

        ('Ah! remember,
  This--all this--was in the olden
  Time long ago.')

And even now, in spite of our atheism and our apathism, amid all the
overwhelming world-influences of this great 'living Present'--the ghost
of the dead Past will come rushing back upon us with its solemn voices
and its infinite wailings of pity: but soft and faint it comes; for the
wild jarrings of the Now almost prevent us from hearing its still, small
voices. It

  'Is but a _dim-remembered_ story
   Of the old time entombed.'

Besides, what is History but the story of the bygone? The elegy, too,
comes to us as the last lamenting, sadly solemn swan-song of that
glorious golden time. And, indeed, are not all poesies but various notes
of that mighty diapason of Thought and Feeling, that has, through the
ages, been singing itself in jubilee and wail?

So it is in the individual--(for is not the individual ever the
rudimental, formula-like expression of that awful problem which nations
and humanity itself are slowly and painfully working out?): in the
'moonlight of memory' these sorrowful mementos revisit every one of us;
and

        ----'But I am not _now_
  That which I _have been_'--

and _vanitas vanitatum!_ are not only the satisfied croakings of _blasé_
Childe Harolds, but our universal experience; while from childhood's
gushing glee even unto manhood's sad satiety, we feel that all are
nought but the phantasmagoria

                    'of a creature
  _Moving about in worlds not realized_.'

Listen now to a snatch of melody:

     'The rainbow comes and goes,
      And lovely is the rose,
      The moon doth with delight
    Look round her when the heavens are bare;
      Waters on a starry night
      Are beautiful and fair;
    The sunshine is a glorious birth;
      But yet I know, wherever I go,
  That there hath passed away a glory from the earth!'

So saith the mild Braminical Wordsworth. Now it will be remembered that
Wordsworth, in that glorious ode whence we extract the above, develops
the Platonic idea (shall we call Platonic that which has been
entertained by the wise and the _feeling_ of all times?) of a shadowy
recollection of past and eternal existence in the profundities of the
Divine Heart. 'It sounds forth here a mournful remembrance of a faded
world of gods and heroes--as the echoing plaint for the loss of man's
original, celestial state, and paradisiacal innocence.' And then we have
those transcendent lines that come to us like aromatic breezes blowing
from the Spice Islands:

     'Hence in a season of calm weather,
      Though inland far we be,
  Our souls have sight of that immortal sea,
      Which brought us hither,
      Can in a moment travel thither,
  And see the Children sport upon the shore,
  And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.'

But,

                 'descending
  From these imaginative heights that yield
  Far-stretching views into eternity,'--

what have the golden age and Platonic _dicta_ to do with our
word-ramble? A good deal. For we will endeavor to show that words, being
the very sign-manual of man's convictions, contain the elements of what
may throw light on both. To essay this:

Why is it that we generally speak of death as a 'return,' or a 'return
home'? And how is it that this same idea has so remarkably interwoven
itself with the very warp and woof of our language and poetry?--so that
in our fervency, we can sing:

  'Jerusalem, my glorious _home_,' etc.

Does not the very idea (not to mention the composition of the word) of a
'return' involve a previously having been in the place? And we can
scarcely call that 'home' where we have never been before. So, that 'old
Hebrew book' sublimely tells us that 'the spirit of the man _returneth_
to God who gave it.'

Is it possible that these can be obscure intimations of that bygone time
when WE were rocked in the bosom of the Divine consciousness?
Perhaps.... And now if the reader will pardon a piece of moralizing, we
would say that these expressions teach us in the most emphatic way
that--'_This is not our rest_.' So that when we have dived into every
mine of knowledge and drunk from every fountain of pleasure; when, with
Dante, we arrive at the painful conclusion that

  'Tutto l'oro, ch'è sotto la luna,
  E che già fu, di queste anime stanche
  Non poterebbe farne posar una,'

(since, indeed, the Finite can never gain entire satisfaction in
itself)--we may not despair, but still the heart-throbbings, knowing
that He who has--for a season--enveloped us in the mantle of this
sleep-rounded life, and thrown around himself the drapery of the
universe--spangling it with stars--will again take us back to his
fatherly bosom.

Somewhat analogous to these, and arguing the eternity of our existence,
we have such words as 'decease,' which merely imports a _withdrawal_;
'demise,' implying also a laying down, a _removal_. By the way, it is
rather curious to observe the notions in the mind of mankind that have
given rise to the words expressing 'death.' Thus we have the Latin word
_mors_--allied, perhaps, to the Greek [Greek: moros] and [Greek:
moira],[1] from [Greek: meiromai]--to _portion out_, to _assign_. Even
this, however, there was a repulsion to using; and both the Greeks and
Romans were wont to slip clear of the employment of their [Greek:
thanatos], _mors_, etc., by such circumlocutions as _vitam suam mutare,
transire e seculo_; [Greek: koimêsato chalkeon hypnon]--_he slept the
brazen sleep_ (Homer's Iliad, [Greek: Lamda], 241); [Greek: ton de
skotos oss' ekalypsen]--_and darkness covered his eyes_ (Iliad, [Greek:
Zeta], 11); or _he completeth the destiny of life_, etc. This reminds us
of the French aversion to uttering their _mort_. These expressions,
again, are suggestive of our 'fate,' with an application similar to the
Latin _fatum_, which, indeed, is none other than 'id quod _fatum est_ a
deis'--a God's word. So that in this sense we may all be considered
'fatalists,' and all things _fated_. Why not? However, in the following
from _Festus_, it is the 'deil' that makes the assertion:

  'FESTUS.         Forced on us.

  LUCIFER.  _All things are of necessity._

  FESTUS.       Then best.

  But the good are never fatalists. The bad
  Alone act by necessity, they say.

  LUCIFER. It matters not what men assume to be;
   Or good, or bad, they are but what they are.'

In which we may agree that his majesty was not so very far wrong.

Moreover, 'Why _should_ we mourn departed friends?'--since we know that
they are but lying in the [Greek: moimêtêrion] (cemetery)--the _sleeping
place_; or, as the vivid old Hebrew faith would have it, _the house of
the living_ (Bethaim). Is not this testimony for the soul's immortality
worth as much as all the rhapsody written thereon, from Plato to
Addison?

Some words are the very essence of poetry; redolent with all beauteous
phantasies; odoriferous as flowers in spring, or discoursing an awful
organ-melody, like to the re-bellowing of the hoarse-sounding sea. For
instance, those two noble old Saxon words 'main' and 'deep,' that we
apply to the ocean--what a music is there about them! The 'main' is the
_maegen_--the strength, the _strong one_; the great 'deep' is precisely
what the name imports. Our employment of 'deep' reminds of the Latin
_altum_, which, properly signifying high or lofty, is, by a familiar
species of metonymy, put for its opposite.

By the way, how exceedingly timid are our poets and poetasters generally
of the open sea--_la pleine mer_. They linger around the shores thereof,
in a vain attempt to sit snugly there _à leur aise_, while they 'call
spirits from the vasty deep'--that never did and never would come on
such conditions, though they grew hoarse over it. We all remember how
Sandy Smith labors with making abortive _grabs_ at its _amber tails_,
_main_, etc. (rather slippery articles on the whole)--but he is not

  'A shepherd in the Hebrid Isles,
  _Placed far amid the melancholy main!_'

Hail shade of Thomson! But hear how the exile sings it:

  'La mer! partout la mer! des flots, des flots encor!
  L'oiseau fatigue en vain son inégal essor.
     Ici les flots, là-bas les ondes.
  Toujours des flots sans fin par des flots repoussés;
  L'oeil ne voit que des flots dans l'abime entassés
     Rouler sous les vaques profondes.'[2]

This we, for our part, would pronounce one of the very best open-sea
sketches we have ever met with; and if the reader will take even our
unequal rendering, he may think so too.

  'The sea! all round, the sea! flood, flood o'er billow surges!
   In vain the bird fatigued its faltering wing here urges.
     Billows beneath, waves, waves around;
  Ever the floods (no end!) by urging floods repulsed;
  The eye sees but the waves, in an abyss engulphed,
     Roll 'neath their lairs profound.'

'Aurora' comes to us as a remnant of that beautiful Grecian mythology
that deified and poetized everything; and even to us she is still the
'rosy-fingered daughter of the morn.' The 'Levant,' 'Orient,' and
'Occident' are all of them poetical, for they are all true translations
from nature. The 'Levant' is where the sun is _levant_, raising himself
up. 'Orient' will be recognized as the same figure from _orior_; while
'occident' is, of course, the opposite in signification, namely, the
declining, the 'setting' place.

'Lethe' is another classic myth. It is [Greek: ho tês lêthês
potamos]--the river of forgetfulness, 'the oblivious pool.' Perhaps is
it that all of us, as well as the son of Thetis, had a dip therein.

There exists not a more poetic expression than 'Hyperborean,' _i. e._
[Greek: hyperboreos]--_beyond Boreas_; or, as a modern poet finely and
faithfully expands it:

               'Beyond those regions cold
  Where dwells the Spirit of the North-Wind,
     Boreas old.'

Homer never manifested himself to be more of a poet than in the creation
of this word. By the way, the Hyperboreans were regarded by the ancients
as an extremely happy and pious people.

How few of those who use that very vague, grandiloquent word 'Ambrosial'
know that it has reference to the 'ambrosia' ([Greek: ambrotos],
_immortal_), the food of the gods! It has, however, a secondary
signification, namely, that of an unguent, or perfume, hence fragrant;
and this is probably the prevailing idea in our 'ambrosial': instance
Milton's 'ambrosial flowers.' It was, like the 'nectar' ([Greek:
nektar], an _elixir vitæ_), considered a veritable elixir of
immortality, and consequently denied to men.

The Immortals, in their golden halls of 'many-topped Olympus,' seem to
have led a merry-enough life of it over their nectar and ambrosia, their
laughter and intrigues.

But not half as jolly were they as were Odin and the Iotun--dead drunk
in Valhalla over their mead and ale, from

        'the ale-cellars of the Iotun,
  Which is called Brimir.'

The daisy (Saxon _Daeges ege_) has often been cited as fragrant with
poesy. It is the _Day's Eye_: we remember Chaucer's affectionate lines:

        'Of all the floures in the mede
  Than love I most those floures of white and rede,
  Such that men called _daisies_ in our toun,
  To them I have so great affection.'

Nor is he alone in his love for the

  _'Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flouer.'_

An odoriferous-enough (etymologic) bouquet could we cull from the names
of Flora's children. What a beauty is there in the 'primrose,' which is
just the _prime_-rose; in the 'Beauty of the Night' and the 'Morning
Glory,' except when a pompous scientific terminology, would convert it
into a _convolvulus_! So, too, the 'Anemone' ([Greek: anemos], the
wind-flower), into which it is fabled Venus changed her Adonis. What a
story of maiden's love does the 'Sweet William' tell; and how many
charming associations cluster around the 'Forget-me-not!' Again, is
there not poetry in calling a certain family of minute crustacea, whose
two eyes meet and form a single round spot in the centre of the head,
'Cyclops'--([Greek: kyklôps], circular-eyed)?

And if any one thinketh that there cannot be poetry even in the dry
technicalities of science, let him take such an expression as 'coral,'
which, in the original Greek, [Greek: koralion], signifies a _sea
damsel_; or the chemical 'cobalt,' 'which,' remarks Webster, 'is said to
be the German _Kobold_, a goblin, the demon of the mines; so called by
miners, because cobalt was troublesome to miners, and at first its value
was not known.' Ah! but these terms were created before _Science_, in
its rigidity, had taught us the _truth_ in regard to these matters. Yes!
and fortunate is it for us that we still have words, and ideas
clustering around these words, that have not yet been chilled and
exanimated by the frigid touch of an empirical knowledge. For

  'Still the heart doth need a language, still
  Doth the old instinct bring back the old names.'

And may benign heaven deliver us from those buckram individuals who
imagine that Nature is as narrow and rigid as their own contracted
selves, and who would seek to array her in their own exquisite
bottle-green bifurcations and a _gilet à la mode_! These characters
always put us in mind of the statues of Louis XIV, in which he is
represented as Jupiter or Hercules, nude, with the exception of the
lion's hide thrown round him--_and the long, flowing peruke_ of the
times! O Jupiter _tonans_! let us have either the lion or the ass--only
let it be _veracious_!

To proceed: 'Auburn' is probably connected with _brennan_, and means
_sun-burned_, analogous, indeed, to 'Ethiopian' ([Greek: Aithiops]),
_one whom the sun has looked upon_.

How seldom do we think, in uttering 'adieu,' that we verily say, I
commend you _à Dieu_--to God; that the lightly-spoken _good-by_ means
_God be wi' you_,[3] or that the (if possible) still more frequent and
_unthinking_ 'thank you,' in reality assures the person addressed--_I
will think often of you_.

'Eld' is a word that has the poetic aroma about it, and is an example
(of which we might adduce additional cases from the domain of 'poetic
diction') of a word set aside from a prose use and devoted exclusively
to poetry. It is, as we know, Saxon, signifying _old_ or _old age_, and
was formerly in constant use in this sense; as, for instance, in
Chaucer's translation of _Boethius de Consolatione Philosophiæ_, we find
thus:

     'At laste no drede ne might overcame tho muses, that thei ne weren
     fellowes, and foloweden my waie, that is to saie, when I was
     exiled, thei that weren of my youth whilom welfull and grene,
     comforten now sorrowfull weirdes of me olde man: for _elde_ is
     comen unwarely upon me, hasted by the harmes that I have, and
     sorowe hath commaunded his age to be in me.'

So in the _Knightes Tale_:

  'As sooth in said _elde_ hath gret avantage;
  In _elde_ is both wisdom and usage:
  Men may the old out-renne but not out-rede.'

Oh! what an overflowing fulness of truth and beauty is there wrapped up
in the core of these articulations that we so heedlessly utter, would we
but make use of the wizard's wand wherewith to evoke them! What an
exhaustless wealth does there lie in even the humblest fruitage and
flowerage of language, and what a fecundity have even dry 'roots'!

'Thinkest thou there were no poets till Dan Chaucer?' asks our great
Thomas; 'no heart burning with a thought, which it could not hold, and
had no word for; and needed to shape and coin a word for--what thou
callest a metaphor, trope, or the like? For every word we have, there
was such a man and poet. The coldest word was once a glowing new
metaphor, and bold questionable originality. 'Thy very ATTENTION, does
it not mean an _attentio_, a STRETCHING-TO?' Fancy that act of the mind
which all were conscious of, which none had yet named--when this new
'poet' first felt bound and driven to name it! His questionable
originality and new glowing metaphor was found adoptible, intelligible;
and remains our name for it to this day.'[4]

This seems to be a pet etymology of Carlyle, as he makes Professor
Teufelsdröckh give it to us also.

Nor less of a poet was that Grecian man who first named this beauteous
world--with its boundless unity in variety--the [Greek: kosmos],[5] the
_order_, the _adornment_. But

  'Alas, for the rarity
  Of Christian charity,'

and

  'Ah! the inanity
  Of frail humanity,'

that first induced some luckless mortal to give to certain mysterious
compounds the appellation of _cosmetics_! But here is an atonement; for
even in our unmythical, unbelieving days, the god 'Terminus' is made to
stand guard over every railway station! Again, how finely did the Roman
call his heroism his 'virtus'--his _vir_tue--his _manliness_. With the
Italians, however, it became quite a different thing; for his 'virtu' is
none other than his love of the fine arts (these being to him the only
subject of _manly_ occupation), a mere _objet de vertu_; and his
_virtuoso_ has no more virtuousness or manliness about him than what
appertains to being skilled in these same fine arts. With us, our
'virtue' is ... well, as soon as we can find out, we will tell you.

By the way, in what a _bathos_ of mystery are most of our terms
expressing the moral relations plunged! Some philosophers have declared
that truth lies at the bottom of a well;--the well in which the truth in
regard to these matters lies would seem to stretch far enough
down--reaching, in fact, almost to the kingdom of the Inane. The
beautiful simplicity of Bible truths has often become so perverted--so
overloaded by the vain works (and _words_) of man's device--as barely to
escape total extinction. Witness 'repentance'; in what a farrago of
endless absurdities and palpable contradictions has this word (and, more
unfortunately still, the thing itself along with it) been enveloped!
According to the 'divines,' what does it not signify? Its composition,
we very well know, gives us _poenitentia_, from _poenitere_, to _be
sorry_, to _regret_--and such is its true and _only_ meaning. 'This
design' (that of the analysis of language in its elementary forms), says
Wilkins, 'will likewise contribute much to the clearing of some of our
modern differences in religion; by unmasking many wild errors, that
shelter themselves under the disguise of affected phrases; which being
philosophically unfolded, and rendered according to the genuine and
natural importance of words, will appear to be inconsistencies and
absurdities.' Nor would he have gone very far astray had he put
_philosophy_ and _politics_ under the same category. Strip the gaudy
dress and trappings from an expression, and it will have a most marked
result. Analysis is a terrible humiliation to your mysticism and your
grandiloquence--and an awful bore to those who depend for effect on
either. We have something to say hereafter on those astonishingly
profound oracles whose only depth is in the terminology they employ. In
the mean time, expect not too much of words. Never, in all our
philologic researches, must we lose sight of the fact that _words are
but the daughters of earth, while things are the sons of heaven_. This
expecting too much of words has been the fruitful source of innumerable
errors. To resume:

Take a dozen words (to prove our generosity, we will let it be a baker's
dozen) illustrative of this same principle of metaphor that governs the
mechanism of language, and sheds a glory and a beauty around even our
every-day fireside words; so that even those that seem hackneyed, worn
out, and apparently tottering with the imbecility of old age--would we
but get into the core of them--will shine forth with all the expressive
meaning of their spring time--with the blush and bloom of poesy--

  'All redolent with youth and flowers,'

and prove their very abusers--poets.

The 'halcyon' days! What a balmy serenity hovers around them--basking in
the sunlight of undisturbed tranquillity. This we feel; but how we
realize it after reading the little _family secret_ that it wraps up!
The [Greek: Halkyôn] (halcyon)--_alcedo hispida_--was the name applied
by the Greeks to the _kingfisher_ (a name commonly derived from [Greek:
hals, kyô], i. e., _sea-conceiving_, from the fact of this bird's being
said to lay her eggs in rocks near the sea); and the [Greek: halkyonides
hêmerai]--_halcyon days_--were those fourteen 'during the calm weather
about the winter solstice,' during which the bird was said to build her
nest and lay her eggs; hence, by an easy transition, perfect quietude in
general.

Those who have felt the bitter, biting effect of 'sarcasm,' will hardly
be disposed to consider it a metaphor even, should we trace it back to
the Greek [Greek: sarkazô]--_to tear off the flesh_ ([Greek: sarx]),
_literally_, to 'flay.' 'Satire,' again, has an arbitrary-enough origin;
it is _satira_, from _satur_, _mixed_; and the application is as
follows: each species of poetry had, among the Romans, its own special
kind of versification; thus the hexameter was used in the epic, the
iambic in the drama, etc. Ennius, however, the earliest Latin
'satirist,' first disregarded these conventionalities, and introduced a
_medley_ (satira) of all kinds of metres. It afterward, however, lost
this idea of a _melange_, and acquired the notion of a poem 'directed
against the vices and failings of men with a view to their correction.'

Perhaps we owe to reviewing the metaphorical applications of such terms
as 'caustic,' 'mordant,' 'piquant,' etc., in their _burning_, _biting_,
and _pricking_ senses.

But 'review,' itself, we are to regard as pure metaphor. Our friend
'Snooks,' at least, found _that_ out; for, instead of _re_-viewing--_i.
e._, viewing again and again his book, they pronounced it to be
decidedly bad without any examination whatever. A 'critic' we all
recognize in his character of _judge_ or _umpire_; but is it that he
always possesses discrimination--has he always _insight_ (for these are
the primary ideas attaching themselves to [Greek: krinô], whence [Greek:
kritikos] comes)--does he divide between the merely arbitrary and
incidental, and see into the absolute and eternal Art-Soul that vivifies
a poem or a picture? If so, then is he a critic indeed.

How perfectly do 'invidiousness' and 'envy'[6] express the _looking over
against_ (_in-video_)--the _askance gaze_--the natural development of
that painful mental state which poor humanity is so subject to! So with
'obstinacy' (_ob-sto_), which, by the way, the phrenologists represent,
literally enough, by an ass in a position which assuredly Webster had in
his mind when he wrote his definition of this word; thus: ... '_in a
fixedness in opinion or resolution that cannot be shaken at all, or
without great difficulty_.'

Speaking of this reminds us of those very capital 'Illustrations of
Phrenology,' by Cruikshank, with which we all are familiar, and where,
for example, '_veneration_ is exemplified by a stout old gentleman, with
an ample paunch, gazing with admiring eyes and uplifted hands on the fat
side of an ox fed by Mr. Heavyside, and exhibited at the stall of a
butcher. In this way a Jew old-clothes man, holding his hand on his
breast with the utmost earnestness, while in the other he offers a coin
for a pair of slippers, two pairs of boots, three hats, and a large
bundle of clothes, to an old woman, who, evidently astonished all over,
exclaims, 'A shilling!' is an illustration of _conscientiousness_. A
dialogue of two fishwomen at Billingsgate illustrates _language_, and a
riot at Donnybrook Fair explains the phrenological doctrine of
_combativeness_.'

But peace to the 'bumps,' and pass we on. Could anything be more
completely metaphorical than such expressions as 'egregious' and
'fanatic?' 'Egregious' is chosen, _e-grex_--_out of the flock_, i. e.,
the best sheep, etc., selected from the rest, and set aside for sacred
purposes; hence, _distingué_. This word, though occupying at present
comparatively neutral ground, seems fast merging toward its worst
application. Can it be that an 'egregious' _rogue_ is an article of so
much more frequent occurrence than an 'egregiously' _honest_ man, that
incongruity seems to subsist between the latter? 'Fanatic,' again, is
just the Roman '_fanaticus_,' one addicted to the _fana_,[7] the temples
in which the 'fanatici' or fanatics were wont to spend an extraordinary
portion of their time. But besides this, their religious fervor used to
impel them to many extravagances, such as cutting themselves with
knives, etc., and hence an 'ultraist' (one who goes _beyond_ (ultra) the
notions of other people) in any sense. Whereupon it might be remarked
that though

  'Coelum, non animum, mutant qui trans mare currunt,'

may, in certain applications, be true, it is surely not so in the case
of a good many words. Thus this very instance, 'fanatic,' which, among
the Romans, implied one who had an _extra share of devotion_, is, among
us--the better informed on this head--by a very curious and very
unfathomable figure (disfigure?) of speech or logic, applied to one who
has a peculiar _penchant_ for human liberty!

  'In the most high and _palmy_ state of Rome,
  A little ere the mighty Julius fell,
  The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead
  Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets.'

We do not quote this for the sake of the making-the-hair-to-stand-on-end
tendencies of the last two lines, but through the voluptuous quiescence
of the first,

  'In the most high and palmy state of Rome,'

to introduce the beautifully metaphorical expression, 'palmy.' It will,
of course, be immediately recognized as being from the 'palm' tree; that
is to say, _palm-abounding_. And what visions of orient splendor does it
bear with it, wafting on its wings the very aroma of the isles of the
blest--[Greek: makarôn nêsoi]--or

  'Where the gorgeous East, with richest hand,
  Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold!'

It bears us away with it, and we stand on that sun-kissed land

  'Whose rivers wander over sands of gold,'

with a houri lurking in every 'bosky bourne,' and the beauteous palm,
waving its umbrageous head, at once food, shade, and shelter.

The palm being to the Oriental of such passing price, we can easily
imagine how he would so enhance its value as to make it the type of
everything that is prosperous and glorious and 'palmy,' the _beau-ideal_
of everything that is flourishing. Hear what Sir Walter Raleigh says on
this subject: 'Nothing better proveth the excellency of this soil than
the abundant growing of the _palm trees_ without labor of man. _This
tree alone giveth unto man whatsoever his life beggeth at nature's
hand._'

'Paradise,' too, is oriental in all its associations. It is [Greek:
paradeisos],[8] that is, a _park_ or _pleasure ground_, in which sense
it is constantly employed by Xenophon, as every weary youth who has
_parasanged_ it with him knows. By the LXX it was used in a metaphorical
sense for the garden of Eden:

          'The glories we have known,
  And that imperial palace whence we came;'

but a still loftier meaning did it acquire when the Christ employed it
as descriptive of the splendors of the 'better land'--of the glories and
beauties of the land Beulah.

But, look out, fellow strollers, for we are off in a tangent!

What a curiously humble origin has 'literature,' contrasted with the
magnitude of its present import. It is just 'litteral'--_letters_ in
their most primitive sense; and [Greek: grammata] is nought other. Nor
can even all the pomposity of the 'belles-lettres' carry us any farther
than the very fine 'letters' or _litteral_; while even Solomon So-so may
take courage when he reflects (provided Solomon be ever guilty of
reflecting) that the 'literati' have 'literally' nothing more profound
about them than the knowledge of their 'letters.' The Latins were
prolific in words of this kind; thus they had the _literatus_ and the
_literator_--making some such discrimination between them as we do
between 'philosopher' and 'philosophe.'

'Unlettered,' to be sure, is one who is unacquainted even with his
'letters;' but what is 'erudite?' It is merely E, _out of_, a RUDIS,
_rude_, _chaotic_, _ignorant_ state of things; and thus in itself
asserts nothing very tremendous, and makes no very prodigious
pretensions. Surely these words had their origin at an epoch when
'letters' stood higher in the scale of estimation than they do now; when
he who knew them possessed a spell that rendered him a potent character
among the 'unlettered.'

A 'spell' did we say? Perhaps that is not altogether fanciful; for
'spell' itself in the Saxon primarily imports a _word_; and we know that
the runes or Runic letters were long employed in this way. For instance,
Mr. Turner thus informs us ('History of the Anglo-Saxons,' vol. i, p.
169): 'It was the invariable policy of the Roman ecclesiastics to
discourage the use of the Runic characters, because they were of pagan
origin, and had been much connected with idolatrous superstitions.' And
if any one be incredulous, let him read this from Sir Thomas Brown:
'Some have delivered the polity of spirits, that they stand in awe of
charms, _spells_, and conjurations; _letters_, characters, notes, and
dashes.' And have not the [Greek: Alpha] and [Greek: Ômega] something
mystic and cabalistic about them even to us?

While on this, let us note that 'spell' gives us the beautiful and
cheering expression 'gospel,' which is precisely _God's-spell_--the
'evangile,' the good God's-news!

To resume:

'Graphical' ([Greek: graphô]) is just what is well
delineated--_literally_, 'well written,' or, as our common expression
corroboratively has it, _like a book_!

'Style' and 'stiletto' would, from their significations, appear to be
radically very different words; and yet they are something more akin
than even cousins-german. 'Style' is known to be from the [Greek:
stylos], or _stylus_, which the Greeks and Romans employed in writing on
their waxen tablets; and, as they were both sharp and strong, they
became in the hands of scholars quite formidable instruments when used
against their schoolmasters. Afterward they came to be employed in all
the bloody relations and uses to which a 'bare bodkin' can be put, and
hence our acceptation of 'stiletto.' Cæsar himself, it is supposed, got
his 'quietus' by means of a 'stylus;' nor is he the first or last
character whose 'style' has been his (_literary_, if not _literal_)
damnation.

'Volume,' too, how perfectly metaphorical is it in its present
reception! It is originally just a _volumen_, that is, a 'roll' of
parchment, papyrus, or whatever else the 'book' (i. e., the _bark_--the
'liber') might be composed of. Nor can we regard as aught other such
terms as 'leaf' or 'folio,' which is also 'leaf.' 'Stave,' too, is
suggestive of the _staff_ on which the runes were wont to be cut.
Indeed, old almanacs are sometimes to be met with consisting of these
long sticks or 'staves,' on which the days and months are represented by
the Runic letters.

'Charm,' 'enchant,' and 'incantation' all owe their origin to the time
when spells were in vogue. 'Charm' is just _carmen_, from the fact that
'a kind of Runic rhyme' was employed in _diablerie_ of this sort; so
'enchant' and 'incantation' are but a _singing to_--a true 'siren's
song;' while 'fascination' took its rise when the mystic terrors of the
_evil eye_ threw its withering blight over many a heart.

We are all familiar with the old fable of _The Town Mouse and the
Country Mouse_. We will vouch that the following read us as luminous a
comment thereon as may be desired: 'Polite,' 'urbane,' 'civil,'
'rustic,' 'villain,' 'savage,' 'pagan,' 'heathen.' Let us seek the
moral:

'Polite,' 'urbane,' and 'civil' we of course recognize as being
respectively from [Greek: polis], _urbs_, and _civis_, each denoting the
city or town--_la grande ville_. 'Polite' is _city-like_; while
'urbanity' and 'civility' carry nothing deeper with them than the
graces and the attentions that belong to the punctilious town. 'Rustic'
we note as implying nothing more uncultivated than a 'peasant,' which is
just _pays_-an, or, as we also say, a 'countryman.' 'Savage,' too, or,
as we ought to write it, _salvage_,[9] is nothing more grim or terrible
than one who dwells _in sylvis_, in the woods--a meaning we can
appreciate from our still comparatively pure application of the
adjective _sylvan_. A 'backwoodsman' is therefore the very best original
type of a _savage_! 'Savage' seems to be hesitating between its civil
and its ethical applications; 'villain,' 'pagan,' and 'heathen,'
however, have become quite absorbed in their moral sense--and this by a
contortion that would seem strange enough were we not constantly
accustomed to such transgressions. For we need not to be informed that
'villain' primarily and properly implies simply one who inhabits a ville
or _village_. In Chaucer, for example, we see it without at least any
moral signification attached thereto:

  'But firste I praie you of your curtesie
  That ye ne arette it not my _vilanie_.'

  _Prologue to the Canterbury Tales._

So a 'pagan,' or _paganus_, is but a dweller in a _pagus_, or village;
precisely equivalent to the Greek [Greek: kômêtês], with no other idea
whatever attached thereto; while 'heathen' imported those who lived on
the _heaths_ or in the country, consequently far away from
_civilization_ or _town-like-ness_.

From all of which expressions we may learn the mere conventionality and
the utter arbitrariness of even our most important ethical terms. How
prodigiously _cheap_ is the application of any such epithets,
considering the terrible abuse they have undergone! And how poor is that
philosophy that can concentrate 'politeness' and 'civility' in the
frippery and heartlessness of mere external city-forms; and convert the
man who dwells in the woods or in the village into a _savage_ or a
_villain_! How fearful a lack do these numerous words and their so
prolific analogues manifest of acknowledgment of that glorious principle
which Burns has with fire-words given utterance to--and to which, would
we preserve the dignity of manhood, we must hold on--

  'A man's a man for a' that!'

Ah! it is veritably enough to make us atrabiliar! Here we see words in
their weaknesses and their meannesses, as elsewhere in their glory and
beauty. And not so much _their_ meanness and weakness, as that of those
who have distorted these innocent servants of truth to become tools of
falsehood and the abject instruments of the extinction of all honesty
and nobleness.

The word 'health' wraps up in it--for, indeed, it is hardly
metaphorical--a whole world of thought and suggestion. It is that which
_healeth_ or maketh one to be _whole_, or, as the Scotch say, _hale_;
which _whole_ or _hale_ (for they are one word) may imply entireness or
unity; that is to say, perfect 'health' is that state of the system in
which there is no disorganization--no division of interest--but when it
is recognized as a perfect _one_ or whole; or, in other words, not
recognized at all. And this meaning is confirmed by our analogue
_sanity_, which, from _sanus_, and allied to [Greek: saos], has
underneath it a similar basis.

Every student of Carlyle will remember the very telling use to which he
puts the idea contained in this word--speaking of the manifold relations
of physical, psychal, and social health. Reference is made to his
employment of it in the 'Characteristics'--itself one of the most
authentic and veracious pieces of philosophy that it has been our lot to
meet with for a long time; yet wherein he proves the impossibility of
any, and the uselessness of all philosophies. Listen while he
discourses thereon: 'So long as the several elements of life, all fitly
adjusted, can pour forth their movement like harmonious tuned strings,
it is melody and unison: life, from its mysterious fountains, flows out
as in celestial music and diapason--which, also, like that other music
of the spheres, even because it is perennial and complete, without
interruption and without imperfection, might be fabled to escape the
ear. Thus, too, in some languages, is the state of health well denoted
by a term expressing unity; when we feel ourselves as we wish to be, we
say that we are _whole_.'

But our psychal and social wholeness or health, as well as our physical,
is yet, it would appear, in the future, in the good time _coming_--

          'When man to man
  Shall brothers be and a' that!'

Even that, however, is encouraging--that it is _in prospectu_. For we
know that _right before us_ lies this great promised land--this
_Future_, teeming with all the donations of infinite time, and bursting
with blessings. And for us, too, there are in waiting [Greek: makarôn
nêsoi], or Islands of the Blest, where all heroic doers and all heroic
sufferers shall enjoy rest forever!

In conclusion, take the benediction of serene old Miguel de Cervantes
Saavedra, in his preface to 'Don Quixote' (could we possibly have a
better?): 'And so God give you _health_, not forgetting me. Farewell!'

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: This alliance may be fanciful (though we observe some of
the best German lexicographers have it so); a better origin might,
perhaps, be found in the Sanscrit _mri_, etc.]

[Footnote 2: 'Les Orientals,' par VICTOR HUGO. _Le Feu du ciel._]

[Footnote 3: The 'by' may, however, have the force of going or passing,
equivalent to 'fare' in 'farewell,' or 'welfare,' _i. e._, may you have
a good passage or journey.]

[Footnote 4: 'Past and Present,' pp. 128, 129.]

[Footnote 5: Compare with this the Latin _mundus_, which is exactly
analogous in signification.]

[Footnote 6: En-voir.]

[Footnote 7: Perhaps nothing could better prove how profoundly
_religious_ were the Latins than a word compounded of the above; namely
'profane.' A 'fanatic' was one who devoted himself to the _fanum_ or
temple--'profane' is an object devoted to _anything else
'pro'_--_instead of_--the '_fanum_,' or fane.]

[Footnote 8: The word is more properly oriental than Greek, _e. g._,
Hebrew, _pardes_, and Sanscrit, _paradêsa_.]

[Footnote 9: See the Italian _setvaggio_ and the Spanish _salvage_, in
which a more approximate orthography has been retained.]




THE CHECH.

"Chcés li tajnou véc aneb pravdu vyzvédéti, blazen, dité, opily
clovék o tom umeji povedeti."

  "Wouldst thou know a truth or mystery,
  A drunkard, fool, or child may tell it thee."

  _Bohemian Proverb._


  And now I'll wrap my blanket o'er me,
    And on the tavern floor I'll lie;
  A double spirit-flask before me,
    And watch the pipe clouds melting die.

  They melt and die--but ever darken,
    As night comes on and hides the day;
  Till all is black;--then, brothers, hearken!
    And if ye can, write down my lay!

  In yon black loaf my knife is gleaming,
    Like one long sail above the boat;--
  --As once at Pesth I saw it beaming,
    Half through a curst Croatian throat.

  Now faster, faster whirls the ceiling,
    And wilder, wilder turns my brain;
  And still I'll drink--till, past all feeling,
    The soul leaps forth to light again.

  Whence come these white girls wreathing round me?
    Baruska!--long I thought thee dead!
  Kacenka!--when these arms last bound thee,
    Thou laidst by Rajhrad cold as lead!

  Now faster, faster whirls the ceiling,
    And wilder, wilder turns my brain;
  And from afar a star comes stealing,
    Straight at me o'er the death-black plain.

  Alas!--I sink--my spirits miss me,
    I swim, I shoot from sky to shore!
  Klarà! thou golden sister--kiss me!
    I rise--I'm safe--I'm strong once more.

  And faster, faster whirls the ceiling,
    And wilder, wilder turns my brain;
  The star!--it strikes my soul, revealing
    All life and light to me again.

         *       *       *       *       *

  Against the waves fresh waves are dashing,
    Above the breeze fresh breezes blow;
  Through seas of light new light is flashing,
    And with them all I float and flow.

  But round me rings of fire are gleaming:
    Pale rings of fire--wild eyes of death!
  Why haunt me thus awake or dreaming?
    Methought I left ye with my breath.

  Aye glare and stare with life increasing,
    And leech-like eyebrows arching in;
  Be, if ye must, my fate unceasing,
    But never hope a fear to win.

  He who knows all may haunt the haunting,
    He who fears nought hath conquered fate;
  Who bears in silence quells the daunting,
    And sees his spoiler desolate.

  Oh wondrous eyes of star-like lustre,
    How ye have changed to guardian love!
  Alas!--where stars in myriads cluster
    Ye vanish in the heaven above.

       *       *       *       *       *

  I hear two bells so softly singing:
    How sweet their silver voices roll!
  The one on yonder hill is ringing,
    The other peals within my soul.

  I hear two maidens gently talking,
    Bohemian maidens fair to see;
  The one on yonder hill is walking,
    The other maiden--where is she?

  Where is she?--when the moonlight glistens
    O'er silent lake or murm'ring stream,
  I hear her call my soul which listens:
    'Oh! wake no more--come, love, and dream!'

  She came to earth-earth's loveliest creature;
    She died--and then was born once more;
  Changed was her race, and changed each feature,
    But oh! I loved her as before.

  We live--but still, when night has bound us
    In golden dreams too sweet to last,
  A wondrous light-blue world around us,
    She comes, the loved one of the Past.

  I know not which I love the dearest,
    For both my loves are still the same;
  The living to my heart is nearest,
    The dead love feeds the living flame.

  And when the moon, its rose-wine quaffing
    Which flows across the Eastern deep,
  Awakes us, Klarà chides me laughing,
    And says, 'We love too well in sleep!'

  And though no more a Vojvod's daughter,
    As when she lived on Earth before,
  The love is still the same which sought her,
    And she is true--what would you more?

         *       *       *       *       *

  Bright moonbeams on the sea are playing,
    And starlight shines o'er vale and hill;
  I should be gone--yet still delaying,
    By thy loved side I linger still!

  My gold is gone--my hopes have perished,
    And nought remains save love for thee!
  E'en that must fade, though once so cherished:
    Farewell!--and think no more of me!

  'Though gold be gone and hope departed,
    And nought remain save love for me,
  Thou ne'er shalt leave me broken-hearted,
    For I will share my life with thee!

  'Thou deem'st me but a wanton maiden,
    The plaything of thy idle hours;
  But laughing streams with gold are laden,
    And sweets are hidden 'neath the flowers.

  'E'en outcasts may have heart and feeling,
    E'en such as I be fond and true;
  And love, like light, in dungeons stealing,
    Though bars be there, will still burst through.'




PICTURES FROM THE NORTH.


It is worth while to live in the city, that we may learn to love the
country; and it is not bad for many, that artificial life binds them
with bonds of silk or lace or rags or cobwebs, since, when they are rent
away, the Real gleams out in a beauty and with a zest which had not been
save for contrast.

Contrast is the salt of the beautiful. I wonder that the ancients, who
came so near it in so many ways, never made a goddess of Contrast. They
had something like it in ever-varying Future--something like it in
double-faced Janus, who was their real 'Angel of the Odd.' Perhaps it is
my ignorance which is at fault--if so, I pray you correct me. The subtle
Neo-Platonists _must_ have apotheosized such a savor to all æsthetic
bliss. Mostly do I feel its charm when there come before me pictures
true to life of far lands and lives, of valley and river, sea and shore.
Then I forget the narrow office and the shop-lined street, the rattling
cars and hurried hotel-lodgment, and think what it would be if nature,
in all her freshness and never-ending contrasts, could be my
ever-present.

I thought this yesterday, in glancing over an old manuscript in my
drawer, containing translations, by some hand to me unknown, of sketches
of Sweden by the fairy-story teller Hans Christian Andersen. Reader,
will they strike you as pleasantly as they did me? I know not. Let us
glance them over. They have at least the full flavor of the North, of
the healthy land of frost and pines, of fragrant birch and of sweeter
meadow-grass, and simpler, holier flowers than the rich South ever
showed, even in her simplest moods.

The first of these sketches sweeps us at once far away over the
Northland:

     'WE JOURNEY.

     'It is spring, fragrant spring, the birds are singing. You do not
     understand their song? Then hear it in free translation:

     ''Seat thyself upon my back!' said the stork, the holy bird of our
     green island. 'I will carry thee over the waves of the Sound.
     Sweden also has its fresh, fragrant beechwoods, green meadows, and
     fields of waving corn; in Schoonen, under the blooming apple trees
     behind the peasant's house, thou wilt imagine thyself still in
     Denmark!'

     ''Fly with me,' said the swallow. 'I fly over Hal-land's mountain
     ridges, where the beeches cease. I soar farther toward the north
     than the stork. I will show you where the arable land retires
     before rocky valleys. You shall see friendly towns, old churches,
     solitary court yards, within which it is cosy and pleasant to
     dwell, where the family stands in circle around the table with the
     smoking platters, and asks a blessing through the mouth of the
     youngest child, and morning and evening sings a holy song. I have
     heard it, I have seen it, when I was yet small, from my nest under
     the roof.'

     ''Come! come!' cried the unsteady seagull, impatiently waiting, and
     ever flying round in a circle. 'Follow me into the Scheeren, where
     thousands of rocky islands, covered with pines and firs, lie along
     the coasts like flower beds; where the fisherman draws full nets!'

     ''Let yourself down between our outspread wings!' sing the wild
     swans. 'We will bear you to the great seas, to the ever-roaring,
     arrow-quick mountain streams, where the oak does not thrive and the
     birches are stunted; let yourself down between our outspread
     wings,--we soar high over Sulitelma, the eye of the island, as the
     mountain is called; we fly from the spring-green valley, over the
     snow waves, up to the summit of the mountain, whence you may catch
     a glimpse of the North Sea, beyond Norway. We fly toward Jamtland,
     with its high blue mountains, where the waterfalls roar, where the
     signal fires flame up as signs from coast to coast that they are
     waiting for the ferry boat--up to the deep, cold, hurrying floods,
     which do not see the sun set in midsummer, where twilight is dawn!'

     'So sing the birds! Shall we hearken to their song--follow them, at
     least a short way? We do not seat ourselves upon the wings of the
     swan, nor upon the back of the stork; we stride forward with steam
     and horses, sometimes upon our own feet, and glance, at the same
     time, now and then, from the actual, over the hedge into the
     kingdom of fancy, that is always our near neighborland, and pluck
     flowers or leaves, which shall be placed together in the memorandum
     book--they bud indeed on the flight of the journey. We fly, and we
     sing: Sweden, thou glorious land! Sweden, whither holy gods came in
     remote antiquity from the mountains of Asia; thou land that art yet
     illumined by their glitter! It streams out of the flowers, with the
     name of Linnæus; it beams before thy knightly people from the
     banner of Charles the Twelfth, it sounds out of the memorial stone
     erected upon the field at Lutzen. Sweden! thou land of deep
     feeling, of inward songs, home of the clear streams, where wild
     swans sing in the northern light's glimmer! thou land, upon whose
     deep, still seas the fairies of the North build their colonnades
     and lead their struggling spirit-hosts over the ice mirror.
     Glorious Sweden, with the perfume-breathing Linea, with Jenny's
     soulful songs! To thee will we fly with the stork and the swallow,
     with the unsteady seagull and the wild swan. Thy birchwood throws
     out its perfume so refreshing and animating, under its hanging,
     earnest boughs--on its white trunk shall the harp hang. Let the
     summer wind of the North glide murmuring over its strings.'

There is true fatherland's love there. I doubt if there was ever yet
_real_ patriotism in a hot climate--the North is the only home of
unselfish and great union. Italy owes it to the cool breezes of her
Apennines that she cherishes unity; had it not been for her northern
mountains in a southern clime, she would have long ago forgotten to
think of _one_ country. But while the Alps are her backbone, she will
always be at least a vertebrate among nations, and one of the higher
order. Without the Alps she would soon be eaten up by the cancer of
states' rights. It is the North, too, which will supply the great
uniting power of America, and keep alive a love for the great national
name.

Very different is the rest--and yet it has too the domestic home-tone of
the North. In Sweden, in Germany, in America, in England, the family tie
is somewhat other than in the East or in any warm country. With us, old
age is not so ever-neglected and little honored as in softer climes.
Thank the fireside for that. The hearth, and the stove, and the long,
cold months which keep the grandsire and granddame in the easy chair by
the warm corner, make a home centre, where the children linger as long
as they may for stories, and where love lingers, kept alive by many a
cheerful, not to be easily told tie. And it lives--this love--lives in
the heart of the man after he has gone forth to business or to battle:
he will not tell you of it, but he remembers grandmother and
grandfather, as he saw them a boy--the centre of the group, which will
never form again save in heaven.

Let us turn to

     'THE GRANDMOTHER.

     'Grandmother is very old, has many wrinkles, and perfectly white
     hair; but her eyes gleam like two stars, yes, much more beautiful;
     they are so mild, it does one good to look into them! And then she
     knows how to relate the most beautiful stories. And she has a dress
     embroidered with great, great flowers; it is such a heavy silk
     stuff that it rattles. Grandmother knows a great deal, because she
     has lived much longer than father and mother; that is certain!
     Grandmother has a hymn book with strong silver clasps, and she
     reads very often in the book. In the midst of it lies a rose,
     pressed and dry; it is not so beautiful as the rose which stands in
     the glass, but yet she smiles upon it in the most friendly way;
     indeed, it brings the tears to her eyes! Why does grandmother look
     so at the faded flower in the old book? Do you know? Every time
     that grandmother's tears fall upon the flower, the colors become
     fresh again, the rose swells up and fills the whole room with its
     fragrance, the walls disappear, as if they were only mist, and
     round about her is the green, glorious wood, where the sun beams
     through the leaves of the trees; and grandmother is young again; a
     charming maiden, with full red cheeks, beautiful and innocent--no
     rose is fresher; but the eyes, the mild, blessing eyes, still
     belong to grandmother. At her side sits a young man, large and
     powerful: he reaches her the rose, and she smiles--grandmother does
     not smile so now! oh yes, look now!----But he has vanished: many
     thoughts, many forms sweep past--the beautiful young man is gone,
     the rose lies in the hymn book, and grandmother sits there again as
     an old woman, and looks upon the faded rose which lies in the book.

     'Now grandmother is dead. She sat in the armchair and related a
     long, beautiful story; she said, 'Now the story is finished, and I
     am tired;' and she leaned her head back, in order to sleep a
     little. We could hear her breathing--she slept; but it became
     stiller and stiller, her face was full of happiness and peace, it
     was as if a sunbeam illumined her features; she smiled again, and
     then the people said, 'She is dead.' She was placed in a black box;
     there she lay covered with white linen; she was very beautiful, and
     yet her eyes were closed, but every wrinkle had vanished; she lay
     there with a smile about her mouth; her hair was silver white,
     venerable, but it did not frighten one to look upon the corpse, for
     it was indeed the dear, kind-hearted grandmother. The hymn book was
     placed under her head--this she had herself desired; the rose lay
     in the old book; and then they buried grandmother.

     Upon the grave, close by the church wall, a rose tree was planted;
     it was full of roses, and the nightingale flew singing over the
     flowers and the grave. Within the church, there resounded from the
     organ the most beautiful hymns, which were in the old book under
     the head of the dead one. The moon shone down upon the grave, but
     the dead was not there; each child could go there quietly by night
     and pluck a rose from the peaceful courtyard wall. The dead know
     more than all of us living ones; they are better than we. The earth
     is heaped up over the coffin, even within the coffin there is
     earth; the leaves of the hymn book are dust, and the rose, with all
     its memories. But above bloom fresh roses; above, the nightingale
     sings, and the organ tones forth; above, the memory of the old
     grandmother lives, with her mild, ever young eyes. Eyes can never
     die. Ours will one day see the grandmother again, young and
     blooming as when she for the first time kissed the fresh red rose,
     which is now dust in the grave.'

     'THE CELL PRISON.

     'By separation from other men, by loneliness, in continual silence
     shall the criminal be punished and benefited; on this account cell
     prisons are built. In Sweden there are many such, and new ones are
     building. I visited for the first time one in Marienstadt. The
     building lies in a beautiful landscape, close by the town, on a
     small stream of water, like a great villa, white and smiling, with
     window upon window. But one soon discovers that the stillness of
     the grave rests over the place; it seems as if no one dwelt here,
     or as if it were a dwelling forsaken during the plague. The gates
     of these walls are locked; but one opened and the jailor received
     us, with his bundle of keys in his hand. The court is empty and
     clean; even the grass between the paving stones is weeded out. We
     entered the 'reception room,' to which the prisoner is first taken;
     then the bath room, whither he is carried next. We ascend a flight
     of stairs, and find ourselves in a large hall, built the whole
     length and height of the building. Several galleries, one over
     another in the different stories, extend round the whole hall, and
     in the midst of the hall is the chancel, from which, on Sundays,
     the preacher delivers his sermon before an invisible audience. All
     the doors of the cells, which lead upon the galleries, are half
     opened, the prisoners hear the preacher, but they cannot see him,
     nor he them. The whole is a well-built machine for a pressure of
     the spirit. In the door of each cell there is a glass of the size
     of an eye; a valve covers it on the outside, and through this may
     the warden, unnoticed by the prisoners, observe all which is going
     on within; but he must move with soft step, noiselessly, for the
     hearing of the prisoner is wonderfully sharpened by solitude. I
     removed the valve from the glass very softly, and looked into the
     closed room--for a moment the glance of the prisoner met my eye. It
     is airy, pure, and clean within, but the window is so high that it
     is impossible to look out. The whole furniture consists of a high
     bench, made fast to a kind of table, a berth, which can be fastened
     with hooks to the ceiling, and around which there is a curtain.
     Several cells were opened to us. In one there was a young, very
     pretty maiden; she had lain down in her berth, but sprang out when
     the door was opened, and her first movement disturbed the berth,
     which it unclasped and rolled together. Upon the little table stood
     the water cask, and near it lay the remains of hard black bread,
     farther off the Bible, and a few spiritual songs. In another cell
     sat an infanticide; I saw her only through the small glass of the
     door, she had heard our steps, and our talking, but she sat still,
     cowered together in the corner by the door, as if she wished to
     conceal herself as much as she could; her back was bent, her head
     sunk almost into her lap, and over it her hands were folded. The
     unhappy one is very young, said they. In two different cells sat
     two brothers; they were paying the penalty of horse-stealing; one
     was yet a boy. In one cell sat a poor servant girl; they said she
     had no relations, and was poor, and they placed her here. I thought
     that I had misunderstood, repeated my question, Why is the maiden
     here? and received the same answer. Yet still I prefer to believe
     that I have misunderstood the remark. Without, in the clear, free
     sunlight, is the busy rush of day; here within the stillness of
     midnight always reigns. The spider, which spins along the wall, the
     swallow, which rarely flies near the vaulted window there above,
     even the tread of the stranger in the gallery, close by the door,
     is an occurrence in this mute, solitary life, where the mind of the
     prisoner revolves ever upon himself. One should read of the martyr
     cells of the holy inquisition, of the unfortunates of the Bagnio
     chained to each other, of the hot leaden chambers, and the dark wet
     abyss of the pit of Venice, and shudder over those pictures, in
     order to wander through the galleries of the cell prison with a
     calmer heart; here is light, here is air, here it is more human.
     Here, where the sunbeam throws in upon the prisoner its mild light,
     here will an illuminating beam from God Himself sink into the
     heart.'

Last we have

     'SALA.

     'Sweden's great king, Germany's deliverer, Gustavus Adolphus,
     caused Sala to be built. The small enclosed wood in the vicinity of
     the little town relates to us yet traditions of the youthful love
     of the hero king, of his rendezvous with Ebba Brahe. The silver
     shafts at Sala are the largest, the deepest and oldest in Sweden;
     they reach down a hundred and seventy fathoms, almost as deep as
     the Baltic. This is sufficient to awaken an interest in the little
     town; how does it look now? 'Sala,' says the guide book, 'lies in a
     valley, in a flat, and not very agreeable region.' And so it is
     truly; in that direction was nothing beautiful, and the highway led
     directly into the town, which has no character. It consists of a
     single long street with a knot and a pair of ends: the knot is the
     market; at the ends are two lanes which are attached to it. The
     long street--it may be called long in such a short town--was
     entirely empty. No one came out of the doors, no one looked out of
     the windows. It was with no small joy that I saw a man, at last, in
     a shop, in whose window hung a paper of pins, a red handkerchief,
     and two tea cans, a solitary, sedate apprentice, who leaned over
     the counter and looked out through the open house door. He
     certainly wrote that evening in his journal, if he kept one;
     'To-day a traveller went through the town; the dear God may know
     him, I do not!' The apprentice's face appeared to me to say all
     that, and he had an honest face.

     'In the tavern in which I entered, the same deathlike stillness
     reigned as upon the street. The door was indeed closed, but in the
     interior of the house all the doors stood wide open; the house cock
     stood in the midst of the sitting room, and crowed in order to give
     information that there was some one in the house. As to the rest,
     the house was entirely picturesque; it had an open balcony looking
     out upon the court--upon the street would have been too lively. The
     old sign hung over the door and creaked in the wind; it sounded as
     if it were alive. I saw it from my window; I saw also how the grass
     had overgrown the pavement of the street. The sun shone clear, but
     as it shines in the sitting room of the solitary old bachelor and
     upon the balsam in the pot of the old maid, it was still as on a
     Scottish Sunday, and it was Tuesday! I felt myself drawn to study
     Young's 'Night Thoughts.'

     'I looked down from the balcony into the neighbor's court; no
     living being was to be seen, but children had played there; they
     had built a little garden out of perfectly dry twigs; these had
     been stuck into the soft earth and watered; the potsherd, which
     served as watering pot, lay there still; the twigs represented
     roses and geranium. It had been a splendid garden--ah yes! We
     great, grown-up men play just so, build us a garden with love's
     roses and friendship's geranium, we water it with our tears and our
     heart's blood--and yet they are and remain dry twigs without roots.
     That was a gloomy thought--I felt it, and in order to transform the
     dry twigs into a blossoming Aaron's-staff, I went out. I went out
     into the ends and into the long thread, that is to say, into the
     little lanes and into the great street, and here was more life, as
     I might have expected; a herd of cows met me, who were coming home,
     or going away, I know not--they had no leader. The apprentice was
     still standing behind the counter; he bowed over it and greeted;
     the stranger took off his hat in return; these were the events of
     this day in Sala. Pardon me, thou still town, which Gustavus
     Adolphus built, where his young heart glowed in its first love, and
     where the silver rests in the deep shafts without the town, in a
     flat and not very pleasant country. I knew no one in this town, no
     one conducted me about, and so I went with the cows, and reached
     the graveyard; the cows went on, I climbed over the fence, and
     found myself between the graves, where the green grass grew, and
     nearly all the tombstones lay with inscriptions blotted out; only
     here and there, 'Anno' was still legible--what further? And who
     rests here? Everything on the stone was effaced, as the earth life
     of the one who was now earth within the earth. What drama have ye
     dead ones played here in the still Sala? The setting sun threw its
     beams over the graves, no leaf stirred on the tree; all was still,
     deathly still, in the town of the silver mines, which for the
     remembrance of the traveller is only a frame about the apprentice,
     who bowed greeting over the counter.'

Silence, stillness, quiet, solitude, loneliness, far-away-ness; hushed,
calm, remote, out of the world, un-newspapered, operaless,
un-gossipped--was there ever a sketch which carried one so far from the
world as this of 'Sala'? That _one_ shopboy--those going or coming
cows--the tombs, with wornout dates, every point of time vanishing--a
living grave!

Contrast again, dear reader. Verily she is a goddess--and I adore her.
Lo! she brings me back again in Sala to the busy streets of this city,
and the office, and the 'exchanges,' and the rustling, bustling world,
and the hotel dinner--to be in time for which I am even now writing
against time--and I am thankful for it all. Sala has cured me. That
picture drives away longings. Verily, he who lives in America, and in
its great roaring current of events, needs but a glance at Sala to feel
that _here_ he is on a darting stream ever hurrying more gloriously into
the world and away from the dull inanity--which the merest sibilant of
aggravation will change to insanity.

Reader, our Andersen is an artist--as most children know. But I am glad
that he seldom gives us anything which is so _very_ much of a monochrome
as Sala.

I wonder if Sala was the native and surnaming town of that _other_ Sala
whose initials are G. A. S., and whose nature is 'ditto'? Did its
dulness drive him to liveliness, even as an 'orthodox' training is said
to drive youth to dissipation? It may be so. The one hath a deep mine of
silver--the other contains inexhaustible mines of brass--and the name of
the one as of the other, when read in Hebrew-wise gives us 'alas!'

But I am wandering from the Northern pictures and fresh nature, and must
close.




THE NEW RASSELAS.


... And Joseph, opening the drawing room, told me the postchaise was
ready. My mother and my sister threw themselves into my arms.

'It is still time,' said they, 'to abandon this scheme. Stay with us.'

'Mother, I am of noble birth, I am now twenty, I must have a name, I
must be talked about in the country, I must be getting a position in the
army or at court.'

'Oh! but, Bernard, when you have gone, what will become of me?'

'You will be happy and proud when you hear of your son's success.'

'But if you are killed in some battle?'

'What of that! What's life? Who thinks about being killed? When one is
twenty, and of noble lineage, he thinks of nothing but glory. And,
mother, in a few years you shall see me return to your side a colonel,
or a general, or with some rich office at Versailles.'

'Well, and what then?'

'Why, then I shall be respected and considered about here.'

'And then?'

'Why, everybody will take off their hat to me.'

'And then?'

'I'll marry Cousin Henrietta, and I'll marry off my young sisters, and
we'll all live together with you, tranquil and happy, on my estate in
Brittany.'

'Now, why can't you commence this tranquil and happy life to-day? Has
not your father left us the largest fortune of all the province? Is
there anywhere near us a richer estate or a finer chateau than that of
La Roche Bernard? Are you not considered by all your vassals? Doesn't
everybody take off their hat when they meet you? No, don't quit us, my
dear child; remain with your friends, with your sisters, with your old
mother, whom, at your return, perhaps you may not find alive; do not
expend in vain glory, nor abridge by cares and annoyances of every kind,
days which at the best pass away too rapidly: life is a pleasant thing,
my son, and Brittany's sun is genial!'

As she said this, she showed me from the drawing-room windows the
beautiful avenues of my park, the old horse-chestnuts in bloom, the
lilacs, the honeysuckles, whose fragrance filled the air, and whose
verdure glistened in the sun. In the antechamber was the gardener and
all his family, who, sad and silent, seemed also to say to me, 'Don't
go, young master, don't go.' Hortense, my eldest sister, pressed me in
her arms, and Amélie, my little sister, who was in a corner of the
drawing room looking at the pictures in a volume of La Fontaine, came up
to me, holding out the book:

'Read, read, brother,' said she, weeping....

She pointed to the fable of the Two Pigeons!... I suddenly got up, and
repelled them all. 'I am now twenty, I am of noble blood, I want glory
and honor.... Let me go.' And I ran toward the courtyard. I was about
getting into the postchaise, when a woman appeared on the staircase.
It was Henrietta! She did not weep ... she did not say a word ... but,
pale and trembling, it was with the utmost difficulty that she kept from
falling. She waved the white handkerchief she held in her hand, as a
last good-by, and she fell senseless on the floor. I ran and took her
up, I pressed her in my arms, I pledged my love to her for life; and as
she recovered consciousness, leaving her in the hands of my mother and
sister, I ran to my postchaise without stopping, and without turning my
head.

If I had looked at Henrietta, I should not have gone.

In a few moments afterward the postchaise was rattling along the
highway. For a long time my mind was completely absorbed by thoughts of
my sisters, of Henrietta, of my mother, and of all the happiness I left
behind me; but these ideas gradually quitted me as I lost sight of the
turrets of La Roche Bernard, and dreams of ambition and of glory took
the entire possession of my mind. What schemes! What castles in the air!
What noble actions I performed in my postchaise!! I denied myself
nothing: wealth, honors, dignities, success of every kind, I merited and
I awarded myself all; at the last, raising myself from grade to grade as
I advanced on my journey, by the time I reached my inn at night, I was
duke and peer, governor of a province, and marshal of France. The voice
of my servant, who called me modestly Monsieur le Chevalier, alone
forced me to remember who I was, and to abdicate all my dignities. The
next day, and the following days, I indulged in the same dreams, and
enjoyed the same intoxication, for my journey was long. I was going to a
chateau near Sedan the chateau of the Duke de C----, an old friend of my
father, and protector of my family. It was understood that he was to
carry me to Paris with him, where he was expected about the end of the
month; he promised to present me at Versailles, and to give me a company
of dragoons through the credit of his sister, the Marchioness de F----,
a charming young lady, designated by public opinion as Madame de
Pompadour's successor, whose title she claimed with the greater justice
as she had long filled its honorable functions. I reached Sedan at
night, and at too late an hour to go to the chateau of my protector. I
therefore postponed my visit until the nest day, and lay at the
'France's Arms,' the best hotel of the town, and the ordinary rendezvous
of all the officers; for Sedan is a garrison town, and is well
fortified; the streets have a warlike air, and even the shopkeepers have
a martial look, which seems to say to strangers, 'We are fellow
countrymen of the great Turenne!' I supped at the general table, and I
asked what road I should take in the morning to go to the chateau of the
Duke de C----, which is situated some three leagues out of the town.
'Anybody will show you,' I was told, 'for it is well known hereabouts:
Marshal Fabert, a great warrior and a celebrated man, died there.'
Thereupon the conversation turned about Marshal Fabert. Between young
soldiers, this was very natural; his battles, his exploits, his modesty,
which made him refuse the letters patent of nobility and the collar of
his orders offered him by Louis XIV, were all talked about; they dwelt
especially on the inconceivable fortune which had raised him from the
rank of a simple soldier to the rank of a marshal of France--him, who
was nothing at all, the son of a mere printer: it was the only example
of such a piece of fortune which could then be instanced, and which,
even during Fabert's life, had appeared so extraordinary, the vulgar
never feared to ascribe his elevation to supernatural causes. It was
said that from his youth he had busied himself with magic and sorcery,
and that he had made a league with the devil. Mine host, who, to the
stupidity inherent in all the natives of the province of Champagne,
added the credulity of our Brittany peasants, assured us with a great
deal of sangfroid, that when Fabert died in the chateau of the Duke de
C----, a black man, whom nobody knew, was seen to enter into the dead
man's room, and disappear, taking with him the marshal's soul, which he
had bought, and which belonged to him; and that even now, every May,
about the period of the death of Fabert, the people of the chateau saw
the black man about the house, bearing a small light. This story made
our dessert merry, and we drank a bottle of champagne to the demon of
Fabert, craving it to be good enough to take us also under its
protection, and enable us to win some battles like those of Collioure
and La Marfee.

I rose early the next morning, and went to the chateau of the Duke de
C----, an immense gothic manor-house, which perhaps at any other moment
I would not have noticed, but which I regarded, I acknowledge, with
curiosity mixed with emotion, as I recollected the story told us on the
preceding evening by the host of the 'France's Arms.' The servant to
whom I spoke, told me he did not know whether his master could receive
company, and whether he could receive me. I gave him my name, and he
went out, leaving me alone in a sort of armory, decorated with the
attributes of the chase and family portraits.

I waited some time, and no one came. 'The career of glory and of honor I
have dreamed commences by the antechamber,' said I to myself, and
impatience soon possessed the discontented solicitor. I had counted over
the family portraits and all the rafters of the ceiling some two or
three times, when I heard a slight noise in the wooden wainscoting. It
was caused by an ill-closed door the wind had forced open. I looked in,
and I perceived a very handsome boudoir, lighted by two large windows
and a glazed door opening on a magnificent park. I walked into this
room, and after I had gone a short distance, I was stopped by a scene
which I had not at first perceived. A man was lying on a sofa, with his
back turned to the door by which I came in. He got up, and without
perceiving me, ran abruptly to the window. Tears streamed down his
cheeks, and a profound despair was marked on his every feature. He
remained motionless for some time, keeping his face buried in his hands;
then he began striding rapidly about the room. I was then near him; he
perceived me, and trembled; I, too, was annoyed and confounded at my
indiscretion; I sought to retire, muttering some words of excuse.

'Who are you? What do you want?' he said to me in a loud voice, taking
hold of me by my arms.

'I am the Chevalier Bernard de la Roche Bernard, and I come from
Brittany.'...

'I know, I know,' said he; and he threw himself into my arms, made me
take a seat by his side, spoke to me warmly about my father and all my
family, whom he knew so well that I was persuaded I was talking with the
master of the chateau.

'You are Monsieur de C----?' I asked him.

He got up, looked at me wildly, and replied, 'I was he, I am he no
longer, I am nothing;' and seeing my astonishment, he exclaimed, 'Not a
word more, young man, don't question me!'

'I must, Monsieur; I have been the involuntary witness of your chagrin
and your grief, and if my attachment and my friendship may to some
degree alleviate'----

'You are right, you are right,' said he; 'you cannot change my fate, but
at the least you may receive my last wishes and my last injunctions ...
it is the only favor I ask of you.'

He shut the door, and again took his seat by my side; I was touched, and
tremblingly expected what he was going to say: he spoke with a grave and
solemn manner. His physiognomy had an expression I had never seen before
on any face. His forehead, which I attentively examined, seemed marked
by fatality; his face was pale; his black eyes sparkled, and
occasionally his features, although changed by pain, would contract in
an ironical and infernal smile. 'What I am going to tell you,' said he,
'will surprise you.' You will doubt me ... you will not believe me ...
even. I doubt it sometimes ... at the least, I would like to doubt it;
but I have got the proofs of it; and there is in everything around us,
in our very organization, a great many other mysteries which we are
obliged to undergo, without being able to understand.' He remained
silent for a moment, as if to collect his ideas, brushed his forehead
with his hand, and then proceeded:

'I was born in this chateau. I had two elder brothers, to whom the
honors and the estates of our house were to descend. I could hope
nothing above the cassock of an abbé, and yet dreams of ambition and of
glory fermented in my head, and quickened the beatings of my heart.
Discontented with my obscurity, eager for fame, I thought of nothing but
the means of acquiring it, and this idea made me insensible to all the
pleasures and all the joys of life. The present was nothing to me; I
existed only in the future; and that future lay before me robed in the
most sombre colors. I was nearly thirty years old, and had done nothing.
Then literary reputations arose from every side in Paris, and their
brilliancy was reflected even to our distant province. 'Ah!' I often
said to myself, 'if I could at the least command a name in the world of
letters! that at least would be fame, and fame is happiness.' The
confidant of my sorrow was an old servant, an aged negro, who had lived
in the chateau for years before I was born; he was the oldest person
about the house, for no one remembered when he came to live there; and
some of the country people said that he knew the Marshal Fabert, and had
been present at his death'--

My host saw me express the greatest surprise; he interrupted his
narrative to ask me what was the matter.

'Nothing,' said I; but I could not help thinking of the black man the
innkeeper had mentioned the evening before.

Monsieur de C---- went on with his story: 'One day, before Juba (such
was the negro's name), I loudly expressed my despair at my obscurity and
the uselessness of my life, and I exclaimed: '_I would give ten years of
my life_ to be placed in the first rank of our authors.' 'Ten years,' he
coldly replied to me, 'are a great deal; it's paying dearly for a
trifle; but that's nothing, I accept your ten years. I take them now;
remember your promises: I shall keep mine!' I cannot depict to you my
surprise at hearing him speak in this way. I thought years had weakened
his reason; I smiled, and he shrugged his shoulders, and in a few days
afterward I quitted the chateau to pay a visit to Paris. There I was
thrown a great deal in literary society. Their example encouraged me,
and I published several works, whose success I shall not weary you by
describing. All Paris applauded me; the newspapers proclaimed my
praises; the new name I had assumed became celebrated, and no later than
yesterday, you, yourself, my young friend, admired me.'

A new gesture of surprise again interrupted his narrative: 'What! you
are not the Duke de C----?' I exclaimed.

'No,' said he very coldly.

'And,' I said to myself, 'a celebrated literary man! Is it Marmontel? or
D'Alembert? or Voltaire?'

He sighed; a smile of regret and of contempt flitted over his lips, and
he resumed his story: 'This literary reputation I had desired soon
became insufficient for a soul as ardent as my own. I longed for nobler
success, and I said to Juba, who had followed me to Paris, and who now
remained with me: 'There is no real glory, no true fame, but that
acquired in the profession of arms. What is a literary man? A poet?
Nothing. But a great captain, a leader of an army! Ah! that's the
destiny I desire; and for a great military reputation, I would give
another ten years of my life.' 'I accept them,' Juba replied; 'I take
them now; don't forget it.''

At this part of his story he stopped again, and, observing the trouble
and hesitation visible in my every feature, he said:

'I warned you beforehand, young man, that you could not believe me; this
seems a dream, a chimera to you!... and to me, too!... and yet the
grades and the honors I obtained were no illusions; those soldiers I led
to the cannon's mouth, those redoubts stormed, those flags won, those
victories with which all France has rung ... all that was my work ...
all that glory was mine.'...

While he strode up and down the room, and spoke with this warmth and
enthusiasm, surprise chilled my blood, and I said to myself, 'Who can
this gentleman be?... Is he Coligny?... Richelieu?... the Marshal
Saxe?'...

From this state of excitement he had fallen into great depression, and
coming close to me, he said to me, with a sombre air:

'Juba spoke truly; and after a short time had passed away, disgusted
with this vain bubble of military glory, I longed for the only thing
real and satisfactory and permanent in this world; and when, at the cost
of five or six years of life, I desired gold and wealth, Juba gave them
too.... Yes, my young friend, yes, I have seen fortune surpass all my
desires; I became the lord of estates, of forests, of chateaux. Up to
this morning they were all mine; if you don't believe me, if you don't
believe Juba ... wait ... wait ... he is coming ... and you will see for
yourself, with your own eyes, that what confounds your reason and mine,
is unhappily but too real.'

He then walked toward the mantlepiece, looked at the clock, exhibited
great alarm, and said to me in a whisper:

'This morning at daybreak I felt so depressed and weak I could scarcely
get up. I rang for my servant. Juba came. 'What is the matter with me
this morning?' I asked him. 'Master, nothing more than natural. The hour
approaches, the moment draws near!' 'What hour? What moment?' 'Don't you
remember? Heaven allotted sixty years as the term of your existence. You
were thirty when I began to obey you!' 'Juba,' said I, seriously
alarmed, 'are you in earnest?' 'Yes, master; in five years you have
dissipated in glory twenty-five years of life. You gave them to me, they
belong to me; and those years you bartered away shall now be added to
the days I have to live.' 'What, was that the price of your services?'
'Others have paid more dearly for them. You have heard of Fabert: I
protected him.' 'Silence! silence!' I said to him; 'you lie! you lie!'
'As you please; but get ready, you have only half an hour to live.' 'You
are mocking me; you deceive me.' 'Not at all; make the calculation
yourself. You have really lived thirty-five years; you have lost
twenty-five years: total, sixty years.' He started to go out.... I felt
my strength diminishing; I felt my life waning away. 'Juba! Juba!' said
I, 'give me a few hours, only a few hours,' I screamed; 'oh! give me a
few hours longer!' 'No, no,' said he, 'that would be to diminish my own
life, and I know better than you the value of life. There is no treasure
in this world worth two hours' existence!' I could scarcely speak; my
eyes became obscured by a thick veil, the icy hand of death began to
freeze my veins. 'Oh!' said I, making an effort to speak, 'take back
those estates for which I have sacrificed everything. Give me four hours
longer, and I make you master of all my gold, of all my wealth, of all
that opulence of fortune I have so earnestly desired.' 'Agreed: you have
been a good master, and I am willing to do something for you; I consent
to your prayer.' I felt my strength return; and I exclaimed: 'Four hours
are so little ... oh! Juba! ... Juba ... oh! Juba! give me yet four
hours, and I renounce all my literary glory, all my works, everything
that has placed me so high in the opinion of the world.' 'Four hours of
life for that!' exclaimed the negro with contempt.... 'That's a great
deal; but never mind; you shan't say I refused your last dying request.'
'Oh! no! no! Juba, don't say my last dying request.... Juba! Juba! I beg
of you, give me until this evening, give me twelve hours, the whole day,
and may my exploits, my victories, my military fame, my whole career be
forever effaced from the memory of men!... may nothing whatever remain
of them!... if you will give me this day, only to-day, Juba; and I shall
be too well satisfied.' 'You abuse my generosity,' said he, 'and I am
making a fool's bargain. But never mind, I give you until sundown. After
that, ask me for nothing more. Don't forget, after sundown I shall come
for you!'

'He went away,' added my companion, with a tone of despair I can never
forget, 'and this is the last day of my life.' He then walked to the
glazed door looking out on the park (it was open), and he exclaimed:

'Oh God! I shall see no more this beautiful sky, these green lawns,
these sparkling waters; I shall never again breathe the balmy air of the
spring! Madman that I was! I might have enjoyed for twenty-five years to
come these blessings God has showered on all, blessings whose worth I
knew not, and of which I am beginning to know the value. I have worn out
my days, I have sacrificed my life for a vain chimera, for a sterile
glory, which has not made me happy, and which died before me.... See!
see there!' said he, pointing to some peasants plodding their weary way
homeward; 'what would I not give to share their labors and their
poverty!... But I have nothing to give, nothing to hope here below ...
nothing ... not even misfortune!'... At this moment a sunbeam, a May
sunbeam, lighted up his pale, haggard features; he took me by the arm
with a sort of delirium, and said to me:

'See! oh see! how splendid is the sun!... Oh! and I must leave all
this!... Oh! at the least let me enjoy it now.... Let me taste to the
full this pure and beautiful day ... whose morrow I shall never see!'

He leaped into the park, and, before I could well comprehend what he was
doing, he had disappeared down an alley. But, to speak truly, I could
not have restrained him, even if I would.... I had not now the strength;
I fell back on the sofa, confounded, stunned, bewildered by all I had
seen and heard. At length I arose and walked about the room to convince
myself that I was awake, that I was not dreaming, that....

At this moment the door of the boudoir opened, and a servant announced:

'My master, Monsieur le Duc de C----.'

A gentleman some sixty years old and of a very aristocratic appearance
came forward, and, taking me by the hand, begged my pardon for having
kept me so long waiting.

'I was not at the chateau,' said he. 'I have just come from the town,
where I have been to consult with the physicians about the health of the
Count de C----, my younger brother.'

'Is he dangerously ill?'

'No, monsieur, thank Heaven, he is not; but in his youth visions of
glory and of ambition had excited his imagination, and a grave fever,
from which he has just recovered, and which came near proving fatal, has
left his head in a state of delirium and insanity, which persuades him
that he has only one day longer to live. That's his madness.'

Everything was explained to me now!

'Come, my young friend, now let us talk over your business; tell me what
I can do for your advancement. We will go together to Versailles about
the end of this month. I will present you at court.'

'I know how kind you are to me, duke, and I have come here to thank you
for it.'

'What! have you renounced going to court, and to the advantages you may
reckon on having there?'

'Yes.'

'But recollect, that aided by me, you will make a rapid progress, and
that with a little assiduity and patience ... say in ten years.'

'They would be ten years lost!'

'What!' exclaimed the duke with astonishment, 'is that purchasing too
dearly glory, fortune, and fame?... Silence, my young friend, we will go
together to Versailles.'

'No, duke, I return to Brittany, and I beg you to accept my thanks and
those of my family for your kindness.'

'You are mad!' said the duke.

But thinking over what I had heard and seen, I said to myself: 'You are
the same!'

The next morning I turned my face homeward. With what pleasure I saw
again my fine chateau de la Roche Bernard, the old trees of my park, and
the beautiful sun of Brittany! I found again my vassals, my sisters, my
mother, and happiness, which has never quitted me since, for eight days
afterward I married Henrietta.




THE CHAINED RIVER.


  Home I love, I now must leave thee! Home I love, I now must go
  Far away, although it grieve me, through the valley, through the snow.

  By the night and through the valley, though the hail against us flies,
  Till we reach the frozen river--on its bank the foeman lies.

  Frozen river, mighty river!--wilt thou e'er again be free
  From the fountain through the mountain, from the mountain to the sea.

  Yes; though Freedom's glorious river for a time be frozen fast,
  Still it cannot hold forever--Winter's reign will soon be past.

  Still it runs, although 'tis frozen--on beneath the icy plain,
  From the mountain to the ocean--free as thought, though held in chain.

  From the mountain to the ocean, from the ocean to the sky,
  Then in rainy drops returning--lo the ice-chains burst and fly!

  And the ice makes great the river. Breast the spring-flood if you dare!
  Rivers run though ice be o'er them--GOD and Freedom everywhere!




HOW THE WAR AFFECTS AMERICANS.


At the outbreak of the present terrible civil war, the condition of the
American people was apparently enviable beyond that of any other nation.
We say apparently, because the seeds of the rebellion had long been
germinating; and, to a philosophic eye, the great change destined to
follow the rebellion was inevitable, though it was then impossible for
human foresight to predict the steps by which that change would come.
Unconscious of impending calamity, we were proud of our position and
character as American citizens. We were free from oppressive taxation,
and enjoyed unbounded liberty of speech and action. Revelling in the
fertility of a virgin continent, unexampled in modern times for the
facilities of cultivation and the richness of its return to human labor,
it was a national characteristic to felicitate ourselves upon the
general prosperity, and boastingly to compare our growing resources and
our unlimited and almost spontaneous abundance, with the hard-earned and
dearly purchased productions of other and more exhausted countries. Our
population, swollen by streams of immigration from the crowded
continents of the old world, has spread over the boundless plains of
this, with amazing rapidity; and the physical improvements which have
followed our wonderful expansion have been truly magical in their
results, as shown by the decennial exhibits of the census, or presented
in still more palpable form to the eye of the thoughtful and observant
traveller. Since the fall of the Roman empire, no single government has
possessed so magnificent a domain in the temperate regions of the globe;
and certainly, no other people so numerous, intelligent, and powerful,
has ever in any age of the world enjoyed the same unrestricted freedom
in the pursuit of happiness: accordingly, none has ever exhibited the
same extraordinary activity in enterprise, or equal success in the
creation and accumulation of wealth. It was unfortunately true that our
mighty energies were mostly employed in the production of physical
results; and although our youthful, vigorous, and unrestricted efforts
made these results truly marvellous, yet the moral and intellectual
basis on which we built was not sufficiently broad and stable to sustain
the vast superstructure of our prosperity. The foundations having been
seriously disturbed, it becomes indispensable to look to their permanent
security, whatever may be the temporary inconvenience arising from the
necessary destruction of portions of the old fabric.

When the war began, the South was supplying the world with cotton--a
staple which in modern times has become intimately connected with the
physical well-being of the whole civilized world. At the same time, the
Northwest was furnishing to all nations immense quantities of grain and
animal food, her teeming fields presenting a sure resource against the
uncertainty of seasons in those regions of the earth in which capital
must supply the fertility which is still inexhaustible here. While such
were the occupations of the South and the West, the North and East were
advancing in the path of mechanical and commercial improvement, with a
rapidity beyond all former example. Agricultural and manufacturing
inventions were springing up, full grown, out of the teeming brain of
the Yankees, and were fast altering the face of the world. New
combinations of natural forces were appearing as the agents of the human
will, and were multiplying the physical capacity of man in a ratio that
seemed to know no bounds. Commercial enterprise kept pace with these
magnificent creations, and never failed, with liberal and enlightened
spirit, to avail itself of all the resources which industry produced or
genius invented. Our tonnage surpassed that of the greatest nations; the
skill of our shipbuilders was unsurpassed; and the courage, industry,
and perseverance of our seamen were renowned all over the world. On
every ocean and in every important harbor of the earth were daily
visible the emblems of our national power and the evidences of our
individual prosperity. But in one fatal moment, from a cause which was
inherent in our moral and political condition, all this prodigious
activity of thought and work was brought to a complete stand. Such a
shock was never before experienced, because such a social and material
momentum had never before been acquired by any nation, and then been
arrested by so gigantic a calamity. It was as if the earth had been
suddenly stopped on its axis, and all things on its surface had felt the
destructive impulse of the centrifugal force.

War itself is, unhappily, no uncommon condition of mankind. Wars on a
gigantic scale have often heretofore raged among the great nations, or
even between sundered parts of the same people. It is not the magnitude
of the present contest which constitutes its greatest peculiarity. It is
rather the magnitude and importance of the interests it involves and the
relations it sunders, which give it the tremendous significance it bears
in the eyes of the world. Never has any war found the contending parties
engaged in works of such world-wide and absorbing interest, as those
which occupied both sections of our people at the commencement of this
rebellion. No two people, connected by so many ties, enjoying such
unlimited freedom of intercourse, so mutually dependent each upon the
other, and occupying a country so utterly incapable of natural
divisions, have ever been known to struggle with each other in so
sanguinary a conflict. All the circumstances of the case have been
unexampled in history. Accordingly the influence of the contest upon
affairs on this continent, and indeed upon human affairs generally, has
been great and disastrous in proportion to the magnitude of the peaceful
works which have been suspended by it, and to the closeness of those
brotherly relations which have heretofore existed between the contending
parties, now violently broken, and perhaps forever destroyed.

Almost the entire industry and commerce of the United States have been
diverted into new and unaccustomed channels. The most active and
enterprising people in the world, in the midst of their varied
occupations, suddenly find all the accustomed channels of business
blocked up and the stream of their productions flowing back upon them in
a disastrous flood, and stagnating in their workshops and storehouses.
They are compelled to find new issues for their enterprise and to make a
complete change in their habits and works. It is not merely in the
cessation of all intercourse between the two vast sections, North and
South, that this mighty transformation has taken place; but an equal
alteration has been suddenly effected in the character of the business
and the nature of the occupations which the people have heretofore
pursued in the loyal States of the Union. Great branches of business,
employing millions of capital, have been utterly annihilated or
indefinitely suspended. Vast amounts of capital have been sunk and
utterly lost in the deep gulf of separation which temporarily divides
the States; or if they are ever to be recovered, it will be only after
the storm shall have completely subsided, when some portions of the
wrecks, which have been scattered in the fearful commotion, may be
thrown safely on to the shores of reunion. It was anticipated,
especially by the rebels themselves, that these incalculable losses,
these tremendous shocks and sudden changes, would utterly overwhelm the
North with ruin and tear her to pieces with faction and disorder. But
this anticipation of accumulated disasters, in which the wish was father
to the thought, has not been realized to any appreciable extent. The
pecuniary losses have been in a great measure compensated by the immense
demands of the war; and when faction has attempted to raise its head, it
has been compelled to retire before the patriotic rebuke of the people.
And although the vast expenditures of the war give present relief; by
drawing largely on the resources of the future, yet the strength we
acquire is none the less real or less effectual in overthrowing the
rebellion.

But this sudden and grand emergency, with all its appalling concomitants
of lives sacrificed, property destroyed, commercial disaster, and social
derangement, has given a rare opportunity for the testing of our
national character, and of our ability to meet and overcome the most
tremendous difficulties and dangers. Perhaps the versatility of American
genius and its ready adaptation to the new circumstances, are even more
wonderful than any other exhibition made by our people in this great
national crisis. There has never been any good reason to doubt the
capacity of any portion of American citizens for warlike occupations,
nor their possession of the moral qualities necessary to make them good
soldiers. The long period of peace which has blessed our country, with
the industrial, educational, and moral improvement produced by it, has
rendered war justly distasteful to the Free States of the Union. They
were slow to recognize the necessity for it; and nothing but the most
solemn convictions of duty would have aroused them to the stern and
unanimous determination with which they have entered on the present
struggle. Swift would have been our degeneration, if the spirit of our
fathers had already died out among us. But our history of less than a
century since the Revolutionary war has fully maintained the
self-reliant character of Americans and demonstrated their military
abilities; and if the commercial and manufacturing populations of
particular sections were supposed to have become somewhat enervated by
long exemption from the labors and perils of war, it was certain that
our large agricultural regions and especially our frontier settlements
were peopled with men inured to toil and familiar with danger,
constituting the best material for armies to be found in any country.
Nor was it in fact true that any considerable portion of our people,
even those drawn from the stores and workshops of the cities, had become
so far deteriorated in vigor of body, or demoralized in spirit, as to be
unfit for military service. The Southern leaders looked with scorn upon
our volunteer army only until they encountered it in battle. They were
then compelled to alter their preconceived opinions of the Yankee
character, and to change their contempt, real or pretended, into
respect, if not admiration. Even when superior numbers or better
strategy enabled them to beat us, they have seldom failed to bear
honorable testimony to the unflinching courage and endurance of our
troops. Nor do we need the admissions of the enemy to establish this
character for us; our own triumphs, on many glorious fields, are the
best evidences of our ability in war, and of themselves sufficiently
attest the valor and energy of our noble volunteers. In this aspect of
the matter, we must not forget the peculiar character and constitution
of our vast army. It is indeed worthy to be called the wonder of the
world. It is virtually a voluntary association of the people for the
purpose of putting down a gigantic rebellion and saving their own
government from destruction. This is a social phenomenon never before
known in history on a scale approaching the magnitude of our
combinations--a phenomenon which could only take place in a popular
government, where the unrestricted freedom of individual action promotes
the virtues of personal independence, self-respect, and manly courage.
Even the Southern people, fighting on their own soil, in a war which,
though actually commenced by them, they now affect to consider wholly
defensive--even they, with all their boasted unanimity, and with the
fierce passions engendered by slavery, have been compelled to maintain
their armies by a conscription of the most unexampled severity; while
the loyal States, fighting solely for union and nationality--interests
of the most general nature, and offering little of mere personal
inducement--have so far escaped that necessity, and are now just
preparing to resort to it. After all, it must be acknowledged by every
just and generous mind, whether that of friend or foe, that there is a
substratum of noble sentiment and manly impulses at the foundation of
the Yankee character. The vast movements of the Northern people plainly
show it. Their contributions for the support of soldiers' families and
for the relief of the wounded and disabled, are upon a gigantic scale.
They raise immense sums for the payment of bounties to volunteers, and
thus, in every way, the burdens of the war are voluntarily assumed by
the people, and to some extent distributed among them, so that every one
may participate in the patriotic work. Nor is this large-hearted
liberality confined solely to our own country. The sufferers in other
lands, who have felt the disastrous effects of our great civil war, have
not been forgotten. In the midst of a life-and-death struggle among
ourselves, we have found time and means to assist in relieving their
wants--an exhibition of liberality peculiar, and truly American in
character.

Nor are these the only interesting features in the bearing of the
American people at the present crisis. Perhaps a still more remarkable
one is the entire devotion of the national energies--of intellect not
less than of heart, of skill, not less than of capital--to the great
purposes of the war. This was the necessary result of our free
institutions; of our untrammelled pursuits; the mobility of our means
and agencies of production; and the plastic character of all our
creations. The amount of thought expended on this subject has been
prodigious and incalculable. It would be difficult, if not impossible,
to enumerate the ten thousand inventions and devices of all kinds which
have been presented for the purpose of increasing the efficiency of
weapons and of all the appliances of war, as well as for adding to the
comfort and securing the health of the soldier. Every imaginable
instrument of usefulness in any of the operations of the camp, or the
march, or the field of battle, has been the subject of tentative
ingenuity, such as none but Yankees could display. The musket, the
carbine, the pistol, have been constructed upon numberless plans,
apparently with every possible modification. The cartridge has been
covered with copper, impervious to water, instead of paper, and has its
own fulminate attached in various modes. Cannon shot and shells have
been made in many new forms; and cannons themselves have been increased
in calibre to an extraordinary size with proportionate efficiency, and
have been constructed in various modes and forms never before conceived.
The tent, the cot, the chest, the chair, the knife and fork, the stove
and bakeoven, each and every one of them, have been touched by the
transforming hand of homely genius, and have assumed a thousand
unimaginable forms of usefulness and convenience. India rubber and every
other available material have been made to perform new and appropriate
parts in the general work. The result of all this unexampled activity
and ingenuity has not yet been fully eliminated. It would require years
of experience in war in order to bring American genius, as at present
developed, to bear with all its extraordinary force on the mechanical
details of the military art. Beyond doubt, numberless devices, among
those presented, will prove to be utterly worthless; but many of them
will certainly stand the test of experience, will be ultimately approved
and adopted, and will remain as monuments of the enterprise and
ingenuity aroused by the necessities of the country in this hour of its
sad calamity.

It would be a curious and interesting employment to estimate the number
and character of these inventions, due wholly to the existing civil
strife. Only then should we be able to form some adequate conception of
the immense stimulus which has been applied to the national intellect,
and which has caused it to embrace within the boundless range of its
investigations, the highest moral and political problems, alike with the
minutest questions of mechanical and economical convenience. But we
should be greatly disappointed in not finding this phenomenon even
partially comprehended by the powers that be. It is truly a melancholy
thing to meet in the highest quarters so little sympathy with the
noblest efforts of the popular mind, and to witness the cold neglect and
even disdainful suspicion with which the most useful and valuable
devices are often received, or rather, we should say, haughtily
disregarded and rejected. Seldom or never do we find these inventions
appreciated according to their merits. The Government is proverbially
slow to adopt improvements of any kind; and the army and navy, like all
similar professional bodies, are averse to every important change, and
wedded to the instruments and processes in the use of which they have
been educated and trained. This peculiar indisposition to progressive
movements, in all the established institutions and organizations of
society, has frequently been the subject of remark and of regret. It is,
however, only an exaggeration of the conservative principle, which, when
confined within proper limits, is wise and beneficial. Indeed, the
actual progress of society in any period, is neither more nor less than
the result of the conflict between the opposite tendencies, of
retrogradation and advancement--a disposition to adhere to the old,
which has been tried and approved, and a tendency toward the new, which,
however promising and alluring, may yet disappoint and mislead. In the
long run, however, the latter prevails, and the progressive movement,
more or less rapid, goes on continually. Improvements gradually force
themselves upon the attention of the most prejudiced minds, and
eventually conquer opposition in spite of professional immobility and
aversion to change. Observation has shown that the most important steps
of progress usually originate outside of the professions, and are only
adopted when they can no longer be resisted with safety to the
conservative body. To the volunteer officer and soldier, or to those
educated soldiers who have long been in civil life, will probably be due
the greater part of that accessibility to new ideas which will result in
important advances in the art of war. This assertion may seem to be
paradoxical; but all experience proves that ignorance of old processes
is most favorable to the introduction of new ones. And though in a
thousand instances such ignorance may be disastrous, occasionally it
finds the unprejudiced intellect illuminated by flashes of original
genius, and open to the entrance of valuable ideas which would have been
utterly excluded by all the old and established rules.

But the actual work of the unexampled mental activity of the present
day, will not be fully known and estimated until after the close of the
war. Until then there will be neither time nor opportunity to weigh and
test the creations of the national ingenuity. In the midst of campaigns
and battles, with the absorbing interest of the great struggle, the
instruments of warfare cannot be easily changed, however important may
be the improvement presented. The emergency which arouses genius and
brings forth valuable inventions, is by no means favorable to their
adoption and general use. On the contrary, by a sort of fatality which
seems to be a law of their existence, they are doomed to struggle with
adversity and fierce opposition, and they are left by the occasion which
gave them birth as its repudiated offspring--a legacy to the future
emergency which will cherish and perfect them, make them available, and
enjoy the full benefit to be derived from them.

The navy has always justly been the pride of our country; and it was to
be expected that it would first feel the impulse of inventive genius.
Confident in our strength and resources, we had long remained
comparatively sluggish, and regardless of those interesting experiments
which other great maritime powers had been carefully making with a view
to render ships invulnerable. We looked on quietly, observed the
results, and waited for the occasion when we should be required to put
forth our strength in this direction. When the war commenced, we had not
a single iron-clad vessel of any description. It became necessary that
the immense Southern coast of our country should be subjected to the
strictest blockade. This was a work of vast magnitude, and a very large
and sudden increase of the navy was demanded by the extraordinary
emergency. Cities were to be taken, and strong fortresses to be
attacked. The rebels had managed to save some of the vessels intended to
be destroyed at Norfolk, and had converted the Merrimack into a
formidable monster, which in due time displayed her destructive powers
upon our unfortunate fleet in Hampton Roads, in that ever-memorable
contest in which the Monitor first made her timely appearance. The chief
result of the vast effort demanded by the perilous situation of our
country, was the class of vessels of which the partially successful but
ill-fated Monitor was the type. These structures are certainly very far
from being perfect as ships of war; nevertheless, they constitute an
interesting and valuable experiment, and mark an advance in naval
warfare of the very first importance. They establish the form in which
defensive armor may perhaps be most effectively disposed for the
protection of men on board ships; but at the same time, it must be
conceded that they utterly fail in all the other requisites for
men-of-war and sea-going vessels. They are deficient in buoyancy and
speed. In truth they are nothing more than floating batteries, useful in
the defence of harbors or the attack of forts. The melancholy end of the
Monitor shows too plainly that vessels of her character cannot be safely
trusted to the fury of the open sea. They may do well in favorable
weather, or may escape on a single expedition; but a repetition of long
voyages will be almost certain to result in their loss.

We want lighter and swifter vessels to be equally formidable in
ordnance, and alike invulnerable to the attacks of any adversary. To
combine all these requisites is not beyond the ingenuity of American
constructors. Most assuredly such vessels will soon make their
appearance on the ocean. Some new arrangement of the propelling
apparatus, and lighter and more powerful machinery, will accomplish this
important end. And then, too, with greatly increased speed, and with a
construction suitable to the new function, the principle of the ram will
be perfected; so that the projectile thrown by the most powerful
ordnance now existing or even conceived will be insignificant compared
with the momentum of a large steamer, going at the rate of thirty or
forty miles an hour, and herself becoming the direct instrument of
destruction to her adversary. Ordnance may possibly be devised which
will throw shot or shell weighing each a thousand pounds; but by the new
principle, which is evidently growing in practicability and favor, the
weight of thousands of tons will be precipitated against vessels of war,
and naval combats will become a conflict of gigantic forces, in
comparison with which the discharge of guns and the momentum of cannon
balls will be little more than the bursting of bubbles.

The exploits of the rebel steamer Alabama, so destructive to our
commerce and so humiliating to our pride as a great naval power,
sufficiently attest the vital importance of the element of speed in
ships of war. Her capacity under steam is beyond that of our best
vessels, and she therefore becomes, at her pleasure, utterly
inaccessible to anything we may send to pursue her. We have built our
steamers strong and heavy; but proportionately slow and clumsy. The
Alabama could not safely encounter any one of them entitled to the name
of a regular cruiser; but she does not intend to risk such a contest,
and, most unfortunately for us, she cannot be compelled to meet it. Of
what real use are all the costly structures of our navy with the
tremendous ordnance which they carry, if this comparatively
insignificant craft can go and come when and where she will, and sail
through and around our fleets without the possibility of being
interrupted? They are perfectly well suited to remain stationary and aid
us in blockading the Southern ports; but the frequent escape of fast
steamers running the blockade, serves still further to demonstrate the
great and palpable deficiency in the speed of our ships of war. We may
start a hundred of our best steamers on the track of the Alabama, and,
without an accident, they can never overtake her. The only alternative
is to accept the lesson which her example teaches, and to surpass her in
those qualities which constitute her efficiency and make her formidable
as a foe. This we must do, or we must quietly surrender our commerce to
her infamous depredations, and acknowledge ourselves beaten on the seas
by the rebel confederacy without an open port, and without anything
worthy to be called a navy. The ability of our naval heroes, and their
skill and valor, so nobly illustrated on several occasions during the
present war, will be utterly unavailing against superior celerity of
motion. Their just pride must be humbled, and their patriotic hearts
must chafe with vexation, so long as the terrible rebel rover continues
to command the seas, as she will not fail to do so long as we are unable
to cope with her in activity and speed. Nor is it certain we have yet
known the worst. Ominous appearances abroad, and thick-coming rumors
brought by every arrival, indicate the construction in England of
numerous other ships like the Alabama, destined to run the blockade and
afterward to join that renowned cruiser in her work of destruction.
Stores of cotton held in Southern ports offer a temptation to the
cupidity of foreign adventurers which will command capital to any
amount, and the best skill of English engineers and builders will be
enlisted to make the enterprise successful--a skill not embarrassed by
bureaucratic inertia and stolidity.

Let the genius of American constructors and engineers be brought to bear
on the subject, and the important problem will be solved in sixty days.
Indeed, there are plans in existence, at this very hour, by which the
desired end could be at once accomplished. But the inertia of official
authority, and especially of the bureaus in the Navy Department, is such
that any novel idea, however demonstrably good and valuable, is usually
doomed to battle for years against opposition of all kinds before it can
hope to secure an introduction. In all probability, the war will have
been ended before anything of great importance ever can be accomplished
through those channels. The adoption of the Monitor principle was not
due to the skill and intelligence found in official quarters; it was
forced upon the Navy Department from the outside. And like the boa
constrictor, after having swallowed its prey, the Department must
sluggishly repose until that meal is digested before another can be
taken. One idea, of the magnitude of this, is enough for the present
crisis. We shall not have another, if the stubborn resistance and fixity
of ideas in the bureaus can prevent it. The invulnerability of the
Monitors, and the peculiar arrangement by which this important end is
obtained, are but one of the items necessary to make up the complete
efficiency of war steamers. They are only one half what is required.
They accomplish one of the great desiderata in armaments afloat; but
they leave another equally important demand utterly unsatisfied. There
is a counterpart to this achievement--its complement, equally
indispensable to the efficiency of the navy, and waiting to be placed by
the side of the recent improvement. It must and will be brought forth,
whether the naval authorities assist or oppose. American genius, only
give it fair play, is equal to all emergencies.

The immense activity of thought and ingenuity elicited by the war, and
extending to all the departments of enterprise appropriate to the great
crisis, is a phenomenon peculiar to the American people. It could be
exhibited nowhere else, to the same extent, among civilized nations,
because nowhere else is the same stimulus applied with equal directness
to the popular masses. The operation of this peculiar cause is
conspicuously plain. The Government of the United States is the people's
Government; the war is emphatically the people's war. Every man feels
that he has a personal interest in it. He understands, more or less
clearly, the whole question involved, and has fixed opinions, and
perhaps strong feelings, in regard to it. His friends and neighbors and
brothers are in the army, and they have gone thither voluntarily,
perhaps impelled by enlightened and conscientious convictions of duty.
His sympathies follow them; he ardently prays for their success; and he
is stimulated to provide, as well as he can, for their comfort. All
other business being greatly interrupted, if not wholly suspended, he
thinks continuously of the mighty operations of the war. He dwells on
them night and day, and in the laboratory of his active mind, excited by
the mighty stimulus of personal and patriotic feeling natural to the
occasion, he produces those extraordinary combinations which distinguish
the present era.

In addition to these impulses which operate so generally, there is the
still more universal and all-pervading love of gain which stimulates his
inventive faculties, and causes them to operate in the direction in
which his hopes and sympathies are turned. Aroused by motives of all
kinds, the whole mind and heart of the country is absorbed in the great
contest, and all its energies are applied in every conceivable way to
the work of war. The man who carries the gun and uses it on the battle
field is not more earnestly engaged in this work than he who racks his
brain and sifts his teeming ideas for the purpose of making the
instrument more destructive. Even the victims who fall in the deadly
strife and give their mangled bodies to their country, are not more
truly martyrs to a glorious cause than the inventors who sometimes
sacrifice themselves in the course of their perilous experiments, or by
the slower process of mental and physical exhaustion during the long
years of 'hope deferred,' while vainly seeking to make known the value
of their devices. A great power is at work, operating on the character
and capacity of each individual, and affecting each according to the
infinite diversity which prevails among men. A common enthusiasm, or,
at least, a common excitement pervades the whole community to its
profoundest depths, and arouses all its energy and all its intellect,
whatever that energy and intellect may be capable of doing. It carries
multitudes into the army full of patriotic ardor; it inspires others
with grand ideas, which they seek to embody in combinations of power,
useful and effective in the great work which is the task of the nation,
and for the accomplishment of which all noble hearts are laboring
earnestly and incessantly.

But in this tempestuous hour, as in more peaceful times, good and bad
ideas, valuable and worthless devices, noble and generous as well as
sinister and mercenary purposes are mingled in the vast multitude of
projects which are presented for acceptance and adoption. The power of
the nation is magnified by the impulse which arouses it; but in its
exaltation it still retains its errors and defects. It is the same
people, with all their characteristic faults and virtues, stimulated to
mighty exertions in a sacred cause, who have been so often engaged in
petty partisan contests, swayed by dishonest leaders, and carried astray
by the base intrigues of ambition and selfishness. Yet, as the masses,
at all times, have had no interest but that of the nation which they
chiefly constitute, and have sought nothing but what they at least
considered to be the public good, so even now, in these mad and perilous
times, the predominating sentiment and purpose of the people, in
whatever sphere they move, are, on the whole, good and worthy of
approval. Every one must at least pretend to be controlled by honest and
patriotic motives; and in such an emergency hypocrisy cannot possibly be
universal or even predominant. Although men may seek chiefly their own
interest and profit, they must do so through some effort of public
usefulness. They must commend themselves, their works, and ideas, as of
superior importance to the cause of the country; and in this universal
struggle and competition--this mighty effervescence of popular thought
and action, it would be strange and unexampled, if some great, new
conceptions should not dawn upon us. The very condition, physical,
social, and moral, of our twenty millions of people in the loyal States
is unlike all that has ever preceded it. Their general intelligence, the
result of universal education, makes available their unlimited freedom,
and establishes their capacity for great achievements. The present
momentous occasion makes an imperative demand upon all their highest
faculties, and they cannot fail to respond in a manner which will
satisfy every just expectation.

What the Government has undertaken in this crisis is worthy of a great
people and springs from the large ideas habitual to Americans. The
blockade of the whole Southern coast, with its vast shore line, and its
intricate network of inlets, harbors, and rivers; the controlling of the
mighty Mississippi from Cairo to the gulf; the campaigns in Virginia,
Tennessee, and Arkansas; and the pending attacks on Charleston and
Savannah--these gigantic and tremendous operations have something of
that grandeur which is familiar to our thoughts--which, indeed,
constitutes the staple of the ordinary American speech, apparently
having all the characteristics of exaggerated jesting and idle boast. We
frequently hear our enthusiastic countrymen talk of anchoring Great
Britain in one of our northern lakes. They speak contemptuously of the
petty jurisdictions of European powers contrasted with the magnificent
domain of our States, and they sneer at the rivers of the old continent
as mere rills by the side of the mighty 'father of waters.' The men
whose very jests are on a scale of such magnitude, do not seem to find
the extensive military operations too large for their serious thoughts.
No American considers them beyond our power, or for one moment hesitates
to admit their ultimate success. No difficulties discourage us, no
disasters appal. We move on with indomitable will and determination,
looking through all the obstacles to the grand result as already
accomplished. Does slavery stand in the way, and cotton seek to usurp
the throne of universal empire, dictating terms to twenty millions of
freemen, and demanding the acquiescence of the world? The first is
annihilated by a word proclaiming universal liberation; the second is
blockaded in his ports, surrounded by a wall of fire, suffocated and
strangled, and dragged helpless and insensible from his imaginary
throne. A proud and desperate aristocracy, rich and powerful, and
correspondingly confident, undertake to measure strength with the
democratic millions whom they despise. These Northern people, scorned
and detested, have ideas--grand and magnificent as well as practical
ideas, nurtured by universal education and unlimited freedom of thought
and act. The fierce and relentless aristocracy rave in their very
madness, and defy the people whom they seek to destroy; but these bear
down upon the haughty enemy, slowly and deliberately--awkwardly and
blunderingly, it may be, at first, but learning by experience, and
moving on, through all vicissitudes, with the certainty and solemnity of
destiny to the hour of final and complete success. The confidence in
this grand result dominates every other thought. All ideas and all
purposes revolve around it as a centre. It is the internal fire which
warms the patriotism, strengthens the purpose, stimulates the invention,
sustains the courage, and feeds the undying confidence of the nation, in
this, the hour of its desperate struggle for existence.




PROMOTED!


  '_You_ will not bid me stay!' he said,
    'She calls for me--my native land!
  And _stay_? ah, better to be dead!
    A _coward_ dare not ask your hand!

  'My crimson sash you'll tie for me,
    My belted sword you'll fasten, love!
  I swear to both I'll faithful be,
    To these below! to God above!

  'And if, perchance, my sword shall win
    A laurel wreath to crown _your_ name,
  He will not count it as my sin,
    That I for _you_ have prayed for fame!'

         *       *       *       *       *

  His name rings thro' his native land,
    His sword has won the hero's prize;
  Why comes he not to ask her hand?
    Dead on the battle field he lies.




HENRIETTA AND VULCAN.


Time, O well beloved, floweth by like a river; sweepeth on by turreted
castles and dainty boat-houses, great old forests and ruined cities.
Tender, cool-eyed lilies fringe its rippling shores, straggling arms of
longing seaweeds are unceasingly wooing and losing its flying waves; and
on its purple bosom by night, linger merrily hosts of dancing stars.
Bright under its limpid waters gleam the towers of many a 'sunken city.'
Strong and clear through the night-silence of eager listening, ring the
chimes of their far-off bells, the echoes of joyous laughter: and to
waiting, yearning ones come, ever and anon, deep glances from gleaming
eyes, warm graspings from outstretched hands. And well windeth the river
into grim old caves, and even the merriest boat that King Cole ever
launched flitteth by the dark doors, intent only on the brilliant
_chateaux_, that shimmer above in the gorgeous sunlight of a brave
_Espagne_. But laughing imps, with flying feet, venture singly into
these realms of the Unknown. Bright streameth the light there from
carbuncles and glowing rubies; but of the melodies that there bewilder
them, no returning voice ever speaketh, for are they not Eleusinian
mysteries? But when thou meetest, O brother, sailing down the stream
under gay flags and rounding sails, some Hogarth or some Sterne, who
playeth _rouge et noir_ with keen old Pharaohs, and battledore with
Charlie Buff; who singeth brave _Libiamos_, and despiseth not the
Christmas plums of Johnny Horner; who payeth graceful court to the great
and learned, and warmeth the pale hearts of the shivering poor with his
kind cheer and gentle words; who sitteth with Socrates and Pericles at
the feet of an ever-lovely Aspasia, and whispereth _capricios_ to Anna
Maria at the opera; know then, O beloved, if thou hast ever trodden the
mystic halls, that this man is the brother of thy soul! Selah!

But the bravest stream that ever was born on a mountain side has its
shoals and quicksands, and far out in the sounding sea rise slowly coral
reefs. Now, if on every green, growing isle newly rising to the
sunlight, the glorious jealousy of some Jove should toss a Vulcan, how
would our Venuses be suddenly charmed by the beauties of a South Sea
Scheme! how would their tiny shallops dot the curling waves, and what
new flowers would spring upon the smiling shores to greet their rosy
feet!

'And why a Vulcan?' says the elegant Narcissus Hare, with a shiver; 'a
great, grim, solemn, limping monster, that Brummel would have spurned in
disgust! And he to win our ladies with their delicate loveliness! Faugh,
sir! are you a Cyclops yourself?'

Alas! my Tinkler, do you remember that Salmasius began his vituperations
of Milton with gratuitous speculations upon his supposed ugliness, and
that great was his grief when he was assured that he contended with an
ideal of beauty. Have you forgotten that the Antinöus won the
distinguished favor of his merry, courteous queen Christina, and that
the satirist and man of 'taste' died of obscurity in a year? Beware, my
little Narcissus, lest the next autumn flowers bloom above your grave in
Greenwood, and your fair Luline be accepting bouquets and _bonbons_ from
me.

You, Roland, are pale from the very contemplation of such a catastrophe,
such an unprecedented _hægira_ of dames! It is as if from every gay
watering place, some softly tinkling bell should summon the fair
mermaids. Beplaided and betrowsered, with their little gypsy hats, would
they float out beyond the breakers, waving aside with farewell, airy
kisses, the patent life boats and the magical preservers, and pressing
on, like Gebers, with their rosy faces and great, hopeful eyes ever
laughingly, merrily turned to the golden east--their _Morgen Land_!

Ah! but--have we no Vulcans among us? 'Fair Bertha, Beatrice, Alys,'
come out of the Christmas ecstatics of the dear old year that has just
streamed out like a meteor among the stars;--_you_ know, fair ones, that
the stars are only years, and the planets grave old centuries; lock away
the jewels and the lace sets--charming, I know--the glove boxes and the
statuettes, the cream-leaved books, and the fragile, graceful
_babioles_; pull up the cushions, and group your bright selves around
the register--it's very cold to-day, you roses--and let us settle the
question--have we a Vulcan among us?

Magnificent essayists, O dearly beloved, have handled 'Our Husbands,'
'Our Wives,' 'Our Sons' and 'Our Daughters' in a masterly style. Very
praiseworthy, no doubt, but so unromantic! Why, there's not a green leaf
in the whole collection! The style is decidedly Egyptian, solid and
expressive, but dreadfully compact. No arabesques, those offshoots of
lazy, dreamy hours and pleasantly disconnected thoughts, disgrace the
solemnly even tenor of these fathers of 'Ephemeral Literature,' as some
'rude Iconoclast' has irreverently styled the butterfly journeyings of
our magazine age. But we, O merry souls and brave, are still young and
frivolous: we still look at pictures with as much zest as before our
dimly remembered teens; and we belong to that happy branch of the
Scribbleri family, that prefer the sympathy of bright eyes and gay
laughter, to the approving shake of any D'Orsay's 'ambrosial curls,' or
the most unqualified smile from the grimmest old champion who even now
votes in his secret heart against the New Tariff, or charges with
unparalleled bravery imaginary or windmill giants on the floor of a
Platform or of a Legislature.

But this, our paper, purporteth to be, in some wise, a disquisition on
Beaux, and, by our faith, we had well-nigh forgotten it. _Retournons à
nos moutons_, as the ancient lawyers used to say (and many a tyro, in
the interim, hath said the same) when they grew so entangled in the
mazes of Jack Shepherd cases that they lost sight of their original
designs. And lest I should grow wearisomely prosaic, and see the yawn
behind your white hand, _belle_ Beatrice, let me make my disquisition a
half story, and point my moral, not as fairies do, with a pinch, but
with the shadow of a tale.

And here, _signorina_, though in courage I am a Cæsar, here I shrink.
The birdseye view I would take of a few leaves of beau-dom, should be
from the standing point of your own unquiet, peering eyes; and if even
Cupid is blindfold, how may I, to whom you are all tormentingly
delicious enigmas, hope in my own unaided strength to enter the charmed
citadel of your experiences? Oh, no! But happy is the man, who, with an
inquiring mind, has also a sister! Thrice happy he whose sisters have
just now flitted down the staircase, from their own inner sanctuaries,
into the little library, bearing with them in noisy triumph the Harry of
all Goodfellows, the truant Henrietta Ruyter! Ah! she is the key that
will unlock for me those treasures of thought and observation that I
will shortly lay before you, O readers!

And now to you, O much-traduced star, that presided at my _début_ into
this vale of tears, may the most glorious rocket ascend that Jackson
ever said or sung, one that shall break out in pæans of brilliant
stars!--_for_, when I entered the charmed presence, the very ball that I
had been wishing to roll was upon the carpet. But of this I was
unconscious as I admired Fanny's new dress, the mysterious earrings of
our stately Bertha, and ventured upon a slight compliment to Henrietta,
who lounged upon the divan. With admirable dexterity, the young lady
caught the _fleurette_ upon her crochet needle, reviewed it carelessly,
and finally decided to accept it; an event that I had undoubtedly
foreseen, for the compliment was a graceful and artistic one. But
brothers, as you, Gustav, my boy, have long since discovered, are not
events, and I was presently consigned to the 'elephant chair' in the
corner, with a portfolio of sketches that Henrietta had brought from
over the sea--and the dames continued, in charming obliviousness of my
presence.

'Girls,' said Henrietta, having deposited my compliment snugly in her
little workbasket, whence it may issue to the delectation of some future
young lady group, 'how are you going to entertain me? Such a Wandering
Jew as I am! A perfect Ahasuerus! _What_ a novelty it will be that will
interest _me_!' and with a most laughingly wearied air, the pretty
eyebrows were raised, and waves of weariness floated over the golden
hair in its scarlet net.

Fanny looked concerned. 'We may have a week of opera.'

'I've been--in--Milan,' returned Henrietta, with a well-counterfeited
air of the disdain with which Mrs. De Lancy Stevens views all republican
institutions since her year in Europe. Bertha laughed.

'You have grown literary, astronomical perhaps, with your star gazing,
and Len has become such a Mitchellite of late, that two shelves of his
bookcase are filled with works on the heavenly bodies. What a rapture
you will be in at the sight!'

'Quite an Aquinas,' said Henrietta, with gravity.

'How so, Harry,' asked Fanny, after a pause, during which she had been
deciding that her friend meant--Galileo!

'Oh, he wrote about angels, you know; said these heavenly bodies were
made of thick clouds, and some other nonsense, of which I remember
nothing.'

I, in my corner, was devoutly thankful that angels now assume more
tangible shapes, which chivalric sentiment, finding expression only in
my eyes, was recognized but by Henrietta, who rewarded me with a
lightning smile.

'Bertha, my queen,' continued she, as that lady's serene countenance
beamed upon her in apparently immovable calmness, '_does_ anything ever
arouse you? Have you forgotten, my impenetrable spirit, the sad days of
yore, when we sobbed out grand _arias_ to the wretched accompaniment of
Professor Tirili, blistered our young fingers on guitar strings, waded
unprofitably in oceans of Locke and Bacon, and were oftener at the apex
of a triangle than its comfortable base? And you always as calm as
though 'sailing over summer seas!' Come--I am absolutely blue;' and the
half-fretful belle, who had really exhausted her strength and amiability
by a grand pedestrian tour in the Central Park that morning, stretched
out demurely her gaiter boots, and drew with an invisible pencil on
imaginary paper, the outline of her boldly arched instep.

'If Landon would only come,' sighed Fanny, musingly, counting the beads
for the eye of the Polyphemus she was embroidering on a cushion for that
gentleman's sofa meditations, 'he would entertain you, as well as
the--one--two--three--witches in Macbeth.'

'No doubt of it,' said Henrietta.

'Five blues and two blacks,' said Fanny, not heeding the reply. 'See,
girls,' and she held up the glittering orb, 'what a lovely eye!'

The enthusiasm of her audience was delirious but subdued. I caught an
occasional '_Such_ a love!' 'How sweet--how fierce!'

'Now,' said Henrietta, decidedly, 'if Medusa had but one eye, and this
dear creature two, I should die as miserably as the lady who loved the
Apollo Belvidere. I have had _oceans_ of knights errant--but _such_! I
think of writing a natural history like--Cuvier.'

'Yes,' said Bertha, quietly, 'or Peter Parley.'

'Suppose I read you the advance sheets some morning?'

'Charming,' said Fanny, with a little shrug of approaching delight.

'Mr. Landon Snowe, Miss Fanny,' said a crusty voice, and from under a
tower of white turban, Sibyl's face looked out--at the door.

'We will see him here, Sibyl,' said Fanny, brightly; 'and oh, Sibyl, ask
Mott to make a macaroon custard for dinner, for Miss Ruyter.'

'Excellent,' said that lady, again with the De Lancy Stevens air, 'I
ate--those--in--Paris. They actually flavor them there with _Haut
Brion!_ and they are delicious!' and Henrietta's lips fairly quivered at
the remembrance, that was by no means a recollection of the long-ago
enjoyed dainties.

'Such extravagance!' said Fanny, opening her eyes, and arranging sundry
little points in her attitude that were intended to be very piercing
indeed to the gentleman, whose step was now heard in the hall. 'Such
extravagance, Harry! Your father, I suppose. You'll get nothing better
than Port here. Good morning, Mr. Snowe.'

'Talking of ports, ladies,' said that gentleman, airily, after he had
prostrated himself, figuratively as well as disfiguratively, before Miss
Henrietta, bowed over Bertha's hand, and drew his chair to Fanny's
sewing stand, for the triple purpose of confusing her zephyrs, flirting
at a side table, and ascertaining whether Henrietta had fulfilled the
luxuriant promise of her earlier youth. Snowe was, womanly speaking, as
you will see, 'a perfect love of a man.' 'Newport, for example, and
charming drives? Williamsport and the Susquehanna, Miss Fanny?'

Very statesmanly, O Landon G. Snowe, Esq., both the glance beneath which
my poor little sister's eyes fell, and the allusions twain to the scenes
of many a pleasure past. But Fanny, though not mistress of her blushes,
can, at least, control her words.

'You are not a very good Oedipus, Mr. Snowe; we were discussing
imports.'

'Such as laces and silks?'--

'And punch,' suggested Henrietta.

Mr. Snowe's eyeglass was here freshly adjusted, and his attention
bestowed upon the young lady who talked of punch, a thing unheard of in
society! The prospect was refreshing. Henrietta was stylish, piquant,
and pretty. Fanny was uncertain, indifferent, but, for the moment,
divine. He magnanimously sacrificed himself to the impulse of the
moment, and the courtesies of hospitality, and walked courageously over
to Henrietta, under cover of a huge book.

'They were views from the White Mountains, he believed. Had Miss Ruyter
seen them? Allow him;' and he wheeled her sofa nearer the table, and
unfurled the book. Henrietta was charmed.

'The Schwartz Mountains? She had not understood. These are glaciers? How
they glisten! And these little flowers below are violets? Such pretty,
modest, ladylike flowers. Had Mr. Snowe a favorite among flowers?'

Mr. Snowe was prepared. He had answered the question exactly five
hundred and ten times. To Cecilia Lanner, who was almost a _religieuse_,
and who wore her diamond cross from principle, he was the very poet of a
passion flower, such holy mysteries as its opening petals disclosed to
him! To Lucy Grey, who wore pensive curls, and had a sweet voice, he
presented constantly fragrant little sprays of mignonette, cunning moss
baskets with a suspicion of heliotrope peeping out, and crushed myrtle
blossoms between the leaves of her most exquisitely bound books. To Katy
Lessing, who rowed a small green boat somewhere up the Hudson in the
summer, he confided the fact that water lilies were his admiration: he
loved the limpid water; its restless waves were like heart throbbings
(this nearly overwhelmed poor Katy). All great and noble souls loved the
water;--he forgot the sacred fakirs, and the noble lord who preferred
Malmsey wine! He had repeatedly assured Regina Ward that the camelia was
_his_ flower, so proudly beautiful! His soul was 'permeated with
loveliness,' and asked no fragrance. Regina is a great white creature,
lovely to behold, and, perfectly conscious of her perfection, no more
actively charming than the Ino of Foley. He won Milly White's favor by
applauding her love for wild flowers, declaring that a field of
buttercups reminded him of the 'spangled heavens,' and that on summer
days he was constantly envying the cool little Jacks in their green
pulpits.

A pretended Lavater--and there have been such--would have convicted
Snowe at once of the most artful penetration, could he have seen the
lowering curve of his brows as he watched the nervous fluttering of
Henrietta's hands over the pictures, and the decided but softly pleasant
rounding of her white chin. But it was the general unconsciously
powerful indifference of manner, that advised him to prefer, in reply to
her question:

'The snapdragon, yes, beyond the shadow of a doubt. I have an odd
fashion (very odd, Gustav!), Miss Ruyter, of associating ladies with
flowers, and that gorgeous three-bird snapdragon always looks to me like
some brilliant belle, who holds her glittering sceptre and wields it,
capriciously perhaps, but always charmingly.'

'A sort of Helen,' observed Henrietta, calmly.

'A witching, arbitrary, lovely Helen,' promptly returned Snowe, who had
a vague idea of Greek helmets and golden apples, wooden horses, a great
war, and 'all for love.'

Henrietta heard the magnificent vagueness, and became so intently
interested in a view, that Snowe came softly over to my window, and
looked into the garden. Lilly Brennan coming in just then, the
conversation became general, and presently Snowe accompanied her down
the street.

'Fanny,' said Henrietta, with an inquisitorial air, after the girls had
decided that the slides on the bows of Lilly's dress were too small, and
that her 'Bird of Paradise' was lovely enough to fly away with them all,
'Fanny, are you the 'bright, particular star' of that man?'

'I believe so,' said Fanny, with a stare.

'Do you intend to beam on him for any length of time?' persisted
Henrietta.

'I haven't decided,' said Fan, honestly. 'I love beauty, and Landon
Snowe is magnificent.'

'So is the Venus de Medicis,' said Henrietta, fiercely; 'but look at her
spine! What sort of a brain do you think _could_ flourish at the top of
such a spine? Not that I suppose that man to have the least fragment of
one; don't suspect such a thing! Don't you observe his weak, disjointed
way of carrying his head, and the Pisan appearance of his sentences? I
should dread an earthquake for such a man as Mr. Snowe--you'd have
nothing but remnants to remember him by, Fanny.'

'But earthquakes _are_ phenomena,' said Fanny, stoutly, 'and I'm not in
the least like one. As long as Landon never fails except spiritually, I
am contented--and even in that light _I_ never knew him to trip,' and
the child was as indignant as her indolent nature would permit.

'Trip! of course not,' echoed Henrietta, 'when he's buried like a
delicate Sphinx up to his shoulders in the sands of your good opinion,
and the mummy cloths of his own conceit; but just remove these, and
you'll see a downfall. My dear FRANCESCA, this man is your CECCO, and
he'd far better retire into a monastery than hope to win you. Why, I'd
rather marry you myself, FRANCESCA! Such charms!' and Henrietta, with
her own delicate perception and enjoyment of the beautiful, kissed my
sister's deprecatingly extended hand, and, as the dinner bell rang,
waltzed her out of the room.

'It's perfectly bewildering the interest some people take in music,' she
resumed later, building a little tent on the side of her plate with the
_débris_ of fish. 'There's Bartlett Browning, telling me the other
evening a melancholy story of some melodious fishes, off the coast
of--_Weiss nicht wo_; oysters, I suppose; conceive of it! the most
phlegmatic of creatures. I suppose some poor fisherman heard a merlady
singing in her green halls, and fancied it the death song of some of his
shells. But that's nothing to some of Bartlett Browning's musical tales.
The man's a perfect B flat himself!'

'Well,' said Nelly, Phil's little girl, who had come around to show her
new velvet basque, 'but shells _do_ sing, for I've often listened to
mamma's, and Bessy gives it to me at night to put me to sleep. _You_
know, Aunt Bertie, for you once made me learn what it said:

  'Oh, sweet and far, from cliff and scar,
    The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!'

'Fish-land, my beauty,' said Henrietta, playfully; 'let us hear _your_
song, fishlet,' and she held a little gleaming shrimp by his tail, and
looked expectantly at his silent mouth. And here I remember, with a
smile of amusement and some astonishment, that Herman Melville, in
nervous fear of ridicule, apologized, most gracefully, of course, for
his beauteous Fayaway's primitive mode of carving a fish; but I fancy I
hear myself, or you either, sir, begging the community to shut its dear
eyes, while Harry's little victim, all unconscious of his fate,
disappeared behind the walls, coral and white, of her lips and teeth.

Oh, isn't it perfectly delicious to meet a real, frank, merry, wise sort
of a girl, who doesn't wear spectacles or blue stockings, nor disdain
the Lancers or a new frock with nineteen flounces? Just fancy it,
Gustav, my dear fellow, chatting with the Venus of Milo, in a New York
dining room, and she all done up in blue poplin, with cords and tassels
and all that, with that lovely hair tumbling about in a scarlet net, and
such a splendid enjoyment of her own great grace, and royal claiming of
homage! Eating mashed potatoes too, and celery, and roast beef, to keep
up that magnificent physique of hers! Oh, it's rare!

But Henrietta couldn't forget Snowe, any more than Snowe could forget
himself; so, after she had gazed with delight at the red veins of wine
that threaded the jelly-like custard, with its imprisoned macaroons,
looking like gold fish asleep in a globe of sun-dyed water, she went on,
as if the conversation had not been interrupted:

'Do you know, Fan, that he reminds me constantly of champagne. If
there's anything on earth or in a cellar that I do detest, its
champagne; such smiling, brilliant-looking impudence, that comes out
fizz--bang! and that's the end of it; there's not so much as the quaver
of an echo. You drink it, and instead of seeing cool vineyards and
purple waters and cataracts of icicles in your glass, you find a pale,
gaunt spectre, or a poor, half-drowned Bacchus, staring at you. It's
just so with your Landon Snowe. You, and other people, too, have a
_habit_ of admiring him, a great creature with eyes of milky blue, who
goes about disbursing his small coin like some old Aladdin! Why, my dear
children, the man, I don't doubt, is this moment congratulating himself,
in his solitude at Delmonico's, upon his great penetration. Didn't you
see him studying me with a great flourish of deference, and throwing
his old, three-birded snapdragons into my White Mountains? If he had
been as ugly as a Scarron, now, and had known what he said, I could have
loved him for that, for, of all things, I do delight in dragons! Such
sieges as I have had at zoological gardens and menageries, from Dan to
Beersheba, just to see one; and ugly old lizards have been pointed out
to me, and scorpions, and every imaginable object but a dragon. But one
day I dug a splendid old manuscript--a perfect fossil--out of some old
library in Spezia, and opening it, by the merest chance came upon a most
lovely, illuminated, full-grown dragon, the very one, I suppose, that
Confucius couldn't find! I gazed in raptures, my dearest; he perfectly
sparkled with emeralds; his eyes were the most luminous opals. Dear,
happy old Indians, who had their dragons at the four corners of the
earth, and could go and look over at the lordly creatures whenever they
felt melancholy. And besides, I have a little private system of
dragonology of my own, that approaches the equator more nearly. I've
always worn opals since that day on every possible occasion; I mean to
be married in them.'

Hurra! _belle Henriette!_ thou hast a weakness. At the end of a long
aisle, shrouded in sumptuously colored perfumed light, stands an altar,
and white surplices gleam through the effulgence.--Thou queen! and that
thy crowning!

'Len,' said Fanny the next morning, as I sat, after breakfast, over the
paper, 'don't you think Harry is a little, just a little, satirical,
and--well--not _perfectly_ ladylike and kind, to talk so dreadfully of
one's friends?'

'Satirical!? Bless your little, tender heart, not the least mite in the
world; she's quite too straightforward for that. Unladylike! Why, my
dear Fanny, don't you know 'the wounds of a friend'? Did you never
think, little sister, that some girls are sent into the world to perform
the office of crumb-scrapers for your serene highnesses, and themselves
as well?'

'Like a lady, who gives a dinner party, jumping up and brushing off her
own table,' said Fanny with an amused laugh.

'Just so, dear; and as they go wandering about, not a fragment can be
omitted. Now, a little dwarf of a thing like you couldn't do that with
any grace; but Harry _could_, you know, and make everybody think it was
charming. So, if fragments of poor Snowe fall under her unsparing hand,
and she brushes them off carelessly, don't let anybody's tears go
rolling after, don't let anybody's heart ache, for such a trifle; think
of the dessert, Fanny, that is sure to follow.'

'Then you too, Len, you _want_ me to give up Landon?'

'Yes, my dear, let Landon--slide.'

Fanny here boxed my ears with emphasis, and retreated, with an
expression of great disgust on her pretty face.

'Come back here, my child,' I said, pulling her down on my knee, 'and
let me reason with you.'

Such an oracle as I am with the girls! There's nothing like it, Gustav;
for every fan or bracelet you give your sisters, you'll be amply
rewarded by revelations and love; and it's something to have a dear,
white, undulating wreath of a girl in your arms, and rosy lips on yours,
even if it is your sister. Bless the sweet creatures!

'What do you want to marry Snowe for?'

'Well, you see, Len, it's so grand to have such a great beauty always at
one's hand, and the girls are all dying for him; and, you know, Len, the
truth is,' (very low,) 'he loves me, as you see, and--we girls are such
silly creatures--and I suppose the compliment pleases me,' and the
frank, darling face crimsoned, and tears stood in the blue eyes. I
kissed them both, and laid her hands on my shoulders.

'Pet,' I said, earnestly, 'you are worth a gross of Landon Snowes. He
loves you, of course--he'd have been an icicle to have failed in so
obvious a duty; but it's only a matter of pure admiration, scarcely of
any complicated feelings. Besides, dear, these whitewashed, sinewless,
variable fellows fade like the winter sun, without any twilight; their
features go wandering off in search of becoming expressions, and they
would want a wife like a chameleon to satiate their variety-loving
natures. No, dear; give Landon to Henrietta, and when Napoleon comes
back, I will enter no protest, even Harry will be silent, and'--

'Oh, Len, what nonsense! couldn't you recommend me to the man in the
moon, through a telescope?'

Fanny laughed, and we went again into the library, where Harry, as
usual, was tapping her rings with the carved handle of the crotchet
needle, that was as ornamental, and about as useful, as Cleopatra's.

'I am going to live in a new country,' said she, gravely, as we entered
the room; 'I would go sailing off like a squirrel on a piece of bark. I
begin to have intense yearnings after my double. _Where_ do you suppose
I'm to find him, the gorgeous, tropical anomaly?'

'In Pompeii, or the Cities of the Plain?' I suggested.

'Fanny,' she continued, laughingly, 'is very grave about her vanishing
Snowe-flakes; but for poor me, who have been persecuted by the most
distressing men, she has no pity. Girls, I promised you an inventory of
these treasures.'

'Oh yes,' said Fan, gleefully; 'go out, Len, or you will never be able
to endure Harry afterward, for your counterpart will be peeping out, and
then woe to your pride!'

'No danger,' said Henrietta, '_that's_ perfectly invulnerable. Lenox may
remain; it will be a wholesome discipline for him--a warning, you know,
my hero; although, girls, Lenox is tolerably faultless,

  'Little _he_ loves but a Frau or a feast,
   Little he fears but a protest or priest.'

Praed altered. Sit down, disciple, at my feet if you will; I am in the
oratorical mood to-day. Hypatia, if you please, _not_ Grace the Less.'

There was a pretty picture of the _Immaculée Conception_ over the sofa,
one of those lithographs that you see in every bookstore, that Bertha
fancied because it was 'sweet.' The Virgin, a woman with a child-angel's
face, and the mezzo-luna beneath her feet. That artist knew what he was
about, sir. I'd give more for a picture with a good, deep idea, boldly
launched forth, than for a thousand of your smiling, proper, natural
'studies,' and Bridal Scenes, and Dramatic or Historical Snatches. If
artists, now, were all poets and scholars, as they should be, it would
be the work and delirious rapture of a life to go through a gallery as
large as our Dusseldorf. Men would go there to write novels and
histories, and women to learn to be good and beautiful--that is, to
learn to think. Oh, what a school for great and small! But when is this
new era of the real and the true in art to begin? You boy artists, who
are just opening glad eyes to the glorious light, the great world looks
to _you_ to inaugurate the new, to pour ancient lore and mystic symbols
and grand old art into the waiting crucible, and melt the whole, with
your burning, creative genius, into forms and conceptions before which,
hearts shall be silent in very rapture. But the time is not yet. One
here and there cannot change the Iron to a Golden Age, and it is to
thoughts rather than their great embodiments that earnest
art-worshippers now bow. And yet men fancy they are artists, dream of a
fame glorious as that of Phidias! Why there's young Acajou, who
chiselled a very respectable hound out of a stray lump of marble,
stealthily, by a candle, or more probably a spirit lamp, in his father's
cellar--was discovered and straightway heroized. I don't say the boy
hasn't talent, genius if you will; but it isn't the genius that will
overflow his soul and etherealize his whole nature. Yet already he
'progresses like a giantess,' has attracted some attention in the
Academy, and will directly be sent to Rome. But the idea! I know him too
well! The other night I heard him criticizing Michael Angelo! and when I
gave him an engraving of that delicious Psyche of Theed's to admire, the
creature talked as if she were a manikin or a robed skeleton! Is there
nothing due to the idea, Acajou? 'The idea!' dear me, why he didn't
exactly know what the _idea_ was! So he'll go trolling about the Louvre
and the Luxembourg gallery, the Pitti palace and all Rome, and his mind
will be as full of elbows and collar bones as the catacombs; he'll talk
to you of the Grecian line of beauty and of 'pose,' and sketch you such
a glorious arm or ankle that you, fair lady, wouldn't know it from your
own! But do you see a single softened line in his own face? Has he ever
drunk deep draughts from old fountains of poesy? Has he ever thought of
the Vatican library--even though to long is all he may do? Oh no! He
says mythology is a wornout dream, and insulting to a Christian age;
that it's all well enough to know Jupiter and Bacchus (Silenus too?) and
Venus and the head men back there, but this century wants originality,
progress! Oh, pshaw!

Oh, but I was saying that Our Lady stood over the half moon, and
Henrietta sat below it, with that soft cashmere morning dress, fighting
all around her to see which fold should cling most lovingly to her
graceful form. It was all a delicious poem to me, and if I were Horace,
you would have had a splendid ode. Oh, well!

'Why, what a Joseph he is!' said Henrietta, waking me out of this
reverie.

'Oh,' said I, starting, 'how did you know that?'

'Only conjecture, my dear friend; but when we see a man with his eyes
fixed in that ghostly way, and his mustaches and all in perfect repose,
we reasonably imagine that he's seeing visions; and I suppose you'll
come flaming out presently with some dreams that shall have, for remote
consequences, a throne in some Eastern paradise, and a princess,
perhaps--who knows?'

'Who knows?' echoed I; 'but go on, Hypatia.'

'Oh yes! where shall I begin? Oh! there is Penhurst Lane, girls, you
remember?'

'The raven?' said Bertha.

'No,' said Fanny, 'that is Mr. Rawdon. Penhurst Lane is an idealist.'

'A _very_ idealist, just so,' returned Harry. 'Well, the way I've been a
martyr to that man's caprice is perfectly heart-rending. He came of some
gorgeous family in the middle of Pennsylvania, where all the tribes,
like leaning towers, incline toward Germany. To be sure, you'd never
dream it from his looks, for he is a perfect Mark Antony in that
respect. You needn't laugh. Didn't he have _bonnes fortunes_ as well as
Alcibiades? Not that Penhurst had _bonnes fortunes_, or ever dreamed of
such things; but he always had such a proclivity toward any one who
would listen to his harangues; and I must say, just _inter nos_ (the
only bit of Latin I know, Lenox, I got it from the English 'Don
Giovanni'), that I have quite a talent for listening well. But I'd as
lief encounter a West India hurricane or a simoom. I used to feel him
coming an hour beforehand. Then I would read a little in Blair, take a
peep at Sir Charles Grandison, swallow half a page of Cowper's 'Task,'
and look over the Grecian and Roman heroes; then I was fortified. 'Why
didn't I take Shelley?' Oh my! why, he couldn't endure Shelley, said he
was a poor, weak creature, _all gone to imagination_! Then I would
assume a Sontag and thick boots, if the weather was cold, to appear
sensible, you know, and await his coming; that is, if I didn't become
exasperated before that stage, and rush in to see Lil Brennan to avoid
him. And his opinions, such an unfolding! You never caught him looking
with admiration, oh no! I might have laid a wilderness of charms on the
floor, at his very feet, and he would have brushed them all away with
indifference. His mind revolved around a weightier theme than any 'lady
of fashion;' like a newly discovered moon, he flew around the earth, and
with miraculous speed. He stopped in China to say 'Confucius;' in India,
to say 'Brahma;' in Persia, to say 'Ormuzd;' and so on around. My dear
Lenox, if you had asked him whether Ormuzd was at peace with all the
world, he would have retired into himself, for he hadn't the faintest
idea. As for music, or any fine art, he never approached it but once,
when he led me to the piano, begging for some native American melody,
and not a German romance. Well, I played him 'God save the Queen,' with
extravagant variations, which he took for 'Yankee Doodle.' No matter! I
made a mistake when I spoke of his opinions; he hadn't any. He was what
some call 'well read,' that is, he had a distant desire to 'improve his
mind,' but his magnificent self so filled his little vision, that his
great desire was obscured and distorted. Like my beloved Jean Paul, he
had once said to himself, _Ich bin ein Ich_ (I am a ME), and the noble
consciousness overwhelmed him, and excluded all after thoughts on any
minor subject. He never heard Grisi, never saw Rachel; they were
triflers, 'life was too grave, too short;' but he escorted me
occasionally to lectures and orations. I remember two or three of these.
A lecture on the 'Fossils of Humanity and Primeval Formations,' which
was unintelligible, consequently to him 'sublime;' one on 'the Exalted,'
that soared out of sight and beyond the empire of gravity, and one on
'Architecture,' by Dr. Vinton, a splendid production, the fruit and
evidence of years of study and rare talent, that sent me home with
longings and unaccustomed reverence for the Great in every form, and
with grief that my own ignorance rendered it only a half-enjoyed
pleasure to me; while Penhurst talked as if it were only the echo of his
own thoughts; pretended to say it was very 'sensible!' But you've had
enough of Mr. Lane, who was never known to laugh except at his own wit,
who patronized me because I was a 'solid' young lady, and not given to
flights. You may readily imagine that our interviews were generally
_tête-à-têtes_, for general society was to him a thing 'stale, flat, and
unprofitable.' Of course you know I only endured his visits because
among the girls it was considered a compliment to receive them, and they
were all dying of envy. Besides and principally, it is neither politic
nor pleasant to offend any one, and I could not have denied myself to
him, without doing this; so'--

'But, Harry, he is married now.'

'Ah me! yes. He saw me in a cap and bells once with you, Lenox, and not
many weeks afterward married a damsel who reveres him as a Solon, this
man, who said:

         ----'The wanderings
  Of this most intricate Universe
  Teach me the nothingness of things.
  Yet could not all creation pierce
  Beyond the bottom of his eye.'

'_Are_ you done, Harry?'

'Yes, Lenox.'

'Then sing us Béranger's _Grace à la fêve, je suis roi_.'

She has such a delicious voice.

'And while I am on tiresome people, who think only of themselves, let me
recall P. George Rawdon; the Raven, Bertha; I always believed his first
name was Pluto, because of the shades around him. They say every one has
a text book; his was neither the Bible, the Prayer Book, Thomas à
Kempis, _La Nouvelle Héloise_, or 'Queechy,' but Mrs. Crowe's 'Night
Side of Nature.' Talk of having a skeleton in the house! the most
distressing ones that ever preceded Douglas and Sherwood's were nothing
to him! he reminded one constantly of an Egyptian feast. He looked
sadly at children, and gave little Henry Parsons, his godchild, a
miniature dagger with a jewelled handle, with which the child nearly
destroyed his right hand. When poor Mary was married, he walked
mournfully up to the altar, and stared during the ceremony unmistakably
at an imaginary coffin, hanging, like Mohammed's, midway between the
ceiling and the floor. Poor man, it's really curious, but he contrives
to be always in mourning, and everybody knows that he goes only to see
tragedies, and has the dyspepsia, like Regina and her diamond cross,
from principle. He composes epitaphs for all the ladies of his
acquaintance, and presents them, like newspaper-carrier addresses, on
New Year's days. I have one in my writing desk in a very secret drawer;
a _soul_-cheering effusion, but not particularly agreeable to the
physical humanity. This I intend to bequeath to the British museum,
where it will be in future ages as great a treat to the antiquary as the
Elgin marbles. What a doleful subject--pass him by!'

'Don't forget Leon Channing,' suggested Fanny, who was listening with
great interest, and from a natural dread of ghosts and vampires was glad
to see that Mr. Rawdon had come to a crisis.

'Dear me, no!' said Henrietta, cheerily, 'it's quite refreshing to come
to an individual who creates a smile. I never was born for tears and
lamentations, Bertha, any more than a lily was made to be merry; and if
it were not for Len Channing, I don't suppose I should ever have been
sharpened to such a dangerous degree; it's this constant friction, you
know; well, as some darling of a cosmopolite has said, 'We must allow
for friction in the most perfect machinery--yes, be glad to find it--for
a certain degree of resistance is essential to strength. I like Leon
very well. No one is more safe in a parlor engagement, always in the
right place at the right tune, never embarrassed, never _de trop_; but
then the queer consciousness, when he's giving you a meringué or an ice,
that if you were a 'real pretty,' graceful, conversible fawn or dove he
would be doing it with the same interest! _Why?_ Oh, because he says
women belong to a lower order in the animal creation! Yes, veil your
face, Mr. Lenox Raleigh, and be mournful that you are a man! 'A lower
order of humanity!' Well, of course, I'm always quarrelling with him. To
be sure he's a shallow kind of a philosopher, one of your rationalists;
thinks Boston is the linchpin of the whole universe; has autograph
letters from Emerson and Longfellow, and all that sort of thing. Now, I
dare say it's very fine for a Schelling or a Hegel once in a while to
beam over the earth, but it always seems inharmonious to me to see
little jets of philosophers popping up in your face and then down again,
all the time, thinking themselves great things. That's the way with
Leon. Let me tell you what happened when I saw him last; and that was in
Cologne, more than a year ago. I was sitting in our room with a great
folio of Retzsch's engravings before me, and father writing horrible
notes in his journal at the table, and wishing the eleven thousand
virgins and all Cologne in the bottom of the Rhine, when I looked up,
and somehow there was Leon. Of course we were rejoiced to see him, it's
always so pleasant to meet friends abroad. After some talk, father went
out to take another look at the cathedral, and indulge in speculations
and legends, and left Leon and me in the window. It's as queer and
horrible an old town, girls, as you ever dreamed of, and, as there was
nothing external very fascinating, Leon soon turned his gaze inward,
and, after twanging several minor strings, began to harp on his endless
'inferiority of woman.' I plied him, you may know; I gave him Zenobias
and Didos and de Staels and de Medicis--in an emergency Pope Joan, and
finally the Boston Margaret Fuller. Leon only stroked his beard and
smiled.

''Miss Henrietta,' said he, at last, when I stopped in exultation, 'do
you grant the Africans the vigor or variety of intellect of the
Europeans?'

''No,' said I.

''Yet you concede that there may be instances among them, where
education and culture have developed great results.'

''Yes,' I thought, 'there might be.'

''Just as I, bewildered by Miss Henrietta's keen shafts and graceful
manoeuvres, yield that a woman is, once in a century, gifted with a
man's depth of thought and her sex's loveliness.' The comparison was
odious. What did I do? Oh, I (the swarthy Ethiop) only rose from my
faded arm chair, saluted Mr. Channing (the lordly European) as if I were
his partner in a quadrille, and brought out my cameos and mosaics to
show him. In about half an hour the beauty of his reasoning and
comparison reached his brain, but mine was impenetrable to his most
honeyed apologies; as I very sweetly assured him, 'I couldn't
understand, didn't see the drift, couldn't connect the links.' Leon says
ancient history is a fable, and Herodotus a myth, and all because a
_woman_ sat upon the tripod at Delphi, and because a _woman_ wore the
helmet and carried the shield of wisdom.'

'What's the matter, Harry?' asked Fanny, compassionately, as her small
fingers were stretched like infant grid-irons before her eyes, and a
silence ensued.

'My new bonnet, Fanny dear, I am wondering what it shall be; we must go
down this very morning and decide.'

Did you ever think, Narcissus, and you, Gustav, and all of you boys,
when you are engaged in your small diplomacies and _coups de main_, and
feeling like giants in intellect beside the dear little girls who play
polkas for you of evenings and sing sweet ballads, that _pour bien juger
les grands, il faut les approcher_? I thought so that morning, as I
heard the animated discussion that succeeded Henrietta's monologue; a
discussion into which all sorts of delicate conceits of lace and flowers
entered largely, and which savored about as much of the preceding
elements as last night's Charlotte Russe of this morning's coffee.

Since Henrietta's oration, I am more than ever afraid of a Vulcan. It is
very plain that our most fashionably cut suits and most delicately
perfumed billets are not all powerful,--that the dear creatures are
either waking or we have been asleep. _Reveillons!_

'_Aux armes, citoyens!_'

Now, while I was writing that last word, a heavy hand was laid on my
shoulder, and looking up, I saw--Nap. I love Nap. I have a girlish
weakness (let some lady arraign me for this hereafter) for him; so I
shouted out and grasped his hands.

'How are the boys?'

'Flourishing. Come to stay?

'Yes, old fellow.'

'Stocks up?'

'To the sky.'

'The governor?'

'All right.'

_I_ haven't any governor. Nap has; and one that saw fit to persecute him
from twenty to thirty, because he declined to take 'orders.' _Per
Bacco!_ Never mind, a fit of paralysis has shaken the opposition out of
the old gentleman at last, and Nap is in sunshine in consequence, and
rushes around Wall street like a veteran.

But I didn't promise to tell you about Nap, or the girls either; it was
only a few rays of light I had to dash over 'our beaux;' so where is
your mother, belle Beatrice? I must make my adieux.

What say you, little one? You like Henrietta; you want to see her again?
You pull me back with your wee white hands; I will talk to you for an
hour longer, if I may hold the little kittens in my own. I may? And kiss
each finger afterward? Ah! you dear child! Well, then--

'Are you going to Van Wyck's to-night, Lenox?' asked Bertha of me, as we
rose from dinner, a month afterward.

'Yes, after the opera. And you? I fancy--yes--from your eyes.'

Bertha did not answer, and I strolled up stairs into the little back
drawing room. From the library above I could hear Fanny's merry voice
and the ring of Nap's cheery replies. Such a comfort as it was to me to
see those two so fond of each other. You see I am, in a way, Fanny's
father, and took no very great credit to myself when she half laid her
hand in the extended one of Snowe. How curiously that witch Harry
managed the thing, though! Dear little Fan; she stood in more than one
twilight by the garden window, and whispered over: '_Addio_, FRANCESCA!
_addio_, CECCO!' and Snowe faded in the returning spring of her heart,
and into the blooming vista of their separation, hopefully walked Nap,
and was welcomed with many smiles.

This afternoon, I walked over to the garden window, and there was Harry,
scrawling an old, bearded hermit on the glass with her diamond ring. We
both looked out--nothing much to see--a New York garden, thirty feet
square, with the usual gorgeousness of our winter flowers!

'You are thinking of Shiraz, Harry.'

'Yes,' said she, dreamily, 'I am thinking of Shiraz!'

She didn't say it, but don't you suppose I knew just as well that she
was wishing for her Vulcan and a great rose garden? I began to sing the
'Last Man,' but didn't succeed admirably; then I lighted my pipe--Harry
didn't mind, you know, indeed she only looked at it wishfully.

'In my rose garden,' said she, with a laugh, 'I shall smoke to kill the
rosebugs.'

'Don't wait,' said I, taking down a dainty _écume de mer_ (the back
drawing room was my peculiar 'study,' and the repository of several
gentlemanly 'improprieties'), and I adjusted the amber mouth piece to
the cherry stem, 'Don't wait for Persia, make your rose garden here.'

Harry shook her head: 'You know, Len,' she said, 'that my roses would
grow like so many witches in a Puritan soil. I always thought that story
of the Norwegians' taking rosebuds for bulbs of fire, and being
terrified, was a very delicate and poetical satire upon _all_
superstition.'

'Are you going to wash away _all_ superstition?' I asked hastily.

'No,' said she, with a smile at my fierceness; 'no, I like to see the
sun shine on the dew drops that the webs catch and swing between the
tops of the grasses.'

I looked at her as she laid her head back against the curtains. My
nonchalance was as striking as hers, and--as genuine! We were no
children to be awkward in any event. I took her hand; it was a glowing
pulse--and mine? She wore one of those curious little cabal rings; there
were the Hebrew characters for Faith, traced as with a gold pen dipped
in melted pearls on black enamel. My seal was an emerald, Faith also,
impaled. I snatched it up and laid it by the ring on her hand. She
smiled--such a smile! intensest sympathy, deepest! Could it be? to love
the same old symbols, the same weird music? I caught her close, and bent
over her lips. The gold hair waved over my shoulder; the great,
glittering eyes foamed into mine, then melted and swam into deep,
quivering seas of dreams. I whispered, '_Zoe mou!_' Oh, the quick,
golden whisper, the flash of genial heartiness, the daring--oh, _how_
tender! '_Sas agapo._' I held her off, radiant, glowing, fragrant, and
Bertha's dress rustled up the stairs.

Henrietta stooped to pick up the seal, which had fallen; she balanced it
on the tip of her finger--the nervy Titan queen! and drew Bertha down by
her side on the sofa. It was growing dark.

'I must be off, girls, and get your camelias. What will you have,
Bertha? a red or a white, you've a moment to decide?'

'Neither, Len; I do not go.'

'Why, Bertha? Oh! I remember, it is your anniversary,' and I kissed her.

'And you, princess!' I turned to Henrietta.

'Only roses, good my liege.'

What was the opera that night? Pshaw! what a rhetorical affectation this
question! as if I could ever forget! _Die Zauberflöte_, and it rang pure
and clear through my thrilled heart. It followed me around to Van
Wyck's, where I found Henrietta and Fanny. A compliment to madame, a
German with mademoiselle, and home again. A great light streamed out of
the drawing room. I pushed the door open. With a cry of joy, Fan rushed
into the arms of the grave, fair man who put Bertha off his knee to
welcome her. Nap, who had followed us in, for a moment stood transfixed,
and Henrietta, more quiet, stood by their side, saying: 'Here is Harry,
Fred, when you choose to see her.' And he did choose, her own brother,
whom she had not seen for three years!

'Come in, Nap,' I said. 'Fred Ruyter.'

'Nap and Fanny,' I whispered; Fred smiled invisibly.

And Bertha? Oh, you know, of course, that she's Bertha Ruyter, and that
Fred is her husband, just home from six months in Rio, and exactly a
year from his wedding night! Oh, Lionardo! what mellow, transparent,
flowing shades drowned us all that night!

'Harry,' I said, the next morning, before I went down town, as I lounged
over her sofa, 'you have my emerald?'

'Yes!' and her bright face turned up to mine.

'You will keep it, and take me also, dear?'

'_Ma foi! oui_,' was the sweet, smiling reply.

'I'm not quite ugly enough for a Vulcan, I know; but after a while, if
you are patient, who knows? What sayest thou, Venus?'

'I will try you, _bon camarade_.'

'Your hand upon it, Harry.'

She gave it; I kissed the gold hair that waved against my lips. Fanny
rushed impetuously upon us, with half-opened eyes, and stifled us with
caresses.

'Such a proposal,' said she musingly, after she had returned to her
wools and beads, '14° above zero!'

'And the Polyphemus, Fanny?'

'Is for Nap,' and Fanny blushed and laughed. She was wondering if that
great event, an 'engagement,' always came about in so prosaic a way. But
looking at Bertha, I caught the bright, long, gravely humorous gleam
from her dark eyes, and walked upon it all the way down to Exchange
Place.

Adieu, little Beatrice; my story hath at last an ending. Keep the little
hands and little heart warm for somebody brave by and by. Go shining
about and dancing, and smiling, Hummingbird; may sweetest flowers always
bloom around you; may you dwell in a fragrant rose garden of your own,
_mignonne_! Adieu.




ETHEL.

FITZ FASHION'S WIFE.


  Take the diamonds from my forehead--their chill weight but frets my brow!
  How they glitter! radiant, faultless--but they give no pleasure now.

  Once they might have saved a Poet, o'er whose bed the violet waves:
  Now their lustre chills my spirit, like the light from new-made graves.

  Quick! unbind the braided tresses of my coroneted hair!
  Let it fall in single ringlets such as I was wont to wear.

  Take that wreath of dewy violets, twine it round their golden flow;
  Let the perfumed purple blossoms fall upon my brow of snow!

  Simple flowers, ye gently lead me back into the sunny years,
  Ere I wore proud chains of diamonds, forged of bitter, frozen tears!

  Bring the silver mirror to me! I am changed since those bright days,
  When I lived with my sweet mother, and a Poet sang my praise.

  My blue eyes are larger, dimmer; thicker lashes veil their light;
  Upon my cheek the crimson rose fast is fading to the white.

  I am taller, statelier, slighter, than I was in days of yore:--
  If his eyes in heaven behold me, does he praise me as before?

  Proudly swells the silken rustle--all around is wealth and state,--
  Dearer far the early roses twining round the wicker gate,

  Where my mother came at evening with the saint-like forehead pale,
  And the Poet sat beside her, conning o'er his rhythmed tale.

  As he read the linked lines over, she would sanction, disapprove:
  Soft and musical the pages, but he never sang of love.

  I had lived through sixteen summers, he was only twenty-one,
  And we three still sat together at the hour of setting sun.

  Lowly was the forest cottage, but the sweetbrier wreathed it well;
  'Mid its violets and roses, bees and robins loved to dwell.

  Wilder forms of larch and hemlock climbed the mountain at its side;
  Fairy-like a rill came leaping where the quivering harebells sighed.

  Glittering, bounding, singing, dancing, ferns and mosses loved its track;
  Lower in it dipped the willows, as to kiss the cloudland's rack.

  Soon there came a stately lover,--praised my beauty, softly smiled:
  'He would make my mother happy,'--I was but a silly child!

  Came a dream of sudden power--fairest visions o'er me glide--
  Wider spheres would open for me;--dazzled, I became a bride:

  Fondly deemed my lonely mother would be freed from sordid care;
  Splendor I might pour around her, every joy with her might share.

  Then the Poet, who had never breathed one word of love to me,--
  We might shape his life-course for him, give him culture wide and free.

  How I longed to turn the pages, with a husband's hand as guide,
  Of the long-past golden ages, art and science at my side!

  To my simple fancy seemed it almost everything he knew--
  Ah! he might have won affection, faithful, fervent, trusting, true!

  I was happy, never dreaming wealth congeals the human soul,
  Freezing all its generous impulse--I but saw its wide control.

  Years have passed--a larger culture poured strange knowledge through
    my mind--
  I have learned to read man's nature: better I were ever blind!

  How can I take upon me what I look upon with scorn,
  Or learn to brook my own contempt, or trample the forlorn?

  I cannot live by rote and rule; I was not born a slave
  To narrow fancies; I must feel, although a husband rave!

  I cannot choose my friends because I know them rich, or great;
  My heart elects the noble,--what cares love for wealth or state?

  Very lovely are my pictures, saints and angels throng my hall--
  But with shame my cheek is flushing, and my quivering lashes fall:

  Can I gaze on pictured actions, daring deeds, and emprise high,
  And not feel my degradation while these fetters round me lie?

  Once the Poet came to see me, but it gave me nought but pain;
  I was glad to see the Gifted go, ne'er to return again.

  For my husband scorning told me: 'True, his lines were very sweet,
  But his clothes, so worn and seedy--scarce for me acquaintance meet!

  Artists, poets, men of genius, truly should be better paid,
  But not holding our position, cannot be our friends,' he said.

  'As gentlemen to meet them were a very curious thing;
  They were happier in their garrets--there let them sigh or sing.

  There were Travers and De Courcy--could he ask them home to dine,
  At the risk of meeting truly such strange fellows o'er their wine?'

  Then he said, 'My cheeks were peachy, lips were coral, curls were gold,
  But he liked them braided crown-like, and with pearls and diamonds
    rolled.

  I was once a little peasant; now I stood a jewelled queen--
  Fitter that a calmer presence in his stately wife were seen!'

  Then he gave a gorgeous card-case; set with rubies, Roman gold,
  Handed me a paper with it, strands of pearls around it rolled;

  Names of all his wife should visit I would find upon the roll:--
  Found I none I loved within it--not one friend upon the scroll!

  And my mother, God forgive me! I was glad to see her go,
  Ere the current of her loving heart had turned like mine to snow.

  Must I still seem fair and stately, choking down my bosom's strife,
  Because 'all deep emotions were unseemly in his wife'?

  Must I gasp 'neath diamonds' glitter--walk in lustrous silken sheen--
  Leaving those I love in anguish while I play some haughty scene?

  I am choking! closer round me crowds convention's stifling vault--
  Every meanness's called a virtue--every virtue deemed a fault!

  Every generous thought is scandal; every noble deed is crime;
  Every feeling's wrapped in fiction, and truth only lives in rhyme!

  No;--I am not fashion's minion,--I am not convention's slave!
  If 'obedience is for woman,' still she has a soul to save.

  Must I share their haughty falsehood, take my part in social guile,
  Cut my dearest friends, and stab them with a false, deceitful smile?

  Creeping like a serpent through me, faint, I feel a deadly chill,
  Freezing all the good within me, icy fetters chain my will.

  Do I grow like those around me? will I learn to bear my part
  In this glittering world of fashion, taming down a woman's heart?

  Must I lower to my husband? is it duty to abate
  All the higher instincts in me, till I grow his fitting mate?

  Shall I muse on noble pictures, turn the poet's stirring page,
  And grow base and mean in action, petty with a petty age?

  I am heart-sick, weary, weary! tell me not that this life,
  Where all that's truly living must be pruned by fashion's knife!--

  I can make my own existence--spurn his gifts, and use my hands,
  Though the senseless world of fashion for the deed my memory brands.

  Quick! unbraid the heavy tresses of my coroneted hair--
  Let its gold fall in _free_ ringlets such as I was wont to wear.

  I am going back to nature. I no more will school my heart
  To stifle its best feelings, play an idle puppet's part.

  I will seek my banished mother, nestle closely on her breast;
  Noble, faithful, kind, and loving, there the tortured one may rest.

  We will turn the Poets' pages, learn the noblest deeds to act,
  Till the fictions in their beauty shall be lived as simple fact.

  I will mould a living statue, make it generous, strong, and high,
  Humble, meek, self-abnegating, formed to meet the Master's eye.

  Oh, the glow of earnest culture! Oh, the joy of sacrifice!
  The delight to help another! o'er all selfish thoughts to rise!

  Farewell, cold and haughty splendor--how you chilled me when a bride!
  Hollow all your mental efforts; meanness all your dazzling pride!

  Put the diamonds in their caskets! pearls and rubies, place them there!
  I shall never sigh to wear them with the violets in my hair.

  Freedom! with no eye upon me freezing all my fiery soul;
  Free to follow nature's dictates; free from all save God's control.

  I am going to the cottage, with its windows small and low,
  Where the sweetbrier twines its roses and the Guelder rose its snow.

  I will climb the thymy mountains where the pines in sturdy might
  Follow nature's holy bidding, growing ever to the light;

  Tracking down the leaping streamlet till the willows on it rise,
  Watch its broad and faithful bosom strive to mirror back the skies.

  Through the wicker gate at evening with my mother I will come,
  With a little book, the Poet's, to read low at set of sun.

  'Tis a gloomy, broken record of a love poured forth in death,
  Generous, holy, and devoted, sung with panting, dying breath.

  By the grassy mound we'll read it where he calmly sleeps in God,--
  My gushing tears may stream above--they cannot pierce the sod!

  Hand in hand we'll sit together by the lowly mossy grave--
  Oh, God! I blazed with jewels, but the noble dared not save!

  I am going to the cottage, there to sculpture my own soul,
  Till it fill the high ideal of the Poet's glowing roll.

         *       *       *       *       *

  Stay, lovely dream! I waken! hear the clanking of my chain!
  Feel a hopeless vow is on me--I can ne'er be free again!

  His wife! I've sworn it truly! I must bear his freezing eye,
  Feel his blighting breath upon me while all nobler instincts die!

  Feel the Evil gain upon me as the weary moments glide,
  Till I hiss, a jewelled serpent, fit companion, at his side.

  Vain is struggle--vain is writhing--vain are sobs and stifled gasps--
  I must wear my brilliant fetters though my life-blood stain their clasps!

  Hark! he calls! tear out the violets! quick! the diamonds in my hair!
  There's a ball to-night at Travers'--'tis his will I should be there.

  Splendid victim in his pageant, though my tortured head should ache,
  Yet I must be brilliant, joyous, if my throbbing heart should break!

  I shudder! quick! my dress of rose, my tunic of point lace--
  If fine enough, he will not read the anguish in my face!

  I know one place he dare not look--it is so still and deep--
  He dare not lift the winding sheet that veils my last, long sleep!

  He dreads the dead! the coffin lid will shield me from his breath--
  His eye no more will torture----Joy! I shall be free in death!

  Free to rest beside the Poet. He will shun the lowly grave:
  There my mother soon will join us, and the violets o'er us wave.




THE SKEPTICS OF THE WAVERLEY NOVELS.


It is remarkable that while, in a republic, which is the mildest form of
government, respect for law and order are most highly developed, there
is in an aristocracy (which is always the most deeply based form of
tyranny) a constant revolt against all law. Puritanism in England,
Pietism in Germany, and Huguenotism in France, were all directly and
strongly republican and law-abiding in their social relations; while for
an example of the contrary we need only glance at our own South.
Aristocracy--a regularly ordered system of society into ranks--is the
dream of the slaveholder, and experience is showing us how extremely
difficult it is to uproot the power of a very few wicked men who have
fairly mudsilled the majority; and yet, despite this strength, there was
never yet a country claiming to be civilized, in which the wild caprices
and armed outrages of the individual were regarded with such toleration.

_Republicanism is Christian._ When will the world see this tremendous
truth as it should, and realize that as there is a present and a future,
so did the Saviour lay down one law whereby man might progress in this
life, and another for the attainment of happiness in the next, and that
the two are mutually sustaining? There was no real republicanism before
the Gospels, and there has been no real addition to the doctrine since.
The instant that religion or any great law of truth falls into the hands
of a high caste, and puts on its livery, it becomes--ridiculous. What
think you of a shepherd's crook of gold blazing with diamonds?

It is interesting to trace an excellent illustration of the natural
affinity between the fondness for feudalism and the love of law-breaking
in Sir WALTER SCOTT. Whatever his head and his natural common sense
dictated (and as he was a canny Scot and a shrewd observer, they
dictated many wise truths), his heart was always with the men of bow and
brand; with dashing robbers, moss troopers, duellists, wild-eagle
barons, wild-wolf borderers, and the whole farrago of autocratic
scoundrelism. With his soul devoted to dreams of feudalism, his fond
love of its romance was principally based on the constant infractions of
law and order to which a state of society must always be subject in
which certain men acquire power out of proportion to their integrity.
The result of this always is a lurking sympathy with rascality, a secret
relish for bold selfishness, which is in every community the deadliest
poison of the rights of the poor, and all the disinherited by fortune.

It is very remarkable that Walter Scott, a Tory to the soul, should, by
his apparently contradictory yet still most consistent love of the
_outré_, have had a keen amateur sympathy for outlaws. It is much more
remarkable, however, that, still retaining his faith in king and nobles,
Church and State, he should have pushed his appreciation of such men to
the degree of marvellously comprehending--nay, enjoying--certain types
of skepticism which sprang up in fiercest opposition to authority; urged
into existence by its abuses, as germs of plants have been thought to be
electrified into life by sharp blows. And it is most remarkable of all,
that he did this at a time when none among his English readers seem to
have had any comprehension whatever of these characters, or to have
surmised the fact that to merely understand and depict them, the writer
must have ventured into fearful depths of reflection and of study. In
treating these characters, Walter Scott seems to become positively
_subjective_--and I will venture to say that it is the only instance of
the slightest approach to anything of the kind to be found in all his
writings. Unlike Byron, who was painfully conscious, not of the nature
of his want in this respect, but of _something_ wanting, Scott nowhere
else betrays the slightest consciousness of his continual life under
limitations, when, _plump!_ we find him making a headlong leap right
into the very centre of that terrible pool whose waters feed the
forbidden-fruit tree of good and of evil.

The characters to which I particularly refer in Sir Walter Scott's
novels are those of the Templar, Brian de Bois Guilbert, in 'Ivanhoe;'
of the gypsy Hayraddin Maugrabin in 'Quentin Durward;' of Dryfesdale,
the steward, in 'The Abbot;' and of the 'leech' Henbane Dwining, in 'The
Fair Maid of Perth.' There are several others which more or less
resemble these, as, for instance, Ranald Mac Eagh, the Child of the
Mist, in 'Montrose,' and Rashleigh, in 'Rob Roy;' but the latter,
considered by themselves, are only partly developed. In fact, if Scott
had given to the world only _one_ of these outlaws of faith, there would
have been but little ground for inferring that his mind had ever taken
so daring a range as I venture to claim for him. It is in his constant,
wistful return, in one form or the other, to that terrible type of
humanity--the man who, as a matter of intensely sincere faith, has freed
himself from all adherence to the laws of man or GOD--that we find the
clue to the _real_ nature of the author's extraordinary sympathy for the
most daring, yet most subtle example of the law-breaker. In comparing
these characters carefully, we find that each by contrast appears far
more perfect than when separate--as the bone, which, however excellent
its state of preservation may be, never seems to the eye of the
physiologist so complete as when in its place in the complete skeleton.
And through this contrast we learn that Scott, having by sympathy and
historical-romantic study, comprehended the lost secret of all
_illuminée_ mysteries--that of human dependence on nought save the laws
of a mysterious and terrible Nature--could not refrain from ever and
anon whispering the royal secret, though it were only to the rustling
reeds and rushes of fashionable novels. Having learned, though in an
illegitimate way, that the friend of PAN, the great king of the golden
touch, had ass's ears, he _must_ tell it again, though in murmurs and
whispers:

             'Qui cum ne prodere visum
  Dedecus auderet, cupiens efferre sub auras,
  Nec posset reticere tamen, secedit, humumque
  Effodit: et domini quales aspexerit aures,
  Vox refert parva; terræque immurmurat haustæ.'[10]

It is to be remarked, in studying collectively these outlaws as set
forth by Scott, that while the same characteristic lies at the basis of
each, there is very great variety in its development, and that the
author seems to have striven to present it in as many widely differing
phases as he was capable of doing. When we reflect that Scott himself
could not be fairly said to be perfectly _at home_ in more than half a
dozen departments of history, and yet that he has taken pains to set
forth as many historical varieties of minds absolutely emancipated from
all faith, and finally, when we recall that at the time when he wrote,
the great proportion of the characteristics of these _dramatis personæ_
were utterly unappreciated, and that by even the learned they were
simply reviewed as 'infidels,' we cannot but smile at the care with
which (like the sculptor in the old story) he carved his images, and
buried them to be dug up at a future day by men who, as he possibly
hoped, would appreciate more fully than did his contemporaries his own
degree of forbidden knowledge. I certainly do not exaggerate the
importance of these characters when speaking in this manner. They could
not have been conceived without a very great expenditure of study and of
reflection. They are, as I said, subjective, and such portraits of
humanity always involve a vastly greater amount of penetrative and
long-continued thought, than do the mere historical and social
photographs which constitute the bulk of Scott's, as of all novels, and
form the favorites of the mass of readers for entertainment.

First among these characters, and most important as indicating direct
historical familiarity with the obscure subject of the Oriental heresies
of the Middle Ages in Europe, I would place that of the Templar, Brian
de Bois Guilbert, who is generally regarded by readers as simply 'a
horrid creature,' who chased 'that darling Rebecca' out of the window to
the verge of the parapet; or at best as a knightly ruffian, who, like
most ruffianly sinners, quieted conscience by stifling it with doubt.
Very different, however, did the Templar appear to Scott himself, who,
notwithstanding the poetic justice meted to the knight, evidently
sympathized in secret more warmly with him than with any other character
in the gorgeous company of 'Ivanhoe.' Among them all he is the only one
who fully and fairly appreciates the intellect of Rebecca, and, seen
from the stand-point of rigid historical probability which Scott would
not violate, _all allowance being made for what the Templar was_, he
appears by far the noblest and most intelligent of all the knightly
throng. I say that though a favorite, Scott would not to favor him,
violate historical probability. Why should he? It formed no part of his
plan to give the public of his day lessons in _illuminée_-ism. Had he
done so he would have failed like 'George Sand' in 'Consuelo;' but a
very small proportion indeed of whose readers retain a recollection of
the doctrines which it is the main object of the book to set forth. I
trust there is no slander in the remark, but I _must_ believe it to be
true until I see that the majority of the readers of that work have also
taken to zealously investigating the sources of that most forbidden
lore, which has most certainly this peculiarity, that no one can
_comprehend_ it ever so little without experiencing an insatiable,
never-resting desire to exhaust it, like everything which is prohibited.
There is no such thing as knowing it a little. As one of its sages said
of old, its knowledge rushes forth into infinite lands.

It was, I believe, some time before 'Ivanhoe' appeared, that Baron von
Hammer Purgstall had published his theory that the Knights Templars
were, although most unjustly treated, still guilty, in a certain sense,
of the extraordinary charges brought against them. It seems at least to
be tolerably certain that during their long residence in the East they
had acquired the Oriental secrets of initiation into societies which
taught the old serpent-lore of _eritis sicut Deus_, and positive
knowledge; the ultimate secret, being the absolute nothingness of all
faith, creeds, laws, ties, or rules to him who is capable of rising
above them and of drawing from Nature by an 'enlightened' study of her
laws the principles of action, of harmony with fellow men, and of
unlimited earthly enjoyment. Such had been for ages the last lessons of
all the 'mysteries' of the East--mysteries which it was the peculiar
destiny of the Hebrew race to resist through ages of struggle. It was
through the teaching of such mysteries of pantheistic naturalism that,
as the unflinching Jewish deists and anthropomorphists believed, man
fell, and their belief was set forth in their very first religious
tradition--the history of the apple, the serpent, and the Fall. And it
is to the very extraordinary nature of the Hebrew race, by which they
presented for the first time in history the spectacle of a people
resisting nature-worship, that they owe their claim to be a peculiar
people.

The Templars, under the glowing skies of the East, among its thousand
temptations, those of superior knowledge not being the least; in an age
when the absurdities of the Roman church were, to an enlightened mind,
at their absurdest pitch, fell readily into 'illumination.' Whether they
literally _worshipped_ the Oriental Baphomet, a figure with two heads,
male and female, girt with a serpent, typifying the completest
abnegation of all moral relations, and the rights of knowledge, no one
can say now--it is, however, significant that this symbol, which they
undoubtedly used, actually found its way under the freemasons into the
Christian churches of the West, as a type of 'prudence' among the
representations of Christian virtues. When we remember that the Gnostics
taught that _prudence_ alone was virtue,[11] we have here a coincidence
which sufficiently explains the meaning of this emblem of 'the baptism
of mind.'

Nothing is more likely than that a portion of the Knights Templars were
initiated in the mysteries of such Oriental sects as those of the _House
of Wisdom_ of Al Hakem, the seventh and last degree of which at first
'inculcated the vanity of all religion, and the indifference of actions
which are neither visited with recompense nor chastisement here or
hereafter.' At a later age, when the doctrines of this society had
permeated all Islam, it seems to have labored very zealously to teach
both women and men gratuitously all learning, and give them the freest
use of books. At this time it was in the ninth degree that the initiate
'learnt the grand secret of atheism, and a code of morals, which may be
summed up in a few words, as believing nothing and daring
everything.'[12]

Bearing this in mind, Walter Scott may be presumed to have studied with
shrewd appreciation the character of the Templars, and to have
conjectured with strange wisdom their great ambition, when we find Brian
de Bois Guilbert declaring to Rebecca that his Order threatened the
thrones of Europe, and hinting at tremendous changes in society--'hopes
more extended than can be viewed from the throne of a monarch.' For it
was indeed the hope--it _must_ have been--for the proud and powerful
brotherhood of the Temple to extend their secret doctrines over Europe,
regenerate society, and overthrow all existing powers, substituting for
them its own crude and impossible socialism, and for Christianity the
lore of the serpent. How plainly is this expressed in the speech of Bois
Guilbert to Rebecca:

     'Such a swelling flood is that powerful league. Of this mighty
     Order I am no mean member, but already one of the Chief Commanders,
     and may well aspire one day to hold the baton of Grand Master. The
     poor soldiers of the Temple will not alone place their foot upon
     the necks of Kings--a hemp-sandall'd monk can do that. Our mailed
     step shall ascend their throne--our gauntlet shall wrench the
     sceptre from their gripe. Not the reign of your vainly expected
     Messiah offers such power to your dispersed tribes as my ambition
     may aim at. I have sought but a kindred spirit to share it, and I
     have found such in thee.'

     'Sayest thou this to one of my people?' answered Rebecca. 'Bethink
     thee'--

     'Answer me not,' said the Templar, 'by urging the difference of our
     creeds; within our secret conclaves we hold these nursery tales in
     derision. Think not we long remain blind to the idiotic folly of
     our founders, who forswore every delight of life for the pleasures
     of dying martyrs by hunger, by thirst, and by pestilence, and by
     the swords of savages, while they vainly strove to defend a barren
     desert, valuable only in the eyes of superstition. Our Order soon
     adopted bolder and wider views, and found out a better
     indemnification for our sacrifices. Our immense possessions in
     every kingdom of Europe, our high military fame, which brings
     within our circle the flower of chivalry from every Christian
     clime--these are dedicated to ends of which our pious founders
     little dreamed, and which are equally concealed from such weak
     spirits as embrace our Order on the ancient principles, and whose
     superstition makes them our passive tools. But I will not further
     withdraw the veil of our mysteries.'

We may well pause for an instant to wonder what would have been the
present state of the now civilized world had this order with its
Oriental illuminéeism actually succeeded in undermining feudal society
and in overthrowing thrones. That it was jointly dreaded by Church and
State appears from the excessive, implacable zeal with which it was
broken up by Philip the Fair and Pope Clement the Fifth--a zeal quite
inexplicable from the motives of avarice usually attributed to them by
the modern freemasonic defenders of the Knights of the Temple. I may
well say modern, since in a freemasonic document bearing date 1766,
reprinted in a rare work,[13] we find the most earnest protest and
denial that freemasonry had anything in common with the Templars. But
the Order did not die unavenged. It is by no means improbable that the
secret heresies which, bearing unmistakable marks of Eastern origin,
continually sprang up in Europe, and finally led the way to Huss and the
Reformation, were in their origin encouraged by the Templars.

Certain it is that the character of Bois Guilbert as drawn by Scott--his
habitual oath 'by earth and sea and sky!' his scorn of 'the doting
scruples which fetter our free-born reason,' and his atheistic faith
that to die is to be 'dispersed to the elements of which our strange
forms are so mystically composed,' are all wonderful indications of
insight into a type of mind differing inconceivably from the mere
infidel villain of modern novels, and which could never have been
attributed to a knight of the superstitious Middle Ages without a strong
basis of historical research. Very striking indeed is his fierce love
for Rebecca--his intense appreciation of her great courage and firmness,
which he at once recognizes as congenial to his own daring, and believes
will form for him in her a fit mate. There is a spirit of reality in
this which transcends ordinary conceptions of what is called genius. To
deem a woman requisite aid in such intellectual labor--for so we may
well call the system of the Templars--would at that era have been
incomprehensibly absurd to any save the worshippers of the bi-sexed
Baphomet and the disciples of the House of Wisdom, with whom the equal
culture of the sexes was a leading aim. The extraordinary tact with
which Scott has contrived to make Bois Guilbert repulsive to the mass of
readers, while at the same time he really--for himself--makes him
undergo every sacrifice of which the Templar's nature is _consistently_
capable, is perhaps the most elaborately artistic effort in his works.
To have made Bois Guilbert sensible to the laws of love and of chivalry,
which in his mystical freedom he despised, to rescue her simply from
death, which in his view had no terrors beyond short-lived pain, would
not have agreed with his character as Scott very truly understood it.
Himself a sacrifice to fate, he was willing that she, whom he regarded
as a second self, should also perish. This reserving the true
comprehension of a certain character to one's self by a writer is not, I
believe, an uncommon thing in romance writing. 'Blifil' was the favorite
child of his literary parent, and was (it is to be hoped) seen by him
from a stand-point undreamed of by nearly all readers.

Closely allied in the one main point of character to Bois Guilbert, and
to a certain degree having his Oriental origin, yet differing in every
other detail, we have Hayraddin Maugrabin, the gypsy, in 'Quentin
Durward.'

When Walter Scott drew the outlines of this singular subordinate actor
in one of the world's greatest mediæval romances, so little was known of
the real condition of the 'Rommany,' that the author was supposed to
have introduced an exaggerated and most improbable character among
historical portraits which were true to life. The more recent researches
of George Borrow and others have shown that, judged by the gypsy of the
present day, Hayraddin is extremely well drawn in certain particulars,
but improbable in other respects. He has, amid all his villany, a
certain firmness or greatness which is peculiar to men who can sustain
positions of rank--a marked Oriental 'leadership,' which Scott might be
presumed to have guessed at. Yet all of this corresponds closely to the
historical account of the first of these wanderers, who in 1427 came to
Europe, 'well mounted,' and claiming to be men of the highest rank, and
to the condition and character of certain men among them in the
Slavonian countries of the present day. If we study carefully all that
is accessible both of the present and the past relative to this singular
race, we shall find that Scott, partly from knowledge and partly by
poetic intuition, has in this gypsy produced one of his most marvellous
and deeply interesting studies.

Like Bois Guilbert, Hayraddin is a man without a God, and the
peculiarity of his character lies in a constant realization of the fact
that he is absolutely _free_ from every form or principle of faith,
every conventional tie, every duty founded on aught save the most
natural instincts. He revels in this freedom; it is to him like magic
armor, making him invulnerable to shafts which reach all around
him--nay, which render him supremely indifferent to death itself.
Whether this extreme of philosophical skepticism and stoicism could be
consistently and correctly attributed to a gypsy of the fifteenth
century, will be presently considered. Let me first quote those passages
in which the character is best set forth. The first is that in which
Hayraddin, in reply to the queries of Quentin Durward, asserts that he
has no country, is not a Christian, and is altogether lawless:

     'You are then,' said the wondering querist, 'destitute of all that
     other men are combined by--you have no law, no leader, no settled
     means of subsistence, no house or home. You have, may Heaven
     compassionate you, no country--and, may Heaven enlighten and
     forgive you, you have no God! What is it that remains to you,
     deprived of government, domestic happiness, and religion?'

     'I have liberty,' said the Bohemian--'I crouch to no one--obey no
     one--respect no one.--I go where I will--live as I can--and die
     when my day comes.'

     'But you are subject to instant execution at the pleasure of the
     Judge?'

     'Be it so,' returned the Bohemian; 'I can but die so much the
     sooner.'

     'And to imprisonment also,' said the Scot; 'and where then is your
     boasted freedom?'

     'In my thoughts,' said the Bohemian, 'which no chains can bind;
     while yours, even when your limbs are free, remain fettered by your
     laws and your superstitions, your dreams of local attachment, and
     your fantastic visions of civil policy. Such as I are free in
     spirit when our limbs are chained. You are imprisoned in mind, even
     when your limbs are most at freedom.'

     [14]'Yet the freedom of your thoughts,' said the Scot, 'relieves
     not the pressure of the gyves on your limbs.'

     'For a brief time that may be endured,' answered the vagrant, 'and
     if within that period I cannot extricate myself, and fail of relief
     from my comrades, I can always die, and death is the most perfect
     freedom of all.'

Again, when asked in his last hour what are his hopes for the future,
the gypsy, after denying the existence of the soul, declares that his
anticipations are:

     'To be resolved into the elements. * * * My hope and trust and
     expectation is, that the mysterious frame of humanity shall melt
     into the general mass of nature, to be recompounded in the other
     forms with which she daily supplies those which daily disappear,
     and return under different forms,--the watery particles to streams
     and showers, the earthy parts to enrich their mother earth, the
     airy portions to wanton in the breeze, and those of fire to supply
     the blaze of Aldebaran and his brethren. In this faith I have
     lived, and will die in it. Hence! begone!--disturb me no further! I
     have spoken the last word that mortal ears shall listen to!'

That such a strain as this would be absurd from 'Mr. Petulengro,' or any
other of the race as portrayed by Borrow, is evident enough. Whether it
is inappropriate, however, in the mouth of one of the first corners of
the people in Europe, of direct Hindustanee blood, is another question.
Let us examine it.

In his notes to 'Quentin Durward,' Scott declares his belief that there
can be little doubt that the first gypsies consisted originally of
Hindus, who left their native land when it was invaded by Timur or
Tamerlane, and that their language is a dialect of Hindustanee. That the
gypsies were Hindus, and outcast Hindus or Pariahs at that, could be no
secret to Scott. That he should have made Hayraddin in his doctrines
marvellously true to the very life to certain of this class, indicates a
degree either of knowledge or of intuition (it may have been either)
which is at least remarkable.

The reader has probably learned to consider the Hindu Pariah as a merely
wretched outcast, ignorant, vulgar, and oppressed. Such is not, however,
exactly their _status_. Whatever their social rank may be, the
Pariahs--the undoubted ancestors of the gypsies--are the authors in
India of a great mass of philosophy and literature, embracing nearly all
that land has ever produced which is tinctured with independence or wit.
In confirmation of which I beg leave to cite the following passages from
that extremely entertaining, well-edited, and elegantly published little
work, the 'Strange Surprising Adventures of the Venerable Goroo Simple
and his Five Disciples':

     'The literature of the Hindoos owes but little to the hereditary
     claimants to the sole possession of divine light and knowledge. On
     the contrary, with the many things which the Brahmins are forbidden
     to touch, all science, if left to them alone, would soon stagnate,
     and clever men, whose genius cannot be held in trammels, therefore
     soon become outcasts and swell the number of _Pariars_ in
     consequence of their very pursuit of knowledge. * * * To the
     writings of the _Poorrachchameiyans_, a sect of _Pariars_ odious in
     the eyes of a Brahman, the Tamuls owe the greater part of works on
     science. * * * To the _Vallooran_ sect of Pariars, particularly
     shunned by the Brahmans, Hindoo literature is indebted almost
     exclusively for the many moral poems and books of aphorisms which
     are its chief pride.

     'This class of literature' (satiric humor and fables) 'emanated
     chiefly from those despised outcasts, the Pariars, the very men who
     (using keener spectacles than Dr. Robertson, our historian of
     Ancient India, did, who singularly became the panegyrist of Gentoo
     subdivisions) saw that to bind human intellect and human energy
     within the wire fences of Hindoo castes is as impossible as to shut
     up the winds of heaven in a temple built by man's hand, and boldly
     thought for themselves.'

Of the literary _Vallooran_ Pariah outcasts and scientific
Poorrachchameiyans, we know from the best authority--Father Beschi--that
they form society of six degrees or sects, the fifth of which, when five
Fridays occur in a month, celebrate it _avec de grandes abominations_,
while the sixth 'admits the real existence of nothing--except,
_perhaps_, GOD.' This last is a mere guess on the part of the good
father. It is beyond conjecture that we have here another of those
strange Oriental sects, 'atheistic' in its highest school and identical
in its nature with that of the House of Wisdom of Cairo, and with the
Templars; and if Scott's gypsy Hayraddin Maugrabin is to be supposed one
of that type of Hindu outcasts, which were of all others most hateful to
the orthodox Moslem invader, we cannot sufficiently admire the
appropriateness with which doctrines which were actually held by the
most deeply initiated among the Pariahs were put into his mouth. To have
made a merely vulgar, nothing-believing, and as little reflecting gypsy,
as philosophical as the wanderer in 'Quentin Durward,' would have been
absurd. There is a vigor, an earnestness in his creed, which betrays
culture and thought, and which is marvellously appropriate if we regard
him as a wandering scion of the outcast Pariah illuminati of India.

Did our author owe this insight to erudition or to poetic intuition? In
either case we discover a depth which few would have surmised. It was
once said of Scott, that he was a millionaire of genius whose wealth was
all in small change--that his scenes and characters were all massed from
a vast collection of little details. This would be equivalent to
declaring that he was a great novelist without a great idea. Perhaps
this is true, but the clairvoyance of genius which _seems_ to manifest
itself in the two characters which I have already examined, and the
cautious manner in which he has treated them, would appear to prove that
he possessed a rarer gift than that of 'great ideas'--the power of
controlling them. Such ideas may make reformers, critics, politicians,
essayists--but they generally ruin a novelist--and Scott knew it.

A third character belonging to the class under consideration, is Henbane
Dwining, the 'pottingar,' apothecary or 'leech,' in the novel of 'The
Fair Maid of Perth.'

This man is rather developed by his deeds than his words, and these are
prompted by two motives, terrible vindictiveness and the pride of
superior knowledge. He is vile from the former, and yet almost heroic
from the latter, for it is briefly impossible to make any man intensely
self-reliant, and base this self-reliance on great learning in men and
books, without displaying in him some elements of superiority. He is so
radically bad that by contrast one of the greatest villains in Scottish
history, Sir John Ramorney, appears rather gray than black; and yet we
dislike him less than the knight, possibly because we know that men of
the Dwining stamp, when they have had the control of nations, often do
good simply from the dictates of superior wisdom--the wisdom of the
serpent--which, no Ramorney ever did. The skill with which the crawling,
paltry leech controls his fierce lord; the contempt for his power and
pride shown in Dwining's adroit sneers, and above all, the ease with
which the latter casts into the shade Ramorney's fancied superiority in
wickedness, is well set forth--and such a character could only have been
conceived by deep study of the motives and agencies which formed it. To
do so, Scott had recourse to the same Oriental source--the same fearful
school of atheism which in another and higher form gave birth to the
Templar and the gypsy. 'I have studied,' says Dwining, 'among the sages
of Granada, where the fiery-souled Moor lifts high his deadly dagger as
it drops with his enemy's blood, and avows the doctrine which the pallid
Christian practises, though, coward-like, he dare not name it.' His
sneers at the existence of a devil, at all 'prejudices,' at religion,
above all, at brute strength and every power save that of intellect, are
perfectly Oriental--not however of the Oriental Sufi, or of the
initiated in the House of Wisdom, whose pantheistic Idealism went hand
in hand with a faith in benefiting mankind, and which taught
forgiveness, equality, and love, but rather that corrupted Asiatic
vanity of wisdom which abounded among the disciples of Aristotle and of
Averroes in Spain, and which was entirely material. I err, strictly
speaking, therefore, when I speak of this as the _same_ Oriental school,
though in a certain sense it had a common origin--that of believing in
the infinite power of human wisdom. Both are embraced indeed in the
beguiling _eritis sicut Deus_, 'ye shall be as GOD,' uttered by the
serpent to Eve.

Quite subordinate as regards its position among the actors of the novel,
yet extremely interesting in a historical point of view, is the
character of Jasper Dryfesdale the steward of the Douglas family, in
'The Abbot.' In this man Scott has happily combined the sentiment of
absolute feudal devotion to his superiors with a gloomy fatalism learned
'among the fierce sectaries of Lower Germany.' If carefully studied,
Dryfesdale will be found to be, on the whole, the most morally
instructive character in the entire range of Scott's writings. In the
first place, he illustrates the fact, so little noted by the advocates
of loyalty, aristocracy, 'devoted retainers,' and 'faithful vassals,'
that all such fidelity carried beyond the balance of a harmony of
interests, results in an insensibility to moral accountability. Thus in
the Southern States, masters often refer with pride to the fact that a
certain negro, who will freely pillage in other quarters, will 'never
steal at home.' History shows that the man who surrenders himself
entirely to the will of another begins at once to cast on his superior
all responsibility for his own acts. Such dependence and evasion is of
itself far worse than the bold unbelief which is to the last degree
self-reliant; which seeks no substitute, dreads no labor, scorns all
mastery, and aims at the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth. Such unbelief may possibly end in finding religious truth after
its devious errors, but what shall be said of those who would have men
sin as _slaves_?

Singularly and appropriately allied to a resignation of moral
accountability from feudal attachment, is the contemptible and cowardly
doctrine of fatalism, which Dryfesdale also professes. It is not with
him the philosophic doctrine of the concurring impulses of circumstance,
or of natural laws, but rather the stupendously nonsensical notion of
the Arabian _kismet_, that from the beginning of time every event was
fore-arranged as in a fairy tale, and that all which _is_, is simply the
acting out of a libretto written before the play began--a belief revived
in the last century by readers of Leibnitz, who were truer than the
great German himself to the consequences of his doctrine, which he
simply evaded.[15] In coupling this humiliating and superstitious means
of evading moral accountability with the same principle as derived from
feudal devotion, Scott, consciously or unconsciously, displayed genius,
and at the same time indirectly attacked that system of society to which
he was specially devoted. So true is it that genius instinctively tends
to set forth the _truth_, be the predilections of its possessor what
they may. And indeed, as Scott nowhere shows in any way that _he_, for
his part, regarded the blind fidelity of the steward as other than
admirable, it may be that he was guided rather by instinct than will, in
thus pointing out the great evil resulting from a formally aristocratic
state of society. Such as it is, it is well worth studying in these
times, when the principles of republicanism and aristocracy are brought
face to face at war among us, firstly in the contest between the South
and the North, and secondly in the rapidly growing division between the
friends of the Union, and the treasonable 'Copperheads,' who consist of
men of selfish, aristocratic tendencies, and their natural allies, the
refuse of the population.

It is very unfortunate that the term 'Anabaptists' should have ever been
applied to the ferocious fanatics led by John of Leyden, Knipperdolling,
and Rothmann, since it has brought discredit on a large sect bearing the
same name with which it had in reality even less in common than the
historians of the latter imagine. It is not a difficult matter for the
mind familiar with the undoubted Oriental origin of the 'heresies' of
the middle ages, to trace in the origin at least of the fierce and
licentious socialists of Münster the same secret influence which,
flowing from Gnostic, Manichæan, or Templar sources, founded the
Waldense and Albigense sects, and was afterward perceptible in a branch
of the Hussites. At the time of the Reformation their ancient doctrines
had subsided into Biblical fanaticism; but the old leaven of revolt
against the church, and against all compulsion--keenly sharpened by
their experiences, in the recent Peasant's War--was as hot as ever among
them. They had no great or high philosophy, but were in all respects
chaotic, contradictory, and stormy. Unable to rise to the cultivated and
philanthropic feelings which accompanied the skepticism of their remote
founders, they based their denial of moral accountability--as narrow and
vulgar minds naturally do--on a predestination, which is as insulting to
GOD as to man, since it is consistently comprehensible only by supposing
HIM a slave to destiny. Among such vassals to a worse than earthly
tyranny, the man who as 'a Scottish servant regarded not his own life or
that of any other save his master,' would find doctrines congenial
enough to his grovelling nature. So he was willing to believe that 'that
which was written of me a million years before I saw the light must be
executed by me.' 'I am well taught, and strong in belief,' he says,
'that man does nought for himself; he is but the foam on the billow,
which rises, bubbles, and bursts, not by its own effort, but by the
mightier impulse of fate which urges him.' And the combination of his
two wretched doctrines is well set forth in the passage wherein he tells
his mistress that she had no choice as regarded accepting his criminal
services. 'You might not choose, lady,' answered the steward. 'Long ere
this castle was builded--ay, long ere the islet which sustains it reared
its head above the blue water--I was destined to be your faithful slave,
and you to be my ungrateful mistress.'

Freethinkers, infidels, and atheists abound in novels, but it is to the
credit of Sir Walter Scott that wherever he has introduced a _sincere_
character of this description, he has gone to the very origin for his
facts, and then given us the result without pedantry. The four which I
have examined are each a curious subject for study, and indicate,
collectively and compared, a train of thought which I believe that few
have suspected in Scott, notwithstanding his well-known great love for
the curious and occult in literature. That he perfectly understood that
absurd and vain character, the so-called 'infidel,' whose philosophy is
limited to abusing Christianity, and whose real object is to be odd and
peculiar, and astonish humble individuals with his wickedness, is most
amusingly shown in 'Bletson,' one of the three Commissioners of Cromwell
introduced into 'Woodstock.' Scott has drawn this very subordinate
character in remarkable detail, having devoted nearly seven pages to its
description,[16] evidently being for once carried away by the desire of
rendering the personality as clearly as possible, or of gratifying his
own fancy. And while no effort is ever made to cast even a shadow of
ridicule on the Knight Templar, on Dryfesdale, on the gypsy, or even on
the crawling Dwining, he manifestly takes great pains to render as
contemptible and laughably absurd as possible this type of the very
great majority of modern infidels, who disavow religion because they
fear it, and ridicule Christianity from sheer, shallow ignorance. Our
own country at present abounds in 'Bletsons,' in conceited, ignorant
'infidel' scribblers of many descriptions, in of all whom we can still
trace the cant and drawl of the old-fashioned fanaticism to which they
are in reality nearly allied, while they appear to oppose it. For the
truth is, that popular infidelity--to borrow Mr. Caudle's simile of
tyrants--is only Puritanism turned inside out. We see this, even when it
is masked in French flippancy and the Shibboleth of the current
accomplishments of literature--it betrays itself by its vindictiveness
and conceit, by its cruelty, sarcasms, and meanness--with the infidel as
with the bigot. The sincere seeker for truth, whether he wander through
the paths of unbelief or of faith, never forgets to love, never courts
notoriety, and is neither a satirical court-fool nor a would-be
Mephistopheles.

In reflecting on these characters, I am irresistibly reminded of an
anecdote illustrating their nature. A friend of mine who had employed a
rather ignorant fellow to guide him through some ruins in England, was
astonished, as he entered a gloomy dungeon, at the sudden remark, in the
hollow voice of one imparting a dire confidence, of: 'I doan't believe
in hany GOD!' 'Don't you, indeed?' was the placid reply. 'Noa,' answered
the guide; '_H'I'm a_ HINFIDEL!' 'Well, I hope you feel easy after it,'
quoth my friend.

There is yet another skeptic set forth by Scott, whose peculiarities may
be deemed worthy of examination. I refer to Agelastes, the treacherous
and hypocritical sage of 'Count Robert of Paris.' In this man we have,
however, rather the refined sensualist and elegant scholar who amuses
himself with the subtleties of the old Greek philosophy, than a sincere
seeker for truth, or even a sincere doubter. His views are fully given
in a short lecture of the countess:

     'Daughter,' said Agelastes, approaching nearer to the lady, 'it is
     with pain I see you bewildered in errors which a little calm
     reflection might remove. We may flatter ourselves, and human vanity
     usually does so, that beings infinitely more powerful than those
     belonging to mere humanity are employed daily in measuring out the
     good and evil of this world, the termination of combats or the fate
     of empires, according to their own ideas of what is right or wrong,
     or more properly, according to what we ourselves conceive to be
     such. The Greek heathens, renowned for their wisdom, and glorious
     for their actions, explained to men of ordinary minds the supposed
     existence of Jupiter and his Pantheon, where various deities
     presided over various virtues and vices, and regulated the temporal
     fortune and future happiness of such as practised them. The more
     learned and wise of the ancients rejected such the vulgar
     interpretation, and wisely, although affecting a deference to the
     public faith, denied before their disciples in private, the gross
     fallacies of Tartarus and Olympus, the vain doctrines concerning
     the gods themselves, and the extravagant expectations which the
     vulgar entertained of an immortality supposed to be possessed by
     creatures who were in every respect mortal, both in the
     conformation of their bodies, and in the internal belief of their
     souls. Of these wise and good men some granted the existence of the
     supposed deities, but denied that they cared about the actions of
     mankind any more than those of the inferior animals. A merry,
     jovial, careless life, such as the followers of Epicurus would
     choose for themselves, was what they assigned for those gods whose
     being they admitted. Others, more bold or more consistent, entirely
     denied the existence of deities who apparently had no proper object
     or purpose, and believed that such of them, whose being and
     attributes were proved to us by no supernatural appearances, had in
     reality no existence whatever.'

In all this, and indeed in all the character of Agelastes, there is
nothing more than shallow scholarship, such as may be found in many of
'the learned' in all ages, whose learning is worn as a fine garment,
perhaps as one of comfort, but _not_ as the armor in which to earnestly
do battle for life. A contempt for the vulgar, or at best a selfish
rendering of life agreeable to themselves, is all that is gathered from
such systems of doubt--and this was in all ages the reproach of all
Greek philosophy. It was not meant for the multitude nor for the
barbarian. It embraced no hope of benefiting all mankind, no scheme for
even freeing them from superstition. Such ideas were only cherished by
the Orientals, and (though mingled with errors) subsequently and _fully_
by the early Christians. It was in the East that the glorious doctrine
of love for _all_ beings, not only for enemies, but for the very fiends
themselves, was first proclaimed as essential to perfect the soul--as
shown in the beautiful Hindu poem of 'The Buddha's Victory,'[17] in
which the demon Wassywart, that horror of horrors, whose eyes are clots
of blood, whose voice outroars the thunder, who plucks up the sun from
its socket the sky, defies the great saint-god to battle:

  'The unarmed Buddha mildly gazed at him,
  And said in peace: 'Poor fiend, _even thee I love_.'
  Before great Wassywart the world grew dim;
  His bulk enormous dwindled to a dove. * * *
  --Celestial beauty sat on Buddhas face,
  While sweetly sang the metamorphosed dove:
  'Swords, rocks, lies, fiends, must yield to moveless love,
  And nothing can withstand the Buddha's grace.'

And again, in 'The Secret of Piety'--the secret 'of all the lore which
angelic bosoms swell'--we have the same pure faith:

  'Whoso would careless tread one worm that crawls the sod,
  That cruel man is darkly alienate from God;
  But he that lives embracing all that is in _love_,
  To dwell with him God bursts all bounds, below, above.'

The Greek philosophy knew nothing of all this, and the result is that
even in the atheism which sprang from the East, and in its harshest and
lowest 'tinctures,' we find a something nobler and less selfish than is
to be found in the school of Plato himself. And however this may be, the
reader will admit, in examining the six skeptics set forth by Scott,
that each is a character firmly based in historical truth; that all,
with the exception of 'Bletson,' are sketched with remarkable brevity;
and that a careful comparative analysis of the whole gives us a deeper
insight into the secret tendencies of the author's mind, and at the same
time into the springs of his genius, than the world has been wont to
take. And the study of the subject is finally interesting, since we may
learn from it that even in the works of one who is a standard poetic
authority among those who would, if possible, subject all men to
feudalism, we may learn lessons of that highest social
truth--republicanism.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 10: OVID. _Metamorphoseon_, lib. xi. v. 183.]

[Footnote 11: Hæc autem erat Gnosticorum doctrina ethica, quod omnem
virtutem in prudentia sitim esse credebant, quam Ophitæ per _Metem_
(Sophiam) et Serpentem exprimebant, desumpto iterum ex Evangelii
præcepto; _estote prudentes ut serpentes_,--ob innatem hujus animalis
astutiam?--VON HAMMER, _Fundgruben des Orients_, tom. vi. p. 85.]

[Footnote 12: _New Curiosities of Literature._ By GEO. SOANE, London,
1849.]

[Footnote 13: _Developpement des Abus introduits dans la Franc
Maçonnerie._ Ecossois de Saint ANDRÉ d'Écosse, &c., &c. Paris, 1780.]

[Footnote 14: London. Trübner &. Co., No. 60 Paternoster Row. 1861.]

[Footnote 15: 'Tota hæc humanæ vitæ fabula, quæ universitatem naturæ et
generis humani historiam constituit tota prius in intellectu divino
præconcepta fuit cum infinitis aliis.'--LEIBNITZ, _Theodicæa_, part 11,
p. 149.]

[Footnote 16: Tickner and Fields' edition of Waverley Novels, Boston,
1858.]

[Footnote 17: _The Poetry of the East._ By WILLIAM ROUNSEVILLE ALGER.
Boston. Whittemore, Niles & Hall, 1856.]




A CHORD OF WOOD.


  Well, New York, you've made your pile
  Of Wood, and, if you like, may smile:
  Laugh, if you will, to split your sides,
  But in that Wood pile a nigger hides,
  With a double face beneath his hood:
  Don't hurra till you're out of your Wood.




A MERCHANT'S STORY.

  'All of which I saw, and part of which I was.'


CHAPTER XIX.

The moon and the stars were out, and the tall, dark pines cast long,
gloomy shadows over the little rows of negro houses which formed the
rearguard to Preston's mansion. They were nearly deserted. Not a
solitary fire slumbered on the bare clay hearths, and not a single darky
stood sentry over the loose pork and neglected hoecakes, or kept at bay
the army of huge rats and prowling opossums which beleaguered the
quarters. Silence--death's music--was over and around them. The noisy
revelry of the dancers had died away in the distance, and even the
hoarse song of the great trees had sunk to a low moan as they stood,
motionless and abashed, in the presence of the grim giant who knocks
alike at the palace and the cottage gate.

A stray light glimmered through the logs of a low hut, far off in the
woods, and, making our way to it, we entered. A bright fire lit up the
interior, and on a rude cot, in one corner, lay the old preacher. His
eyes were closed; a cold, clammy sweat was on his forehead--he was
dying. One of his skeleton hands rested on the tattered coverlet, and
his weazened face was half buried in a dilapidated pillow, whose ragged
casing and protruding plumage bespoke it a relic of some departed white
sleeper.

An old negress, with gray hair and haggard visage, sat at the foot of
the bed, wailing piteously; and Joe and half a dozen aged saints stood
around, singing a hymn, doleful enough to have made even a sinner weep.

Not heeding our entrance, Joe took the dying man by the hand, and, in a
slow, solemn voice, said:

'Brudder Jack, you'm dyin'; you'm gwine ter dat lan' whence no trabeller
returns; you'm settin' out fur dat country which'm lit by de smile ob de
Lord; whar dar ain't no sickness, no pain, no sorrer, no dyin'; fur dat
kingdom whar de Lord reigns; whar trufh flows on like a riber; whar
righteousness springs up like de grass, an' lub draps down like de dew,
an' cobers de face ob de groun'; whar you woan't gwo 'bout wid no
crutch; whar you woan't lib in no ole cabin like dis, an' eat hoecake
an' salt pork in sorrer an' heabiness ob soul; but whar you'll run an'
not be weary, an' walk an' not be faint; whar you'll hab a hous'n
builded ob de Lord, an' sit at His table--you' meat an' drink de bread
an' de water ob life!

'I knows you's a sinner, Jack; I knows you's lub'd de hot water too
much, an' dat it make you forgit you' duty sometime, an' set a bad
'zample ter dem as looked up ter you fur better tings; but dar am mercy
wid de Lord, Jack; dar am forgibness wid Him; an' I hopes you'm ready
an' willin' ter gwo.'

Old Jack opened his eyes, and, in a low, peevish tone, said:

'Joe, none ob you' nonsense ter me! I'se h'ard you talk dis way afore.
_You_ can't preach--you neber could. You jess knows I ain't fit ter
trabble, an' I ain't willin' ter gwo, nowhar.'

Joe mildly rebuked him, and again commenced expatiating on the 'upper
kingdom,' and on the glories of 'the house not made with hands, eternal
in the heavens;' but the old darky cut him short, with--

'Shet up, Joe! no more ob dat. I doan't want no oder hous'n but dis--dis
ole cabin am good 'nuff fur me.'

Joe was about to reply, when Preston stepped to the bedside, and, taking
the aged preacher's hand, said:

'My good Jack, master Robert has come to see you.'

The dying man turned his eyes toward his master, and, in a weak,
tremulous voice, exclaimed:

'Oh! massa Robert, has _you_ come? has you come ter see ole Jack? Bress
you, massa Robert, bress you! Jack know'd you'd neber leab him yere ter
die alone.'

'No, my good Jack; I would save you if I could.'

'But you can't sabe me, massa Robert; I'se b'yond dat. I'se dyin', massa
Robert. I'se gwine ter de good missus. She tell'd me ter get ready ter
foller har, an' I is. I'se gwine ter har now, massa Robert!'

'I know you are, Jack. I feel _sure_ you are.'

'Tank you, massa Robert--tank you fur sayin' dat. An' woan't you pray
fur me, massa Robert--jess a little pray? De good man's prayer am h'ard,
you knows, massa Robert.'

All kneeling down on the rough floor, Preston prayed--a short, simple,
fervent prayer. At its close, he rose, and, bending over the old negro,
said:

'The Lord is good, Jack; His mercy is everlasting.'

'I knows dat; I feels dat,' gasped the dying man. 'I lubs you, massa
Robert; I allers lub'd you; but I'se gwine ter leab you now. Bress you!
de Lord bress you, massa Robert' I'll tell de good missus'--

He clutched convulsively at his master's hand; a wild light came out of
his eyes; a sudden spasm passed over his face, and--he was 'gone whar de
good darkies go.'


CHAPTER XX.

On the following day Frank and I were to resume our journey; and, in the
morning, I suggested that we should visit Colonel Dawsey, with whom,
though he had for many years been a correspondent of the house in which
I was a partner, I had no personal acquaintance.

His plantation adjoined Preston's, and his house was only a short half
mile from my friend's. After breakfast, we set out for it through the
woods. The day was cold for the season, with a sharp, nipping air, and
our overcoats were not at all uncomfortable.

As we walked along I said to Preston:

'Dawsey's 'account' is a good one. He never draws against shipments, but
holds on, and sells sight drafts, thus making the exchange.'

'Yes, I know; he's a close calculator.'

'Does he continue to manage his negroes as formerly?'

'In much the same way, I reckon.'

'Then he can't stand remarkably well with his neighbors.'

'Oh! people round here don't mind such things. Many of them do as badly
as he. Besides, Dawsey is a gentleman of good family. He inherited his
plantation and two hundred hands.'

'Indeed! How, then, did he become reduced to his present number?'

'He was a wild young fellow, and, before he was twenty-five, had
squandered and gambled away everything but his land and some thirty
negroes. Then he turned square round, and, from being prodigal and
careless, became mean and cruel. He has a hundred now, and more ready
money than any planter in the district.'

A half hour's walk took us to Dawsey's negro quarters--a collection of
about thirty low huts in the rear of his house. They were not so poor as
some I had seen on cotton and rice plantations, but they seemed unfit
for the habitation of any animal but the hog. Their floors were the bare
ground, hardened by being moistened with water and pounded with mauls;
and worn, as they were, several inches lower in the centre than at the
sides, they must have formed, in rainy weather, the beds of small lakes.
So much water would have been objectionable to white tenants; but
negroes, like their friends the alligators, are amphibious animals; and
Dawsey's were never known to make complaint. The chimneys were often
merely vent-holes in the roof, though a few were tumble-down structures
of sticks and clay; and not a window, nor an opening which courtesy
could have christened a window, was to be seen in the entire collection.
And, for that matter, windows were useless, for the wide crevices in the
logs, which let in the air and rain, at the same time might admit the
light. Two or three low beds at one end, a small pine bench, which held
half a dozen wooden plates and spoons, and a large iron pot, resting on
four stones, over a low fire, and serving for both washtub and
cook-kettle, composed the furniture of each interior.

No one of the cabins was over sixteen feet square, but each was 'home'
and 'shelter' for three or four human beings. Walking on a short
distance, we came to a larger hovel, in front of which about a dozen
young chattels were playing. Seven or eight more, too young to walk,
were crawling about on the ground inside. They had only one garment
apiece--a long shirt of coarse linsey--and their heads and feet were
bare. An old negress was seated in the doorway, knitting. Approaching
her, I said:

'Aunty, are not these children cold?'

'Oh! no, massa; dey'm use' ter de wedder.'

'Do you take care of all of them?'

'In de daytime I does, massa. In de night dar mudders takes de small
'uns.'

'But some of them are white. Those two are as white as I am!'

'No, massa; dey'm brack. Ef you looks at dar eyes an' dar finger nails,
you'll see dat.'

'They're black, to be sure they are,' said young Preston, laughing; 'but
they're about as white as Dawsey, and look wonderfully like him--eh,
aunty Sue?'

'I reckons, massa Joe!' replied the woman, running her hand through her
wool, and grinning widely.

'What does he ask for _them_, aunty?'

'Doan't know, massa, but 'spect dey'm pooty high. Dem kine am hard ter
raise.'

'Yes,' said Joe; 'white blood--even Dawsey's--don't take naturally to
mud.'

'I reckons not, massa Joe!' said the old negress, with another grin.

Joe gave her a half-dollar piece, and, amid an avalanche of blessings,
we passed on to Dawsey's 'mansion'--if mansion it could be called--a
story-and-a-half shanty, about thirty feet square, covered with rough,
unpainted boards, and lit by two small, dingy windows. It was approached
by a sandy walk, and the ground around its front entrance was littered
with apple peelings, potato parings, and the refuse of the culinary
department.

Joe rapped at the door, and, in a moment, it opened, and a middle-aged
mulatto woman appeared. As soon as she perceived Preston, she grasped
his two hands, and exclaimed:

'Oh! massa Robert, _do_ buy har! Massa'll kill har, ef you doan't.'

'But I can't, Dinah. Your master refuses my note, and I haven't the
money now.'

'Oh! oh! He'll kill har; he say he will. She woan't gib in ter him, an'
he'll kill har, _shore_. Oh! oh!' cried the woman, wringing her hands,
and bursting into tears.

'Is it 'Spasia?' asked Joe.

'Yas, massa Joe; it'm 'Spasia. Massa hab sole yaller Tom 'way from har,
an' he swar he'll kill har 'case she woan't gib in ter him. Oh! oh!'

'Where is your master?'

'He'm 'way wid har an' Black Cale. I reckon dey'm down ter de branch. I
reckon dey'm whippin' on har _now_!'

'Come, Frank,' cried Joe, starting off at a rapid pace; 'let's see that
performance.'

'Hold on, Joe; wait for us. You'll get into trouble!' shouted his
father, hurrying after him. The rest of us caught up with them in a few
moments, and then all walked rapidly on in the direction of the small
run which borders the two plantations.

Before we had gone far, we heard loud screams, mingled with oaths and
the heavy blows of a whip. Quickening our pace, we soon reached the bank
of the little stream, which there was lined with thick underbrush. We
could see no one, and the sounds had subsided. In a moment, however, a
rough voice called out from behind the bushes:

'Have you had enough? Will you give up?'

'Oh! no, good massa; I can't do dat!' was the half-sobbing, half-moaning
reply.

'Give it to her again, Cale!' cried the first voice; and again the whip
descended, and again the piercing cries: 'O Lord!' 'Oh, pray doan't!' 'O
Lord, hab mercy!' 'Oh! good massa, hab mercy!' mingled with the falling
blows.

'This way!' shouted Joe, pressing through the bushes, and bounding down
the bank toward the actors in this nineteenth-century tournament,
wherein an armed knight and a doughty squire were set against a weak,
defenceless woman.

Leaning against a pine at a few feet from the edge of the run, was a
tall, bony man of about fifty. His hair was coarse and black, and his
skin the color of tobacco-juice. He wore the ordinary homespun of the
district; and long, deep lines about his mouth and under his eyes told
the story of a dissipated life. His entire appearance was anything but
prepossessing.

At the distance of three or four rods, and bound to the charred trunk of
an old tree, was a woman, several shades lighter than the man. Her feet
were secured by stout cords, and her arms were clasped around the
blackened stump, and tied in that position. Her back was bare to the
loins, and, as she hung there, moaning with agony, and shivering with
cold, it seemed one mass of streaming gore.

The brawny black, whom Boss Joe had so eccentrically addressed at the
negro meeting, years before, was in the act of whipping the woman; but
with one bound, young Preston was on him. Wrenching the whip from his
hand, he turned on his master, crying out:

'Untie her, you white-livered devil, or I'll plough your back as you've
ploughed hers!'

'Don't interfere here, you d--d whelp!' shouted Dawsey, livid with rage,
and drawing his revolver.

'I'll give you enough of that, you cowardly hound!' cried Joe, taking a
small Derringer from his pocket, and coolly advancing upon Dawsey.

The latter levelled his pistol, but, before he could fire, by a
dexterous movement of my cane, I struck it from his hand. Drawing
instantly a large knife, he rushed on me. The knife was descending--in
another instant I should have 'tasted Southern steel,' had not Frank
caught his arm, wrenched the weapon from his grasp, and with the fury of
an aroused tiger, sprung on him and borne him to the ground. Planting
his knee firmly on Dawsey's breast, and twisting his neckcloth tightly
about his throat, Frank yelled out:

'Stand back. Let _me_ deal with him!'

'But you will kill him.'

'Well, he would have killed _you_!' he cried, tightening his hold on
Dawsey's throat.

'Let him up, Frank. Let the devil have fair play,' said Joe; 'I'll give
him a chance at ten paces.'

'Yes, let him up, my son; he is unarmed.'

Frank slowly and reluctantly released his hold, and the woman-whipper
rose. Looking at us for a moment--a mingled look of rage and
defiance--he turned, without speaking, and took some rapid strides up
the bank.

'Hold on, Colonel Dawsey!' cried Joe, elevating his Derringer; 'take
another step, and I'll let daylight through you. You've just got to
promise you won't whip this woman, or take your chance at ten paces.'

[I afterward learned that Joe was deadly sure with the pistol.]

Dawsey turned slowly round, and, in a sullen tone, asked:

'Who are you, _gentlemen_, that interfere with my private affairs?'

'_My_ name, sir, is Kirke, of New York; and this young man is my son.'

'Not Mr. Kirke, my factor?'

'The same, sir.'

'Well, Mr. Kirke, I'm sorry to say you're just now in d--d pore
business.'

'I _have_ been, sir. I've done yours for some years, and I'm heartily
ashamed of it. I'll try to mend in that particular, however.'

'Well, no more words, Colonel Dawsey,' said Joe. 'Here's a Derringer, if
you'd like a pop at me.'

'Tain't an even chance,' replied Dawsey; 'you know it.'

'Take it, or promise not to whip the woman. I won't waste more time on
such a sneaking coward as you are.'

Dawsey hesitated, but finally, in a dogged way, made the required
promise, and took himself off.

While this conversation was going on, Preston and the negro man had
untied the woman. Her back was bleeding profusely, and she was unable to
stand. Lifting her in their arms, the two conveyed her to the top of the
bank, and then, making a bed of their coats, laid her on the ground. We
remained there until the negro returned from the house with a turpentine
wagon, and conveyed the woman 'home.' We then returned to the
plantation, and that afternoon, accompanied by Frank and Joe, I resumed
my journey.

By way of episode, I will mention that the slave woman, after being
confined to her bed several weeks, recovered. Then Dawsey renewed his
attack upon her, and, from the effects of a second whipping, she died.


CHAPTER XXI.

Returning from the South a few weeks after the events narrated in the
previous chapter, Frank and I were met at Goldsboro by Preston and
Selma, when the latter accompanied us to the North, and once more
resumed her place in David's family.

On the first of February following, Frank, then not quite twenty-one,
was admitted a partner in the house of Russell, Rollins, & Co., and, in
the succeeding summer, was sent to Europe on business of the firm.
Shortly after his return, in the following spring, he came on from
Boston with a proposal from Cragin that I should embark with them and
young Preston in an extensive speculation. Deeming any business in which
Cragin was willing to engage worthy of careful consideration, I listened
to Frank's exposition of the plan of operations. He had originated the
project, and in it he displayed the comprehensive business mind and rare
blending of caution and boldness which characterized his father. As the
result of this transaction had an important influence on the future of
some of the actors in my story, I will detail its programme.

It was during the Crimean war. The Russian ports were closed, and Great
Britain and the Continent of Europe were dependent entirely on the
Southern States for their supply of resinous articles. The rivers at the
South were low, and it was not supposed they would rise sufficiently to
float produce to market before the occurrence of the spring freshets, in
the following April or May. Only forty thousand barrels of common rosin
were held in Wilmington--the largest naval-store port in the world; and
it was estimated that not more than two hundred thousand were on hand in
the other ports of Savannah, Ga., Georgetown, S. C., Newbern and
Washington, N. C., and in New York, Boston, and Philadelphia. Very
little was for sale in London, Liverpool, or Glasgow, the largest
foreign markets for the article; and Frank thought that a hundred and
fifty thousand barrels could be purchased. That quantity, taken at once
out of market, would probably so much enhance the value of the article,
that the operation would realize a large profit before the new crop came
forward. The purchases were to be made simultaneously in the various
markets, and about two hundred thousand dollars were required to carry
through the transaction. One hundred thousand of this was to be
furnished in equal proportions by the parties interested; the other
hundred thousand would be realized by Joseph Preston's negotiating 'long
exchange' on Russell, Rollins & Co.

I declined to embark in the speculation, but the others carried it out
as laid down in the programme; the only deviation being that, at Frank's
suggestion, Mr. Robert Preston was apprised of the intended movement,
and allowed to purchase, on his own account, as much produce as could be
secured in Newbern. He bought about seven thousand barrels, paid for
them by drawing at ninety days on Russell, Rollins, & Co., and held them
for sale at Newbern, agreeing to satisfy his drafts with the proceeds.
These drafts amounted to a trifle over eighty-two hundred dollars.

About a month after this transaction was entered into, our firm received
the following letter from Preston:

     'GENTLEMEN: An unfortunate difference with my son prevents my
     longer using him as my indorser. I have not, as yet, been able to
     secure another; and, our banks requiring two home names on time
     drafts, I have to beg you to honor a small bill at one day's sight.
     I have drawn for one thousand dollars. Please honor.'

To this I at once replied:

     'DEAR SIR: We have advice of your draft for one thousand dollars.
     To protect your credit, we shall pay it; but we beg you will draw
     no more, till you forward bills of lading.

     'You are now overdrawn some five thousand dollars, which, by the
     maturing of your drafts, has become a _cash_ advance. The death of
     our senior, Mr. Randall, and the consequent withdrawal of his
     capital, has left us with an extended business and limited means.
     Money, also, is very tight, and we therefore earnestly beg you to
     put us in funds at the earliest possible moment.'

No reply was received to this letter; but, about ten days after its
transmission, Preston himself walked into my private office. His clothes
were travel stained, and he appeared haggard and careworn. I had never
seen him look so miserably.

He met me cordially, and soon referred to the state of his affairs. His
wife, the winter before, had agreed to reside permanently at Newbern,
and content herself with an allowance of three thousand dollars
annually; but at the close of the year he found that she had contracted
debts to the extent of several thousand more. He was pressed for these
debts; his interest was in arrears, and he could raise no money for lack
of another indorser. Ruin stared him in the face, unless I again put my
shoulder to the wheel, and pried him out of the mire. The turpentine
business was not paying as well as formerly, but the new plantation was
encumbered with only the original mortgage--less than six thousand
dollars--and was then worth, owing to an advance in the value of land,
fully twenty thousand. He would secure me by a mortgage on that
property, but I _must_ allow the present indebtedness to stand, and let
him increase it four or five thousand dollars. That amount would
extricate him from present difficulties; and, to avoid future
embarrassments, he would take measures for a legal separation from his
wife.

I heard him through, and then said:

'I cannot help you, my friend. I am very sorry; but my own affairs are
in a most critical state. I owe over a hundred thousand dollars,
maturing within twenty days, and my present available resources are not
more than fifty thousand. I have three hundred thousand worth of produce
on hand, but the market is so depressed that I cannot realize a dollar
upon it. The banks have shut down, and money is two per cent. a month in
the street. What you owe us would aid me wonderfully; but I can rub
through without it. That much I can bear, but not a dollar more.'

He walked the room for a time, and was silent; then, turning to me, he
said--each separate word seeming a groan:

'I have cursed every one I ever loved, and now I am bringing
trouble--perhaps disaster--upon _you_, the only real friend I have
left.'

'Pshaw! my good fellow, don't talk in that way. What you owe us is only
a drop in the bucket. We have made twice that amount out of you; so give
yourself no uneasiness, if you _never_ pay it.'

'But I must pay it--I _shall_ pay it;' and, continuing to pace the room
silently for a few moments, he added, giving me his hand: 'Good-by; I'm
going back to-night.'

'Back to-night!--without seeing Selly, or my wife? You are mad!'

'I _must_ go.'

'You must _not_ go. You are letting affairs trouble you too much. Come,
go home with me, and see Kate. A few words from her will make a new man
of you.'

'No, no; I must go back at once. I must raise this money somehow.'

'Send money to the dogs! Come with me, and have a good night's rest.
You'll think better of this in the morning. And now it occurs to me that
Kate has about seven thousand belonging to Frank. He means to settle it
on Selly when they are married, and she might as well have it first as
last. Perhaps you can get it now.'

'But I might be robbing my own child.'

'You can give the farm as security; it's worth twice the amount.'

'Well, I'll stay. Let us see your wife at once.'

While we were seated in the parlor, after supper, I broached the subject
of Preston's wants to Kate. She heard me through attentively, and then
quietly said:

'Frank is of age--he can do as he pleases; but _I_ would not advise him
to make the loan. I once heard my father scout at the idea of taking
security on property a thousand miles away. I would not wound Mr.
Preston's feelings, but--his wife's extravagance has led him into this
difficulty, and her property should extricate him from it. Her town
house, horses, and carriages should be sold. She ought to be made to
feel some of the mortification she has brought upon him.'

Preston's face brightened; a new idea seemed to strike him. 'You are
right. I will sell everything.' His face clouded again, as he continued:
'But I cannot realize soon enough. Your husband needs money at once.'

'Never mind me; I can take care of myself. But what is this trouble with
Joe? Tell me, I will arrange it. Everything can go on smoothly again.'

'It cannot be arranged. There can be no reconciliation between us.'

'What prevents? Who is at fault--you, or he?'

'I am. He will never forgive me!'

'Forgive you! I can't imagine what you have done, that admits of no
forgiveness.'

He rose, and walked the room for a while in gloomy silence, then said:

'I will tell you. It is right you should know. You _both_ should know
the sort of man you have esteemed and befriended for so many years;'
and, resuming his seat, he related the following occurrences:

'Everything went on as usual at the plantation, till some months after
Rosey's marriage to Ally. Then a child was born to them. It was white.
Rosey refused to reveal its father, but it was evidently not her
husband. Ally, being a proud, high-spirited fellow, took the thing
terribly to heart. He refused to live with his wife, or even to see her.
I tried to reconcile them, but without success. Old Dinah, who had
previously doted on Rosey, turned about, and began to beat and abuse her
cruelly. To keep the child out of the old woman's way, I took her into
the house, and she remained there till about two months ago. Then, one
day, Larkin, the trader, of whom you bought Phylly and the children,
came to me, wanting a woman house-servant. I was pressed for money, and
I offered him--a thing I never did before--two or three of my family
slaves. They did not suit, but he said Rosey would, and proposed to buy
her and the child. I refused. He offered me fifteen hundred dollars for
them, but I still refused. Then he told me that he had spoken to the
girl, and she wished him to buy her. I doubted it, and said so; but he
called Rosey to us, and she confirmed it, and, in an excited way, told
me she would run away, or drown herself, if I did not sell her. She said
she could live no longer on the same plantation with Ally. I told her I
would send Ally away; but she replied: 'No; I am tired of this place. I
have suffered so much here, I want to get away. I _shall_ go; whether
alive or dead, is for _you_ to say.' I saw she was in earnest; I was
hard pressed for money; Larkin promised to get her a kind master, and--I
sold her.'

'Sold her! My God! Preston, she was your own child!'

'I know it,' he replied, burying his face in his hands. 'The curse of
GOD was on it; it has been on me for years.' After a few moments, he
added: 'But hear the rest, and _you_ will curse me, too.'

Overcome with emotion, he groaned audibly. I said nothing, and a pause
of some minutes ensued. Then, in a choked, broken voice, he continued:

'The rosin transaction had been gone into. I had used up what blank
indorsements I had. Needing more, and wanting to consult with Joe about
selling the rosin, I went to Mobile. It was five weeks ago. I arrived
there about dark, and put up at the Battle House. Joe had boarded there.
I was told he had left, and gone to housekeeping. A negro conducted me
to a small house in the outskirts of the town. He said Joe lived there.
Wishing to surprise him, I went in without knocking. The house had two
parlors, separated by folding doors. In the back one a young woman was
clearing away the tea things; in the front one, Joe was seated by the
fire, with a young child on his knee. I put my hand on his shoulder, and
said: 'Joe, whose child have you here?' He looked up, and laughingly
said: 'Why, father, you ought to know; you've seen it before!' I looked
closely at it--it was Rosey's! I said so. 'Yes, father,' he replied;
'and there's Rosey herself. Larkin promised she should have a kind
master, and--he kept his word.' The truth flashed upon me--the child was
his! My only son had seduced his _own sister_! I staggered back in
horror. I told him who Rosey was, and then'--no words can express the
intense agony depicted on his face as he said this--'then he cursed me!
O my God! HE CURSED ME!'

I pitied him, I could but pity him; and I said:

'Do not be so cast down, my friend. I once heard you say: 'The Lord is
good. His mercy is everlasting!''

'But he cannot have mercy on some!' he cried. '_My_ sins have been too
great; they cannot be blotted out. I embittered the life of my wife; I
have driven my daughter from her home; sold my own child; made my
generous, noble-hearted boy do a horrible crime--a crime that will
haunt him forever. Oh! the curse of God is on me. My misery is greater
than I can bear.'

'No, my friend; God curses none of his creatures. You have reaped what
you have sown, that is all; but you have suffered enough. Better things,
believe me, are in store for you.'

'No, no; everything is gone--wife, children, all! I am alone--the past,
nothing but remorse; the future, ruin and dishonor!'

'But Selly is left you. _She_ will always love you.'

'No, no! Even Selly would curse me, if she knew _all_!'

No one spoke for a full half hour, and he continued pacing up and down
the room. When, at last, he seated himself, more composed, I asked:

'What became of Rosey and the child?'

'I do not know. I was shut in my room for several days. When I got out,
I was told Joe had freed her, and she had disappeared, no one knew
whither. I tried every means to trace her, but could not. At the end of
a week, I went home, what you see me--a broken-hearted man.'

The next morning, despite our urgent entreaties, he returned to the
South.

       *       *       *       *       *

The twenty days were expiring. By hard struggling I had met my
liabilities, but the last day--the crisis--was approaching. Thirty
thousand dollars of our acceptances had accumulated together, and were
maturing on that day. When I went home, on the preceding night, we had
only nineteen thousand in bank. I had exhausted all our receivables.
Where the eleven thousand was to come from, I did not know. Only one
resource seemed left me--the hypothecation of produce; and a resort to
that, at that time, before warehouse receipts became legitimate
securities, would be ruinous to our credit. My position was a terrible
one. No one not a merchant can appreciate or realize it. With thousands
upon thousands of assets, the accumulations of years, my standing among
merchants, and, what I valued more than all, my untarnished credit, were
in jeopardy for the want of a paltry sum.

I went home that night with a heavy heart; but Kate's hopeful words
encouraged me. With her and the children left to me, I need not care for
the rest; all might go, and I could commence again at the bottom of the
hill. The next morning I walked down town with a firm spirit, ready to
meet disaster like a man. The letters by the early mail were on my desk.
I opened them one after another, hurriedly, eagerly. There were no
remittances! I had expected at least five thousand dollars. For a moment
my courage failed me. I rose, and paced the room, and thoughts like
these passed through my mind: 'The last alternative has come. Pride must
give way to duty. I must hypothecate produce, and protect my
correspondents. I must sacrifice myself to save my friends!

'But here are two letters I have thrown aside. They are addressed to me
personally. Mere letters of friendship! What is friendship, at a time
like this?--friendship without money! Pshaw! I wouldn't give a fig for
all the friends in the world!'

Mechanically I opened one of them. An enclosure dropped to the floor.
Without pausing to pick it up, I read:

     'DEAR FATHER: Mother writes me you are hard pressed. Sell my U. S.
     stock--it will realize over seven thousand. It is yours. Enclosed
     is Cragin's certified check for ten thousand. If you need more,
     draw on _him_, at sight, for any amount. He says he will stand by
     you to the death.

                                   'Love to mother.
                                              FRANK.'

     'P. S.--Fire away, old fellow! Hallet is ugly, but I'll go my pile
     on you, spite of the devil.
                                             CRAGIN.'


'SAVED! saved by my wife and child!' I leaned my head on my desk. When I
rose, there were tears upon it.

It wanted some minutes of ten, but I was nervously impatient to blot out
those terrible acceptances. I should then be safe; I should then breathe
freely. As I passed out of my private office, I opened the other letter.
It was from Preston. Pausing a moment, I read it:

     'MY VERY DEAR FRIEND: I enclose you sight check of Branch Bank of
     Cape Fear on Bank of Republic, for $10,820. Apply what is needed to
     pay my account; the rest hold subject to my drafts.

     'I have sold my town house, furniture, horses, etc., and the
     proceeds will pay my home debts. I shall therefore not need to draw
     the balance for, say, sixty days. God bless you!'

'Well, the age of miracles is _not_ passed! How _did_ he raise the
money?'

Stepping back into the private office, I called my partner:

'Draw checks for all the acceptances due to-day; get them certified, and
take up the bills at once. Don't let the grass grow under your feet. I
shall be away the rest of the day, and I want to see them before I go.
Here is a draft from Preston; it will make our account good.'

He looked at it, and, laughing, said:

'Yes, and leave about fifty dollars in bank.'

'Well, never mind; we are out of the woods.'

When he had gone, I sat down, and wrote the following letter:

     'MY DEAR FRANK: I return Cragin's check, with many thanks. I have
     not sold your stock. My legitimate resources have carried me
     through.

     'I need not say, my boy, that I feel what you would have done for
     me. Words are not needed between _us_.

     'Tell Cragin that I consider him a trump--the very ace of hearts.

     'Your mother and I will see you in a few days.'

In half an hour, with the two letters in my pocket, I was on my way
home. Handing them to Kate, I took her in my arms; and, as I brushed the
still bright, golden hair from her broad forehead, I felt I was the
richest man living.

       *       *       *       *       *

Within the same week I went to Boston. I arrived just after dark; and
then occurred the events narrated in the first chapter.




WAR.

[J. G. PERCIVAL.]


  For war is now upon their shores,
    And we must meet the foe,
  Must go where battle's thunder roars,
    And brave men slumber low;
  Go, where the sleep of death comes on
    The proudest hearts, who dare
  To grasp the wreath by valor won,
    And glory's banquet share.




A CHAPTER ON WONDERS.

  'Obstupui! steteruntque comæ, et vox faucibus hæsit.'


There is a certain portion of mankind ever on the alert to see or hear
some wonderful thing; whose minds are attuned to a marvellous key, and
vibrate with extreme sensitiveness to the slightest touch; whose vital
fluid is the air of romance, and whose algebraic symbol is a mark of
exclamation! This sentiment, existing in some persons to a greater
degree than in others, is often fostered by education and association,
so as to become the all-engrossing passion. Children, of course, begin
to wonder as soon as their eyes are opened upon the strange scenes of
their future operations. The first thing usually done to develop their
dawning intellect, is to display before them such objects as are best
calculated to arrest their attention, and keep them in a continual state
of excitement. This course is succeeded by a supply of all sorts of
_toys_, to gratify the passion of novelty. These are followed by
wonderful stories, and books of every variety of absurd
impossibilities;--which system of development is, it would seem,
entirely based upon the presumption, that the faculty of admiration must
be expanded, in order that the young idea may best learn how to _shoot_.
It is therefore quite natural, that--the predisposition granted--a
faculty of the mind so auspiciously nurtured under the influence of
exaggeration should mature in a corresponding degree.

Thus we have in our midst a class, into whose mental economy the faculty
of _wonder_ is so thoroughly infused, that it has inoculated the entire
system, and forms an inherent, inexplicable, and almost elementary part
of it. These persons sail about in their pleasure yachts, on roving
expeditions, under a pretended '_right of search_,' armed to the teeth,
and boarding all sorts of crafts to obtain plunder for their favorite
gratification. They are most uneasy and uncomfortable companions, having
no ear for commonplace subjects of conversation, and no eye for ordinary
objects of sight.

When such persons approach each other, they are mutually attracted, like
two bodies charged with different kinds of electricity--an interchange
of commodities takes place, repulsion follows, and thus reënforced, they
separate to diffuse the supply of wonders collected.

By this centripetal and centrifugal process, the social atmosphere is
subjected to a continual state of agitation. _Language_ is altogether
too tame to give full effect to their meaning, and all the varieties of
_dumb show_, of _gesticulation_, _shrugs_, and wise shakes of the head,
are called into requisition, to effectually and unmistakably express
their ideas. The usages of good society are regarded by them as a great
restraint upon their besetting propensity to expatiate in phrases of
grandiloquence, and to magnify objects of trivial importance. They are
always sure to initiate topics which will afford scope for admiration;
they delight to enlarge upon the unprecedented growth of cities,
villages, and towns; upon the comparative prices of 'corner lots' at
different periods; and to calculate how rich they _might_ have been, had
they only known as much _then_ as _now_.

They experience a gratification when a rich man dies, that the wonder
will now be solved as to the amount of his property; and when a man
fails in business, that it is _now_ made clear--what has so long
perplexed them--'_how he managed to live so extravagantly_!' See them
at an agricultural fair, and they will be found examining the 'mammoth
squashes' and various products of prodigious growth--or they will
install themselves as self-appointed exhibiter of the 'Fat Baby,' to
inform the incredulous how much it weighs! See them at a conflagration,
and they wonder what was the _cause_ of the fire, and _how far_ it will
extend?

They long to travel, that they may visit 'mammoth caves' and 'Giant's
Causeways.' We talk of the 'Seven Wonders of the World,' while to them
there is a successive series for every day in the year--putting to the
blush our meagre stock of monstrosities--making 'Ossa like a wart.'
Nothing gratifies them more than the issuing from the press of an
anonymous work, that they may exert their ingenuity in endeavoring to
discover the author; and, when called on for information on the subject,
prove conclusively to every one but themselves, that they know nothing
whatever about the matter.

The ocean is to them only wonderful as the abode of 'Leviathans,' and
'Sea Serpents,' 'Krakens,' and 'Mermaids'--abounding in 'Mäelstroms' and
_sunken_ islands, and traversed by 'Phantom Ships' and 'Flying Dutchmen'
in perpetual search for some 'lost Atlantis;'--all well-attested
incredibilities, certified to by the 'affidavits of respectable
eye-witnesses,' and, we might add, by 'intelligent contrabands,'--and
all in strict conformity with the convenient aphorism '_Credo quia
impossibile est_.' They are ever ready to bestow their amazement upon a
fresh miracle as soon as the present has had its day--like the man who,
being landed at some distance by the explosion of a juggler's
pyrotechnics, rubbed his eyes open, and exclaimed, '_I wonder what the
fellow will do next!_'

If a steamboat explodes her boiler, or the walls of a factory fall,
burying hundreds in the ruins, their hearts--rendered callous by the
constant stream of cold air pouring in through their _ever-open
mouths_--are not shocked at the calamity, but they wonder if it was
_insured_!

The increase of population in this country affords a most prolific and
inexhaustible fund for statistical astonishment, as an interlude to the
entertainment, while something more appalling is being prepared.

The portentous omens so often relied on by the credulous believers in
signs, have so frequently proved 'dead failures,' that one would suppose
these votaries would at length become disheartened. But this seems not
to be the case--like a quack doctor when his patient dies, their
audacity is equal to any emergency, and, with the elasticity of india
rubber, they come out of a 'tight squeeze' with undiminished rotundity.
With _stupid_ amazement, hair all erect, and ears likewise, they pass
through life as through a museum, ready to exclaim with Dominie Sampson
at all _they_ cannot understand, 'Pro--di--gi--ous!'

It matters little, perhaps, in what form this principle is exhibited,
while it exists and flourishes in undiminished exuberance. Thus says
Glendower:

                      'At my nativity
  The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes,
  Of burning cressets; and, at my birth,
  The frame and huge foundation of the earth
  Shak'd like a coward.

  _Hotspur._ Why so it would have done
  At the same season, if your mother's cat had
  But kittened, though yourself had ne'er been born.'

Glendower naturally enough flouts this rather impertinent comment, and
'repeats the story of his birth' with still greater improvements, till
Hotspur gives him a piece of advice which will do for his whole race of
the present day, viz., 'tell the truth, and shame the devil.'

The English people of this generation are rather more phlegmatic than
their explosive neighbors across the channel, and neither the injustice
of black slavery abroad, nor the starvation of _white_ slaves at home,
can shake them from their lop-sided neutrality, _so long as money goes
into their pocket_. The excitable French, on the contrary, require an
occasional _coup d'état_ to arouse their conjectures as to the next
imperial experiment in the art of international diplomacy.

The press of the day teems with all sorts of provisions to satisfy the
cravings of a depraved imagination, and even the most sedate of our
daily papers are not above employing 'double-leaded Sensations,' and
'display Heads' as a part of their ordinary stock in trade; while from
the hebdomadals, 'Thrilling Tales,' 'Awful Disclosures,' and 'Startling
Discoveries,' succeed each other with truly fearful rapidity. Thus he
who wastes the midnight kerosene, and spoils his weary eyes in poring
over the pages of trashy productions, so well designed to murder sleep,
may truly say with Macbeth, 'I have supp'd full with horrors.'

It is certainly remarkable (as an indication of the pleasure the
multitude take in voluntarily perplexing themselves), how eagerly they
enter into all sorts of contrivances which conduce to bewilderment and
doubt. In 'Hampton Court' there is a famous enclosure called the
'_Maze_,' so arranged with hedged alleys as to form a perfect labyrinth.
To this place throngs of persons are constantly repairing, to enjoy the
luxury of losing themselves, and of seeing others in the same
predicament.

Some persons become so impatient of the constant demand upon their
admiration, that they resist whatever seems to lead in that direction.
Washington Irving said he 'never liked to walk with his host over the
latter's ground'--a feeling which many will at once acknowledge having
experienced. A celebrated English traveller was so annoyed by the urgent
invitations of the Philadelphians to visit the Fairmount Water Works,
that he resolved _not_ to visit them, so that he might have the
characteristic satisfaction of recording the ill-natured fact.

'Swift mentions a gentleman who made it a rule in reading, to skip over
all sentences where he spied a note of admiration at the end.'

The instances here quoted are, to be sure, carrying out the '_Nil
admirari_' principle rather to extremes, and are not recommended for
general observance. The most remarkable and prominent wonders in the
natural world seldom meet the expectation of the beholder, because he
looks to experience a new sensation, and is disappointed; and so with
works of art, as St. Peter's at Rome--

    ----'its grandeur overwhelms thee not,
  And why? it is not lessen'd; but thy mind,
  Expanded by the genius of the spot,
  Has grown colossal.'

_Wonder_ is defined as 'the effect of novelty upon ignorance.' Most
objects which excite wonder are magnified by the distance or the point
of view, and their proportions diminish and shrink as we approach them.
It is a saying as old as Horace, 'ignotum pro magnifico est': we cease
to wonder at what we understand. Seneca says that those whose habits are
temperate are satisfied with fountain water, which is cold enough for
them; while those who have lived high and luxuriously, require the use
of _ice_. Thus a well-disciplined mind adjusts itself to whatever events
may occur, and not being likely to lose its equanimity upon ordinary
occasions, is equally well prepared for more serious results.

'Let us never wonder,' again saith Seneca, 'at anything we are born to;
for no man has reason to complain where we are all in the same
condition.' But notwithstanding all the precepts of philosophers, the
advice of all men of sense, and the best examples for our guides, we go
on, with eyes dilated and minds wide open, to see, hear, and receive
impressions through distorted mediums, leading to wrong conclusions and
endless mistakes.

'Wonders will never cease!' Of course they will not, so long as there
are so many persons engaged in providing the aliment for their
sustenance; so long as the demand exceeds the supply; so long as mankind
are more disposed to listen to exaggeration rather than to simple
truths, and so long as they shall tolerate the race of _wonder-mongers_,
giving them 'aid and comfort,' regardless of their being enemies of our
peace, and the pests of our social community.




THE RETURN.


  July,--what is the news they tell?
    A battle won: our eyes are dim,
  And sad forbodings press the heart
    Anxious, awaiting news from him.
  Hour drags on hour: fond heart, be still,
    Shall evil tidings break the spell?
  A word at last!--they found him dead;
    He fought in the advance, and fell.

  Oh aloes of affliction poured
    Into the wine cup of the soul!
  Oh bitterness of anguish stored
    To fill our grief beyond control!
  At last he comes, awaited long,
    Not to home welcomes warm and loud,
  Not to the voice of mirth and song,
    Pale featured, cold, beneath a shroud.

  Oh from the morrow of our lives
    A glowing hope has stolen away,
  A something from the sun has fled,
    That dims the glory of the day.
  More earnestly we look beyond
    The present life to that to be;
  Another influence draws the soul
    To long for that futurity.

  Pardon if anguished souls refrain
    Too little, grieving for the lost,
  From thinking dearly bought the gain
    Of victory at such fearful cost.
  Teach us as dearest gain to prize
    The glory crown he early won;
  Forever shall his requiem rise:
    Rest thee in peace, thy duty done.




THE UNION.

VI.

VIRGINIA AND PENNSYLVANIA COMPARED.


Virginia was a considerable colony, when Pennsylvania was occupied only
by Indian tribes. In 1790, Virginia was first in rank of all the States,
her number of inhabitants being 748,308. (Census Rep., 120,121.)
Pennsylvania then ranked the second, numbering 434,373 persons. (Ib.) In
1860 the population of Virginia was 1,596,318, ranking the fifth;
Pennsylvania still remaining the second, and numbering 2,905,115. (Ib.)
In 1790 the population of Virginia exceeded that of Pennsylvania
313,925; in 1860 the excess in favor of Pennsylvania was 1,308,797. The
ratio of increase of population of Virginia from 1790 to 1860 was 113.32
per cent., and of Pennsylvania in the same period, 569.03. At the same
relative ratio of increase for the next seventy years, Virginia would
contain a population of 3,405,265 in 1930; and Pennsylvania 19,443,934,
exceeding that of England. Such has been and would continue to be the
effect of slavery in retarding the progress of Virginia, and such the
influence of freedom in the rapid advance of Pennsylvania. Indeed, with
the maintenance and perpetuity of the Union in all its integrity, the
destiny of Pennsylvania will surpass the most sanguine expectations.

The population of Virginia per square mile in 1790 was 12.19, and in
1860, 26.02; whilst that of Pennsylvania in 1790 was 9.44, and in 1860,
63.18. (Ib.) The absolute increase of the population of Virginia per
square mile, from 1790 to 1860, was 13.83, and from 1850 to 1860, 2.85;
whilst that of Pennsylvania from 1790 to 1860, was 53.74, and from 1850
to 1860, 12.93. (Ib.)

AREA.--The area of Virginia is 61,352 square miles, and of Pennsylvania,
46,000, the difference being 15,352 square miles, which is greater, by
758 square miles, than the aggregate area of Massachusetts, Connecticut,
and Delaware, containing in 1860 a population of 1,803,429. (Ib.)
Retaining their respective ratios of increase per square mile from 1790
to 1860, and reversing their areas, that of Virginia in 1860 would have
been 1,196,920, and of Pennsylvania 3,876,119. Reversing the numbers of
each State in 1790, the ratio of increase in each remaining the same,
the population of Pennsylvania in 1860 would have been 5,408,424, and
that of Virginia, 926,603. Reversing both the areas and numbers in 1790,
and the population of Pennsylvania would have exceeded that of Virginia
in 1860 more than six millions.

SHORE LINE.--By the Tables of the Coast Survey, the shore line of
Virginia is 1,571 miles, and of Pennsylvania only 60 miles. This vastly
superior coast line of Virginia, with better, deeper, more capacious,
and much more numerous harbors, unobstructed by ice, and with easy
access for so many hundred miles by navigable bays and tide-water rivers
leading so far into the interior, give to Virginia great advantages over
Pennsylvania in commerce and every branch of industry. Indeed, in this
respect, Virginia stands unrivalled in the Union. The hydraulic power of
Virginia greatly exceeds that of Pennsylvania.

MINES.--Pennsylvania excels every other State in mineral wealth, but
Virginia comes next.

SOIL.--In natural fertility of soil, the two States are about equal;
but the seasons in Virginia are more favorable, both for crops and
stock, than in Pennsylvania. Virginia has all the agricultural products
of Pennsylvania, with cotton in addition. The area, however, of Virginia
(39,265,280 acres) being greater by 9,825,280 acres than that of
Pennsylvania (29,440,000 acres), gives to Virginia vast advantages.

In her greater area, her far superior coast line, harbors, rivers, and
hydraulic power, her longer and better seasons for crops and stock, and
greater variety of products, Virginia has vast natural advantages, and
with nearly double the population of Pennsylvania in 1790. And yet,
where has slavery placed Virginia? Pennsylvania exceeds her now in
numbers 1,308,797, and increased in population, from 1790 to 1860, in a
ratio more than five to one. Such is the terrible contrast between free
and slave institutions!

PROGRESS OF WEALTH.--By Census Tables (1860) 33 and 36, it appears
(omitting commerce) that the products of industry, as given, viz., of
agriculture, manufactures, mines, and fisheries, were that year in
Pennsylvania, of the value of $398,600,000, or $137 per capita; and in
Virginia, $120,000,000 or $75 per capita. This shows a total value of
product in Pennsylvania much more than three times that of Virginia,
and, per capita, nearly two to one. That is, the average value of the
product of the labor of each person in Pennsylvania, is nearly double
that of each person, including slaves, in Virginia. Thus is proved the
vast superiority of free over slave labor, and the immense national loss
occasioned by the substitution of the latter for the former.

As to the rate of increase; the value of the products of Virginia in
1850 was $84,480,428 (Table 9), and in Pennsylvania, $229,567,131,
showing an increase in Virginia, from 1850 to 1860, of $35,519,572,
being 41 per cent.; and in Pennsylvania, $169,032,869, being 50 per
cent.; exhibiting a difference of 9 per cent. in favor of Pennsylvania.
By the Census Table of 1860, No. 35, p. 195, the true value then of the
real and personal property was, in Pennsylvania, $1,416,501,818, and of
Virginia, $793,249,681. Now, we have seen, the value of the products in
Pennsylvania in 1860 was $398,600,000, and in Virginia, $120,000,000.
Thus, as a question of the annual yield of capital, that of Pennsylvania
was 28.13 per cent., and of Virginia, 15.13 per cent. By Census Table
35, the total value of the real and personal property of Pennsylvania
was $722,486,120 in 1850, and $1,416,501,818 in 1860, showing an
increase, in that decade, of $694,015,698, being 96.05 per cent.; and in
Virginia, $430,701,082 in 1850, and $793,249,681 in 1860, showing an
increase of $362,548,599, or 84.17 per cent.

By Table 36, p. 196, Census of 1860, the _cash_ value of the farms of
Virginia was $371,092,211, being $11.91 per acre; and of Pennsylvania,
$662,050,707, being $38.91 per acre. Now, by this table, the number of
acres embraced in these farms of Pennsylvania was 17,012,153 acres, and
in Virginia, 31,014,950; the difference of value per acre being $27, or
largely more than three to one in favor of Pennsylvania, Now, if we
multiply the farm lands of Virginia by the Pennsylvania value per acre,
it would make the total value of the farm lands of Virginia
$1,204,791,804; and the _additional_ value, caused by emancipation,
$835,699,593, which is more, by $688,440,093, than the value of all the
slaves of Virginia. But the whole area of Virginia is 39,265,280 acres,
deducting from which the farm lands, there remain unoccupied 8,250,330
acres. Now, if (as would be in the absence of slavery,) the population
per square mile of Virginia equalled that of Pennsylvania, three fifths
of these lands would have been occupied as farms, viz., 4,950,198,
which, at the Pennsylvania value per acre, would have been worth
$188,207,524. Deduct from this their present average value of $2 per
acre, $9,800,396, and the remainder, $178,407,128, is the sum by which
the unoccupied lands of Virginia, converted into farms, would have been
increased in value by emancipation. Add this to the enhanced value of
their present farms, and the result is $1,014,106,721 as the gain, on
this basis, of Virginia in the value of her lands, by emancipation. To
these we should add the increased value of town and city lots and
improvements, and of personal property, and, with emancipation, Virginia
would now have an augmented wealth of at least one billion and a half of
dollars.

The earnings of commerce are not given in the Census Tables, which would
vastly increase the difference in the value of their annual products in
favor of Pennsylvania as compared with Virginia. These earnings include
all not embraced under the heads of agriculture, manufactures, the
mines, and fisheries. Let us examine some of these statistics.

RAILROADS.--The number of miles of railroads in operation in
Pennsylvania in 1860, including city roads, was 2,690.49 miles, costing
$147,283,410; and in Virginia, 1,771 miles, costing $64,958,807. (Census
Table of 1860, No. 38, pp. 230, 232.) The annual value of the freight
carried on these roads is estimated at $200,000,000 more in Pennsylvania
than in Virginia, and the passenger account would still more increase
the disparity.

CANALS.--The number of miles of canals in Pennsylvania in 1860 was
1,259, and their cost, $42,015,000. In Virginia the number of miles was
178, and the cost, $7,817,000. (Census Table 39, p. 238.) The estimated
value of the freight on the Pennsylvania canals is ten times that of the
freight on the Virginia canals.

TONNAGE.--The tonnage of vessels built in Pennsylvania in 1860 was
21,615 tons, and in Virginia, 4,372. (Census, p. 107.)

BANKS.--The number of banks in Pennsylvania in 1860 was 90; capital,
$25,565,582; loans, $50,327,127; specie, $8,378,474; circulation,
13,132,892; deposits, $26,167,143:--and in Virginia the number was 65;
capital, $16,005,156; loans, $24,975,792; specie, $2,943,652;
circulation, $9,812,197; deposits, $7,729,652. (Census Table 35, p.
193.)

EXPORTS AND IMPORTS, ETC.--Our exports abroad from Pennsylvania, for the
fiscal year ending 30th June, 1860, and foreign imports, were of the
value of $20,262,608. The clearances, same year, from Pennsylvania, and
entries were 336,848 tons. In Virginia the exports the same year, and
foreign imports were of the value of $7,184,273; clearances and entries,
178,143 tons, (Table 14, Register of U.S. Treasury.) Revenue from
customs, same year, in Pennsylvania, $2,552,924, and in Virginia,
$189,816; or more than twelve to one in favor of Pennsylvania. (Tables
U.S. Commissioner of Customs.) No returns are given for the coastwise
and internal trade of either State; but the railway and canal
transportation of both States shows a difference of ten to one in favor
of Pennsylvania. And yet, Virginia, as we have seen, had much greater
natural advantages than Pennsylvania for commerce, foreign and internal,
her shore line up to head of tide-water being 1,571 miles, and
Pennsylvania only 60 miles.

We have seen that, exclusive of commerce, the products of Pennsylvania
in 1860 were of the value of $398,600,000, or $137 per capita; and in
Virginia, $120,000,000, or $75 per capita. But, if we add the earnings
of commerce, the products of Pennsylvania must have exceeded those of
Virginia much more than four to one, and have reached, per capita,
nearly three to one. What but slavery could have produced such amazing
results? Indeed, when we see the same effects in _all_ the Free States
as compared with _all_ the Slave States, and in _any_ of the Slave
States, as compared with _any_ of the Free States, the uniformity of
results establishes the law beyond all controversy, that slavery
retards immensely the progress of wealth and population.

That the Tariff has produced none of these results, is shown by the fact
that the agriculture and commerce of Pennsylvania vastly exceed those of
Virginia, and yet these are the interests supposed to be most
injuriously affected by high tariffs. But there is still more conclusive
proof. The year 1824 was the commencement of the era of high tariffs,
and yet, from 1790 to 1820, as proved by the Census, the percentage of
increase of Pennsylvania over Virginia was greater than from 1820 to
1860. Thus, by Table 1 of the Census, p. 124, the increase of population
in Virginia was as follows:

  From 1790 to 1800  17.63 per cent.
    "  1800 "  1810  10.73    "
    "  1810 "  1820   9.31    "
    "  1820 "  1830  13.71    "
    "  1830 "  1840   2.34    "
    "  1840 "  1850  14.60    "
    "  1850 "  1860  12.29    "

The increase of population in Pennsylvania was:

  From 1790 to 1800  38.67 per cent.
    "  1800 "  1810  34.49    "
    "  1810 "  1820  29.55    "
    "  1820 "  1830  28.47    "
    "  1830 "  1840  27.87    "
    "  1840 "  1850  34.09    "
    "  1850 "  1860  25.71    "

In 1790 the population of Virginia was 748,318; in 1820, 1,065,129, and
in 1860, 1,596,318. In 1790 the population of Pennsylvania was 434,373;
in 1820, 1,348,233, and in 1860, 2,906,115. Thus, from 1790 to 1820,
before the inauguration of the protective policy, the relative increase
of the population of Pennsylvania, as compared with Virginia, was very
far greater than from 1820 to 1860. It is quite clear, then, that the
tariff had no influence in depressing the progress of Virginia as
compared with Pennsylvania.

Having shown how much the material progress of Virginia has been
retarded by slavery, let us now consider its effect upon her moral and
intellectual development.

NEWSPAPERS AND PERIODICALS.--The number of newspapers and periodicals in
Pennsylvania in 1860 was 367, of which 277 were political, 43 religious,
25 literary, 22 miscellaneous; and the total number of copies circulated
in 1860 was 116,094,480. (Census Tables, Nos. 15, 37.) The number in
Virginia was 139, of which 117 were political, 13 religious, 3 literary,
6 miscellaneous; and the number of copies circulated in 1860 was
26,772,568, being much less than one fourth that of Pennsylvania. The
number of copies of monthly periodicals circulated in Pennsylvania in
1860 was 464,684; and in Virginia, 43,900; or much more than ten to one
in favor of Pennsylvania.

As regards schools, colleges, academies, libraries, and churches, I must
take the Census of 1850, those tables for 1860 not being yet arranged or
printed. The number of public schools in Pennsylvania in 1850 was 9,061;
teachers, 10,024; pupils, 413,706; colleges, academies, &c., pupils,
26,142; attending school during the year, as returned by families,
504,610; native adults of the State who cannot read or write, 51,283;
public libraries, 393; volumes, 363,400; value of churches, $11,853,291;
percentage of native free, population (adults) who cannot read or write,
4.56. (Comp. Census of 1850.)

The number of public schools in Virginia in 1850 was 2,937; teachers,
3,005; pupils, 67,438; colleges, academies, &c., pupils, 10,326;
attending school, as returned by families, 109,775; native white adults
of the State who cannot read or write, 75,868; public libraries, 54;
volumes, 88,462; value of churches, $2,902,220; percentage of native
free adults of Virginia who cannot read or write, 19.90. (Comp. Census
of 1850.) Thus, the church and educational statistics of Pennsylvania,
and especially of free adults who cannot read or write, is as five to
one nearly in favor of Pennsylvania. When we recollect that nearly one
third of the population of Pennsylvania are of the great German race,
and speak the noble German language, to which they are greatly attached,
and hence the difficulty of introducing common _English_ public schools
in the State, the advantage, in this respect, of Pennsylvania over
Virginia is most extraordinary.

These official statistics enable me, then, again to say that slavery is
hostile to the progress of _wealth_ and _education_, to _science_ and
_literature_, to _schools_, _colleges_, and _universities_, to _books_
and _libraries_, to _churches_ and _religion_, to the PRESS, and
therefore to FREE GOVERNMENT; hostile to the _poor_, keeping them in
_want_ and _ignorance_; hostile to LABOR, reducing it to _servitude_ and
decreasing _two thirds_ the value of its products; hostile to _morals_,
repudiating among slaves the _marital_ and _parental_ condition,
classifying them by law as CHATTELS, _darkening_ the _immortal soul_,
and making it a _crime_ to teach millions of _human beings_ to _read_ or
_write_.

And yet, there are desperate leaders of the Peace party of Pennsylvania,
desecrating the name of _Democrats_, but, in fact, Tories and traitors,
who would separate that glorious old commonwealth from the North, and
bid her sue in abject humiliation for admission as one of the Slave
States of the rebel confederacy. Shades of Penn and Franklin, and of the
thousands of martyred patriots of Pennsylvania who have fallen in
defence of the Union from 1776 to 1863, forbid the terrible degradation.




DOWN IN TENNESSEE.


Sultry and wearisome the day had been in that Tennessee valley, and
after drill, we had laid around under the trees--tall, noble trees they
were--and the fresh grass was green and soft under them as on the old
'Campus,' and we had been smoking and talking over a wide, wide range of
subjects, from deep Carlyleism--of which Carlyle doubtless never
heard--to the significance of the day's orders. It was not an
inharmonious picture--Camp Alabama, so we had named it--for it was with
a 'here we rest' feeling that a dozen days before we had marched in at
noon. The ground sloped to the eastward--a single winding road of yellow
sand crept over the slope into the horizon, a mile or more away; north,
a hill rose with some abruptness; south and west, a grove of wonderful
beauty skirted the valley. A single building--an old but large log
farmhouse--stood near the tent, whose fluttering banner indicated
headquarters. This old house was well filled with commissary stores,
and, following that incomprehensible Tennessee policy, four companies of
our regiment, the twenty-third, had been detached to guard them under
Major Fanning--'a noble soldier he, but all untried.' We had never yet
seen active service, and our tents were still white and unstained. The
ground had been once the lawn of the deserted house--in the long ago
probably the home of a planter of some pretension; and, as we lay there
under the trees watching the boys over the fires, kindled for their
evening meal, the blue smoke curling up among the trees, it made, as I
have said, a most harmonious picture.

That fair June evening! I can never forget it, and I wish I were an
artist that I could show you the sloping valley, the white tents,
flushing like a girl's cheek to the good-night kisses of the sun, the
curling smoke wreaths, and far, far above the amethystine heaven, from
which floated over all a dim purple tint. I was the youngest
commissioned officer in the regiment, having been promoted to a vacancy
a week or two before through Major Fanning's influence.

We were all invited that evening to supper with our commanding officer
and his wife--who had been with him for a few days. A fresh breeze
stirred the trees at sunset, and, after slight attention to our
toilette, we dropped by twos and threes into the neighborhood of the
major's tent. A little back from the rows of other tents, a few fine
oaks made a temple in front, worthy even of its presiding genius, Grace
Fanning--but I am _not_ going to rhapsodize. She was a fair, modest,
young thing, with the girl rose yet fresh on her wife's cheek. I had
known her from childhood; very nearly of the same age, and the children
of neighbors, we had been inseparable; of course in my first college
vacation, finding her grown tall and womanly, I had entertained for her
a devoted boyish passion, and had gone from her presence, one August
night, mad with rejection, and wild with what I called despair. But
_that_ passed, and we had been good friends ever since--she the
confidential one, to whom I related my varied college love affairs,
listening ever with a tender, genial sympathy. I had no sister, and
Grace Jones (I am sorry, but her name _was_ Jones) was dear to me as
one. Two years of professional study had kept me away from my village
home, and a few words came once in a long while, in my mother's letters
'to assure me of Grace's remembrance and regard.' A little of the elder
sister's advising tone amused my one and twenty years and my incipient
moustache amazingly; and I resolved, when I saw her, to convince her of
my dignity--to patronize her. But the notes that called me home were too
clarion-like for a relapse into puppyism. My country spoke my name, and
I arose a man, and 'put away childish things.' I came home to say
farewell. A regiment was forming there, I enlisted, and a few days
before our departure, I stood in the village church, looking and
listening while Grace promised eternal fidelity to Harry Fanning. I was
a stranger to him. He had come to Danville after my departure, winning
from all golden opinions, and from Grace a woman's priceless heart. She
gave him freely to his country, and denied not her hand to his parting
prayer. I had had time only to say farewell to her, and the old footing
had not been restored, but I _think_ she spoke to the major of me, for
he soon sought me, giving me genial friendship and sympathy, and
procuring for me, as I have related, my commission. I had seen her but
once since she came to Camp Alabama, and she gave me warm and kindly
welcome as I came in, the last of the group, having found in my tent
some unexpected employment. Being a soldier, I shall not shock my fair
readers if I confess that it was--buttons. Ah! me, I am frivolous. But I
linger in the spirit of that happy hour. Grace's chair was shaded by a
gracefully draped flag; the major stood near her, his love for her as
visible in his eye as his cordial kindness for us. To me, in honor of my
'juniority,' as Mrs. Fanning said, was assigned a place near her. The
others had choice between campstools and blankets on the grass. And the
oddest but most respectable of contrabands served us soon with our
supper, so homelike that we suspected 'Mrs. Major's' fair hands of
interference.

It was a happy evening. Merry laughter at our camp stories rang silverly
from her fair lips. Or we listened eagerly to her as she told us of the
homes we had left, and the bonny maidens there, sobered since our
departure into patriotic industry. Stories of touching self-denial, with
a wholesome pathos, and sometimes from her dainty musical talk she
dropped, pebble-like, a name, as 'Fanny,' 'Carry,' 'Maggie,' and
responsive blushes rippled up over sunburned, honest faces, and a soft
mist brightened for a second resolute eyes. Presently the band--a part
only of the regiment's--began to play soft, well-known tunes. Through a
few marches and national airs, I looked and listened as a year before,
in the village church at home. And as the 'Star-Spangled Banner' rose
inspiringly, I felt the coincidence strangely, and could scarcely say
which scene was real: the church aisle and the bridal party, in white
robes and favors, with mellow organ-tones rising in patriotic strains
concerning the 'dear old flag,' or the group under the oaks; the young
wife in her gray travelling dress, and the uniformed figures gathered
around her; the moon-rise over the hill, lighting softly the drooping
flag, the major's dark hair, and Mrs. Fanning's sunny braids, the wild
notes of the same beloved melody overswelling all. But voices near
aroused me, and we joined in the chorus, and in the following tune,
'Sweet Home,' the usual finale of our evening programme. Then, as the
tones died, Grace lifted her voice and sang with sweet, pure soprano
tones, an old-time ballad of love and parting and reunion.

We had a wild little battle song in 'Our Mess,' written by Charlie
Marsh, our fair-haired boy-poet soldier, speaking of home, and the
country's need, and victory, and possible deaths in ringing notes. We
sang it there in the light of the slowly rising moon. The chorus was
like this:

  'Our country's foe before us,
  Our country's banner o'er us,
  Our country to deplore us,
    These are a soldier's needs.'

As we closed, Grace caught the strain, and with soft, birdlike notes
sang:

  'Your country's flag above you,
  Your country's true hearts love you--
  So let your country move you
    To brave, undying deeds.'

More songs followed, and happy words of cheer in distress, of
self-consecration, of past and future victory; but Major Fanning was
unusually silent. Hardly sad, for he flung into our conversation
occasional cheerful words; but gravely quiet, his dark eye following
every motion of his fair young wife. Finally we called on Captain
Carter, our 'oldest man,' a grave bachelor of forty-five, and to our
surprise, who knew him harsh and sometimes profane, he sang, with a
voice not faultless, but soft and expressive, that exquisite health of
Campbell's:

  'Drink ye to her that each loves best,
    And if you nurse a flame
  That's told but to her mutual breast,
    We will not ask her name.

  'And far, far hence be jest or boast,
    From hallowed thoughts so dear;
  But drink to her that each loves most,
    As she would love to hear.'

Then silence for a little space; and the moonlight full and fair in
soldiers' faces, young and old, but all firm and true, and fair and full
on Grace Fanning's fresh, young brow. Then 'good-nights,' mingled with
expressions of enjoyment, and plans for the morrow. I left them last.

'I am glad you are here, Robert,' said the major; 'Grace would not be
all alone, even if I'--

Her white hand flashed to his lips, where a kiss met it, and laughingly
we parted. A few rods away, I paused and turned. They stood there under
the flag. Her bright head on his bosom, his arms about her, and the
silver moonlight over all. Fair Grace Fanning! Have I named my story
wrongly, pretty reader? I called it 'Camp Sketch,' and it reads too like
a love story. 'Ah! gentle girl, seeking adventure in fiction, but
shrinking really from even a cut finger, there is enough of battle even
in my little story, though you slept peacefully and happily that fair
June night, or waltzed yourself weary to the sound of the sea at the
'Ocean House.'

A few 'good nights' commendatory of our hostess and our evening greeted
me as I sought my tent and made ready for sleep. I was very happy, no
memory of our talk was sullied by coarse or unlovely thought; pure as
herself had been our enjoyment of Mrs. Fanning's society, and I slept
sweetly.

The long roll! None but those who have heard it when it means instant
danger and possible death, can conceive the thrill with which I sprang
from deep slumber, and made hasty preparation for action. Quick as I
was, others had been before me, and I found the half-dressed men drawn
up in battle line before the encampment. I took my place.

Behind us lay the camp, a wide, street-like space, fringed with a double
row of tents--at its foot the old log mansion; near that, a little in
front, but at one side, the flag of headquarters--this behind. Before us
the major--the western wood, and the flashing sabres of a band of
hostile cavalry. They came on heedless of the fast-emptying saddles, on,
_on_, and more following from the wood, the moon in the mid heaven,
clear like day.

A gallant charge--a firm repulse. Major Fanning's clear voice on the
night air, rallying the men to attack the furious foe. They sweep their
horses around to left, but calmly the major wheels his battalion, still
unflanked; again those fierce steeds try the first point of attack;
again we front them undaunted. In our turn, with lifted level bayonets
we charge; the enemy falls back--a shout threads along our lines,
changing suddenly into a wail, for, calling us on, our leader falls.
Pitiless to his noble valor, a well-aimed carbine-shot lays him low.
They lift him, some brave soldiers near; and, his young face bathed in
blood, they bear him to his waiting bride; he opens his eyes, as he
passes.

'Courage! victory! my boys!' he calls; then, seeing me: 'Go! tell her,
Robert.'

I call my orderly to my place, and before they have pierced our lines
with their beloved burden, I am at the tent door. She stands there
waiting, a little pistol in her hand--a light wrapper about her, and her
fair hair streaming over her shoulders. I look at her mutely; she knows
there is something terrible for her, and while I seek words, her eye
goes on, resting where down the moonlit trees they are bringing him. A
moment, she is by his side, and tearless and white, her hand on his
unanswering heart, she moves beside him. The soldiers lay their leader
on the ground under his flag, and her imperious gesture sends them back
to their places in the battle. And then she, sinking beside him, cries
out:

'Oh, Robert! will he never speak to me again? Help him!'

My two years at lectures had not been passed in vain, and surgery had
been my hobby. I knelt and strove to aid him. It was a cruel wound. I
asked for bandages. She tore them from her garments wildly. I stilled
the trickling crimson stream, and going into the tent, found some
restoratives. I poured the wine down his throat, and, soon opening his
eyes, he spoke:

'Grace!'

I stepped away--near enough for call, not near enough for intrusion.
Looking at the lines of dark forms topped by the light glimmer of stray
bayonets, I saw with dismay that our men were retreating before those
heavy charges; in thick, dense masses they moved back, nearing us. I
thought of our soldier chief, crushed under those wild hoofs; I thought
of Grace, unprotected in her youth and widowed, desolate beauty, and
sprang to her side, ready with my life for her.

The major saw it all, and, faint as he was, rose on his elbow, watching.
Charge after charge, wild and impetuous, break the slowly retreating
battalions. In vain I heard Carter's stern oaths (may the angel of tears
forgive him!), and Charlie Marsh's boyish calls. The men are facing us.
The enemy, cheering, and in the background huge torches flaming with
pitch, are ready for incendiarism.

'Grace! Grace! I _must_ rally them, let me go!' and I see Major Fanning
straggling in her arms. I clasp him also.

'It is certain death,' I say to her, mad with fright and misery.

'And this is worse, worse, Grace; you might better kill me!' his voice
was harsh--cruel even.

Suddenly she was gone, and I held him alone; catching his sword, she
sprang like a flash of lightning into the open space before the log
house, and, lifting the bare blade with naked, slender arm, its loose
sleeve floating from her shoulder like a wing, she faced those
panic-stricken men.

'For shame!' she cried; but her weak voice was lost; then, stern as the
angel of death, she stepped forward.

'The first man that passes me shall die!' and she swung the flashing
blade up, ready to fall. A moment's halt, and then, she spoke to them
with wonderful strange words. I cannot recall them; with inspired
eloquence she spoke, a slight, white-robed figure in the clear
moonlight, and the rout was stayed, and they turned bravely to meet the
foe. Then she came faint and weak to her husband's side again. He looked
up with glad, eager eyes.

'Darling!'

Infinite love, soul-recognition, shone on both faces, and then blank
unconsciousness crept over his. Firmly our boys met the charging steeds
now. That moment had restored to them their courage. Emptied saddles
were frequent, but still fresh forces dashed from the wood. Is there no
hope for us? Must we be overpowered? Is all this valor vain? Grace from
her husband's side looks mutely up to heaven. I find my place among the
men. Little hope remains. Some one calls 'retreat.' 'Just once more,'
cries Charlie, and falls before us. But listen; above the battle din
comes a new, an approaching sound from the eastward.

Along the yellow road pours swiftly a force of cavalry, behind the
rumble of cannon almost flying over the ground, and high in air, reeling
from the swift motion of its bearer's steed, the banner of the free. We
are saved! A wild shout rings along our lines. Among the enemy,
frightened consultation followed by flight; another second, and our
friends are with us and beyond us in hot pursuit.

Brief question and answer told us of the friendly warning in the distant
camp, the hasty march to aid us. The rest we saw. Then, 'A surgeon for
Major Fanning.' The man of the green sash had not grown callous. There
were tears in his eyes as he rose from his vain endeavors, saying only:

'I can do nothing here; I am needed elsewhere.'

Our young hero was dead!

They composed his limbs, laying him on a blanket under the trees, and
Grace sat down beside him, tearless still, but pale as her dress, or the
white hand lying cold over the soldier's pulseless heart.

'Robert, send them away,' she said to me, as sympathizing strangers
pressed round; and they left us alone with the dead. I spoke at last the
commonplaces of consolation, suggested and modified by the hour and my
soldier feelings.

'Yes, Robert,' she answered, 'I gave him long ago. GOD will comfort me
for my hero--in time. Do not speak to me just yet. Do not let any one
come.'

The tears came now, and she wept bitterly, silently, under the starry
banner, beside the dead. I heard the hum of many voices, and now and
then a cry of pain, and knew they were all helping the sufferers. Then I
turned to her again. Her streaming hair swept the ground, golden in the
light. Her fair face was hidden on the cold dead face. And I dared not
speak to her. Oh, that picture! Poor Grace Fanning! and the silver,
silver moonlight over all.




POETRY AND POETICAL SELECTIONS.

  'Oh, deem not in this world of strife,
    An idle art the Poet brings;
      Let high Philosophy control,
  And sages calm the stream of life;
    'Tis he refines its fountain springs,
      The nobler passions of the soul.'


In the annals of literature, Poetry antedates Prose. Creation precedes
Providence, not merely in the order of sequence, but what is usually
called intellectual and physical grandeur. So in genius and taste,
Poetry transcends prose. In the work of Creation the Almighty broke the
awful stillness of Eternity, by His first creative fiat, and angels were
the first-born of God. They took their thrones in the galleries of the
universe, and in silent contemplation sat. They spoke not; for words, as
signs of thought or will or emotion, were not then conceived, and,
consequently, then unborn. They gazed in rapture on one another, and in
solemn silence thought. Their emotions bodied forth the Anthem of
Creation.

Human words being created breath, and breath being air in motion, prior
to these language was impossible. And as the deaf are always dumb,
language, like faith, comes by hearing. But hearing itself is a
pensioner, waiting upon a speaker; consequently, it must ever be
contingent on a cause alike antecedent and extrinsic of itself. It is,
therefore, equally an oracle of reason and of faith that, however God
may have communicated to angels, to _man_ He spoke in articulate sounds,
before man articulated a thought, a feeling, or an emotion of his soul.
And as an emotional soul is but a harp of many strings, a hand there
must have been to play upon its chords, before melody and harmony,
twins-born of Heaven, had either a local habitation or a name.

But, it may be asked--Is there not in the regions of Poetry an æolian
harp, found in the cave of Æolus, on which the winds of heaven played
many a celestial symphony, without the skill or touch of human hand?
Grant all that the Poetic Muse assumes, and then we ask--Who made the
harp? And whence directed came the musing sylvan Zephyrus and his choir?
Came they not from a land of images and dreams?

But we are inquiring for originals. Images and originals are the poles
apart. An original without an image is possible; but an image without an
original is alike impossible and inconceivable. Hence, alike
philosophically and logically, we conclude that _neither man nor angel
addressed each other until they themselves had been addressed by their
Creator_. Then they intercommunicated thought, sentiment, and emotion
with one another as God had communicated to them.

The mystery of language and Poetry is insoluble but on the admission of
a revelation or communication of some sort, unconceived by the human
mind, unexecuted by the human hand. If invention and creation be the
grand characteristics of the Poet, Moses, if uninspired, was a greater
Poet than Homer, or Milton, or Shakspeare, on the hypothesis that he
invented the drama which he wrote. The first chapter of Genesis is the
greatest and most splendid Poem ever conceived by human imagination, or
written by human hand.

All Poets, ancient and modern, are mere plagiarists, if Moses was
uninspired. We prove his Divine Legation by the intrinsic and
transcendent merits of the Poem which he wrote. Imagination originates
nothing absolutely new. It merely imitates and combines. It is regarded
as the creative faculty of man; but its material is already furnished.
The portrait of an unreal Adam is as conceivable as a child without a
father, or an effect without a cause.

Thus we are obliged, by an inseparable necessity, to admit the
credibility of the Poem which he wrote. And what does Moses say? Nothing
more than that _God spoke, and the universe was!_ This is the sublime of
true Poetry. This is more than the logic of the proposition, _God was,
therefore we are!_ It is more than the philosophy, _ex nihilo, nihil
fit!_ or than, that _nothing_ cannot be the parent of _something_.

But we must place our foot on a higher round of the ladder, before we
can stand on such an eminence as to see, in all its fair proportions,
the column on which the Muses perch themselves.

Job, and not Moses, shall be our guide, and the oracle alike of our
reason and our imagination. But who is Job? There is not much poetry in
the name, Job. But Rome and its vulgate vulgarized this hallowed name,
and Britain followed Rome. His name in Chaldee, Syriac, and Arabic, is
Jobab. There is more poetry in this. There is no metre, no poetry in a
monotone or monosyllable. Born among rocks and mountains, the proper
theatre of a heaven-inspired Muse--not in Arabia the Happy, but in
Arabia the Rocky--he was a heart-touching, a soul-stirring, emotional
Bard. In such a case the clouds that overshadow the era of the man only
enhance the genius and inspiration of the Poet.

In internal and external evidence, according to our calendar of the
Muses, he is the first-born of the Poets that yet survive the wasteful
ravages of hoary Time. He sings not, indeed, of Chaos and Eternal Night.
But as one inspired by a heaven-born Muse, he echoes the chorus of the
Angelic Song, when on the utterance of the first _fiat_ the Morning
Stars sang together and all the sons of God shouted for joy. Hence we
argue, that Poetry is not only prior to prose, but that language, its
intellectual and emotional embodiment, is heaven-conceived, and
heaven-born.

But in a short essay it would be out of place and in bad taste to
attempt a discourse upon the broad field of ancient or modern Poetry. We
merely attempt to suggest one idea on this rich and lofty theme. Our
radical conception of the essential and differential attribute of
Poetry, as contradistinguished from prose, however chaste, pure,
beautiful, and philosophic, is not mere art, nor science, but
_creation_.

The universe itself is a grand Heroic Poem. Hence its instrument is that
power usually called Imagination. But _human_ imagination is not first,
second, or third in rank on the scale of the universe. God Himself
imagined the universe before He created it. His imagination is infinite.
The Cherubim and Seraphim have wings that elevate them above our zenith.
And angels, too, excel us in this creative faculty, and therefore veil
their faces before the Majesty of heaven and earth. Still, man has an
humble portion of it, and can turn it to a good account.

But there is another idea essential to the character of Poetry, as good
or evil in its spirit and adornings. We need scarcely say, for we are
anticipated by every reflecting mind, that this is the _spirit_ of the
Poem. Poetry, in the abstract, is not necessarily good or evil. It may
be Christian, Jewish, Pagan, or Infidel in its spirit and tendencies. It
may corrupt or purify the heart. It may save or ruin the reader in
fortune or in fame. Hence, as Poetry is powerful to elevate or degrade,
to purify or to corrupt a people, much depends on the spirit of the
Poetry which they may put into the hands of the youth of a country; as
well observed by an eminent moralist: 'Let me write the poems or
ballads of a people, and I care but little who enacts their laws.'

The genius of a Poet is a rare genius. And most happily it is so; for
elevated taste and high-toned morality are not, by any means, the common
heritage of man. Anacreon and Burns were genuine Poets. They uttered, in
fine style, many truths; and were not merely fluent in their respective
languages, but affluent. But, perhaps, like some other men of mighty
parts and grand proportions, better for mankind they had never been
born. A Cowper and a Byron, in their whole career of song, will exert a
very different influence, not only on earth, but in eternity, on the
destiny of their amateurs. We need not argue this position as though,
among a Christian people, it were a doubtful or debatable position. If
the evil spirit, or the melancholy demon, that fitfully possessed the
first king of Israel, was expelled by the skilful hand of his successor,
even when his youthful fingers awoke the melodies of the lyre, how much
more puissant the exquisite Odes of the sweet Psalmist, inspired as they
were with sentiments and views alike honorable to God and man, to
elevate the conceptions, purify the heart, ennoble the aspirations, and
adorn the life of man!

As the cask long retains the odor of the wine put into it, so the moral
and religious fragrance of many a fine poetic effusion, securely lodged
in the recesses of memory, may yield, and often does yield, a rich
repast of pleasurable associations and emotions which, beside their
opportune recurrence in some trying or tempting hour or season of
adversity, do often energize our souls with a moral heroism to deeds of
nobler daring, which result in enterprises full of blessings to
ourselves, and not unfrequently to our associates in the walks of life,
and radiate through them salutary light for generations to come.

Imagination, like every other faculty, is to be cultivated. But here we
are interrogated--'What is Imagination?'

No distinction has given critics more trouble, in the way of definition,
than that between Imagination and Fancy. Fancy, it is held, is given to
beguile and quicken the temporal part of our nature; Imagination to
incite and support the eternal.

It would be vain to enumerate the various definitions of this term, or
to attempt to give even an abstract of the diversity of views
entertained by philosophers respecting the nature and extent of its
operations. It is regarded by some writers as that power or faculty of
the mind by which it conceives and forms ideas of things communicated to
it by the organs of sense. So defines our encyclopædias. Bacon defined
it to be the 'representation of an individual thought.' But Dugald
Stewart more philosophically defines it as the 'power of modifying our
conceptions, by combining the parts of different ones so as to form new
wholes of our own creation.' The Edinburgh Encyclopædia, not satisfied
with this, says Webster defines it to be the _will working on the
materials of memory, selecting parts of different conceptions, or
objects of memory, to form some new whole_.

This has long been our cherished view of Imagination. It creates only as
a mechanic creates a chest of drawers, a sideboard, a clock, or a watch.
It originates not a single material of thought, volition, or action.
But, mechanic-like, it works by plumb and rule on all the materials
found in the warehouse of memory; and manufactures, out of the same
plank of pine, or bar of iron, or wedge of gold, or precious stone, some
new utensil, ornament, or adornment never found in Nature. In its
present form it is the offspring of the art and contrivance of man.
Hence our invulnerable position against Atheism or Deism. _No one could
have created the idea of a God or of a Christ, without a special
inspiration, any more than he could create a gold watch without the
metal called gold._

The deaf are necessarily dumb. The blind cannot conceive of color. A
Poet cannot work without language, any more than the nightingale could
sing without air. Language and prototypes precede and necessarily
antedate writing and prose. Hence the idea of Poetry is preceded by the
idea of Prose, as speaking by the idea of hearing. There was reason, and
an age of reason, without, and antecedent to, rhyme; and therefore we
sometimes find rhyme without reason, as well as reason without rhyme.

Rhyme, however, facilitates memory and recollection. Memory, indeed, is
but a printed tablet, and recollection the art and mystery of reading
it. Poetry, therefore, is both useful and pleasing. It aids
recollection, and soothes and excites and animates the soul of man. It
makes deeper, more pungent, more stimulating, more exciting, and more
enduring impressions on the mind than prose; and, therefore, greatly
facilitates both the acquisition and retention of ideas and impressions.
Of it Horace says ('Ars Poetica'):

  'Ut pictura, poesis; erit, quæ, si propius stes,
  Te capiet magis, et quædam, si longius abstes.
  Hæc amat obscurum; volet hæc sub luce videri,
  Judicis argutum quæ non formidat acumen:
  Hæc placuit semel, hæc decies repetita placebit.'

No one ever attained to what is usually called _good taste_ who has not
devoted a portion of his time and study to the whole science and art of
Poetry. We do not mean good taste in relation to any one manifestation
of it.

There is a general as well as a special good taste, but they are
distinguishable only as genus and species. There is, it may be alleged,
a _native_ as well as an _acquired_ taste. This may also be conceded.
There is in some persons a greater innate susceptibility of deriving
pleasure from the works of Nature and of Art than is discoverable in
others. Still we cannot imagine any one gifted with reason and
sensibility to be entirely destitute of it. It is an element of reason
and of sense peculiar to man. As a fabulist once represented a cock in
quest of barleycorns, scraping for his breakfast, saying to himself, on
discovering a precious and brilliant gem: 'If a lapidary were in my
place he would now have made his fortune; but as for myself, I prefer
one grain of barley to all the precious stones in the world.'

But what man, so feeling and thinking, would not 'blush and hang his
head to think himself a man'? Apart from the value of the gem, every man
of reason or of thought has pleasure in the contemplation of the
beautiful diamond, whether on his own person or on that of another.
Taste seems to be as inseparable from reason as Poetry is from
imagination. It is not wholly the gift of Nature, nor wholly the gift of
Art. It is an innate element of the human constitution, designed to
beautify and beatify man. To cultivate and improve it is an essential
part of education. The highest civilization known in Christendom is but
the result or product of good taste. Even religion and morality, in
their highest excellence, are but, so far as society is concerned,
developments and demonstrations of cultivated taste. There may, indeed,
be a fictitious or chimerical taste without Poetry or Religion; but a
genuine good taste, in our judgment, without these handmaids, is
unattainable.

But as no interesting landscape--no mountain, hill, or valley, no river,
lake or sea--affords us all that charms, excites or elevates our
imagination viewed from any one point of vision, so the poetic faculty
itself can neither be conceived of nor appreciated, contemplated out of
its own family register.

There is in all the 'Fine Arts' a common paternity, and hence a family
lineage and a family likeness. To appreciate any one of them we must
form an acquaintance with the whole sisterhood--Poetry, Music, Painting,
and Sculpture.

And are not all these the genuine offspring of Imagination? Hence they
are of one paternity, though not of one maternity. The eye, the ear, and
the hand, has each its own peculiar sympathetic nerve. For, as all God's
works are perfect, when and where He gives an eye to see or an ear to
hear, He gives a hand to execute. This is the law; and as all God's laws
are universal as perfect, there is no exception save from accident, or
from something poetically styled a _lusus naturæ_--a mere caprice or
sport of Nature.

But the philosophy of Poetry is not necessary to its existence any more
than the astronomy of the heavens is to the brilliancy of the sun or to
the splendors of a comet. A Poet is a creator, and his most perfect
creature is a portraiture of any work of God or man; of any attribute of
God or man in perfect keeping with Nature or with the original
prototype, be it in fact or in fiction, in repose or in operation.

Imitation is sometimes regarded as the test of poetic excellence. But
what is imitation but the creation of an image! Alexander Pope so well
imitates Homer, that, as an English critic once said, in speaking of his
translation of that Prince of Grecian Poets--'a time might come, should
the annals of Greece and England be confounded in some convulsion of
Nature, when it might be a grave question of debate whether Pope
translated Homer, or Homer Pope.'

For our own part, we have never been able to decide to our own entire
satisfaction, which excels in the true Heroic style. Pope, in his
translation of the exordium of Homer, we think more than equals Homer
himself:

  'Achilles' wrath, to Greece the direful spring
  Of woes unnumbered, heavenly goddess, sing!
  That wrath which hurled to Pluto's dark domain
  The souls of mighty chiefs in battle slain;
  Whose limbs, unburied on the fatal shore,
  Devouring dogs and hungry vultures tore;
  Since great Achilles and Atrides strove,
  Such was the sovereign doom and such the will of Jove.'[18]

We opine that Pope, being trammelled with a copy, and consequently his
imagination cramped, displays every attribute of poetic genius fully
equal, if not superior, to that of the beau ideal of the Grecian Muse.

But Alexander Pope, of England, is not the Pope of English Poetry, a
brother Poet being judge, for Dryden says:

  'Three Poets, in three distant ages born,
  Greece, Italy, and England did adorn;
  The first in majesty of thought surpassed,
  The next in melody--in both the last:
  The force of Nature could no further go,
  To make the third she joined the other two.'

And who awards not to Milton the richest medal in the Temple of the
Muses! Not, perhaps, for the elegant diction and sublime imagery of his
PARADISE LOST, but for his grand conceptions of Divinity in all its
attributes, and of humanity in all its conditions, past, present, and
future.

We Americans have a peculiar respect for Lyric Poetry. We have not time
for the Epic. If anything with us is good, it is superlatively good for
being brief. Short sermons, short prayers, short hymns, and short metre
are peculiarly interesting. We are, too, a miscellaneous people, and we
are peculiarly fond of miscellanies. The age of folios and quartos is
forever past with Young America. Octavos are waning, and more in need of
brushing than of burnishing. But still we must have Poetry--_good_
Poetry; for we Americans prefer to live rather in the style of good
lyric than in that of grave, elongated hexameter. Variety, too, is with
us the spice of life. We are not satisfied with grand prairies, rivers,
and cataracts, and even cascades and _jet d'eaus_!

Collections of miscellaneous Poetry seem alike due to the Poetic Muse
and to the American people. We love variety. It is, as we have remarked,
the spice of American life; and our country will ever cherish it as
being most in harmony with itself. It is, moreover, more in unison with
the conditions of human nature and human existence. There is, too, as
the wisest of men and the greatest of kings has said, 'a time for every
purpose and for every work.' No volume of Poetry or of Prose can,
therefore, be popular or interesting to such a nation as we are, that
does not adapt itself to the versatile genius of our people, and to the
ever-varying conditions of their lives and fortunes.

There is, therefore, a propriety in getting up good selections, because
a greater advantage is to be derived from well selected specimens of the
Poetic Muse than from the labors of any one of the great masters of the
Lyre! Who would not rather visit a rich and extensive museum of the
products and arts of civilized life--some well assorted repository of
its scientific or artistic developments, than to traverse a whole state
or kingdom in pursuit of such knowledge of the wisdom, talents, and
contrivances of its population?

Of all kinds of composition, Poetry is that which gives to the lovers of
it the greatest and most enduring pleasure. Almost every one of them can
heartily respond to the beautiful words of one who was not only a great
Poet, but a profound philosopher--Coleridge--who, speaking of the
delight he had experienced in writing his Poems, says: 'Poetry has been
to me its own exceeding great reward. It has soothed my afflictions; it
has multiplied and refined my enjoyments; it has endeared solitude; and
it has given me the habit of wishing to discover the Good and the
Beautiful in all that meets and surrounds me.'

In no way can the imagination be more effectually or safely exercised
and improved than by the constant perusal and study of our best Poets.
Poetry appeals to the universal sympathies of mankind. With the
contemplative writers, we can indulge our pensive and thoughtful tastes.
With the describers of natural scenery, we can delight in the beauties
and glories of the external universe. With the great dramatists, we are
able to study all the phases of the human mind, and to take their
fictitious personages as models or beacons for ourselves. With the great
creative Poets, we can go outside of all these, and find ourselves in a
region of pure Imagination, which may be as true to our higher
instincts--perhaps more so--than the shows which surround us.

If it be as truthfully as it has been happily expressed by the prince of
dramatic Poets, that

  'He who has no music in his soul
  Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils,'

it should be a paramount duty with every one who loves his species, and
cultivates a generous philanthropy, to patronize every effort to diffuse
widely through society, Poetry of genuine character, and to cultivate a
taste for it as an element of a literary, religious, and moral
education. We commend, as a standard of appreciation of the true
character of the gifts of the Poetic Muse, the following critique from
Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham:

  ''Tis not a flash of fancy, which sometimes,
  Dazzling our minds, sets off the slightest rhymes,
  Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done;
  True wit is everlasting, like the sun,
  Which, though sometimes behind a cloud retired,
  Breaks out again, and is by all admired.
  Number and rhyme, and that harmonious sound
  Which not the nicest ear with harshness wound,
  Are necessary, yet but vulgar arts;
  And all in rain these superficial parts
  Contribute to the structure of the whole,
  Without a genius too--for that's the soul;
  A spirit which inspires the work throughout,
  As that of Nature moves the world about;
  A flame that glows amidst conceptions fit;
  E'en something of divine, and more than wit;
  Itself unseen, yet all things by it shown,
  Describing all men, but described by none.'

We neither intend nor desire to institute any invidious comparisons
between Old Britain and Young America. We are one people--one in blood,
one literature, one faith, one religion, in fact or in profession. Our
language girdles the whole earth. Our science and our religion more or
less enlighten every land, as our sails whiten every sea, and our
commerce, in some degree, enriches every people. There is a magnanimity,
a benevolence, a philanthropy, in English Poetry, whether the Muse be
English, Scotch, Irish, or American, that thrills the social nerve and
warms the kindred hearts of all who think, or speak, or dream in our
vernacular. The pen of the gifted Bard is more puissant than the
cannon's thundering roar or the warrior's glittering sword; and the
soft, sweet melodies of English Poetry, gushing from a Christian Muse,
are Heaven's sovereign specifics for a wounded spirit and an aching
heart!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 18:

  [Greek: Mênin aeide, thea, Pêlêiadeô, Achilêos,
  Oulomenên, hê myri' Achaiois alge' ethêken,
  Pollas d' iphthimous psychas Aidi proiapsen
  Hêrôôn, autous de helôria teuche kynessin

  K.T.L.]]




PATRIA SPES ULTIMA MUNDI.

FLAG OF OUR UNION.

National Song.

BY HON. ROBERT J. WALKER

_Dedicated to the Union Army and Navy._


  The day our nation's life began,
  Dawned on the sovereignty of man,
  His charter then our Fathers signed,
  Proclaiming Freedom for mankind.
  May Heaven still guard her glorious sway,
  Till time with endless years grows gray.

        Flag of our Union! float unfurled,
        Thy stars shall light a ransomed world.

  Americans, your mighty name,
  With glory floods the peaks of fame;
  Ye whom our Washington has led,
  Men who with Warren nobly bled,
  Who never quailed on land or sea,
  Your watchword, _Death or Liberty_!

        Flag of our Union! float unfurled,
        Thy stars shall light a ransomed world.

  It was the Union made us free,
  Its loss, man's second fall would be.
  States linked in kindred glory save,
  Till the last despot finds a grave;
  And angels hasten here to see
  Man break his chains, the whole earth free!

        Flag of our Union! float unfurled,
        Thy stars shall light a ransomed world.

  Ye struggling brothers o'er the sea,
  Who spurn the chain of tyranny,
  Like brave Columbus westward steer,
  Our stars of hope will guide you here,
  Where States still rising bless our land,
  And freedom strengthens labor's hand.

        Flag of our Union! float unfurled,
        Thy stars shall light a ransomed world.

  Ye toiling millions, free and brave,
  Whose shores two mighty oceans lave:
  Your cultured fields, your marts of trade,
  Keels by the hand of genius laid,
  The shuttle's hum, the anvil's ring
  Echo your voice that God is King.

        Flag of our Union! float unfurled,
        Thy stars shall light a ransomed world.

  Hail! Union Army, true and brave,
  And dauntless Navy on the wave.
  Holy the cause where Freedom leads,
  Sacred the field where patriot bleeds;
  Victory shall crown your spotless fame,
  Nations and ages bless your name.

        Flag of our Union! float unfurled,
        Thy stars shall light a ransomed world.




A FANCY SKETCH.


I am a banker, and I need hardly say I am in comfortable circumstances.
Some of my friends, of whom I have a good many, are pleased to call me
rich, and I shall not take it upon myself to dispute their word. Until I
was twenty-five, I travelled, waltzed, and saw the best foreign society;
from twenty-five to thirty I devoted myself to literature and the art of
dining; I am now entered upon the serious business of life, which
consists in increasing one's estate. At forty I shall marry, and as this
epoch is nine years distant, I trust none of the fair readers of this
journal will trouble themselves to address me notes which I really
cannot answer, and which it would give me pain to throw in the fire.

Some persons think it beneath a gentleman to write for the magazines or
papers. This is a low and vulgar idea. The great wits of the world have
found their best friends in the journals; there were some who never
learned to write,--who ever hears of them now? I write anonymously of
course, and I amuse myself by listening to the remarks that society
makes upon my productions. Society talks about them a great deal, and I
divide attention with the last novelist, whether an unknown young lady
of the South, or a drumhead writer of romances. People say, 'That was a
brilliant article of so and so's in the last ----, wasn't it?' You will
often hear this remark. I am that gentleman--I wrote that article--it
was brilliant, and, though I say it, I am capable of producing others
fully equal to it.

Many persons imagine that business disqualifies from the exercise of the
imagination. This is a mistake. Alexander was a business man of the
highest order; so was Cæsar; so was Bonaparte; so was Burr; so am I. To
be sure, none of these distinguished characters wrote poetry; but I take
it, poetry is a low species of writing, quite inferior to prose, and
unworthy one's attention. Look at the splendid qualities of these great
men, particularly in the line in which the imaginative faculties tend.
See how they fascinated the ladies, who it is well known adore a fine
imagination. How well they talked love, the noblest of all subjects--for
a man's idle hours. Then observe the schemes they projected. Conquests,
consolidations, empires, dominion, and to include my own project, a
bullion bank with a ten-acre vault. It appears that a lack of capital
was at the bottom of all their plans. Alexander confessed that he was
bankrupt for lack of more worlds, and is reputed to have shed tears over
his failure, which might have been expected from a modern dry-goods
jobber, but not from Alexander. Cæsar and Bonaparte failed for the want
of men: they do not seem to have been aware of the existence of Rhode
Island. I think Burr failed for the lack of impudence--he had more than
all the rest of the world together, but he needed much more than that to
push his projects ahead of his times. As for myself, when I have doubled
my capital, I shall found my bullion bank in the face of all opposition.
The ten-acre lot at the corner of Broadway and Wall street is already
selected and paid for, and I shall excavate as soon as the present crop
is off.

There is no question that the occupation of banking conduces to literary
pursuits. When I take interest out of my fellow beings, I naturally take
interest in them, and so fall to writing about them. I have in my
portfolio sketches of all the leading merchants of the age, romantically
wrought, and full of details of their private lives, hopes, fears, and
pleasures. These men that go up town every day have had, and still have,
little fanciful excursions that are quite amusing when an observer of my
talent notes them down. I know all about old Boscobello, the Spanish
merchant, of the house of Boscobello, Bolaso & Co. My romance of his
life from twenty to forty fills three volumes, and is as exciting as the
diaries of those amusing French people whom Bossuet preached to with
such small effect. Boscobello has sobered since forty, and begs for
loans as an old business man ought to. I think he sees the error of his
ways, and is anxious to repair his fortunes to the old point, but it is
easier to spend a million than to make it. My cashier reports his
account overdrawn the other day, and not made good till late next
afternoon. This is a sign of failing circumstances, and must be attended
to.

When Boscobello comes in about half past two of an afternoon for the
usual loan of a hundred dollars to enable him to go on, I amuse myself
by talking to him while I look over his securities. He has two or three
loans to pay up before three o'clock, in different parts of the town,
and we cannot blame him for being in a hurry, but this is no concern of
mine. If he _will_ get into a tight place, one may surely take one's
time at helping him out: and really it does require some little time to
investigate the class of securities he brings, and which are
astonishingly varied. For instance, he brought me to-day as collateral
to an accommodation, a deed to a South Brooklyn block, title clouded; a
Mackerelville second mortgage; ten shares of coal-oil stock; an
undivided quarter right in a guano island, and the note of a President
of the Unterrified Insurance Company. 'How much was the cartage, Bos?'
said I, for you see my great mind descends to the smallest particulars,
and I was benevolent enough to wish to deduct his expenses from the
bonus I was about to charge him for the loan. 'Never mind the cartage,'
said he, 'that's a very strong list, and will command the money any day
in Wall street, but I have a particular reason for getting it of you.'
'The particular reason being,' said I, 'that you can't get it anywhere
else. Jennings,' I continued to my cashier, 'give Mr. Boscobello
ninety-five dollars Norfolk or Richmond due-bills, and take his check
payable in current funds next Saturday for a hundred.'

Poor old Boscobello! A man at forty ought not to look old, but Bos had
often seen the sun rise before he went to bed, and he _had_ been gay, so
all my aunts said. Some stories Bos has told me himself, o' nights at my
house, after having in vain endeavored to induce me to take shares in
the guano island, or 'go into' South Brooklyn water lots. 'I'm too old
for that sort of a thing, Bos,' I say; 'it's quite natural for you to
ask me, and I don't blame you for trying it on, but you must find some
younger man. Tell me about that little affair with the mysterious Cuban
lady; when you only weighed a hundred and forty pounds, and never went
out without a thousand dollars in your pocket--in the blooming days of
youth, Bos, when you went plucking purple pansies along the shore.'

Boscobello weighs over two hundred now, and would have a rush of blood
to the head if he were to stoop to pluck pansies. Mysterious Cuban
ladies, in fact ladies of any description, would pass him by as a
middle-aged person of a somewhat distressed appearance, and the dreams
of his youth are quite dreamed out. Nevertheless, when he warms with my
white Hermitage, the colors of his old life come richly out into sight,
and the romantic adventures of wealth and high spirits overpower, though
in the tame measures of recital, all the adverse influences of the
present hour. But as the evening wanes, the colors fade again; his
voice assumes a dreary tone; and I once more feel that I am with a man
who has outlived himself, and who, having never learned where the late
roses blow, is now too old to learn.

The reader will perceive I am sorry for Boscobello. If I am remarkable
for anything, it is for my humanity, consideration, and sympathy.

These qualities of my constitution lead me to enter into the affairs of
my clients with feeling and sincerity, but I fear I am sometimes
misunderstood. Not long ago I issued an order to my junior partners to
exercise more compassion for those unfortunate men with whom we decline
business, and not to tumble them down the front steps so roughly. Let
six of the porters attend with trestles, I said, and carry them out
carefully, and dump them with discretion in some quiet corner, where, as
soon as they recover their faculties, they may get up and walk away. I
put it to the reader if this was not a very humane idea, and yet there
are those who have stigmatized it as heartless.

I wish I was better acquainted with the way in which common people live.
I can see how I have made mistakes in consequence of not understanding
the restricted means and the exigencies of these people, who are styled
respectable merchants. Thus when Boscobello has made some more than
ordinarily piteous application, I have said, 'Boscobello, dismiss about
fifty of your servants;' or, 'Boscobello, sell a railroad and put the
money back again into your business;' or, 'Boscobello, my good friend,
limit your table, say, to turtle soup, champagne, and truffles; live
more plainly, and don't take above ten quarts of strawberries a day
during the winter,--the lower servants don't really need them;' or,
'Boscobello, if you are really short, send around a hundred or so of
your fast trotters to my stables, and I'll pay you a long figure for
them, if they are warranted under two minutes.' Boscobello has never
made any very definite replies to such advice, and I have attributed his
silence to his nervousness; but I begin to suspect he has'nt quite
understood me on such occasions. Then again, when Twigsmith declared he
was a ruined man, in consequence of my refusal of further advances, and
that he should be unable to provide for his family, I said: 'Why,
Twigsmith, retire to one of your country seats, and live on the interest
of some canal or other, or discount bonds and mortgages for the country
banks.' Actually, I heard Twigsmith mutter as he went out, that it
wasn't right to insult a man's poverty. Now I hadn't the remotest idea
of injuring Twigsmith's feelings, for he was a very clever fellow, and
we made a good thing out of him in his time, but it seems that my advice
might not have been properly grounded.

It begins to occur to me that there _may_ be such a case as that a man
may want something, and not be able to get it; and again, that at such a
time a weak mind may complain, and grow discouraged, and make itself
disagreeable to others.

There is a set of old fellows who call themselves family men, and apply
for discounts as if they had a right to them, by reason of their having
families to provide for. I have never yet been able to see the logical
sequence of their conclusions, and so I tell them. What right does it
give anybody to my money that he has a wife, six children, and lives in
a large house with three nursery-maids, a cook, and a boy to clean the
knives? 'Limit your expenses,' I say to these respectable gentlemen, 'do
as I do. When Jennings comes to me on Monday morning, and reports that
the receipts of the week will be eighty millions, exclusive of the
Labrador coupons, which, if paid, will be eighty millions more, I say,
'Jennings, discount seventy, and don't encroach upon the reserves; you
may however let Boscobello have ten on call.' This is true philosophy;
adapt your outlay to your income, and you will never be in trouble, or
go begging for loans. If the Bank of England had always managed in this
way, they wouldn't have been obliged to call on our house for assistance
during the Irish famine.'

These family men invite me to their wives' parties, constantly,
unremittingly. The billets sometimes reach my desk, although I have
given orders to put them all into the waste basket unopened. I went to
one of these parties, only one, I give you my honor as a gentleman, and
after Twigsmith and his horrid wife had almost wrung my hand off, I was
presented to a young female, to whom Nature had been tolerably kind, but
who was most shamefully dressed. In fact her dress couldn't have cost
over a thousand dollars--one of my chambermaids going to a Teutonia ball
is better got up. This young person asked me 'how I liked the Germania?'
Taking it for granted that such a badly dressed young woman must be a
school teacher, with perhaps classical tastes, I replied that it was one
of the most pleasing compositions of Tacitus, and that I occasionally
read it of a morning. 'Oh, it's not very taciturn,' she replied; 'I mean
the band.' 'Very true,' said I, 'he says _agmen_, which you translate
band very happily, though I might possibly say 'body' in a familiar
reading.' 'Oh dear,' she replied, blushing, 'I'm sure I don't know what
kind of men they are, nor anything about their bodies, but they
certainly seem very respectable, and they play elegantly; oh, don't you
think so?' 'I am glad you are pleased so easily,' I answered; 'Tacitus
describes their performances as indeed fearful, and calculated to strike
horror into the hearts of their enemies. But,' continued I, endeavoring
to make my retreat, for I began to think I was in company with an inmate
of a private lunatic hospital, 'they were devoted to the ladies.'
'Indeed they are,' said she,'and the harpist is _so_ gallant, and gets
so many nice bouquets.' It then flashed across my mind that she meant
the Germania musicians. 'They might do passably well, madame,' said I,
'for a quadrille party at a country inn, but for a dress ball or a
dinner you would need three of them rolled into one.' 'Oh, you gentlemen
are so hard to please,' she replied; and catching sight of the
Koh-i-noor on my little finger, she began to smile so sweetly that I
fled at once.

It was at that party that I perspired. I had heard doctors talk about
perspiration, and I had seen waiters at a dinner with little drops on
their faces, but I supposed it was the effect of a spatter, or that some
champagne had flown into their eyes, or something of that sort. But at
this party I happened to pass a mirror, and did it the honor to look
into it. I saw there the best dressed man in America, but his face was
flushed, and there were drops on it. This is fearful, thought I; I took
my _mouchoir_ and gently removed them. They dampened the delicate
fabric, and I shook with agitation. The large doors were open, and after
a struggle of an hour and three quarters, I reached them, and promising
the hostess to send my _valet_ in the morning to make my respects, which
the present exigency would not allow me to stay to accomplish, I was
rapidly whirled homeward. I can hardly pen the details, but on the
removal of my linen, it was found--can I go on?--tumbled, and here and
there the snowy lawn confessed a small damp spot, or fleck of moisture.
Remorse and terror seized me. Medical attendance was called, and I
passed the night in a bath of attar of roses delicately medicated with
_aqua pura_. Of course, I have never again appeared at a party.

People haven't right ideas of entertainment. What entertainment is it to
stand all the evening in a set of sixteen-by-twenty parlors, jammed in
among all sorts of strange persons, and stranger perfumes, deafened with
a hubbub of senseless talk, and finally be led down to feed at a long
table where the sherry is hot, and the partridges are cold? Very
probably some boy or other across the table lets off a champagne cork
into your eyes, and the fattest men in the room _will_ tread on your
toes. One might describe such scenes of torture at length, but the
recital of human follies and miseries is not agreeable to my
sensibilities.

I dare say the reader might find himself gratified at one of my little
fètes. The editors of this journal attend them regularly, and have done
me the honor to approve of them. You enter on Twelfth avenue; a modest
door just off Nine-and-a-half street opens quietly, and you are ushered
by a polite gentleman--one of our city bank presidents, who takes this
means to increase his income--into an attiring room. Here you are
dressed by the most accomplished Schneider of the age, in your own
selections from an unequalled _repertoire_ of sartorial _chef d'ouvres_,
and your old clothes are sent home in an omnibus.

I might delight you with a description of the ball room, but the editors
have requested me to the contrary. Some secrets of gorgeous splendor
there are which are wisely concealed from the general gaze. But a floor
three hundred feet square, and walls as high as the mast of an East
Boston clipper, confer ample room for motion; and the unequalled
atmosphere of the saloon is perhaps unnecessarily refreshed by fountains
of rarest distilled waters. This is also my picture gallery, where all
mythology is exhausted by the great painters of the antique; and modern
art is thoroughly illustrated by the famous landscapes of both
hemispheres. The luxuriant fancy of my favorite artist has suggested
unique collocations of aquaria and mossy grottoes in the angles of the
apartment, where the vegetable wealth of the tropics rises in perfect
bounty and lawless exuberance, and fishes of every hue and shape flash
to and fro among the tangled roots, in the light of a thousand lamps. In
the centre, I have caused the seats of the orchestra to be hidden at the
summit of a picturesque group of rocks, profusely hung with vegetation,
and gemmed with a hundred tiny fountains that trickle in bright beads
and diamonds into the reservoir at the base. From this eminence, the
melody of sixty unequalled performers pervades the saloon, justly
diffused, and on all sides the same; unlike the crude arrangements of
most modern orchestras, where at one end of the room you are deluged
with music, and at the other extremity you distinguish the notes with
pain or difficulty. The ceiling, by a rare combination of mechanical
ingenuity and artistic inspiration, displays, so as to quite deceive the
senses, the heavens with all their stars moving in just and harmonious
order. Here on summer nights you see Lyra and Altair triumphantly
blazing in the middle sky as they sweep their mighty arch through the
ample zenith; and low in the south, the Scorpion crawls along the verge
with the red Antares at his heart, and the bright arrows of the Archer
forever pursuing him. Here in winter, gazing up through the warm and
perfumed air, you behold those bright orbs that immemorially suggest the
icy blasts of January: Aldebaran; the mighty suns of Orion; diamond-like
Capella; and the clear eyes of the Gemini. Under such influences, with
the breath of the tropics in your nostrils, and your heart stirred by
the rich melodies of the invisible orchestra, waltzing becomes a sublime
passion, in which all your faculties dilate to utmost expansion, and you
float out into happy forgetfulness of time and destiny.

Rarely at these fêtes do we dance to other measures than those of the
waltz, though at times we find a relief from the luxuriance of that
divine rhythm in the cooler cadences of the Schottish. By universal
consent and instinct, we banish the quadrille, stiff and artificial; the
polka, inelegant and essentially vulgar; and the various hybrid
measures with which the low ingenuity of professors has filled society.
But we move like gods and goddesses to the sadly joyful strains of
Strauss and Weber and Beethoven and Mozart, and the mighty art of these
great masters fills and re-creates all our existence.

Sometimes in these divine hours, thrilled by the touch of a companion
whose heart beats against and consonantly with mine, I catch glimpses of
the possibilities of a free life of the spirit when it shall be released
from earth and gravitation, and I conjecture the breadth of a future
existence. This will only seem irrational to such as have squeezed out
their souls flat between the hard edges of dollars, or have buried them
among theologic texts which they are too self-wise to understand.
History and the experience of the young are with me.

From twelve to four you sup, when, and as, and where, you will. A
succession of little rooms lie open around an atrium, all different as
to size and ornament, yet none too large for a single couple, and none
too small for the reunion of six. What charming accidents of company and
conversation sometimes occur in these Lucullian boudoirs! You pass and
repass, come and go, at your own pleasure. Waltzing, and Burgundy, and
Love, and Woodcock are here combined into a dramatic poem, in which we
are all star performers, and sure of applause. These hours cannot last
forever, and the first daybeams that tell of morning, are accompanied by
those vague feelings of languor that hint to us that we are mortal. Then
we pause, and separate before these faint hints of our imperfection
deepen into distasteful monitions, and before our fulness of enjoyment
degenerates into satiety. Antiquity has conferred an immortal blessing
upon us in bequeathing to us that golden legend, NE QUID NIMIS;[19] a
legend better than all the teachings of Galen, or than all the dialogues
of Socrates. For in these brief words are compressed the experiences of
the best lives, and Alcibiades and Zeno might equally profit by them.
They contain the priceless secret of happiness; and do you, reader,
wisely digest them till we meet again.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 19: 'Not too much.']




THE SOLDIER.

[BURNS.]


  For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
    The farmer ploughs the manor;
  But glory is the soldier's pride,
    The soldier's wealth is honor.
  The brave, poor soldier ne'er despise,
    Nor count him as a stranger;
  Remember he's his country's stay
    In day and hour of danger!




OUR PRESENT POSITION: ITS DANGERS AND ITS DUTIES.

ADDRESSED TO THE PEOPLE OF ALL POLITICAL PARTIES.


When Daniel Webster replied to Senator Hayne, of South Carolina, during
the exciting debate on the right of secession, he commenced his
ever-memorable speech with these words:

     'When the mariner has been tossed for many days in thick weather
     and on an unknown sea, he naturally avails himself of the first
     pause in the storm--the earliest glance of the sun--to take his
     latitude, and ascertain how far the elements have driven him from
     his true course. Let us imitate this prudence before we float
     farther, that we may at least be able to conjecture where we now
     are.'

No words are fitter for our ears at this tumultuous period than are
these, when the passions of our countrymen, North and South, are excited
with the bitterest animosity, and when the discordant cries of party
faction at the North are threatening a desolation worse than that of
contending armies. In considering, then, our condition, it behooves us
first, to 'take our latitude, and ascertain where we now are,'--not as a
section or a party, but as a nation and a people. Let us avail ourselves
of that distant and dim glimmer in the heavens which even now is looked
upon by the sanguine as the promise of peace, and in its light survey
our dangers and nerve ourselves to our duties. We behold, then, a
people, bound together by the ties of a common interest, namely,
national prosperity and renown, and in possession of a land more favored
by natural elements of advantage than any other on the face of the
globe. We see them standing up in the ranks of hostile resistance each
to each, the one great and glorious army fighting for the restoration of
a nation once the envy of the world; the other great and glorious army
equally ardent and valorous in behalf of a separation of that territory
in which they are taught to believe we cannot hold together in peace and
amity. Both armies and people are evincing in their very warfare the
elements of character which heretofore distinguished us as a nation, and
are employing the very means for each other's destruction which were of
late the principles of action which rendered us in the highest degree a
nation worthy of respect at home and admiration abroad. It is not the
purpose of this paper to go back to causes or to relate the subsequent
events which have placed us where we are. These causes and events are
well known to us and to the world. But here we now stand, with this
fratricidal war increased to the most alarming proportions, and with,
results but partially developed. Here we of the North stand, with a
still invincible army, loyal to the cause nearest to the heart of every
patriot, and confident in the ability to withstand and overcome the
machinations of the enemy. Here, too, we--ay, _we_ of the South stand,
bound together in a common aim, an ardent hope, and a proclaimed and
omnipotent impulse to action. _This is the only proper view to take of
the case_--to regard our opponents as we regard ourselves, and to give
due credit where credit is due for valor, for motives, and for
principles of action. The North believes itself to be engaged in a
strife forced upon it by blinded prejudice and evil passion, and fights
for that which, if not worthy of fighting, ay, and dying for, is unfit
to live for, namely, national integrity. The South claims, little as we
can understand it, the same ground for rising against the land they had
sworn to protect, and whose fathers died with our fathers to create. We
at the North would have been pusillanimous and weak indeed had we
silently submitted to that which is in our view against every principle
of national right and renown. To have acted otherwise would have been to
bring down upon our heads the scorn and contempt of our enemies and of
every foreign power, from the strongest oligarchy to the most benevolent
form of monarchical government. Hence it is that while certain foreign
powers have not failed to improve the opportunity of our weakness, as a
divided nation, to insult and sneer, to preach peace with dishonor, and
advocate separation, which they know to be but another word for
humiliation, yet have they not failed to see and been forced to confess
that, divided as we are, we have shown inherent greatness and power,
_which, united, would be a degree of national superiority which might
well defy the world_. Nothing is more striking at this moment than this
great fact, and no topic is more worthy of the serious consideration of
our countrymen, North and South, than this. No time is fitter than now
to suggest the subject, and to see in it matter which is pregnant with
hopes for our future. If nothing but this great truth had been developed
by the war--this truth, bold, naked, defiant as it is, _is worth the
war_--worth all its cost of noble lives, of sacred blood, of yet
uncounted treasure. We stand before the world this day divided by the
fearful conflict, with malignant hate lighting the fires of either camp,
and with hands reeking in fraternal blood--with both sections of our
land more or less afflicted--with credit impaired, with the scoff and
jeers of nations ringing in our ears--we stand losers of almost every
thing but our individual self-respect, which has inspired both foes with
the ardor and courage born within us as Americans. This it is that
leaves us unshorn of our strength; this it is that enables us in this
very day of trial and adversity to present to the world the undeniable
fact that we have within us--not as Northerners, not as Southerners,
_but as Americans_--the elements of innate will and physical power,
which makes the scale of valor hang almost with an even beam, and
foretells us, with words which we cannot but hear--and which would to
God we might heed!--that, united, we can rear up on this beautiful and
bountiful land a temple of political, social, and commercial prosperity,
more glorious than that which entered into the dreams and aspirations of
the fathers who founded it.

Alas! that the contemplation of so worthy a theme is marred by the 'ifs'
and 'buts' of controversial strife. Alas! that we cannot depress the
sectional opposing interests which are but secondary to a condition of
political consolidation, and elevate above these distracting and
isolated evils, the great and eternal principle, Strength as it alone
exists in Unity. Alas! that with the beam of suicidal measures we blind
the eye political, because, forsooth, the motes of individual or local
injuries afflict, as they afflict _all_ human forms of government.

The great evil, North and South, before the war, during the war, and
now, is the want of political charity--that charity which, like its
moral prototype, 'suffereth long and is kind.' We the people, North and
South, have been and are unwilling to grant to the other people and
States the right to think, speak, and urge their own opinions--the very
right which each insists upon claiming for itself. It has been held
'dangerous' to discuss questions which, though in one sense pertaining
only to particular States, nevertheless bear upon the whole country. It
has been considered 'heresy' to urge with rhetoric and declamation, even
in our halls of Congress, certain principles for and against Slavery,
for example, lest mischief result from the agitation of those topics.
But in such remonstrance we have forgotten that the very principle of
democratic institutions involves the right of all men to think and act,
under the law, as each pleases. We have also forgotten that any subject
which will not bear discussion and political consideration must be
dangerous _in itself_, and pregnant with weakness, if not evil. There is
no harm in discussing questions upon which hang vital principles; for if
there exists on the one side strength and justice, all arguments on the
other side can do it no injury. With regard to Slavery, one of the
'causes' or 'occasions' of this unhappy war, it may be said that the
North owes much to the South which it has never paid, in a true and
kindly appreciation of the difficulties which have ever surrounded the
institutions of the latter. But let us not forget that one reason why
this debt has not been paid is because the South owes the North its
value received, by not being willing to admit in the other's behalf the
motives which underlay the efforts which have been made by the earnest,
or so-called 'radical' men, who have opposed the institution of slavery.
Pure misunderstanding of motive, pure lack of political as well as moral
charity, has been wanting between the men of the North who opposed, and
the men of the South who maintained the extension of slavery. Had each
understood the other better, it is probable that the character of each
would have assumed the following proportions: The slaveholder of the
South, inheriting from generations back a system of servitude which even
ancient history supported and defended, and which he in his inmost heart
believes to be beneficial to the slave not less than the master, regards
himself as violating no law of God or man in receiving from this
inferior race or grade of men the labor of their hands, and the right to
their control, while they draw from him the necessary physical support
and protection which it is in his belief his bounden duty to give. The
planter, a gentleman educated and a Christian, with the fear of God
before his eyes, believes this--the belief was born in him and dies in
him, and he is conscientiously faithful in carrying out the principles
of his faith. I speak now of no exceptional, but of general cases,
instancing only the representative of the highest class of Southern men.
Is it to be wondered at that such a man, looking from _his_ point of
vision, should regard with suspicion and distrust the efforts of those
who sought to abolish even by gradual means the apparent sources of his
prosperity? Is it remarkable that he should regard as his enemy the man
who preaches against and denounces as criminal the very system in which
he trusts his social and political safety? He will not regard that
apparent enemy what at heart and soul he really is, namely, a man as
pure and devout, as well meaning and conscientious as himself. The man
whom he scoffs at as a 'radical,' an 'abolitionist,' and a 'fanatic,' by
education and intuition believes in his very soul that the holding of
men in bondage, forcing from them involuntary labor, and the
consequences thereof, are pregnant with moral and political ruin and
decay. The system, not the men, is offensive to his eyes. Is he to blame
for this opinion, provided it be well founded in his mind? Admit it
eroneous in logic, still, if he believes it, is he to be condemned for
holding the belief, and would he not be contemptible in his own eyes if
he feared to express the moral convictions of his soul? The error of
both has been that both are uncharitable--both unwilling to allow the
right of opinion and freedom of debate on what both, as American
citizens, hold to be vital principles, dependent upon constitutional
provisions; the one claiming Slavery as the 'corner stone of political
freedom,' the other as the stumbling block in the way of its
advancement. This unwillingness to appreciate the motives of opposing
minds led at last one section of our beloved country to an unwillingness
to recognize the right of election, and, worse than all, an
unwillingness to abide by the results of that election. When that
principle--submission to the will of the majority--was overthrown, then,
indeed, did the pillars of our national temple tremble, and the seat of
our national power rock in its foundation.

And now a word in connection with this same principle of submission, as
applicable to the people of the North in our present emergency. In
accordance with the plan adopted by the founders of our Government, and
practically illustrated in the election of George Washington and his
successors, the people by a plurality of votes elected to office and
placed at the head of our political system as its highest authority and
ruler, the present Chief Magistrate. From the day of his acknowledged
election, party politics settled into the calm of acquiescence, and all
loyal and true States and men bowed to the arbitrament of the ballot
box. That man, Abraham Lincoln, instantly became invested with the
potential right of rule under the Constitution, and the great principle
of constitutional liberty in his election and elevation stood justified.
It mattered not then, nor matters it now, to us, what may be individual
opinion of his merits or demerits, his ability or his disability. There
he is, not as a private citizen, but as the head of our Government: his
individuality is lost in his official embodiment. This principle being
acknowledged, and party opinion being buried, in theory at least, at the
foot of the altar of the Government _de facto_, whence is it that at
this time creeps into our council chambers, our political cliques, our
social haunts, our market places, ay, our most sacred tabernacles--a
spirit adverse to the principles for which we are fighting, laboring
for, and dying for? Let us--a people anxious for peace on honorable
grounds, anxious for a Union which no rash hand shall ever again attempt
to destroy--look, with a moment's calm reflection, at this alarming
evil.

It is very evident to most men that, in spite of temporary defeats and
an unexpected prolongation of the war, the loyal States hold
unquestionably the preponderance of power. Nothing but armed
intervention from abroad can now affect even temporarily this
preponderance. As events and purposes are seen more clearly through the
smoke of the battle fields by the ever-watchful eyes of Europe, armed
intervention becomes less and less a matter of probability. The hopes of
an honorable peace, therefore, hang upon the increase and continuance of
this military preponderance. With the spirit of determination evinced by
both combatants, the unflinching valor of both armies, and with the
unquestioned resources and ability to hold out of the North, it appears
evident that the strife for mastery will in time terminate in favor of
the loyal States. There is but one undermining influence which can
defeat this end, and still further prolong the war, or, what is worse,
plunge the North into the irretrievable disaster of internal
conflict--and that undermining influence is _dissension among
ourselves_. Such a consummation would bring joy to the hearts of our
enemies and lend them the first ray of real hope that ultimate
separation will be their purchased peace. We will not here draw a
picture of that fallacious peace, that suicidal gap, whose festering
political sore would breed misery and ruin, not only for ourselves, but
for our posterity, for ages to come. But let us be warned in time. Even
now the insidious movement of dissension is hailed with satisfaction and
delight in the council meetings at Richmond, and no effort will be
spared to aid its devastating progress. False rumors will be raised on
the slightest and most insignificant grounds. Trivial mistakes and
blunders in the cabinet and the field will be magnified; facts
distorted, and the flame be blown by corrupting influences abroad and
at home, in the hopes--let them be vain hopes--that we the people will
be diverted from the great cause we have most at heart into side issues
and sectional distrust. And why? Because more powerful than serried
hosts and open warfare is the poison of sedition and conspiracy that is
thrown into the cup of domestic peace and confidence--more fatal than
the ravages of the battle field is that of the worm that creeps slowly
and surely--weakening, as it works, the foundations of the edifice in
which we dwell unsuspicious of evil. Is it astonishing that they, the
enemies of our common weal, should rejoice in these signs of incipient
weakness, or fail to resort to any expedient whereby our strength as a
united and loyal people can be made less? Have they not shown themselves
capable and ready to avail themselves of every weakness in our counsels
and in the field? Would not we do the same did we perceive distrust and
dissatisfaction presenting through the mailed armor of our opponents a
vulnerable point for attack? Then blame them not with muttered
imprecations, but look--ay, look to ourselves. The shape of this
undermining influence is political dissension at a period when the name
of 'party' ought to be obliterated from the people's creed. Let opinion
on measures and men have full and unrestricted sway, so far as these
opinions may silently work under the banner of the one great cause of
self-preservation; but let them not interfere with the prosecution of
the efforts of the Government, whether State or national, to prosecute
this holy and patriotic war in defence of the principles which created
and are to keep us a united nation. Let us not tempt the strength of the
ice that covers the waters of political and partisan problems, while we
have enough to do to protect and cover the solid ground already in our
possession. The President of the United States, be he who or what he
may--think he how or what he will, enact he what he chooses--is, let us
remember, the corner stone of our political liberty. The Constitution is
a piece of parchment--sacred and to be revered--but it is, in its
outward presentment, material and inactive. The _spirit_ of the
Constitution is intangible and ideal, its interpretation alone is its
vitality. We the people--through equally material morsels of paper
entitled votes--raise the spirit of the Constitution by placing in the
halls of Congress the interpreters of that Constitution, over whom and
above all sits the Chief Magistrate, who, once endowed by us with power,
retains and sways it until another, by the same process, carries out at
our will the same eventualities. Our part as electors and adjudicators
is done, and it ill becomes us to weaken or hold up to the ridicule of
the world the power therein invested, by questions as to the President's
'right' or 'power' or 'ability' to enact this measure or that.

Away then with the unseemly cry of 'the Constitution as it is,' 'the
Union at it was,' the 'expediency' or 'non-expediency' of employing the
war power, the interference or the non-interference of the man and the
men established by us to represent us with the military leaders, the
finances, or the thousand and one implements of administration, _which
they are bound to employ_, not as we, but as they, holding our powers of
attorney for a specified and legalized period, in their human wisdom
deem best for the common good of the land. Let us have faith in the
motives and intentions of our political administration, or if we have
lost our faith, let us submit--patiently and with accord. Above all, at
a period like this, when the minds of the best men and the truest are
oppressed with a sense of the injustice with which a portion of our
countrymen regard us, it most behooves us to keep our social and
political ranks closed and in order, subject to the will of that
commander, disobedience to which is infamy and ruin. No matter with
what diversity of tongues and opinions we pursue our individual
avocations and aims, we are all pilgrims pressing forward like the
followers of Mohammed to the Kêbla stone of _our_ faith--Peace founded
on Union.

What if a party clique utters sentiments adverse to our own on the never
ceasing topic of political policy? Is it not the expression of a mind or
a hundred minds forming a portion of the great body politic, of which we
ourselves are a part, and are they not entitled to their opinion and
modes of expressing it, providing it be done with decorum and with a
proper respect for the opinions of their adversaries? Why then do we or
they employ, through the press and in rhetorical bombast, opprobrious
epithets, fit only for the pot-house or the shambles? Shall we men and
citizens, each of us a pillar upholding the crowning dome of our
nationality, be taught, like vexed and querulous children, the impotence
of personal abuse? Why seek to lay upon the head of this Cabinet officer
or that, this Senator or that, the responsibility of temporary military
defeats, when we are no more able to command and prevent reverses than
are they? Or if in our superior wisdom we deem ourselves to be the
better able to direct and administer, why do we forget that others among
us, inspired by the same love of country, and equally ardent for its
safety and advancement, hold exactly contrary opinions? It is not a
matter of opinion--it is not a matter for interference, it is simply and
only a matter for untiring unflinching confidence and support. We have
done our duty as a people, and elected our Administration--let us, in
the name of all that is sublime and fundamental in republican
principles, support and not perplex them in the hard and complex problem
which they are appointed to solve. These are principles, which, however
trite, need to be kept before us and practically sustained at a period
when, as is often the case in long and tedious wars, the dispiriting
influence of delays and occasional defeats work erroneous conclusions in
the minds of the people, leading to unjust accusations against the men
in power, and an unwillingness to frankly acknowledge that the evil too
often originated where the result most immediately occurred. In other
words, our armies have often suffered simply and for no other reason
than that they were outgeneralled on the field of battle, or overpowered
by military causes for which no one is to blame--least of all, the
President or his advisers.

And here let one word be said against the arguments of those
well-meaning and patriotic men who attempt to prove that certain acts of
the Government have been injudicious and unwise--such, for example, as
the suspension of the habeas corpus, the alleged illegal arrests, and
the emancipation policy. It is not the purpose of this paper to enter
into additional argument to sustain this opinion or to disprove it. But
in justice to the Government--simply because it is a Government--let it
not be forgotten that when events heretofore unforeseen and unprepared
for are throwing our vast nation into incalculable confusion, and when
it becomes absolutely imperative that the head of the Government must
act decisively and according to the promptness of his honest judgment,
and when we know equally well that that judgment, be it what it may,
cannot accord with the various and diverse opinions of _all_ men, then
it behooves his countrymen, if not to acquiesce in, to support whatever
that honest judgment may decide to be best for the emergency. No doubt,
errors have been made, but they are errors inconceivably less in their
results than would be the unpardonable sin of the people, should they,
because differing in opinion, weaken the hands and confuse the purposes
of the powers that be. With secret and treacherous foes in our very
midst, hidden behind the masks of a painted loyalty, the President,
after deep and earnest consultation and reflection, deemed it his duty
to authorize arrests under circumstances which he solemnly believed were
the best adapted to arrest the evil, though, by so doing, many good and
innocent men might temporarily suffer with the bad. So too with regard
to the proclamation of freedom--be the step wise or unwise, and there is
by no means a unity of sentiment on this head--the President conceived
it to be the duty of his office--a duty which never entered into his
plans or intentions until the war had increased to gigantic and
threatening proportions--to level a blow at what he and millions of his
countrymen believe to be the stronghold of the enemy, viz., that system
of human servitude which nourished the body politic and social now
standing in armed and fearful resistance to the Constitution and the
laws. It matters not, so far as opinion goes, whether the step was wise
or foolish, if the executive head deemed it wise. Nor was it a hasty or
spasmodic movement on his part. Months were devoted to its
consideration, and every argument was patiently and candidly listened to
from all the representatives of political theory for and against. Even
then no hasty step was taken; but, on the contrary, our deluded
countrymen in arms against us were forewarned, and earnestly,
respectfully advised and entreated to take that step in behalf of Union
and peace, which would leave their institution as it had existed. Nay,
more: terms whereby no personal inconvenience or pecuniary loss to them
would be involved if they would but be simply loyal to the Government,
were liberally offered them, with three months for their consideration.
Let those of us who, notwithstanding these ameliorating circumstances,
doubt the good policy of the act, remember that they of the South, our
open foes, invited the measures. Their leaders acknowledged and their
press boasted that the Southern army never could be overcome--if for no
other reason, for this reason, that while the army of the North was
composed of the bone and muscle of the great working classes, drawn away
from the fields of labor and enterprise, which must necessarily, in
their opinion, languish from this absence, the Confederate army was
composed of 'citizens' and property owners (to wit, slaveholders), whose
absence from their plantations in no way interfered with the growth of
their cotton, sugar, corn, and rice, from which sources of wealth and
nourishment they could continue to draw the sinews of war. They went
farther than this, and acted upon their declaration by employing their
surplus slave labor in the work of intrenching their fortifications,
serving their army, and finally fighting in their army.

Upon this basis of slave labor they asserted their omnipotence in war
and ability to continue the struggle without limit of time. The
subsidized press of England supported this theory, and declared that
with such advantages it was idle for the Federal Government to maintain
a struggle in the face of such belligerent advantages! Then, and not
till then, were the eyes of the President open to a fact which none but
the political blind man could fail to observe, and then it was that not
only the President, but a very large proportion of our countrymen,
heretofore strictly conservative men, felt that the time had come when
further forbearance would be suicidal. Although many doubted and still
doubt if slavery was the cause of the rebellion, very many were forced
to the conclusion that what our enemies themselves admitted to be the
strength of the rebellion was indeed such, and that the time had arrived
to avail themselves of that military necessity which authorizes the
Government to adopt such measures as may be deemed the most fitting for
crushing rebellion and restoring our constitutional liberty. Let us
think, then, as we please upon the judiciousness of the
proclamation--that it was uttered with forethought, calmness, and with a
full sense of the responsibility of the President to his God and his
country, none of us can deny. With this we should be satisfied. We have
but one duty before us, then, as a government and a people--and that is,
an earnest, devoted prosecution of this war for the integrity of our
common country. In the untrammelled hands of that Government let us
leave its prosecution. We have but one duty before us as individuals,
and that is to support the existing Government with our individual
might. Let the cry be loud and long, as, thank Heaven, it still is, 'On
with the war,' not for war's sake, but for the sake of that peace, which
only war, humanely and vigorously conducted, can achieve.

Fling personal ambition and individual aggrandizement to the winds. Let
political preferment and partisan proclivities bide their time, and as a
united and one-minded people, devote heart and mind, strength and money,
to the prosecution of the campaign, without considering what may be its
duration, and without fear of circumstance or expenditure. If it be
necessary, let the public debt be increased until it reaches and exceeds
the public liabilities of the most indebted Government of Europe. We and
our descendants will cheerfully pay the interest on that expenditure
which purchased so great a blessing as national endurability. Meanwhile,
with unity, forbearance, perseverance, and the silent administration of
the ballot box, we will, as a people, maintain, notwithstanding that a
portion of the land we hold dear stands severed from us by hatred and
prejudice, the prosperity which we still claim, and the renown which was
once accorded to us. By so doing, and by so doing only, shall our former
grandeur come back to us--though its garments be stained with blood. A
grandeur which, without hyperbole, it may be said, will outstrip the
glory which, as a young and sanguine people, we have ever claimed for
our country. The reason for so believing is the simple and undeniable
fact that out of the saddening humiliation and devastation of this civil
war has arisen the better knowledge of the wonderful resources,
abilities, and determined spirit of the American people. We see--both
combatants--that we are giants fighting, and not quarrelling pigmies, as
the foreign enemies of us both have vainly attempted to prove. We see,
both combatants, how vast and important to each is the territory we are
struggling for, how inseparable to our united interests are the sources
of wealth imbedded in our rocks, underlying our soil, and growing in its
beneficent bosom. We see, both combatants, how strong is the commerce of
the East to supply, like a diligent handmaiden, the wants of every
section; how bountiful are the plantations of the South and the
granaries of the West to keep the world united to us in the strong bonds
of commercial and friendly intercourse; how absolutely necessary to the
prosperity of both are the deep and wide-flowing rivers which run, like
silver bands of peace, through the length and breadth of a land whose
vast privileges we have been too blind to appreciate, and in that
blindness would destroy. Above all, we are _beginning_ to see that like
two mighty champions fighting for the belt of superiority, we can
neither of us achieve that individual advantage which can utterly and
forever place the other beyond the ability of again accepting the
gauntlet of defiance, and that our true and lasting glory can alone
proceed from a determination to shake hands in peace, and, as united
champions, defying no longer each other, defy the world. Nor would the
South in consenting to a reunion _now_ find humiliation or dishonor. She
has proved herself a noble foe--quick in expedient, firm in
determination, valorous in war. We know each other the better for the
contest; we shall, when peace returns, respect each other the more; and
although the cost of that peace, whenever it comes, will be the
sacrifice of many local prejudices and sectional privileges, what, oh,
what are such sacrifices to the inestimable blessings of national
salvation?




THE COMPLAINING BORE.


About the most disagreeable people one meets with in life are those who
make a business of complaining. They ask for sympathy when they merit
censure. There is no excuse for man or woman making known their private
griefs except to intimate friends or those who stand in the nearest
relation to them. I have no patience with the man who wishes to catch
the public ear with the sound of his repining. Be it that he complain of
the world generally, or specify the particular occasion of his
dumpishness, he is in either aspect equally contemptible. What a
serio-comic spectacle a man presents who imagines that everybody is in a
leagued conspiracy against him to disappoint his hopes and thwart his
plans for success! He thinks he is kept from rising by some untoward
fate that is bent on crushing him into the ground, feels that he is the
victim of persecution, the sport of angry gods. Not having the spirit of
a martyr, he frets and fumes about his condition, and finds a selfish
relief in counting over his grievances in the presence of all who are
good-natured enough to listen. Such a fellow is a social nuisance--away
with him! The fact usually is that the world has more reason to complain
of him than he of the world. For instance, I know a man who has become
misanthropic, but who should hate himself instead of the whole race.

Mr. Jordan Algrieve has become disgusted with life, and confesses than
his experiment with existence has thus far proved a failure. He has
combated with the world, and the world has proved too much for him, and
he acknowledges the defeat. Mr. Algrieve is on the shady side of fifty,
and his hair getting to be of an iron gray. His features are prominent,
with a face wrinkled and shrivelled by discontent and acidity of temper.
His tall figure is bent, not so much by cares and weight of years, as in
a kind of typical submission to the stern decree of an evil destiny.

Strange to say, he is well educated, and graduated with honor at one of
our Eastern colleges. With a knowledge of this fact, it is pitiable to
see him standing at the corner of the street in his busy town in a suit
of seedy black and a shockingly bad hat, chafing his hands together and
pretending to wait for somebody who never comes.

Poor Algrieve, he is a man under the table, and he knows it. He has
tried to be somebody in his way, but has failed sadly in all his
efforts. It is said that Algrieve always had a constitutional aversion
to legitimate and continued labor, but has a passion for making strikes
and securing positions that afford liberal pay for little work.

Thinking a profession too monotonous and plodding, he never took the
trouble to acquire one. As to honest manual toil, that was an expedient
he never so much as dreamed of. In early life he was so unfortunate as
to secure an appointment to a clerkship in the Assembly, and after that
he haunted the State Legislature for five or six winters in hot pursuit
of another place, but his claims failing to be recognized, he relapsed
into the natural belief that his party was in league to proscribe him.
After making a large number of political ventures of a more ambitious
order, and with the same mortifying results, he abandoned that field and
took to speculation in patent rights. He vended a wonderful churn-dash,
circulated a marvellous flatiron, and expatiated through the country on
the latest improvement in the line of a washing machine. But these
operations somehow afforded him but transient relief, and left him
always involved still more largely in debt. At different times in his
life he had also been a horse dealer, a dry-goods merchant, a saloon
keeper, the proprietor of a tenpin alley, and managed to grow poorer in
all these various occupations. The last I saw of him he was reduced to
peddling books in a small way, carrying his whole stock in a new market
basket. He was very importunate in his appeals to customers to purchase,
putting it upon the ground that he had been unfortunate and had a claim
to their charity. I happened to see him in the office of the popular
hotel in Podgeville, when he was more than usually clamorous for
patronage. He accosted nearly every man in the room with a dull,
uninteresting volume in his hand, and for which he asked a respectable
price. At last he set down his basket, and commenced a kind of
snivelling harangue to his little audience. Mr. Algrieve opened by
saying:

     'Gentlemen, you'll pardon me for thrusting myself upon your
     attention; but it is hard to have the world turned against ye, and
     to work like a slave all your life to get something to fall back on
     in old age, and then have to die poor at last! I hope none of you
     have ever known what it is to be born unlucky; to never undertake
     anything but turned out a failure, and to meet disappointment where
     you deserved success. I am such a man!'

Here Mr. Algrieve produced a fragmentary pocket handkerchief for the
ostensible purpose of absorbing an expected tear, but really to give his
remark a tragic effect. He continued:

     'Behold an individual who has been doomed to penury and
     destitution, but who has not met his fate without a struggle. You
     who have known me, gentlemen, for the last thirty years, know that
     Jordan Algrieve has battled with life manfully.' At this point he
     put out his clenched fist in defiance of his fancied enemy.' But I
     have been compelled to yield to the force of circumstances--not,
     however, till I had taken my chance in nearly every department of
     honorary endeavor, and experienced the most wretched success. The
     world has pronounced its ban upon me, and I must bow submissively
     to its cruel imposition. I tried to serve my country in the
     capacity of a public official, but my services and talents were
     repeatedly rejected--the majority of voters always so necessary to
     an honest election was forever on the side of my lucky opponent.
     When I withdrew from the political field, impoverished by my
     efforts to advance the prosperity of my party, I embarked in a
     small commercial enterprise; but owing to the tightness of the
     times, and my want of capital, I was soon obliged to give up and
     throw myself upon the mercy of my creditors. I have tried popular
     amusements, and lost money--that is, I failed to make it. I even
     branched out into fancy speculations, but they only served to sink
     me still deeper in the yawning depths of insolvency!'

Mr. Algrieve here paused, and seemed to look down into the frightful
gulf with a shuddering expression, as if he were not quite accustomed to
the descent yet.

     'In short, gentlemen, I am completely prostrated--I am floored! And
     is the world willing to help me up? By no means! On the contrary,
     when I commenced falling and slipping on the stairs of human
     endeavor the world was ready to kick me down, down, till I reached
     the--in short, gentlemen, till I became what I now am. Now, what
     have I done, let me ask, that I should fare thus? Have I not made
     an effort? I appeal to you, gentlemen, to say. [A voice from the
     crowd here chimed in: 'Yes, Algrieve, your efforts to live without
     work have been immense!'] But here I am, poor and persecuted; my
     family are in want of some of the common necessaries of life; and
     now, gentlemen, I beg some of you will buy that book (holding out a
     copy of the 'Pilgrim's Progress'), and do something to avert for a
     while, at least, the pauper's fate!'

Some benevolent gentleman, either from a charitable motive, or to put an
end to his lachrymose oration, bought the volume for $1.25. Mr. Algrieve
received the money with many expressions of gratitude, and, gathering up
his stock, moped off into the drinking room, and invested a dime in a
gin cocktail, and five cents in a cigar, with which he sought to solace
himself for all the inflictions of the inexorable world.

Thus Jordan Algrieve goes about telling of his reverses and misfortunes,
exhibiting them to the public eye like a beggar his sores, without shame
or remorse; seeking to levy contributions on his fellow men, as one who
has been robbed of his estate. Reader, will you say that you have never
met with Jordan Algrieve?

Another common species of the complaining bore are those who are
continually parading their bodily infirmities. For example, a man will
call on you, apparently for the express purpose of illustrating a most
interesting case of neuralgia. He comes into your office, perhaps, with
his head tied up in a handkerchief, and an expression of face as if he
had some time winked one eye very close, and had never since been able
to open it. Thinking himself an object worthy of study, he shows how the
darting pains vacillate between his eyes, invade his teeth, hold general
muster in his cheeks, take refuge in the back of his neck; and
demonstrates these points to you by applying his hands to the parts
designated, and uttering cries of feigned anguish to give effect to his
description. He informs you, as a piece of refreshing intelligence, that
it is devilish hard to bear, and enough to make a saint indulge in
profanity. When he has proceeded thus far, he may be taken with one of
his capricious pains, ducks his head between his knees, squeezes it with
his hands, and bawls out: 'O-h! Je-ru-sa-lem!' with a duration of sound
only limited by the capacity of his wind. He feels that he has a witness
to his sufferings, and wishes to make the most of it. When he gets
sufficiently easy, he tells you his experience with various remedies,
enumerates all the lotions, liniments, ointments, and other applications
he has used, with his opinion on the merits of each.

Another person will accost you on a bright day with a most saturnine and
wo-begone visage, informing you that he is in a terrible way, that his
food distresses him, and he can't any longer take comfort in eating. He
places his hand in the region of his stomach, remarks that he feels a
great load there, and makes the usual complaints of a dyspeptic. He is
pathetic over the fact that his physician has denied him fried oysters
and mince pie for evening lunch, and closes his observations by
exclaiming in a moralizing vein that 'such is life!'

A third individual has a throat disease, and, forgetful of his bad
breath, desires you to take a minute survey of his glottis, and inform
him of its appearance. Accordingly he opens his mouth and throws back
his head as if he were inviting you to an entertaining show.

These are but a tithe of the examples of people who exhibit in public
and at social gatherings their ills and ailments, accompanied with
dreary complainings of their bodily inflictions. It implies no
indifference or lack of sympathy for physical pain and hardships to say
that its victims have no right to mar the enjoyment of others by the
unnecessary display of their infirmities or present sufferings. If a man
will make a travelling show of his disorders, he should be obliged to
carry a hand organ to give variety to his stupid entertainment. Were
these fellows all compelled to furnish this accompaniment, what a
musical bedlam our streets would become! Of course, there is no law
against complaining and repining--it may not be immoral--but it is a
very poor method of making those around us happy, which is a duty that
none but selfish natures can forget. A man who goes through life with a
smiling face and cheerful temper, despite the grievances common to us
all, is a public benefactor in his way, as much as one who founds a
library or establishes an asylum.

Misanthropy is a sublime egotism that mistakes its own distemper for a
disease of the universe. With all the mishaps to which our life is
subject, a glance over a wide range of human experience proves that God
helps those who help themselves, and whatever be the tenor of our
fortune, levity is more seemly than moodiness, and under any
circumstances there is more virtue in being a clown than a cynic. But in
adversity, a subdued cheerfulness and quiet humor are, next to Christian
fortitude, the golden mean of feeling that makes the loss of worldly
things rest lightly on the heart, and spreads out before the hopeful eye
the vision of better days!




DEATH OF THE BRAVE.


  'How sleep the brave who sink to rest
  By all their country's wishes blest!
  When spring with dewy fingers cold
  Returns to deck their hallowed mould,
  She then shall dress a sweeter sod
  Than fancy's feet have ever trod.'




LITERARY NOTICES


     THE ICE MAIDEN, AND OTHER TALES. By HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.
     Translated by FANNY FULLER. Philadelphia: F. Leypoldt. New York: C.
     T. EVANS. 1863.

Probably no writer of stories for the young ever equalled Hans Christian
Andersen; certainly none ever succeeded as he has done in reproducing
the nameless charm of the real fairy tale which springs up without an
author among the people,--the best specimens of which are the stories
collected by the Brothers Grimm in Germany. But this exquisite
fascination of an inner life in animals and in inanimate objects, which
every child's mind produces from dolls and other puppets, and which
makes fairies of flowers, is by Andersen adroitly turned very often to
good moral and instructive purpose, without losing the original sweet
and simple charm which blends the real and the imaginary. Here he
surpasses all other tale writers, nearly all of whom, in their efforts
at simplicity in such narratives, generally become supremely silly.

The present volume contains four stories--'The Ice Maiden,' 'The
Butterfly,' 'The Psyche,' and 'The Snail and the Rose Tree,'--all in
Andersen's usual happy and successful vein; for he is preëminently an
_equal_ writer, and never falls behind himself. Perhaps the highest
compliment which can be paid them is the truthful assertion that any
person may read them with keen interest, and never reflect that they
were written for young people. Poetry and prose meet in them on equal
grounds, and any of them in verse would be charming. The main reason for
this is that such stories to charm must set forth natural objects with
Irving-like fidelity; nay, the writer must, with a few words, bring
before us scenes and things as in a mirror. In this 'The Ice Maiden'
excels; Swiss life is depicted as though we were listening to _yodle_
songs on the mountains, and felt the superstitions of the icy winter
nights taking hold of our souls.

'The Psyche' is an art-story. Most writers would have made it a legend
of 'high' art, but it is far sweeter and more impressive from the sad
simplicity and gentleness with which it is here told. 'The Butterfly,'
on the contrary, is a delightful little burlesque on flirtations and
fops; and 'The Snail and the Rose Tree' is much like it. Both are really
fables of the highest order, or shrewd prose epigrams.

The volume before us is well translated; very well, notwithstanding one
or two trifling inadvertencies, which, however, really testify to the
fact that the best of all pens for such version--a lady's--was employed
in the work. A _Skytte_, for instance, in Danish, or _Schutz_ in German,
is generally termed among the fraternity of sportsmen a 'shot,' and not
a 'shooter.' But the spirit of the original is charmingly preserved, and
Miss Fuller has the rare gift of using short and simple words, which are
the best in the world when one knows how to use them as she does. We
trust that we shall see many more stories of this kind, translated by
her.

We must, in conclusion, say a word for the dainty binding (Pawson &
Nicholson), the exquisite paper and typography, and, finally, for the
pretty photograph vignette with which this volume is adorned. Mr.
Leypoldt has benefited Philadelphia in many ways,--by his foreign and
American circulating library, his lecture room, and by his republication
in photograph of first-class engravings,--and we now welcome him to the
society of publishers. His first step in this direction is a most
promising one.


     NOTES, CRITICISMS, AND CORRESPONDENCE UPON SHAKSPEARE'S PLAYS AND
     ACTORS. By JAMES HENRY HACKETT. New York: Carleton, 413 Broadway.
     1863.

This work will be one of great interest, firstly to all those who visit
the theatre, secondly to readers of Shakspeare, and thirdly to all who
relish originality and naïvete of character, such as Mr. Hackett
displays abundantly, from the rising of the curtain even to the going
down of the same, in his book. There are no men who live so much within
their profession as actors, or are so earnest in their faith in it; and
this devotion is reflected unconsciously, but very entertainingly,
through the whole volume. Shakspeare tells us that all the world is a
stage--to the actor the stage is all his world, the only one in which he
truly lives.

We thank Mr. Hackett for giving us in this volume, firstly, very minute
and excellent descriptions of all the eminent actors of Shakespeare
within his memory--not a brief one, he having been himself a really
excellent and eminent actor since 1828. It is to be regretted that there
are not more such judicious descriptions as these. The author has, as we
gather from his book, been in the habit of recording his daily
experiences, and consequently writes from better data than those
afforded by mere memory. The reader will also thank him for many
agreeable minor reminiscences of celebrities, and for giving to the
public his extremely interesting correspondence on Shaksperean subjects
with John Quincy Adams and others. The views of the venerable statesman
on _Hamlet_, and on 'Misconceptions of Shakspeare on the Stage,'
indicate a very great degree of study of the great poet, and of
reflection on the manner in which he is over or under acted. Nor are Mr.
Hackett's own letters and criticisms by any means devoid of
merit--witness the following:

     'Mr. Forrest recites the text (of King Lear) as though it were all
     prose, and not occasionally written in poetic measure; whereas,
     blank verse can, and always should, be distinguishable from prose
     by proper modulations of the voice, which a listener with a nice
     ear and a cultivated taste could not mistake, nor, if confounded,
     detect in their respective recitals: else Milton as well as
     Shakspeare has toiled to little purpose in the best-proportioned
     numbers.'

The criticism on Forrest is throughout judicious, and, though frequently
severe, is still very kindly written when we consider the 'capacities'
of the subject.

As regards Mr. Hackett's views of readings, we detect in them a little
of that tendency to excessive accentuation, and that disposition to
'make a hit' or a sensation in every sentence which renders most, or
all, Shaksperean or tragic acting so harsh and strained, and which has
made the word 'theatrical' in ordinary conversation synonymous with
'unnatural.' Something of this is reflected in the enormous amount of
needless italicizing with which the typography of the book is afflicted,
and which we trust will be amended in future editions. We cheerfully
pardon Mr. Hackett for sounding his own praises--sometimes rather loudly
and frequently, as in the republication of a sketch of himself--since,
after all, we thereby gain a more accurate idea of a favorite actor, who
has for thirty-six years pleased the public, and gained in that long
time the character of a conscientious artist who has always striven to
improve himself.

To one thing, however, we decidedly object--the questionable taste
displayed by the author in answering in type criticisms of his acting,
and in republishing them in his work. We can well imagine the temptation
to be great, but to yield to it is not creditable to a good artist. With
this little exception, we cordially commend the work to all readers.


     DEVOTIONAL POEMS. By R. T. CONRAD. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott &
     Co. 1862.

The late Judge Conrad left a number of religious poems, which
fortunately fell into the hands of those who appreciated their merit,
and we now have them in volume, with an introductory poem to the widow
of the deceased and a preface by George H. Boker, to whom the editing of
the present volume was committed. These lyrics, as we infer, were
written in the spirit of private devotion, and are therefore gifted with
the greatest merit which can possibly inspire religious writing--we mean
deep sincerity. But apart from the _spirit_,--the _sine qua non_,--the
beauty of the form of these works will always give them a high value to
the impartial critic. They are far above the mediocrity into which most
religious writers always at first _appear_ to be lost, owing to the vast
amount of thoughts and expressions which they are compelled to share in
common with others. And as there has been awakened within a few years a
spirit of collecting and studying such poetry, we cordially commend this
work to all who share it.

As regards form, one of the more marked poems in this collection is
'The Stricken;' we have room only for the beginning:

    Heavy! Heavy! Oh, my heart
      Seems a cavern deep and drear,
    From whose dark recesses start,
        Flatteringly like birds of night,
      Throes of passion, thoughts of fear,
        Screaming in their flight.
      Wildly o'er the gloom they sweep,
  Spreading a horror dim,--a woe that cannot weep!

    Weary! Weary! What is life
      But a spectre-crowded tomb?
    Startled with unearthly strife,
      Spirits fierce in conflict met,
    In the lightning and the gloom,
      The agony and sweat;
    Passions wild and powers insane,
  And thoughts with vulture beak, and quick Promethean pain.

We select this single specimen from its remarkable resemblance to
Anglo-Saxon religious poetry,--by far the sincerest, and, so far as it
was ripened, the soundest, in our language. With the exception of the
Promethean allusion, every line in these verses is singularly Saxon--the
night birds, screaming in gloom--as in the '_Sea Farer_,' where, instead
of joyous mirth,

  'Storms beat the stone cliffs,
  Where them the starling answered,
  Icy of wing.'

The divisions of this work are 'Sinai,' which is in great measure a
commentary on virtues and vices, 'Sonnets on the Lord's Prayer,' and
'Bible Breathings.' Of these we would commend the Sonnets, as forming
collectively a highly finished and beautiful poem, complete in each
detail. The little poem, 'A Thought,' is as perfect as a mere simile in
verse could be.

Robert T. Conrad, who was born in Philadelphia in 1810, and died there
in 1858, first became known to the public by a drama entitled _Conrad of
Naples_, a subject which has been extensively treated by German writers,
Uhland himself having written a tragedy on it. After being admitted to
the bar, Conrad connected himself with the press, but resumed the
practice of law in 1834 with success, being appointed judge of the
criminal sessions in 1838, and of the general sessions in 1840. He was
subsequently president of a well-known railroad company, and mayor of
his native city. During the intervals of his business he was at one time
editor of _Graham's Magazine_, and acquired a literary reputation by his
articles in the _North American_, and by the well-known tragedy of
_Aylmere_, in which Mr. Forrest, the actor, has frequently appeared as
'Jack Cade.' In addition to these, Mr. Conrad published, in 1852, a
volume entitled 'Aylmere and other poems,' which was very extensively
reviewed. In it the 'Sonnets on the Lord's Prayer' first appeared.

The volume before us is very well edited in every respect, and makes its
appearance in very beautiful 'externals.' The paper, binding, and
typography are, in French phrase, as applied to such matters,
'luxurious.'


     SKETCHES OF THE WAR: A Series of Letters to the North Moore Street
     School of New York. By CHARLES C. NOTT, Captain in the Fifth Iowa
     Cavalry. New York: Charles T. Evans, 448 Broadway. 1863.

Were this little work ten times its present length, we should have read
it to the end with the same interest which its perusal inspired, and
arrived, with the same regret that there was not more of it, at its last
page. It is simple and unpretending, but as life-like and spirited as
any collection of descriptive sketches which we can recall. We realize
in it all the vexations of mud, all the horrors of blood, and all the
joys of occasional chickens and a good night's rest, which render the
soldier's life at once so great and yet so much a matter of petty joys
and sorrows. The love of the rider for the good horse--for his pet
Gypsy--her caprices and coquetries, are set forth, for instance, very
freely, without, however, a shadow of affectation, while in all his
interviews with men and women, the characters come before us 'like
life,' and give us a singularly accurate conception of the social
effects of the war in the West. The appearance of the country is
unconsciously detailed as accurately as in a photograph, and the events
and sensations of battle are presented with great ability; in fact, we
have as yet seen no sketches from the war which in these particulars are
equal to them. They are free from 'fine writing,' and are given in
simple, intelligible language which cannot fail to make them generally
popular. The occasional flashes of humorous description are extremely
well given--so well that we only wish there had been more of them, as
the author has evidently a talent in that direction, which we trust will
be more fully developed in other works.




EDITOR'S TABLE


With all the outcry that has been raised at the slow progress of the
war, it is difficult for a comprehensive mind to conceive how, on the
whole, the struggle with the South could have advanced more favorably to
the _general interests_ and future prosperity of the whole country, than
it has thus far done. 'Had the Administration been possessed of
sufficient energy, it could have crushed the rebellion in the first
month,' say the grumblers. Very possibly--to break out again! No amount
of prompt action could have calmed the first fire and fury of the South.
It required _blood_; it was starving for war; it was running over with
hatred for the North.

The war went on, and, as it progressed, it became evident that, while
thousands deprecated agitation of the slave question as untimely, the
war could never end until that question was disposed of. And it also
became every day more plain that the 'little arrangement' so frequently
insisted on, and expressed in the words, 'Conquer the enemy _first_, and
_then_ free the slaves,' was a little absurdity. It was 'all very
pretty,' but with the whole North and South at swords-points over this
as the alleged cause of war--with all Europe declaring that the North
had no intention of removing the cause of the war--with the slave
constantly interfering in all our military movements--and, finally, with
a party of domestic traitors springing up everywhere, at home and in the
army itself, it became high time to adopt a fixed policy. It _was_
adopted, and President LINCOLN, to his lasting honor, and despite
tremendous opposition, issued the Proclamation of January First--the
noblest document in history.

It is difficult to see how, when, or in what manner slavery would have
disappeared from a single State, had the war been sooner ended; and
nothing is more certain than that any early victory or temporary
compromise would have simply postponed the struggle, to be settled with
compound interest. But another benefit has resulted and is resulting
from the experience of the past two years. Our own Free States have
abounded with men who are at heart traitors; men who have, by their
ignorance of the great principles of national welfare involved in this
war, acted as a continual drawback on our progress. This body of men,
incapable of comprehending the great principles of republicanism as laid
down in the Constitution, and as urged by Washington, would be after all
only partially vanquished should we subdue the rebels. They are around
us here in our own homes; their treason rings from the halls of national
legislation; they are busy night and day in their 'copperhead' councils
in giving aid and comfort to the enemy, and in poisoning the minds of
the ignorant, by hissing slanders at the President and his advisers as
being devoid of energy and ability.

It would avail us little could we conclude a peace to-morrow, if these
aiders and abetters of treason--these foes of all enlightened
measures--these worse than open rebels--were to remain among us to
destroy by their selfishness and malignity those great measures by which
this country is destined to become great. The war is doing us the
glorious service of bringing the 'copperheads' before the people in
their true light--the light of foes to equality, to the rights of the
many, and as perverse friends of all that is anti-American. Who and
_what_, indeed, are their leaders! Review them all, from FERNANDO WOOD
down to the wretched SAULSBURY, including W. B. REED, in whose veins
hereditary traitorous blood seems, with every descent, to have acquired
a fresh taint--consider the character which has for years attached to
most of them--and then reflect on what a party must be with such
leaders!

These men have no desire to be brought distinctly before the public;
they would by far prefer to burrow in silence. But the war and
emancipation have proved an Ithuriel's spear to touch the toad and make
him spring up in his full and naturally fiendish form. The sooner and
the more distinctly he is seen, the better will it be for the country.
We must dispose of rebels abroad and copperheads at home ere we can have
peace, and the sooner the country knows its foes, the better will it be
for it. We have come at last to either carrying out the great
centralizing system of an Union, superior to all States Rights, as
commended by Washington, or to division into a thousand petty
principalities, each ruled by its WOOD, or other demagogue, who can
succeed in securing a majority-mob of adherents!

It is with such men and their measures that Gen. GEORGE B. MCCLELLAN,
the frequently proposed candidate for the next presidency, is becoming
firmly connected in the minds of the people! Fortunately the war has
developed the objects of the traitors, and the Union Leagues which are
springing up by hundreds over the country are doing good service in
making them thoroughly known. Until treason is fairly rooted out at home
and abroad, and until _Union at the centre for the people everywhere_ is
fully enforced, this war can only be concluded now, to be renewed
in tenfold horror to-morrow.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is a complication of interests at present springing up in Europe,
which is difficult to fathom. Just now it seems as if the Polish
insurrection were being fomented by Austria, at French instigation, in
order that the hands of Russia may be tied, so that in case of war with
America, we may be deprived of the aid of our great European friend.
England sees it in this light, and angrily protests against Prussian
interference in the matter. Should a general war result, who would gain
by it? Would France avail herself of the opportunity to array her forces
against Prussia, and seize the Rhine, and perhaps Belgium? Or would the
Emperor avail himself of circumstances to embroil England in a war, and
then withdraw to a position of profitable neutrality? Let it be borne in
mind, meantime, that it required all the strength of France, England,
and Austria, combined, to beat Russia in the Crimea, and that a short
prolongation of the war would have witnessed the arrival of vast bodies
of Russian troops--many of whom had been nearly a year on the march.
Those troops are now far more accessible in case of war.

A war between England and the United States, however it might injure us,
would be utter ruin to our adversary. With our commerce destroyed, we
should still have a vast territory left; but nine tenths of England's
prosperity lies within her wooden walls, which would be swept from the
ocean. With her exportation destroyed, England would be ruined. We
should suffer, unquestionably, but we could hold our own, and would
undoubtedly progress as regards manufacturing. But what would become of
the British workshops, and how would the British people endure such
suffering as never yet befell them? Even with our Southern Rebellion on
our hands, and English men-of-war on our coast, we could still, with our
merchant marine, bring John Bull to his face. And John Bull knows it.

England is now building, in the cause of slavery and for the South, a
great fleet of iron-clad pirate vessels, which are intended to prey on
our commerce. How long will it be before retaliation on England begins,
and, _when_ it begins, how will it end? Ay--_how_ will it end? It is not
to be supposed that we can long be blinded by such a flimsy humbug as a
transfer to Southern possession of these vessels 'for the Chinese
trade!' Are the English mad, demented, or besotted, that they suppose we
intend to endure such deliberate aid of our enemies? When those vessels
'for the Chinese' are afloat, and our merchants begin to suffer, let
England beware! We are not a people to stop and reason nicely on legal
points, when they are enforced in the form of fire and death. Better for
England that she weighed the iron of that fleet pound for pound with
gold, and cast it into the sea, than that she suffered it to be
launched. _Qui facit per alium, facit per se._ England is the _real_
criminal in this business, for her Government could have _prevented_ it;
and to her we shall look for the responsibility. All through America a
spirit of fierce indignation has been awakened at hearing of this
'Chinese' fleet, which will burst out ere long in a storm. We are very
far from being afraid of war--we are in it; we know what it is like--and
those who openly, brazenly, infamously, aid our enemies and make war for
them, shall also learn, let it cost what it may.

England hopes to cover the world's oceans with pirates, with murder,
rapine, and robbery--to exaggerate still more the horrors of war--and
yet deems that her commerce will escape! This is a different matter from
the affair of the Trent.

       *       *       *       *       *

Don't grumble! Don't be incessantly croaking from morning to night at
the war and the administration and the generals, and everything else!
Things have gone better on the whole than you imagine, and your endless
growling is just what the traitors like. Were there no croakers there
would be no traitors.

It was growling and croaking which caused the reverses of the army of
the Potomac--sheer grumbling. Now the truth is coming out, and we are
beginning to see the disadvantages of eternal fault-finding. The truth
is that the war in the Crimea was much worse conducted than this of ours
has been--even as regards swindling by contracts--and it was so with
every other war. We have no monopoly of faults.

Now that the war is being reorganized, we would modestly suggest that a
little severity--say an occasional halter--would not be out of place as
regards deserters. There has been altogether too much of this amusement
in vogue, which a few capital punishments in the beginning would have
entirely obviated. Pennsylvania, we are told, is full of hulking runaway
young farmers, and our cities abound in ex-rowdies, who, after securing
their bounties, have deserted, and who are now aiding treason, and
spreading 'verdigrease' in every direction by their falsehoods. Let
every exertion be made to arrest and return these scamps--cost what it
may; and let their punishment be exemplary. And let there be a new
policy inaugurated with the new levy, which shall effectually prevent
all further escaping.

       *       *       *       *       *

Reader--wherever you are, either join a Union League, or get one up. If
there be none in your town, gather a few friends together--and mind that
they be good, loyal Unionists, without a suspicion of verdigrease or
copperhead poison about them--and at once put yourselves in connection
with the central Leagues of the great cities. Those of Philadelphia, New
York and Boston are all conducted by honorable men of the highest
character--and we may remark, by the way, that in this respect the
contrast between the leaders of the League and of the Verdigrease Clubs
is indeed remarkable. When you have formed your League, see that
addresses are delivered there frequently, that patriotic documents and
newspapers are collected there, and finally that it does good service in
every way in forwarding the war, and in promoting the determination to
preserve the Union.

The copperheads aim not only at letting the South go--they hope to break
the North to fragments, and trust that in the general crash each of them
may secure his share. When the war first broke out, FERNANDO WOOD
publicly recommended the secession of New York as a free city--and a
very free city it would have been under the rule of Fernando the First!
And this object of 'dissolution and of division' is still cherished in
secret among the true leaders of the traitors.

The time has come when every true American should go to work in earnest
to strengthen the Union and destroy treason, whether in the field or at
home. A foe to liberty and to human rights is a foe, whether he be a
fellow countryman or not, and against such foes it is the duty of every
good citizen to declare himself openly.

       *       *       *       *       *

It will be seen by the annexed that our Art correspondent, a gentleman
of wide experiences, has gone into the battle. We trust that his
experiences will amuse the reader. As for the _facts_--never mind!

                                                    CAMP O'BELLOW,
                                            _Army of the Potomac_.

MY PATRIOTIC FRIEND AND EDITOR:

I have changed my base.

When I last wrote you, it was from the field of art--this time it is
from the floor of my tent--at least it will be, as soon as my fellows
pitch it. N. B.--For special information I would add that this is not
done, as I have seen a Kalmouk do it, with a bucket of pitch and a rag
on a stick. One way, however, of pitching tents is to pitch 'em down
when the enemy is coming, and run like the juice. Ha, ha!

But I must not laugh too loudly, as yon small soldier may hear me.
Little pitchers have long ears.

Now for my sufferings.

The first is my stove.

My stove is made of a camp kettle.

It has such a vile draught that I think of giving it a lesson in
drawing. _Joke._ Perhaps you remember it of old in the jolly old Studio
Building in Tenth Street. By the way how is WHITTREDGE?--I believe _he_
imported that joke from Rome where he learned it of JULES DE MONTALANT
who acquired it of CHAPMAN who got it from GIBSON, who learned it of
THORWALDSEN who picked it up from DAVID who stole it from the elder
VERNET to whom it had come down from MICHAEL ANGELO who cribbed it from
ALBERT DÜRER who sucked it somehow from GIOTTO.

I wish you could see that stove. I cook in it and on it and all around
the sides and underneath it. I wash my clothes in it, make punch in it,
write on it, when cold sit on it, play poker on it, and occasionally use
it for a trunk. It also gives music, for though it don't draw, it can
sing.

My second friend is my Iron Bride--the sword. She is a useful creeter.
Little did I think, when you, my beloved friends, presented me with that
deadly brand, how useful she would prove in getting at the brandy, when
I should have occasion to 'decap' a bottle. She kills pigs, cuts cheese,
toasts pork, slices lemons, stirs coffee, licks the horses, scares
Secesh, and cuts lead pencils. In a word, if I wished to give useful
advice to a cavalry officer, it would be not to go to war without a
sword.

A revolver is also extremely utilitarious. A _large_ revolver, mind you,
with _six corks_. Mine contains red and black pepper, salt, vinegar,
oil, and ketchup--when I'm in a hurry. A curious circumstance once
'transpired,' as the missionaries say, in relation to this article of
the _quizzeen_. All the barrels were loaded--which I had forgotten--and
so proceeded to give it an extra charge of groceries. * * *

It was a deadly fray. _Rang tang bang, paoufff!_ We fought as if it had
been a Sixth Ward election. Suddingly I found myself amid a swarm of my
country's foes. Sabres slashed at me, and in my rage I determined to
exterminate something. Looking around from mere force of habit to see
that there were no police about, I drew my revolver and aimed at JIM
MARRYGOLD of Charleston, whom I had last seen owling it in New Orleans,
four years ago. He and DICK MIDDLETONGUE of Natchez (who carved the
Butcher's Daughter at Florence, and who is now a Secesh major), came
down with their cheese knives, evidently intending to carve _me_. Such
language you never heard, such a diluvium of profanity, such
double-shotted d--ns! I drew my pistol _at once_, and gave Dick a
blizzard. The ball went through his ear--the red pepper took his eyes,
while Jim received the shot in his hat, and with it the sweet oil. In
this sweet state of affairs, CHARLEY RUFFEM of Savannah was descending
on me with his sabre. (He was the man who said my browns were all put in
with guano.) I put him out of the way of criticism with a _third_
barrel--killed him _dead_, and _salted_ him.

The best of this war is, it enables me to exterminate so many _bad
artists_.

The worst of it is that Charley owed me five dollars.

A fifth Secesh now made his appearance. We went it on the sword, and
fought--for further particulars see Ivanhoe, volume second. My foe was
RAWLEY CHIVERS, of Tuscumbia, Ala., and as the mischief would have it,
he knew all my guards and cuts. We used to fence together, and had had
more than one trial at _'fertig-los!'_ on the old _Pauk-boden_ in
Heidelberg.

'POP!' said he on the seventeenth round, 'are we going to chop all day?'

'CHIV,' said I, as I drew my castor, '_are you ready_?'

'Ready,' quoth he, effecting the same manoeuvre--'_one_, _two_,
_three_.'

I scratched his cheek, but the mustard settled him.
Sputter--p'l'z'z'z--how he swore! I went at him with both hands.

'_Priz?_' I cried.

'Priz it is,' he answered.

So I took him off as a priz. He was very glad to go too, for he hadn't
had a dinner for six weeks, and would have made a fine study for a
Murillo beggar so ar as rags went.

I punish my men whenever I catch them foraging. Punish them by
confiscation. Mild as I am by nature, I never allow them to keep stolen
provisions--when I am hungry.

Yesterday evening I detected a vast German private with a colossal
bull-turkey.

'Lay it down _there_, sir!' I exclaimed fiercely--indicating the floor
of my tent as the bank of deposit.

'But den when I leafs it you eats de toorky up!' he exclaimed in
sorrowful remonstrance.

'Yes,' I replied, like a Roman. 'Yes--I may _eat_ it--but,' I added in
tones of high moral conscientiousness, 'remember that I didn't STEAL
it!'

He went forth abashed.

No more till it is eaten, from

  Yours truly,

  POPPY OYLE.

       *       *       *       *       *


We are indebted to a Philadelphia correspondent for the following:

  Alas! that noble thoughts so oft
  Are born to live but for an hour,
  Then sleep in slumber of the soul
  As droops at night the passion flower,
  Their morn is like a summer sun
  With splendor dawning on the day--
  Their eve beholds that glory gone,
  And light with splendor fled away.

  J. W. L.

True indeed. The difference between the great mind and the small is
after all that the former can _retain_ its 'noble thoughts,' while with
the latter they are evanescent. And it is the glory of Art that it
revives such feelings, and keeps early impressions alive.

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINE.


  My love, in our light boat riding,
    We sat at the close of day;
  And still through the night went gliding,
    Afar on our watery way.

  The Spirit Isle, soft glowing,
    Lay dimmering 'neath moon and star;
  There music was softly flowing,
    And cloud dances waved afar:

  And ever more sweetly pealing,
    And waving more winningly;
  But past it our boat went stealing,
    All sad on the wide, wide sea.

       *       *       *       *       *

Here is an

ADVENTURE WITH A GRIZZLY BEAR,

from a Philadelphia correspondent:

     'We had gone out one morning, while camping upon the river San
     Joaquin, to indulge in the sport of fowling. There were three of
     us, and we possessed two skiffs, but an accident had reduced our
     sculls to a single pair, which my companion used to propel one of
     the boats down the stream, after securing the other, with me as its
     occupant, in the midst of a thicket of tule, where I awaited in
     ambush the flying flocks. As geese and ducks abounded, and nearly
     all of my shots told, in a few hours I had killed plenty of game;
     but becoming weary, as the intervals lengthened between the flights
     of the birds, I sat down, and had already begun to nod dozingly,
     when a startling splash, near the river bank, instantly aroused me.
     Grasping my gun and springing upright, I looked in the direction
     whence the sound had come; but, owing to the intervening mass of
     tule, could not see what kind of animal--for such I at once
     conjectured it must be--had occasioned my sudden surprise. Having
     hitherto seen no domestic stock hereabouts, I therefore felt fully
     satisfied that it could not belong to a tame species. Judging from
     the noise of its still continued movements, it was of no small
     bulk; and, if its ferocity were correspondent with its apparent
     size, this was indeed a beast to be dreaded.

     'The thought at once occurred to me that, as I possessed neither
     oars nor other means of propulsion, it would be difficult to move
     the boat from its mooring if chance or acuteness of scent should
     lead the creature to my place of concealment. In short, this, with
     various suggestions of fancy, some of them ludicrously exaggerated,
     speedily made me apprehensive of imminent danger. Nor was my
     suspicion unfounded, for a crisis was at hand.

     'There was a space of clear water between the river bank and the
     margin of the tule, in which the brute seemed to disport a few
     moments; and then the rustling of the reeds indicated that it was
     about to advance. With heavy footfalls it came toward me; as it
     approached my nervousness increased; I could not mistake that
     significant tread; undoubtedly it was a grizzly bear. But how could
     I escape? Bruin, though his progress was not unimpeded, was surely
     drawing near. Following my first impulse in this pressing
     emergency, I placed myself forward in the boat, and, seizing a
     handful of green blades on either side of it, endeavored, by
     violently pulling upon them, to force the craft through the thick
     growth which surrounded it. The headway of the skiff was slow, but
     my efforts were not silent. In fact, the commotion occasioned by my
     own panic became, to my hearing, so confounded with the sound made
     by my floundering pursuer that my excited imagination multiplied
     the single supposed bear, and the water seemed to be dashed about
     by several formidable 'grizzlies.'

     'You smile, gentlemen, but really I was so impressed with this and
     like extravagant creations of fear that my better judgment was
     temporarily suspended. This deception, however, was only of
     momentary duration.

     'Suddenly the skiff encountered some obstacle and remained
     immovable. Quickly clutching my gun and firing it aimlessly, I
     sprang overboard, and, with extraordinary energy, made for the
     other side of the river and safety.

     'My remembrance of that hazardous crossing even now fills me with a
     sympathetic thrill. The river, near where I had leaped in, varied
     in depth from my middle to my neck, and the snaky stalks of tule
     clung to me, retarding my retreat like faithful allies of the
     enemy. An area of this plant extended to the channel, a distance of
     some fifty yards, where a clear current rendered swimming feasible;
     and this I essayed to reach, urged onward by terror, and regardless
     of ordinary obstructions. So vigorous was my action that,
     notwithstanding the frequent reversals of my head and 'head's
     antipodes' as I tripped over reeds and roots, perhaps I should have
     reached the 'point proposed' with only a loss equivalent to the
     proverbial 'year's growth,' had not a hidden snag unluckily lain in
     the way, which 'by hook or by crook' fastened itself in the part of
     my trowsers exactly corresponding, when dry, with that 'broad disk
     of drab' finally seen, after much anxiety, by the curious Geoffrey
     Crayon between the parted coat-skirts of a certain mysterious
     'Stout Gentleman,' and inextricably held me in check despite my
     frantic struggles.

     'Imagine my feelings while thus entangled by a bond of enduring
     material, a bait for a fierce brute which eagerly pressed forward
     to snap at me. Believe me, boys, this was _not_ the happiest moment
     of my life. I knew no reason why I should resignedly submit to so
     undistinguished a fate. My knife, however, was in the boat, so that
     my release could only be attained by extreme exertion. Accordingly
     I writhed and jerked with my 'best violence,' all the time
     denouncing the whole race of bears, from 'Noah's pets' down; and
     you may be sure, emphatically expressing not a very exalted opinion
     of snags.

     'Ah! how that brief period of horrible _suspense_ appeared to
     stretch out almost to the crack of doom. I roared lustily for help,
     but no aid came. The bear continued its course through the thicket;
     in another instant I might be seized.

     'Rather than suffer such a 'taking off' as this, which now seemed
     inevitable, I should have welcomed as an easy death any method of
     exit from life that I might hitherto have deprecated. Incited then
     by the proximity of the beast, which so intensified the horror of
     my situation, to a last desperate effort to avert this much dreaded
     fate; and, concentrating nearly a superhuman strength upon one
     impetuous bound, the _stubborn fabric burst_, and--joy possessed my
     soul!

     'Even greater than my recent misery was the ecstasy which succeeded
     my liberation. The happy sense of relief imparted to me such a
     feeling of buoyancy that I was enabled to extricate myself from
     this 'slough of despond,' and I soon reached the swift current,
     when a few strokes landed me in security on a jutting bar.

     'Without unnecessary delay I sought out my comrades, to whom I told
     the story of my escape. Their response was a hearty laugh, and
     certain equivocal words which might imply doubt--not as to my
     fright, for that was too plain--but concerning the identity of the
     'grizzly.' I observed, however, that, as they rowed nearer to the
     scene of my disaster, their display of levity lessened; and as we
     came within sight of the suspicious locality, there was not the
     'ghost of a joke' on board; but, on the contrary, thay both charged
     me to 'keep a bright look out,' as well as to 'see that the arms
     were all right,' thus showing a remarkable diminution of their
     previous incredulity.

     'While cautiously exploring the vicinity of my memorable flight, we
     saw the bear in the distance, upon a piece of rising ground. It
     moved off with a lumbering shuffle and probably a contented
     stomach, for, on searching for my scattered game, we found but
     little of it left besides sundry fragments and many feathers.'

       *       *       *       *       *

In the old times people received queer names, and plenty of them. On
Long Island a Mr. Crabb named a child
'Through-much-tribulation-we-enter-into-the-kingdom-of-heaven Crabb.'
The child went by the name of _Tribby_. Scores of such names could be
cited. The practice of giving long and curious names is not yet out of
date. In Saybrook, Conn., is a family by the name of Beman, whose
children are successively named as follows:

1. Jonathan Hubbard Lubbard Lambard Hunk Dan Dunk Peter Jacobus Lackany
Christian Beman.

2. Prince Frederick Henry Jacob Zacheus Christian Beman.

3. Queen Caroline Sarah Rogers Ruhamah Christian Beman.

4. Charity Freelove Ruth Grace Mercy Truth Faith and Hope and Peace
pursue I'll have no more to do for that will go clear through Christian
Beman.

Some of the older American names were not unmusical. In a Genealogical
Register open before us we frequently find Dulcena, Eusena, Sabra, and
Norman; 'Czarina' also occurs. Rather peculiar at the present day are
Puah and Azoa (girls), Albion, Ardelia, Philomelia, Serepta, Persis,
Electa, Typhenia, Lois, Selim, Damarias, Thankful, Sephemia, Zena,
Experience, Hilpa, Penninnah, Juduthum, Freelove, Luthena, Meriba (this
lady married 'Oney Anness' at Providence, R.I., in 1785), Paris,
Francena, Vienna, Florantina, Phedora, Azuba, Achsah, Alma, Arad,
Asenah, Braman, Cairo, Candace, China (this was a Miss Ware--China
Ware--who married Moses Bullen at Sherburne, Mass., in 1805), Curatia,
Deliverance, Diadema, Electus, Hopestill, Izanna, Loannis, Loravia,
Lovice, Orilla, Orison, Osro, Ozoro, Permelia, Philinda, Roavea,
Rozilla, Royal, Salmon, Saloma, Samantha, Silence, Siley, Alamena, Eda,
Aseneth, Bloomy, Syrell, Geneora, Burlin, Idella, Hadasseh, Patrora
(Martainly), Allethina, Philura, and Zebina.

Some of these names are still extant--most have become obsolete. It
would be a commendable idea should some scholar publish a work
containing the Names of all Nations!

       *       *       *       *       *

Doubtless the reader has heard much of the Wandering Jew and of his
trials, but we venture to say that he has probably not encountered a
more affecting state of the case than is set forth in the following
lyric, translated from the German, in which language it is entitled
'Ahasver,' and beginneth as follows:

THE EVERLASTING OLD JEW.

  'Ich bin der alte
     Ahasver,
   Ich wand're hin,
     Ich wand're her.
   Mein Ruh ist hin,
     Mein Herz ist schwer,
   Ich finde sie nimmer,
     Und nimmermehr.'

  I am the old
    Ahasuér;
  I wander here,
    I wander there.
  My rest is gone,
    My heart is sair;
  I find it never,
    And nevermair.

  Loud roars the storm,
    The milldams tear;
  I cannot perish,
    O _malheur!_
  My heart is void,
    My head is bare;
  I am the old
    Ahasuér.

  Belloweth ox
    And danceth bear,
  I find them never,
    Never mair.
  I'm the old Hebrew
    On a tare;
  I order arms:
    My heart is sair.

  I'm goaded round,
    I know not where:
  I wander here,
    I wander there.
  I'd like to sleep,
    But must forbear:
  I am the old
    Ahasuér.

  I meet folks alway
    Unaware:
  My rest is gone,
    I'm in despair.
  I cross all lands,
    The sea I dare:
  I travel here,
    I wander there.

  I feel each pain,
    I sometimes swear:
  I am the old
    Ahasuér.
  Criss-cross I wander
    Anywhere;
  I find it never,
    Never mair.

  Against the wale
    I lean my spear;
  I find no quiet,
    I declare.
  My peace is lost,
    My heart is sair:
  I swing like pendulum in air.

  I'm hard of hearing,
    You're aware?
  Curaçoa is
    A fine _liquéur_.
  I 'listed once
    _En militaire_:
  I find no comfort
    Anywhere.

  But what's to stop it?
    Pray declare!
  My peace is gone.
    My heart is sair:
  I am the old
    Ahasuér.
  Now I know nothing,
    Nothing mair.

Truly a hard case, and one far surpassing the paltry picturing of Eugène
Sue. There is a vagueness of mind and a senile bewilderment manifested
in this poem, which is indeed remarkable.

       *       *       *       *       *

One fine day, some time ago, SAVIN and PIDGEON were walking down Fifth
avenue to their offices.

A funeral was starting from No. --. On the door plate was the word
IRVING.

'Such is life,' said Savin. 'All that is mortal of the great essayist is
being borne to the grave: in fact, the cold and silent tomb.'

A tear came to Pidgeon's eye. Pidgeon has an enthusiastic veneration for
genius. He adores literary talent.

'Savin,' said he, 'there is a seat vacant in this carriage. I will enter
it, and pay my last tribute of respect to the illustrious departed. But
I thought he had a place up the river.'

'This was his town house,' said Savin. 'How I should like to join with
you in your thoughtful remembrance, and in your somewhat unceleritous
journey to the churchyard! But, no, the case of Blackbridge _vs._
Bridgeblack will be called at twelve, and I have no time to lose.'

Pidgeon entered the carriage. There was a large man on the seat, but
Pigeon found room beside him. The carriage slowly moved off. Pidgeon put
his handkerchief to his eyes; the large man coughed and took a chew of
tobacco.

Presently said Pidgeon:

'We are following to the grave the remains of a splendid writer.'

'Uncommon,' said the large man. 'Sech a man with a pen _I_ never
see--ekalled by few, and excelled by none; copperplate wasn't nowhere.'

'Indeed,' replied Pidgeon, 'I wasn't aware his chirography was so
unusually elegant; but his books were magnificent, weren't they? So
equable, too, and without that bold speculation that we too often meet
with, nowadays.'

'Ah, you may well say so,' returned the large man. 'He always kept them
himself; had 'em sent up to his house whenever he was sick, likeways;
but he wasn't without his bold speculations neither. Look at that there
operation of his into figs, last year.'

'Figs!'

'Figs, yes; and there was dates into the same cargo.'

'Dates! figs! My good friend, do you mean to say that the great
Washington Irving speculated in groceries?'

'Lord, no, not that _I_ know of. This here is Josh Irving, whose
remains'--

Pidgeon opened the carriage door, and, being agile, got out without
stopping the procession. Arriving at his office, where the boy was
diligently occupied in sticking red wafers over the velvet of his desk
lid, he took down 'Sugden on Vendors,' to ascertain if there was any
legal remedy for the manner in which he had been sold, and at the latest
dates had unsuccessfully travelled nearly half through that very
entertaining volume.

THERE is no time to be lost. Either the Union is to be made stronger, or
it is to perish; and the sooner every man's position is defined, the
better. If you are opposed to the war, say so, and step over to
Secession, but do not falter and equivocate, croak and grumble, and play
the bat of the fable. The manly, good, old-fashioned Democrats, at
least, are above this, and are rapidly dividing from the copperheads.
The Philadelphia _Evening Bulletin_, a staunch patriotic journal, says:

'The sooner that the fact is made clear that the mass of the Democrats,
as well as of all other parties, are loyal and opposed to the infamous
teachings of Vallandigham, Biddle, Reed, Ingersoll, Wood, and their
compeers, the sooner will the war be brought to an end and the Union be
restored.'

Show your colors. Let us know at once who and what everybody is, in this
great struggle.

       *       *       *       *       *

LOVE-LIFE.

  In a forest lone, 'neath a mossy stone,
    Pale flowrets grew:
  No sunlight fell in the sombre dell,
    Raindrop nor dew.

  Bring them to light, where all is bright,
    See if they grow?
  Yes, stem and leaf are green,
  While, hid in crimson sheen,
    The petals glow.

  Girl blossoms, too, love the sun and dew,
    And the soft air:
  Hidden from love's eye they fade and die,
  In city low or cloister high,
    Yes, everywhere.

  Give them but love, the fire from above,
    And they will grow,
  The once cold children of the gloom,
  Rich in their bloom, shedding perfume
    On high and low.

       *       *       *       *       *

We beg leave to remind our readers that Mr. LELAND'S new book, _Sunshine
in Thought_, retail price $1, is given as a premium to all who subscribe
$3 in advance to the CONTINENTAL MONTHLY. Will the reader permit us to
call attention to the following notice of the work from the Philadelphia
_Evening Bulletin_:

     'A beautiful volume, entitled _Sunshine in Thought_, by Charles
     Godfrey Leland, has just been published by Charles T. Evans. No
     work from Mr. Leland's pen has afforded us so much pleasure, and we
     recommend it to all who want and relish bright, refreshing,
     cheering reading. It consists of a number of essays, the main idea
     of which is to inculcate joyousness in thought and feeling, in
     opposition to the sickly, sentimental seriousness which is so much
     affected in literature and in society. That a volume based on this
     one idea should be filled with reading that is never tiresome, is a
     proof of great cleverness. But Mr. Leland's varied learning, and
     his extensive acquaintance with foreign as well as English
     literature, combine with his native talent to qualify him for such
     a work. He has done nothing so well, not even his admirable
     translation of Heine's _Reisebilder_. He is thoroughly imbued with
     the spirit of his motto, '_Hilariter_,' and in expressing his
     bright thoughts, he has been peculiarly felicitous in style.
     Nothing of his that we have read shows so much elegance and polish.
     Every chapter in the book is delightful, but we especially enjoyed
     that on 'Tannhæuser,' with the fine translation and subsequent
     elucidation of the famous legend.' But the boldest and most
     original chapter is the concluding one, with its strange
     speculations on 'The Musical After-Life of the Soul,' and the
     after-death experience of 'Dione' and 'Bel-er-oph-on,' which the
     author characterizes in the conclusion as 'an idle, fantastic,
     foolish dream.' So it may be, but it is as vividly told as any
     dream of the Opium-Eater or the Hasheesh-Eater. Mr. Leland is to be
     congratulated on his _Sunshine in Thought_. It is a book that will
     be enjoyed by every reader of culture, and its effect will be good
     wherever it is read.'

The aim proposed in this work is one of great interest at the present
time, or, as the Philadelphia _North American_ declares, 'is a great and
noble one'--'to aid in fully developing the glorious problem of freeing
labor from every drawback, and of constantly raising it and intellect in
the social scale.' 'Mr. LELAND believes that one of the most powerful
levers for raising labor to its true position in the estimation of the
world, is the encouragement of cheerfulness and joyousness in every
phase of literature and of practical life.' 'The work is one long,
glowing sermon, the text of which is the example of Jesus Christ.'

  E. K.


BUST-HEAD WHISKEY.

For two days the quiet of the Rising Sun Tavern, in the quaint little
town of Shearsville, Ohio, was disturbed by a drunken Democratic member
of the Pennsylvania Legislature, who visited the town in order to
address what he hoped would turn out to be the assembled multitude of
copperheads, but which proved after all no great snakes!

For two days this worthless vagabond insulted travellers stopping at the
tavern, until at last the landlord's wife, a woman of some intelligence,
determined to have her revenge, since no man on the premises had pluck
enough to give the sot the thrashing he so well merited.

On the third day, after a very severe night's carouse on bust-head
whiskey, the Pennsylvanian appeared at the breakfast table, looking
sadly the worse for wear, and having an awful headache. The landlady
having previously removed the only looking glass in the tavern--one
hanging in the barroom--said to the beast as he sat down to table:

'Poor man! oh, what _is_ the matter with your face? It is terribly
swollen, and your whole head too. Can't I do something for you? send for
the doctor, or'--

The legislator, who was in a state of half-besottedness, listened with
sharp ears to this remark, but believing the landlady was only making
fun of him, interrupted her with--

'There ain't nothin' the matter with my head. I'm all right; only a
little headache what don't 'mount to nothing.'

But a man who sat opposite to him at table, and who had his clue from
the landlady, said with an alarmed look--

'I say, mister, I don't know it's any of my business, but I'll be hanged
for a horse thief, if your head ain't swelled up twicet its nat'ral
size. You'd better do something for it, I'm thinking.'

The drunken legislator! (Legislator, _n._ One who makes laws for a
state: vide dictionary) believing at last that his face must in fact be
swollen, since several other travellers, who were in the plot, also
spoke to him of his shocking appearance, got up from the table and went
out to the barroom to consult the looking glass, such luxuries not being
placed in the chambers. But there was no glass there. After some time he
found the landlady, and she told him that the barroom glass was broken,
but she could lend him a small one; which she at once gave him.

The poor sot, with trembling hand, held it in front of his face, and
looked in.

'Well,' said he, 'if that ain't a swelled head I hope I may never be a
senator! or sell my vote again at Harrisburg.'

'Poor man!' exclaimed the bystanders.

'Fellers,' said the legislator, 'wot d'ye think I'd better do?' Here he
gave another hard look in the glass. 'I ought to be back in Harrisburg
right off, but I cant go with a head like that onto me. Nobody'd give me
ten cents to vote for 'em with such a head as that. It's a'--

'Big thing,' interrupted a bystander.

'Fellers,' said the blackguard, 'I'll kill a feller any day of the week,
with old rye, if he'll only tell er feller how to cure this head of
mine.'

'Have it shaved, sir, by all means,' spoke the landlady: 'shaved at
once, and then a mild fly blister will draw out the inflammation, and
the swelling will go down. Don't you think so, doctor?'

The doctor thus addressed was a cow doctor, but, accustomed to attending
brutes, his advice was worth something in the present case; so he also
recommended shaving and blistering.

'I'll go git the barber right off the reel, sha'n't I?' asked the
doctor, to which the legislator assenting, it chanced that in fifteen
minutes his head was as bald as a billiard ball, and in a few more was
covered with a good-sized fly blister.

'Ouch--good woman--how it hurts!' he cried. But that was only the
beginning of it.

'Ee-ea-ah!' he roared, as it grew hotter and hotter. One might have
heard him a mile. The neighbors did hear it, and rushed in. The joke was
'contaminated' round among them, and they enjoyed it. He had disgusted
them all.

'Golly! what a big head!' cried a bystander.

The legislator took another look at the glass. They held it about a yard
from him.

'It's gittin' smaller, ain't it?' he groaned.

'Yes, it's wiltin',' said the landlady. 'Now go to bed.'

He went, and on rising departed. Whether he ever became an honest man is
not known, but the legend says he has from that day avoided 'bust-head
whiskey.'

       *       *       *       *       *

Don't you _see_ it, reader? The landlady had shown him his face in a
convex mirror--one of those old-fashioned things, which may occasionally
be found in country taverns.

       *       *       *       *       *

WAR-WAIFS.

The chronicles of war in all ages show us that this internecine strife
into which we of the North have been driven by those who will eventually
rue the necessity, is by no manner of means the first in which brother
has literally been pitted against brother in the deadly 'tug of war.'
The fiercest conflict of the kind, however, which we can at present call
up from the memory of past readings, was one in which THEODEBERT, king
of Austria, took the field against his own brother, THIERRI, king of
Burgundy. Historians tell us that, so close was the hand-to-hand
fighting in this battle, slain soldiers did not fall until the _mélée_
was over, but were borne to and fro in an upright position amid the
serried ranks.

       *       *       *       *       *

Although many and many of England's greatest battles have been won for
her by her Irish soldiers, it is not always that the latter can be
depended upon by her. With the Celt, above all men, 'blood is thicker
than water;' and, although he is very handy at breaking the head of
another Celt with a blackthorn 'alpeen,' in a free faction fight, he
objects to making assaults upon his fellow countrymen with the 'pomp and
circumstance of war.' A striking instance of this occurred during the
Irish rebellion of 1798. The 5th Royal Irish Light Dragoons refused to
charge upon a body of the rebels when the word was given. Not a man or
horse stirred from the ranks. Here was a difficult card to play, now,
for the authorities, because it would have been inconvenient to try the
whole regiment by court martial, and the soldiers were quite too
valuable to be mowed down _en masse_. The only course left was to
disband the regiment, which was done. The disaffected men were
distributed into regiments serving in India and other remote colonies,
and the officers, none of whom, we believe, were involved in the mutiny,
were provided for in various quarters. The circumstance was commemorated
in a curious way. It was ordered that the 5th Royal Irish Light Dragoons
should be erased from the records of the army list, in which a blank
between the 4th and 6th Dragoons should remain forever, as a memorial of
disgrace. For upward of half a century this gap remained in the army
list, as anybody may see by referring to any number of that publication
of half-a-dozen years back. The regiment was revived during, or just
after, the Crimean war, and the numbers in the army list are once more
complete.




THE

CONTINENTAL MONTHLY.


The readers of the CONTINENTAL are aware of the important position it
has assumed, of the influence which it exerts, and of the brilliant
array of political and literary talent of the highest order which
supports it. No publication of the kind has, in this country, so
successfully combined the energy and freedom of the daily newspaper with
the higher literary tone of the first-class monthly; and it is very
certain that no magazine has given wider range to its contributors, or
preserved itself so completely from the narrow influences of party or of
faction. In times like the present, such a journal is either a power in
the land or it is nothing. That the CONTINENTAL is not the latter is
abundantly evidenced _by what it has done_--by the reflection of its
counsels in many important public events, and in the character and power
of those who are its staunchest supporters.

Though but little more than a year has elapsed since the CONTINENTAL was
first established, it has during that time acquired a strength and a
political significance elevating it to a position far above that
previously occupied by any publication of the kind in America. In proof
of which assertion we call attention, to the following facts:

1. Of its POLITICAL articles republished in pamphlet form, a single one
has had, thus far, a circulation of _one hundred and six thousand_
copies.

2. From its LITERARY department, a single serial novel, "Among the
Pines," has, within a very few months, sold nearly _thirty-five
thousand_ copies. Two other series of its literary articles have also
been republished in book form, while the first portion of a third is
already in press.

No more conclusive facts need be alleged to prove the excellence of the
contributions to the CONTINENTAL, or their _extraordinary popularity_;
and its conductors are determined that it shall not fall behind.
Preserving all "the boldness, vigor, and ability" which a thousand
journals have attributed to it, it will greatly enlarge its circle of
action, and discuss, fearlessly and frankly, every principle involved in
the great questions of the day. The first minds of the country,
embracing the men most familiar with its diplomacy and most
distinguished for ability, are among its contributors; and it is no mere
"flattering promise of a prospectus" to say that this "magazine for the
times" will employ the first intellect in America, under auspices which
no publication ever enjoyed before in this country.

While the CONTINENTAL will express decided opinions on the great
questions of the day, it will not be a mere political journal: much the
larger portion of its columns will be enlivened, as heretofore, by
tales, poetry, and humor. In a word, the CONTINENTAL will be found,
under its new staff of Editors, occupying, a position and presenting
attractions never before found in a magazine.




TERMS TO CLUBS.

  Two copies for one year,         Five dollars.

  Three copies for one year,       Six dollars.

  Six copies for one year,         Eleven dollars.

  Eleven copies for one year,      Twenty dollars.

  Twenty copies for one year,      Thirty-six dollars.

  PAID IN ADVANCE.

  _Postage, Thirty-six cents a year_, TO BE PAID BY THE SUBSCRIBER.

  SINGLE COPIES.

  Three dollars a year, IN ADVANCE. _Postage paid by the Publisher._


  JOHN F. TROW, 50 Greene St, N.Y.,

  PUBLISHER FOR THE PROPRIETORS.


[Symbol: Hand] As an inducement to new subscribers, the Publisher
offers the following liberal premiums:

[Symbol: Hand] Any person remitting $3, in advance, will receive the
magazine from July, 1862, to January, 1864, thus securing the whole of
Mr. KIMBALL's and Mr. KIRKE's new serials, which are alone worth the
price of subscription. Or, if preferred, a subscriber can take the
magazine for 1863 and a copy of "Among the Pines," or of "Undercurrents
of Wall Street," by R. B. KIMBALL, bound in cloth, or of "Sunshine in
Thought," by CHARLES GODFREY LELAND (retail price, $1.25.) The book to
be sent postage paid.

[Symbol: Hand] Any person remitting $4.50, will receive the magazine
from its commencement, January, 1862, to January, 1864, thus securing
Mr. KIMBALL's "Was He Successful?" and Mr. KIRKE's "Among the Pines,"
and "Merchant's Story," and nearly 3,000 octavo pages of the best
literature in the world. Premium subscribers to pay their own postage.




[Illustration: THE FINEST FARMING LANDS

_WHEAT CORN COTTON FRUITS & VEGETABLES_]

EQUAL TO ANY IN THE WORLD!!!

MAY BE PROCURED

At FROM $8 to $12 PER ACRE,

Near Markets, Schools, Railroads, Churches, and all the blessings of
Civilization.

1,200,000 Acres, in Farms of 40, 80, 120, 160 Acres and upwards, in
ILLINOIS, the Garden State of America.

       *       *       *       *       *

    The Illinois Central Railroad Company offer, ON LONG CREDIT, the
    beautiful and fertile PRAIRIE LANDS lying along the whole line of
    their Railroad, 700 MILES IN LENGTH, upon the most Favorable Terms
    for enabling Farmers, Manufacturers, Mechanics and Workingmen to
    make for themselves and their families a competency, and a HOME they
    can call THEIR OWN, as will appear from the following statements:


ILLINOIS.

Is about equal in extent to England, with a population of 1,722,666 and
a soil capable of supporting 20,000,000. No State in the Valley of the
Mississippi offers so great an inducement to the settler as the State of
Illinois. There is no part of the world where all the conditions of
climate and soil so admirably combine to produce those two great
staples, CORN and WHEAT.


CLIMATE.

Nowhere can the industrious farmer secure such immediate results from
his labor as on these deep, rich, loamy soils, cultivated with so much
ease. The climate from the extreme southern part of the State to the
Terre Haute, Alton and St. Louis Railroad, a distance of nearly 200
miles, is well adapted to Winter.


WHEAT, CORN, COTTON, TOBACCO.

Peaches, Pears, Tomatoes, and every variety of fruit and vegetables is
grown in great abundance, from which Chicago and other Northern markets
are furnished from four to six weeks earlier than their immediate
vicinity. Between the Terre Haute, Alton & St. Louis Railway and the
Kankakee and Illinois Rivers, (it distance of 115 miles on the Branch,
and 136 miles on the Main Trunk,) lies the great Corn and Stock raising
portion of the State.


THE ORDINARY YIELD

of Corn is from 50 to 80 bushels per acre. Cattle, Horses, Mules, Sheep
and Hogs are raised here at a small cost, and yield large profits. It is
believed that no section of country presents greater inducements for
Dairy Farming than the Prairies of Illinois, a branch of farming to
which but little attention has been paid, and which must yield sure
profitable results. Between the Kankakee and Illinois Rivers, and
Chicago and Dunleith, (a distance of 56 miles on the Branch and 147
miles by the Main Trunk,) Timothy Hay, Spring Wheat, Corn, &c., are
produced in great abundance.


AGRICULTURAL PRODUCTS.

The Agricultural products of Illinois are greater than those of any
other State. The Wheat crop of 1861 was estimated at 85,000,000 bushels,
while the Corn crop yields not less than 140,000,000 bushels besides the
crop of Oats, Barley, Rye, Buckwheat, Potatoes, Sweet Potatoes,
Pumpkins, Squashes, Flax, Hemp, Peas, Clover, Cabbage, Beets, Tobacco,
Sorghum, Grapes, Peaches, Apples. &c., which go to swell the vast
aggregate of production in this fertile region. Over Four Million tons
of produce were sent out the State of Illinois during the past year.


STOCK RAISING.

In Central and Southern Illinois uncommon advantages are presented for
the extension of Stock raising. All kinds of Cattle, Horses, Mules,
Sheep, Hogs, &c., of the best breeds, yield handsome profits; large
fortunes have already been made, and the field is open for others to
enter with the fairest prospects of like results. DAIRY FARMING also
presents its inducements to many.


CULTIVATION OF COTTON.

_The experiments in Cotton culture are of very great promise. Commencing
in latitude 39 deg. 30 min. (see Mattoon on the Branch, and Assumption
the Main Line), the Company owns thousands of acres well adapted to the
perfection of this fibre. A settler having a family of young children,
can turn their youthful labor to a most profitable account in the growth
and perfection of this plant._


THE ILLINOIS CENTRAL RAILROAD

Traverses the whole length of the State, from the banks of the
Mississippi and Lake Michigan to the Ohio, As its name imports, the
Railroad runs through the centre of the State, and on either side of the
road along its whole length lie the lands offered for sale.


CITIES, TOWNS, MARKETS DEPOTS.

There are Ninety-eight Depots on the Company's Railway, giving about one
every seven miles. Cities, Towns and Villages are situated at convenient
distances throughout the whole route, where every desirable commodity
may be found as readily as in the oldest cities of the Union and where
buyers are to be met for all kinds of farm produce.


EDUCATION.

Mechanics and working-men will find the free school system encouraged by
the State, and endowed with a large revenue for the support of the
schools. Children can live in sight of the school, the college, the
church, and grow up with the prosperity of the leading State in the
Great Western Empire.

       *       *       *       *       *


PRICES AND TERMS OF PAYMENT--ON LONG CREDIT.

80 acres at $10 per acre with interest at 6 per ct. annually on the
following terms:

  Cash payment               $48.00
  Payment in one year         48.00
     "    in two years        48.00
     "    in three years      48.00
     "    in four years      236.00
     "    in five years      224.00
     "    in six years       212.00
     "    in seven years     200.00

  40 acres, at $10.00 per acre:

  Cash payment               $24.00
  Payment in one year         24.00
     "     in two years       24.00
     "     in three years     24.00
     "     in four years     118.00
     "     in five years     112.00
     "     in six years      106.00
     "     in seven years    100.00




Number 17.

25 Cents.

THE

CONTINENTAL

MONTHLY.

DEVOTED TO

Literature and National Policy.

MAY, 1863.

  NEW YORK:
  JOHN F. TROW 50 GREENE STREET
  (FOR THE PROPRIETORS).

  HENRY DEXTER AND SINCLAIR TOUSEY.
  WASHINGTON, D.C.: FRANCK TAYLOR.


CONTENTS.--No. XVII.

  The Great Prairie State. By Mrs. C. M. Kirkland,                   513

  A Winter in Camp. By E. G. Hammond,                                519

  In Memoriam. By Richard Wolcott,                                   527

  A Merchant's Story. By Edmund Kirke,                               528

  Shylock _vs._ Antonio. By Carlton Edwards                          539

  A Heroine of To-Day,                                               543

  National Ode,                                                      554

  The Surrender of Forts Jackson and St. Philip,
    on the Mississippi. By F. H. Gerdes. Assistant
    U. S. Coast Survey,                                              557

  Reason, Rhyme, and Rhythm. By Mrs. Martha Cook,                    562

  The Value of the Union. By William H. Muller,                      571

  War Song--Earth's Last Battle. By Mrs. Martha Cook,                586

  Miriam's Testimony. By M. A. Edwards,                              589

  The Destiny of the African Race in the United States.
    By Rev. J. M. Sturtevant, D.D.,                                  600

  Was He Successful? By Richard B. Kimball,                          611

  The Union. By Hon. Robert J. Walker,                               615

  The Causes and Results of the War. By Lieut. Egbert
    Phelps, U.S.A                                                    617

  Great Heart,                                                       629

  Literary Notices                                                   630


The June No. of the Continental will contain an article on 'The
Confederation and the Nation,' by Edward Carey.

       *       *       *       *       *

ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1862, by JAMES R.
GILMORE, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United
States for the Southern District of New York.

       *       *       *       *       *

JOHN F. TROW, PRINTER.





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